Tony stared across the park, watching the clusters of shadows drift down the paths and between the trees. An occasional burst of laughter or shout of greeting punctuated the air, and Tony's head would turn mindlessly in the direction of the sounds. For too long, he stood there, not really digesting the scene around him. What should he do? He had found an answer for Jerome, but what kind of answer? What would be the proper response to the answer? The indecision burned like acid in his gut.

Finally, he shook himself.

To Tony, the coincidence of Marissa's vanishing off the face of the earth and Colleen O'Connell's divulgence of her name to the Moran brothers would not fall neatly into an acceptable scenario. Best case, Marissa had some friends about whom no one knew: not Tony's father, not Mario and Barbara, and not Mr. Ellenwood, and she had gone off with them for the night. Not likely, Tony knew.

Worst case, she had fallen into the clutches of the Moran brothers, and though he tended to minimize the sensational, Tony couldn't dismiss the possibility as the most probable. If she had indeed disappeared with some friend, Tony would have no feasible way of finding that out, not in any timely fashion. However, if the Moran brothers had found her, Tony realized that his first instinct may not have fallen too far afield from the right course of action.

He spun away from the open courtyard of the park and headed along the southern perimeter's pathways. Once he reached the street, he turned down the road that took him directly into the heart of the Patch. Comically, Tony realized, if Paul Garner had not left his Italian heritage behind, Tony's excursion into the Irish ghetto would have signed a death warrant for him. As it stood now, though some neighborhood hoodlums had their suspicions, Tony had mostly managed to maintain the family masquerade as descendants of some generic European ancestor.

As he grew closer to the ghetto, the houses lost their luster; he stalked past numerous broken windows. Faded and chipped paint adorned the dilapidated siding, and many of the streetlamps had ceased functioning. Tony imagined Marissa as she walked down those streets, exposed for the first time to so much poverty and barrenness. He had judged her, he realized, from the beginning. Of course she had no experience with life; how had he expected otherwise? Most girls her age had little knowledge of life. Unlike most girls her age, though, Marissa didn't seem spoiled and self-centered.

What had he called her that first day in the square? A do-gooder? And why not? He chastised himself for how thoroughly he had censured her. Didn't her idealism reveal a good heart? The very characteristics he praised in Jerome, he had condemned in Marissa because she was a girl. He needed to ask himself why, but the answer would require much more deliberation than he had the resources to utilize at the moment.

The broken-down door of Calloway's yawned almost black against the faded grey brick of an unassuming building. If anyone passed by unaware of its presence, no one would suspect that a raucous party ran perpetually behind such a commonplace piece of wood.

Even though he did not shrink back from his purpose, he had to pause before he knocked on that door. Beyond the door lay enemies, numerous enemies, who, if they knew his purpose would hold no qualm in causing him serious injury. Beyond the door lay a room full of people who, because they didn't share his cultural heritage, would deny him aid if he lay dying in the gutter. Most importantly, though, somewhere beyond that door might lay Marissa Erinson, a girl who had inadvertently gotten mixed up in something much larger than herself.

Raising his hand, he knocked loudly on the solid wood, determined to accept whichever fate answered.

The time stretched, lengthened as the seconds ticked by. Irritated, Tony kicked at a doormat, the corner of which had curled up in the humidity from too many summers. After a few minutes, a creaking noise drew his eyes from his feet up to a gleam of light that expanded slowly against the chill dark of the night. A moment later, a face appeared in the window that had appeared in its universal spot on the door of the speakeasy. Holding his breath, Tony prayed that the person who answered would not notice his nearly-black hair or his slightly swarthy complexion.

To his relief, the man merely stared out into the blackness and asked a surly, "Yeah?"

Though Tony breathed a sigh of relief, he did not relax. He had no idea what word had been circulated to gain access to the building. Rather than guess, he opted for an entirely different tack.

"I'm here to see Sam Lincoln," Tony prevaricated.

To his surprise, the man answered, "Yeah. The boss is expecting you."

Tony didn't protest; he had no desire to clear up the misunderstanding. Instead, he took a deep breath as the window slid shut and a clattering signified the unlocking door. Fortified by adrenaline, Tony sauntered confidently through into a blinding fury of music and light, a complete counterpoint to Marcel's swirling jazz and subdued, hazy glow. He could understand why someone would enjoy the pumping energy of the place, and under different circumstances, he might have sought the place out himself. Unfortunately, the illegal and reckless nature of the business run by Angus Moran meant that Tony could never conscience allowing himself to attend it.

In keeping with the facade that had allowed him into the pub, Tony followed the attendant who appeared to usher him to a table. The advantages of the location made Tony smile. Sure, whoever came to interview him would have a clear view of the restaurant from the corner near the stage, but Tony, too, had a very advantageous perspective from which to assess his situation.

He recognized several faces, though from their public visibility, not from personal knowledge. The fact gave him the added advantage of knowing several people without being known. Unfortunately, he did not see either of the faces that he wished to see. He had not expected to see Marissa in so public a venue, but he had thought he might encounter Sam. Though meeting him would have complicated matters, Tony had a hunch that when he found Sam, Marissa would be near. The McReynolds had begun using Sam for some of their dirty work, and even when they required more legitimate jobs, they tended to call on Sam. He had obviously proven himself quite essential to his bosses. Both because of his importance and because of his previous knowledge of her, Sam Lincoln would prove an effective lure to draw Marissa within the politician's web.

As Tony waited for some direction, every new tune that started enlarged the pit that had started growing in his stomach during his conversation with Colleen O'Connell. If something didn't happen soon, Tony might have to stir things up just to combat his impatience. Occasionally, the door that had allowed Tony in would open, and a new face would emerge from the blackness outside. Tony did not recognize more than a couple, faces of his father's students. When he allowed his mind to think, he wondered if these students honestly expressed their political views to his father in class. Somehow, Tony doubted it. The political views that endorsed such a form of entertainment wouldn't rest well with the social mores of the campus. Or, at least the publicly-held views. If the students expressed their views in class, then they would open themselves to tighter scrutiny, something no miscreant welcomed.

After counting the start of ten tunes, Tony considered rising from his post, circling the room in an attempt to dig up some semblance of information. Perhaps someone had noticed the young woman who seemed so out of place among the cosmopolitan crowd. He had no sooner risen from his seat than a motion from the front door drew his gaze across the room, another no doubt hopeless anticipation of seeing Marissa's face. When the door finally opened, Tony recognized the face, but in his wildest imaginings, he would never have expected to encounter that face coming through that door under the strangest of circumstances. Suddenly concerned with exposure, Tony slid behind the pit curtain, slipping between two large instrument cases and using them for camouflage until he could determine the course the new turn of events thrust upon him.

***********************

When Marissa had lied to him, Sam had restrained the urge to strike the girl. Sam had never hit a woman before, but the stakes had risen for the first time in his life, and Sam could taste the aroma of increased power close at hand. Fortunately, he did not yet feel ready to cross such a threshold of malfeasance, and he clenched his hand to the fabric of his pants instead. His rationalization didn't stay in check, however, and his mind immediately began to war with his conscience.

In her condition, he justified to himself, she probably wouldn't remember who had hit her. Since she would no doubt remember entering Calloway's, Sam could explain away any injury by appealing to the rough character of some of the crowd. I'm so terribly sorry, he would explain. I never dreamed that man would hit you, though I should have suspected. Bullies always target the weak.

Sam smirked at the irony as his hand twitch in anticipation of the blow.

Too, if Sam didn't elicit the names of Marissa's co-conspirators from her, she would no doubt suffer an infinitely worse fate at the hands of the Moran brothers. Carson McReynolds had standards below which he would not stoop. One could not say the same for the Morans.

Perhaps the most compelling argument for using physical coercion grew from Sam's boundless ambition. If he could surmount his current hurdle, then Sam would rise at least another rung on the ladder of McReynolds associates. In fact, such a triumph might skyrocket Sam to the top of the ranks.

In the end, self-interest and coincidence conspired to thwart his penchant for violence.

True, if he managed to impel Marissa to speak, Sam would rise in the ranks, but the opposite fate would befall him in the opposite case. Should he injure Marissa and yet fail to obtain the desired information, Carson McReynolds would make Sam pay the price for causing potential headache for the McReynolds political campaign. Sam would have no option but to either turn her over to the Morans or to remove her from consideration himself. Even Sam recoiled from cold-blooded murder.

As if to affirm his decision, the door to his small kitchen opened, removing from Sam the solitude necessary for the perfidious deed. After Marissa's moment of lucidity, the fruit-flavored liqueur he had mixed with her orange juice had finished her off, and she had lain her head down on the table in a stupor. Now, Sam glanced at her, desirous that she not observe his interaction with the pub employees. If she made it out of this, and he needed to confer with her again, he must be able to wear the facade of a mere customer of the place, not the favored thug of a crooked politician. To Sam's relief, Marissa's mouth had popped slightly open, and he could hear the steady sound of her profound sleep.

"What is it?" Sam snapped.

"Well, we have an interesting situation out front," the young Irishman explained. "I thought you might want to hear about it before I go to Mr. McReynolds." Catching sight of Marissa, the young man leered at the helpless girl. "I see you're busy, but I could take care of her for you while you go fix the problem up front."

"If you touch her, I'll kill you," Sam warned without emotion, and though the young man stood a couple of inches taller than Sam, the kid seemed unsure whether or not Sam could actually do it.

Shrugging, the young man spoke with disinterest. "I get it. She's yours. No big. So, this problem."

"Yes?" Sam was losing patience.

"Mr. McReynolds was expecting a visitor tonight, someone who has some information about that paper thing. Mr. McReynolds told him to ask for you."

Sam leaned forward with interest so he could see the man's face through the gloom.

"So, the guy shows up, and we seat him at Mr. McReynolds usual table, though Mr. McReynolds hasn't shown up for the night yet. I mean, the kid looks like a regular Joe, and what kind of guy can't find something to do in a place like this. Besides, if he has enough liquor, it will loosen up his lips, right? But this guy, he just sits at this table for, like, an hour, staring around the room at all the people and at everyone who walks in the door. He doesn't even glance at the girls when they come on stage. Now, that's not even red-blooded American, if you ask me."

"So, the situation?" Sam prompted.

"Well, the situation is this: just now, another guy shows up asking for you. Now, only one of these guys is the right guy, you know? So, what we need from you is for you to tell us which one of these guys is your friend. One of them must have come to see you, and the other must have come to give us information."

Closing his eyes, Sam breathed deeply and paused to think. As long as no one touched Marissa, Sam could spare a minute to check things out. He had not expected anyone to come visit him tonight, and the unexpectedness made the event suspect. Still, many of his friends knew that he frequented Calloway's, and it seemed logical that one of them might seek him out there.

"Are you the only one who knows I was back here?" Sam queried.

"Yeah."

"Look, I'm going to go see what's going on, but I need you to promise me you'll stay away from this girl."

"I told you; I got it. She's your girl."

"She's not my girl," Sam insisted, turning to half-truth that would prove much more compelling to the base-level employee before him. "She's Carson McReynolds's girl."

A look of disgust overspread the man's face. "She's just a kid!"

"Not that kind of girl; he wants her for her brains, not her body."

"Lucky for her," the man laughed. "Still, I got it. I promise. I'll stay away."

"You don't have to promise. I know you will."

Sam believed his words because only a fool would trespass against either of the McReynolds brothers. Based on his understanding of the situation up front, the guy could not be considered a fool. Sam reached and turned off the still-whining teapot. Moments later, he stood at the doorway exiting the corridor and swept the room with his eyes. First, he encountered Mario Garner's face at the front entry of the building. Sam's shock shook him. Why would Mario Garner, upstanding bookworm, ever deign to enter a rat's nest like Calloway's?

When Sam's companion cleared the door behind him, Sam asked the man, "Is that him at the door now?"

"Yeah, that's him."

"Well, that's certainly not one of my friends. I find it hard to believe he wants to help the McReynolds in any way. Too much of a simpleton to understand the nuance of the McReynolds political aspirations."

Behind Sam, his companion chuckled. "Nuance. I like that."

"Come with me," Sam commanded. "If this guy is for real, then I'll find out soon enough."

Tony peered out through a crack in the curtains, unable to determine the best course for the moment. If Mario saw his brother, he would no doubt betray Tony's identity, and Tony had no desire to be known in Calloway's. Too green for his own good, Mario would have no idea that Tony needed his anonymity. Still, Tony worried about his tenderfoot big brother, enough so, that when he watched Sam Lincoln emerge from a door on the opposite side and head toward Mario, Tony's legs inadvertently crouched in anticipation of a spring into action.

Clenching and unclenching his fists, Tony opted to wait and observe before making any sudden movement. After a moment's thought, he felt imminently grateful that he had chosen that course. When the fog of shock cleared from his brain, Tony realized that he did not have time to interfere with his brother, and in fact, Mario's presence offered Tony a great opportunity. Something far more pressing demanded his attention, something that might hold more disturbing consequences if he didn't move quickly; Tony needed to find Marissa Erinson. Mario was a big boy, and he was insanely smart. He would just have to handle himself.

Sidling from his hiding place, Tony crept around the outskirts of the room to the door from which he had watched Sam emerge. A tall young man stood close to the door as if guarding it, but he seemed preoccupied with a young lady who had struck up a conversation with him.

Tony leaned casually up against the wall and looked back toward the door. To his relief, it stood slightly ajar, not enough to slip through, but enough to avoid the telltale rattling of its opening. He needed to avoid drawing the young man's attention.

Within seconds, Tony had slid through the door into the blackness of an unlit corridor. He took one final glance out at his brother before letting the darkness swallow him completely. Though he knew that he had to choose Marissa, he felt somehow disloyal in leaving Mario to whatever stupidity he had gotten into. Mario, though, was a grown man who had chosen the fate his actions brought. Marissa had not chosen hers.

Tony skittered down the hallway, glancing carefully into each open doorway before passing by. Though he listened intently for any noise, he encountered none. When he passed by a narrow stairway, he thought he understood why. Apparently, all of the noise in the back emanated from upstairs. The hallway in which he stood seemed largely abandoned.

For a moment, Tony pondered going up the stairs. Obviously, he would encounter more people upstairs which seemed to increase the chance that he would run into Marissa. However, it also raised the likelihood that he would hit an impasse, most likely in the form of McReynolds's or Moran's men. In confirmation of the latter thought, when Tony climbed up to the landing that rested halfway up the steps, a voice boomed down the stairs.

"I saw that," the voice claimed ominously, and Tony leaped back a couple of steps, prepared to dash away. "When that boy flew across the table, Mr. Moran smashed his fist into the kid's face so fast that the kid didn't see it coming."

A round of boisterous laughter followed the statement, and Tony breathed again at the comment which obviously grew from some other source besides Tony. Poor sap, he thought with compassion for whatever young man had received the punch. Anxiously, Tony assured himself that the comment couldn't have described Mario. No way Mario could have gotten into that much trouble in the two minutes during which Tony had traversed the hallway.

Considering, Tony decided that he would continue his inspection of the abandoned hallway rather than redirect upstairs. Without fear of encountering human life, he could move more rapidly, and when he had finished, if he needed to go upstairs, he would.

Though he quietly opened several doors along the hall, most led into closets, and the few rooms he encountered seemed completely empty. Only three more doors lay before him, and he lamented the great distance between himself and the escape of the doorway through which he had entered. As he reached for a nearby door handle, something to his left caught his attention. He turned his head in the direction of the stimulus and waited to see if it would repeat itself.

The air chilled around him as he stood still for several seconds. Then, he saw it again: a dim flicker of light from beneath the door at the end of the hall, only discernible because of the utter darkness surrounding him.

Reaching for the lighted door, he rotated the knob as gently as possible before pressing it slowly open. Such dim light could signify merely a window to the outside, but it might rather mean human presence. Though he peered through the slight opening, he at first saw nothing of significance through the vague glow. The light, however, shone from the wall that he could not see, and he pushed the door as far open as he dared, giving him enough room to stick his upper body through the crevice. Once he had done so, he finally spied the source of illumination: a near-melted candle stood on a small round table in the corner.

Tony could make out a shadow just beyond the weak circle of the candle's light, and though he feared discovery, the form seemed as still as death. He glided silently across the contravening space, reaching for the waxy puddle and sliding it a tiny amount closer to the silent form.

When he saw her face, his heart stuttered in his chest.

Marissa lay motionless, her head resting heavily on the table before her. For a moment, he worried that she had died, that he had arrived too late. He saw no obvious signs of trauma, however, and when he looked more closely, he could see the steady rise and fall of her shoulders. Her mouth lay parted prettily in sleep, and Tony swallowed at the sight.

Raising his hand to her shoulder, he gingerly shook her and waited for a response. Nothing. Marissa continued her gentle respiration, undisturbed by his interruption.

He leaned in closer to her face. "Marissa," he whispered.

Though he received no verbal response, he found the answer to one of his questions. The warm breath that floated from her open mouth held a distinctive odor, the indisputable scent of alcohol. When he glanced up for evidence of alcohol consumption, he spied a glass on the table. Picking it up, he smelled it and detected a very faint pungent scent. He stuck his finger in the cup and placed the liquid that clung to his fingertip into his mouth. The distinctive sourness of some liqueur stung his tongue, a taste masked by orange juice.

He shook her again, again with no response.

As he considered his plan, he recognized that he would need to carry her out. Going back the way he had come would never work, but he saw no egress from his current location. He left Marissa where she lay slumped over the table and crept back into the hallway. He paused to think.

Calloway's stood attached to several row-type houses facing the street. Logic would dictate that the only possible exits would lie in the front or the back, but Tony had reached the apparent back of the building and encountered no opening to the outside world. He turned to open the door to his right, one of the two he had not yet opened. Annoyingly, it belonged to a very small closet that held nothing but an overcoat on a hanger and a toolbox in the corner on the floor.

He turned to the door behind him and pulled it open. To his relief, he could make out ambient light that seeped in through a window to the outside of the building.

Crossing to it, he tried to raise it to no avail. He ran his fingers around its perimeter and encountered two nails or screws fitted securely into the frame. Huffing in irritation, he used his fingers to pry at one of the heads. It didn't budge.

Every second that he left Marissa alone increased the likelihood that Sam would return to finish what he had begun. If Tony moved her, however, he risked discovery as soon as Sam returned to the room and spied the empty chair. After a moment's deliberation, he decided that the idea of leaving her alone while he worked bothered him more than the idea of discovery.

In the middle of the room in which he stood, Tony could make out the silhouette of a dilapidated sofa. He crossed to it and beat it several times with his hand in an attempt to scare off any resident spiders.

A moment later, Tony stood hesitantly behind the comatose Marissa. Not having much experience in carrying women, he considered how best to do it. He decided to raise her to her feet in hopes that she could support a bit of her weight on her drunken legs.

When he reached his hands to her waist, they fit almost entirely around the circumference. Tony gulped. To his consternation, she collapsed completely when he released even the slightest support. She would not help him.

He swung her up in his arms, suppressing the shiver of pleasure at the contact, and carried her into the adjacent room. Laying her on the sofa, he crossed back to the nearby closet to retrieve the toolbox.

A rattling echoed down the hallway and reached his ears. Turning toward the sound, Tony saw a flash of brilliant light as the door on the far end opened and closed against the darkness of the hall. Reigning in his panic, Tony grabbed the toolbox and leaped nimbly across the hallway and into the room where Marissa lay. He darted to the window, unsure whether Sam, or whoever had entered that door, had noticed his rapid motion in the dark.

First, Tony pulled a hammer from the toolbox and worked to pry the anchors from their location in the window, but they remained stubbornly fixed. In his frustration, he considered smashing the window, but he knew that if he did not draw attention to himself, Sam would have no clear knowledge of his, or Marissa's, location.

The sound of footsteps carried past the nearby doorway, and Tony rushed to grab pliers from the toolbox. A moment later, he heard a muttered oath, no doubt Sam's discovery of Marissa's absence. Though he pried and twisted, the anchors moved little, and Tony reached for a nearby lamp, a battering ram to break through the fragile glass of the window.

When he raised his arm to swing backwards, the sound of Sam's voice arrested the motion.

"Marissa?" Sam's voice floated through the darkness.

Though the sound brought chills to Tony's spine, it boded well for his escape with Marissa. Sam evidently thought that Marissa had risen on her own and now wandered through the inky rooms alone. Tony renewed his efforts with increased vigor, and one of the anchors moved, twisting like a screw until it pulled free of the wood. At least Tony now knew how to remove the other, using the pliers as a screwdriver to twist it free.

"Marissa!" came Sam's command. "Come here, Marissa."

Tony recognized the sound of Sam's pounding shoes as he stalked past their hiding place. Not pausing, Tony twisted the stubborn screw for several seconds, its slow progression raising his ire and taxing his patience.

"Sean!" Sam bellowed down the hall. Tony heard the wave of noise as the door at the far end of the hall opened. "Sean!" the exclamation came more faintly as Sam yelled out into the main room.

Wrenching the second screw free, Tony dropped the pliers and threw open the window. A second later, he detected several pairs of shoes echoing down the hallway, and doors began to clatter as they were thrown open in a frantic search for Marissa.

He scooped her up off of the couch and crossed to the window. Though she was not heavy, her weight made him doubt himself when he peered down at the ground outside. The window stood several feet off of the floor, and the floor looked at least seven feet above the ground below. Over a ten-foot drop, carrying an adult woman; the possibility of catastrophe seemed at least significant.

"Marissa, I know you're here," Sam's voice rang from directly outside the door.

Steeling himself, Tony leaped from the window with Marissa in his arms. He tried to nestle her head in his neck to protect it from the jarring of impact, but when his feet hit the ground, he might as well have fallen from the second story. Instantly, his left leg buckled, and he twisted as he fell so that Marissa's head wouldn't hit the ground.

"Hey," came the shout from the window above, and Tony looked up into Sam's burning gaze.

Though his leg throbbed, Tony forced himself to his feet and lumbered toward the end of the alley.

"Out the front," he heard behind him. "He's headed to Tamm."

Tony redoubled his efforts and, ignoring his pulsing thigh muscle, sprinted off to the street. If he could make the twenty yards down the alley before the men reached him, he would still need to traverse several miles before he would reach the relative safety of the area around the park.

As he spilled out onto Tamm St., he peered to his left and spotted several dark shapes headed his direction. He ran to his right, keeping his eyes open for any place to hide. After a hundred feet, he spotted a freestanding house to his left, a lone bastion that stood at an odd intersection of streets which left just enough land for a single narrow building. Weaving to his left, he dashed in front of the house and to the other side, placing the building between him and the approaching men. To do so, he had been forced to cross through a patch of light, and the shouts from behind him indicated that all had seen him.

Still, he felt the move worth the risk, because he could now, for at least several seconds, move freely without the danger of being observed. He swerved right past the house, and then scurried back to the left and down a dark, narrow road with only a single streetlamp to threaten him. Though he could hear the echoes of the men’s' voices, they had not grown closer, and Tony expected that his move had thrown them off his trail, forcing them to regroup.

Pausing to assess his situation, Tony spotted a derelict playground, an attempt by some well-intentioned adult to provide a safe place for children. In the Patch, the land would have served better as a police station, Tony mused. He headed straight for the plot of ground, concealing himself and Marissa behind a makeshift shed that no doubt had served as a playhouse. After leaning Marissa against the wall of the house, he did not move for a handful of breaths. Only a faint echo of voices reached his ear, and Tony felt safe to take a moment for planning.

His leg burned as if someone had exchanged his blood for lava, but he didn't think he was seriously injured, and he could handle the pain. Even so, he didn't feel like standing, at least not until he needed to run, so he scooted over to Marissa. He had no idea if she had suffered any damage from the fall, but he had worked hard to shield her from any direct impact.

Lifting her arm, he ran his gaze along her fingers and up her arm to her shoulder. When he had seen her before, she had always worn the everyday uniform of a young woman: cloche hat, long pleated skirt, sweater buttoned over a white shirt, and thick woolen stockings. He had known she wore her hair long – he had seen it in the basement. The entire look, though, gave an even better impression than before. Tonight, she wore something completely different, something that seemed completely out of her character. She usually appeared so simple, not necessarily practical, but, though trying to match the current fashion, somewhat unaware of herself. Tonight, she had obviously taken great care with her attire. She wore a dress, its thin, soft lilac fabric draped gently down her form. The sleeves hung in a bell to her forearm, and the skirt, too, belled just past her knee. Around her neck, a long strand of pearls lay tantalizingly along the front of the fabric, and Tony glanced quickly away from them.

With a groan, Marissa curled herself against him, as if seeking his warmth, bringing him back from his abstraction.

“Marissa,” he whispered, hopeful that she might prove able to walk. “It’s me, Tony. Can you help me out a little?”

“Tony,” Marissa hummed, her eyes fluttering open for a moment as she reached for his face. “Mmmm, Tony,” she smiled, and though her apparent happiness at his presence rendered him a little less troubled, her insensibility counteracted the relief.

“Okay, Marissa. Just in case you can hear me now, I’m going to get you out of here. I’ve got you. You’re safe.” He may as well have spoken with the shrubs that hid him as with Marissa, because she had fallen back into full slumber.

Shaking himself, Tony peered around him, suddenly aware that, with his level of distraction, someone could have crept to within a few feet of him and he wouldn't have known. He rubbed his face with his hand.

The Patch, the neighborhood in which he now sat with Marissa, lay a few miles south of the university, and Tony didn't trust his leg to run that far. Conversely, Tony realized all at once, Marcel's lay only a few blocks northwest of his current location.

When he rose to his feet, he ignored the pain in his leg, picked up Marissa, and headed toward Marcel's. Sam and his men had apparently lost the trail, so Tony didn't rush with quite the same urgency as before. Ten minutes later, his leg on fire, he knocked on the back door of Marcel's. A man Tony had never seen before answered the door, and Tony almost recoiled. When the man glanced curiously at Marissa who now stood perched unconscious at Tony's side, Tony fished in his brain for the name that he needed to say.

"Selma sent me," Tony declared, and the man nodded in comprehension before showing Tony inside.