Part Fifteen

Jeff Tracy looked down at his three sleeping sons with such a feeling of mingled pride, love and pain that he felt his chest tightening. Virgil was in the centre, lying in Jeff's bed because that was the sole condition on which Dr Evans had allowed him to stay with his family when they returned him to the hospital. Alan was curled to one side of him, small arm thrown across his brother's chest. Both had been asleep within minutes of getting to their father's room, exhaustion and jet-lag taking their toll. John had lasted a little longer, curling into Jeff's lap in the armchair by the window, and telling his dad about his summer school in a soft, worried tone that suggested his mind was elsewhere.

When they'd burst through the door, the former astronaut had been unshaven, pale and unsteady, sitting in bed with his arm in a sling. John and Alan didn't see any of that. They treated him as the firm, unbreakable pillar of strength he'd always been for them, and he'd responded, straightening up, looking more focused and alert. Only the quickly-snatched kiss and long look he'd shared with his wife, and the relief on his face when he saw Virgil interacting with his brothers, gave any hint of what was going on inside.

Now though, as he laid Johnny down on Virgil's far side and raised the narrow bed's rails, he felt the walls crumbling. An arm snaked around his waist, and he tilted his head, resting his cheek on Lucy's red-gold hair. She turned towards him, raising her face to meet his, and he gave her the long, loving kiss he'd been craving since she walked through the door. She leaned into it, as desperate as he was for the comfort and reassurance.

He broke the kiss when he realised she was crying. He pulled her close in to his chest and pressed his lips to the top of her head, wishing he had two good hands so he could raise her chin and look into her hazel eyes.

"Lucy…"

"I knew there was something wrong when you didn't call that night," she said softly, looking up at him as if in answer to his wish. Her eyes were red from crying, not just these few tears but also silent torrents while her sons were asleep. "Then I heard on the news about the Weather Station going haywire. Oh God, Jeff! I thought I'd lost all four of you…" her voice trailed off, her chest trembling against Jeff's.

"Honey, I'm sorry. I just wanted to spend some time with them. One last holiday with my little Scotty before high school and hormones and teenage angst took over. I'm so sorry. If I'd known…"

She stood on her toes, craning upwards to silence him with a kiss.

"They were having such a good time, darling. You gave them that. They were so happy whenever you called."

Jeff closed his eyes, struggling to master his emotions. Lucille was still pressed against him, her calming influence an invitation to release the strain he'd felt since he'd first awakened.

"Two and a half days," he whispered. He felt Lucy sag a little deeper into his chest, her tears soaking his shirt. "I don't believe it, honey. I just can't accept that they're gone."

They were still standing over the bed. Alan stirred, curling into a still tighter ball and shaking his head in the grip of an incipient nightmare. Lucy sucked in a deep, trembling breath, looking down at the boys and drawing strength from them. Jeff followed her gaze as she pulled away to caress Alan's dream-troubled brow and stroke Virgil's hair away from his face.

"We almost lost Virgil too," he said sombrely, glancing at his bedside table. Lucy picked up the pictures there, a choked sob escaping her when she saw her two missing sons, windswept, waterlogged and terrified. He kissed her again, needing the closeness and hungry for the mutual comfort.

She shook her head when she finally drew away, her expression becoming resolute. "I'm not giving up hope, Jeff."

He nodded, eyes locked on hers. "Never," he promised grimly. He gritted his teeth. "Damn it! Why is it taking this long to find them? I need be out there. Doing something!"

He swayed a little as he spoke, his strength finally running out. Lucy eased him into the armchair, another pair of hands joining hers, checking his pulse briskly as his vision greyed out. Dr Evans was in front of him when it cleared, side by side with Lucy and looking almost as concerned, in a restrained, professional way.

She gave him a stern look. "I heard that last comment. What your sons need you to be doing, Mr Tracy, is getting well."

"I can't just lie here!"

Lucille squatted in front of him, putting her eyes on a level with his. "All the boys need you, Jeff. Not just Scott and Gordon. Virgil told me that he had to be strong until I got here because you were so sick and someone had to keep going until they find Scott and Gordy." She paused, letting that sink in, then sighed. "John has hardly let Allie out of his sight since we realised you were missing."

Jeff winced. John had his excitable, impulsive moments, but of all his boys, the nine-year-old had inherited the largest measure of his mother's tranquillity. Putting him together with Alan for long periods tended to be a recipe for furious argument, a tired, overwhelmed John unable to cope with his bored, frustrated little brother.

"John told me to concentrate on you and Virgil, and he'd look after his baby brother. Alan's been trying too. He knows there's something wrong, and he's been trying to be good for Johnny and me. Jeff darling," Lucy's voice was soft and sad, her eyes pleading with him. "The boys are stepping up, but they're struggling. They need you. They really need their father right now."

Closing his eyes, Jeff swallowed hard. His hands clenched on the arms of his chair. "How long? How long do I have to sit here? Useless?"

Dr Evans gave a quiet cough and Jeff and Lucy both looked up towards her. She watched them with a sympathetic expression. "Your wrist will be in a cast for at least a week, as I told you yesterday. As far as staying in bed goes… It was a nasty concussion, Mr Tracy, and I don't like the dizziness. I want to keep you under observation for another twenty-four hours, minimum."

Jeff grimaced, but Lucille gave a firm nod. He sighed, wanting to fight the verdict but knowing that with his wife and doctor in collusion, he might as well surrender now. His defeat was inevitable. His eyes strayed to the bed and his sons and he glanced back at the doctor, a worried question on his face. Lucille looked up too, the same anxiety in her eyes. Mina Evans didn't keep them waiting.

"Physically, Virgil will be fine with a few more days rest. Under normal circumstances, Mrs Tracy, I'd release him to your care at this point."

She hesitated. Alan was stirring on the bed, once again heading towards a nightmare. Lucy was by his side when he woke, scooping up her crying toddler and depositing him in his father's lap. Jeff rocked the little boy, murmuring reassurances as Alan sobbed into his shoulder. On the bed, Virgil shifted restlessly, his eyes opening and drifting around the room until he located his little brother. Jeff gave him a gentle smile and Virgil shuffled a little closer to John, his eyes closing again. Lucille was giving the doctor an inquisitive look, unfazed by the interruption. Evans though was openly concerned as she watched.

"I'm afraid your circumstances are far from normal. In a hotel room, with a jet-lagged four-year-old? Whether Alan's trying or not, you're in for some sleepless nights. Virgil needs more rest than his brothers will allow him. I'd strongly recommend keeping him in the ward here for a couple more days – at least until his father is well enough to leave."

Jeff was distantly aware of his wife's reluctant nod. He listened to the conversation between Lucy and the doctor with half an ear. Alan was trying to tell him something, anxiety and tears making the little boy incomprehensible and increasingly loud. All Jeff could make out was Scott's name, with Gordon's and Virgil's following it. He held Alan tight, telling his youngest over and again that his Daddy was here and that everything would be all right.

"Mrs Tracy, all three of your sons need at least a few hours sleep. So does your husband, and, if you don't mind me saying so, you look exhausted yourself. Virgil and Jeff are doing well, as you've seen, and, remember, the boys need their mother too. Chuck Travis gave me the details of your hotel booking. Can I get someone to take you there?"

"Scott, and Gordy…"

"The inspector – and everyone else – are doing everything they can," Mina Evans sighed deeply. "The hotel is just a few hundred metres away. You could be back here in minutes."

Another loud cry from Alan distracted Jeff from Lucy's answer. On the bed, John sat abruptly upright, looking around him in a frantic search for his brother. Still dazed with sleep, he caught hold of Virgil as the older boy tried to push himself up and froze half-way, clutching his aching ribs with a groan. Jeff kept up his litany of comfort, his tired eyes meeting his wife's with an unwilling conclusion. Lucille leaned across their youngest, interrupting Jeff's reassurances with her lips as they caressed his. He let her take the distraught family baby with deep reluctance. He stood, moving up beside Dr Evans and helping support a sleepy John as Lucy coaxed him down from the bed before leaning down to whisper to an even-wearier Virgil. Jeff brushed his wife and both blond sons with his lips, reluctant to be parted from them, but wearily aware of the necessity.

"We'll be back in a few hours, love," Lucy promised him, having already assured Virgil of the same. She moved to follow the doctor from the room, hesitating in the doorway and looking back at him over Johnny's head of spun-gold hair. "You'll call if you hear anything?"

Jeff sighed and nodded. His head was throbbing and he felt decidedly unsteady as he used the back of the armchair for support. Silently, he cursed his own weakness. "There has to be news soon," he told her. She held his eyes for a long moment before nodding her agreement and vanishing through the door. The strength drained from him as if only the sight of her had kept him going so long. He didn't want to speculate about how true that might be. Virgil was still on his bed, already lost to the world. Jeff wanted to go to him, to fix the covers over his sleeping son. He collapsed in the armchair instead, his pulse beating a staccato rhythm against the inside of his skull. "Please, God, let there be news soon," he whispered as sleep engulfed him.

The shade helped. Scott still felt as if he were walking through an oven, his skin burning and his lungs struggling to draw in oxygen, but the comparatively cool air trapped under the overhanging canopy made him feel a little more human. He rallied, keeping Gordon close but not relying on his support for anything quite so simple as staying upright or putting one foot in front of another.

They kept to one side of the track, caution and an instinct for his brother's protection telling Scott that strolling blindly forwards would be unwise. They'd been walking for perhaps ten minutes when his eyes, following the criss-cross tracks of vehicle passages in the dirt, focused on something alarming.

"Gordon! Stop!"

Gordon had been perhaps two steps ahead of him. He stopped on the spot, too well trained by their ordeal to date to argue or protest against his brother's order.

"Scott?"

Scott stepped cautiously to the younger boy's side, indicating the point a metre or so ahead of them where the interweaving and meandering tyre tracks converged suddenly into a single pair of deep ruts, perhaps three metres long. The jeep, or whatever else they used on the island, would run along the channel like a freight train on its rails, carefully constrained not to move left or right. Gordon saw the implications almost as quickly as his brother did. He'd stripped the leaves off a sturdy stick some way back, sometimes using it as he walked, more often just playing with it, or using it to poke at bushes as they passed. Now he prodded at the ground under his feet, before looking up anxiously to search for anything suspended above them.

The previous day's terrifying experience still fresh in his own mind, Scott held his hand out for the stick, edging in front of his brother.

"Tread where I tread," he warned, meeting Gordon's anxious eyes.

"What if there's another trap, Scotty?"

"Then we find it before it finds us," Scott told him determinedly. Using one hand to keep his brother behind him, he took a careful step forward, poking at the ground, and then another, until they were standing in the wheel ruts, shuffling forward awkwardly. Frowning, Scott hesitated. Turning across the path, he used Gordon's stick to prod firmly at the centre of the road, directly between the tracks.

He was hardly surprised when the ground yielded, a thatch of grass collapsing into the revealed pit, dirt streaming through and around it. Scott stared down at the sharp metal spikes, tainted with a green stain, and tried hard not to relive the memories.

"Cars can go over it, but anyone walking normally up the path would have gone straight in," he reasoned aloud. He felt Gordon shudder, pressed up against his back, and turned to give his brother a reassuring pat. "It didn't get us, Gordy. We're too smart for it, right?"

Gordon looked up at him unhappily. "It would have got me."

Scott mustered up a reassuring grin, trying to project more certainly than he felt. "You'd have seen it in time, Gordy. You're way too sneaky to be caught out by something that simple. Right?"

Gordon looked uncertain. Scott offered him a hand and he held tight, shuffling nervously along after his brother as they edged past the trap. Scott kept hold of him when they were past it, and Gordon didn't pull away. The island's crude main road, obviously well travelled, had felt comparatively safe and straightforward. Now they were once again in unfamiliar and hostile territory.

It was just a minute or so later that Scott felt a firm tug on his hand, and heard his brother's anxious voice.

"Stop, Scotty!"

Scott froze mid-step. He gave the ground directly in front of him a careful look before lowering his foot to the ground and turning back to his brother. Gordon's head was tilted back, and he stared at the fork in a tree trunk perhaps ten metres ahead of and above them, his expression worried and uncertain. Scott followed his eyes, frowning when no obvious peril presented itself to his inspection.

"Gordon? What is it?"

Gordon squinted, tilting his head, before looking up at his elder brother, chewing his lip fretfully.

"A camera, I think. Cameras are bad, Scotty. We're not supposed to be here. What if someone's watching? One of those bad people from yesterday. They'll know we're here, Scott. They'll come find us and I don't want them to catch us. They said… That would be really bad."

Scott squinted up at the tree again, his thoughts a close mirror of his brother's. Baffled, and still not able to see what had caught Gordon's attention, he dropped to his knees to put his face on Gordon's eye-line. He was about to ask Gordon to point so he could sight along the arm when he caught it, a flash of reflection that came and went as the leaf-dappled light shifted. There was no way that anything natural caused that gleam, and it reminded Scott of uncomfortable occasions when the astronaut's son had caught a similar reflection from bushes or hillsides overlooking the place where he and his brothers were playing. Learning to recognise those flashes had become a survival instinct for the Tracy boys, one that they were honing as their father's business began to pick up momentum. Gordon was right, given its location, size and shape, it almost had to be a camera lens.

"Okay, Gordon, I see it."

Frowning, Scott tried to figure out the best strategy. Given how low he'd had to squat to see the reflection, and the angle of the sun, he was pretty sure the camera was directed sharply downwards, watching the path directly below it and for a few metres towards the main road. At their current distance, the two boys were probably well out of its view. On the other hand, it effectively blocked their way. There was no way they could walk on without being caught by it. Would someone be watching in real time, or would it just go to tape, to be reviewed when they were safely gone? The men in the jeep said that they were looking for intruders, for Scott and Gordon. On his own, Scott might have taken the risk. He wouldn't take it with Gordy.

He eyed the jungle around them with reluctance, and then with a sense of resignation. The hillside they were on sloped gently from east to west, but the path itself cut across that slope almost at right angles, running along the bottom of a narrow gully. Stepping off the path would not only mean navigating roots and tree trunks, but also struggling against the incline trying to force them back down onto it. The only slight advantage they had was that the camera was necessarily off-centre, supported on an overarching branch but close to its tree's trunk.

"Gordy." Scott kept his voice low, more out of instinct than any real belief that the camera was wired for sound. "We're not turning back now. The camera's sort of left of centre, see? Looking to the right? Well, we're going to get behind it, off the path on the left hand side. Just until we're past the camera, all right? Then we can cut back onto the road."

Gordon looked distinctly uncertain. He glanced up at Scott's flushed cheeks, and opened his mouth to say something before shaking his head and closing it again.

"What if there are more cameras?" he asked eventually, his tone despondent.

Scott sighed, and was forced to stifle a cough as the deep breath caught in his throat. He knew he was pushing his brother. Gordon's exuberance at the thought of calling their mother sometime soon had vanished with their discovery of the trap. The fact that Scott was sick, a fact becoming more apparent with each passing hour, wasn't doing anything to help his little brother's confidence either.

"Then we go around them too. Okay, Gordy?"

"Okay, Scott," Gordon agreed finally. He looked from Scott to the trees and back again, clearly thinking hard. "Scotty, can I carry our things?"

Blinking in surprise, Scott looked down at his little brother. "What?"

Gordon looked up at him, his small face carrying a deeply earnest expression. "I want to carry the bag, Scotty, with the blankets and water and food and things in it."

"Why?"

"Because it's heavy and you're feeling sick and you won't stop and you're looking after me, but I'm kind of okay and I want to help." For a six-year-old it was a remarkably generous offer. Scott slung the twisted tarpaulin pack from his shoulder, weighing it in his hand. Truthfully, with their supply of food and water all but exhausted, the pack wasn't nearly as heavy as it had been when they set out. The survival blankets were designed to be thin and light, the first aid kit bulky but almost entirely filled with lightweight bandages. The largest weight they still carried was the flare gun, and Scott was loath to abandon it, even now he suspected they wouldn't find a chance to use it.

Reluctant, but seeing the sense of Gordon's idea, Scott lifted the twist of canvas over his brother's head, swinging it bandolier-like from shoulder to hip and settling the bulk of the pack across Gordon's back. Still kneeling in front of his little brother, he looked the boy in the eyes. "Now I want you to tell me if it gets heavy, Gordon. I can always take it back, alright?"

Gordon nodded, his amber eyes full of determination. Scott leaned forward to give his brother a quick hug.

"Thanks, Gordy."

Scott felt strangely weightless without the pack across his shoulders. He swayed when he stood, light-headed and only vaguely aware of Gordon reaching out to steady him. With an effort of will, he straightened up before the younger boy's hand made contact, determined not to lean on his little brother more than he had to.

"Let's go," he said quietly.

They made slow progress, climbing the steep slope, so they were a couple of metres above the path as well as a couple of metres away from its left-hand edge. They paralleled it, moving from tree to tree to help keep them balanced as the ground slipped downhill from under their feet. Gordon was struggling with his extra burden, pausing occasionally to adjust the weight slung across his back. Scott, staying a cautious few steps behind his brother, ready to dive forward and catch him if necessary, was simply struggling. The extra effort left him breathless and wheezing, praying now that the camera didn't have a microphone attached lest the sound of his chesty coughing gave them both away. Perspiration poured off his brow, running down his face despite the cool breeze between the trees. It was a relief when Scott looked up to see his little brother studying the tree canopy, both ahead of and behind them. With the camera safely passed, and no sign yet of another ahead, the two boys slid and slipped back down onto the path. Sinking to his knees, Scott struggled for a few moments to control his breathing and get his balance back. Finally satisfied, he staggered to his feet, holding his hand out for their pack.

"I can take that back, Gordon," he offered, his breath catching half way through even the short sentence. Gordon frowned, backing a few steps further down the path and shaking his head, his face set in a stubborn expression that Scott knew all too well.

"I've got it, Scott," Gordon insisted. "It's not heavy, really it's not."

Scott hesitated. He scowled at Gordon and then sighed, his enthusiasm for the fight non-existent. "If you get tired, tell me," he insisted softly, resting a hand on the younger boy's shoulder as they set off down the path.

The sound of raised voices dragged Jeff Tracy back to consciousness. Someone had reclined his armchair, tucking a pillow behind his head and covering him with a thin hospital blanket. His eyes searched out the bed before anything else, comforted and relieved to see Virgil still there. His son was curled up, back to Jeff and the rest of the room, only his wavy chestnut-brown hair visible. The sheets were pulled taut around him, the entire shape stiff and motionless. Jeff frowned, instinct and thirteen years of experience as a father telling him that the boy was awake and trying hard not to show it.

With his son accounted for, Jeff turned his attention to the voices that had awakened him, trying to work out just why Virgil might be hiding. Four figures crowded the narrow doorway, two just inside the room and two in the corridor outside. Closest to Jeff was Mina Evans. The doctor looked harried, and more than a little angry, spots of colour high on her cheeks. The man next to her was a young police officer, his uniform smart and crisp and his expression impassive. In one hand he held an expensive-looking camera, in the other its data-card. He held on tightly to the latter while proffering the former to its owner, a slightly dishevelled man in his twenties that Jeff pegged at once as a journalist, or at least as a press photographer. The intruder looked furious. If he'd taken photographs of Jeff Tracy and his injured son, his fury would be nothing to the ex-astronaut's.

"The data-card?" the photographer in the corridor was demanding, snatching his camera and reaching for its most vital component. "Look, you can't take it. The world wants to see these pictures. Jeff Tracy losing his eldest son and heir, killed by the same space agency that took Tracy to the Moon? And the kid, Virgil. Way I hear it, the boy ought to get a medal for keeping his Dad above the water. Hell! That would be a feel-good story even if it happened to a nobody. For Jeff Tracy to be saved by his own kid…. Virgil deserves the kudos. It's not fair on him to hide his light under a bushel because his Dad's such a privacy freak. People out there want to know these things. You've got to give me the data-card!"

Jeff stirred, his fists clenching in anger. Evans glanced quickly in his direction, her expression and a swift hand gesture pleading with him not to reveal he was awake. Furious but seeing her point, Jeff half-closed his eyes, pretending to be asleep as he watched to see whether the police would hold firm without his intervention.

"I'm sorry, sir, but it's evidence in an ongoing enquiry." That was the fourth individual, a man about Jeff's own age with a pale complexion and curly hair. He was dressed in civilian clothes, but he had the same watchful and authoritative air that Jeff had seen in Inspector Travis and dozens of others over his lifetime. There was no mistaking the fact that this was a plain-clothes policeman, and, at present, wasn't even trying to hide it.

The press man didn't seem impressed, trying again to make a snatch for his recorded photographs as the uniformed officer passed the data-card to his superior.

"I'm an accredited photographer! You can't take my property! I have rights… the First Amendment…"

The detective's easy stance shifted. His hand shot out, taking a grip on the photographer's upper arm that silenced him. His apologetic statement had been relaxed, its tone neutral. Now anger trickled through his voice. It dropped a pitch lower and became quieter, so Jeff had to struggle to hear.

"Let me explain a few things to you, sir. First off, you're not in the United States now, and I trust you understand that, American or not, while you're on Dominga, Domingan Confederate law applies as much to you as it does to the men gutting fish down by the harbour. Second, even if you were in the States, 'Freedom of the Press' relates to freedom of expression of opinion, not freedom to trample over the privacy and rights of other people, no matter how curious your voyeuristic readership might be. And third, when I mentioned a case just now, I was thinking of missing persons. Do you really want me to make it trespass, endangerment of others through preventing a doctor carrying out her duty, stalking and harassment, and intention to take unauthorised photographs of a minor with unwholesome intent?"

The photographer had been trying to shake off the hand on his arm with increasing force. The younger, uniformed officer stepped forward taking hold of the man's other arm. The detective nodded to him in acknowledgement, stepping into the doorway next to Evans to block the photographer's view.

"Take this man's name and throw him out. Make sure our people on the door and the journalists circling outside know that, as of right now, press are officially banned from this hospital's premises. And get onto headquarters. We could do with a few more officers if they have any to spare."

The man in uniform nodded, keeping the protesting photographer in a firm hold as he chivvied him down the passage. "Yes, sir."

The detective watched them go, his back to Jeff and Virgil, the doctor beside him. From Jeff's point of view, the photographer had been out of view for a good thirty seconds before the detective relaxed, formality falling away from him like a masquerade costume.

The doctor smiled at him. "You know, Mike, just occasionally I see why the Chief Inspector promoted you."

The detective didn't smile. He let a long breath whistle out between his teeth, rubbing a hand through his hair. "God, Mina! If this is what Tracy has to put up with every day, how does the man cope?"

"It's not usually this bad," Jeff volunteered. The detective turned sharply in surprise. The doctor mirrored him, looking more concerned.

"Headache?" she asked as Jeff rubbed his pounding temples. Jeff grimaced his agreement and Doctor Evans nodded before going off, presumably in search of a nurse and some analgesics. The detective lingered behind, looking apologetic and a little nervous. Jeff managed a tight smile of appreciation as the man, Kearney, introduced himself. He sighed, continuing his explanation.

"Most of the time, I'm old news: a retired astronaut, even one who's been to the Moon, doesn't compete with the latest music stars or hot young actors. It's usually only when I sign a big contract, or someone sits up and takes notice of what Tracy Industries' stock is doing, that I get the press hounding me and my family."

Frowning at that thought, he shot a worried glance at Kearney.

"Mrs Tracy and your other sons are booked in under Vaughan's name," Kearney supplied without needing to be asked. "I've got a plain-clothes man at the hotel ready to bring them around the back way to avoid the press-pack."

"A lot of them?" Jeff asked with a frown.

"More than a few," Kearney admitted. "Seems the weather control problem that gave us the typhoon has been making big news in the world outside. Add a big name, human interest story…. Mr Tracy, I am very sorry. For everything. And I'm sorry you had to see that little confrontation. We'll make sure no one comes that close again, believe me. Just about the only thing the man said that made any sense at all is that young Virgil there probably deserves a medal, and I know that's probably the last thing on your mind right now."

Jeff frowned. His son was still pretending to be asleep, sheets pulled tight around him, but he would have sworn he saw Virgil flinch. He was grateful when Dr Evans returned, handing over two pills and a glass of water to Jeff before shepherding Kearney out of he room with an injunction to let her patient rest. Jeff took the pills, drinking the water down after them when he realised that Mina Evans had paused in the doorway to watch. She shut the door behind her, and Jeff sat still for a few seconds before crossing the small room to the bedside.

He perched on the edge of the mattress, resting one hand on his young son's back and feeling the shudders. As he'd more than half-expected, Virgil was crying. Years of sharing rooms and of their brothers' close company had taught his elder boys to sob silently when things just got too much for them and they didn't want to show it. Sighing, Jeff climbed onto the bed. Virgil shuffled aside, giving his father room to lie on the sheets beside him, without turning or raising his head. Gently, Jeff worked an arm around his son's shoulders, rolling the boy to face him. Virgil's face was flushed and tear-streaked, and Jeff pulled him close, resting his son's head on his chest, stroking the hair back from his face.

"It's okay, Virgil. He's gone, and the policemen won't let him come back." Jeff hesitated, thinking over what his wife had told him. "Virgil, I know all this has been scary and difficult, and I'm sorry I've not been there for you, but I'm getting better now. You don't have to hide things from me, son, not any more, okay? I know you're worried, but it's all right to let things out."

Virgil didn't speak, just let his father hold him, one arm thrown across Jeff's waist.

Jeff's frown deepened. He'd thought that Lucy's arrival had broken through Virgil's shell, and it certainly had made a difference. He knew, of course, that nothing, not even his mother's comfort, could wave a magic wand an make everything in Virgil's world right. Even so, he was dismayed to see the barriers coming back up.

"Virgil, you've been so very brave…"

Virgil's body gave another shudder, and this time the sob was audible: a thin, pained wail. Jeff raised his head to look down at the top of his son's hair, worried.

"I'm not brave." The voice was soft and choked with tears. "I don't want a prize or a medal or anything."

Jeff took a deep breath, knowing what his son needed to hear, no matter how painful it was to say. "You saved my life, Virgil. Scott would have been so proud of you…"

Again Virgil shook with reaction, but now he was shaking his head.

"It's my fault," he whispered.

"Virgil?"

"It's my fault Scott and Gordy are gone. If I'd held on tighter, been braver, better, you'd have got into the boat. You'd have been with Scott and Gordon and kept them safe and got them home, and they'd be here, and happy, and alive."

"Virgil!" He'd known that Virgil's mind was on his missing brothers. It honestly hadn't occurred to Jeff that his son could find any way to blame himself for what had happened to them. Previously forgotten images sprang to mind, fragmented memories rebuilding themselves in the face of his need to comfort his son.

"Virgil, what happened… it was an accident. There was nothing you could have done. The ship, the Santa Anna, she was breaking up."

Decking splintered under his feet. Rain filled the air like a thick grey fog, yielding only glimpses of his terrified sons. A loud, sharp crack was barely audible above the constant thunder. Jeff felt true panic for the first time. The mast! The mast was falling!

"The deck was giving way. The boom…"

The wooden spar, as thick around as Jeff's own waist, swept towards him. Pure instinct drove Jeff to dive for the ground. Another instinct, equally strong, tightened his grip on the rope wrapped around his left wrist. He felt the rope pull tight as the boom swept overhead, trailing the tattered shreds of their mainsail. This time he both heard and felt the snap. Burning pain flooded his arm. The rope tore loose from suddenly numb fingers.

"I let go of the boat, Virgil," he realised. "Before I saw what happened to you. Before…"

Agony shooting through him, breathless and choking in the water swirling around him, Jeff tumbled across the tossing and shattering deck. Shards of fibreglass, knife sharp, buckled upwards, clashed and splintered further. Jeff looked past them, strained past them, desperate to get to… Lightning flashed, freezing the moment. Virgil was in mid-air, doubled over the boom that had struck his chest. Jeff screamed for his son, unable to see Virgil's face until the boy's rotation turned his expression of terror into his father's eye-line. And then the lightning passed and Virgil was gone.

"God help us, Virgil, I don't know how we survived at all, but…"

With a scream of agonised plastic and metal, the Santa Anna dissolved into the churning water. The tearing pain in Jeff's wrist was matched by a deep burn in his lungs as he was sucked down with the wreckage. He struck for the surface, battered time and again by fragments of the yacht. His head burst through the water and he looked around him frantically. The dinghy was gone, no sign of it amidst the towering waves and torrential downpour. Jeff searched, desperate, blinking rain and waves from his eyes until there… there… a bobbing head, barely glimpsed between flashes and constant, overwhelming noise. He struck out towards his son, never seeing the fallen mast that sent him crashing into oblivion.

"Virgil… I let the dinghy go. Gordy, Scott... I couldn't hold onto them. There was no way I could get to them. I didn't even see you in the water until they were already gone." Jeff choked back a sob of his own, refusing to let his son see him cry, knowing that Virgil needed him strong enough to lean on. He leaned down, kissing the head resting on his chest. "This was not your fault, Virgil. Never yours."

Virgil looked up at him, his tear-streaked face strained and pale. He looked surprised, his mind evidently working hard to understand what he was told. Jeff held his son's brown eyes with his own blue-grey steel. Virgil nodded slowly, reluctantly, trusting his father and unable to disbelieve him when Jeff's voice rang with such certainty. Jeff sighed, pulling his young son back down against his chest.

"Virgil, there are still people out looking for Scott and Gordon," his voice faltered slightly, his terrifying, newly recovered memories undermining the faith he'd been clinging to. If Virgil had been living with the echoes of that night, it was no wonder he'd been quick to consider the worst. "Whether or not… whatever they find, it doesn't change how brave you were, or the fact that you saved me. It doesn't change how proud I am of you, and how proud your mother is. Or how proud your big brother would be."

Virgil sighed deeply, letting his body relax against Jeff's. "I just want Scott home, Dad," he said in a small, sad voice. "I want to show him Mr Vaughan's jet. I want Gordy to make me laugh, and to get angry with him for doing something silly. Even… even if I just knew where they were. They shouldn't be out there on their own."

Jeff echoed his son's sigh. "We'll find them, Virgil."

"How long…" Virgil's voice faltered. "What happens when Inspector Travis and Mr Vaughan and the others give up, Dad?"

Jeff turned his head, glancing towards the clock on his bedside table. It was coming up on mid-afternoon now, nearly three days since the storm struck, and the search planes had been in the air since dawn. If they hadn't spotted the Santa Anna's boat by now… He shook his head, looking down at his son with a resolute expression.

"If that happens, son, I'll search myself. I'll hire a plane, or I'll get mine down here. I'll hire another boat, sonar, whatever it takes, and I won't stop until I find them."

Virgil glanced up, an unhappy smile on his face. "Good," he said simply.