Whistling, crackling noises snapping the air. Smoke, the hot acrid smell of fire. Cold tiles beneath his arms. Debris like hot flaming coals rained down on him, burning through his shirt.

A hand in front of him. The boy. Jason crawled forward, touched the hand, praying he was alive. He stirred. "You okay?" said Jason, trying to breathe through the smoke.

"What happened?" said the boy. Blue shirt—Luke. Jason helped him sit up; tears tracked through the dust on his face.

"Bomb went off. You hurt anywhere?"

The boy shook his head. "I need to find my brother and sisters."

"Be careful."

Around him, figures stirred. Eugene. Dad. Covered in dust and debris, but they didn't look injured. Whit helped the other boy sit up; his forehead was bleeding.

"How is he?" said Jason. Smoke stung his eyes and nose, making him cough.

"I think—it's just a small cut. It's a head wound, though—Go check on Connie and the girls."

Connie.

Jason stood, trembling all over from shock. Ten feet away, through the smoke, he could make out several forms lying on the ground.

They weren't moving.

He ran as well as he could and collapsed beside them. Connie. Her face pale as death. Beneath her head, blood pooled.

Terror stabbed his heart.

No. No—it can't be. She can't leave me, not so soon—we have so much life ahead together—

He pressed his fingers to her throat. A pulse, throbbing faintly. Relief washed over him.

He lifted her head, and ripped a generous piece off of his shirt. Wrapped it around the wound. Blood soaked into it, saturating it. Too much blood.

Head wounds bleed like that, he told himself.

But they can also be dangerous.

"Please, help me!" said a voice. Ahead of him, Jessica was kneeling over another still form. The little girl. He laid Connie down gently and crawled over to them.

A chunk of table lay on the girl's leg, which was twisted at a wrong angle. Jessica was trying to tug the table piece off.

"Here, I'll help you." Jason lifted the block of wood, and gasped. The leg was twisted backwards, blood pouring from her knee.

"What are we going to do?" said Jessica.

"She'll be okay," said Jason, though he wasn't sure. He tore off what remained of his shirt and tied it around the girl's leg above the knee. He doubted the leg could be saved, so he might as well make sure she didn't lose any more blood.

"Keep her head up," said Jason, "and don't move her."

Jessica nodded, fear shrouded beneath the mask of dust on her face.

Jason crawled back over to Connie, lifted her head onto his lap. "You'll be okay," he said, stroking her hair. "Dear God, please don't take her from me." He held her hand in his, thumb pressed against the pulse in her wrist, making sure it didn't weaken. He kept thinking it was getting stronger, then thinking he was just imagining it.

The wail of the ambulance. Two of them. A police car pulled up outside the shattered window. Eugene and Whit had already taken the boys outside.

Jason vaguely registered a blue uniform beside him. "Did you find any more bombs?" said the policeman. He recognized Lieutenant Shaw's voice.

"Any—more?" Alarm pierced the fog in Jason's mind. "I didn't think of that. We need to get them out of here."

"Agreed. Let the paramedics take care of it; that's what they're trained for." A hand on his arm, pulling gently, then more firmly when Jason didn't move.

"I can't leave her."

"They'll take care of her."

Jason let the policeman guide him outside, along with Jessica, onto the sidewalk, but unease tugged at him. He didn't like to leave Connie alone. What if there was another bomb? What if—

He moved back toward the door.

A hand on his arm. "Jason." His father. "Wait."

"But—"

"She'll be okay."

"Dad—what if she's not okay? What if—"

"No matter what happens, she is in God's hands." Despite his words, his father's voice faltered.

They waited for what seemed an eternity until the paramedics emerged with Connie. In reality it was probably only a few minutes. The little girl followed, and her frightened sobs pierced the silence. Jessica leaped forward, and smoothed back her black hair, telling her through her tears that it would be all right.

For the first time, Jason noticed people had gathered beyond the police barrier, talking in hushed tones and pointing at the damaged Whit's End. Through the glittering broken glass you could see the blackened area, still smoldering, where the bomb had exploded, and the scattered remnants of the table, patches of blood smeared on the floor.

Jason knew he should feel something about the building—he would at some point—but right now he was numb. All he could feel was a vague throbbing ache in his heart which could burst apart into raw agony at any moment.

Despite this potential threat, he stepped up to Connie as they loaded the stretcher into the ambulance. She was so still. Her chestnut hair spilled over the stretcher, dark against her pale face and the bandage on her head, already soaked with blood.

He climbed into the ambulance behind her.

"What are you doing?" said one of the paramedics. "You need to be treated—"

"I'm fine. I'm going with her."

"You can't just—"

"I'm going with her." He glared at the man, who backed off, and talked to the Lt. Shaw, who looked at Jason, and nodded.

Jason stayed with her as they drove to the hospital, holding her hand, hoping to see her eyes flutter open. He couldn't bear the thought of never catching a glance from those blue eyes again.

He kissed her forehead, and a tear slipped down his cheek. Sorrow built inside him, a horrible rending pain; he fought it, turning away from her, his palm leaning against the cold wall of the ambulance. He forced a white wall of blankness in his mind to shut off the ache threatening to overwhelm him. But to not face her, to turn his back on her at this moment, even with his pain, would betray her. He turned back, knelt beside the stretcher, and began to pray.

"Dear God, please don't take her from me. Please—" A sob built up in his chest and he leaned over, grasped the thin sheet until his fingernails dug into his palms. Silent sobs seized him as tears flowed down his face, onto her blue-green shirt.

He barely noticed the ambulance had stopped when the door slid open, startling him. He wiped the tears with the back of his hand, only half-caring if people saw he'd been crying. Stiffly, he followed her out and into the hospital until a wall of nurses stopped him from going into the ER with her.

"Wait there," the nurse pointed to the chairs in the waiting room. "A nurse will be with you shortly to look at your injuries."

"But I don't have any injuries."

She gestured to his arm. Beneath Connie's blood coating his skin, there was a long cut like a defensive wound from a sword. He hadn't noticed it before, but now that she'd pointed it out, it began to sting and throb. He sat down and, without any other cloth at hand, pressed it to his jeans to stop the bleeding. Pain dug into it but it distracted him from the greater pain.

He didn't know if he wanted to be distracted from it, though. It was something tangible, connected to her.

And there was still hope. They would save her. They had to.

A thought wormed into his mind. For the first time, more than half-formed. Someone had done this. It wasn't just an accident; someone had planted that bomb. But why? Who?

Who would want to harm children?

Or—harm his father.

The horrible suspicion crept up on him. The thing he had been dreading. It was Will again. He must have found another mercenary to do his dirty work, since Gray was still in prison.

I will find him, thought Jason, and make him pay.

He was surprised at the savagery of his thoughts, but his emotions had been seared to the ragged edge.

A nurse appeared and gave him a form to fill out; then she led him to a side room and he sat on the bed for a while. Finally a doctor came in, asked him a few health-related questions, and cleaned the wound. Cleared her blood away. "You are with the group that came in from Whit's End, aren't you?"

"Yes," was all Jason could say.

The doctor shook his head and held up the syringe. "My kids often go to Whit's End. If kids can't be safe there, where can they?" He jabbed the syringe into Jason's arm and emptied the localized anesthetic into it.

"I know."

He looked at the chart on the wall clipboard. "Oh, you're Jason Whittaker? Whit's son. I'm sorry."

"Do you happen to know anything—whether the others are all right?"

"I haven't heard, no. Even if I had, I couldn't disclose that information unless you were family."

"We're practically family," said Jason, more harshly than he'd intended. He looked away, angry at the doctor for not being helpful, at the same time knowing anger was irrational. He couldn't stand just sitting here, getting a shallow wound stitched up, when he had no idea what Connie's condition was.

"Do you mind my asking what happened?" The doctor gestured in the general direction of the worst of his scars.

"Yes. I mean—I'd rather not talk about it." Shame flashed through him. With everything that had happened, finding another shirt hadn't been a priority. But now he realized everyone could see what had been done to him…He'd rather not have any questions, rather not relive it. He thought about asking for a shirt or something, but Connie mattered more than momentary discomfiture.

As soon as the doctor snipped the antiseptic thread, he burst out of the door and tore down the hallway.

Finally he found his father and Eugene in the waiting room. Beside them sat Jessica and Mark. No—blue shirt. Luke. His heart went out to them; they were waiting for someone close to them too. And they were just kids, having come to Whit's End to have fun. Never expecting in a million years something like this could happen. While to Jason, even in benign situations, danger was always in the back of his mind. A downside to his background…and recent experiences.

He sat down beside his father. "Is Mark okay?"

"I think so," said Whit. "A doctor is looking at him now. It looked like the wound wasn't very deep…from what I could tell." Lines of sorrow shaded Whit's face.

"Have you heard anything about Connie?" said Eugene, eyes gleaming with concern.

"Not since I got in. They wouldn't let me follow her."

"They wouldn't let me follow Chaise either," said Jessica. She was holding Luke's hand, her own hand bandaged, and her formerly tidy brown ponytail tumbled over her shoulders in a mass of brown, flecks of ash in it. Luke looked exhausted, his curly brown hair a mess.

"Have you heard anything about your sister?"

"She's in surgery. They said she was going to be okay, but she looked so—" Her breath caught. "It's all my fault. I couldn't hold onto her—and now she and Connie are—"

Jason stepped over to her. Knelt on the floor, and looked in her eyes. "It's not your fault. It's the fault of the man who did this. No one, least of all me, blames you for what happened to Connie and Chaise. Okay?"

She nodded; tears clung to her lashes, spilled over onto her cheeks. Then she stopped short, looking at him with horrified fascination.

"What happened?" she said.

Self-conscious, he took a breath. "An evil man did this to me. Like the one who planted the bomb."

"Oh."

Jason sat back down, wishing he didn't have to be exposed to scrutiny. Others who walked by would notice and wonder…

"Jason," said Eugene. "I may have something that might interest you. It is in my car. Would you like to come with me to get it?"

"Sure." He wasn't sure what it was, but he couldn't stand just sitting there. On the other hand, he wanted to be there in case there was news about Connie.

"It will only take a few minutes," said Eugene.

Jason nodded and followed him to the parking lot. The sun was at its zenith; it was only about noon. Heat wavered over the metal surfaces of the cars.

Eugene popped open the trunk. He took out a piece of white cloth and unfolded it. A shirt.

"My mother in law gave this to me last Christmas. I am ashamed to say that I forgot about it because it is not exactly my size or my style, to be honest." He handed it to Jason.

"Thank you." Jason took the shirt and tugged it over his shoulders; as it often did, a twinge of pain shot through his arm.

"Are you all right?" said Eugene.

"Fine."

"I had no idea the extent of—what happened."

"That was the idea. That time—is not exactly something I am proud of. It wasn't my fault—but it was, in a way. I wish I could purge all of this from me, the scars, the memories—but I'll never get rid of it."

Eugene shook his head. "If something similar happened to me, I doubt I would have the strength to get through it."

"God is the only reason I escaped with my sanity—even then, I'm not sure that I did. Connie has helped me forget for the most part, but now—" His breath caught. He looked down at the pavement, grass crawling up through the cracks. "I don't think it is over yet. Will is still out there."

"You think that he is the one who did this?"

"I would be surprised if it wasn't."

They headed back inside. Whit was alone; Jessica, Mark and Luke had all gone to see Chaise, along with their parents, who had just arrived. The little girl was stabilized, but the doctors weren't sure if they could save her leg.

A few minutes after they sat down, a nurse came in. She told them that though the head wound had been deep, it didn't look like there was any brain damage. And they could go in and see her, although she wasn't awake.

Jason knelt beside her bed. Touched her cheek; it was cold.

Then, her eyes opened. "Jason?" she whispered.

Relief burst through him. "I'm here, Connie. You're going to be okay." He kissed her cheek.

She closed her eyes again. He wasn't sure if she was asleep or not, but just then, a nurse cracked open the door. "Are you Jason Whittaker?"

"Yes…"

"There's a call for you at the front desk."

"For me?"

Jason rose and followed her.

Picked up the phone.

"Hello," said a deep voice, slightly distorted. "I thought I'd contact you this time, rather than your father. And don't bother trying to trace this call; I have taken steps to make it untraceable."

A chill raced through him. "You're Will."

"Guilty as charged. And you and I have unfinished business to discuss, Jason."