Tess wasn't reassured. A call to admitting told her what she suspected: no Joe Johnson had entered St. Agnes this week.

Adrenaline pumping, she quickly thought of someone who could help her out. And best of all, she could work out while consulting him.

Durban Knox had owned his eponymous boxing gym in East Baltimore for almost forty years. When the neighborhood had been infiltrated by the upwardly mobile in the 1980s, he had tried to cash in by adding fancy weight machines, Lifecycles, Stairmasters, and Star-Track treadmills. The club had caught on, but not because of the new equipment. Instead, doctors, lawyers, and stockbrokers came to box alongside the regulars, usually within days of some newspaper article announcing that boxing was the newest workout for doctors, lawyers, and stockbrokers. The most recent version of the boxing-is-back story had professional women taking up the sweet science. Tess was not tempted. With everyone else in the ring, she enjoyed almost exclusive title to most of the non-boxing equipment. And as Spike's niece, she also enjoyed the almost exclusive protection of Durban, who made sure the male patrons left her alone. Even if she had wanted one to talk to her, he wouldn't have dared, not under Durban 's watchful eye.

But now it was Spike who needed protection.

"Yeah, I know some guys who could keep an eye on him," Durban said, after hearing about Tess's encounter on Saratoga Street. "Better do it that way, instead of going to the cops. Spike wakes up and finds some cop outside his hospital room door, he ain't going to be very happy with you."

"I don't know how I'll pay them-"

Durban flapped his hand in front of his face as if he smelled something bad. "We'll talk about that when Spike wakes up. Now, stop wasting time and get cracking. Tyner told me you gotta lot of work to do to get ready for the rowing season. I'm suppose to make sure you don't dog it."

Although it was above freezing, warm enough to run outdoors, Tess opted for five miles on the treadmill, jogging until she had the sweet, rubbery feeling only an overheated gym can provide. Imagining Colleen Reganhart's bright blue body beneath her feet, she pounded out her last mile in under 7:30, the treadmill's top speed.

"I'm watching you, Tess," Durban called across the room, pointing to the clock. "Seventy-five minutes on aerobics, Tyner said. He also says you gotta do more weight work."

"Fine, I'll do the bike. I've got Don Quixote to keep me company."

"Yeah, well get him to spot you on some bench presses, too. Tyner said."

Tess settled on the stationary bike with her book propped on the control panel. After a few minutes, she barely noticed the gym's sounds around her-the throb of the speed ball, the duller tones of the heavy bag, the muted thuds of colliding bodies. In its own way, Durban 's was a serene place. She always felt safe here.

A sudden breeze swept through the room, changing the pressure like a cold front coming through town. An entourage had arrived, and the bright white light of a television camera was capturing its every movement. What was the fuss? Durban had trained a few moderately successful boxers in his time, but no one who could generate this kind of heat. Tess saw the silver-haired anchor from Monday night's rally, unnaturally pink in his makeup, schmoozing with Paul Tucci, still walking stiff-legged but no longer using a cane. The Tucci money seemed to promote that kind of reflexive brown-nosing. The rest of the group looked like bankers and Chamber of Commerce types, blue suited and bland.

The suits parted and Wink Wynkowski emerged, shockingly scrawny in a gray wool singlet. Interesting costume for someone with legs the size of my forearms, Tess thought. Wink hadn't gained weight as he aged, but he also hadn't put on any muscle, or bothered to expose his narrow chest and stringy arms to the sun. With his tanned face and pale body, he appeared to be wearing a white turtleneck and stockings beneath the skimpy one-piece.

"I'm going to work out, get a little glow going," Wink told the anchorman. "I work out every day, I tell you that? Wait, here's a line for you: ‘Wink Wynkowski might be sweating at the gym, but he's not sweating the bullshit charges against him in the Beacon-Light.' Pretty good, huh? I mean, I know you can't use the profanity, but I think that's got a nice feel to it."

"I write my own copy-" the anchor began. Wink cut him off with a flap of his hand.

"Go ahead and use it. I'm not going to sue you. Besides, you won't think of anything better. Now, what do you want to do, get some shots of me moving, maybe talking to the other guys here?" Wink was a natural boss, directing the television segment as if it were a subsidiary of Montrose Enterprises. "You know, these are just regular guys, black and white, working out together, the kind of people who really want to see a basketball team in their hometown. How's the light in here? A little harsh, don't you think? When I started my chain of workout places, the first thing we did was move away from this fluorescent crap. People want to look good when they're working out. I mean, that's the point, right? If you look good in the gym, maybe you won't have to go any farther to find someone to cozy up to, she'll be right there. But Durban and I go way back, so I wanted to drop by. I fought Golden Gloves when I was seventeen, I ever tell you that? Welterweight. Won, too. You can look it up."

Tess caught Durban 's eye. He shook his head, mouthing "Glass jaw."

"You going to get in the ring today, Wink?" That was the oh-so-chummy cameraman.

Wink looked around the room. His eyes rested on Tess for no more than a second, then moved on quickly, taking in the rest of the equipment.

"The bike. I think I'll warm up on the bike." He hopped up on the Lifecycle next to Tess, only to find the seat was too high: his height, what there was of it, was in his torso. Debonairly as possible, he set the seat three notches lower, and started pedaling.

"Which program you using?" he asked Tess, leaning over to see the readout on her machine, which happened to be covered by her book. His breathing sounded ragged, for he had started out much too quickly.

"Manual. Level six." She knew the drill: short, curt answers, no questions, no eye contact. This method was the best way to kill a conversation at the gym, or anywhere else, for that matter.

"I do the random program. Much more challenging."

Honor dictated a reply. "Not really. You have some tough intervals, but you also have a lot of downhill stretches. Manual is flat and constant. At this level, I'll burn about 750 calories in an hour. You'll be lucky to burn 450-assuming you can last an hour."

The cameraman, who had been creeping across the room, turned the light on full in Tess's eyes and began filming this exchange. Reflexively, she held up Don Quixote, shielding her face.

"Excuse me, but I'd prefer not to be on the evening news." Her voice, although somewhat muffled by Cervantes, was nevertheless distinct. "This is private property, and I didn't give you permission to photograph me."

"Oh, you're not in the shot," the cameraman lied smoothly. He probably assumed everyone secretly yearned to be on television. "I'm just shooting Mr. Wynkowski here for a story we're doing on him. It's a tight shot. No one will see you."

"What about sound? Don't you have a built-in microphone, which picks up everything I say?"

"Everyone has those now. Don't say anything, and you'll be okay."

Tess lowered the book to chin level, stared into the camera, and recited in a bored monotone, "Fuck. Shit. Bite me. Eat me. Piss on you, asshole." Then she smiled sweetly. "Did you get that?"

Wink laughed so hard he almost fell off the bike, while the cameraman flushed with anger and turned his camera off.