Glancing over my shoulder, I saw Greer’s SUV leaving the graveside service. However, with the graveyard’s meandering road layout and the only exit on the other side of the property, I knew it’d still be a few minutes before he could get up here. By then, she might very well escape down the other side into the neighborhood of brownstones, where it’d be easy for her to blend in, disappear, slip away.

Years of rock climbing were on my side, and I was able to scramble over the fence without any trouble. By the time I landed, I could see that I’d made up some ground on her. I called out and identified myself as a federal agent. “Ma’am, stop. I just want to talk with you.”

She ignored me and darted farther into the woods.

If a police officer pulls you over or a federal agent asks to speak with you, there are three things that you just have to do: Follow orders, respect authority, and don’t run. Never run. Don’t disrespect law enforcement and don’t act like you have something to hide.

And that’s how she was acting right now.

Because of the time of year, most of the undergrowth was withered or dead, and I could track her progress as she scampered catlike between the trees.

Despite the uneven ground, I’d finally found my stride. I was within twenty-five meters of the woman, and closing.

Tumults of leaves flutter-wisped past me in the gusting air.

She became momentarily caught in a patch of persistent dried thistles that’d refused to die away after summer. I called to her again. She shouted for me to leave her alone, then tore herself free, abandoning her jacket in the thorny vines, and bolted forward.

On my way toward her, I flung a branch aside but stumbled over a hidden root and went down hard. On impact, my hands smeared out in front of me, wrenching my left wrist as my palm smacked into a rock.

Deal with it. Go.

Back on my feet, it took me a second to reorient myself and find her again. She was nearly to the road, and a silver sedan was on its way toward her.

“I’m with the FBI,” I said. “Stop!”

The woman burst out of the forest and ran to the middle of the road to flag down the driver, but he must’ve been distracted, because he didn’t slow until the last moment when he slammed on his brakes, narrowly missing her. He cranked the car to the right, flying off the shoulder and down a steep drop-off. The vehicle flipped over on its way down the embankment and came to a smoking crunch at the base of an ancient oak.

I yelled to the woman to stay where she was. She did but eyed the neighborhood across the road from where the car had crashed.