She found the bouncer at the head of the line, glowering down on a scrawny guy with a goatee, giving him the full impact of 250 pounds of tattooed muscle. “You gonna wanna think about that again, hoss.”

“Hey, screw you, Cheech.” The man’s face was red, though with booze or anger Karen couldn’t tell. “I told you, I just stepped out to make a call.”

“What’s going on?” Karen asked, using her manager voice.

“This gentleman don’t want to wait in line,” Hector said.

Up close now, Karen could see that Goatee’s eyes were all pupil. Ecstasy, probably, maybe with a little meth to give it an edge. Normally she wouldn’t care; half the crowd was hopped on something. But nobody messed with her staff. She shook her head. “Get him out of here.”

The bouncer grinned. He clamped meaty hands on the man’s shoulders, spun him around, and walked him protesting past the line. As he did, the crowd surged forward, a couple of similarly dressed guys, his friends maybe, pushing for the now unmanned door.

“Shit. Hector!”

The bouncer turned in time to see the men dash inside amid the thronging crowd. He growled and bounded back to the head of the line.

“Where’s Rodney?” Karen asked.

“He wasn’t feeling good, so I said I’d cover for him.” Hector looked at her sheepishly. “It was only for a couple hours, didn’t think you’d mind.”

She grimaced. “It’s just I was going to ask you to walk me to my car.”

Hector pulled out his radio. “Lemme get Kevin or Joe.”

They were both bartenders. The club was packed, everybody vying to get their last couple of rounds in. Pulling a bartender would slow things down, make everybody’s life harder, and cut the take. All for a weird feeling. She felt silly all of a sudden.

“Forget it,” she said. “I’ll be okay.”

“You sure?”

She nodded, pulled out the pepper spray key ring Danny insisted she carry. “Sure thing.”

He winked at her, turned back to the line of patrons.

Karen stepped out from behind the velvet rope and started down Ontario. Goose bumps massed on her exposed shoulders. Soon it would be time for jackets, gloves, layers. The unpleasant accoutrements of a Chicago winter.

The man from the bar haunted her. Who was he? Years of dealing with drunks had honed her instincts, and something about that guy had given her a bad feeling.

As if on cue, she heard footsteps behind her. A careful walk. The steps heavy and muffled. A man’s stride. Had she been foolish not to pull one of the bartenders? She quickened her step and gripped the pepper spray more tightly. Part of her wanted to whirl around, but she was afraid of what she’d see. She could feel her heart, the thumping swift against her ribs. Should she run? The heels would slow her down; if someone was following her, the man from the bar, he’d catch her easily.

She turned onto Franklin. The Explorer was in an alley a block down. If she could get to it, she’d be safe.

The footsteps followed, closer than ever. She didn’t think she’d make it, not at this rate. Mouth dry, she spun, raising the pepper spray in her right hand, her left bracing against the building. A tall man walked toward her, face cloaked in shadow. Her hand shook. She opened her mouth to yell – this was a public street, there were people just down the block, surely someone would help her. The man took another step. Just as she was about to shout, the headlights from a passing car fell across him.

Deep wrinkles cut his forehead, and his eyes were sunken. His walk was careful, all right – geriatrically so. The gentleman had to be in his seventies. He stared far away, pulling a tan raincoat tighter as he passed.

She snorted, almost laughed, the tension draining away. Why had she gotten so jumpy because someone on the floor looked up at the VIP lounge? That was what made it a VIP lounge – it was where everyone wanted to be.

She shook her head and continued. The alley wasn’t technically parking, but cops turned a blind eye for industry staff as long as no one com plained. She could see a gleam off the truck’s windshield, right where she’d left it. She started toward it, thinking of how to tell Danny the story, to convey her goofy fear. She decided that it would be in the details – the old guy, his wrinkles, that perv raincoat.

A shadow detached itself from the wall and reached for her.

She had time to gasp, to jerk the pepper spray up, knowing this time it was real. He was almost on her before her thumb found the button. She jammed it down to spit a stream of blinding poison.

Nothing happened.

He grabbed her arm, twisted it backward. Her shoulder and elbow blazed as she spun. A gloved hand stifled her scream with the taste of sour leather and cigarettes. She felt the keys yanked from numbing fingers.

“First,” his breath hot against her ear, “you have to take the safety off.”

She could have cried at the thought of it, the way the button had to slide sideways before it could be pushed. It’d all just happened so fast. Horrible images flashed through her mind, thoughts of ending up a cautionary tale, used and abandoned in an alley, panties twisted around her ankles. She struggled against him, trying to tear free, but he was like machinery, his muscles pneumatic in their power.

“Relax, kitten.” He sounded amused. “I’m not going to hurt you tonight. But you should be more careful. Chicago can be a dangerous place for a woman.”

Before she could process his words he pushed her, still holding one arm, as if they were dancing. When she reached the end of her steps he let go, and the momentum sent her sprawling to the ground. Gravel dug cruelly into her legs, and she yelped, not a proper scream, just surprise and pain. She was free. She raised her arms to ward off her attacker and drew in a breath to shriek.

And realized she was alone.

The guy, whoever he was, had walked away. At the mouth of the alley he stopped, his back to her. He had shoulders like a football player. He pulled something apart between his hands, and she heard the clatter of keys on the pavement.

Then he stepped out onto Franklin and was gone.

Karen wanted to cry, to sit in the dirt of the alley and bawl, to let out the scream that had been building in her. But she thought of the movies, how she hated it when the bimbo just lay there. Life had been safe and soft the last couple of years, but she’d grown up with two older brothers, neither unfamiliar with the wrong side of the law, and they’d taught her to take her licks.

Besides, she hadn’t been hurt. Hadn’t been raped. Hadn’t even been robbed. She didn’t understand. But understanding, like crying, could wait.

One hand on the dirty metal of the Dumpster, she pulled herself up. Pain raked down the back of her thigh, but her legs held. There would be some bruises – what her brothers had delighted in calling raspberries – but nothing broken.

Correct that. One heel had snapped when she fell.

Somehow that made her laugh, actually laugh out loud, standing in the middle of the alley. The laughter was hard and high, and it didn’t feel right; she could taste the curdle of panic in it.

Get it together, Karen. Don’t go hysterical in the middle of the alley. Pick up your keys, run to the car, lock the doors, start the engine.

Then get hysterical.

She hobbled to the sidewalk and retrieved the keys. Down the street, she could see a group of a dozen partiers, the girls’ thighs flashing, the men’s laughter loud. They were less than a block down. They seemed half a world away.

The headlights on Lakeshore Drive blurring like those long-exposure photographs you saw on brochures.

The Explorer surging when she mashed the accelerator, substituting speed for control.

The soft green glow of the dashboard lights.

The snap of the radio dial as she turned it off.