"It’s actually smug, that street," complained Hudson to a mixture of tomato juice and vodka, a disgusting drink that he sipped in hopes it would send him back to sleep, "smug and complacent." He addressed the street as if it might care to defend itself.
     Below his eighth-story vantage point, the deserted Main Street laid itself out for his scrutiny in quiet confidence that it could withstand the inspection of the most critical viewer. It was certainly not the street’s fault that Hudson’s own discontent colored his vision of it.
     For no apparent reason, Hudson had awakened at 2:20 a.m. this morning to find only an empty street with which to converse. The street and this strange community seemed to call to some wayward desire within him, inviting him to delay, to linger, to await the call of a new fate. As a result, he found himself on this particular balcony at the best possible time to begin an Adventure; or possibly even a Misadventure.
     The colorful street of the small town in which he had halted for this short stay flaunted its casual design, rather proud of its curvature, its cleanliness, its floral arrangements, its decorative banners proclaiming the annual Shakespeare Festival. The marquee of the Varsity Theater, dark now, interrupted the flow of the sidewalk below him. Empty tables and benches adorned the front patios of silent sidewalk cafes. No one worried that they might be stolen in this quiet city. Neon signs in store windows added their dash of color to the night scene despite the early hour, advertising beer and T-shirts to each other.
     He rested his silk-clad philosophical bottom against the rail of his balcony, the better to view the scene below, while he again questioned his wisdom in acceding to the pleas of his old friend Paul Revere Riley to stop in this curious town for no better reason than to persuade a prodigal son to return to the fold. As for Hudson, he never had a son, prodigal or otherwise, but the years of investing in the careful raising of three daughters told him that his quest was futile.
     One daughter invested herself in a young man in San Francisco, and together they were attempting to corner all the loose capital on the West Coast. The second was in New York learning to be a corporate lawyer under the tutelage of her mother, Hudson’s ex-wife; no doubt with the objective of garnering all the loose capital on the East Coast. The third had taken herself off to Paris to discover who she was. She had yet to find that out.
     A nightwalker intruded itself into the scene below, interrupting his meditation, capturing his attention.
     It entered from directly beneath the hotel marquee and its sharp heels tapped its way north, away from the hotel, under the Varsity Theater marquee and along the empty sidewalk. The smugly decorative street lights illuminated a figure (female, very good legs, interesting mobility about the hips) that could have just exited the main entrance of the Hotel Marc Antony. He adjusted his glasses on his prominent nose, the better to study the solitary stroller.
     "Not a stroller," he corrected himself, noting the short, brittle stride of the woman. From long established habit, Hudson began making a list:

1. Female, age indeterminate, clad in dark hose and a short, tight skirt. African-American, if the mop of black hair was a true indicator.

2. Her gait was rapid, with short steps, and an occasional skip. She would be running if her costume permitted.

3. Her upper body was partially hidden by a bulky cape or similar loose garment while her lower body was virtually exposed by the tight skirt and hose.

4. A large purse or satchel banged against her swinging hip as she hurried along the walk. She appeared to carry something large in her arms.

     Hudson’s imagination informed him that the lady was young, pretty and no lady at all, but rather a woman of the night on her way home from a successful evening’s business at the exclusive Hotel Marc Antony. It did not occur to him that some might consider these imaginings to be unworthy of an appellate court judge. If it had, he would surely have debated the notion.
     He allowed his mind to continue to wander while his eyes followed the woman’s hurried progress past the shops and cafes to the town square, where stood the Carter Memorial Fountains. From thence, she turned behind the little City Hall and disappeared, presumably into the park that lined the creek that flowed through the square. She had ignored the attractively arranged show windows.
     For absolutely no good reason, Hudson felt better, more alive for her passage. Were she a lady of the streets, what might he have done if she had knocked on his door this night? Would he have turned her out? That would hardly be civil. Why did she hurry so? Through fear? Fearful of the empty street where she plied her trade? In a small town such as this, buried high in the mountains, there should be little to fear.
     Pensively, Hudson added to his list:

5. She left the hotel at about 2:30 a.m.

     Why? Why not spend the rest of the night? Was she rejected? Did she not want to be seen, or not seen leaving the hotel? Perhaps she changed her mind. Why not leave by the back door? Maybe she doesn’t know where the back exit is; if not, she can’t be much of a prostitute.

6. She walks like a young person, unused to high heels.

     Maybe she is underage? In disguise?
Unaware of how close to the truth his guesses had led him, Hudson was about to abandon his vigil and once again seek surcease in the arms of Morpheus when a second nightwalker exited the Marc Antony. It was a man, and therefore of lesser interest, except that he followed the route of the girl, to disappear into the City Park while Hudson watched silently, starting a second, parallel list:

1. He walked with the long steps of a man in a hurry.

2. A dark overcoat or cape obscured his clothing.

3. A large, floppy hat concealed his head and features.

4. He followed the same route taken by the woman.

     "What is he doing?" Hudson complained to the street, "he is complicating my plot." What plot? Was he so sunk into the doings of miscreants that he now saw plots in everyday occurrences? Surely this was mere accident, mere chance that sent two nightwalkers rushing from under his balcony into the town’s park. Surely the one would not be fleeing from the other. Surely one would not be pursuing the other. Surely.
     He stared at the once more empty street.
     "Curious," he advised the street, "very curious."
Why had he awakened at this time in this place, to witness two nightwalkers? The silent street held no answer for him, nor apparently any further entertainment. He returned to the sanctuary of his bedroom to survey the large, empty bed, cold by now. He surrendered himself and his silk pajamas to the relative comfort of the huge empty bed, convinced he would sleep no more this night. No sooner had he decided to await the coming of dawn than he fell into sleep.
     He dreamed of a dozen witches dancing around a cauldron that bubbled and chuckled as it boiled its disgusting contents. All the witches danced with abandon. All the witches were nubile and naked.

     Judge Harold J. Hudson reveled with them most imprudently.

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