Light from the window in the large paneled office slanted in on a painting-in-progress, a master's hand touching a brush to canvas, the subject a stern-looking man in a suit and tie sitting in a leather chair.

The artist, Victor Sykes, was putting the finishing touches on the image of hefty, close-cropped Walter Renchler, warden of the Franklin Correctional Facility, a medium security prison in far upstate New York.

Sykes, a convicted art forger – late forties, ruffled good looks, green-gray eyes that had seen their fair share of creative rip-offs – dabbed with his brush and stepped back. Tilted his head and studied the painting.

"I think that's it," he said. "See what you think."

Renchler pushed himself up from the chair, came over and stood with Sykes in front of the canvas. After a moment he nodded with satisfaction at the Old Master treatment Sykes had given him.

"I like it," Renchler said. "And thank you again for staying these extra days."

"Would you like me to sign it?"

Another nod. "With your name, please."

Sykes did the honors and then packed up his paint box. Took a last look at the portrait, turned and went out to the reception area where he slipped the paint box into a duffle bag propped on a chair.

Renchler's assistant, a large woman named Margaret, who'd been on staff here since anyone could remember, got up from her desk to come over and give Sykes a hug.

"We're going to miss you," she said.

Sykes smiled and kissed Margaret's cheek. "Call if you're coming down to the big city, the warden will have my number. We'll sneak off to where no one can find us."

"Done," she said, and squeezed his arm as he left the room with Renchler, duffle bag slung over one shoulder.

The two men walked toward the end of a long corridor, Renchler giving Sykes a sidelong look. "Have you thought any more about what you're going to do?"

Sykes shrugged. "All I know is paint and canvas, warden."

"You're a talented man. I hope you put it to better use than what got you in here."

They stopped at a steel security door that a uniformed guard pulled open. He held the door with one hand and shook Sykes's hand with the other.

"Good luck, man."

Sykes smiled and thanked him and followed Renchler out the door.

The guard watched their backs as he swung the door slowly closed, could hear Renchler saying, "The shuttle will take you to the bus. From there you're on your own."

The guard made sure the door was securely locked, checked around him to see that no one else was nearby. He took out his cell phone and speed dialed a number. Waited for the connection, then said in a low voice, "He'll be on the mid-day bus from here."

~~~~~~

It was after midnight when the Greyhound pulled into New York's Port Authority Terminal. It had rained on and off all the way down from the Adirondack village that served the prison, a storm blowing sharply down from Canada. Sykes's only luggage was the carry-on duffle, so he avoided the baggage offload hassle and walked straight from the arrival gate to the escalator that went up to the lobby.

He didn't pay particular attention to the hard-looking man standing over by the departures and arrivals board talking on his phone. But the man was paying attention to him.

"He's here," the man said on his call. "I'm on him."

He slipped the phone into his jacket pocket and went over to the escalator.

Sykes was at the top, stepping off into the lobby with its shops and food courts, hardly anyone in it at this late hour, just a few homeless catching a nap here and there. He crossed to the Eighth Avenue side of the building, could see through the glass doors that it was still pouring out there. He stood and stared at what traffic there was, headlights reflecting off the glistening pavement. It wasn't as though he had anyplace special to go, was just going to get a cheap room nearby and start checking out his options tomorrow. So take a seat in the waiting room, be comfortable and let the storm do its thing.

He turned around to retrace his steps – and there was this guy.

He was just getting off the escalator, and it was only the briefest of glances they exchanged, but it was enough to tell Sykes that the problems he'd left here two years ago hadn't disappeared.

He turned around again, trying to keep casual, and went out through the doors onto Eighth, into the pouring rain. Chances were the guy would be right behind him, and that it would take about thirty seconds for him to catch up. So forget about casual. Sykes ran toward the corner of 42nd Street, duffle bag jouncing on his shoulder, splashing through puddles and getting soaked.

At the corner he saw the entrance for the A-train subway he'd taken a thousand times when he'd lived nearby. Glanced over his shoulder and there the guy was, maybe twenty yards back, splashing in his wake. Down the subway stairs he ran, trying to come up with a plan. Thought about how he could hop the turnstile (didn't have a fare card) and then – then what? Wait for a train? Yeah, right.

But maybe he could lose him if he got into the tunnel, the dark downtown tunnel. Run along the tracks until he got to the next station, 34th Street, Penn Station. Hop the first train out of there and...

Just go.

But first ditch this duffle that was slowing him down. It wasn't like anything in it mattered, except maybe his paints, which he could replace. He threw it onto an empty bench and ran to the turnstile, vaulted it, up and over.

And heard the sharp blast of a police whistle behind him.

Shit. He ran faster, toward the welcoming darkness of the tunnel, just a few yards ahead at the end of the platform.

Was almost there when it hit him.

That whistle was his ally.

He put on the brakes and turned around. Saw two cops back there coming through the barred gate that was next to the turnstile (which he should have used himself if he'd thought about it). Could see beyond them that the guy from the bus terminal was watching from the bottom of the stairs going up to the street.

"Stay right where you are," the cop in front said.

Sykes did, keeping his hands away from his sides, didn't want to get shot. But he had to get into it with them, piss them off.

"There a problem?" he said, giving it some attitude.

The cops came up and stood one on either side of him, hands resting on their holstered pistols, not bothering to answer. "Let's see some i.d." said the one with sergeant's stripes.

"I asked if there's a problem."

"And I said let's see some i.d."

"What, you got nothing better to do?"

"What we got," said the sergeant, "is security cameras that'll show you trying to beat the fare."

"How could I beat the fare if I wasn't even on the train?"

"Okay, turn around."

"What?"

"Turn around, hands behind your back."

"You're messing with the wrong guy here," Sykes said. But he turned around.

The sergeant's partner grabbed one of Sykes's wrists, snapped a handcuff on it, grabbed the other wrist and did the same. He spun Sykes around, took him by the elbow and led him through the gate by the turnstile, the sergeant right behind.

Sykes called back over his shoulder. "Can you grab my bag there?" He jutted his chin toward the duffle he'd thrown on the bench.

"How do I know it's yours?" the sergeant growled back.

"It'll have my i.d. in it you been yakking for."

The sergeant muttered and grabbed the duffle.

When they got to the stairs that went up to the street, small waterfalls from the storm spilling down them, the guy from the bus terminal was nowhere in sight.

Sykes had to admit he felt a bit of satisfaction, dodging him like that. Of course now he had to deal with the cops, See if he could switch into bullshit mode when they got him to the station. Anyway, there were worse places to spend a rainy night than a midtown holding cell. I mean, it's not like I'm not acclimated.