My hands trembled with urgency as I took off the doctor's coat and dressed in the clothes my mother had returned with—a black skirt and a matching shirt.

"You also need this." She offered me a pea-green handbag. "It's got some money in it."

"Er..." I was reluctant to take her money; she never had enough.

She pushed the bag into my hands. "It's not much. But I want you to have it."

There was no time to argue, and some money might be helpful, too. "Okay, but I'll pay you back."

"Fine."

There was something else I needed from her, though. "Mom... Can I have your phone for today? I'm expecting an important call." I held up the device.

"Sure. And you'll need a pair of shoes." She moved to a cluster of bags at the back of the room and started rummaging through them.

I went to the door, opened it, and peeked out into the staircase. It was quiet.

I had to get out of here right now.

"Here you are." My mother handed me two neon-green pseudo running shoes.

A noise from downstairs disrupted the silence of the house—someone had opened the main entrance.

"Shit," I whispered, "they're here."

"Go upstairs, hide." She gestured to the floor above us. "I'll invite them in, then you get out."

I nodded. "Okay... and thanks, mom."

"Sure. You just take care."

Clasping my new shoes and handbag, I tiptoed to the second floor, hid behind a spray-paint-decor concrete banister, and listened.

"This is it." A woman's voice.

"Okay, let's try." A man.

My mother's doorbell gave a long ring.

I peeked over the banister. Two police officers in uniform stood at my mother's apartment.

The door opened, and she appeared, holding a clothing iron in one hand. "Er... yes?"

"Missus Anderson?" the woman said.

Mom nodded. "That's me."

"Municipal police," the officer said. "We're looking for your daughter. Do you know where she is?"

"My daughter?" My mother scratched her bald head. "Let's see. I know where she hangs out, usually..."

No, she didn't.

"I can give you the details. Come in, officers." She motioned her visitors to enter, waving her iron at them. "Please excuse the mess here. I'm rearranging my stuff... need to throw some of it out."

The man and the woman entered.

"Do you care for some coffee? And I think I've got a bag of doughnuts somewhere around—"

The door banged shut.

My mom watched too much crime TV.

Grinning, I slipped into the shoes, ran down the stairs, and took the back door.

~~~

The Big Bad Burger Bar was on the grimy side of things, but its promise of cheap carbohydrates had drawn me in. I sat at the bar-like table that ran along its windows and looked out onto 7th avenue. Bland, jazzy background music drizzled from the speakers and mingled with the scent of cooking oil past its prime.

Homer hadn't called yet.

"Voila, here's your order," the teenage waitress said, and a metal tray crash-landed on the table before me. "A big bad burger, and a large coke with no ithe." Her last word was distorted from trying to find a way through the row of silvery rings piercing her lips.

I nodded my thanks at her.

She moved a hand through her spiky, raspberry hair and jutted her chin at me. "Cool outfit you've got there."

"It's from my mom."

"She hath a kinky tathte."

"I guess so." I had never thought of my mother as kinky.

The skirt didn't even reach my knees, and it was black, shiny leather. And the t-shirt was another item of her fanware collection, from Motörhead, adorned with a horned, vicious skull-thing.

There hadn't been time to inspect the stuff—let alone to argue about it—back in the apartment.

A frown and a grin competed for my face as I watched the girl's black-stockinged, chubby legs walk her back to the counter. I wasn't used to getting compliments on my wardrobe. But being complimented for this?

I took a long draft of coke from the straw caught in the cup's lid.

The burger looked spongy, and it was. But it came with lots of ketchup.

I stopped mid-chew at the sound of a siren.

A police car, all hysterics with flashing lights on its roof, sped down the avenue. It didn't stop, though, and its colors and sound soon faded as it raced away to fight crime elsewhere.

The boring background music regained lost airspace, but then it stopped. Restful silence replaced it. The respite was brief, though. It was cut short by a drummer's interpretation of a machine-gun going full blast homicide. Electric guitars set in, and a singer's angry chanting.

I looked at the waitress standing at the controls of the sound system. She saw me looking at her and gave me a thumbs up.

I nodded back.

Motörhead.

I should have asked mom for a Meat Loaf t-shirt.

Bless my mother, though—she had saved my ass back there, baiting the police with coffee and doughnuts.

I snorted, then I focused on the burger and on what mattered now.

What mattered was Theresa on that bloody yacht.

What mattered was bringing down Thierry and his chums.

What mattered was getting normalcy back. And normalcy was Anne in boring clothes doing an unexciting job.

My escape from The Indomitable must have been the day before yesterday, or even before that. Thierry would think I had drowned, wouldn't he? Based on that assumption, he could have struck a deal with Theresa, offering to spare her if she kept quiet.

Would she accept that? I didn't know Theresa at all.

I wiped my mouth on a Big Bad Burger Bar paper napkin. My plate was empty, but I still felt hungry. I reached for my drink when a new tune reached my ears, more drums, more guitars and another hoarse singer clashing with Motörhead's mayhem.

My mother's phone.

I fished it from the handbag and accepted the call. "Yeah?"

"It's me, Homer. I've got news."

"Tell me."

"The Coast Guard has brought up The Indomitable. She'll be down at the harbor in half an hour."

~~~

We had agreed that Homer would get a taxi and pick me up at the intersection of 7th avenue with Carter Street. I stood at a corner there, my back against the wall of a nondescript warehouse under a sky enjoying its happy hour.

This wasn't the best neighborhood in town, but at least there was some traffic and the occasional pedestrian, both helping to keep the lowlife in check.

But I was beyond caring, anyway, the lowlife fugitive that I was myself.

Homer was late.

So far, the man had not been much of a help. I hoped that, this time, he was worth our money—Theresa's money.

Or were his allegiances elsewhere?

Two men in blue overalls walked the pavement towards me, talking. One of them was gaunt and pale, a lanky skeleton ambling down the street. The other was stout, bald, and gesticulating. As they approached, their conversation tapered.

I turned my gaze away from them, giving the second-hand shop across the street a scrutiny instead. I was a badass fugitive playing tricks on the city's police force—they couldn't scare me. Yet my skin goosebumped under their stares.

Did I look like a hooker standing here, in my leather skirt, t-shirt, and bright green accessories? The skirt was short and shiny enough for that trade. I crossed my arms and gritted my teeth as they closed in on me.

They passed me without asking for my rates.

"Hey!"

I turned my least inviting stare at the shouter.

It was Homer, waving from a cab's window standing at the curb. I sagged with relief and strode over to the vehicle.

"Hello, Homer."

He grinned and made room for me on the bench. "Wow," he said, "you look like—"

"Shut up."

I had had enough remarks about my apparel for one day.

It took us no more than a couple of minutes to reach the harbor. We stopped at the terminals of the passenger ferries.

Looking up and down along the piers, I tried to get my bearings. This wasn't the part where the yachts were moored.

A dockworker passed us. Homer hailed him. "Where are the private berths?"

Without losing a step or a word, the man pointed north.

"Come," I said and jogged in the direction he had pointed.

We passed a large brick building, and the marina came into view, a forest of masts swaying gently in a wind that had picked up some speed.

I remembered the number I had seen when they had dragged me here last time. "It's pier 12."

As we got closer to it, Homer stopped and put a hand on my arm. "Wait, that's municipal police."

A police car was parked at the pier's entrance.

"I thought you said this would be a Costal Guard matter?"

He nodded. "Let's hope they're here, too."

We continued, slower now.

The gate with the fat 12 on it stood open.

I pointed to the fourth berth on the left. "That's where the yacht was moored last time. And I think that's her." She had that glass-walled swimming pool.

Three uniformed men stood on the pavement, next to her stern.

"Excellent, one of them is from Costal Guard," Homer said. "But the others are municipals."

Another, slightly larger group of people emerged from the yacht and joined them. Words were exchanged, then they turned and walked towards us.

Should I run? It was probably too late now. And Theresa might need me.

The first one I recognized was Thierry, unmistakable with his tall outline and his confident stride. The only woman in the group wore a uniform. It wasn't Theresa.

Thierry laughed and said something to a tall, lanky man in civilian's garb beside him. He was the man from the hospital—Detective Shortbitten.

Ed was with them, too, together with his greasy friend and with a man wearing a captain's hat.

I stood still, unable to move.

"...really don't know why they expected my sister to be on The Indomitable." Thierry huffed, and then his face grew all serious. "But, Shawn, I'm truly worried that she—" His eyes fell on me, and he froze.

———

Dedicated to EvelynHail  for many fine comments and for an idea that made its way into this chapter