'You're willing to give it a shot?'
Anything was better than what he was going through. Except maybe the business about not breathing. 'Sure. I'm in.'
In the waiting room, three of the five people were asleep.
Byrne stopped at the American Pub in the Center Square Building on Market Street. The place was lively, and lively was just what was needed. He staked a place at the end of the bar, nursed a Bushmills. At just after ten o'clock his phone rang. He checked the ID, fully prepared to blow it off. It was a 215 exchange, with a familiar prefix. A PPD number. He had to answer.
'This is Kevin.'
'Detective Byrne?'
It was a woman's voice. A young woman's voice. He did not recognize it. 'Yes?'
'It's Lucy.'
It took Byrne a little while to realize who it was. Then he remembered. 'Hi, Lucy. Is something wrong?'
'I need to talk to you.'
'Where are you? I'll come get you.'
A long pause.
'Lucy?'
'I'm in jail.'
The Mini-Station was located on South Street between Ninth and Tenth. Originally activated in 1985 to provide weekend coverage from spring to autumn, addressing the issues generated by crowds gravitating to South Street for its clubs, shopping and restaurants, it had since become a seven days a week, twenty-four hours a day, year-round commitment, expanded to cover the entire corridor, which included more than 400 retail premises and nearly eighty establishments with liquor licenses.
When Byrne walked in, he immediately spotted an old comrade, P/O Denny Dorgan. Short and brick-solid, Dorgan, who was now in his early forties, still worked the bike patrol.
'Alert the hounds,' Dorgan said. 'We got royalty in the building.'
They shook hands. 'You getting shorter and uglier?' Byrne asked.
'Yeah. It's the supplements my wife is making me take. She thinks it will keep me from straying. Shows you what she knows.'
Byrne glanced over at Dorgan's bike, leaning near the front door. 'Good thing you can get heavy-duty shocks on the thing.'
Dorgan laughed, turned and looked at the waif-like girl sitting on the bench behind him. He turned back. 'Friend of yours?'
Byrne looked over at Lucy Doucette. She looked like a lost little kid.
'Yeah,' Byrne said. 'Thanks.'
Byrne wondered what Dorgan wondered, whether he thought that Byrne was dallying with a nineteen-year- old. Byrne had long ago stopped being concerned with what people thought. What had happened here was clear. Dorgan had stepped in between a misdemeanor and the law, on Byrne's behalf, and had done it as a favor to a fellow cop. The gesture would go into the books as a small act of kindness, and would one day be repaid. No more, no less. Everything else was squad-car scandal.
Byrne and Lucy had coffee at a small restaurant on South Street. Lucy told him the story. Or, it seemed to Byrne, the part she could bring herself to tell. She had been detained by security personnel at a kids'-clothing boutique on South. They said she'd attempted to walk out of the store with a pair of children's sweaters. The electronic security tags had been removed and were found underneath one of the sale racks, but Lucy had been observed walking around with the items, items which had not been returned to the racks. She had no sales receipts on her. Lucy had not resisted in the least.
'Did you mean to walk out with these items?'
Lucy buried her face in her hands for a moment. 'Yes. I was stealing them.'
From most people Byrne would have expected vehement denials, tales of mistaken identity and dastardly set-ups. Not Lucy Doucette. He remembered her as a blunt and honest person. Well, she was not that honest, apparently.
'I don't understand,' Byrne said. 'Do you have a child? A niece or a nephew that these sweaters were for?'
'No.'
'A friend's child?'
Lucy shrugged. 'Not exactly.'
Byrne watched her, waiting for more.
'It's complicated,' she finally said.
'Do you want to tell me about it?'
Lucy took another second. 'Do I have to tell you now?'
Byrne smiled. 'No.'
The waitress refilled their cups. Byrne considered the young woman in front of him. He remembered how she had appeared in their therapy group. Shy, reluctant, scared. Not much had changed.
'Have you been back to any kind of treatment?' Byrne asked.
'Sort of.'
'What do you mean?'
Lucy told him a story, a story about a man called the Dreamweaver.
'How did you find this… Dreamweaver guy?'
Lucy rolled her eyes, tapped her fingers on her coffee cup for a few seconds, embarrassed. 'I found his card in the trash bin on my cart. It was right there, staring at me. It was like the card wanted me to find it. Like I was supposed to find it.'
Byrne gave Lucy a look, a look he hoped wasn't too scolding or paternal.
'I know, I know,' Lucy said. 'But I've tried everything else. I mean everything. And I think it might actually be doing me some good. I think it might be helping.'
'Well, that's what counts,' Byrne said. 'Are you going to see this guy again?'
Lucy nodded. 'One last time. Tomorrow.'
'You'll let me know what happens?'
'Okay.'
They stood on the corner of South and Third. The evening had grown cold.
'Do you have a car?' Byrne asked.
Lucy shook her head. 'I don't drive.'
Byrne glanced at his van, then back. 'I'm afraid I'm going the other way.' He took out his cellphone, called for a cab. Then he reached into his pocket pulled out a pair of twenties.
'I can't take that,' Lucy said.
'Pay me back someday, then.'
Lucy hesitated, then took the money.
Byrne put a hand on each of her slight shoulders. 'Look. You made a mistake today. That's all. You did the right thing calling me. We'll work it out. I want you to call me tomorrow. Will you promise to do that?'
Lucy nodded. Byrne saw her eyes glisten, but no tears followed. Tough kid. He knew that she had been on her own for a while, although she hadn't brought up her mother this time. Byrne didn't ask. She would tell him what she wanted to tell him. He was the same way.
'Am I going to prison?' she asked.
Byrne smiled. 'No, Lucy. You're not going to prison.' The cab arrived, idled. 'As long as you don't carjack this guy on the way home you should be fine.'
Lucy hugged him, got into the cab.
Byrne watched the cab drive away. Lucy's face was small and pale and frightened in the back window. He couldn't imagine the burden she carried. He'd had the same experience of not knowing what had happened to him or where he had gone for that short period of time when they had declared him dead. But he had been an adult, not a child.
