Jenkins was moving slowly back and forth across the wide backyards; the side yards, between houses, were mostly clear of bushes and didn’t have good hiding places. The backyards, though, were a tangle of fences, grape arbors, decorative grasses, and last year’s gardens, with their foot-high, now dead plants. The shooter, he thought, was wearing camo, and in the harsh shadows thrown by Jenkins’s flashlight, and with the snarl of folliage and fence, could be hiding almost anywhere.

If he wanted to shoot his bow, though, he’d have to come up at least to kneeling height, unless he were concealed behind a tree or hedge; and Jenkins’s light was designed to be blinding.

So Jenkins didn’t hurry; he sent the light into every nook and cranny, his pistol tracking with the light.

—

The shooter crossed a lot of fences and shrubs in a hurry, had to get south, to the Wilsons’ house. The Wilsons had a hedge that ran all the way out to the street. It would provide cover. And if the cops were out of sight for only ten seconds, then it would be possible to cross the street, and, once there, it should be possible to shake them free altogether.

The biggest threat would be if the neighborhood woke up, and it probably would, sooner or later. Once all the backyard lights and garage lights came on, getting lost would become impossible.

No time, no time, had to keep moving . . .

And a cop ran by in the street, carrying a flashlight that appeared to be as bright as any searchlight . . .

—

Shrake had run up to the first street corner and thought he’d gotten there in time to keep the shooter from crossing it. Not being absolutely certain of that, he lit up the spaces between the houses across the street as well.

A man called something to him, and he shouted back, “Police . . . Police . . . Go inside. Go inside, lock your doors.”

Virgil had gotten back on his radio, and said, “He could live in one of these houses, and he’s already inside.”

“That would cut down the possibilities,” Shrake said. “Basically, if he’s inside, we’ll get him.”

“Unless he’s inside somebody else’s house and he just killed them,” Virgil said.

Jenkins: “Virgil, keep moving up. I’m sweating like a motherfucker over here. We’ve got to be pushing him into a corner.”

“We need to get some deputies down here, wrap up the entire neighborhood, and wait until it gets light,” Shrake suggested.

“That’s seven hours away, but it’s not a bad idea,” Virgil said. “I’ll call Zimmer, get some guys started this way.”

Shrake said, “Jenkins, if he’s in there, he’s gotta move. You’re only a hundred feet out from me.”