"Well, if you really want to, just run down to Horn Motors on Elden and see if they have it. They don't carry a lot of metric stuff -- not many foreign cars around here yet and there's sort of an "all-American" attitude. There'll be a lot of greasy-looking guys like me in there, but don't let that scare you," he laughed. "Just look like you know what you're doing -- the guys behind the counter know how to treat a young lady. Remember: 18mm deep well." And he poked his head back under the hood of the homely old black Volvo two-door sedan.
She looked at him with irritation. "I can handle it, brother dear. I know what a deep well socket is and a little grease doesn't bother me. How could it, living in this place?" On the way out she stopped to check her image in a cracked full length mirror that was attached to the wall near the door. Thera James was an attractive young woman with a pleasingly athletic build and long, dark hair, which she either let hang loose at her back or put up in a pony tail. She was an independent sort, not likely to follow fads of dress or behavior -- though exceptions were made when she felt it would gain a desired result. She gazed critically at herself in the mirror, smoothing her jeans over her thighs and tucking in her brother's large cotton plaid shirt until it disappeared as smoothly as possible behind the wide leather belt around her waist. After a quick tug at her pony tail she grabbed a handful of the pretzels her brother always kept in a bowl on the workbench and walked out the door.
Thera drove south on Rte. 606 past a surviving corn field near the crossing at Reston Avenue, past the Herndon Post Office (which was also Reston's), across the old W&OD tracks and onto Herndon's main street. She made a U-turn and found a place to park in front of Ashwell Olds. Horn Motors was a landmark on Elden Street in downtown Herndon. There was the distinct feeling about the place that it had always been there and would always be there -- changeless, absolute and competent -- surviving whatever changes might take place in Herndon, Virginia (and there would be many).
When Thera walked through the old wood-framed front door at Horn's there were six men standing at the counter waiting to be served. The place had a gloomy, but friendly warehouse-like atmosphere -- a high ceiling and dimly lit walls with parts and tools covering every available space. Cartons of automotive supplies were stacked everywhere on the floor and a haze of cigarette smoke hung in the dusty air. The smell of burning tobacco mixed easily with the fragrance of oil and grease, an atmosphere that seemed quite appropriate. A few of the men turned to look at Thera when she came in but the rest completely ignored her. One who turned and looked was Henry Jewell, who stared at her almost absentmindedly. She looked back at him for a moment and then up at the display of chrome plated professional wrenches and sockets high on the wall behind the counter.
Suddenly she was being spoken to. "And what can we do for you, little lady?" the salesman asked rather too politely.
