In the dream Myron watched Burt Wesson approach and waited. Somewhere in his subconscious, he knew that he would awaken before the collision. He always did. He lingered now in that cusp between nightmare and being awake—that tiny window where you are still asleep but you know it is a dream and even though it may be terrifying, you want to go on and see how it will end because it is only a dream and you are safe. But reality would not keep that window open for long. It never did. As Myron swam to the surface, he knew that whatever the answer was, he would not find it in any nocturnal voyage to the past.

“Phone for you,” Jessica said.

Myron blinked his eyes and rolled onto his back. Jessica was already dressed. “What time is it?” he asked.

“Nine.”

“What? Why didn’t you wake me?”

“You needed the sleep.” She handed him the phone. “It’s Esperanza.”

He took it. “Hello.”

“Christ, don’t you ever sleep in your own bed?” Esperanza said.

He was hardly in the mood. “What is it?”

“Fred Higgins from Treasury is on the line,” she said. “I thought you’d want it.”

“Pass it through.” A click. “Fred?”

“Yeah, how you doing, Myron?”

“I’m okay. You got anything on those serial numbers?”

There was a brief hesitation. “You stumbled into some heavy shit, Myron. Some very heavy shit.”

“I’m listening.”

“People don’t want this out, you understand? I had to jump through all kinds of hoops to get this.”

“Mum’s the word.”

“Okay then.” Higgins took a deep breath. “The bills are from Tucson, Arizona,” he said. “More specifically, First City National Bank of Tucson, Arizona. They were stolen in an armed bank heist.”

Myron shot up in the bed. “When?”

“Two months ago.”

Myron remembered a headline, and his blood turned cold.

“Myron?”

“The Raven Brigade,” Myron managed. “That was one of theirs, right?”

“Right. You ever work on their case with the feds?”

“No, never.” But he remembered. Myron and Win had worked on cases with a special and almost contradictory nature: high profile with the need for undercover. They had been perfect for such situations—who, after all, would suspect a former basketball star and a rich, Main Line prep of being undercover agents? They could travel in whatever circles they wanted to and not raise suspicion. Myron and Win didn’t have to create a cover; their reality was the best one the agency had. But Myron was never full-time with them. Win was their fair-haired boy; Myron was more a utility fielder Win called in when he thought it necessary.

But of course he knew about the Raven Brigade. Most people with even a passing familiarity with sixties extremism knew about them. Started by a charismatic leader named Cole Whiteman, the Ravens had been yet another splinter group of the Weather Underground. They were very much like the Symbionese Liberation Army, the group that kidnapped Patty Hearst. The Ravens, too, attempted a high-profile kidnapping, but the victim ended up dead. The group had gone underground. Four of them. Despite the FBI’s best efforts, the four escapees—including Cole Whiteman, who with his Win-like blond hair and Waspy background never looked the part of an extremist—had remained hidden for nearly a quarter century.

Dimonte’s bizarre questions about radical politics and “perversives” no longer seemed so bizarre.

“Was the victim one of the Ravens?” Myron asked.

“I can’t say.”

“You don’t have to,” Myron said. “I know it was Liz Gorman.”

There was another brief hesitation. Then: “How the hell did you know that?”

“The implants,” Myron said.

“What?”

Liz Gorman, a fiery redhead, had been one of the founding members of the Raven Brigade. During their first “mission”—a failed attempt to burn down a university chemistry lab—the police had picked up a code name on the scanner: CD. It was later revealed that the male members of the Brigade called her CD, short for Carpenter’s Dream, because she was “flat as a board and easy to screw.” Sixties radicals, for all their so-called progressive thoughts, were some of the world’s biggest sexists. Now the implants made sense. Everyone Myron had interviewed remembered one thing about “Carla”—her cup size. Liz Gorman had been famous for her flat chest—what better disguise than oversized breast implants?

“The feds and cops are cooperating on this one,” Higgins said. “They’re trying to keep this quiet for a while.”

“Why?”

“They got her place under surveillance. They’re hoping to maybe draw out another member.”

Myron felt completely numb. He had wanted to learn more about the mystery woman and now he had: she was Liz Gorman, a famous radical who had not been seen since 1975. The disguises, the various passports, the implants—they all added up now. She wasn’t a drug dealer, she was a woman on the run.

But if Myron had hoped learning the truth about Liz Gorman would help clarify his own investigation, he had been sadly mistaken. What possible connection could there be between Greg Downing and Liz Gorman? How had a professional basketball player gotten enmeshed with a wanted extremist who had gone underground when Greg was still a kid? It made absolutely no sense.

“How much did they get in the bank heist?” Myron asked.

“Hard to say,” Higgins answered. “About fifteen thousand in cash, but they also blew open the safe-deposit boxes. Over a half million in goods have been declared for insurance purposes, but a lot of it is bullshit. A guy gets robbed, all of a sudden he was keeping ten Rolexes in the box instead of one—trying to rip off the insurance company, you know how it is.”

“On the other hand,” Myron said, “anyone keeping illegal dollars in there wouldn’t declare it. They’d just have to swallow the loss.” Back to drugs and drug money. The extremists in the underground needed resources. They’d been known to rob banks, blackmail former followers who had gone mainstream, deal drugs, whatever. “So it could have been even more.”

“Right, hard to say.”

“You got anything else on this?”

“Nothing,” Higgins said. “It’s being kept sealed tight, and I’m not in the loop. I can’t tell you how hard it was to get this, Myron. You owe me big.”