NEW CANAAN， CONNECTICUT<br >All spirits vanish with the dawn. That was what Terry Haye thou~<br >as he walked across the square fronting the medieval town<br >Tourrette-sur-Loup.<br > He had driven his rented Opel up the winding road from Ni<br >during a rainstorm that had driven gray clouds in off the Meditq<br >ranean. In the rooftop restaurant of his hotel in Nice， he had h<br >coffee and croissants while looking at the indigo mountains<br >Haute-Provence below the blue-black sky that presaged sunrise.<br > Lingering over his coffee， he had wondered whether it was<br >perience or action that destroyed morality. It must be action，<br >decided， eating the last of his croissant. If he had become a writ~<br >everything would be different now. A writer created only words.<br >writer was， by definition， a master of deceit; but it was a deceit tl<br >had no existence save on the printed page. Morality did not en<br >into it; a writer could create， but he could not destroy. That<br >his power--and his weakness. That was why Terry had chosen !<br >other path: action. Action was life; and it was death.<br > He had watched the first blush of dawn give way to a morni<br >filled with wind and dust as if it were an omen by which he col<br >tell the future. He had walked the streets of Nice with an aimh<br >energy that turned pleasant streets silent and deadly.<br > Needing company on the drive north into the Loup Valley，<br >had turned on the radio. The instant of recognition， Isabelle A@<br >sang in French， is like seeing the sun at midnight. The copper tr~<br >glow in the heat of your eyes. And time falls.asleep in your arm<br > Terry thought of black olives swimming in oil and crusty pt<br >decampagne， the quintessential Provencal lunch. Five miles out<br >Nice， hewas alre/ady hungry. It was just past ten o clock.<br > Black clouds hung in the sky， as if pinned to a backdrop. I<br >sun refused to s~ itself. <br ><br >