Chapter 9

Feeling the cold barrel of the pistol pressed into her chin, Duck could only let out a whimper as Worm Tongue began dragging her towards the stairs. Duck tried to resist, but against Worm Tongue's strength, she was as helpless as a flower being plucked from its stem.

"DUCK, DUCK, DUCK, DUCK, DUCK!"

A rancorous high-pitched chant, accompanied by a series of loud bangs, suddenly erupted from behind Duck's door. The sudden commotion made Worm Tongue flinch, and he released his grip on Duck's arm as the neighbor slammed open their door.

"What in tarnation is going on?!" an annoyed Meredith yelled, whipping her head left and right down the hallway but only finding Duck sitting slumped over on the floor.

Just as suddenly as the noise began, it stopped, and the doorknob of Duck's apartment jiggled before Zurab pushed open the door.

"Duck sounded like she was in trouble. Is Duck alright, zura?" the child asked gravely and hurried out to stand next to his caretaker.

Duck, her heart pounding against her ribcage and her legs numb and useless, could only hear the thumping of her pulse in her ears. Looking at Zurab with bewilderment, Duck saw the man who had threatened her moments earlier had disappeared without a trace. With the distant voices of Zurab and her neighbor barely registering, a dreadful thought surfaced in Duck's mind.

Oh God, Fakir! What if that man runs into Fakir? I have to warn him!

Forcing her muscles to move, Duck grasped the doorknob, and using it as leverage, lifted herself from the floor. Before Duck could give chase, her eyes caught on Fakir's doormat on the floor next to her. An idea came to Duck, one far more sensible than what her panicked impulses had been goading her to do, and her unsteady feet turned toward Fakir's apartment.

Reaching under the thin doormat, she pulled out the spare key Fakir had placed there months earlier. Her hands shaking, she undid the lock and stumbled into his bedroom. Bracing herself with one hand on the desk, she snatched up the telephone earpiece and the seconds seemed to pass like hours until a telephone exchange operator answered.

"Hello, what number—"

"The police!" Duck shouted. "Hurry, please! This is urgent!"*

Emerging from the grocer, Fakir shifted his hand around the brown paper bag cradled in his arm. Peering in, the dark-haired man wondered if getting the four eggs Duck had requested would be enough.

Should I have gotten eight instead? Duck isn't a bad cook, but judging by her attempt to make poached eggs, she doesn't always get things right the first time… he thought with a grin, but quickly sobered when he realized that Duck more than likely would take offense to that idea.

Better not to chance it… she might be named after a bird, but even birds will peck when angered, Fakir mused as a smile returned to his lips, and he began making his way home.

Approaching a crosswalk, Fakir paused when the distant wail of sirens reached his ear. Looking around and wondering where the commotion was coming from, Fakir saw two police cars coming towards him from up the street.

Seeing no signs of smoke or fire, Fakir wondered if there had been some sort of accident somewhere around the neighborhood. Watching the cars zoom by, he continued walking in their wake. But when both cars suddenly made a right turn onto Lake Avenue, a small seed of concern began to germinate in Fakir's mind.

Picking up his pace, Fakir jogged towards home. But as he got closer, the wails of police sirens only grew louder and more numerous until it seemed a chorus of sirens was crying into the afternoon sky.

When Fakir finally rounded the last corner, his eyes grew wide at the sight of four police cars parked outside his apartment building. Breaking into a sprint, he dove across the street, startling fellow officers as he rushed by them and up the stairs.

When the top of his floor came into view, the dread in Fakir's stomach only grew when he saw half a dozen officers hovering by the opened doors to his and Duck's apartment. The officers were busy speaking to one another and interviewing Fakir's elderly neighbors. Beyond the sea of faces blocking the hallway, Fakir's eyes picked out the familiar lock of unruly copper hair atop Duck's head as she sat in his apartment, Zurab and a police officer standing beside her.

"Duck!" Fakir cried out, rushing into his apartment.

But before his feet could make it through the door, he was blocked by an unfamiliar police officer who barked, "Hey, not so fast! Who are you?"

Fakir's eyes snapped to the officer, who started involuntarily at his irate gaze. "I'm Sergeant Fakir Romeiras of the New York City Police Department, and I live here!"

At the sound of Fakir's voice, other officers paused what they were doing and a murmur began to ripple through the ranks as the detective pushed past the officer who tried to stop him.

"Hey, isn't that Fakir from the 53rd precinct?"

"Wait, this is his apartment? Then who's the girl?"

Inside, the commotion had reached Duck's ears and she looked up from her seat, her face still ashen white. At the sight of Fakir, Duck drew a deep sigh of relief. The officer who had been interviewing Duck made way as Fakir hurriedly set his hat and the bag of groceries on the dining table and knelt down in front of her.

"Are you alright?" Fakir asked urgently, tenderly touching Duck's cheek and felt the tremors in her body as she took in shallow, unsteady breathes of air. Ignoring the curious glances and whispers behind his back, Fakir reached for her hand and met Duck's nervous blue eyes.

"What happened?"

"I-I'm alright…" Duck answered faintly. Sitting with one hand over her left forearm, she interlaced her fingers with his, and the reassuring warmth from his hand radiated into her cold fingertips. "I…" the red-head began, but Zurab, who had been watching attentively, perked up.

"A bad man who talks funny grabbed Duck, zura!" the child exclaimed excitedly and pointed to the door with his drumsticks. "He tried to make Duck go with him, but Zurab scared him away by playing his drums, zura!" the little boy concluded by banging once on his little toy drum.

"'A man who talks funny…'?" Fakir's heart ran cold. As he looked back at Duck, the young woman gave a small nod, confirming Fakir's worst fears.

Opening her mouth to speak, Duck stopped when she felt a hard squeeze from Fakir's hand. She looked up and found the deep creases in Fakir's brows and the clenched lines of his jaw. Though he did not meet her gaze, his livid green eyes reminded Duck of their first meeting when her life had first intersected with the city's underworld. Then, as now, Fakir had knelt next to her, his eyes burning with anger as she sat, dazed and unnerved.

It's like history is repeating itself again… Duck thought with heavy eyes.

Behind them, Charon appeared at the top of the stairs. Giving a quick nod to the other officers, the captain paused and blinked in surprise when he saw Fakir kneeling in front of Duck, their intertwined hands on her lap. Charon's bushy brow furrowed. Exhaling softly, he stepped into the room.

At the sight of Charon, the officer who had been interviewing Duck tilted his head in acknowledgement, "Captain Sideros, sir."

Two pairs of eyes shot up at the sound of Charon's name. Fakir sprang up, releasing Duck's hand.

"Charon, what are you doing here?" Fakir asked, surprise momentarily masking his anger.

"I received a call from Batson, who overheard from dispatch that there was an attempted kidnapping reported on Lake Avenue," Charon explained, looking from Fakir to Duck. "I knew that was where the two of you lived, so I instructed dispatch to send units over right away. But I wanted to make sure the two of you were safe, so I came as well. What happened? Are the two of you alright?"

"I'm fine…" Duck began. She raised her hand from her arm to try and wave off the captain's concern, but the action revealed the red and blue bruises that had emerged on her left forearm. The sight of the distinctive handprint-shaped bruise drew a deep scowl from the seasoned officer and the captain turned to an officer behind him.

"Dennis, go see if you can find some ice!" the gray-haired captain instructed.

As the officer dashed off, Charon said gently but with grave concern to Duck, "We should have someone take a look at your arm, Miss Stannus. Are you sure you don't have any other injuries? The man who attacked you, did he touch you anywhere else?"

"Um… no, he only grabbed my arm…" Duck's eyes flinted to Fakir and she could see the disquiet on Fakir's face intensifying as he stared wide-eyed at the injury on her arm. "I-It hurts a little… but I think it's just a bruise…"

"Do you know the person who attacked you?" the captain asked.

Duck, weary from her ordeal, nevertheless duly recounted what had happened earlier in the day. By the time she had finished, the grave expression on Charon's face had grown heavier, while Fakir stood silently with his eyes narrowed, hands balled tightly into fists.

For a long moment, no one in their group spoke. The silence was only broken when Officer Dennis returned with a block of ice wrapped in a towel for Duck. Charon touched his chin contemplatively as Duck gingerly applied the ice to her arm, and many sets of eyes turned to the senior officer when he spoke.

"Without a doubt, Anthony Vermi—or Worm Tongue, as he's known—lives up to the reputation the Corvo gang had made for themselves. He shares their penchant for violence and recklessness. If he was bold enough to attempt a kidnapping in broad daylight, one can only imagine what else this madman is willing to attempt. We must find him as soon as possible!"

To Duck, Charon said, "In the meantime, Miss Stannus, I think it would be safest if you stayed at a hotel for a few days while we conduct our search."

Though he meant well, Charon's suggestion resurrected memories in Duck's mind from the last time she was in the similar predicament. "W-Will the Marshals be involved again? I…" The red-head shuddered, her mind racing as a familiar fear clawed its way up from the recesses of her memories.

If I left home again, there's no guarantee I'll be able to return!

Teetering on the edge of panic, Duck pleaded, "Must I? I-I don't want to have to have to leave my home again, Captain!"

Seeing the distress his suggestion caused, Charon held up a placating hand. "No one will make you do anything, Miss Stannus. After everything that you've been through, I can completely understand why you would not want to leave your home. Instead of having you move, I will station two officers outside your building until we locate Vermi. I don't think he will come back here, at least, not any time soon. But we will make sure he is found and arrested before he has the opportunity to attempt a second act."

When Duck nodded mutely in acquiescence, Charon turned to two of the officers nearby to arrange a watch on the building. The officer who had been taking down Duck's statement earlier turned back to her to continue their conversation, and for a moment everyone seemed to have forgotten about Fakir's presence.

As Fakir stood in the middle of his apartment, the many voices around him were but a distant hum of disjointed noises. The only clear voice that Fakir could hear—looping endlessly like a mobius strip—was his own thoughts as he layered damning recriminations upon himself.

I should've been here… she wouldn't have gotten hurt if I had been here!

Fakir could feel the sting of his nails digging into the palm of his hand, but that discomfort paled in comparison to the piercing guilt in his chest. Those feelings, like a pair of undertakers, uncovered memories from all the times he had been powerless to stop death and pain from visiting the people he loved.

From him as a child, wanting desperately but failing to describe the faces of the men who murdered his parents, to the hollowness he felt when he found out that Duck had traded her freedom and identity for his life, and to the dreaded moment when he learnt Mytho had kidnapped Duck at gunpoint.

Today, once again, Duck had come perilously close to a repetition of that terrifying ordeal. But unlike Mytho, who had no ill will towards Duck and went out of his way to protect her, Fakir was certain Worm Tongue had only dark designs in store for the girl, had he managed to abscond with her. Like a monster whose shadowy tendrils had risen from the grave, the fragments of the monster that was the Corvo gang continued to plague the world of the living. And just like when he was a child, Fakir was utterly helpless as the monster once again lashed out at those closest to him.

Lost in his internal maelstrom, Fakir almost didn't hear Charon's voice when he said, "I think Kenneth is almost done taking down Miss Stannus' statement, and I think the rest of the boys are almost done as well. I'll leave Patrick and Thomas here to guard the building. I'll go back to the precinct and assemble a task force to start looking for Vermi."

"I'm coming with you," Fakir said thickly. Diving into his room, Fakir scooped up the revolver he kept under his pillow and jammed it into his coat pocket. But when Charon saw what Fakir was doing, he grasped the younger detective's shoulder before Fakir could walk past him.

"No, you stay here, Fakir," Charon said firmly.

"I'm going to go find him! I can't let him get away with this!" Fakir snapped and tried to push away Charon's hand.

But the older detective refused to let go of the furious young man. "Don't be daft!" Charon said sternly.

More softly, he continued, "I know you are upset. But based on what Miss Stannus told us, Anthony Vermi came looking for you, Fakir. You are his primary target! You are in just as much, if not more danger, than Miss Stannus is at this very moment! This man has already clearly shown he's ready and willing to carry out the threats he's made against you, and having you go out there actively looking for him will only put you in the direct line of fire."

Fakir's nostrils flared, but he made no attempt to push past Charon.

Looking around, Charon continued, "There are too many things we don't know right now. I know you can't stay holed up here forever, but give me at least a day to sort the situation out. In the meantime," the gray-haired officer glanced worriedly at Duck over Fakir's shoulder, "stay with Miss Stannus. She's already gone through a lot with what had happened with Principe, and now this… I cannot imagine any human being enduring three kidnapping attempts in one year like she has."

The captain expelled a heavy sigh and turned back to Fakir, whose shoulders had slackened beneath Charon's firm hand. When Fakir spoke again, the burning fury in his voice had smoldered into a simmering reproach. "Everything should've ended after that day in Chicago. Duck was supposed to get her life back…"

"That's what we would like to believe," Charon said quietly, and gave Fakir's shoulder a light pat before returning his hand to his side.

Reaching up to adjust his hat, Charon grimaced. "We are led to believe the story ends after the last page turns or the curtains close. But real life is rarely neat and tidy like the endings in books and movies."

Around them, the officers on scene began to wrap up and file out of the apartment. Charon, after asking after Duck one more time, bid his farewell. Before long, Duck and Fakir were alone as the last departing officer closed the door behind him.

In the eerie silence that followed, neither Fakir nor Duck spoke. After several moments, Duck slowly rose from her seat. Beside her, Zurab watched as the red-head picked up the bag of groceries that Fakir had dropped off on the dining table.

"Thank you for getting these…" Duck said quietly, her eyes turned away from Fakir as she stepped towards the door. "I'll go back and finish the cake now. Come on, Zurab," she called to the little boy who silently toddled up to her.

"Are you really alright?" Fakir asked, his concerned gaze flitting once again to the bruise on Duck's arm. Reaching for the bag, he began, "Let me help—"

"No," Duck muttered, her voice hoarse, and Fakir's hands stilled. Clearing her throat, Duck tried to push a reassuring smile to her lips, but only succeeded in giving the young man a wan, lopsided frown.

"I'm fine… really. I just…" Duck's voice trailed off and she turned away. Fakir watched as she exited his apartment and stepped inside her home. He followed her into the hallway but the door clicked shut behind her.

Placing his palm against the rough wood grain of Duck's door, Fakir could hear loud, clattering noises coming from within. Inside her kitchen Duck placed the bag on the table, and laid out the eggs and butter. But rather than returning to making the cake, she began to aimlessly shuffle and rearrange the utensils and ingredients, seemingly at a loss for what to do.

Eventually Duck's eyes came back to the carton of eggs and a little spark of recollection returned. That's right, I need to add eggs… how many eggs was I supposed to use again?

Duck frowned as her rattled mind failed to retrieve information she knew she recalled earlier in the day. Growing frustrated with her lack of recollection, Duck's fingers raked through her coppery hair. Was it three? No, there are four eggs here… it must be four, right?

With unsteady hands, she picked up an egg and cracked it into the mixing bowl. As she picked up a second egg, a loud "BOOM!" from outside her window made her jerk around, causing the egg to slip from her hand and splatter onto the floor next to the table.

Clutching her hands to her chest, Duck blinked rapidly like a startled deer before recognizing the noise she heard as the innocuous sound of a car engine backfiring. Releasing her grip on her shirt, Duck turned her focus to the puddle of broken yolk and shells by her feet and groaned at the mess she had made.

Duck picked up a dish towel and began to mop up the shattered egg. As she tried to reach around the table leg, a sharp twinge of pain shot up her injured arm. Biting down on her lower lip, Duck stifled a whimper but despite her best efforts she could not stop the tremor from her lips from traveling like a wave through the rest of her body.

Zurab watched silently as Duck sat unmoving on the floor, his short brows pinched in worry and confusion. With an uncharacteristically hesitant voice, he asked softly, "Duck is adding the eggs, zura. But can Duck make a chocolate cake if there's no cocoa, zura?"

"Ah!" Duck's blue eyes shot up. "That's right, the cocoa, I was going to…!" Duck gasped, but as she eyed the door an overwhelming sense of dread overcame her. The thought of what awaited her outside that door, looming shadows and towering figures out to hurt her and take her away, turned Duck's legs to lead.

Beset by this unshakable fear, another tremor welled up inside of Duck, and this time, the red-head could no longer hold back the tears that she had until now held at bay. Covering her hands over her mouth, a sharp wail exited Duck's throat as pearls of tears trickled from her eyes, forming dark splotches in the fabric of her dress as the droplets fell from her cheeks.

Seeing Duck cry, Zurab hurried over and wrapped his small arms around Duck. "Duck doesn't have to make chocolate cake, zura! Don't cry, Duck!" the little boy urged, tears now also rolling down his round cheeks.

Duck nodded but could not quell another sob from forcing its way from her throat. In the hallway, Fakir's already heavy heart sank even lower when the soft, muffled wails reached his ears. The hand he had on Duck's door balled into a fist and he raised his hand to knock. But before his knuckles could rap the door's wooden surface, he stopped.

He wanted to rush to her side, to hold her, to comfort her. But the reason why Duck has found herself in this situation was because of him. She was in tears and in pain… all because of him.

If we had never met, none of this would've ever happened to you…

A familiar refrain echoed in Fakir's mind, one that he had repeated a million times to himself when she was taken away by Mytho. Now, though only a simple wooden door separated them, to Fakir that door was as impenetrable and immense as a mountain, one that he could not find the courage to cross.

I promised I'd protect you, but all I've done is bring you fear and pain, Duck…

Pressing his fist against the door, Fakir—his shoulders bowed and eyes cast downward— could only stand and listen as Duck's sobs gently echoed in the empty corridor, each halting gasp another dagger plunged into his bleeding heart.

A stray ray of sunlight from Fakir's window found its way through the door and cast deep shadows across the dim hallway. The shadows concealed Fakir's eyes behind his dark bangs. Though feeble in their strength, the muted light illuminated the shimmering trail of tears streaming down Fakir's cheek.

I'm so sorry…

Outside the precinct window, the autumn sun had scarcely breached the tops of the buildings. It was not quite 7am, but the joint Homicide and Robbery office was already abuzz with officers starting a new work week.

At his desk, Alex was organizing the documents in his hands when a pair of officers from the Robbery unit walked toward him. As they drew closer, the young officer could not help but overhear their conversation.

"Did you hear about the assault at Fakir's place yesterday? Someone tried to kidnap the gal who lives next to him," the stouter of the two officers said, to which his taller companion shook his head.

"That's awfully brazen. Was it a domestic dispute?" the lanky officer wondered.

But the stout officer shook his head. Lowering his voice, he said, "Kenny from patrol told me the victim believes the kidnapper was actually after Fakir, and that the perp was a former Corvo man."

At this his companion looked at him in alarm. "Good heavens! It was a retaliatory attack, then? But why go after the girl?"

As they walked past Alex, who sat only three feet away from the walkway, the heavier set man shrugged. "Kenny thinks the gal is Fakir's girlfriend. She'd called the precinct from his apartment. Apparently, she had a spare key to his place and when Fakir rushed onto the scene, he was really upset and held her hand as he asked after her. Based on that, it's hard to see them as anything but an item."

Here the tall officer huffed in astonishment. "To think Fakir would have a steady… wow! Poor girl though, to get dragged into all this…"

As the two men rounded a corner, their conversation also faded from earshot. But Alex, still at his desk, sat with his brows knitted together. Lost in thought over what he'd just overheard, the young detective nearly jumped when Charon spoke up next to him.

"Are you ready for our meeting, Alex?"

"Ah!" Alex looked up sharply before turning back to the paperwork in his hands. "Yes, sir. Just a moment!"

Once he finally had all the documents sorted out, Alex entered Charon's office. "Any word on how the girl and Sarg are doing?" the young brunet inquired as he closed the door and took a seat in one of two chairs across from the captain's desk.

"Nothing happened overnight, that I can tell you," Charon leaned back into his chair, his expression equal parts concern and relief. "Patrick and Thomas had no outstanding events to report on their shift. I haven't heard back from Ned and Andy yet, but I highly doubt Vermi would try something so brazen again so soon. All the more reason to catch him, before he attempts anything else," the police captain's eyes darkened as he rested his hand above his lips. "It has been 18 hours since the city-wide search order went out, but still no sign of him. He's either hiding out somewhere, or he's left the city altogether."

Looking at Alex, the captain asked, "Any responses to the telegrams you'd sent out yesterday afternoon?"

"Yes, sir." Alex pulled out his notebook and counted off the list he'd written down. "Edison, Trenton and New Haven PD have all telegrammed back yesterday evening, confirming they'd received our bulletin. I'm still waiting to hear back from Philadelphia, Atlantic City, and a few others. I'm hoping we'll hear back from them soon as the morning rolls by."

Charon nodded. "Good. As for us here, we have to maintain the pressure on Vermi. I was thinking we should review what we know about Vermi's habits and see—"

Before Charon could finish his sentence, the door to the office suddenly opened, and Alex and Charon looked up to see a haggard Fakir standing outside, followed closely behind by a hapless uniformed police officer.

"Fakir, what are you—"

Charon began, but the anxious patrol officer behind Fakir interjected and said, "Sorry, Cap, but Sergeant Romeiras insisted on coming! I-I couldn't stop him…!"

"It's alright, Andy," Charon reassured. "Is Ned still at the house?" When Andy confirmed this, the captain nodded. "Good. Go back and join him. I'll send people to relieve you shortly."

With Andy gone, the captain looked back at Fakir, who had been standing wordlessly by the door during this exchange. "It hasn't been a day yet, has it, Fakir?" Charon asked rhetorically.

When Fakir answered with a muted frown, Charon sighed. "Come in," he motioned as Alex shifted his chair to make room as Fakir took the remaining seat in the office.

Alex looked on with renewed concern as Fakir hung up his hat by the door, and it did not require a keen eye to see the dark shadows under Fakir's eyes and the stiffness in his movement, as though he had not slept the entire night.

"You alright, Sarg?" Alex asked quietly, to which Fakir gave a curt nod, but did not meet his partner's fretful gaze.

To Charon, Fakir responded somberly, "You told me to wait, but this case isn't just about me, Charon. As a police officer my duty is to serve and protect the people of this city. Anthony Vermi is the prime suspect in my case. I cannot sit by while he is on the lam. I…" Fakir's hands clenched, "…I owe it to every person this man has hurt to see justice served."

Across the table Charon stared intently at the haggard detective before the older man gave a faint, knowing smile. "I had a feeling you would say that," he sighed with resignation.

The gray-haired captain leaned forward, and perching his chin on his folded hands, returned to the matter at hand. "I was just discussing what we should do next regarding Anthony Vermi with Alex. Bulletins were sent to neighboring cities to be on the lookout for Vermi yesterday, and we've also notified all precincts in the city as well, but so far, there's been no traces of him. We were just thinking to reach out to some of his known contacts when you arrived."

"That's what I was thinking, too. It may be worth talking to Annie Grant again," Fakir took out a scrap of paper from a pocket and placed it on the table. Charon picked it up and saw it was the note with Hal's Ballroom's address and telephone number. "She's been the only person who's been willing to talk at length about Worm Tongue," Fakir continued, "and I want to talk to her again, just in case there's something she hasn't told us."

"This was the girl you spoke with previously? Do you think she's been withholding anything from you?" Charon wondered aloud.

The corners of Fakir's lips curled downward. He recalled the frightened expression on Annie's face, and Fakir could now appreciate all too well why she was so terrified of Worm Tongue. "…I do think she was being truthful. But she was also clearly scared. She might know more, but she was too scared to tell me."

Charon nodded solemnly. Meeting Fakir's eyes, the captain said, "As much as I would prefer you not to place yourself in the crosshairs, you have spoken to her before, and that means she has a degree of trust in you. Alex," the captain turned to the younger officer who straightened his back as his name was called, "go with Fakir. We have no idea where Vermi might be hiding, but given his connection to Miss Grant, it's not inconceivable that he might be in the area. Keep an eye out for each other; the last thing I want is for my men to unknowingly walk into the lion's den."

With Fakir behind the wheel and Alex in the passenger seat, the two detectives made their way to Hal's Ballroom. When their journey was interrupted by a passing freight train at a railroad crossing, Fakir reached into a pocket and tapped out a cigarette.

Watching his mentor struggle to light the match stick, which Alex had seen Fakir perform with a smooth flick of the wrist countless times before, the young detective said, "Sarg, are you sure you don't want me to drive? Did you eat anything at all today?"

Fakir irritably shook out the used match and flicked it out the window. Taking a long draft on the cigarette, he held it with his teeth as he stubbornly kept his gaze forward. "I told you, I'm fine," he muttered.

Alex mouthed an "Oh…" and turned his eyes to the seemingly endless parade of boxcars before them. But with each passing carriage, Alex's mind kept circling back to what he had overheard earlier in the office. Tentatively, he asked, "Your neighbor who was attacked yesterday, Miss Stannus… is she doing alright?"

The crease between Fakir's eyebrows deepened, and other than the grimace on his face, it seemed to Alex that Fakir wasn't going to give any other response. Thinking he truly might've touched a nerve with that question, Alex sank back into his seat as the clanks and groans of the railcar filled the air.

When the last boxcar finally passed through, Fakir put the car back in gear. Taking the cigarette between his fingers, Alex started when his partner unexpectedly answered, "…I don't know, honestly. She was pretty badly shaken up, and…" Fakir's lips parted as though he was about to say more, but the frown his mouth contorted into swallowed those words.

"This whole business with Anthony Vermi is such a strange coincidence," Alex mused, shaking his head. "We're working a murder that he's a prime suspect in, and now he's coming after you… these Corvo fellas are nothing but endless trouble."

You don't even know the half of it, Fakir thought darkly. It was as though he was chained to a rotating carousel, chasing after the Corvos while they simultaneously chased after him, around and around, in a sick game played by Fate.

I can play this game if it was just me who was involved… but to draw Duck back into this twisted mess… Fakir's hands tightened around the steering wheel as they zipped down the street towards Hal's Ballroom.

Alex, who had been contemplating on his own during this time, opened his mouth but hesitated. After a pause, he finally said quietly but with great sincerity, "Sarg, I… er, I haven't met Miss Stannus, and I don't mean to presume anything… but if either of you need anything, let me know, and I'll do my best to help."

Fakir, eyes narrowed, glanced at the young man sitting beside him before turning back to the road.

Alex gulped. Watching his mentor nervously, Alex couldn't be sure if he had just overstepped himself. But after a moment, as the signs for Hal's Ballroom came into view in the distance, Fakir took a draft of the cigarette and exhaled a stream of smoke.

"Thanks, Alex…"

Alex blinked at the gentleness in Fakir's voice, a tone he'd rarely heard the detective use in the many months that he had known him.

With his eyes still fixed on the street ahead, Fakir added firmly, "…but I have to try to fix this. I owe it to her—to everyone…"

Alex pursed his lips, as though he wanted to say something in response, but the stonewalled expression on Fakir's face deterred him. In silence, they pulled over in front of Hal's Ballroom. The dance hall had just opened for the day and save for the ticket agent, the reception area was deserted. This time, Fakir made no attempt to conceal his identity.

"NYPD, 53rd precinct," Fakir held out his badge to the bewildered ticket agent. "We need to speak with Annie Grant. Is she here?"

"I, uh," the bespectacled man looked about frantically, before he exited the ticket counter and turned toward the double doors leading to the dance floor. "Let me check, hold on—!"

But Fakir was in no mood to wait. Stepping in front of the ticket agent, and with Alex on his heels, Fakir marched into the dance hall where several seated women looked up in surprise.

"What's going on?"

"Who are they?"

Amidst the murmur of female voices, Fakir looked around, but there was no sign of the tall brunette he was looking for. Next to him, Alex cleared his throat and with his own badge in hand, said, "I'm Detective Alex Stone*, and this is my partner, Sergeant Fakir Romeiras. We need to speak to Miss Annie Grant."

A blonde who was sitting closest to the detectives rose from her seat and Fakir recognized her as the taxi dancer who had tried to accost him on his first visit here. "Annie doesn't work here anymore. She left five days ago."

"Why did she leave?" Fakir responded in alarm. "And where did she go?"

"She just told Harold—he's our boss—that her mother was ill, and that she had to quit," the blonde answered, her arms crossed defensively. "Based on that, I'd say she went to wherever her folks are. I wasn't really close with her, so I don't know where that is. But for all I know, she could also be headed to the other end of the country."

Alex's shoulders slumped at the news, but Fakir wasn't satisfied with that answer. From the blonde woman's posture, he had a hunch she knew more than she was telling, so he pressed her, "Her mother being ill… do you think that's the real reason she left?"

The blonde woman's painted lips creased. "…To tell you the truth? No. Annie left in a hurry all right, but two days before she turned in her notice, I saw ol' Worm Tongue come out the soda shop across the street. I was just coming in when I saw him step out. He stayed on the other side of the street, and I watched him as he smoked a cigarette."

"Did he do anything else? Any suspicious behavior that you can recall?" Fakir inquired.

"No, but I wanted to make sure he wasn't going to try anything funny," the blonde answered pointedly. "After he made that terrible scene two months ago, we've been told to keep an eye out for him and to call security if he tried to come back in. Luckily, Annie wasn't working that day, and he walked away after he was done with his cigarette. But two days later, Harold received a telegram from Annie sent from Penn Station, saying that she's quit for the reason I just told you. But if you ask me, she found out Worm Tongue was coming back around again and left because she's afraid he was looking for her."

"Have you seen him again since that day?" Alex asked, pen and notebook in hand.

The blonde shook her head.

Frustrated, Fakir followed up with another question. "Do any of you know how I can get in touch with Annie? It's urgent that I find her!"

The women in the room shook their heads, and the detective's heart sank.

"I don't either, but you can ask at her other job," said a second blonde, a woman with wavier hair than her outspoken coworker, and both Fakir and Alex perked up at this unexpected piece of information. "Annie worked here for extra cash. Outside of the Ballroom, she works at the cosmetics counter at Bloomingdales on Tuesdays, Thursday, and weekends. She used to love telling stories of famous people she'd see there."

"Good, we'll go check there," Fakir said and turned to leave as Alex quickly wrote down the information in his pocket notepad.

"Oh, and one more thing!" the wavy-haired blonde remarked, drawing the detectives back to her once again. "Annie isn't her real name. We all call her that, and Annie prefers that name, but her real name is Rina. Rina Rogowski."

With their new information in hand, Fakir and Alex wasted no time and made a beeline to Manhattan. To the officers' annoyance, the management at Bloomingdales proved to be far less helpful than the women at the dance hall. After some initial confusion as to whom the officers were looking for, finally—after three hours and speaking with three different managers—Fakir and Alex were given the address and telephone on file for a Rina Rogowski, who had quit five days earlier.

With that information in hand, the men traveled back up to the Bronx, to the apartment Rina listed as her residence. It took another hour of asking around and calling before the landlord came and let them into the unit. But inside, the detectives only found some old clothes and minor knickknacks, none of which provided a clue as to Rina's whereabouts.

"Hmph!" the landlord blustered as the detectives wrapped up their interview and exited the building. "Young people are so capricious nowadays. They disappear and move out on you at the drop of a hat! At least I'll be able to recover some of the lost rent by selling off the things she left behind. Hey! It's part of the rental agreement," he said quickly when Alex cast a disapproving glance at him. "If the tenant vacates before the contract expires, I am entitled to any belongings they leave behind!"

After bidding goodbye to the disgruntled landlord, Alex heaved a tired sigh as they got back into the car. "That's the last known address she's associated with in the city. We'll have to start looking further afield from here on out," he said, resting one hand on the steering wheel. Glancing at his watch, which showed it was creeping close to 2pm, Alex turned to Fakir, who had just opened his third pack of cigarettes for the day. "I think there's a Childs Restaurant* two blocks from here. We can have lunch there before we head back to the precinct."

But Fakir gave an uninterested shake of his head, his usually tanned complexion now as pale as the gray smoke curling from the cigarette in his hand. "No, I'm fine. Drop me off at Penn Station and you go on ahead. I need to figure out where she went."

A perplexed Alex creased his brow. "Shouldn't we try calling the number that assistant store manager gave us first? That could be her home phone number. Checking that first will probably be a lot faster than trying to track down her itinerary at the station."

Fakir groaned and ran a hand down his face. "Damn it… you're right. God, I need to get back to the precinct, then." Fakir closed his eyes to massage his temples. His head was pounding from a sleepless night, and he was now so tired he could no longer think clearly. Yet, even in the face of exhaustion, Fakir insisted, "It's an out-of-state number," he muttered and forced his weary eyes to open again. "I need to make the long-distance call at the office…"

Alex said nothing for a long moment, enough that Fakir noticed and looked askance at his partner.

Taking a deep breath, as though to collect his courage, Alex looked firmly at his mentor and said emphatically, "I know you're upset, Sarg. But… you're not going to lay your hands on Worm Tongue by running yourself into the ground like this! I know you want to do right for the Corioli family, that you feel responsible for what happened to Miss Stannus, but… I don't think you're doing anyone any favors if you don't look after yourself."

Startled by his partner's uncharacteristic assertiveness, Fakir nearly dropped the cigarette into his lap. Luckily, Fakir remembered the burning roll of tobacco in his hand and tightened his grip before any mishap occurred. Alex, meanwhile, had clammed up and sat with his jaws squared as he averted his gaze out the window.

Expecting Fakir to admonish him, the words that reached Alex's ears instead were, "You know, you're the second—no, third—person to tell me that, Alex."

"Eh?" Alex looked back, and saw a ghost of a smile on Fakir's face.

Resting his head against the seatback, Fakir tilted his head forward again and gazed at the slowly burning tip of the cigarette. "You could say this is a bad habit of mine. I try to chase after a case so fast that I lose sight of everything around me, including myself…"

Charon had once slapped him for blindly throwing himself at a case with no thought of his own welfare, and Autor had berated him out of concern that he would collapse from exhaustion. He was indeed doing no one a favor, and might even have been giving a boon to the very people he was trying to arrest if he wore himself down into the ground now.

Imagine the irony if I worked myself to death while trying to locate the man who is out to kill me—I would be saving Worm Tongue a lot of effort… Fakir mused sardonically.

Thinking back to Duck and the helplessness he felt at her door the day before, Fakir sobered again. But this time, instead of giving in to the mad impulse of wanting to do something—anything—to alleviate the crushing weight of powerlessness, Fakir reminded himself that he was not as weak or as alone as he thought.

She's safe right now. Charon, Zurab, Autor… even Alex. Everyone is doing what they can to protect her and keep her safe. I will keep looking for Worm Tongue, but there is no need to shoulder everything on my own.

Turning back to Alex, he patted the junior detective on the arm. "I'll make the call when we get back to the precinct. But first, let's get lunch."

Later that afternoon, Fakir sat at his desk as he dialed the number Rina had left with Bloomingdales. As he and Alex waited for the operator to connect the call, Charon walked past and, seeing the two detectives on the phone, came over to them.

"How is it going?" the older man said quietly.

"We're waiting for the call to go through. The operator had to look the number up, but apparently it's a Buffalo number," Alex answered while Fakir sat with the receiver glued to his ear. "The operator was also able to tell us the number is registered to a Nicholas Rogoswki. We're thinking this is probably the number for Rina's parents' house."

Charon nodded. At that moment, the line cracked to life and three sets of eyes turned to the black candlestick telephone in Fakir's hand.

"Hello? Who is this?" an older woman's voice asked.

"This is Sergeant Fakir Romeiras with the NYPD. Is this the Rogowski house?"

"Um, yes… May I ask why you are calling, officer?"

"Mrs. Rogowski, I presume? Ma'am, I need to speak with Rina. Is she there?"

"Rina?" the woman on the other end hesitated, and by the tone of her voice it was apparent Rina's mother was agitated and confused by this unexpected call.

"Yes, ma'am," Fakir pulled the transmitter closer and added urgently, "Is she there? It's imperative that I speak with her."

There was a pause and some muffled conversations that Fakir could not make out as Mrs. Rogowski's voice disappeared from the phone. Alex and Charon were now hovering by Fakir's shoulders, trying to make out what was being said.

At last, the voice that Fakir knew as Annie Grant emerged on the other end. But before Fakir could speak, she barked, "I don't have anything to tell you. Please, just go away!"

"Wait! Rina, don't hang up!" Fakir begged, "I—! We really need to talk to you!"

"I don't want to talk!" Rina yelled, followed by a choked sob.

Here Charon reached for the phone, which Fakir quickly handed over. In a gentle and paternal voice, Charon said, "Hello? Miss Rogoswki? This is Captain Charon Sideros. I understand you are very upset, but we just want to make sure you are all right. Are you currently safe where you are now? If you feel unsafe, I can give Buffalo PD a call right now and ask them to take you to a safe location. Your wellbeing is of the utmost importance to us."

"I… yes," Rina's voice sniffled.

Charon's placid tone seemed to have the desired effect on the agitated young woman. She took a moment to take several deep breathes, and when she spoke again her voice was unsteady but quiet. "I'm safe right now. I'm home, at my parents' house… Why are you calling me? I've already told your people everything that I know!"

"Yes, I believe you," Charon said earnestly, settling into Fakir's chair as the detective offered his seat to him. "You are upset because of the matter related to Worm Tongue, am I correct? Please believe me when I say we are doing everything we can to locate him. We will not let any harm come to you."

When Rina made a small, affirmative sound across the line, Charon continued. "Now, the reason we are reaching out to you is because during our investigation, we discovered that you had abruptly left New York City a few days prior. Was the reason for your departure related to Worm Tongue? Did he approach you again?"

There was a pause, then Rina whispered, "Yes…" Taking a deep breath, she said, "That officer, what's his name? Frank? He said he'd keep my name out of this. But word got out anyway, and Worm Tongue came looking for me."

Across from Charon, Fakir winced. Alex gave a supportive pat on Fakir's shoulder as Charon reprised his earlier question. "Could you tell me what happened?"

Rina collected herself, and in a steadier voice, recounted, "I think it was about seven… no, six days ago… that afternoon, after I finished my shift at the dance hall, I went across the street to the soda shop to buy a pack of cigarettes. As I was paying, the owner mentioned that someone had asked about me the day before. I asked her who it was, and she didn't know his name, but the description she gave me… it could only be him."

"By 'him', you mean the man known as Worm Tongue?" Charon clarified.

Across the line, Rina nodded. "She said he asked her if she knew where I lived, that he had urgent business he needed to talk to me about. Now, I go to that soda shop a fair amount. It's convenient, and the prices are fair, but the owner is terribly gullible and loose-tongued! We've chatted a bit about myself and my situation before, but she…! She was almost the death of me! She believed him, and told him I lived on Davidson Street. The one saving grace was that she couldn't remember the house number exactly.

"I didn't know what to do at first. My first impulse was to leave New York City and come straight home, to Buffalo. But save for the half dollar in my pocket and the clothes I had on my back that day, everything else was in my apartment. I milled around until evening and I realized I had no choice but to risk going back to the apartment.

"I walked back through a shortcut that most people who aren't familiar with the area don't know about, and saw a car parked in front of the building. I could tell right away it wasn't one of the neighborhood boys' cars, and there was someone sitting inside in the driver's seat. I hid in the alley across the street from the car. The light was bad, but I knew it was Worm Tongue. No one else I've ever met is so tall that their head practically touches the roof of the car."

Charon made a writing motion to Fakir and Alex, who were listening so keenly to Rina's story they had forgotten about the important task of recording her statement. As the young men scrambled to fetch a pen and paper, Charon continued with his questions. "Could you see what type of car it was?"

There was a pause on the phone. Finally, Rina answered, "It was hard to see, but it looked like a Model T. It was a dark-colored car. Black, I think. And I remember the front fender on the driver's side was badly dented."

"Could you see the license plate number?"

"No. It was too dark for me to read. It looked like a New York plate, but I could only see that it was a lighter colored plate with dark letters. I tried getting closer to have a better look, but I can only tell there was a set of small letters and numbers on the left side of the plate."

As Alex jotted this down, Fakir whispered excitedly, "That sounds like it could be a 1915 plate.* There aren't that many plates with a light background and lettering on the left side!"

His partner nodded, a grin on his face. But unlike his juniors, Charon showed no outward signs of excitement. Maintaining a calm, even voice, he remained focused on moving the conversation forward. "And were you able to get inside your apartment in the end?"

"Yes. I waited in the alley, hoping he would give up and leave at some point. He finally did, probably a quarter after 1 in the morning. After waiting for a bit, to make sure he wasn't going to circle back right away, I rushed in, grabbed what I could, and went straight to Penn Station. I almost didn't remember to telegram the dance hall or Bloomingdales to tell them I quit until an hour before I was about to get on the train."

"I see. Thank you, Miss Rogowski. I'm sorry again for the fright this whole thing must've caused you. Rest assured, we will do all we can to apprehend Worm Tongue. For your sake, and the sake of others," Charon glanced at Fakir. "We will be sure to keep you informed of our progress. Here's my phone number if you or your family has any questions…"

As Charon wrapped up the interview, Fakir broke away and threw on his jacket as Alex did likewise. "We're going to Motor Theft," he said to Charon just as the older officer hung up the receiver. "Anthony Vermi doesn't have a vehicle registered to his name. More than likely, the car he was in belongs to someone else. With his history, I wouldn't be surprised if he'd stolen it. Who owns that car and where it was from might give us a clue as to where he's hiding out."

Fakir and Alex spent the rest of the night at the Motor Theft department, sorting through several large stacks of stolen vehicle reports from the past year. Out of those, they noted Model T's with 1915 registration plates. By the end of the night, they had compiled a list of almost a hundred cars, a small handful of which were noted to have damaged fenders on the driver side similar that Rina described.

When Fakir and Alex finally returned to the homicide office, the clock on the wall had just struck nine. Tousling his shaggy brown hair, Alex stretched his sore back and sighed. "I guess the next step is to call the folks with the dented fender and see what they have to say…"

"Yeah…" an equally exhausted Fakir exhaled as he slumped into his chair.

At the sound of their voices, the door to Charon's office opened, and the gray-haired captain reappeared from behind the frosted glass of the office door. "How did it go?"

Fakir gave Charon a brief recap of their findings. Seeing the tired but determined expressions on the two young men in front of him, Charon smiled, "The two of you have done more leg work today than I usually do in a whole month. You both should take a break and get some rest. You've been on the job for 14 hours straight already."

Fakir rose from his chair. Slinging his coat over his shoulder, he said, "I'm going to take a nap in interview room A for a bit."

"Good idea. I'm going to get some shuteye in the car, then," Alex picked up the car key that was laying on his desk. "My wife says I snore really loud, so it's probably best that I don't sleep in the office."

Hearing this, Charon gave a hearty laugh and even Fakir couldn't help but let out a bemused huff.

"Bring an extra coat if you plan to sleep in the car, Alex," Charon advised. "As much as I appreciate your concern for our ears, I don't want you catching a cold out there. Check with Batson. I recall he usually keeps an extra coat by his desk for late night case calls."

Heeding Charon's advice, Alex hurried over towards the Robbery division to borrow the coat from his colleague. When Alex was out of earshot, Fakir paused a short distance from Charon and asked quietly, "Say, Charon… have you heard any word on how Duck is doing?"

Charon sobered at the question. Meeting Fakir's somber expression, the captain exhaled softly. "The boys from the last watch didn't have anything to report. I don't believe she's left her apartment all day today."

Fakir gave a small, solemn nod and continued towards the interview room. Watching him walk away, Charon was about to say something when the telephone in his office began to ring. As Charon departed to answer the phone, Alex ran back and Fakir looked over his shoulder at his partner, who was now holding a large bundle of woolen coats in his arms.

"I'll come wake you up in two hours, Alex," Fakir said, "Where did you leave the car again?"

"It's on the east side of the building, right in front of—" Alex began, but before he could finish his sentence, a sharp exclamation from Charon's office made them turn around sharply.

Alarmed, they rushed towards the captain's office as they heard Charon's voice demand, "Did you say you found him? I couldn't hear you; the connection isn't very good!"

At this, Fakir's drowsiness suddenly vanished and his heart began to race. When he and Alex finally made it to the door, the detectives found Charon standing with the phone in his hand and a choppy voice on the line saying, "—yes, we found 'im. He—outside Linden, by the New Jersey border."

"Were you able to apprehend him?" Charon asked and three men waited with bated breath for the response. But the answer was not what any of them expected to hear.

"Eh, unfortunately, no—we tried to—but Vermi is dead."

A/N

*While preset emergency numbers such as 9-1-1 (within the US) are common in many countries today, they did not exist back in 1925. The first preset national emergency number came into service in the late 1930's, in the United Kingdom. In the US, a national emergency number first came into use in 1968 after over a decade of planning and development.

*Alex's last name is taken from the character George Stone, an upstanding rookie Italian-American police officer in the classic film, The Untouchables.

*Childs Restaurants was one of the first national dining chains in the United States. Founded by brothers Samuel and William Childs, the first Childs Restaurant opened in Manhattan, New York in 1889. The restaurant aimed to provide economic meals to the working class but with clean and hygienic conditions. To paraphrase Wikipedia, the restaurant was also noted to have invented the "tray-line" self-serve cafeteria system, common now in schools and canteens all over the world.

*I found an interesting Wikipedia page detailing the designs of car license plates in New York state from 1910 all the way to the present. Each iteration has a distinctive design, but of those relevant to the story's chronology I personally found the 1915 plates to be most distinctive if one were looking at it from, say, a dimly lit alley. If you're curious to see what a historic New York license plate looks like, look up the Wikipedia page called "Vehicle registration plates of New York", or you can do a quick search on Google Images for "1915 New York license plate".

Thanks once again to my friend Tomoyo Ichijouji for proof reading!