Then nothing.

He turned toward Shaeffer. 'You're sure…'

'That's the right one,' she said, teeth clenched.

'Where the hell…'

All three heard a scraping noise from behind them. Cowart felt his insides constrict with fear. Shaeffer wheeled, bringing her weapon to bear on the sound, crying out, 'Freeze! Police!'

Brown pushed forward.

'I ain't done nothing,' said a voice.

Cowart saw a stout black woman in a frayed pale blue housecoat and pink slippers at the base of the apartment stairs. She was leaning on an aluminum walker, bobbing her head back and forth. She wore an opaque shower curtain cap, and brightly colored curlers were stuck in her hair. There was a ridiculousness in her appearance that pricked the tension building within him, deflating his fear. He instantly felt as if the three of them, guns drawn, faces set, were the ludicrous ones.

'Whatcha making all the noise for? You come in, like to raise the dead with all that pounding and shouting and racket like I never heard before. This ain't no crack house full of junkies. People live here got jobs. Got work and got to get their sleep at night. You, mister policeman, what you doing, making like some sledgehammer pounding?'

Tanny Brown stared down at the woman. Andrea Shaeffer slid past him. 'Mrs. Washington? You remember me from the other day. Detective Shaeffer. From Florida. We're looking for Ferguson again. This is Lieutenant Brown and Mister Cowart. Have you seen him?'

'He left earlier.'

'I know, shortly after six, I saw him leave.'

'No. He come back. Left again, 'bout ten. I saw him from my window.'

'Where was he going?' Tanny Brown demanded.

The woman scowled at him. 'How'm I s'posed to know? Had a couple of bags. Just left. There you go. Didn't stop to say no hellos or goodbyes. Just went walking out. Be back, mebbe. I don't know. I didn't ask no questions. Just heard him bustling 'bout up here. Then out the door, no looking back.'

She stepped back. 'Now, maybe you let some of the folks get some sleep.'

'No,' Tanny Brown said immediately. 'I want in,' he gestured with his revolver toward the apartment.

'Can't do that,' said the woman.

I want in,' he repeated.

'You got a warrant?' she asked slyly.

'I don't need a goddamn warrant,' he said. His eyes burned toward the woman.

She paused, considering. I don't want no trouble,' she said.

'You don't get the key and open that door, and you'll see more trouble than you've ever known,' Brown said.

The woman hesitated again, then turned and nodded.

Her husband, who'd been out of sight, hove into view. He carried a jangling key ring. He was wearing an old pajama top over a pair of faded and tattered khaki trousers. His feet were stuck into untied boots. He moved his stringy legs rapidly up the stairs.

'Shouldn't be doing this,' he said, glaring at Brown. He pushed past and faced the apartment door. Shouldn't be doing this,' he repeated.

He started feeding keys into the lock. It took three before the door swung open.

'Oughta have a warrant,' he said. Tanny Brown immediately pushed past him, ignoring his words. He found a light switch on the wall and quickly walked through the apartment, gun out, checking the bathroom and bedroom, making certain they were alone.

'Empty,' he said. The words echoed the sensation that tore within him. Empty and cold and like a tomb. He stared around the silent space, knowing what had happened yet refusing to allow himself to think what was loose in the world. He walked through the center of the small apartment, over to the desk where Ferguson had once sat. The student, he thought. An assortment of papers had fallen in disarray to the floor. He kicked at them and looked up and saw Matthew Cowart staring about at the room.

'Gone, Cowart said. His voice was shocked and quiet.

The reporter took a deep breath. He had expected Ferguson to be there, mocking them all, thinking himself forever just beyond their reach. There's no time now, he realized. He could feel the story he had been planning to write slipping through his fingers. No time. He's out there and he will do whatever he wants. The reporter's mind raced through scene after scene. He had no idea what Ferguson intended, whether his child was at risk or not. Or some other child. Nothing was safe. He looked over at Tanny Brown and realized the detective was thinking precisely the same thing.

The night closed rapidly toward dawn but promised no relief from the darkness that had descended upon each of them.

25. Lost Time

They lost hours to fatigue and bureaucracy.

Tanny Brown felt trapped between procedure and fear. After discovering Ferguson's apartment empty, he had felt compelled to report Wilcox's disappearance to the local police, while at the same time believing that every instant passing distanced him from his quarry. He and Shaeffer had spent the remainder of the night with a pair of Newark gold shields, neither of whom fully understood why they had each arrived from a different part of the state of Florida to question a man suspected of no current crime. The two gold shields had listened blankly to her account of the stakeout with Wilcox and acted surprised when she described how he'd taken off into the gloom and darkness after Ferguson. Their approach seemed to express a certain acceptance that whatever Wilcox had got, he'd deserved; it made no sense to them that a man, out of his jurisdiction, far from any familiar territory, driven by anger, would pursue a man deep into a country they clearly thought was not a part of the United States, but some alien nation with its own rules, laws, and codes of behavior. Tanny Brown bristled at their attitudes, thinking them racist, if logistically correct. Shaeffer marveled at their callousness. More than once, she promised herself that no matter how terrible things might become for her as a policeman, she would never succumb to what she heard in their voices. where she'd last seen Wilcox and showing them the route that she'd followed in her search. They had returned to Ferguson's apartment, but there was still no sign of him. The two gold shields clearly didn't believe that he had left the city, however.

Shortly before dawn, they told Brown they would put out a BOLO for Wilcox and would assign a team to canvas the streets asking for him. But they insisted Brown contact his own office, as if they actually believed that Wilcox would show up in Escambia County.

Cowart spent the night waiting in his motel room for the two detectives. He had no idea how great the threat might be to him or his daughter, only knew that as each minute slid past, his position worsened and his only weapon, the news story, grew more remote. No story would have an impact unless he knew where Ferguson was. Ferguson had to be trapped by the story, he had to be immediately surrounded with questions, mired in denials. It was the only way Cowart could buy time to protect himself. Ferguson abroad in the world was a constant, invisible danger. Cowart knew that before a word appeared in the paper, he had to find Ferguson once again.

He stared at his wristwatch, seeing the second hand race through each minute, reminded of the clock on Death Row.

Now you're beginning to know a bit…

He realized he could delay no further. Ignoring the sure-to-be terrifying impact of the middle-of-the-night call, he picked up the telephone and dialed his ex-wife's number.

It rang twice before he heard her new husband's voice groan an acknowledgement.

'Tom? It's Matt Cowart. Sorry to disturb you, but I've got a problem, and…'

'Matt? Jesus. Do you know what time it is? Christ, I've got to be in court in the morning. What through the darkness. He couldn't hear what she said but heard her new husband's response. 'It's your ex. He's got some sort of emergency, I guess.'