The hospital's driveway crossed a small park and ended in a street beyond. Ignoring it, I turned left and ran along the building, rounded a corner, stumbled down a flight of stairs, and reached what looked like a delivery entrance—a wide door with a ramp and an asphalt square in front of it. A narrow road led away from it to the building's other side and to a busy street beyond.

Two men stood beside a delivery van, gesticulating at an inert forklift.

The street was more than a hundred yards away, and I'd never be able to outrun my pursuer before reaching it.

On the other hand, the delivery entrance stood wide open, inviting me in.

The workmen ignored me as I entered.

Inside, I chose a passage at random, looking back before turning a corner. The police officer chasing me had approached the men and their forklift and was saying something. One of the workers shrugged.

I turned away from the scene and descended a flight of stairs, rushed through a maze of passages, opened a fire door, slipped through, and closed it behind me.

For a moment, I stood with my back against its cold metal, eyes closed. My heart hammered, not only against my ribs but also against my head, arms, and legs. Apart from its drumming, an electrical hum was the only noise that reached me.

When I opened my eyes again, the image before me took a moment to come into focus, to resolve into a corridor—narrow and utilitarian—with pipes and fluorescent lights running the length of its ceiling.

A familiar image, like the basement at TCorp.

A shiver awoke in my cold feet, rose through my naked legs, made its way up my buttocks and my spine, and tickled my grimy scalp.

I took a deep breath and shook my head. This wasn't TCorp. I had nothing to be afraid of, not here.

Except for the police at my heels.

I forced myself to go on, to walk the passage before me. It was long and featureless, and its rough concrete floor hurt my chafed feet. Finally, I reached another flight of stairs, which led me back up to daylight, to a corridor painted in friendly terra-cotta, and to a glass door. I pushed it open and found myself in a different world, where the hospital's hushed tension was replaced by the aggressive noise of accelerating cars, the quick steps of pedestrians hugging lunch boxes or walking dogs, and the glaring light from a blue-white sky.

I passed a few corners, streets, and alleys, meandering and jostling my way into the hubbub, the colors, and the flow of the city. And all of these sensations grew more and more distant and surreal as they sucked the tension out of my wired body.

A bench at a bus stop called for me, and I collapsed on it.

My feet were tingling and their soles hurt. Vanilla pudding had replaced the sinew and muscle in my arms and legs.

Whatever it was that had given me the strength to flee and that had fueled my steps along the way, it had dissipated now, drained from me like water from a wicker basket.

What now?

The police were looking for me, I had nowhere to go, and Theresa was still Thierry's captive.

I searched the pockets of my borrowed coat and found them empty. My money, my phone, and my keys were still in my purse, and that purse was on The Indomitable, or at TCorp.

I needed someone to help me.

But who would believe my story? Who'd be in a position to do something?

Homer, maybe, our private investigator. After all, he was paid to believe me. Or wasn't he? I didn't remember if Theresa had given him any money yet. Anyway, his office was near the docks, on the other side of the city.

A man wearing black-rimmed glasses and a dark suit stood under the bus stop sign, his eyes on a phone. The suit and phone both looked expensive.

I could ask him to let me use his device for a call, telling him it was an emergency, a matter literally of life and death, and call Homer.

The man looked up as if feeling the inquisitive pricking of my searching gaze. His eyes found mine, and huge orbs studied me through a pair of thick, distorting lenses. Then he turned and walked to the other end of the bus stop.

Not in a mood to help the zombie doctor, that guy.

The bus stop sign now was deserted, without that suit below it.

Jester's Court, it said.

My mother lived only a few blocks away from here.

~~~

The house was as I remembered it, yet different. A shabbier, dirtier, and smaller, version of its former, austere self.

The front door wasn't locked. The corridor in its other side smelled of fish and shoe polish. To the right, a flight of stairs went down into the basement where I had hunted ghosts, two decades ago. My mother's apartment was on the first floor.

I placed a foot on the steps and hesitated.

Coming here was a silly idea. This was one of the first places where the police would look for me.

But I needed new clothes, money, and the means to call Homer. And there was nowhere else in this neighborhood where I could get that. I urged my tired legs to continue the ascent.

The door with my mother's name still bore the small pockmarks I had given it with a screwdriver when I had been a child. I didn't remember the reason for my act of vandalism, but my mother's wrath and violent retaliation came into focus, unbidden. Shaking my head to chase the sprites of the past away, I rang the bell.

The door just stood there, eying me from its spyhole with silent, resentful reproach, and nothing moved.

I rang again, three short bursts impatient with urgency.

Time was running, and the town's police were all bound to head this way. I shouldn't waste precious minutes standing in a smelly corridor and staring down a stupid door. I turned to go, wondering how to rob someone of their phone, money, and clothes, when the door opened.

"Anne?" My mother's brows were high in her forehead.

A forehead lacking its frame of hair. I had expected that, but it looked different now, in the harsh daylight and within the walls of my former home, so different from the abstract icon of ill I had seen under the surreal, dreamy lamps of the beachwalk. So undeniable.

"What happened to your face?" She reached towards my lips.

I took a step back. "Hi, mom. How are you?"

She huffed, opened the door fully, and stood aside to let me in. I entered and found myself in our—her—main room. Cluttered furniture, boxes, and bags overflowing with junk stood against the walls, and discarded clothes covered most of the worn, orange-brown carpet.

And mom stood amidst the mess, her face sallow, her cheeks drooping. And she hadn't answered my question, hadn't told me how she is.

I turned my gaze away from her and fought an impulse to run, screaming.

Something moved in the door to the kitchen—a cat with a beige body and an anthracite face studied me with blue, disapproving eyes.

"Oh, you have a cat?" That felt safe to say.

"Yes, a cat... The apartment's large enough for two." She let the words hang like dust motes between us. "And now, Anne, tell me what you are doing here, looking like a mad scientist who got her well-deserved beating. What has happened, and who has smacked you up like that?"

"I..." I didn't have the time to tell her the story, nor did I have the strength for it. "Mom, I need your phone. I have to call someone, it's urgent."

She tilted her head, her eyes two slits as distrustful as her cat's.

"I'm sorry, mom, but I don't have the time to explain it all right now. The police might turn up at any minute."

"The police?" She placed her hands on her hips.

"Yes, the police." My face was hot, and I felt like my younger self when facing her wrath. I took a step away from her. "They're looking for me. But, I didn't do anything wrong, I swear. Please... just trust me. I'll explain later." I scanned the room's chaos for a phone, but it was a hopeless endeavor.

She nodded. "Okay, but you owe me an explanation." She wagged a finger at me as she walked over to a table weighed down by books, journals, and a plate of half-eaten, yellowish goo—polenta?

I was ravenous.

She returned with a mobile phone.

A smartphone. I breathed out with relief as I looked up HHISPS's number, Homer's number, and tapped to dial it.

'HH Investigative Services and Personal Support. How can I help you?" The company's receptionist sounded as morose as I remembered her.

"I need to talk to Homer Holmes, please."

"Not sure if he's in. And if he is, he may not have time. Who are you and what is this about?"

"I'm Anne Anderson, and this is urgent." My voice was a hiss. I wasn't in the mood to grovel for her. "Just put me through."

My mother had dug out a free patch of sofa to sit down on and watched the proceedings with a frown.

The phone clicked. "Anne?"

"Yes, it's me. Hi, Homer." It was a relief to hear the man's voice. "I have news."

"Okay, tell me," he said.

"Okay, here's the summary. We don't have much time now."