It also meant no hotel reservations, but Hendricks knew the layout of the entire town of Somerset and rattled off the names of every motel in a three-mile radius.

“Have you ever been here before?” Gibson asked.

“Do I look like I’ve been here before?”

“So do you go home at night and study atlases?”

“If I’m going somewhere. Google’s no substitute for knowing things. Write that down.”

When Jenn pulled up, they caravanned up and picked a dumpy single-story motel that was somewhat shielded from the highway noise. Still feeling restless, Gibson opted for a run before thinking about dinner. He left his room and nodded to Hendricks, who had brought a wooden chair out of his room and was smoking lazily.

“I’ll be back in an hour.”

Hendricks grunted, and Gibson began an easy run out toward the street. Summer had arrived; it was still a muggy ninety degrees after six p.m. He ran south back into town, taking the lay of the land, passing the Summit Diner, a classic stainless-steel prefab diner with a red-and-green neon sign by the curb. It had been renovated, but he’d be damned if it hadn’t originally been an honest-to-God Swingle Family Diner. Probably dated back to the sixties. Duke would have known for sure, but it was a collector’s item in any event. Gibson knew where he would be eating his meals for the duration of their stay.

At the courthouse, he hung a right and headed west into the sun. He slowed when he saw the library and walked the rest of the way, wanting a firsthand look at it. The library had a single-page website that was little more than an electronic hours-of-operation sign. He’d found a few pictures but none that gave him a complete picture of the layout. Mostly, he was curious to get a look at what might be the base of operations of one of the FBI’s most wanted.

As villainous lairs went, it was a bit of a letdown. The Carolyn Anthony Library was a pretty brick building with white-painted trim around the windows and main entrance. It was set back from the street by a neatly manicured lawn and a border of flower beds and small bushes. A bright-red fire hydrant stood on one side of the main entrance, a water fountain on the other. It was a little slice of Mayberry Americanus and, like the courthouse, felt out of place in its drab clapboard surroundings.

The drinking fountain gave little more than a trickle. Gibson managed to coax a sip out of it then circled the library. To the side and rear, a public park sloped away with park benches, picnic tables, grassy lawns, and a stone fountain at the center that threw water up in a hazy, erratic spray.