Thistle heaves the Crown Vic into the U-turn, scanning the faces of pedestrians on the sidewalk. Other cars slow right down to avoid colliding with us. Someone honks. ‘You’re shitting me,’ she says. ‘Where?’

‘He’s driving a white Mazda,’ I say. ‘He went that way.’

‘You sure it was him? The traffic’s doing fifty.’

‘Ninety per cent sure,’ I say. It was a split-second glimpse, but it was enough. I’m good with faces.

Thistle reaches for the siren.

‘Don’t,’ I say. ‘Let’s see where he goes.’

‘I can’t see the car yet.’

‘Me neither, but it’s there. Eight cars ahead. Overtake this guy.’

Thistle swerves into the other lane and zooms past a black Toyota. The driver sticks his hand out the window and flips the bird at her. Without even looking, Thistle presses her badge to the window. The guy blanches and slows right down. His car gets smaller and smaller in the rear-view mirror.

‘Is that it?’ Thistle asks, pointing to the white Mazda.

‘Yeah.’

‘Can you see the plates?’

I can’t, but I did when he passed us the first time. I recite the numbers, and Thistle punches them into her dashboard computer. A registration pops up on the screen.

‘The car is registered to Hector Gomez,’ she says. ‘Not listed as stolen. Was that one of the fake names in Edwards’s files?’

‘No,’ I say. ‘Doesn’t mean it’s real, though. Let’s see where he goes.’

‘We should call it in.’

‘Not yet. He’d hear our backup coming.’

We follow the old Mazda west on the I-10, out of Houston. We pass through Katy—trees on our left, places selling tractors and RVs to our right—and then we start to see signs to San Antonio, a hundred and sixty miles away. A short drive by Texas standards. Another sign says NUEVO LAREDO, MEXICO.

‘You reckon he’s headed for the border?’ I ask.

‘The I-69 would have been faster,’ Thistle says. ‘And if so, why didn’t he do it yesterday? Maybe he lives down this way.’

‘He worked at a dump in Louisiana,’ I say. ‘Two and a half hours east. He would have found a job closer to his house.’

We drive in silence for five minutes or so. I watch the scrub rush by out the window. Out here, you can see why some people still think the world is flat. Beyond the wasteland of stunted trees and dying grass on our left, refineries are coughing black smoke into the sky, their spires and stacks like a futuristic city. A forest is approaching on the right.

If the guy doesn’t live out here and isn’t headed for the border, there’s another possibility.

‘Or,’ I say, ‘he’s on to us. He’s trying to lead us as far away from—’

Just then, the Mazda swerves off the road into the forest without signalling.