There were only a half-dozen kids on the carousel, all younger than him. For most of the town, the novelty of it had worn off in the year it had been here, but it wasn’t until the past summer that she’d let Danny ride. “You baby him too much,” Billy had said once, “You can’t protect him from everything.” She’d known he was right, but he didn’t know what it was like to lie there at night, the house silent, imagining life without Danny. A life alone.

She bought tickets, helped him onto one of the horses, rode a circuit with him, and then stepped off, joining the other adults standing nearby. He waved at her as he went around, his other hand clutching the pole, his smile huge. She waved back.

A cool wind blew across the park. She turned, looked toward the dirt lot where the Blazer was parked. On the far side, a gray Toyota with Florida plates sat beneath a live oak, away from the other vehicles, a figure in shadow behind the wheel. She couldn’t tell if it was a man or woman. A parent maybe, listening to the radio, out of the wind, while their child rode the carousel.

Danny called to her as he came past again, the horse rising and falling lazily. Love you, kid, she thought. Then the carousel took him around again and out of sight.

Morgan watched them from the stolen car.

The woman had been easy to find. He’d taken the Toyota from the lot of an outlet mall near Arcadia, switched plates with another car, then driven down here. He’d gone to the sheriff’s office first, parked in a strip mall across the street. On the seat beside him was a newspaper clipping with photos of the woman and Flynn. A little after five, he’d watched her pull her cruiser into the lot.

He got a better look when she left, still in uniform. Midthirties maybe, a good shape, brown hair tied up behind. She’d gotten into a silver Blazer, and he’d followed at a safe distance. First to her house, where he’d parked down the block, watched her go in and then come back out in street clothes, with a little boy. Then here to the park.

The carousel slowed, children getting off, others getting on. The boy ran toward her, and she scooped him up in her arms and hoisted him onto her shoulders, the way a father might, holding on to his ankles. They crossed the lot to the Blazer. As they got closer, Morgan saw there was something wrong with the boy. He was too thin, his hair sparse and uneven. When she set him down, he looked spent, had to hold on to her while she opened the back door, helped him up and into a booster seat.

He’s sick, Morgan thought. Something bad. Something that won’t go away.

As the woman got behind the wheel, she looked across at Morgan. He knew he was far enough from the streetlamp that she couldn’t make him out, if she could see him at all.

He watched them drive off. He didn’t need to follow. He knew where she lived now, what she drove.

Tomorrow he would find Flynn.

Morgan parked the Toyota on a fire road, out of sight of the highway, and walked a quarter mile to where the woods ended and the dead cornfield began.

It was dusk, the shadows thickening around him. Across the cornfield, he could see lights go on in the house. It had taken him twenty minutes to find it, out here in the middle of nowhere, and he’d driven by twice, feeling exposed, before doubling back and finding this spot.

He wore a black windbreaker he’d bought in Arcadia, had zipped it halfway to cover the Beretta in his belt. He’d run the air conditioner in the car, but here in the open he was sweating under the pullover, his hands clammy inside the cotton work gloves.

As it grew darker, the woods seemed to come to life around him. The chirping of crickets everywhere, louder noises he didn’t recognize. He found himself touching the Beretta through his jacket.

From the edge of the trees, the ground sloped down to the cornfield, giving him a clear view of the front and back of the house. A pickup truck and an old Camaro were parked in the carport.

The front door opened, and a woman came out. Late thirties, blond hair, one side braided, black T-shirt, jeans. She stood in the yard, turned back to speak to a man in the doorway. Jeans and white T-shirt, curly hair. Flynn.

The woman got behind the wheel of the Camaro, started the engine. The noise was loud, ragged, the telltale cough of a bad muffler. Flynn went back in, closing the door behind him.

When she pulled out of the carport, Morgan walked back through the woods to the car.

It was easy to pick her up again. Once back on the main road, it wasn’t long before he saw the distinctive shape of the Camaro’s taillights ahead. Little traffic, easy to keep her in sight without getting close. He thought he’d lost her on a rise once, then saw the Camaro parked outside a package goods store. He’d driven by, pulled onto the shoulder a half mile later, doused the lights. Five minutes later, the Camaro passed him. After a few moments, he pulled out after it.

They were heading west, farther away from town, nothing but woods out here. He followed at a distance, saw her slow, make a left, seem to disappear into the trees.

He drove by and saw the road there, the billboard for the housing development. There was a phone number on it, a drawing of a town house, an orange arrow that pointed down the road.

A half mile ahead, he pulled onto the shoulder and swung the Toyota back around. As he neared the side road, he killed the lights, made the turn.

The road was newly paved, the curbs marked with yellow chalk, spray-painted red arrows where the gas lines were. The trees gave way to condo units in varying degrees of construction, empty lots between them, all the buildings dark. He slowed, not wanting to come up on her if she’d pulled to the side of the road.

He passed a backhoe and bulldozer parked in a cleared lot. Ahead on his left, in one of the completed units, he could see light in a window, the Camaro parked at the curb outside.

He turned onto a side street, parked, untwisted the wires that dangled from the broken steering column, killed the engine. He used an elbow to break the plastic cover of the dome light, pulled the bulb out. Then he took the roll of reflector tape from the hardware store bag and got out.

He cut through yards, all the houses empty, no one else living here yet. As he neared the lighted unit, he could hear music inside. Empty lots on both sides, no streetlight out front.

Kneeling behind the Camaro, shielded from the house, he tore off a two-inch strip of tape. He picked a spot low on the bumper, brushed it clean, flattened the tape there, pressing until it held. At night, in the reflection of headlights, it would be easy to spot.

He put the roll of tape in his jacket pocket, slipped the Beretta out of his belt. He went up into an empty yard, coming up on the house from the right side. There was an attached garage there, a window. He looked in. In the lightspill from an open door he could see a blue Navigator with Palm Beach County plates. He tried the window. Unlocked.

He moved to the back of the house. The music was louder here, a thumping bass line. Reggae. There was a redwood deck, sliding glass doors with vertical blinds, lights on inside.

A side window cast a square of light on the dirt. He found a discarded cinder block, set it down, climbed up. No blinds or curtains. He was looking into a small dining room, a living room beyond. No furniture except for an old blue couch and a table lamp on the hardwood floor.

The woman sat on the couch, looking up at a light-skinned black man swaying in the center of the room, dancing by himself. He had thick dreadlocks tied back in a ponytail, wore a sleeveless T-shirt and loose fatigue pants that exposed two inches of flat stomach. He drew on a spliff, blew smoke out, still moving to the music. There was a boom box on the floor, plugged into a wall socket, a six-pack of Michelob beside it.