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  And as Dale hammered the gas, Arancia was now right on the Malibu’s tail again.

  Dale grinned.

  “Told ya so,” he said.

  Trees lined the sidewalk on the opposite side of the road, but there was a short treeless stretch ahead of the Malibu, and Ike Gallo took the opportunity. The Malibu suddenly swung to the left, up a curb cut, and across the sidewalk. It headed into a park and toward a massive fountain.

  One of the largest fountains in the world, as a matter of fact.

  Buckingham Fountain.

  The bottom pool was nearly three hundred feet across, and it housed a series of basins, the largest one hundred feet across and the “smallest” twenty-four feet across.

  The thing was massive.

  From working in the region for several years, Nash knew that the fountain held twenty-minute water shows every hour on the hour, in which hundreds of thousands of gallons of water were propelled through nearly 200 jets. It was a famous city landmark, considered “Chicago’s front door,” and the water shows delighted visitors every day.

  And one of those shows was happening right now.

  A one-hundred-fifty foot jet of water shot straight into the sky from the center of the fountain, smaller streams surrounding it. The people who had been enjoying this spectacle screamed and scattered as the Malibu rushed up onto the well-maintained pathway that encircled the entire fountain. This pathway was incredibly wide, capable of holding hundreds of people.

  Dale pulled Arancia right up behind the Malibu. The earth was well packed and leveled to a perfectly flat surface, but Arancia’s power was overwhelming, the rear tires slipping in the top layer of fine, crushed stone. The Malibu began circling the fountain. Dale laid on the gas, the engine roaring as the tires continued to fight the surface. He twisted the steering wheel in the opposite direction, getting Arancia into a controlled drift. Crushed stone pinged against the underside of the car, and Nash could see Dale grimacing. He was always worried about paint scratches. A massive plume of dust started to follow them as they zipped around the fountain.

  Dale made short, jerky movements of the steering wheel, maintaining the drift. Ahead of them, Ike Gallo, on the other hand, wasn't drifting the Malibu but was rather trying to make a smooth path around the fountain, swerving erratically in his attempt. Which only meant that Dale could completely close the gap.

  He was right on the Malibu’s tail.

  There was nowhere for Gallo to go.

  Nash looked behind them. As the pedestrians continued to flee in all directions, Arancia’s tires were leaving big ruts in the previously smooth surface of the pathway—all that pretty, crushed stone that Nash had noted as being so well-maintained. They'd already circled the fountain three times, so Dale's marks were one continuous loop, lines crossing over themselves, like a gigantic doodle on a piece of paper.

  Talk about leaving an impression…

  When they were halfway through their fourth loop around the fountain, Gallo finally lost control. The Malibu began wobbling side to side. Dale swung Arancia over just as the Malibu went barreling to the right, smashing through a bench and into a lamppost.

  The car’s hood crumpled with a loud bang. The windshield shattered. Steam billowed out.

  Dale yanked hard on Arancia’s hand brake, and they came to a sudden stop. Nash flew forward in his seat, the seatbelt digging into his chest.

  The driver side of the Malibu opened with a metallic screech, and Gallo stumbled out. He looked back at them and bolted into the trees beyond his destroyed car.

  Dale threw open his door.

  "Come on!” he said. “And lock your door!”

  They jumped out of Arancia and into the thundering noise and misty air of the water show. They sprinted after Ike Gallo.

  Chapter Three

  “You chased this guy all through downtown Chicago,” Ventress said, “endangering God knows how many people—but saving a squirrel, of course—and when you finally took chase on foot, Conley wanted to make sure you locked his damn car?”

  “He loves that car,” Nash said. “He’s ... quirky.”

  Ventress grumbled. She approached the projector.

  As she drew nearer, Nash could feel the power of her presence. She had a cold strength about her that was both immediately apparent and undeniable. And in a room this size—only about twenty by twenty-five feet—her personality consumed the entire space.

  It was a board room in the historic Arlington Hotel. Ventress had quickly secured it for the briefing, assembling everyone there less than half an hour prior. She had told the group that she wanted a neutral location, so she wasn’t going to use a space in an NPS or HSPD facility. There could be conflicting accounts of the events, she had said, and she wasn’t going to give anyone an advantage.

  And so they found themselves in this small, lavish room. The carpeting was plush and patterned, and the space was alight from an electric chandelier hanging over the table and electric sconces on the walls. There was boxed-out wainscoting trim and corbels framing the entrance and the recessed area where the projector screen hung. Crown molding with a reverse-scalloped pattern lined the tops of the walls. Ornate headers rested above the windows and would have looked lovely on a normal, sunny day, but with the dark gray, muted light oozing in through sheer curtains and the rain thrashing the glass, the headers’ patterns looked macabre, almost grotesque.

  “You seem to really admire Conley,” Ventress said to Nash as she removed the transparency from the projector. “The same man who cost you your job as an FBI agent.”

  She laid down a different sheet onto the projectors’ glass. A new image showed on the screen.

  Nash snorted a reactionary laugh. He put a fist to his mouth, trying to cover it. Gave a little cough. Regained his composure.

  Ventress scowled. “Do you find something amusing, Mr. Harbick?”

  “Well ... yes,” he said and pointed at the screen. “Just look at him.”

  A larger-than-life, head-and-shoulders image of Dale looked out into the room. There was a goofy expression on his face—one eyebrow arched, the other furled, his tongue poking against the inside of his cheek, bulging it out.

  Ventress, her arms crossed again, stared at the image.

  “Oh, yes. The great Agent Conley of the Bureau of Esoteric Investigation.” She turned around and looked at Taft. “His official Bureau photo?”

  Taft put his face in his hand and looked away from the photo. He didn’t respond, only nodded.

  “And this is the guy you referred to as your ‘top man,’” Ventress said. “Unbelievable. What kind of rinky-dink, bullshit operation are you running, Taft?”

  “A covert one. With seven eclectic geniuses in various fields. Dealing with things you couldn’t imagine.”

  “Yes, that’s what I was told yesterday evening when I was introduced to your group, one so secretive that even a person like me knows nothing about it. That is, until someone like me has to come in and clean up your mess.”

  Nash noticed that across the room in the chairs by the wall, two of the local cops were chatting as they looked at Dale’s image—one of the men and the attractive blonde female. They both grinned. Nash glanced at the blonde’s shiny metal name tag. It read, HENSLEY. The male whispered something into the Hensley’s ear. She giggled and smacked the other cop playfully, flirtatiously. Her eyes lingered on the man.

  This little exchange affected Nash.

  He could imagine Hensley in the shadows. A sensuous, perhaps nude image. Her hair no longer pulled up into a professional tail but rather cascading over her smooth shoulders. She arched her neck back. And gasped. Fingers came toward her outstretched neck, a man’s hand...

  Ventress’ voice brought him back to the present.

  “As I understand it, this buffoon,” she said, gesturing to Dale’s image, “is an expert in history with additional specialization in puzzles. Fancies himself a bit of a ladies man. He’s a methodical, almost neurotic, crime-solver and prid
es himself on his tenacity.”

  “That’s about sums him up, yes,” Taft said.

  Ventress shook her head as she looked at the image, let out a little disgusted sigh. “Jesus … what a pretty boy-lookin’ blockhead.”

  Taft gave a small, fond chuckle. “That’s what I call him.”

  Ventress turned on him. “You call him a blockhead?”

  “I call him ‘pretty boy.’”

  Ventress stepped to the table and grabbed another one of her folders, looked inside. “Oh, I almost forgot one important thing,” she said. “Conley consistently goes rogue, ignoring the BEI’s mandates that don’t suit him, doing what he feels is necessary to get the job done.”

  “Yes, he does,” Taft said with zero inflection.

  Nash was impressed with how cool Taft was remaining, how impassive.

  Ventress shrugged. “And why shouldn’t he? After all, your agency isn’t held accountable to anyone. If the entire BEI is above the law, Conley knows the only person who can reprimand him is you, and he further knows that you won’t reprimand him, rather you’ll just turn the other cheek with the belief that Conley always gets the job done, even if he breaks a few rules.”

  Taft didn’t reply. It was clear that he knew she was right.

  Ventress shook her head again.

  “I’ve never seen such a bunch of back-slapping, good ol’ boy, men’s club bullshit in my entire life.”

  Nash knew that there were two female BEI agents, so Ventress’ “men’s club” assertion was blatantly wrong. He could have called her on it, but he could already tell that Ventress was a force to be reckoned with, a person with whom one must choose one’s battles. He decided to pass on this battle. He remained quiet.

  “And I got news for ya, Taft,” Ventress continued. “Your golden boy has lost his mind and kidnapped an injured witness from a hospital. If that woman dies, the blood is on your hands.” She pointed at Fulton again. “Yours too, Mr. Fancy Pants.”

  Fulton started to speak.

  “Shut up,” Ventress said. She turned to Nash. “Conley wouldn’t let you go into the hospital with him, wouldn’t tell you why he was going back in. So I’ll assume you were caught off guard when he came back outside with the girl.”

  “More than caught off guard,” Nash said. “I was stunned.”

  “And what did Conley say to you?”

  Nash had stood outside the entrance to Newman Regional Hospital.

  In the middle of the pouring rain.

  The water coursing over his flesh was cold, almost shockingly so, but his mouth hung open not from physical shock but from a deep, hurtful sense of rejection caused by the man standing a few feet in front of him, facing him. Dale. The dry shelter beneath the porte cochere was only a few feet behind them, but Nash had chased after Dale, stomping out into the rain, shouting at him until he got him to stop, turn around, and speak to him. In Dale’s hand was a plastic bag with NEWMAN REGIONAL HOSPITAL PHARMACY printed on the side, and standing next to him, also getting drenched by the cold rain, was Mira Lyndon.

  She was thirty-ish, extremely petite, beautiful. Sexy. Dark brown hair. Brown eyes behind rain-speckled glasses. There were white bandages coming out from the neck of her shirt, adhesive bandages on her right ear, and contusions and abrasions all over her visible flesh. Dale’s leather jacket was draped over her shoulders. Every couple seconds she shuddered in the cold.

  “I thought we were in this together,” Nash said. “Dale, tell me what’s going on.”

  Dale shook his head. Rain ran off his wet hair, over his cheeks.

  “No, Nash. You’re done here.”

  “But…”

  Dale sighed. “Get out of here. But don’t go back to Memphis. They’re going to be looking for you. Hide out somewhere. I’ll find you when this all passes.”

  “I started this with you,” Nash said. “And I’m seeing it through.”

  Frustration swept over Nash. Dale had treated him so condescendingly, so paternally during this investigation, and now he was trying to completely shut him out.

  Nash wasn’t going to let that happen.

  He took a step closer.

  “No,” Dale said and took out his revolver. He pointed it at Nash’s chest. “Go away, Nash.”

  Ventress tsked.

  “He pointed a gun at you.”

  She turned to Taft.

  “That’s your top man, Taft.”

  Taft stared back at her, coldly.

  Ventress stepped away from the table, approached one of the windows, and pulled back the sheer curtain, looked out to the dark murk beyond. Nash could see the sheets of rain tossing about in the wind, moving like waves.

  Without turning back around, Ventress said, “Do you think Conley’s hurting that girl right now, Mr. Harbick?”

  “No,” Nash said. “Whatever Dale’s done, he’s done it with good reason. You might think that you’re getting a read on Dale’s character right now. But you’ve not met him. If you did, you’d see the most sincere and dedicated agent you’ve ever encountered. His actions here in Hot Springs might seem erratic, but wherever he is right now, whatever he’s doing, I’m certain that he has the situation completely under control.”

  Chapter Four

  A hundred feet away. Just outside the hotel.

  The sheets of rain pelted Dale Conley as he moved quickly along a wide, elaborately decorated walkway. Benches lined the sides. Decorative fencing. Well-trimmed bushes. This was Hot Spring’s Grand Promenade. While the place would normally be flooded with people enjoying the picturesque landscaping and scenic views, Dale was completely alone. No one else was out in the nasty weather.

  Dale kept his eyes cast down, watching for puddles. As if it mattered. He was completely drenched, head to toe. Dale hated the feeling of wet clothes, and it seemed as though he’d been soaked for the entirety of the last two days. The wet bricks passing beneath his motorcycle boots were laid out in decorative patterns with an X-figure across the center at regular intervals. This shape reminded Dale of the X-brace facade of Chicago’s Hancock Tower, the coincidence of which made Dale shake his head, even in his current predicament—because the last time he’d seen the Hancock Tower was during his ill-fated assignment with Nash Harbick…

  The man he’d brought with him here to Hot Springs.

  The man he’d abandoned yesterday afternoon.

  The man he’d aimed his gun at.

  Dale walked at a brisk, purposeful pace. Not running, though. Just walking quickly. Running would draw even more attention to the only person crossing through the park in the pouring rain. And attention was exactly what Dale didn’t need. His hands were in his pockets, and he kept his head low. Rain streamed off the bill of the trucker cap he was wearing, which he’d pulled low, concealing as much of his face as possible.

  Dale had been in many tight spots, and he had bent more than a few rules as a federal agent. On a couple occasions, he’d even found himself a temporary fugitive, like he was now. But he’d never done anything like this. Dale wasn't one to dwell on things, but at the moment, his mind couldn't help but think of all the negative ramifications that might come from all of this if things didn't turn out the way he hoped. And if he—

  His train of thought was suddenly cut off.

  Someone jumped out into the path in front of him, fifty feet away. The cop. Officer Brennan. Black, young, thin, and tall. Scraggly mustache. There was a bright slash of green paint splattered diagonally across his dark uniform. The same paint covered his face, and there were smear marks around his eyes where he’d wiped it away. Rain streamed off him, little tendrils of green washing down his body.

  His expression was pissed. His teeth were barred and clenched. He drew his revolver.

  “Freeze!”

  Dale’s eyes went wide, and he stopped in his tracks. He put his hands in the air.

  Brennan slowly, cautiously approached.

  Dale maintained eye contact.

  And just as Brennan r
eached for his handcuffs...

  ...Dale sprang into action, grabbing the barrel of the gun and pulling it to the side while simultaneously lunging toward Brennan, landing his shoulder into the cop’s chest.

  The gun went off.

  Crack!

  A small, wet explosion in the earth next to them, mud flying out in a big, brown fan.

  Brennan laid a punch under Dale’s jaw, staggering him. Dale felt an arm grab him. It hooked around his neck, and Brennan positioned himself behind Dale.

  Dale reached for his Model 36, in the holster tucked into the back of his jean. Couldn’t get it. Brennan’s torso blocked him. Dale threw an elbow back, catching Brennan in the ribs.

  Brennan doubled over, and in this brief moment of opportunity, Dale shoved him hard toward the metal guardrail running alongside the path. Brennan’s head struck the railing with a loud, metallic DING, and he collapsed onto the brickwork.

  Dale bent over and took the man’s gun and handcuffs. He stood back up, flinging the wet hair out of his face.

  Shaken, Brennan looked up at him.

  “I hate to do this,” Dale said.

  He snapped a handcuff to Brennan’s wrist and then secured the other side to the handrail. He took a step back.

  Brennan, his head wobbling on his neck, glared up at Dale.

  “You son of a bitch.”

  Dale popped the cylinder on the Brennan’s gun, ejected the rounds into his hand, and tossed them into the trees.

  He handed the gun back to Brennan and gave him a small nod.

  “Sorry to leave you in the rain, pal.”

  Earlier Dale had avoided running, not wanting to draw attention.

  But with a beaten-up, handcuffed cop sitting at his feet, he couldn’t worry about that anymore.

  He sprinted away, splashing through the large puddles gathered on the brick path.

  A few minutes later, Dale plodded through the muddy, wet forest. He was off the trail, and he shielded his face as he pushed sopping branches out of the way. He hadn’t seen the entrance yet, and he was starting to get concerned. He had only made this trip once before, yesterday, and that was with assistance. He didn't know these trees.