'Yeah, but I still know enough not to make one mistake into two.'

Wilcox started to reply angrily, but then nodded. 'That's right,' he said. He took a deep breath. 'That's right.'

He settled back in his seat, as if the wave of anger and memory that had beat on his shore was slowly receding. 'Right, right, right,' he said slowly. 'Don't want to play the hand before we see all the cards.'

Shaeffer expected him to reach out and start the car. She saw Wilcox's hand lift toward the ignition. But as his fingers closed on the protruding key, he stopped, suddenly rigid, eyes burning straight ahead.

'Son of a bitch,' he said softly.

She looked up wildly.

'There he is,' Wilcox whispered.

For an instant her view was obscured by the moisture on the windshield, but then, like a camera coming into focus, she, too, spotted Ferguson. He had hesitated just for an instant on the top landing, pausing as almost everyone does before forcing themselves to step into the damp, dark, cold night air. She saw he was wearing jeans and a long blue coat, carrying a satchel over his shoulder. Hunched against the drizzle, he rapidly stepped down from the apartment building, and without even glancing in their direction, headed off swiftly away from them.

'Damn!' Wilcox said. His hand had dropped away from the ignition. He seized the car door. 'I'm gonna follow him.'

Before she could protest, wild impulse filled him. He thrust himself out the door, feet hitting like shots against the pavement. Slamming the door behind him, he started up the street.

Shaeffer reached across the front seat, grabbing first at Wilcox's coattails, then at car keys. She saw him moving away and tried to extricate herself from the car. Her door was locked; the first pull on the handle produced nothing. Her handbag caught on the seat adjustment lever between her feet. It seemed leaden with weight. The seat belt grabbed at her clothes. Her shoes slipped on the slick pavement. When she finally got herself out, she saw she would have to run to catch up with Wilcox, who was already twenty yards down the street and moving fast.

She cursed and ran, holding her bag in one hand, the car keys in the other. It took her another ten yards to reach him.

'What the hell are you doing?' she demanded, seizing his arm.

He pulled away. 'I'm just gonna follow the bastard a bit! Let go!'

He continued his quick march after Ferguson.

She stopped, stealing a breath of air, and watched as he kept going. Again she put her head down and ran to catch up. She pulled alongside him, struggling to keep pace. She could see Ferguson a half block distant and moving swiftly himself, not looking back, just plowing through the darkness, apparently oblivious to their presence.

She grasped Wilcox's arm a second time.

'Let go, goddammit!' he said, angrily snatching his arm from her hold. 'I'll lose him.'

'We're not supposed…'

He turned, briefly, furiously. 'Get the damn car! Keep up! Come with me! Just don't get in my goddamn way!'

'But he…'

I don't care if he knows I'm back here! Now get out of my goddamn way!'

'What the hell are you doing?' she half shouted.

He waved furiously in her direction as if dismissing the question contemptuously. He spun away from her and, half running, tried to close the distance between Ferguson and himself.

Shaeffer hesitated, unsure. She saw Wilcox's back, pushing through the night, looked farther and saw Ferguson disappear around a corner. Wilcox increased his pace at the same moment.

She mumbled expletives to herself, turned, and ran fast back to the car. Two ancient street people, both women bundled in thick wads of coats with knit wool caps jammed on top of their heads, had materialized out of the gloom, blocking her path. One was pushing a shopping cart, cackling, while the other was gesturing wildly. They screeched at her as she pushed toward them. One of the old women reached out and tried to grab her as she went past, and for an instant they collided. The old woman spun and fell to the sidewalk, her voice wailing with anger and shock. Shaeffer stumbled, righted herself and, tossing an apology to the woman, ran to the car. The woman's shrieks followed after her. Two men had come out onto a front stoop despite the rain, and one of them called at her, 'Hey! Whatcha doin' lady? Big rush, hey?' She ignored them and threw herself into the driver's seat.

She ground the ignition and stalled the car.

Swearing continuously in a torrent of expletives, caught up in half panic and confusion, completely uncertain what Wilcox was doing, she stabbed at the engine again, pumping her foot on the gas pedal and twisting the ignition key. The engine caught and she slammed the car into gear, pulling out into the street without even glancing backward. The tires spun on the wet pavement and the car fishtailed sickeningly for an instant before shooting ahead.

Accelerating hard down the block, she rammed the car around the corner. She spotted Wilcox halfway down the block, catching sight of him as he swept into the weak light of a streetlight. She strained her eyes but could not see Ferguson.

Again she punched the car, and the engine responded sluggishly, complaining. She cursed the underpowered rental vehicle and felt a momentary longing for her own squad car back in the Keys. She came abreast of Wilcox just before the end of the block. He was turning down a one-way street, heading against the traffic. She rolled down her window as fast as she could, feeling the drizzle on her forehead.

'Keep going!' Wilcox gestured swiftly. 'Head him off.'

The detective plowed after his quarry, picking up his pace, breaking into a jog. Shaeffer shouted some quick word of agreement and spun the car down the rain-slicked street.

She had to go an extra block before she could turn. She ran a red light, sweeping around a corner, causing a pair of teenagers on the curb to leap back angrily shouting obscenities after her. The street was narrow, lined with dark, decrepit buildings that seemed to block her sight. A pair of cars were double-parked in mid-block. She blared the horn hard as she crawled past, leaving an inch or less on either side of her car.

At the next corner, she jerked the car back to the right, heading back toward the spot where she figured to catch up with Wilcox and Ferguson. Her mind raced with words; what to say, how to act. She realized that something was happening that was out of any control she might once have had. She concentrated on the road, fighting the night, trying to spot the two men as they maneuvered through the city streets.

They were not there.

She slowed the car, peering ahead, peering sideways down the veinlike alleyways and rubble-strewn clots of abandoned space. Shadows seemed to build into solid darkness. The street was abruptly empty of any people.

She stopped the car in the center of the street and jumped out, standing in the open doorway, looking both ways for any sign of the two men. Seeing none, she cursed loudly and slid back behind the wheel.

Dammit, she told herself. They must have turned down another street or cut through a vacant lot. He might have ducked down an alleyway.

She accelerated hard again, trying to guess and gauge, trying to catch up with the two men. She raced around another corner, only to feel a plummeting despair.

Still no sign of them.

She slapped the car into reverse, backing into the street from which she'd turned, and then jammed the car into forward. She sliced through the blackness sharply, still searching. She drove another block fast, then stabbed the brakes.

No one.

She felt a tightness winding within her. She had no idea what to do. Battling panic, she pitched the car quickly to the curb and jumped out. Walking fast, she headed in the direction in which she thought they should have been moving, still trying to think logically. Retrace their steps, she insisted to herself. Head them off. They can't be far. She strained her eyes against the shadows, her eyes searched for the sound of a raised voice. Then she picked up her pace and started to run. Her shoes made a solitary slapping sound against the sidewalk pavement. The sound increased, like a drumroll gaining momentum, until finally, flat out, she sprinted toward the empty night.