It was dark when the delivery truck nosed out of the alley and headed back toward the city. Having locked the doors to the rear compartment from the outside, Agatha had taken her place beside Chadwick in the front, her pistol draped elegantly over her shoulder. She had been keeping a sharp eye trained toward the compartment, but it was too dark back there for her to see much. Her charges, however, seemed disinclined toward revolt. In fact, as the trip wore on, they appeared to become positively hilarious about the whole thing. Soft tittering occasionally issued from the darkness, sometimes interlaced with boisterous guffaws. Agatha wondered about this but didn't discover the reason for it until the truck reached its destination and pulled to a stop in the parking lot behind Marc's office building. When she unlocked the doors and reopened them, Marc, Toffee and Mr. Culpepper peered out at her owlishly, swaying together in silent harmony.
"Good ol' Aggie," Marc giggled, dropping his appropriated bottle shatteringly at the woman's feet. "Long may she rave."
"Well, I'll be!" Agatha murmured. "They're drunk as skunks, the lot of them."
"Eh?" Chadwick inquired, moving to her side. "Who's drunk?"
"The tykes," Agatha said, "and the old man. They're lubricated, you might say, like a lawn mower in May."
Chadwick peered inside, gazed unbelievingly at the swaying trio. He wagged a finger. "Shame," he said. He reached inside and lifted Toffee out.
Made forgetful of her transformation by her recent libations, Toffee twined her arms around Chadwick's neck.
"Hello, handsome," she cooed throatily.
"Put her down," Agatha snapped. "There's something not quite right about that child. I don't like the funny way she's looking at you. I won't stand for it."
Apparently Chadwick, too, had noticed something a bit unusual about the infant in his arms, but was not entirely displeased. He smiled confusedly. "She's only a youngster," he said.