The vicious drunkard who bent over the cringing boy paused, his fist in midair, as if he had heard the voice of God Himself. Or, at the very least, a policeman with a club. But if any policemen were to be found in this shabby excuse for a town, he was otherwise engaged. Johanna Schell had no faith in police. Nor did she have any delusions of divinity. But she trusted in the air of authority she'd cultivated for so many years, and in the strength of her voice. She crossed the muddy road to the haphazard line of shacks crouched along the docks near the railway station. In the gathering dusk, she could just make out the man's unshaven face, the scar slashing his chin, the filthy clothing. He reeked of cheap liquor. The boy was pitifully thin, bruised, with the hollow, haunted eyes of one who had endured many such beatings. Johanna had seen that look before.