We also had a woman blackjack dealer point one of the robbers out to us. It was kind of funny, really. She just grabbed his nylon windbreaker, and wouldn't let go. All the way down the ramp.

"Here's one! I've got one here!"

He was afraid to hit her with all the cops about. We scarfed him up and got her into a secure area for a statement.

Still no Gabriel.

I did see Nancy and Shamrock come down a ramp on the other side of the bow from me. They looked all right, but Nancy seemed to be a little wet. I waved. She glared back, and then grinned. One of the additional DCI agents, who'd arrived within the last couple of hours, came running over. He talked to Art and Hester for a second, and then they gave us the news.

The same kid who'd surrendered the stretch van had started to talk. We'd cleared an auditorium in the pavilion, and some DCI and FBI agents were doing the post-arrest interviews there. One of the questions the prisoners were all asked was "And when was the last time you saw Gabriel." They couldn't incriminate themselves no matter what the answer, because they'd all come directly out of the van. They were, as we say, caught in the act. Gabriel's last appearance in itself didn't affect their individual fates at all. Armed robbery was armed robbery. Or, as Sally would have said, piracy was piracy.

Anyway, when he was asked, he said, "Yesterday." The next question was directed at Gabriel's current whereabouts. The answer? "At the bank." So much for name, rank, and serial number.

Hester and Art went to the auditorium, and did the questions. She came out after about two minutes, at pretty close to a dead run. When she got across the street to where I had just been joined by George and Volont, she said, breathing hard, "He says that Gabriel wasn't on the boat. He says Gabriel is at the bank."

The other agent had said that the surviving suspects from the bank had said that Gabriel was on the boat. At first, they'd just thought that the two groups had their stories co-coordinated to confuse the cops. It looked to Hester, though, that both groups thought they were telling the truth.

"That's impossible. If he wasn't in the van, wasn't on the boat, and sure as hell wasn't in the bank…" said George, "where the hell is he?"

Our first thought was that we had missed him as they disembarked from the Beauregard. Then a state trooper came over, with a paper in his hand. He stood politely by, not wanting to butt in.

"Excuse me, sir?" Directed to me. I was pleased.

"Yeah, what you got?"

"The guy in this picture… are you sure he was on the boat?"

"Pardon?"

"Well, just before they went out with the cable, I could swear I saw him leave the parking lot over there in an old, beat-up green Chevy. It was weird, it caught my eye, because he was talking on a cell phone, and, well, he nearly fit the profile for a drug dealer, so I noticed him…"

Everybody was listening intently before he was finished.

He indicated the parking lot behind and offset to the left of the pavilion. "Right back there."

Well, sure. Of course. Right in front of us all the time. Well, more behind, actually. Right where he could see into the back windows of the DCI office, and also part of the boat, and part of the bank. He'd been there all along. Had to have been. Complete control, close contact, and concealed by being obvious. Son of a bitch.

We put out a message for anybody who saw a car matching that description to merely report it and give us the location and direction of travel. One of those "Do Not Stop" bulletins. Advisedly so.

The Frieberg officer, who had been assigned to the bridge ramp before the fun started, responded immediately. He gave the same description as the trooper had, and said, "… went through here about ten or fifteen minutes ago, headed west or south, depending on where he went at the intersection…"

In a perfect world, we would simply have put out a call to block some roads. Unfortunately, all the available assets in N.E. Iowa were either home in bed, or up at Frieberg with us.

"He picked up a hitchhiker, right up here…"

What?

We would have wasted time getting to our own vehicles, especially going back through the crowd. We commandeered two state troopers and their cars, and Volont, George, Hester, and I headed up the bridge ramp toward the Frieberg officer.

"Well, yeah," he said. "I was standing here, doing traffic control, and this guy came walking up out of the fog… from over that way… and he just talked with me for a couple of minutes. Said he was supposed to meet somebody. I told him that I was stopping all traffic into town, but he said they'd be leaving…"

"And…" said Volont, tightly.

"Well, this old green Chevy came up out of the fog, and the door opened and the driver just yelled, 'Get in, Harv,' and he did. He said, 'Good-bye,' and they left." He looked at each of us, trying desperately to help. "They went that way…" he said, gesturing.

"What did this 'Harv' look like?" I asked.

I received a pretty good description of Harvey Grossman, Cletus Borglan's hired man.

For somebody whose best-laid plans were turning to shit in his hands, Volont was remarkably self-possessed. He directed the troopers to drive us up the hill to the spot where the Huey had landed, up out of the fog.

It was the fastest 10 mph I'd ever gone. I know the troopers were young, and highly trained drivers, and all that, but I for one couldn't see beyond the hood of our car.

When we got about halfway up the bluff, we emerged into blinding sunlight. It was just like climbing above the cloud layer in an airplane. It was so bright in comparison, it almost hurt.

We covered the remaining mile to the Huey's location at about 100 mph.

I'd expected, I guess, that the TAC team members assigned to the Huey would have stayed with her. Of course not. They'd quite properly arranged to be transported to the bank area, via State Patrol, because that was where they were needed. Well, needed then. I really wished they were here now.

I was wondering just where we were headed. So, too, was Hester.

"So, you think we just fly and look out the windows for a car?" She said this as we took notice of the enormous traffic jam in the single lane leading down toward Freiberg and the fog. All traffic was still being stopped.

Volont put down his cell phone. "They just pulled into Grossman's farm," he said.

"What?"

Volont looked surprised. "You didn't think we'd pulled our surveillance just because you caught a couple of agents, did you?"

Actually, I had. If he hadn't, that meant that he knew about the tractors in the field that night about as soon as I had. Among other things.

"Get in, Houseman," he said. "You hold the arrest warrant. I think you ought to serve it."

Volont, Hester, George, and I. That was it.

"You serious?" I asked, as I hauled myself into the dark green helicopter.

He was. He told the pilot to take us where instructed, and then to immediately return for some of the TAC team. He said that there was a "high probability" that we'd need assistance, so to bring them as fast as possible.

Right. Like that would be fast enough.

The pilot had a map of the county, and I indicated Grossman's farm. "The people we want are there, so far, and they're armed. Like he said, we gotta hurry…"

"Hang on, troops," he said, over the intercom. "We're gonna haul ass, here…"

The term fit. We went up, the nose came down slightly, and we were off. Fast. I leaned forward, and saw the airspeed indicator hovering around 110 knots. 120 mph. Cool. It was about fifteen road miles to Grossman's, maybe thirteen air miles. Six or seven minutes.

Volont's cell phone apparently didn't work in the chopper. He put it away with a scowl, and began to brief us in a loud voice.