Mac's suspect had bolted from the bar the minute he drew his badge. She had fled across the road not caring for the traffic that screeched, swerved and honked around her. Her direction after that was almost impossible to tell, but he had a hunch she was hiding out in the park. She had spent her youth in the countryside, likely the trees afforded her a feeling of safety that the concrete and glass did not. He crossed at the lights and jogged softly to the iron gate. The bushes and trees were almost silhouettes, the blackest of greens. The path was the only pale thing stretching into the wooded gloom. He scanned for movement. None. Then the wind died, the leaves ceased to rustle, even the rumble of traffic was absent. In those frozen seconds he could hear the crunch of dried twigs under boot, just enough to give him the location of his quarry. It was in that moment of absolute stillness that God tipped the balance to Mac. He swung around, pistol drawn, safety off.