When Spencer had first come to stay, Chris sometimes had to go out looking for him in the bars of Highland Park. Spencer didn’t go out anymore except to work, whatever that meant, because Chris didn’t believe the whole “company driver” hogwash. That evening, Spencer had been back and settled for the night. Three beers down, his work phone had beeped, and he was gone, as if remote-controlled by aliens in one of those old B movies.

Whatever it was, it paid well. Too well perhaps. Jay had reported back that Spencer had settled any debt not zapped by his Chapter 7—in cash. He also said Spencer met with one of his other clients, with a view to working for the guy. Apparently, Spencer had made a biblical impression and then just dropped off the grid. And before Jay there’d been the night of the “car wreck.” He hadn’t been the same since.

And then there was Abby. Why couldn’t Spencer see she wanted her daddy back? Why couldn’t Spencer see that everyone was waiting for him to come back?

As of late, Chris had found it easier than ever to hold himself accountable. And he was preparing himself to act appropriately if others couldn’t.

Cal got in the back of the Subaru while McGrath rode shotgun with Spencer.

Denny slammed the trunk and banged it with his hand. “Good to go.”

He and Eddie watched Spencer’s car leave.

“Where they goin’?” asked Eddie.

“Dunno,” said Denny.

Denny felt that no one told him much these days. But he did know they’d just put a lot of dough in Spencer’s car.

“Get us on the ninety-six. Head north,” said McGrath.

Spencer planned on making a few random detours around Core City before they hit the ninety-six but as soon as he threw in his first turn, McGrath told him not to bother, just to take the quickest route.

The Charger’s radio hissed. “They’re on Gibson, heading north.”

Scott acknowledged and signaled Batiste to take a road running parallel to Gibson.

“So just let me confirm: Cal and McGrath? Both of them?” said Scott.

“That’s a very definite affirmative,” said Batiste.

“That’s a very definite amazing. As is that,” said Scott, pointing up.

The Detroit Police Department couldn’t afford its own chopper. And the last time they’d been authorized air support from Michigan State Police the chopper hadn’t even gotten off the ground on account of its fuel gelling due to excessively cold weather. DPD had been unwilling, or unable, to pay the heating bill for the hangar. But this time, Batiste had prevailed.

“What sort of route is he taking?” said Scott into the radio.

They waited for a few minutes.

“Can you clarify?”

“Is he taking detours, doing U-turns, evasive technique?”

“Negative. Direct. North on the ninety-six now.”

“OK, we’ll shadow.”