He was sprinting now, full out toward the Metro train station, which was four blocks from the house. This was his link to Philly, Washington, New York, the outside world. He must have made it in ten flat—something like that. He kept himself in good shape. Powerful legs and arms, a washboard-flat stomach. An old VW was parked at the station. It was always parked there—the trusty Bug from his unholy youth. The “scene of past crimes,”
