to

and taller than the trees.
Where was Gaby? And how had he gotten here? Had he passed out and been brought by Adonis and the crazy old man? No, that just wasn’t right. There were no breaks in his memory from the time he arrived in the park. But even the air was different. He took a deep breath, and it was richer than he was used to, like the air of a greenhouse.
And now was no time to think about it. From the ­direction of the house came a voice, low and rumbling and thickly flavored with what he recognized as a Scottish accent: “Sir? Clock belled six. Did Adonis come?”
No time to stay around, either. As quietly as he could manage, he walked toward the wall and directly away from the source of the voice.
Within a couple of limping steps his thigh began to burn with pain. His leg trembled as he walked.
Not ten feet ahead on the ground was the duffel bag Adonis had used to carry Gaby. Hanging half-out of it was her fanny pack. Harris grabbed it, buckled it on, and continued.
The clearing narrowed into an earthen pathway ­between the trees. A few yards further, he reached the wall itself: ten feet high, made of beautifully dressed stone assembled without mortar. 中古車買取 Expensive and classy. The gate to the outside was just as tall, heavy hardwood with metal hinges and edges—they looked liked tarnished brass—and closed with a wooden bar set into brackets. There were lights beyond.
Yards behind him, the Scottish voice sounded again: “Sir! Who did this? Where is he?” And Harris heard a faint reply; the golden man had to be conscious again. Grimacing, Harris put his shoulder to the bar and shoved it up out of the brackets. He juggled it but couldn’t keep it from falling to the ground; the impact was loud.
He pushed against the heavy gate and it swung slowly outward; as fast as he could manage, he ran out onto the sidewalk beyond.

Chapter Four
Broad sidewalks with trees growing from them, wide streets with tree-filled medians, roadways made up of brick instead of asphalt, flickering streetlights set atop what looked like tall, narrow Greek columns—where the hell was he? He turned right and trotted, fast as the pain in his leg would allow, along the concrete sidewalk.
The first car that passed him was like something out of a classic car show, a golden-brown roadster so vast that its hood alone stretched as long as an entire compact car. The spare tire, the spokes and hub of its wire-wheel assembly painted incongruously white to match the other wheels, sat tucked firmly in a notch at the rear of the car’s running board. The driver’s seat was an ­enclosed, separate compartment of the car, with the steering wheel to the right, like a British auto; the driver, his lean face pale in the glow from the streetlights, was a liveried chauffeur all in black.
And the car was driving