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rain would be infrequent. I knew the garage guy near my Wall Street office would stash the car undercover for at least a week, long enough for any potential police investigation to die down so I could move the car to The Weis’s Long Island country house for a few months.
    Each morning I awoke with my sheets churned and twisted, the elasticized corners of the mattress cover pulled loose. My pillow was often so damp that the first time I noticed it I ran to the bathroom to find a thermometer. It read 98.6 degrees.
    My greatest fear had begun to manifest itself.
    I could never live with the thought that anyone else had been harmed by my actions.
    Despite the confidence I projected to my accomplices, I knew I’d rather fail than risk another’s life.
    â€œWhen’s the first practice?” said Nine.
    â€œI’ll tell you once I’ve talked to The Weis.”
    That night in bed, I watched the headlights of passing cars break upon the window blinds, splitting into dozens of parallel beams cast upon the ceiling. They moved from one end of my bedroom, slowly at first, then faster and faster as the car approached, to the other before disappearing as instantly as if the car had fallen off a cliff.

CHAPTER 3
God Is Speed
    The first practice run was scheduled for the following Sunday. I wouldn’t use the traffic-intersection blockers this time—I’d save them for the final run, just in case one of them leaked to the authorities.
    I’d taken girls I wanted to impress on my reconnaissance runs, but for moral reasons I’d have to practice alone—it was far too dangerous. I’d never driven alone in any competitive or semiprofessional manner, and I was unexpectedly terrified at not having a rational voice in the seat beside me.
    Although it would provide damning evidence in the event of an accident, I Velcro-mounted a camcorder to the dashtop. In the event of my death I wanted to at least prove there’d been a reason, however impenetrable.
    I’d already driven the S4 down to a quarter tank of fuel so as to mitigate the chance of fire, and I removed all loose items from the car’s interior—an accident would turn pens, lighters, and loose change into shrapnel.
    I napped in my clothes from 8 P.M . Sunday until jolted awake by my alarm at 1:30 the next morning. I scanned the notes I’d made during my reconnaissance drives, but left them behind so as to deprive the police of critical evidence.
    The practice lap time target was 30 minutes.
    My first and last pencil-written remarks were identical.
    Breathe
    My second (and second-to-last) remarks were also identical.
    Do no harm
    I laughed out loud at my citation of the Hippocratic Oath.
    If I broke it, I’d be the one needing a doctor.
    It was a short drive down Broadway, west across Canal Street, then south on the West Side Highway. I might have stopped myself at any moment if only a companion had suggested it, but the fear caused by the empty passenger seat was replaced by the rush I felt in knowing I was going to do it.
    I tried to clear my thoughts as I approached the red light at the WTC start line—the southbound intersection just a few hundred feet north of the entrance to the tunnel looping counterclockwise underneath the Staten Island Ferry Terminal toward the FDR Drive.
    I lowered the driver’s side window. It was a clear, humid night.
    I exhaled upon the suction cups of my Valentine 1 radar/laser detector, attaching it just below and to the left of the rearview mirror. The V1 had saved me many times. It would have been inconceivable to attempt this without it.
    I placed the camcorder on the dash at the last possible moment. Its presence would immediately tip off any police officer who might pull up right before the start of the worst car-related crime ever committed in New York City.
    I pressed record.
    My finger slid off the button with the first hint of sweat. The red recording light below the lens