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She had guessed by his prepubescent build that he was thirteen. Fourteen, tops.
    He'd had a broken wrist, multiple contusions, two bruised eyes and a long, shallow laceration across his chest that was consistent with a knife slash. The boy claimed he fell off his bicycle.
    Renata suspected his injuries had been received in a gang-related dispute. She had recognized the scar on his right wrist. A small circle of cigarette burns. Skin graffiti—body tags—marked local gang members. Colors were passe; tattoos expensive.
    The Bay Meadow Urgent Care Clinic was located near one of Durham's roughest neighborhoods. Consequently, they saw an above average number of regulars with injuries linked to unlawful activities.
    In conformity with the clinic's policy on crime victims and unaccompanied minors, Renata had called the police, but the young man slipped out before they arrived, a scenario she saw all too often.
    "Soon," she muttered, "that's going to change."
    Thanks to a study Renata had worked on over the past two years, the clinic had been awarded a landmark grant targeting health care issues for preteen gang members and their families. Treatment and follow-up would be coupled with preventive education aimed at disrupting the patterns of physical violence.
    And she'd just been offered a key position in establishing the pilot program. To see her long hours—most of them volunteered—bear fruit was gratifying. She had accepted on the spot.
    A voice from the hallway broke into her thoughts. "Mrs. Bolton, you need to give me the pepper spray."
    Renata frowned. Mrs. Bolton was another of the clinic's regulars. But what on earth was she doing with pepper spray?
    Besides being old enough to be Moses' great grandma, Mrs. Bolton was diabetic and half blind. She lived a block away and came into the clinic several times a week after misreading her blood sugar or forgetting to take her insulin. Or when she got lonely.
    Renata stepped into the hall and found Mrs. Bolton arguing with their receptionist, Janet.
    "It's mace, not pepper spray," Mrs. Bolton was saying. "And my nephew said I should bring the can up like so—"
    Renata moved forward before the older woman's finger found the spray button. Gently but quickly, she took the canister.
    "Why don't we let Janet hold this while I examine you?"
    Mrs. Bolton looked dubious. "I'd feel safer if I could keep it in my pocket. Bad enough we got flooding, but now with those escaped prisoners on the loose ..."
    Renata looked questioningly at Janet. "What escaped prisoners?"
    "Is that what this is about?" Janet grinned and patted the old woman's hand. "Pfft. I just heard a blip on the news. They captured them. You don't have a thing to worry about, Mrs. Bolton."

    Dusk had fallen on the City of Medicine, Durham, North Carolina. Home to several famous hospitals, nationally recognized medical teaching facilities, pharmaceutical conglomerates, and Research Triangle Park, the largest university-related research park in the world.
    Or at least that was what the last radio commercial had claimed. But Adam wasn't in town to play tourist. He snapped the radio off.
    He and Lyle had managed to outmaneuver the farmer after luring him closer by pretending to surrender. Adam had blindsided him before he could fire a shot.
    In the end, the farmer had been more furious at Adam for throwing his shotgun in a nearby creek than for tying him up. That he could have been injured— or killed—didn't seem to faze the old fart.
    Adam and Lyle had sped off, driving due north. If the farmer had indeed called the sheriff's department, they wouldn't have much of a head start.
    They had to backtrack twice. Driving was treacherous, as many secondary roads remained under water, forcing them onto the main routes, where cops were concentrated. And if that wasn't bad enough they had problems getting a clear cell phone signal. They got through briefly once, but the signal dropped before Lyle's brother, Nevin, gave them