At present, the crash site has been roped off and placed under guard by local Militiamen. Only authorized personnel will be allowed to view the wreckage. Major Gilbert Donnoue, of the Air Force Experimental Wing, refused to make a statement as to whether the plane was of Air Force origin. "To my knowledge, we have lost no test planes. However, an extensive check will undoubtedly be run to verify this." Test plane? Nick stared in amazement at the words that leaped at him from the printed page. Test plane? What the hell was going on in this screwy world? No wings? No tail assembly? No Mayday calls? No record of the plane? The whole damned thing sounded ridiculous. Coupled with the fact that he had been out of touch for thirteen months, it all became weird. And to top it all off, Nolan Brice was one of the men who had been placed on the investigating staff at the crash scene. Suppose he, Nick, had left something at the scene ... a fraternity pin, a slip of paper ... anything that would link the crash to the fact that he was alive and in Everett. The whole damned bunch would be on his tail, before you could say, "Jack Robinson." He... "Nick," Beth pouted. "Will you pay a little attention to me for a change?" "I'm sorry, honey, but it's the plane." While she listened he read the account aloud and, when he'd finished, they exchanged glances. "That's the plane I was in," he told her. "But you don't know how to fly." "I must know, unless someone else flew it. That's the plane I woke up beside. I must have been in the damned thing. But I don't know if anyone else was." He buried his face in his hands. "Nick. Should we call the police?" "No!" Alarmed at his violent outburst, she put her hand on his shoulder to comfort him. "All right dear. I'm sorry." "It'd been different, if those men weren't after me. I'd call the police if they weren't dogging my tracks. I'd turn myself in just to find out what the hell's going on." "Me too," she said softly. At first he didn't catch the meaning behind her words, then he blinked. "What?" He asked. "The car, the black one. It followed me to work this morning." She paused, then added, "It didn't follow me home though." Nick slammed the paper to the floor, his lean jaw muscles knotted in anger. "That settles it," he snapped. "I can face whatever I'm mixed up in, but there's no earthly reason why you should be subjected to it! I'll have to get out!" Beth threw herself into his arms, the ever ready tears welling in her eyes. "No, Nick," she pleaded. "Whatever it is, we'll fight it. We'll make out, but darling, don't leave me again!" He held her tightly against him, his hands stroking the warm softness of her back and spine. The perfume of her hair filled him with a heady thought of summer fields of flowers, of sweetness and tenderness, of ... love. Love. Nick Danson, he told himself, you _are_ mixed up. You're falling in love with your own wife.