Wyatt sighed, then nodded heavily. The sheriff was right, of course. The recovery of a kid, missing thirty years, was big news. Hold-a-press-conference-wearing-their-best-federal-suits, taking-full- federal-credit kind of news. A mere county sheriff’s department didn’t stand a chance.

“Can you locate this brothel?” the sheriff asked now. “You got a description, something concrete that puts it in our county, gives us half a chance?”

“I got nothing,” Wyatt confessed. “Nicky described the home as a Victorian mansion, driving distance from Boston. Run by a madam who looks like a china doll, and also occupied by an evil roommate named Chelsea. That’s what we know.”

“Please don’t tell the feds that.”

“Yeah.”

“What do you have?” the sheriff pressed.

Wyatt was tired. He’d been up all night, and the coffee was wearing off. He stared at his boss blankly.

“You got Nicky Frank,” the sheriff spelled out for him. “Or Veronica Sellers, or whatever the hell her name is. That’s what you have; they don’t.”

“You mean the world’s most unreliable witness?”

“Whatever’s going on here, she holds the key. Get a doctor. Get a hypnotist, a therapist, whatever it takes. But start pushing, and don’t stop until you get some real answers out of her, including what’s up with the husband. You have less than twenty-four hours to find answers, Sergeant. Time to make your play.”

*   *   *

WYATT TURNED OVER the matter in his mind as he walked down the second-floor corridor to his own modest office. He didn’t like the idea of a hypnotist. He agreed with Nicky; her mind was messed up enough. But a therapist? Maybe an expert in PTSD? Could someone like that possibly coax Nicky into a walk down memory lane that finally ended with some answers? Of course, how to locate such a therapist and get him or her to his office ASAP? Clock was ticking, so definitely no rest for the wicked on this one.

He’d just made it to his office door, was debating whether more coffee would help or hurt at this point, when Kevin burst through the stairwell ahead of him.

“We got him.”

“Who?”

“Thomas Frank. Patrol officer spotted his vehicle parked behind a strip motel, Route 302, forty minutes north.”

Wyatt forgot all about caffeine. Quick swipe of his car keys off the corner of his desk; then he and Kevin were hammering down the stairs toward the parking lot.

“Did the officer approach him?” Wyatt asked as they hit ground level.

“Nah, called it in. Since you were tied up with the big boss, I instructed him to lay low, keep eyes on, but remain out of sight. He’s gonna work on getting the exact room number for us.”

“Perfect. All right. Mobilize the troops. We’re gonna want patrol cars north and south in case he runs for it. In the meantime, this is our party. We make the first contact.”

They clambered into the county SUV, Wyatt behind the wheel, Kevin working the radio. Forty minutes north. Wyatt figured he could make that thirty. And he did.

*   *   *

KEVIN HAD JUST spotted the long, white-painted strip motel on the left, when Thomas Frank’s silver Suburban turned out of the parking lot right in front of them.

“There, that’s him!” Wyatt called out. The driver didn’t appear spooked, but was driving at a moderate pace. Wyatt hit the sirens, however, and all that changed.

The Suburban shot forward, V8 engine gunning. Apparently, Thomas Frank wasn’t done running just yet.

“What the hell did you do, man?” Wyatt muttered under his breath. “Because you’re about to go down the hard way.”

Wyatt hit the accelerator, easily closing the gap. Beside him, Kevin was already alerting the two patrol cars five miles north that the chase was on. They careened past a gas station/local deli, a diner and a campsite; then civilization thinned out, and it was full speed ahead.

Sixty, seventy, eighty miles an hour on the winding road. The Suburban took one corner too fast, rocking onto two wheels. For one second, it remained suspended in precarious balance, then slammed back to four tires on the ground, lurching awkwardly forward. Another sharp left, followed by a winding right. As the Suburban slipped from eighty to sixty to eighty again.

Wyatt felt calm and focused, the way he always did on the hunt. His hands were steady on the wheel, his breathing controlled. This was his element. The moment a good officer trained and, frankly, lived for.

In contrast, the Suburban was beginning to weave erratically. Panic, exhaustion, impairment, but Thomas Frank appeared to be losing it.

The Suburban swung wildly into the left-hand lane. An oncoming car blared its horn, then belatedly spotted the pursuing police vehicle and pulled over. Better late than never, as the saying went.

Now the Suburban overcorrected to the right, skidding almost sideways across the road, two wheels crunching into the soft shoulder and making it fishtail wildly.

Wyatt backed off his speed, frowning at the Suburban’s out-of-control maneuvers. Suddenly, he wasn’t feeling so good about things. In fact . . .

A tractor-trailer appeared ahead. Logging truck, just coming around the corner, a little wide with its long, heavy load bearing down upon the Suburban.

“Don’t you dare, don’t you dare!” Wyatt shouted at Thomas Frank.

Who’d just swung his Suburban back into the path of the oncoming semi, as if playing chicken with a tractor-trailer was a good idea. In fact, better than surrendering to the local cops.

Wyatt could think of only one more thing to do. Not a great idea. Not his best idea. But in the spur of the moment . . .

He shoved the accelerator to the floor, fully committing 202 horsepower to his bidding. As he pulled alongside the lumbering Suburban’s dark-tinted passenger window. No view of Thomas. Wild-eyed with desperation, or dead set with determination, Wyatt had no way to know. And no time to find out.

The logging truck hit its brakes, sounding its deep horn. As Wyatt drove his own vehicle into the side of the Suburban. The crunch and grind of metal. A frozen instant of time, when neither vehicle gave way, but remained locked together with the other, a twin-size target for the oncoming semi. Wyatt lifted his foot from the gas, swerved one last time into the side of the Suburban. Then . . .

The Suburban was knocked left. Veered off the road onto the tree-lined shoulder just as the logging truck squealed through the space it used to occupy. Wyatt fought with his own vehicle, steady, steady, snap, back into his own lane, blowing by the logging truck as Kevin roared a few words the Brain rarely said.

Wyatt hit the brakes. His vehicle stopped. The logging truck stopped.

The world stopped.

“Shit,” he muttered.

Kevin got on the radio and called for backup.

*   *   *

THE SILVER SUBURBAN had done a face-plant into a tree. The hood was a crumpled mess, steam rising, fluids flushing down, as if in its last moments, the vehicle had lost control of its bowels.

Wyatt looped around to the driver’s side door, Kevin assuming cover position. In the distance they could already hear the sound of approaching sirens.

Driver’s side window wasn’t broken, which put Wyatt at a disadvantage. He couldn’t completely see inside, but it appeared the driver was slumped over the wheel. He gestured to Kevin, then did the count with his fingers. On three, Wyatt took one fluid step forward, jerked open the door, then twisted behind it for cover.

As the driver toppled out of the car onto the ground.

“Thomas Frank, you’re under arrest,” Wyatt barked out loudly.

Except when he stepped forward, it wasn’t Thomas Frank who lay before him.

*   *   *

IT TOOK ANOTHER thirty minutes to work it out. Despite the first officer’s best intentions, Thomas Frank must’ve made him. Rather than run for it, he’d knocked on the door of the room next to his. Introduced himself to Brad Kittle, who, it turned out, had spent most of the morning doping up. When a strange dude offered him the keys to his car, that had seemed the best thing that had ever happened to good old Brad. He’d taken the keys. When the dude suggested he go for a test drive, even better.