She was in pain.

That was the first thing that entered her consciousness: the utter agony of the pounding in her skull. It was dark, so dark that she could barely make out her surroundings. It was an empty room, a high window peering out into the street. It let in only a faint light from what she believed was the docks, because she could hear distant ship horns. Claire dared not move for a moment, wondering if she would throw up. Then she reached up, feeling strangely disconnected from her body, and touched the side of her head. Her fingers came away damp with what she knew must be blood.

She was lying on the cold cement floor. Faintly, she could hear the sound of traffic in the distance, but it was so far away that she knew it would be useless to cry out for help. None of the other girls had gotten assistance either. He knew where to keep them, where to put them so their screams would not be heeded. He might even be lingering nearby, listening, hoping to hear her cry out for help. She slowly tried to rise and found that her legs wouldn't support her, the whirling rush of blood in her head coming forefront and forcing her to remain seated. She leaned against the cold wall and cradled her head in her hands.

It was her nightmare, come to life.

------------------------------------------------

Lennie Briscoe ran his hands over his face and rested his elbows on the desk. There was a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. He looked across at Mike, realizing that his face was probably just as pale as that of his partner. She had been missing for twelve hours. They had been over every inch of her building, knocked on every door. No one had seen anything. It was believed he had sneaked her down the fire escape, but it was impossible to believe it had gone unobserved, that it could be so carefully planned in just the few hours since he had been released. His timing had been perfect, the assault executed with precision and confidence.

McCoy had refused to go home, remaining in Lt. Van Buren's office. Lennie could see him through the glass windows, the shades remaining up. Jack was seated in the corner, his lithe fingers linked together, brooding brow darkening as each hour passed. They had half the cops in the city scouring the street, chasing down leads. Van Buren had insisted they come back for an hour, to check in and rest. She knew how important this was to all of them. She had come in at two in the morning to handle it personally. Lennie saw her speaking with McCoy, saw her lips move and him respond. Both of them looked weary, but McCoy had moved beyond concerned. His features were completely blank, the look in his eyes soulless.

They all knew who was responsible. But no one knew where Harmon was. He had been released, and escorted home by the police. Somehow, he had escaped their surveillance team. Lennie turned his eyes away from the inner office, away from Van Buren's concern and Jack's stony countenance, and found Logan staring at him.

"Damn it, Lennie," he said; "we can't just sit here. If we have to scour every warehouse this side of the Hudson, let's do it."

Glancing in the direction of the office, Lennie reached for his coat and agreed.