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that . . . that incident took place. You saw it.”
    “What are you . . . Wait, are you a copper?”
    “No.”
    “So why would an American . . . ?” His voice faded away and his eyes widened. “Oh, look, I ain’t seen nothing.”
    Myron wondered whether Win had spoken and if Dog Collar was putting it together like this: An American kills three people—and another American finds the witness.
    “I don’t care about that,” Myron said. “I’m looking for the boy who was there. He ran off.”
    Dog Collar looked skeptical.
    “Look, I’m not here to harm you or anyone else.”
    He tried to show Dog Collar his most trustworthy face, but unlike the throwback street hooker, this kid had probably never seen one. People were either abusers or marks in his world.
    “Pull down your trousers,” Dog Collar said.
    “What?”
    “That’s what we’re here for, right?”
    “No, listen, I’ll pay you. I’ll pay you a lot.”
    That made him pause. “For?”
    “Do you know the boy who ran off?”
    “And if I do?”
    “I’ll pay you five hundred pounds if you bring me to him.”
    The eyes started darting again. “Five hundred?”
    “Yes.”
    “You have that much on you?”
    Uh-oh. But in for a penny, in for a . . .
    “Yeah, I do.”
    “So you probably have more.”
    As though on cue, two guys came around the bush. One was the man in camouflage pants Myron had noticed earlier. The other guy was a big brawler type with a tourniquet-tight black T-shirt, a Cro-Magnon forehead, and arms as big as ham hocks.
    The brawler was chewing tobacco like a cow with a cud and playing to type; he was actually cracking his knuckles.
    “You’re going to give us all your money,” Camouflage Pants said, “or Dex here is gonna give you a pounding—and then we’ll just take it.”
    Myron looked at Dex. “Are you really cracking your knuckles?”
    “What?”
    “I mean, I get it. You’re a tough guy. But cracking your knuckles? It’s over the top.”
    That confused Dex. He frowned. Myron knew the type. Bar fighter. Takes on smaller guys. Never did battle with anyone who had any kind of skill.
    Dex moved into Myron’s space. “You some kind of smart-ass?”
    “How many kinds are there?”
    “Oh man, oh man, oh man.” Dex actually rubbed his hands together. “I’m going to so enjoy this.”
    “Don’t kill him, Dex.”
    Dex smiled with tiny pointy teeth like an ocean predator circling a guppy. There was no reason to wait. Myron made his fingers into a spear, cupped his hand slightly, and, leading with the fingers, he struck Dex straight in the throat. The blow landed like a dart.
    Dex’s hands both went to his neck, leaving him completely exposed. Myron wasn’t in the mood to do any serious damage here. He quickly swept the guy’s leg, knocking him to the ground. He turned his attention to Camouflage Pants, but he was having none of it. Maybe it was watching his muscle get taken down so easily. Maybe it was the knowledge of what had happened to his haute couture brethren yesterday at the hands of Win. He ran.
    So did Dog Collar.
    Damn.
    Myron was fast, but as he turned, he felt the old injury tighten his knee joint. Between the plane and the car, he’d probably spent too much time sitting. Should have stretched it more during his walk.
    Meanwhile the kid moved like a jackrabbit. He had, Myron surmised, been forced to run a lot, and while Myron mightnormally sympathize, there was no way he was going to let this lead slip away.
    He couldn’t let Dog Collar get too far ahead of him.
    If he got too far ahead—if he found people and civilization—Dog Collar would be safe from whatever Myron wanted to, well, do to him. He might also call out for help. These areas had a way of policing their own.
    But then again, would a thief trying to roll a guy in a park like this want to draw attention to himself?
    It might not matter. Myron was on the path now too, but the kid already had a substantial lead, and that lead