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“Can you help me, Pooks?”

“Hell, I’m the Pooks, Jefferson. I knows a few people who might have what you need.” Pooks examined Art and Simon sideways for a moment. “But yous is gonna attract attention. Big old brother and a scrawny white boy. You don’t see that every day. Not around here, anyhow.”

That thought had already occurred to Art. He gestured to a paper sack on the floor near Simon’s feet. “My last twenty bucks.”

Pooks frowned and pulled a small wad of fives from his pocket and peeled off ten of the bills, passing them to Art.

“You still play dominoes, I see.”

“I still beats all at dominoes,” Pooks corrected. He opened the passenger door and slid in. Simon scooted very close to Art.

“It’s all right,” Art reassured him. “Pooks is a friend. Remember?”

Simon, his cards still in hand, flipped through the to the proper spot, and ceased crowding toward Art.

“What the hell’s that?” Pooks asked, sour faced.

Art fiddled with the loose ignition wires, and the truck’s engine turned over without a cough. “His way of keeping track.”

Pooks nodded, admiring the system as Simon tucked the cards away. “That’s a damn good idea, young fella. Pooks gonna get himself some of those.”

“Pooks is my friend,” Simon said.

“Hell yes!” Pooks reacted, slapping a knee and looking to Art. “All right, Jefferson. Let’s get you two squared away.”

* * *

A sheet of bulletproof glass separated mother and daughter, the handsets of the speakerphone their only connection beyond the visual.

Tears rolled down Jennifer Preston’s face, sniffles traveling the few feet to her mother as a wet static.

“Don’t do that or I’ll start,” Anne said.

“I can’t believe this,” Jennifer said, continually dabbing her nose with a tissue as she stared at her mother, locked up, blue smock the drab attire, a federal marshal standing guard a few feet behind.

“I can’t either,” Anne agreed.

“I mean, how could he do this to you?”

The agreeing nod froze, and Anne’s expression hardened. “Now wait a minute. He did not do this to me. Someone is doing this to us.”

Jennifer looked doubtfully away, then drifted back to her mother. “Then why is he running? Why doesn’t he turn himself in? Running makes him look—”

“Don’t you even think that!” Anne interrupted harshly. “Art is a good man. An honest man. Do you think he’d want me in here? Do you?”

“Then why is he running?”

“Jennifer, running doesn’t always mean running away,” Anne reminded her daughter.

“I’m not equating this to dad,” Jennifer countered. “God, you are such a damn analyst.”

“It is my job,” Anne said, and they shared a laugh that lasted a painfully short time. “Babe, you’ve got to trust Art. There’s a reason he’s doing what he’s doing.”

“And what is it?”

A treacherous void of reasons opened before Anne as she considered the question. She looked her daughter in the eye and said confidently, “I’m sure he’ll tell me someday.”

* * *

He could see the deep holes in the tips of four of the six bullets, and could feel the cool metal of the barrel on his forehead. His thumb stroked the trigger up and down.

His eyes squeezed shut.

One.

Two.

Three.

Pull.

Brad Folger, sitting on the edge of the bathtub in the upstairs bathroom, saw himself pull the trigger, knew that he had, believed that he had, but when he forced his eyes open he could see his thumb still on the slender curve of steel, caressing it.

Heavy breaths, almost gasps, pumped his chest, and somewhere beneath the skin he felt his heart become a runaway steam engine. A roar that he thought might be laughter filled his head, and he dropped the revolver on the mat by the tub and collapsed forward on his knees, hands pressed over his ears, elbows out.

Coward. You couldn’t do it.

The roar in his head seemed to agree.

But after a moment the gasps eased, and his heartbeat slowed, and the taunting sounds faded, and when Brad Folger pulled his hands from his ears and sat up he heard something that could not kill him, but that did break his heart.

“Daddy! Daddy!” the cry came from the opposite side of the bathroom door, accompanied by the thump of a tiny fist on wood. “I gotta go.”

Brad Folger drew his arm across his upper lip and wiped his eyes with his other hand. “Sweetie, why don’t you use the bathroom downstairs.”

“‘Cause Tommy used it and it stinks.”

Folger’s pained scowl dissolved into a grin. He picked the gun up from the floor and tucked it in his waistband, making sure his shirt tails covered it. Then he stood, and caught sight of his reflection in the mirror.

You are a coward, he told himself. But not because you couldn’t blow your brains out.

When he opened the door, his three year old little girl, stuffed penguin in hand, strolled past him and turned, waiting. “Can I have some privacy?”

Folger smiled at his little girl, nodded, and backed out of the bathroom, pulling the door shut.

“Coward,” he said aloud, quietly, the self pity fading, a new emotion rising. Anger.

He was surprised that he could feel that. Surprised and thankful.

* * *

Mr. Pritchard watched the video with Sanders, both men seated in an office that sported trophies and plaques honoring the occupant. The scene transfixed them, Pritchard pressing the knuckles of one hand into his chin, Sanders finally stopping the recording with a click of the remote.

“He’s smart,” Sanders commented. “He knows they’ll be watching his friends, so he goes to someone who would be thought of as a nemesis.”

“What’s his name?” Pritchard inquired.

“Underhill. Walter Underhill. He’s a con man Jefferson busted a long time back. He served ten years for dealing in stolen credit cards through the mail. He’s still connected, but not very active.”

Pritchard stared at the frozen scene of Jefferson and Underhill in the front seat of a pickup, the innocent between them. Shot through a long range lens, the image was grainy, but Pritchard could clearly see that Simon Lynch sat very close to the wanted FBI agent. Very close indeed.

“You’re a bright young man, Sanders. What made you suspect he’d be leaving last night?”

“Our surveillance showed the Volvo parked in the driveway,” Sanders explained. “It’s always in the garage. I knew someone would be going somewhere. It was just a matter of knowing when they left.”

A simple tracking device affixed quickly, nonchalantly, under the bumper as a woman out for a walk passed the car had taken care of the rest. But that begged a question. “Will they search the vehicle?”

Sanders shook his head. “They have no reason to.”

“And what about the opposition?”

“At this point, we can’t be sure. But you can be certain they’re looking.”

Opposing teams, on a crowded field, one team sees the ball amidst a forest of legs, afraid to reach for it for fear that their opponents will then see it. Pritchard knew someone would have to make the first move. The difference was when his team made it, it would only be an opening. If the other side made it, it would be the end.

In this case, he thought, late was not better than never. Late was never. Never was never.

Now was the only viable option. Or soon, at the latest.

“Have they laid up yet?” Pritchard asked.

“No.”

He thought for a moment, mindful of some of the boys’ reservations. “I want to know as soon as they do.”