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information about the people who pass through here—especially with some lawyer from New York—but you have to believe me when I tell you that the girl in the picture is very sick. She’s my only daughter—my only child—and she’s run away.” His instincts told him not to mention anything about Brad or his criminal record; he didn’t want to scare the old man off. “Please,” Carter pressed. “If you know anything at all—or if you know anyone else who might know something—please share it with me.”
    Stewart eyed him, considering his words before he spoke them. Just from the way the janitor’s eyes narrowed, Carter thought that he was about to get a break.
    â€œNo, sorry,” Stewart said. “I can’t help you.” He pointed to a pile of filthy clothes gathered in the far corner of the station. “Might want to talk to him, though. He’s always here, though I can’t say his mind is all that it oughtta be.”
    Carter never would have noticed the homeless guy if Stewart hadn’t pointed him out. “What’s his name?”
    â€œPeople call him Lee.”
    Interesting way to put that, Carter thought. Was there a difference between the man’s name and what people called him? “Thank you,” he said. For nothing, he didn’t say.
    Carter crossed the lobby, past the half-dozen travelers crammed in plastic seats that were linked together for maximum discomfort. Off in the corner opposite the lump that was Lee, a bank of snack machines hummed and glowed against the stained walls and floor. He wondered how many cross-country travelers lived off a diet of Cheez-Its, Ding Dongs, and soft drinks as they hopped from one bus station to the next, without transportation to take them even to a Waffle House somewhere.
    As he got closer to Lee, Carter realized that the bum was responsible for at least half of the station’s offensive odor. One glance at the empty bottle of cheap cognac, and Carter gave him up as a lost cause.
    â€œHey,” a voice called from behind, “Mr. Lawyer-man.” Carter turned. It was Stewart. He hadn’t moved from where Carter had last spoken to him. “That true, what you said about her bein’ sick?”
    Carter fought the urge to step closer. “Yessir,” he said.
    â€œSwear to God?”
    Carter made a slow approach. He crossed his heart with his fingers, a gesture he hadn’t made in thirty years.
    â€œIt’s important,” Stewart said, “because half the people come through here got some kinda story to tell, you know? A lot of them is tryin’ to get away from somethin’, and it ain’t none o’ my business to—”
    â€œI swear to God, Stewart. She’s my daughter and she’s sick. And I’m desperate.”
    The janitor stewed on it, and then sighed. “I had a daughter run away from me long time ago. Turned to the streets and got herself mixed up in drugs and whorin’ an’ all kinds of death.” His eyes narrowed and grew hot. “I was a drinker and a hitter, I was. I drove her off and she got dead as a result. Prob’ly best, because I prob’ly woulda killed her myself sooner or later. You don’t look like a drinker. You a hitter?”
    Carter allowed himself a soft smile. “Do I look like one?”
    â€œNo, sir, you look like the lawyer you say you are. Thing is, I don’t know what that’s any better.”
    Now here’s a guy with a thousand stories to tell, Carter thought. He assured Stewart, “I’m not a drunk and I’m definitely not a hitter. I’m just a worried dad.”
    Stewart bobbed his head. That was good enough for him. “She was here,” the janitor said. “She’s a pretty little thing. Tiny, though. Makes sense, now that you tell me she’s sick.”
    â€œWas she by herself?”
    Stewart scowled as he replayed the