In twenty minutes he was on the Oakland Bay Bridge heading north on Highway 80 toward Sacramento. An hour later he crossed the Yolo Causeway outside the state capital. Somewhere near Rocklin, the narrowness of his escape finally hit home. He started shaking uncontrollably, partly from the cold and partly from a delayed response to what had happened back at the motel. He pulled over to the side of the road to put on a sweatshirt under his leather jacket, and then he kept on going.
Soon he passed Auburn and started winding up toward the top of the Sierras. The dark canyon walls closed in on him, and the lights of oncoming cars flashed in his eyes over the top of the center barrier. Truckers in their huge eighteen-wheelers steamed by him, crowding him toward the side of the road as they jamm
