She gripped the steering wheel with a look of grim determination. “Great.”

“Something wrong with the steering?” I asked.

“It’s the brakes,” she said. “They’re weak.”

“Can you downshift?” I asked.

“It’s an automatic.”

She took the next curve too fast and Mom grabbed hold of the back of my seat.

“Slow down there, Parnelli,” Dad said with a chuckle.

“Sorry,” Robin said, but her jaw was tight and her lips were thin as she held on to the wheel.

We hit a stretch of straight road that ran through flat green fields, and Robin pumped the brakes a few times.

“Nothing,” she muttered, then tried the hand brake.

“Nothing?” I asked.

She shook her head.

“Crap.”

Dad caught the vibe and moved forward, wedging himself between the two front seats. “What’s up?”

“Brakes are fried,” Robin explained.

I realized we were heading for a sharp curve to the right, then straight ahead into a more populated area. “Turn off the engine,” I suggested.

“Can’t,” Dad told me. “The steering will lock up if you do.”

“Crap again.”

“Get off the road, now,” Dad said firmly, pointing to the wide field to our left.

Robin’s head whipped around frantically. “But it’s-”

“Now,” he directed, still pointing as if he could guide her along. “You can do it. Ease over the shoulder and keep going, toward those haystacks.”

“Everything okay?” Mom asked.

“Brakes,” Dad explained calmly. “We’re going into that field. Now.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Mom said, keeping upbeat as she pulled Dad back. “Seat belt on, Jimmy.”

Robin jerked the wheel off to the left and the minivan bumped and bucked like a wild horse over the low rows of hedges lining the highway.

The seemingly smooth field was full of ruts and mounds, and we were bounced and thrown like a dinghy on a raging sea.

“Oof,” Dad said when his head hit the car’s ceiling.

“Oh, dear.” Mom’s voice trembled.

Helen screamed.

My already aching back was wrenched from side to side; then my head struck the headliner hard and I saw stars.

“Damn it!” Robin swore as she hit one last deep pothole.

The car slammed into a haystack with a jarring thud followed by a deafening explosion.

News flash: Air bags are a lot louder and messier than advertised.

I can also report that, contrary to popular belief, a haystack is not the fluffy, puffy fun time it appears to be in the comics. Considering the alternative, though, I had to admit it was a relatively soft landing. Not soft enough to keep the air bags from deploying, however. White powder went everywhere, and my ears were ringing from the blast of the release mechanism.

I pushed open the car door and hay fell on my head as I stumbled from the car. I leaned against the door and shook the hay out of my hair, then noticed white powder all over my hands and arms. As I brushed the air bag residue away, I glanced back at the highway and sighed in relief. Robin had managed to avoid careening through a traffic circle surrounded by shops and houses by a mere few hundred yards or so.

“Everyone accounted for?” Dad asked as he helped Mom out of the car.

“Uhh,” Helen groaned.

“Helen, are you okay?” Mom said.

“I’m okay.” But she rubbed her temple where her head had probably hit the side window.

“That was quite a ride,” Mom said, and staggered around the car to envelop Robin in a hug. “You did a good job, honey.”

“We could’ve died,” Helen said, patting Robin’s arm. “You saved us.”

Robin sank down on the ground, holding her forehead. “I think I hit my head on the steering wheel.”

I walked to the other side of the car as Mom knelt down next to Robin and flicked bits of powder from her hair. “Must’ve been before the air bag blew up.”

“I guess.”

An older man walked toward us from the barn that stood several field lengths away. He wore worn blue overalls, a flannel shirt and work boots.

“Are you all right?” he shouted from yards away.

“We’re fine.” Dad waved. “Just a little banged up. We lost our brakes.”

“I’ve called the constable. Wasn’t sure if there were injuries.”

“Just to your haystack,” I said in apology, assuming he owned these fields.

Closer now, he waved a hand and chuckled. “Och, don’t you be worrying about such a thing.”

We heard a siren in the distance.

“That’ll be our police now,” he said. “Hope you’re not bank robbers making a getaway.”

We laughed dutifully as the siren stopped.

“I’d better show them over here,” the farmer said, and took off, jogging back to the barn.

“Are we going to be arrested?” Robin asked, then buried her head in her arms.

“Of course not,” I said firmly.

Dad rubbed Robin’s shoulder as we watched the farmer lead two policemen on the long trek across the field.

“You’ve had some trouble,” the taller cop said.

“Our brakes gave out,” Dad said.

“Our driver saved our lives,” Helen said staunchly, “and probably the lives of any number of bystanders, by driving off the highway.”

The shorter cop, a skinny youngster who still had pimples, took notes, while the tall cop knelt down next to the rear driver’s-side tire and poked at the ground. I moved closer to see what he was looking at and caught a glimpse of some drops of liquid seeping into the ground.

“Looks like brake fluid,” he said to his partner. Then he gripped the rim of the fender and handily slid himself under the car, somehow avoiding the slimy puddle of brake fluid altogether. How did he do that? Must’ve been a guy-and-car thing.

A few seconds later, he glided out, hopped up and brushed a few flecks of grit off his perfectly pressed black trousers. “Brake line’s been cut clean through.”

“What the hell?” Dad said.

“Does that happen through normal wear and tear on the car?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

The tall cop looked at me warily. “No, ma’am. That happens through mischief.”

“You’re lucky to be alive,” Derek said, glaring at me through narrowed eyes, as though it were my fault my family and friends were almost killed. Hell, maybe it was.

“Yeah, I get that,” I muttered as I paced the floor of the hotel conference room the police once again had taken over as their temporary headquarters.

It was two hours later, after the Edinburgh CID had shown up to take over the investigation and the farmer had generously ferried us back to the hotel in his vintage Land Rover.

“And you’re sure nobody saw anyone at the parking garage?” I asked for the third time. The hotel valets had parked Robin’s rental van in the parking garage a block away from the hotel when she’d arrived two days ago.

The brakes could’ve been tampered with anytime in the last forty-eight hours, but the police were fairly certain someone had done it that morning. Otherwise, the brake fluid would’ve run out completely and the car wouldn’t have made it all the way to Rosslyn Chapel.

Now I remembered Robin pumping the brakes when we first arrived there.

MacLeod sighed. “The garage is a four-story cavernous place with only one security man who doubles as the parking attendant. All the hotels in this part of the Royal Mile share the space. It’s not well guarded, sad to say.”

“No security cameras?”

“None.” Frustrated, Angus raked his fingers through his unruly mop of hair.

Derek stood with his arms folded across his chest, watching the goings-on. He was dressed in an elegant black pin-striped business suit and deep blue silk tie that brought out the blue in his eyes. He looked almost criminally hot. The whole ensemble probably cost five thousand dollars, and I was reminded again how well the security business paid. Along that same line, I had to wonder just why he’d been here in Edinburgh this week. What was he doing? Besides looking criminally hot, of course?