A short strip of cement cut between a line of old trees, and then Somers hit a narrow asphalt trail—a walking path that ran north-south through this section of town. The trees screened him from sight; anyone looking for him would have to come onto the trail to see him. Somers slowed his pace to a lope, then to a walk. He could already feel blisters rising on the backs of his heels.

He stopped, braced himself with hands on knees, and gulped some more air. Then he started making adjustments. He dug the socks out of the pockets of his jacket, worked his feet loose from the shoes, and pulled on the socks. He’d been right about the blisters; in one spot, the stiff leather had actually cut into the skin, with blood running in a few lazy trickles down to his sole. Nothing to do about it now, though, so Somers tied his laces again. Then, as he walked, he unbuttoned the white shirt he’d been wearing. He added it to the jacket, which he was carrying in one hand. Then he stripped out of the white undershirt. Even this late, the day was hot, and sweat soaked Somers. The heavy, humid air still felt wonderful against bare skin. He tied the undershirt as best he could around his head. He fiddled with his belt until the trousers sagged, riding just below his butt. And then he rolled the jacket and dress shirt into a bundle and stuffed it under one arm.

People tended to see what they expected to see, and every step Somers took was carrying him closer to Smithfield, the roughest section of town. Somers didn’t know what Hazard had told the police, but he knew that when people looked at a guy with a shirt tied around his head, covered in tattoos, and with his trousers sagging so low they looked like they should fall off, they were going to think he was a gangbanger—or, more likely, they were going to think he was a wannabe gangbanger. They weren’t going to think cop. They weren’t going to think John-Henry Somerset. They weren’t even going to think fugitive, not unless Somers started running again. When the whir of a bike approached behind Somers, he altered his stride into the slouching, exaggerated swagger he’d seen so many young men use. The woman who rode by, very prim with her helmet and glasses, didn’t even glance at him, although he could sense her disapproval as she rode past.

For the first time since leaving the house, Somers took what felt like a full breath. The whir of the bicycle faded; in its place came the droning song of crickets, the high-pitched whine of gnats hovering near his ears, drawn by his sweat, and then—Somers slapped his shoulder, and spotted a black-and-bloody smear on his palm. Mosquitos, of course. Because it was central Missouri in July.

It was going to be a long night.

As he walked, his brain turned back the last hour, trying to figure out what had happened. Why was there a warrant out for his arrest? Park. That was the only answer. One minute, Somers had been with Hazard, having the first pleasant moments of his day, and the next, Hazard had practically shoved him out the door. Somers wasn’t even sure what had made Hazard guess that Moraes and Carmichael were there to arrest him. Sure, the fact that nobody had been answering Somers’s calls had been annoying and, frankly, strange. But it wasn’t proof positive of anything except a streak of bad luck.