SATURDAY 1:34 A.M.

The walkway no longer squeaked. It rattled slightly, but with all the winter clothes I had on muffling any noise I made, most of my progress was silent. I had to be careful to lift my heavy boots with each movement so that when they came down, they did so silently.

In ten minutes of stealth, I was nearly to the ceiling. That’s when I came across an entrance to a covered walkway. From what I could tell this was the interior extension of the covered walkway between buildings. If it was over a bucolic stream in Vermont, it would be called a covered bridge. Here it was a covered old steel mill bridge.

It was big enough for a man to stand in. It had metal tracks on the floor, so that maybe a hand cart could have been moved along on the rails.

I inched inside. It squeaked more than the latticed walkway. I began to back out when I heard a sound ahead of me.

It wasn’t a police officer stomping forward. I’d have heard that as it echoed in the emptiness.

I listened. The sound came again. Maybe hands and feet shuffling toward me. They also were trying to keep quiet. If whoever it was had noted my presence, they hadn’t stopped. A confident cop? Or a clueless dweeb?

Was this someone trying to break in or break out? Had some member of an evil group thought to infiltrate through the giant building to the north? If so, why hadn’t this passage been blocked up? Or was some idiot low-level agent going to earn his stripes by blasting me into oblivion?

I didn’t feel any wind coming down the large shaft. Maybe it didn’t have an opening to the outside. So this was most likely someone from inside trying to escape? Right into my arms?

I waited. I checked behind me. There wasn’t enough light to silhouette me. I eased myself flat on my stomach and waited.

An eternity later, I saw a hand move over a hole in the covered walkway. Pale pink. No gloves. He’d been in here with no time to get into warm clothes?

I could see his head turning back once every few seconds, watching behind him. He was thin and crawling. As he got closer I saw tight jeans and a taut, black T-shirt on a narrow frame.

His whole being was intent on what was behind and below him. I could hear his breathing. He smelled like expensive soap from a Michigan Avenue hotel. He was another frail geek.

When he was a foot from me, I whispered, “Hi.”

I thought perhaps I’d given him a myocardial infarction. He gasped. Leapt to his feet, banged his head the top of the covered walkway. I grabbed his leg and held on.

He yanked and twisted and swore.

I whispered. “Try not to make noise.”

He stopped struggling.

He whispered back. “Who the hell are you?”

“I could ask you the same question.”

He lay on the floor facing me. His eyes sought mine.