Disclaimer: This is a work of derivative fiction based on the characters and world of JRR Tolkien. I merely borrow them for a time, for my own enjoyment and, I hope, that of my readers. I am making no money from this endeavor. Beta reader for this story is IgnobleBard.

Jane Jankowski looked up at the big plate glass window with the neon shamrock sign, and then back down again at the address written in elegantly rounded cursive on the back of a business card in her hand. Yes, this was the place all right.

"Unfounded." The words had felt as sweet on her tongue as Linda Singer's cornbread when she dropped her finished report on Doug's desk Monday morning.

"Duncan and Fitzhugh are bound to be disappointed."

"Pray ask me if I give a rat's ass."

Doug had furrowed his brow then. "Are you sure there's nothing to see?"

"Oh, there's plenty to see, all right. Rivers and his people are as odd as they come. But the kid is happy, Doug. It's not my job to change that." Jane gave Doug a look that indicated she meant business. "Now, if you don't mind, there are some children who really need my help."

Jane had returned briefly to her desk for one unfinished piece of business. Although she felt convinced of Galen's safety, there had been that disturbing statement about falling towers. Reluctant as she was to give Duncan and Fitzhugh any more ammunition, she remained uneasy about keeping it to herself. A quick Google search of Aaron Rivers' name revealed a list of his favorite charities. The ACLU and Amnesty International might have been troubling to some, especially his two government nemeses, but the others -- Greenpeace, the Sierra Club, The Heifer Project, and a plethora of women's and homeless shelters in the Chicago area just for starters -- indicated that the man was no terrorist.

What had she been thinking, Jane wondered with an angry little shake of her head? Let Duncan and Fitzhugh go on digging if they were so certain there was something to find, but Jane would not be the one to help them. For good measure, she put her handwritten notes through the shredder and smiled with dark satisfaction as she watched them turn to confetti.

It had gone on to be the day from hell, and Jane perked up at the Heinekens sign that burned next to the green neon shamrock in the little bar's window. A beer wouldn't come amiss right now, and she wondered if there might even be dark ale on the tap.

Her first case had been a four year old whose mother held his hand to a hot iron to 'get the Devil out of him.' His new foster mother had found other marks on him as well when she checked him over. That call had been a no-brainer.

The second still made her feel slightly sick at heart: a young woman, still recovering physically and emotionally from an auto accident that had killed her husband. She had been brought to the attention of CPS by her pediatrician when her six month old daughter, born two months prematurely as a result of that same auto accident, had gained only half the weight she should have in the four months since being released from the neonatal ICU.

Jane sighed at the blinkered 'wisdom' of these medical professionals who, with the best of intentions, do their utmost to interfere with the mother/child bond and then blithely plunk one stranger into the arms of another and send them on home, hoping for the best.

Jane should have felt anger, but she could summon only pity for this young woman. The apartment had been clean yet -- Jane fished for the word and landed on 'cold -- despite the thermostat set at a constant seventy-two degrees. All seemed in order, except for the mother's oddly apathetic response to the few feeble cries her baby girl made. She fed her daughter and held her, but stared off into space with listless eyes while she did so.

Those eyes had gone entirely dead when Jane informed her that, as a matter of emergency, her infant would be removed from the home pending psychological evaluation. Inured to the sorrows of this job as Jane thought she was, her own eyes had been blinking back tears as she carried the baby girl down to her car. 'I may have just put this poor woman over the edge to salvage what I can of her daughter's life,' she told herself sadly as she strapped the infant into her carrier and belted her into the back seat.

Jane still had faint hopes for a happy ending for mother and child, given proper counseling. But there were so many people needing help and so few resources in this day of eroding tax bases and budget cuts. 'This job is going to end up killing me,' she thought, looking forward to that beer even more.

The address confirmed, she returned the business card to her pocket, smiling despite her downhearted mood as she recalled how transparently eager Hal had been to press it upon her, giving her not only his cell number and his land line both at home and at work, but the address of this little drinking establishment on a quiet side street only a few blocks from the loop.

"I'm there almost every night," he had said earnestly, "but Mondays are a sure bet, because that's Rudy's night to drive." And then he had stared after her hopefully while she walked to her car and drove off. This time, he hadn't even been looking at her butt.

Jane put her hand to the brass handle of the front door. Beneath the neat gold lettering that read The Harp, Est. 1956, she spied a 'no smoking' sign taped to the interior of the glass. 'That's odd for Chicago,' she told herself as she pulled the door open.

Odd, but nice. An aroma unlike the usual tavern reek of stale beer and cigarette smoke wafted out as her as she entered. The Harp smelled faintly of incense and the barest hint of fresh rain, and Jane inhaled deeply, feeling her spirits rise. A middle-aged man behind the bar, his reddish hair shot with white, smiled in greeting. At the back of the room, Glenn Butler stood next to an old-fashioned Wurlitzer jukebox, drink in hand, watching while his wife bent over her pool cue, lining up a difficult shot. In one corner booth, a pale hand stretched out of the shadows, clasped around the stem of a glass of dark red wine.

And at the end of the bar stood Hal, his face brightening with recognition as she walked into the room. 'You came!' Jane saw him mouth, with a smile of surprised delight.

Jane returned the smile. Walking into The Harp felt like coming home, although she had no explanation for why that should be. Following Glenn's good advice, she did not try to explain it; she merely accepted.

'It's amazing what lovely surprises life has in store for you,' she told herself as she went to join Hal, 'when you have the courage to step off the path.'

* * *