He and Corey Browne took each other in for a slow count of three before Browne pivoted on his heel and ran as Willy shouted his name.

“Goddamn it,” Willy spat out, giving chase.

Willy was unexpectedly fast, given his disability and age. Fortunately for him, Browne was as athletic as your average substance-abusing drug dealer. Nevertheless, the one had the distance on the other and vanished down the stairwell as Willy was still pounding along the corridor.

The staircase proved a blessing. Running clockwise as it descended, it offered the cop its inner-right handrail as an anchor, which Willy seized as he went like a one-armed ape swinging off a branch. He made good yardage on the way down, the walls reverberating with the heavy footfalls of both men.

Browne still outdistanced him on the first floor, if barely, further impeded by the number of people hanging around outside their rooms.

“Police!” Willy yelled out. “I want that man.”

It was too much to expect. It was commonly said that the bigger a group, the less likely aid will be forthcoming, and indeed, most of these onlookers merely stared in surprised silence as the two sprinters went by. At least, Willy thought, no one bothered to trip him instead—always an option with this audience.

But all was not lost. As Browne entered the old motel’s vast lobby, now a place to commingle socially, with tables and seating, one of the Overnight’s residents responded probably less to Willy’s shouting and more to his own personal feelings about Corey Browne. Rising gracefully from his straight-backed chair, this older man completed the gesture by grasping the chair by its wooden crest rail and swung it sideways like a garbage can lid, sending it directly across Browne’s pathway and toppling him like a bowling pin.

Willy gave the old-timer a grateful grin as he leaped over the same obstacle and landed with one knee in Browne’s back, his muscular right hand on the nape of Browne’s neck. He shoved Corey’s face into the dirty carpeting, noticing a concealed pistol tucked into his waistband. “Gotcha, you son of a bitch,” he panted. “And packing, to boot. Time to catch up.”

Even Willy couldn’t deny he was feeling the lack of sleep, leaning against the wall on the viewing side of the one-way mirror, gazing at Corey Browne sitting at the small room’s bolted-down steel table, one wrist handcuffed to the wall beside him.

Willy let out a slow breath. His preference would have been to leave this turkey where he was for what was left of the night and catch some shut-eye, curled up next to his small family.

But that choice was past. He’d opted to stake out Robin Whiteman’s place when he had, and now it was up to him to see this through.

He straightened, squared his shoulders, and entered the room.

Browne glared at him as he closed the door behind him. “’Bout fucking time. I have rights, you know?”