It was nearly half an hour before Shaeffer returned.

'I got through to the desk sergeants at precincts twelve, seventeen, and twenty,' she said. 'No sign of him. At least, he hasn't checked in there. None of them had any unusual calls, either, they said. One had a team working a shooting, but that was gang-related. They all said the weather was keeping things quiet. I called a couple of emergency rooms, as well, just on the off chance, you know. And the central dispatch for fire, rescue. Nothing.'

Brown looked at the two of them. 'We're wasting time,' he said abruptly. 'Let's go. We're going to go find him. Now.'

Cowart looked down at his notebook. 'You know, Ferguson has a late class tonight. Forensic procedures. Eight to ten thirty. Maybe he tailed him all the way out to New Brunswick.'

Brown nodded and then shook his head. That's possible. But we can't wait.'

'What good will it do to race out of here? Suppose he's on his way back?'

'Suppose he isn't?'

'Well, he's your partner. What do you think he's doing?'

Shaeffer breathed out slowly. That's it, she thought to herself. Got to be. He probably chased the bastard right onto some connecting bus and then to a train and hasn't had the chance to call in. And now he's tailing him back and it'll be midnight before he gets in. A small wave of relief washed over her. It was warm, comforting. It distanced her from the steel feelings of helplessness that had trapped her when she'd lost sight of Wilcox. She became aware, suddenly, of the lights in the room, the plastic, uniform decorations and furnishings, the quiet familiarity of the setting. It was, in that instant, as if she'd returned to the brightly lit surface from a mine shaft sunk deep into the earth's core.

The safety of this reverie was smashed by the harsh sound of Brown's voice. 'No. I'm going out now.' He pointed at Shaeffer. 'I want you to show me where everything happened. Let's go.'

Cowart reached for his coat, and the three headed back out into the night.

As Shaeffer drove, Tanny Brown hunched in his seat in the car, in agony.

He would have called, Brown knew.

There was no doubt in his mind that Wilcox was impetuous, sometimes to the point of danger. He was ruled too much by impulse and arrogant confidence in his abilities. These were the qualities that Tanny Brown secretly enjoyed the most in his partner; he felt sometimes that his own life had been so rigid, so clearly defined. Every moment of his entire being had been dedicated to some carefully constructed responsibility: as a child sitting at Sunday dinner after church, listening to his father say, 'We will rise up!' and taking those words as a command; carrying the ball for the football team; bringing help to the wounded in war; becoming the highest-ranking black on the Escambia force. He thought, There is no spontaneity in my life. Hasn't been for years. He realized that his choice of partners had been made with that in mind; that Bruce Wilcox, who saw the world in terms of simple rights and wrongs, goods and evils, and who never thought hard about any decision, was the perfect balance for him.

I'm almost jealous, Brown thought.

Memory made him feel worse.

He knew, instinctively, that something had happened, yet was incapable of reacting to this phantom disaster. When he searched the inventory of his partnership, he could find dozens of times that Wilcox had gone off slightly half-cocked, only to return to the fold contrite and chastened, red-faced and ready to listen to the coal-raking he would receive from Tanny

Brown. The problem was, all these instances had taken place back within the secure confines of their home county, where they had both grown up and where they felt a safety and security, not to speak of power.

Tanny Brown found himself staring out the window at the rigid black night.

Not here, he thought. We should never have come here.

He turned away angrily toward Cowart.

I should have let the bastard sink alone, he thought.

Cowart, too, stared out at the night. The streets still glistened with rain, reflecting weak lights from streetlamps and the occasional neon sign from a bar window. Mist rose above the pavement, mingling with an occasional shaft of steam that burst from grates, as if some subterranean deities were angry with the course of the night.

As Shaeffer drove, Tanny Brown's eyes swept up and down the area, probing, searching. Cowart watched the two of them.

He did not know when he had come to the realization that this search would be futile. Perhaps it was when they had dropped down off the expressway and started winding their way through the middle of the city, that the heartlessness of the situation had struck him. He was careful not to speak his feelings; he could see, with each passing second, that Brown was moving closer to some kind of edge. He could see as well, in the erratic manner that Shaeffer steered the car, that she, too, was staggered by Wilcox's disappearance. Of the three, he thought, he was the least affected. He did not like Wilcox, did not trust him, but still felt a coldness inside at the thought that he might have been swallowed up by the darkness.

Shaeffer caught a movement out of the corner of her eye and swerved the car to the curb. 'What's that?' she said.

They all turned and saw a pair of men, crusted, abandoned, homeless, fighting over a bottle. As they watched, one man kicked the other savagely, knocking his antagonist to the sidewalk. He kicked again, swinging his leg like a pendulum, smashing it into the side and ribs of the fallen man. Finally, he stopped, reached down, seized a bottle, and clutched it close. He started to leave, seemed to think better of it, walked back and slammed his foot into the head of the beaten man. Then the assailant slithered away, moving from shadow to shadow, until disappearing.

Tanny Brown thought, I've seen poverty, prejudice, hatred, and evil and hopelessness. His eyes traveled the length of the street. Not like this. The inner city looked like the bombed-out remnants of a different nation that had just lost some terrible war. He wanted desperately to be back in Escambia County. Things there may be wrong or evil, he told himself, but at least they're familiar.

'Jesus,' Cowart said, interrupting the policeman's thoughts. 'That guy may be dead.'

But as soon as the words left his lips, they all saw the beaten man stir, rise, and limp off into a different darkness.

Shaeffer, wishing she could be anywhere else, put the car back in gear and for the third time drove them past the spot where she had lost sight of Wilcox.

'Nothing,' she said.

'All right,' Brown said abruptly, 'we're wasting our time. Let's go to Ferguson's apartment.'

The entire building was dark when they pulled in front, the sidewalks devoid of life. The car had barely ceased moving when Brown was out the door, moving swiftly up the stairs to the entrance. Cowart pushed himself to keep pace. Shaeffer brought up the rear, but called ahead, 'Second floor, first door.'

'What are we doing?' Cowart asked.

He got no reply.

The big detective's shoes resounded against the stairs, a machine-gun sound of urgency. He paused momentarily in front of Ferguson's apartment, reaching beneath his coat and producing a large handgun. Standing just to one side, he made a fist and crashed it down hard a half dozen times on the steel reinforced door.

'Police! Open up!'

He pounded again, making the whole wall shake with insistence. 'Ferguson! Open up!'

Silence battered them. Cowart was aware that Shaeffer was close to him, her own weapon out and held forward, her breathing raspy-fast. He pushed his back against the wall, the solidity affording him no protection.

Brown assaulted the door again. The blows echoed down the hallway. 'Dammit, police! Open up!'