The tray toppled, spilling food everywhere.“I’m sorry!” I called as I ran past. “Carlos is in trouble. I have to find him.”Quinton turned and followed me. “I’ll come with you.”“No. Stay here in case I miss him or something else goes wrong. I’ll call the house phone if I need help. Don’t leave until I do!”I rocketed down the stairs, sounding like a troop of cavalry on the move. Although I’d spent a large part of the day in a car, it was better than the coffin. My legs didn’t protest my movement as they had before, though my lungs, working overtime from anxiety, were less easygoing. Since I’d done most of the route in the daylight only the morning before, I had no trouble most of the way and turned left onto the Rua de Santa Justa one long block before Praça da Figueira. The blocks were narrower east to west, but there were still seven to go and ahead was the improbable sight of a slender, illuminated, Neo-Gothic tower rising into the air out of the middle of the road.The city was still warm, though cooler in the night breeze off the river, and there were people strolling the streets of the Baixa after dinner, or just going out for a late evening’s entertainment.
