"Beeks will want to come with us," Needles said.

Aaron inhaled rapidly as from a knife in the gut. "Beeks is in there?" he gasped, covering his wound with his hand.

"I think he's down in the practice range," Needles said. "You boys load up your bikes while I look for him. I'll just be a second."

He rolled the door up just enough to duck under it then disappeared into the cannery.

w.i.l.l.y's face had popped a sweat. "What should we do?" he whispered.

Aaron heard ominous groaning sounds coming from the direction of the boiler house. "Come on," he said, and they dropped their bikes and ran inside the warehouse after Needles.

He was lighting a lantern.

"Needles," Aaron said, coughing hard. "You don't understand. We gotta leave!"

"Listen," Needles said. "Beeks is the toughest son-of-a-b.i.t.c.h I've ever met. If there's a fight tonight, I want him there. You got that?" He checked his watch. "Souther said 6:30 ... it's 6:15. We have time. Wait here, and don't move till I get back."

He picked up the lantern and started toward the back of the warehouse.

Aaron coughed hard again, but this time it really hurt. "Needles!" he cried desperately, clenching his teeth in pain. He gestured feebly in the direction of the boiler house.

"The boiler ... it's ..." He trailed off.

Needles stopped, turned and looked back, his face suddenly ashen, then said in a low, knowing voice, "What did you do ... ?"

Aaron stood with his arms limp at his sides, the weight of tears behind his eyes. How could he possibly admit what he'd done? How could he ever own up to something like that? It was supposed to have been a harmless prank. Nothing more. Just the death of an old building that was ready to die anyway.

"I-I rigged the boiler ..." he said at last. "It's going to explode."

"What?" Needles gasped, jerking his head in the direction of the boiler house. "Have you lost your mind? Can't you undo it?"

"It's too late, Needles. I can hear a"

"d.a.m.n it!" Needles said, his attention returning to Beeks. "You two go on without me." He set the lantern on the floor and took off running, disappearing into the darkness of the cannery.

Aaron was numb. He stared at the empty s.p.a.ce that had been Needles.

w.i.l.l.y heard the boiler. He put his hand on Aaron's shoulder. "You know we can't go after him, Aaron ..."

"I know."

"We gotta jet ..."

"I know."

"Can you ride?"

Aaron just stood there staring after Needles, the light from the lantern showing on his face. His fatigue was intense. He hadn't really slept in three days ... and now this. He had nothing left. He was ready to lie down right there on the cannery floor and die.

w.i.l.l.y took him gently by the shoulders and looked him in the eye. "Aaron, listen to me. Your mother needs us, okay? Can you ride?"

Aaron looked at him oddly for a long moment; then his eyes sharpened and he slowly gathered himself and answered the question.

"I can ride."

Chapter 48.

High Pressure Needles arrived at the practice range out of breath. The hatch was open, and that light was shining up from down below.

He called down the steps. "Beeks!"

Beeks couldn't hear a thing under his earm.u.f.fs.

POP! POP! POP! Three rounds through the bulls-eye.

"Beeks!" Needles shouted.

No response.

"d.a.m.n it!"

He started down the ladder, then stopped short when he heard a loud metallic, groaning sound. Then a tremendous bang made him shiver, and he climbed quickly down the ladder.

POP! POP! Two more rounds through the bull's-eye.

Needles ran over and yanked the earm.u.f.fs off Beeks's head.

Beeks nearly shot him in the face. "What the f.u.c.k?" he said.

"We have to get the h.e.l.l out of here, Beeks!" Needles said. "The boiler's about to explode!"

"What?"

"Come on!"

Beeks mumbled something under his breath then dropped everything and followed Needles up the ladder. Needles climbed up out of the hatch, then turned back to a.s.sist Beeks.

Beeks missed a step and banged his shin hard. "Motherf.u.c.ker!" he exclaimed, biting his lower lip in pain.

"Come on, Beeks! Move your fat a.s.s!"

The groaning sounds became an intense rumble that moved through the earth beneath them like a demon locomotive on a trip through h.e.l.l. Needles held out his hand to help his oversized friend, then went cold when he heard a long, metallic, ear-grinding sc.r.a.pe, like a ship running aground on a rocky point. He looked over his shoulder toward the boiler house, then back down the hatch at Beeks. Beeks could see their fate reflected in his eyes.

Another low, shuddering rumble shook the building ... then BOOM!

The force of the blast smashed through the cannery like a great wrecking ball. Splintered brick and shards of steel shot through the structure like the shrapnel from a thousand mortar sh.e.l.ls, ripping Needles to pieces as he was flailed to the floor. Beeks flew backward down the ladder and hit the ground on his neck, snapping his spine. The ma.s.sive, steel boiler tank rocketed into the desiccated water tower, which then smashed its full weight through the cannery's sheet-metal roof, causing a chain-reaction collapse of the floors and interior walls. Burning embers ignited by the furnace sprayed out over the wood-framed structure, starting ancillary fires fed by shattered lanterns and sheared-off natural-gas lines. A tornado-like firestorm, hot enough to melt iron, burned the Alton Brothers Fish Cannery, along with the two trapped men, to a smoldering sh.e.l.l.

Chapter 49.

Distant Thunder The rains had come again, and by the time Aaron and w.i.l.l.y reached the downtown area, they were pedaling through a downpour.

As they rode past the Community Plaza Bank building, Aaron checked the big clock. 6:25 p.m. They had to hurry.

Suddenly, from the distant waterfront, a huge flash, like a great nuclear flashbulb, lit up the surrounding buildings. There was a powerful, yet m.u.f.fled boom a like that of distant thunder a but the boys knew that this was no thunderstorm. They skidded to a stop in the middle of the street, looked back and watched, horrified, as an irregular pattern of smaller flashes followed the first ... then the corresponding booms ... the ground beneath their feet shuddering with each concussion.

Finally the explosions subsided, and though there was much to say, the frightened boys were unable to utter even a single word.

They rode on, their ghostly shadows, cast by the h.e.l.lish-red glow of the sky behind them, leading the way.

In the distance, sirens ...

Chapter 50.

The Diner The green canvas awning hanging over Sally's Diner flapped violently in the wind like a grossly overweight bird attempting to take flight. The neon OPEN sign, protected from the heavy rain by the diner's plate-gla.s.s front window, blinked a sad welcome.

Inside, out of the weather, occupying his usual spot at the counter, was Michael St. John. One of only two customers that night, he had stopped off at Sally's on the way home after scouring the city in search of Aaron.

To Michael's left, an angular old man in a gray wool suit read a coffee-stained copy of yesterday's Times through tired eyes enlarged by thick lenses. Long white hair flew wildly about his head, suggestive of Albert Einstein. A glazed donut on a saucer before him bled cherry jelly.

Michael's swivel perch afforded him a panoramic view of the kitchen.

The cook, his face shiny and swollen from the heat of the grill, concentrated on the job at hand. Beads of sweat balanced on his bald head as he worked his spatula, flipping burgers in a shimmering pool of grease that splattered the front of his distended T-shirt with every turn. Bits of decaying lettuce clung to his shoes as he walked over and gave the empty order wheel a spin. He refilled Michael's coffee then returned to the grill as several roaches scurried to safety.

With one hand Michael held a novel; with the other he pulled sugar packets from a ceramic bowl and stacked them into a precarious tower.

If only I'd called the police that first night, he thought, maybe I could have helped him. But in his heart he knew it may have made things worse.

He added another sugar packet to his tower then returned to the top of the same page he had reread several times before.

Ashley's rumpled Nova slowed and parked out front behind Michael's Aston.

She checked her watch. 6:25 p.m.

Through the downpour the diner door was a ghostly apparition. It called to her a as if it wished to devour her.

She drew in a tight breath of air, then picked up the gun lying on the pa.s.senger seat, pausing to consider her options. But she was incapable of putting a rational thought together, so she placed the gun in the glove box and stepped out into the rain.

The diner's front door swung open, ringing a small bell and rattling the blinds. Michael's sugar tower fell.

He turned and saw a slender, attractive young woman walk through the door. She removed her damp, faux-suede jacket to reveal a simple, short sundress, hemmed a hand's width above the knee, that hung lightly over the curves of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and hips. Inexpensive and a bit inappropriate for the current weather, he observed, but clean and very flattering. She wore simple eyegla.s.ses that made her large eyes even larger. Michael's beloved wife, Jennie, had worn gla.s.ses, and he had always thought they added an innocence that he found enchanting.

Visibly anxious, the woman smoothed her dress with hands both delicate and strong. She removed her gla.s.ses, and as she leaned down to dry them using the hem of her dress, Michael couldn't help noticing the little price tag hanging from the zipper down her back. She wore a simple wedding band, but on her right hand.

She was obviously in some kind of trouble: her mascara was smudged, the area below her right eye bruised. Still, Michael could see the clear light of intelligence in her eyes, and found himself completely enamored of her.

Ashley pulled strands of damp brown hair back from her face and looked cautiously around the room.

The diner was dimly lit, cramped, and hot a the air hanging heavily over the mismatched booths and tables like the breath of an old troll.

To her left, a rabbit-eared TV struggled to maintain a failing image amid dusty, burned out beer signs. To the right, on the far side of the large front window, hung a full-wall mosaic of the American flag, its red, white, and blue tiles surprisingly intact considering the condition of the rest of the diner. Cut into the mural below the field of stars was a door upon which the unis.e.x restroom symbol had been crudely painted in white enamel.

Toward the back, separating the dining area from the smoke-filled kitchen, was a long, Formica counter with aluminum edging and a row of stools a each with its pitted-chrome base bolted securely to the floor, the cracked red-vinyl seats mended with rough duct-tape patches.

Her heart stopped when for a moment she thought she saw Johnny Souther sitting at the counter. She looked again and was relieved to see that it was just a handsome stranger.

She limped over and took a seat a couple of stools to Michael's right. She set her purse on the counter and laid her jacket next to it.

Michael tried his best to be discreet, but he couldn't take his eyes off of her, and when she repositioned herself a irritated, no doubt, by the cracked vinyl against the soft, smooth skin of her thighs a he felt weak.

Ashley checked her watch again. 6:28 p.m. She glanced at Michael then looked away so he wouldn't see the despair on her face.

He leaned in her direction and spoke in a low, comfortable voice. "You know ... you're putting your life at risk eating here."

"Is that so?" Ashley said, pausing to check the front door.

"If I were you, I'd run like h.e.l.l." He laughed to himself and started a new sugar stack. "I haven't seen you in here before. Do you live nearby?"

"No," she said, clearly distracted.

"I eat here all the time," Michael said then thought of how that must have sounded. "Not that I'm proud of it or anything."

"Good for you." Ashley said, wishing this guy would just leave her alone.