"Four-eighteen? Four-eighteen, what's your location?" the dispatcher said, worry now sneaking into her voice.

He reached the trees and slurred the car to a stop and kept his eyes at head level, scanning the field for movement. The high baseball lights glowed up and out, leaving the grass in shadow. He opened the driver's door, congratulated himself on remembering to kill the dome light when the shift started, and stepped out. The air was heavy with the drizzle and the smell of fresh-cut grass. He unsnapped the hammer strap from the 9mm in his holster and squinted, tracking to the west and listening. His eye stopped on something on the black background, a dull flash of white that was there, then gone, then there again. He took a few steps in that direction when the radio came back to life.

"Four-eighteen. Suspect in custody," Roger said.

He could hear the crackle in both the radio on his shirt and in the air out in front of him and he started jogging.

"Ten-four, four-eighteen. Location?" said the dispatcher.

"On the soccer field, north end of the park."

As he got closer, he could see Roger, one knee in the back of a big man who was facedown in the grass, bobbing his head from side to side and spitting out fresh clippings that were pasted onto his sweaty face.

"Yo, Rog," he said as he reached the two. "Olympic fucking speed, man. I didn't know you were a cross-country star, man."

Roger's face was glistening in the spare light. His breathing was heavy and he kept his left hand on the man's shoulder blades and wiped at the sweat with the short sleeve of his uniform. He already had handcuffs on the man and he let a grin start on the lighted side of his face.

"Figured he'd head this way and I knew once we got in the clear I'd get him in a sprint," Roger said.