ABE MARION GRABBED HIS COAT AND DIALED THE ER ON the way out of the precinct. He got a recording with a bunch of numerical options. He started messing with it, but he was around the corner from the subway now, and he'd probably lose the signal before he got somebody live anyway.

As he jumped on the train, a slideshow appeared in his head, starring all the creeps, hustlers, weirdos, lowlifes, gangbangers, and thugs he had come across over the past few years. There were lots of them, and none stood out. The fact was, it was easier for one of them to remember him than it was for him to remember one of them.

Marion thought about all the things one of these guys could do to a poor defenseless slob like Kevin Loomis. He should have seen it sooner. In fact, he should have picked it up right away. But instead of taking things seriously and concentrating on the job, he was fixated on Creighton. And his career. And his problems. And his regrets. Stupid, selfish, undisciplined, unprofessional, idiot, moron, amateur-hour, boneheaded...

Marion to Marion's brain: Shut...the...fuck...up.

Marion got off the train and jogged up into Powell Medical Center. The ER was busier now, and warmer; all the people who used it as a free-ish clinic were queuing up.

Betty was gone, replaced by somebody Marion didn't know—a doughy guy in horn-rimmed glasses. He had his hair gelled up into some silly triangle thing that made Marion want to punch him in the face.

Said guy looked up at Marion through said glasses and opened the mouth Marion wanted so badly to smash his fist into. Marion stopped him cold with a look that could melt glass, and he flashed his credentials. “I'm heading back,” he said.

The guy's mouth closed, and Marion walked past him into the ward. Different mood this time of day. Louder, faster, more urgent. It still smelled funny.

Marion turned the corner.

He marched down the corridor toward the beds, his eyes scanning left and right. He saw technicians, nurses, a few doctors, but no lanky orderly with dreads.

The curtains around bed sixteen were closed up tight.

He flung them open. The bed was empty. The sheets were rumpled, and a blanket lay on the floor in a pile. Marion doubted Loomis could walk by himself. So where was he?

A couple of nurses stood across the way, looking over some paperwork. “'Scuse me,” Marion said. “I'm looking for—”

“He's in the MRI suite, one floor up.” Guess who.

Marion turned and looked over at Dr. Yoon. She read his expression and motioned for him to follow her. “Come on,” she said.

Marion was impressed with the speed she could generate on those little legs. “Is everything all right?” she asked.

“I'm not sure,” he told her. They were headed up a flight of stairs now. “Maybe not,” he said, and then: “You see a guy today? Tall, lean. Black guy with dreads. He was mopping up when I came in this morning.”

She nodded slowly as she took the stairs. “Yeah, I think I know who you mean. I ran into him a couple of times.”

“Anything off about him? Anything you can remember?”

“Not really,” she said. “He was quiet, just doing little things here and there.” Then she thought some more and said, “But you know, now that I think about it, he kind of turned his back whenever I looked at him. Like he didn't want to be seen, you know?”

Yeah, Marion knew. He opened the door, and they walked out onto the next floor. It was less crowded here, brighter.

“So, he's a new guy you think? Ever seen him before?”

“It's a big place, detective. The staff changes a lot, so it's hard to know.”

Marion nodded. “I get it,” he said, looking at her. “Here's the thing. I think we—”

That was as far as he got.

Marion turned just in time to see somebody lunge at him from behind an alcove. He pivoted. The guy swung something. Marion leaned back and raised his arm to protect his head, but it was too late. The world exploded into a silver pancake. The floor rose up to meet him at an odd angle, like a wave striking a wayward ship in a storm.

Somebody shrieked. Maybe Dr. Yoon. Marion couldn't tell because he couldn't see. He picked his head up from the linoleum floor, got up on his hands and knees. He'd fallen into something warm and sticky, he thought. Then he realized it was his own blood. He brought his left hand to the back of his head. *Yup, bleeding all right.* He wondered what the guy had hit him with.

Things were sketchy and wobbly after that, but the visual was coming back online. People running, pointing. Vomit rose up in Marion's throat. He bit it back.

Somebody was leaning over him, talking real urgent. But his ears were ringing, whistling really, like a high-pitched steam valve. Freaking referee blowing a whistle next to his head.

Marion's hand found a wall, and he used it to help himself stand up, leaving a big, bloody smear wherever he touched. He'd been through something like this once, back when he played football. Guy blindsided him so hard he'd lost his helmet and nearly broke his nose.

Just breathe, he'd told himself then, and get back in the game. He repeated it now.

Get some oxygen in you.

The world felt like it was pulling him to one side. Like gravity had gotten all fucked up and lost its direction. But Marion fought it. He was upright now, gaining strength as the hospital swayed back and forth all around him.

He looked over his shoulder, just in time to see someone fling open the stairwell door and bolt through it. He wanted to shout, but he couldn't make it happen.

Dr. Yoon came up to him and pressed something soft against the back of his head. "Friend of yours?" she said, but before he could answer, she added, "Hold still."

Marion lost track of things for a while after that. He remembered walking down a hallway, leaning on the little doctor. He wanted to track down the guy who'd hit him, get back to the precinct house and look him up. He lurched forward and tried to push Dr. Yoon out of his way.

"Uhm gonna... I gotta—" Marion said.

"Easy does it, Tarzan," Dr. Yoon told him. "You're coming with me." His left arm, he realized, was wrapped around another guy: strong, white, military buzz cut, goatee. Must've been a nurse.

"Better listen to her," the guy told him.

The next memory came from a little room with no windows. There was some equipment and a computer monitor on a rolling stand. Marion was sitting on a padded bench with one of those paper rolls over it, like at a doctor's office. A generic watercolor hung on the wall in a shiny silver frame. It was a sparrow sitting on a branch. Marion frowned at it and said, "What'd he hit me with?" He could puke any minute.

"Is that important?" Dr. Yoon's back was to him. She was washing her hands under the painting.

"In an ego kind of way, I guess."

"It was a wrench," she said. "A big, manly wrench."

"Sweet," he replied. And then, "Do me a favor."

"Do me a favor: Be a good boy for two minutes and just stop talking." She was real close to him now, shining a light in his eyes. He smelled grapefruit or melon or something from her hair.

"The stitches will need to come out in a week or so," she was saying.

"OK," he said. *What stitches?* He had a paper bracelet around his wrist.

"Listen, I—"

"It's all right. You're more than welcome," she said.

He gave her kind of a cackle. "That's not where I was going."

She was smiling now, too. "OK then, where were you going?"

"I need to speak to someone who runs the cleaning staff. I need a list of—"

"Already in your email. What do you think I've been doing for the past twenty minutes?"

Marion had no idea what she'd been doing for the past twenty minutes. He had no idea what he'd been doing, either. Now that she mentioned it, though, he did have a vague memory of handing her his business card. How long ago was that?

Marion was in some kind of waiting room area now. It was dark, not too many people. He didn't know what time it was. Early evening, maybe?

Dr. Yoon came in after a while. He looked at her, hoping that she wasn't tracking how out of it he was. "Your shift was probably over a while ago, huh?"

"Husband's got the kids tonight, so don't worry about it. He can do the cooking for once."

Marion pictured the husband. Probably Korean, like her. He wouldn't be surprised if the guy was a doctor, too, maybe even at this hospital. Opposites attract, and so Marion pictured him as a general practitioner, the kind of doctor with messy handwriting and terrible clothes. Dr. Yoon wouldn't settle for some idiot. It'd be somebody smart and kind, who did whatever she told him. Their kids were going to Princeton, no doubt about it.