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implication of Grace.
    His hard-won new identit y would be toast, the alias zipping through every law enforcement database in the country. Ducking between two large boxes, he hid in the shadows, trying to think things through.
    He had to erase his tracks. The phones, pre-loaded credit cards and everything else he’d just purchased would be on the receipts. It wouldn’t take the authorities long to tie it all together. That video tape had to go – it was the only solid proof that he was still among the living.
    He pulled out one of the plastic-covered phones, making quick work of the packaging with his pocketknife. The setup screens seemed to take forever, but eventually he had service. He had made a shopping list on the hotel’s stationery and found the phone number directly below the fancy letterhead.
    “Southside Harbor, how may I direct your call?” A friendly voice answered.
    “Room 515, please.”
    Grace answered on the second ring.
    “It’s me. You need to get out, and get out of there right now.”
    “Why? What’s wrong?”
    In as few sentences as possible, he explained what had happened.
    “What are you going to do?”
    “I don’t know, but regardless, you have to get out of that room. Call a cab from the lobby or just start walking, but get out.”
    He could hear her breathing thro ugh the phone as her mind raced through the options. “Okay. Meet me by the fountains at the boardwalk as soon as you can. Our boat is probably still there – that might be the only way for us to skedaddle. That place will be busy this time of day, and I’ll pretend to shop and lose myself in the crowd.”
    “Okay – I’ll see you there.”
    Checking the aisle from both directions, Dusty crawled out of the nook and retraced his steps. Down the hall from his holding cell were a series of office windows, a few of them leaking light through the glass. Maybe he could find the recording equipment for the surveillance system.
    The rumble of an approaching forklift caused a mad scramble for cover, the dockworker zipping past without seeing him. That heart-stopping event was closely followed by voices. Two employees, each carrying a brown lunch bag, entered one of the doors. The employee break room , he decided.
    He bent low, duck- walking under the first window where several people were chowing down on their chosen meals. The next door was closed, the window dark. On the third door was a small sign, “Security Office.”
    He slowly pee ked around the edge of the window, spying the security boss typing on a computer keyboard. Behind him, on a rack, were half a dozen video recording machines. How do I get him out of there?
    New voices sounded behind him , and there wasn’t anywhere to go. He spotted a large bulletin board nearby and moved quickly to stand as if he were reading the latest results from the company softball league. Two workers walked by, paying him no attention.
    After they had passed, he strolled by the offices and found himself in another warehouse area. The place was huge. Again, he found a cubbyhole, crates of garden hoses on one side, racks of shovels, rakes and hoes on the other.
    How could he get the security man out of his office long enough to remove the tapes?
    He shifted positions to get more comfortable and almost knocked one of the long-handled shovels from its hanger. He caught it mid-fall, cursing under his breath at his clumsiness. That thing would have made one hell of a racket banging up against the wall , he chided himself. Someone would have come to see what all the fuss was about.
    It was then that he noticed the wall-mounted fire station. Directly across from the rows of hanging tools was an alarm, hose and extinguisher. It was equipped with one of those “Break the glass in case of fire” devices.
    Examining the shovel still in his hand, he whispered, “That is a stupid place to hang these tools… one of them could fall and set off the….” A mischievous smile crossing his lips, he