“A
lady is bleeding? Who is she?”
“The lady! The lady with the phone. I
don’t
know
her name.
You
have
to come
now!
Now!”
The little
voice
edged
toward
hysteria.
Lacey’s
stomach did a flip. “Calm
down.”
She said it for her
self
as
well
as
for
the
voice
on
the
phone.
“Who
are
you?
Why
do you
have
her phone?”
“You
have
to come
now!
She could die!”
“All
right.
I’m
coming,
but
where?
You
have
to
tell
me
where.”
“Outside!
You
have
to hurry!”
Lacey
grabbed
her
evening
bag,
her
garment
bag,
and
her
tote with one hand, the phone glued to her
ear.
She opened the ladies’ room door with one
elbow.
“It’ll
be all right. Just tell me where you
are.”
“Outside! The
alley.
Are you inside?”
She dashed
down
the hall to her desk in the
newsroom
and
dropped
her
baggage.
The
newsroom
was
nearly
empty,
though
there
was
some
lastgasp
activity
in
some
of
the
offices
ringing
the
large
room. She
saw
Mac on the phone in his
office.
She grabbed the soft chocolate
brown
mouton coat that had been Aunt
Mimi’s
and headed for the
newsroom
door.
“Are
you still there? Stay where you are. Maybe I should call the
police.”
“No!
You
can’t.
You
can’t
call
the
police!” the
voice
screamed.
“You
have
to
come.”
Lacey
raced past the notoriously unreliable
elevators
to the
stairway
exit.
She slipped
off
her blue
velvet
high heels, scoop ing them up with one hand, and sped
down
several
flights of stairs and into the lobby of the
newspaper.
She paused for a mo ment in front of the elaborate Christmas tree, decorated in gold balls and
bows
and white lights, to put her shoes back on.
“Are
you
with
Cassandra?”
she
asked
the
voice
on
the
phone. “Is that
who’s
hurt? Where are you
now?”
“I’m with the
lady.
She came out of the
building
and got hurt. In the
alley.
Hurry!”
Lacey
stepped outside the front door of
The
Eye
and took a moment to get her bearings before heading
toward
the
alley.
She caught her breath and tugged her
jacket
on while juggling her phone from hand to hand.
Words
from angry emails came back to
her.
“Watch
your back, Miss HighandMighty.
.
.
.”
She
looked
around.
Indian summer had lingered
far
into the
fall.
In
December,
the golden days still were comfortable with the kiss of
sun
shine.
Washington
had yet to see a single
snowflake,
but
the nights were chilly and crisp in anticipation of
winter.
Lacey heard a
Salvation
Army bell
somewhere
in the distance. Behind it, sirens near and
far
were
everpresent
on the
city’s
sound track, and the air
was
thick with diesel
exhaust
from the city
buses,
reminding her she
was
in the
busy
District of Columbia. There were
two
main
exits
from
The
Eye
’s
building,
one in the parking garage, which opened to the
alley,
and the
front
doors that
faced
Farragut
Square across Eye Street to the north. The Square
was
a block of neat green park with diagonal
walk
ways
converging
on the statue of Admiral
David
Farragut
at its
center.
Lacey
noticed the white Christmas lights twinkling at the entrance of the Army and
Navy
Club, which
faced
the park on its east side.
Lacey
assumed from the stream of formally
dressed couples passing through the Square that the
very
ele
gant
club
was
the
scene
of
a
Christmas
party
that
night.
There
was
another population in the Square, in striking con
trast
to
the
fancydress
partygoers.
Homeless
people
began
to
claim the park benches at dusk to store their meager belongings for a
few
hours, or for the night.
Several
of them seemed to
live
in
makeshift
leantos attached to the benches.
Lacey
noticed a middleaged black man with a stocking cap pulled
down
to his
eyebrows,
standing by a bench right across the street from
The
Eye
,
wrapped in a quilted sleeping bag. His name
was
Quentin
and
he
was
a
regular.
He
seemed
to
be
gathering
his
belongings,
perhaps heading for a meal at a
shelter.
Crowds
were heading for the escalator
down
to the Metro station on one corner opposite the Square. The
sidewalk
was
a
bustle
of commuters on their
way
home or to shop, or to meet friends at a
happy
hour at a neighborhood
pub.
Lacey
pushed her
way
through the throng. She realized the
voice
on the phone had been silent for a moment.
“Are
you still there?” she
asked.
“Are
you still in the
alley?”
“Yes,
but
hurry! I think
she’s
gonna die!”
“Keep
talking
to
me.
What’s
your
name?
Why
were
you
in
the
alley?”
“Just hurry! Please!”
Lacey
turned
left
into
the
alley,
conscious
of
the
strong
gar
lic aroma from a nearby Italian restaurant. In contrast to the busy
street,
the
alley
was
calm
and
empty
of
traffic.
Lacey
slowed
down
to
take
in her surroundings. She
was
breathing hard. The
alley
behind
The
Eye
was
shaped
like
an L and it made a sharp turn behind the
building.
The street entrance
was
well lit,
but
there were deep
pockets
of
shadows
at the turn.
The
voice
on
the
phone
sounded
genuine
to
her.
Lacey
couldn’t
believe
this
was
some elaborate
joke
of
Cassandra’s.
The
woman
seemed to lack the most basic rudiments of imagi nation or
humor.
Lacey
told herself she
was
foolish to be chas ing
off
down
a dark
alley
at the sound of a frantic
voice,
but
it
was
a
child’s
voice.
Even
so, she
looked
around carefully to
make
sure she
wasn’t
being
followed.
“Am
I in the right
alley?
Where are you?” The
voice
on the phone
was
silent.
Just past the turn in the
alley,
a
woman
lay on the ground
next
to a featureless brick
wall.
No one else
was
visible. At
first
glance, the
woman
might be
taken
for one of the homeless peo ple who clung to
whatever
bit of urban turf
they
could
find,
a nook where
they
might spend the night and not be hassled. But on second glance,
Lacey
saw
it
wasn’t
a homeless person. This
woman
wore
black tights and
yellow
running shoes. There
was
no sign of a
yellow
bike
helmet,
but
there
was
a
bike
thrown
up
against
the
wall.
The
frame
looked
bent.
Lacey
caught
her
breath.
It
was
Cassandra
Wentworth.
Dark
liquid
was
seeping
through her mud
brown
hair,
strands of which had come loose from her
ponytail.
But that
wasn’t
what caught
Lacey’s
atten
tion.
It
was
what
else
Cassandra
was
wearing:
a
Christmas
sweater.
It
was
a masterpiece of its kind. Knitted Santas and sleighs and reindeer
frolicked
festively
among red and green Christ mas trees and fat knitted snowflakes. It was decorated
with
embroideredin strings of multicolored Christmas lights,
tiny
but
real. A music chip concealed
somewhere
inside the sweater
was
playing merrily and the
bulbs
were flashing, synchronized to the
tinny
mechanical sound of a tune
Lacey
knew
well.
The sweater
was
playing “Jingle
Bells.”
“She got hit on the
head.”
Lacey
heard the same small
urgent
voice
she’d
heard on the phone. It came from behind
her.
She turned around to see a child stepping out from behind a
large
greasy blue
Dumpster.
She
clicked
off
her cell phone.
“Did you see what happened?”
Lacey
peered at the small
figure.
The child stood still and
wary,
poised to run.
“Maybe.”
“Will
you tell me your name
now?”