While we were playing Boston, the Yanks would be in Tampa -- most likely whipping up on the hapless Devil Rays.Sam Bailey started for us and gave up eight hits and three walks in seven innings -- but only one run. We managed two runs over that stretch and led going into the bottom of the eighth.But with only one out in the eighth, Bailey put two on and our one-run lead started looking real precarious. The next Yankee hitter was that same right-handed kid who had launched one off me into deep left in Baltimore.Paul went out to get Bailey and signaled the bullpen for -- me.What the fuck? Paul was pulling Bailey and bringing me -- a left-hander, to pitch to the Yankee's new guy. It didn't make any sense! Was I being set up to fail?When I got to the mound, my questioning expression must have been pretty obvious. "Take off your shoe," Paul said."Take off my..." Just take off your fucking shoe!" he hissed, "so I'll have time to talk to you."I took off my shoe and slowly picked at several. Increasingly, he forced himself to relive his encounter with Delilah for any clues. As a facsimile of a facsimile, it lost its power to terrify. Sat in his armchair, he closed his eyes and recalled that look on Delilah’s face. The aloof assertiveness and the ripple of power in her eyes he mistook for confidence. If anyone did come looking for him, he felt confident he would know them on sight. His mission was clear; he needed to avoid any further transgressions.Emboldened, he rattled the tumbler of the safe door and pushed down on its handle. The soft leather yielded in his hands, and he gazed at the slim black ring binder. The half-completed solution to the Cremorne’s riddle laid in its organised pages. Again, his intuition waited as Harry flicked through its pages as he maintained his calm composure.Staring at the row of corkboards, the non-linear Cremorne had its themes: truth, liberation, expression, acceptance, and free will. No closer to finding the muse, he understood his.
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