With Henry never far away, she'd touched, caressed, tried on, and bought—on Mr. Osala's dime, of course. She'd even gone to the designer floor, intending to see how far she could push this free ride—to find the limit of Mr. Osala's largesse. A sales clerk named Rolf had shown her around, but when she saw the prices, she'd lost her nerve.

    The things she'd ordered would be delivered.

    She also enjoyed the sidelong glances from the other shoppers at her pak chadar. Kind of cool, in a way, like playing hide and seek, or spying. She could see their expressions but they couldn't see hers. She'd totally stuck her tongue out at a couple of old biddies and they hadn't a clue.

    Better fun was raising a ton of eyebrows when she'd picked out a skimpy scarlet teddiette and taken it to a dressing room. Not like she'd had any intention of trying it on, let alone buying it; she'd just wanted to set tongues a-wagging. And she had. She'd heard the sales desk buzzing as she headed for the changing area.

    She dragged Henry up to Fifty-seventh for a late-afternoon snack—totally tricky with the veil.

    After that Henry informed her that it was time to go.

    Bummer.

    As they waited for the car—Henry had been adamant about using it instead of a cab for the short trip—Dawn saw a scruffy-looking man pasting a Day-Glo orange flyer on a nearby wall. The bold black letters caught her eye.

    She stepped closer and saw someone was offering a five-thousand-dollar reward. It listed an 800 number.

    And then she saw the name: DAWN PICKERING.

    And then she saw the picture: hers.

    "Oh, my God!"

    The guy turned and gave her a quick up-and-down inspection. He had scraggly hair and needed a shave. He squinted at her, scowling. A button in his shirt read, ASK ME ABOUT THE KICKER EVOLUTION.

    "Yo. You mean, 'Oh, my Allah,' right?"

    Fighting waves of shock and nausea, Dawn pointed a trembling finger at the flyer. "Wh-who's looking for that girl?"

    The guy's eyes narrowed. "Why? You know her?"

    With no thought on her part, a reply leaped from her lips. "No. No, of course not. It's just…" Think, Dawn. "Was she… was she like kidnapped or something?"

    "Or something. All we know is she's gone. She's out there alone and afraid and we want to help her."

    That sounded memorized. "Who's 'we'?"

    "Why, the Kickers, of course." He held up the back of his hand to show her the little stick figure tattooed on the thumb web. "We're out here just doing our part."

    Dawn stifled a gasp. Jerry had had one of those.

    "What are you going to do when you find her?"

    "Return her to her home and protect her."

    "From what?"

    "From anything that wants to hurt her and her baby."

    Her baby…

    Dawn felt the sidewalk tilt under her. She swayed.

    The guy stared at her, his expression suspicious. "You okay?" He reached toward her veil. "Let's see what you look like under that."

    Suddenly he was sailing backward. He slammed against the fender of a parked car.

    "You will not touch her, sir." Henry's voice.

    The Kicker's face twisted into a snarl, then relaxed into a sneer when he looked up and saw Henry.

    "Not like I care 'bout no Mohammed-humping ho anyhow."

    Dawn would never have guessed Henry had such strength. He hid it well. As the Kicker started to turn away, Henry pointed to the stack of flyers in his backpack.

    "May I have one of those?"

    The man hesitated, squinting at them, then handed over half a dozen.

    "Sure. Spread 'em around. The more people see 'em, the quicker we find her."

    Still dazed, Dawn felt Henry grip her arm and lead her to the car. He ushered her into the backseat, closed the door after her, and soon they were rolling.

    Through the rear window she saw the Kicker writing something on the back of one of his flyers.

    They headed east, then uptown on Madison. And everywhere she looked she saw the flyers. She'd taken passing notice of them on the way to the store, but flyers were so common around the city, especially around construction sites, that she'd paid them no mind. But now, knowing what they said, each flash of orange was a cramp in her gut.

    Forcing herself to move, she leaned over the back of the front seat and retrieved one of the flyers. She stared at it.

    Where had they got this picture? She didn't remember it. It looked fairly recent, but before she'd lost the weight.

    "Do you see?" Henry said. "This is why the Master does not want you out. Now do you understand?"

    She waggled the flyer. "About these?"

    "Yes. They mean far more than just one man is looking for you. There's a whole network of people. And through these flyers and the reward they're offering, they're enlisting a host of allies. You simply cannot show your face in public."

    Dawn stared at the flyer. "I need to call this number."

    "I do not believe that would be wise."

    "Just stop at a pay phone. No one will know it's me." She had to call. She just had to. "Please, Henry."

    For a moment he said nothing. Then, without taking his eyes off the street, he offered a cell phone over his shoulder.

    "Use this. It's safe. But be very careful what you say."

    Her throat tightened at his unexpected gesture. "Thank you, Henry. You're a friend. And I'll be very careful."

    Her finger trembled as she punched in the number. A male voice answered on the second ring.

    "Dawn hot line."

    Dawn hot line… oh, God.

    "Hel—" She swallowed. "Hello? I'm calling about the girl on the flyer."

    "You think you've spotted her, right?" His tone was like, Yeah-yeah, tell me another one. "Where'd you see her?"

    "You don't sound like you believe me."

    He sighed. "Sorry. We've had so many false leads and—"

    "Who are you people and why are you looking for her? I mean, you're not the police, so—"

    "We're private, and we've taken an interest in her case… her disappearance. Have you seen Dawn? Do you know where she is?"

    "Who's in charge there? Who's behind this?"

    "He's not here right now. But if you haven't seen her, can you help us, give us any hint of where she might be?"

    "I'm not saying another word until I speak to whoever's behind this."

    "I'm sorry, he's not available right now."

    "Is his name Jerry? Tell—"

    A long-fingered hand snatched the phone away and snapped it shut.

    "Quite enough," Henry said. "I let you call for one reason: To make clear to you that your ex-lover is conducting a very organized hunt for you. Do you understand now?"

    Ex-lover? If he only knew the rest of it.

    "I understand."

    Did she ever.

    "Still fighting chopsticks, I see," Jack said.

    The Isher Sports Shop was officially closed, its narrow, cluttered aisles dark except for the rearmost section where Abe perched on a stool behind the scarred counter. The air reeked of garlic from the take-out kimchi he was forking into his mouth.

    He raised his free hand and waggled his stubby, chubby fingers.

    "These look made for eating with sticks?"

    "You could learn."

    "Why for I should learn? For westerners, chopsticks are an affectation. I don't do affectations."

    No argument there, Jack thought, taking in Abe's customary white half-sleeve shirt and black trousers, strained by his bulging belly and stained by the day's parade of edibles.