Patrick had wandered around the hotel for long enough. He’d been up and down every hallway on every floor, checking stairwells, riding freight elevators and popping through doors to laundry rooms, ready to apologize each time. Rebecca wasn’t here.

It was freezing cold outside. He kept alongside the busy highway though there were no sidewalks and little room for pedestrians. On this night he wasn’t alone. There was a lot of chaos in and out of the parking lots of businesses that bordered Mall of America.

Would Rebecca have risked going to one of the restaurants? He didn’t think so. There were absolutely no taxi cabs. Rescue vehicles and police cruisers still lined the edges, red and blue lights flashing but the sirens off now. News vans with satellites on their roofs and reporters and camera crews took up any other available space. Uniformed cops directed traffic in and out of the hotel parking lot. All of the mall’s entrances looked like they were barricaded. A Red Cross RV was stationed near the front of the mall with shuttle vans.

No, there was enough chaos that no one noticed Patrick walking in and out of traffic. And no one would have noticed Rebecca either.

He stopped at a busy intersection, this one still using the traffic lights instead of a uniformed cop. Vehicles headed for the interstate could speed off to the ramp with no wait, unlike those stalled in the other direction. They had to wait in stop-and-go traffic inching their way toward the mall and the hotel.

Earlier he’d tried directory assistance to get a phone number for Dixon Lee. Nothing. There were no directories for cell phones. He got a number for Henry Lee. Practiced what he’d say to the man if he answered.

He dialed. Waited. Only an answering machine.

Of course, Mr. Lee was probably still at the hospital. Patrick didn’t have a message rehearsed for the answering machine so he hung up. He was running out of ideas. He was cold. He was hungry and he was worried about Rebecca.

That’s when he saw her.

Across the street he recognized her. She had just come out of the Gas ’N Shop. Tentative at first, holding onto the door of the shop as if she might need to run back in.

“Rebecca,” he yelled. His voice got lost in the hum of four lanes of traffic between them. He tried to cross against the light and the blast of a car’s horn stopped him. One lane of traffic moved slowly. The other didn’t need to wait for him and let him know. Evidently the Good Samaritan patience was wearing thin.

He found himself shifting, pacing, while waiting to run across as soon as the light changed. In the meantime, he watched helplessly as Rebecca hesitated then relinquished her hold on the shop’s door. Slowly she approached a white sedan, bending to a rolled-down passenger window before getting into the car.

A sigh of relief. Patrick recognized the car. He’d spent two days in that vehicle, riding and driving from Connecticut to Minnesota. Yes, now he could see the Batman: The Dark Knight decal on the back window. It was Dixon’s car.

Thank goodness.

Patrick started crossing the street as the car left the shop. He ran against the wind and ice. Twice he slipped, almost falling. He waved his arms though the car was driving away from him, leaving the parking lot. He raced around the gas pumps, zigzagging between vehicles, taking a short cut. Dixon’s car pulled onto the highway just as a van honked, almost hitting Patrick, so close he could feel the heat of its engine at his side. He jumped onto a curb, out of the woman’s way. Now all he could do was watch as Dixon’s car gunned its engine and sped toward the interstate ramp without even noticing him.

He was out of breath. His high-tops were caked with snow, his fingertips numb, his hair wet and plastered to his head. He stood there watching the red taillights disappear as pellets of ice pricked at his face.

It was okay, he told himself. He could relax. At least Rebecca was safe.