The Penn Sleep Center, part of the University of Pennsylvania Hospital system, was located in a modern steel and glass building on Market Street near 36th.

    Byrne crossed the river about six, found a parking space, checked in at the desk, presented his insurance card, sat down, speed-skimmed a copy of Neurology Today, one of his all-time favorite magazines. He covertly checked the handful of people scattered around the waiting room. Not surprisingly, everyone looked exhausted, beat-up, dragged- out. He hoped everyone there was a new patient. He didn't want to think they were on their twentieth appointment and still looked this bad.

    'Mr. Byrne?'

    Byrne looked up. Standing at the end of the long desk was a blonde woman, no more than five feet tall. She was in her early forties and wore pink-rimmed glasses. She was perky and full of energy. Insomniacs hate perky.

    Byrne got up, walked over to the bubbly gal in white rayon.

    'Hi!' she chirruped. 'How are you today?'

    'Never better, thanks,' Byrne said. Of course, if that was the case, what the hell was he doing at the hospital? 'How about yourself?'

    'Super!' she replied.

    Her name tag read Viv. Probably short for Vivacious.

    'We're just going to check your height and weight.' She led him over to the digital scale, instructed him to take off his shoes. He stepped on the scale.

    'I don't want to know how much I weigh, okay?' Byrne said. 'Lately I've just been ... I don't know. It's hormonal, I think.'

    Viv smiled, zipped her lips in a dramatic gesture, recorded Byrne's weight without a word. 'Now, if you could turn around, we'll check your height.'

    Byrne spun around. Viv stepped on a footstool, raised the bar of the stadiometer, then lowered it gently, touching the top of Byrne's head. 'What about height?' she asked. 'Would you like to know how tall you are?'

    'I think I can handle my height. Emotionally speaking.'

    'You're still six foot, three inches.'

    'Good,' Byrne said. 'So I haven't shrunk.'

    'Nope. You must be washing in cold water.'

    Byrne smiled. He liked Viv, despite her vim.

    'Come this way,' she said.

    A few minutes later the doctor came in. She was Asian, about thirty, quite attractive. Pinned to her lab coat was a photo ID. Her name was Michelle Chu.

    They got the pleasantries about the weather and the insanity of the people in the indoor parking garage out of the way. Dr. Chu ran through Byrne's history on the computer's LCD monitor. When she had him sufficiently pegged, she turned in her chair, crossed her legs.

    'So, how long have you had insomnia?'

    'Let me put it this way,' Byrne said. 'It's been so long that I can't remember.'

    'Do you have trouble falling asleep or staying asleep?'

    'Both.'

    'How long, on average, does it take you to fall asleep?'

    All night, Byrne thought. But he knew what she meant. 'Maybe an hour.'

    'Do you wake up during the night?'

    'Yeah. At least a couple of times.'

    The doctor made a few more notes, her fingers racing across the keyboard. 'Do you snore?'

    Byrne knew the answer to this. He just didn't want to tell her how he knew. 'Well, these days I don't really have a steady...'

    'Bed partner?'

    'Yeah,' Byrne said. 'That. Do you think you could write me a prescription for one of those?'

    She laughed. 'I could, but I don't think your insurance provider would cover it.'

    'You're probably right,' Byrne said. 'I can barely get them to pay for the Ambien.'

    Ambien. The magic drug, the magic word. At least around neurologists. He had her attention now.

    'How long have you been taking Ambien?'

    'On and off for as long as I can remember.'

    'Do you think you've developed a dependence?'

    'Without question.'

    Dr. Chu handed him a pre-printed sheet. 'These are some of the sleep-hygiene suggestions we have—'

    Byrne held up a hand. 'May I?'

    'Absolutely.'

    'No alcohol, caffeine, or high-fat foods late at night. No nicotine. Exercise regularly, but not within four hours of bedtime. Go to bed and get out of bed at the same times every day. Turn your alarm clock around so you can't see the time. Keep your bedroom cool, not cold. If you can't fall asleep in ten minutes or so, get out of bed until you feel tired again. Although, if you can't see your clock, I don't know how you're supposed to know it's been ten minutes.'

    Dr. Chu stared at him for a few moments. She had stopped typing altogether. 'You seem to know quite a bit about this.'

    Byrne shrugged. 'You do something long enough.'

    She then typed for a full minute. Byrne just watched. When she was done she said, 'Okay. Hop up on the table, please.'

    Byrne stood up, walked over to the paper-lined examining table, slid onto it. He hadn't hopped anywhere in years, if ever. Dr. Chu looked into his eyes, ears, nose, throat. She listened to his heart, lungs. Then she took out a tape measure, measured his neck.

    'Hmm,' she said.

    Never a good sign. 'I prefer a spread collar,' Byrne said. 'French cuffs.'

    'Your neck's circumference is greater than seventeen inches.'

    'I work out.'

    She sat down, put her stethoscope around her neck. Her face took on a concerned look. Not the you are in deep shit look, but concerned. 'You have a few markers for sleep apnea.'

    Byrne had heard of it, but he really didn't know anything about it. The doctor explained that apnea was a condition wherein a person stops breathing during the night.

    'I stop breathing?'

    'Well, we don't know that for sure yet.'

    'I'm kind of in the stop-breathing business, you know.'

    The doctor smiled. 'This is a little different. I think I should schedule you for a sleep study.' She handed him a brochure. Color pics of smiling, healthy people who looked like they got a lot of sleep.

    'Okay.'

    '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.

    '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.'

    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.

    '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.'

    '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.

    The truth was, Lucy Doucette had a bogeyman. A bogeyman who had kidnapped her and held her for three long days. Three days of dead zone in her life. A bogeyman who lived in every shadow, stood waiting around every corner.

    Byrne had gotten a vision when he hugged her, a sparkling clear image that told him about a man who—

    —dates women with young daughters and comes back years later for the girls. . . something about red magnetic numbers on a refrigerator door. . . four numbers . . .

    1 ...2...0...8.

    Byrne made a mental note to call Lucy the next day.