"Get back," somebody yelled at him and pulled him by the shoulder. Woody yanked himself savagely free and grabbed the side of the Black Tiger, attempting to right it. Several other men came to help. Together they got the Tiger back on its wheels. Randy was in the driver's seat, but his shape was all wrong. One hand was nothing but a red hunk of meat. It lay on his safety belt, and it was obvious that he had been fumbling with it. Blood dripped quietly from it onto his pants. He was slumped sideways beside the steering wheel but in such a way as to suggest that his back was broken. His head lay on the seat, and his face turned up toward them. He looked at Woody and attempted a smile, but coughed instead. A little pink foam came to his lips. "Brakes," he said and closed his eyes. The ambulance was there in a second, and everybody hustled away to make room for the ambulance attendant. Woody stayed as near as he was allowed and saw a doctor bend over Randy. When the doctor stood up, he didn't say anything. He just shook his head and got back into the ambulance. Then Woody knew that Randy was dead. The Black Tiger had killed him. 14 In the weeks that followed Randy's death, nobody made any mention of road racing or the Black Tiger around Worm's garage. There was a tacit understanding that both topics should be ignored. Woody worked harder than ever at his job and tried to put both subjects out of his mind. He saw Rocky only at the funeral, and then she went back to San Diego to live with an aunt. Woody did not know what happened to the Black Tiger. And he hoped he would never hear of it or see it again. Worm made only one comment on the fatal accident that killed Randy. "Yon Black Tiger is a killer car," he said to Woody. "I told Randy so and tried to warn him against racing it. But he was no a man that ye could warn." It was not, however, as easy to get away from road racing as Woody hoped. When he went into a drugstore for a hamburger, he found himself eying the road-racing magazines. When he bought a newspaper, the sports pages with their columns on road racing had an irresistible fascination for him. He did not want to look at them. Yet he found that he could not refrain from doing so. Names seemed to leap out of the pages at him--Tom Wisdom, Kurt Kreuger, Dave Kingston. It was strange how out of several thousand printed words on a page, one word would stand out as if it were printed in a different color.