It was a brief lapse of concentration from his purpose at hand, catching the yellow-clad figure flowing through the curves and bends below him. He could spot the rider now and again with occasional glances and by counting off the seconds between points they both passed, knew he was gaining, if ever so slowly. The cluster of 12 riders who passed him further up the mountain was now about to pass the other rider. If the rider were able to draft them, Dean would have trouble matching their pace, so he quickened his. There was another concern-once the bikers hit the lower elevation and the heat of the afternoon, they would be shedding outer gear and perhaps identifying numbers with them. The yellow jacket and telltale 888 were Dean's only clues to the biker's identity.
It was unreal rocketing down this mountain, in pursuit of an unknown someone, one minute, surely Jeffrey Byrne, the next minute someone else. Brunel? Cece Baldwin? The players sped through Dean's mind like a theater curtain call-Vinnie and his friends, Mayer from World Wide, or Arthur Atherton's nefarious clients. Or perhaps some unknown person. Or Cynthia.
Suddenly facts fell into place, previously homeless happenings began making sense, and a picture arranged itself in Dean's mind. It wasn't a flash of understanding, but a spark. As sore and tired as his body felt, all aches and pains were forgotten with what was not a complete revelation, but a scenario that suddenly seemed plausible. He felt a new breath, a new strength, as if he were just beginning his ride in a young and fit body.
Dean picked up the pace and closed the gap on the yellowshirted rider, low on his bike to minimize the wind resistance as he raced downward at a dangerous speed. If exhaustion truly was mental as much as physical, he'd conquered its demon as he edged to the side of the road without slowing his pace, allowing an infrequent car to pass. He braked carefully as the last of a series of curves came up before the level of a long valley was spread out before him.
Dean pulled out of the curve, searching ahead for a glimpse of his quarry as he continued to hug the right side of the narrow roadway. He could see the biker clearly now, six or seven telephone poles ahead. He was shifting up for a sprint when it happened.
The sound was like a rifle shot and for a fleeting second Dean feared someone had fired. Then his front wheel twisted violently and he knew the tire had blown a second before he hit the sand at the shoulder and felt himself twisting and rolling in the grass and sharp rocks at the edge of the roadside. His head slammed against something hard and he lay there, momentarily stunned to the brink of unconsciousness before turning slowly to his side and opening his eyes. His bike lay several feet from him, its front wheel still turning lazily, its back wheel twisted at a grotesque angle.