"Oh, you're more than welcome," Milano said sourly, and closed the door behind her.

Ry pulled the chair up to the side of the bed and sat with Natalie's hand in his.

He dozed once or twice. Occasionally a nurse came into the room and scooted him out. It was during one of those short, restless breaks that he saw Boyd rushing down the corridor.

"Piasecki."

"Captain. She's sleeping." Ry gestured toward the door. "There."

Without another word, Boyd moved past him and inside.

Ry walked into the waiting lounge, poured a cup of muddy coffee, and stared out the window. He couldn't think. It seemed better that way, just to let the night drift. If he focused, he would see it again, the terror on her face, the fire around her. And he would remember how he'd felt, carrying her down flight after flight, not knowing if she was alive or dead.

The burning on his hand made him look down. He saw he'd crushed the paper cup into a ball and spilled the hot coffee, over his bandaged hands.

"Want another?" Boyd said from behind him.

"No." Ry tossed the cup away, and wiped his hand on his jeans.

"You want to go outside and pound on me awhile?''

With a short laugh, Boyd poured coffee for himself. "Have you taken a look in a mirror?''

"Why?"

"You look like h.e.l.l." Experimentally, Boyd sipped. It was even more pathetic than precinct coffee. "Worse than h.e.l.l. It wouldn't look good for me to start swinging at a guy in your condition."

"I heal quick." When Boyd said nothing, Ry shoved his hands in his pockets. "I told you I wouldn't let her get hurt. I d.a.m.n near killed her."

"You did?"

"I lost it. I knew it wasn't just Clarence. I knew there was somebody behind it. But I was so... wrapped up in her. I never thought about him getting another torch, or trying something himself. The phones, d.a.m.n it. I heard the phones ringing."

Intrigued, Boyd sat back. "Which means?"

"A delaying device," Ry shot back, whirling around. "It's a cla.s.sic.

Matchsticks, soaked in accelerant. Tape them to the phone, call the number. The phone rings, the ringer sparks the match."

"Clever. But you know, you can't think of everything all the time."

"It's my job to think of everything."

"And to have a crystal ball."

His voice was raw from the abuse his throat had taken, tight with the emotion he couldn't afford to let loose. "I was supposed to take care of her."

"Yeah." Acknowledging that, Boyd sipped again. "I made a lot of calls on the flight from Denver. One of the perks of Fletcher Industries is having a private plane at your disposal. I talked to the fire marshal, to the doctor who treated Natalie, to Deirdre Marks.

You got her out, carried her down every d.a.m.n step in that building.

How many st.i.tches have you got in that arm?"

"That's hardly the point."

"The point is, the fire marshal gave me some idea of what you were facing up there on the forty-second floor, and what kind of shape you were in when you got her outside. Her doctor told me that if she'd been in there another ten minutes, it isn't likely she'd be sleeping right now. So, do I want to punch you? I don't think so.

I owe you my sister's life."

Ry remembered how she had looked when he laid her on the ground next to the engine. How she looked now, pale and still, in a hospital bed. "You don't owe me anything."

"Natalie's as important to me as she is to you." Boyd set his coffee aside and rose. "What did you do to tick her off?"

Ry grimaced. "We're working it out."

"Well, good luck." Boyd held out a hand.

After a moment, Ry clasped it with his. "Thanks."

"I figure you're going to be here awhile. I've got a little job to do."

Ry tightened his grip, and narrowed his eyes. "Deirdre told you who's responsible."

"That's right. I also spoke with my counterpart here in Urbana while I was in the air. It's being taken care of." He saw the look in Ry's eyes, understood it. "This part's up to my team, Ry. You and yours just make d.a.m.n sure you hang him for the arson."

"Who?" Ry said between his teeth.

"Donald Hawthorne. I got it down to four likely suspects two days ago." He smiled a little. "Some background checks, bank and phone records. Sometimes it pays to be a cop."

"And you didn't pa.s.s the information along to me."

"I intended to, when I narrowed it down a bit further. Now I have, and I am."

Boyd knew what it was to love, to need to protect, and to live with the terror of seeing your woman fight for her life.

"Listen," he said briskly, "if you kill him-however much it might appeal to both of us right now-I'd have to arrest you. I'd hate to throw my brother-in-law in a cell."

Ry unfisted his hands long enough to stick them in his pockets.

"I'm not your brother-in-law."

"Not yet. Go on in with her, get some sleep."

"You'd better put Hawthorne somewhere where I can't find him."

"I intend to," Boyd said as he walked away.

Natalie stirred at dawn. Ry was watching the way the slats of light through the blinds bloomed over her when her lashes fluttered.

He bent over her, talking softly, quickly, so that her first clear thoughts wouldn't be fearful ones. "Natalie, you're okay. We got out okay. You just swallowed some smoke. Everything's all right now. You've been sleeping. I'm right here. I don't want you to talk.

Your throat's going to be miserable for a while."

"You're talking," she whispered, her eyes still closed.

"Yeah." And it felt as though he'd swallowed a flaming sword.

"That's why I don't recommend it."