So he started doing the only thing he could do. He started making his way through the crowd, using height as the first screen, weight as the second, facial structure as the third.

As he made his way through the next concourse, checking not only the individuals in the flowing crowd but also the customers at each booth and each exhibitor’s tent, an ironic thought came to mind: The upside of the worst-case scenario—that Peter Pan had come to the fair to blow it up piece by piece—was that he’d be there for a while. And as long as he was there, it was possible to catch him. Before Gurney could wrestle with the edgy moral question of how much human and material destruction he’d be willing to trade to get his hands on Peter Pan, Hardwick called—announcing that he’d arrived at the main gate and asking where they should get together.

“We don’t need to get together,” said Gurney. “We can cover more ground separately.”

“Fine. So what do I do—just start searching for the midget?”

“As best you can, based on your memory of the images on the security videos. You might want to pay special attention to groups of kids.”

“The purpose being …?”

“He’d want to be as inconspicuous as possible. A five-foot-tall male adult is attention-getting, but a kid that size isn’t, so there’s a good chance he’s made himself look like a kid. Facial skin can be an age giveaway, so I’d expect he’d find a way to obscure that. A lot of kids tonight have their faces painted, and that would be an obvious solution.”

“I get that, but why would he be in a group?”

“Again, inconspicuousness. A kid alone attracts more attention than one with other kids.”

Hardwick uttered a sigh, making it sound like the ultimate expression of skepticism. “Sounds like a lot of guesswork to me.”

“I won’t argue with that. One more thing. Assume that he’s armed, and don’t underestimate him. Remember, he’s alive and well, and a hell of a lot of people who crossed paths with him are dead.”

“What’s the drill if I think I have him ID’d?”

“Keep him in sight and call me. I’ll do the same. That’s the point when we need to back each other up. By the way, he blew up a flower stand here right after your last call.”

“Blew it up?”

“Sounded like a low-impact incendiary. Probably like the ones at Cooperstown.”

“Why a flower stand?”

“I’m not a psychoanalyst, Jack, but flowers—especially mums—seem to mean something to him.”

“You know ‘mum’ is the Brit word for ‘mom,’ right?”

“Sure, but—”

A series of rapid-fire explosions cut off his reply—propelling him down into an instinctive crouch. He sensed that the blasts had come from somewhere above him.