Only the wind whispered in reply. Ryan took in a deep breath and let it out slow. "Well, he's got to be around here somewhere," he said. His hand had trouble holstering the big autoblaster, then an icy calm took the man as if he were in the middle of a firefight, and it slid smoothly into place.

"Mebbe he's hiding, or fell over the edge," Krysty suggested, glancing at the dark streets. Gaia, what a grisly thought.

"Any sign of him on the ground?" Ryan asked, but their replies sounded strange to him as if somebody else had asked if the boy was dead, but not him. He felt oddly distant from the conversation, as if he were speaking to them from over a great length of pipe.

"Not a sign of him," Doc stated, forcing a neutral expression as he holstered his blaster and b.u.t.toned down the flap. "Don't worry, it is only three stories onto soft sand. If the lad did tumble, he probably has no worse than a broken leg."

"Jumped another building," Jak suggested, as pragmatic as always.

"Logical," Ryan admitted, unclenching his fist. "I'll check the roof to our west."

A sharp whistle cut the night.

"Here!" J.B. shouted, waving from the east side. "Over here!"

The companions rushed to the edge of the roof. The Armorer pointed across the alleyway to the next building. The rain-pitted expanse of concrete was empty except for a skylight. But one of the milky-white gla.s.s panels in the framework was broken, and lying nearby in a splash of red blood was Dean's knife.

Chapter Eight.

Tossing Krysty the rifle, Ryan backed away a few steps and charged. At the last moment, he jumped over the low wall and sailed across the gulf of the alleyway to land heavily on the concrete roof of the next building. He went to one knee, but was up again in an instant. Going to the hole in the skylight, Ryan listened for any sounds before cupping his hands and shouting the boy's name. There was no answer.

He turned and barked, "Mildred!"

The physician reached into her med kit and tossed him a small object. Ryan made the catch one-handed and squeezed the charging handle on the tiny flashlight a few times to power the miniature battery inside.

It was old and weak, but a hundred times better than a candle. Playing the beam through the hole, he saw an open area directly under the skylight with a balcony on four sides. A staggered staircase of iron lace spiraled down into the building and out of range of the weak beam.

"I'm going in," he said, stuffing the flashlight into his belt. "Meet you on the ground floor." "On our way," Krysty shouted, already heading for the kiosk.

Carefully testing the skylight for strength, Ryan knew it would never hold his two-hundred-plus pounds.

Carefully wiggling the rest of the gla.s.s shards from the frame, he tossed them aside. Then, grabbing the part of the framework directly attached to the concrete roof, he carefully lowered himself down. The angle was awkward, but he held on tight. Lowering himself as far as he could, Ryan swung his legs back and forth until he had sufficient momentum and let go.

Pain racked his back as he sc.r.a.ped over the railing, and he landed sprawled on the soft carpeting of the topmost balcony. Scrambling erect, Ryan pulled out his blaster and flashlight. Anything could be inside this place. Just because the roof was untouched didn't mean the front door wasn't wide open. He couldn't chance being caught unprepared.

Playing the beam around, he saw that the central area was squared off by the fancy iron-lace railings. An open framework elevator shaft of the same material stood nearby. Moving along the floor, he noted the array of closed doors with tarnished nameplates lining the balcony. Every one was closed with no signs of busted wood on the jamb showing a forced entry. Lush plastic plants in oak stands adorned the corners, and a squat copier stood reverently in an alcove near a brace of soda machines.

"Dean!" he shouted, his words echoing slightly down the halls. "Son, can you hear me?"

Dead silence. Ryan shook that word from his mind. Negative thoughts would only slow his reflexes. He had to concentrate on finding his son.

Still holding the SIG-Sauer, Ryan placed two fingers in his mouth and whistled once loudly. No response. With a growing sense of unease in the pit of his stomach, the man moved past the elevator and started down the open stairs, shining the flashlight everywhere. At the third story, he encountered an iron grating padlocked shut. Ryan hesitated for a moment, then leveled the 9 mm blaster and shot off the lock.

The cough of the silenced weapon was lost in the crash of the exploding metal and seemed to endlessly bounce off the plaster walls, the noise somehow making the building seem even more empty than before.

Two more gates blocked his progress, and by the time he reached the ground floor, the rest of the companions were already waiting in the s.p.a.cious lobby. The area was well lit by the strong light of the lanterns. Wide couches surrounded low tables piled with magazines, the pale walls decorated with ornate paintings of landscapes and running water. Velvet ropes formed a maze to traverse before reaching the ma.s.sive reception desk, where a tiny sign sternly announced that no smoking was allowed.

"We heard shots," J.B. said urgently, the Uzi held steady in a combat grip.

"Locked doors," Ryan replied, clicking off the flashlight and returning it to Mildred. "Any sign of Dean outside?"

"Not a trace. You?"

"No."

Shoving aside the soft ropes, Krysty strode behind the reception desk and glanced underneath.

Wounded, the boy could be hiding anywhere.

"Lavatories are clear," Doc announced, bursting out of the ladies' room, his frock coat spreading widein his wake like the wings of some terrible prehistoric bird.

Mildred yanked open an unmarked door and jumped back, almost firing as a collection of brooms and mops piled out, nearly hitting her. "Janitor's closet," the physician reported. "Also empty."

"Dean!" Ryan shouted through cupped hands. The name echoed throughout the old building.

A great rage was building within the man, the fury tempered with the dire possibility the boy was dead and gone. Crossing the lobby past a brace of telephone cubicles, Ryan kicked open the first door. Inside were only chairs, desks dotted with coffee cups and a huge easel covered with a meaningless pie chart showing the excellent performance of something somewhere.

"Okay, we do this systematically. I'll take the left side with Krysty. Jak with Mildred, J.B. stay here and cover us with the Uzi. Doc, sweep outside again."

Scratching her cheek with the barrel of her .38, Krysty spoke. "Remember, that mutie flew. If it wasn't alone, and another grabbed Dean..."

"Then there's nothing to be done," Ryan stated coldly, his features set as if cast in an arctic glacier. "We can't track an animal in flight. So concentrate on what can be done. Search this place room by room."

"Over here!" Jak cried, partially masked by the shadows of the reception desk.

Grabbing a lantern, Ryan shone the light in the direction of the call. The pale teenager was kneeling at the iron-lace railing that cordoned off the middle of the lobby. "Central access not stop here! Down another level!"

In a second, Ryan was already alongside the Cajun, leaning over the railing and shining the lantern around. A chrome-and-steel kinetic sculpture made of sharp panes and angles rose from the dusty center of a dried fountain. Dozens of small tables dotted the floor around it, and lying amid them was a crumpled human body, limbs splayed, a trickle of blood dribbling from his slack mouth.

"Dean," Ryan said softly, almost dropping the light.

"Still bleeding," Mildred stated quickly. "That means he's alive."

"How do we get there?" Krysty demanded, looking around. "The enclosed stairs stop on this level.

Where are the ones leading to the bas.e.m.e.nt?"

"This way!" Doc shouted, gesturing with the LeMat.

Staying at the railing, Ryan gauged the distance, then jumped over the banister. He landed next to the boy, missing the granite rim of the fountain's basin by only inches. The others arrived minutes later, charging out of the enclosed stairwell. They maneuvered through the rows of tables and found Ryan kneeling solemnly alongside his son.

"There's no pulse," he announced woodenly, holding the boy's small wrist in his hand.

Pushing the man aside, Mildred expertly placed two fingers on right side of the lad's throat just under the mastoid bone. "There's a pulse," she said, resting a palm on his forehead. "But it's weak and fast, and the skin is clammy." Already her tone was shifting from concern to impartial. Never think about the person you were treating.

Concentrate on fixing the injuries-later on there would be time for celebration, or mourning.

"He's in shock." Ryan frowned, having seen enough in his life to recognize the symptoms. "Got to keep him warm. Krysty!"

"On it," the redhead said. Placing the Steyr on a table, she shucked the bearskin coat and pa.s.sed it over.

"More," Mildred said, tucking the fur over the boy.

"Done." Krysty holstered her blaster. "Jak, cover me."

The Cajun followed her into the darkness, and soon there came sounds of smashing wood and ripping cloth.

Glancing around, Ryan saw they were in the center of a food court, rows of garish plastic signs proclaiming delicious snacks long decayed into dust. Rows of plastic tables encircled the fountain with the weird metallic sculpture. On the other side of the court was the iron-lace framework of the elevator, adjacent to more public rest rooms, phones and drinking fountains.

Rising, Ryan removed his palm from the floor and flexed his hand. "b.a.s.t.a.r.d tile flooring is ice cold.

We've got to get him off this." He started to slide his arms under the boy, but Mildred pushed the man away.

"Don't touch him until I say so," the physician ordered brusquely. Then she ripped open the boy's shirt.

His hairless chest was smeared with blood and heavily scarred in spots, but there were no cuts or slashes readily apparent. But his forearm was thick with partially dried blood.

"Clawed," she said, probing the tender flesh. "Some minor discoloration, but no signs of toxic striation."

"The mutie is poisonous?"

"Apparently so, but none got in the wounds." Then she muttered, "However, that isn't what I'm worried about."

Suddenly shuddering, Dean began to have trouble breathing. Ryan started for him and stopped. As careful as if she were handling antique gla.s.s, Mildred took his head and tilted it backward an inch, the raspy noise easing somewhat.

"Tissue damage to his throat, just a bruise really, but it can swell and close off his breathing. I better prep for a trach just in case it gets worse." Whipping out a knife, she placed a small piece of soft plastic tubing from a fish aquarium alongside her switchblade knife and a packet of cotton wadding. The med kit held the big instruments, but Mildred always carried small medical items in her pockets just for a case like this.

Then she cursed, b.u.mping her head against the rounded corner of one of the plastic tables. "For G.o.d's sake, give me some room to work. And more light!"

With his back to the wall between two fast-food counters, J.B. stood guard while Ryan and Doc started to remove the obstructions. The tables were bolted to the floor, but that didn't hinder the men fromclearing a s.p.a.ce around the patient and doctor.

As Doc tipped the plastic tables sideways, Ryan set the lanterns close to the shiny plastic tops to reflect the light and amplify the meager illumination. As bright as it was, there was no overhead illumination, and for one fleeting instant, Ryan felt he would have given his remaining eye for a single working lightbulb.

Concentrating on her task, Mildred carefully probed behind the boy's ears for any telltale swelling, then checked his nose for a trace of clear fluid.

"No sign of a skull fracture," she announced, feeling a wave of relief. "That's good news." Furiously pumping the handle of her flashlight, charging the battery to maximum, she gently used a thumb to peel back an eyelid, shining the beam directly into Dean's eyes. The pupils dilated very slowly.

"G.o.ddammit," she cursed. Shifting position, the physician started to unlace the boot on Dean's right leg, her dark fingers lost in the shadows.

Krysty and Jak arrived just then with their arms full of draperies. "No blankets," Krysty announced, depositing her bundle near the boy. "But these are good and thick."

"Need more, we'll get carpet," Jak added, dropping his load of curtains and valances on top of the pile.

"That's enough for now," Mildred said, easing off the boy's Army boot. Drawing a knife, she slid the pommel of the weapon upward along the inner sole of his bare foot. Then she did it again, watching his unresponsive toes.

Doc sat on the edge of the fountain, watching the process with growing unease. He remembered a farming accident from his youth in Vermont and how the local country doctor had done the same thing and what the awful verdict was.

"What's wrong?" Ryan asked, sitting on his haunches.

Sliding the sock back on the limp foot, Mildred looked at him directly. "Your son has a concussion, no way to tell how bad. Thankfully, there doesn't seem to be any loose bone fragments. Might be okay if there's no internal clotting. Couple of ribs, right hand and his left leg are broken, but no compound fractures, thank G.o.d. Right arm is dislocated. Painful as h.e.l.l, but also not serious. Probably landed sideways, breaking his leg, which slowed his momentum enough to stop the impact from smashing his skull open."

Mildred knew she was sounding callous, and her old teachers at medical school would have had a fit about her talking to a patient's parent this way. But those days were long gone. Ryan needed information hard and fast. There was simply no time for courtesy.

Ryan gave no outward sign of concern at the news.

"Partially bit through his tongue. I can fix that with needle and thread good as new, and I have two antibiotic tablets I've been saving for an emergency."

"Use them," Ryan snapped in a voice she had never heard before.

"I had already planned on doing so," Mildred said softly. "However, it's his back that worries me. I'm not getting any autonomic reflexes. It may only be a temporary condition, or there could be significantdamage to his spinal cord."

"Oh, h.e.l.l," J.B. whispered in the background.

"A broken back," Ryan muttered, his knuckles clenched white. "Is...is he in pain?"

"No." Then much as she hated to, Mildred told him the truth. "But he might be crippled, or blind, or completely paralyzed for the rest of his life. Spinal injuries can go a lot of ways, most of them bad."

Ryan's face underwent a series of somber expressions in a heartbeat. Blind. Paralyzed. Unable to fight or run, his son would be as good as dead. Worse, he would endanger the rest of them. His hand brushed against the stock of his 9 mm pistol and jerked away as if struck by an electric spark. Guilt flooded his being.

Tilting her head, Mildred brushed a coil of beaded hair out of her face. "Don't even think about such things yet. There's still a lot we can do first."

He took a deep breath. "Name it. Anything."

"First and foremost, we immobilize the boy completely. He can't be allowed to move an inch in any direction. G.o.d, what I'd give for a paramedic airpack." She shook away those thoughts. "We need wood for splints, and rope, or better yet, something flat like a belt to hold him down. And a flat board to get him off this cold floor."

"Blankets no good?" Jak asked, frowning.

"Can't cushion his back. It has to be hard."

Ryan took a lantern from the floor. "Let's move."

In orderly fashion, the rest of the companions separated throughout the food court, the flames of their lanterns bobbing behind counters and disappearing into back rooms.

"What are you not telling him?" J.B. asked softly.

Mildred glanced sideways at the man, the light reflecting off his wire-rimmed spectacles. "A four-story fall onto polished tile," she stated barely above a whisper. "What do you think I haven't told him yet?"

In only a few minutes, Ryan and the others returned with a collection of paneling, a door with hinges still attached, chair arms, shelves and numerous belts.

"Packing strips from the mail room," Doc said proudly, proffering a handful. "A most fortuitous acquisition."

"d.a.m.n near perfect," Mildred agreed, examining a woven cloth strip. "Good work. Jak, start cutting the b.u.t.tons off those coats."