The Winds of God

Chapter One

Homecoming

I

The big jet was on its last leg, heading into the setting sun, heading home from the East Coast. It had been a long journey for many of its passengers who had traveled across the Atlantic from the desert country of Kahara in the Middle East. On its final approach the plane turned, tilting its wing toward the city that looked out onto the great lake, molten lava in the setting sun, giving its passengers a spectacular look as the sun set the city's tall buildings aflame in copper and gold.

Deep within the city a box was prepared. Dynamite, an old Big Ben alarm clock, and a detonator were strapped together making a primitive bomb. Primitive, yes, but its effect would be devastating to its target nevertheless. Paper of white and gold, decorated with angels was wrapped around the box and then covered in a layer of brown kraft paper. Chances were the package's recipient would never see the angels. At least not those on the wrapping paper.

John Reid looked eagerly out the airplane's window at the city below them and gently squeezed the hand of the dark-haired woman sitting beside him. "Not much longer, Fatima. Not much longer at all. You'll love meeting the folks. They're great people. I know you'll love them as much as I do."

The woman smiled, her amber eyes bright with joy. "You've told me so much about them that I feel like I know them already. I just hope they like me. It's going to be quite a shock for them to find out that their only son is coming back from Kahara with a fiancee."

John laughed. "They'll be overjoyed that I finally decided to settle down."

Casey looked up impatiently at the messenger standing in front of her. "I'm sorry, but Mr. Reid is busy. You can't bring that package in to him right now."

"I was told I had to deliver it to him in person," the messenger insisted.

"As you have told me repeatedly, but as I have said before, Mr. Reid cannot be disturbed. If you can't leave it with me, then you will have to return it to the sender," she said firmly.

"Okay, lady, have it your way. I'll leave it here. It's not like the guy will ever know if I gave it to Mr. Reid or not."

"Fine."she said. "You can leave it on that chair near the door. I'll give it to Mr. Reid when he is free."

The messenger placed the package on the chair and returned to stand in front of Casey with his hand held expectantly out. He quickly withdrew it when she glared angrily up at him.

Waiting for the cabdriver and John to finish loading the taxi, Fatima grasped the thick, white fur coat around her as light snowflakes swirled around her. "Do you think it's going to get heavier?" she asked her fiancee as he opened the door for her.

John studied the sky for a moment. "Nah, I think it'll be stopping soon, but don't worry. I think we'll have a white Christmas this year." He laughed. "Of course in this state, we always have a white Christmas."

"How wonderful," Fatima said unenthusiastically. She much preferred Kahara's dry desert heat to this cold white stuff.

John laughed again. "How about a Christmas wedding?" he asked.

"That sounds wonderful," she answered. "As long as we can honeymoon somewhere warm, like the Caribbean."

Filled with shoppers hurrying after Christmas bargains and office workers heading home for the night, the traffic on the way to the Daily Sentinel was heavier that ususal. It gave John Reid plenty of time to show his lovely bride-to-be all the sights of the city. To the young lovers the grey industrial city seemed to be dressed in all its holiday finery just for them. The lights of the stores and office buildings were aglitter with an especial brightness. Years-old Christmas decorations hanging over every intersection and from every street light sparkled as if brand new. Even the snow that formed thick mounds between the sidewalks and the street still gleamed clean and pure.

"There," John pointed out. "That tall building with the sign on the roof, see, there with the red circle and the letters DSTV. That's the Daily Sentinel. That's where we're going."

Fatima leaned over to look at the building. "Where's your father's office?"

"You can see it there on the corner of the eighth floor. See there, with the balcony. Oh my God!" he suddenly exclaimed as the window where he was pointing exploded into billowing flames.

"Driver, stop the car," he ordered, opening the cab's door before the driver could protest.

"John," Fatima said, starting to follow him out of the rear seat. "I'm going with you."

"No, stay," he answered, motioning her back. "Stay with the taxi. Get the driver to radio for help."

John ran across the traffic-clogged street, several times barely avoiding being run over as cars swerved to avoid him. Behind him he could hear the screeching of tires and cars banging into each other as their drivers gaped up to look at the flames boiling out of the upper floors of the Daily Sentinel. His eyes too were on the Daily Sentinel, knowing that the office where the flames raged was his father's. Ahead of him, people clotted on the sidewalk under the Sentinel building. Some were staring up aghast at the disaster. Others, caught in the falling glass from the floors above, were crying out for help. Above it all, the earsplitting claxons of the Sentinel's fire alarms screamed, sending its large staff out onto the crowded sidewalk.

The flood of people leaving the building nearly forced John back out as he pushed and shoved his way inside. Inside against a wall near the doors, John spotted a tall, tired looking man in dark rimmed glasses nursing a large mug of steaming coffee. "Clark!" John shouted above the babble of excited voices, "I need your help. We've got to get people organized and away from the building. We need a way cleared for the Fire Department."

"Fire Department? What happened?" Clark asked.

"There's been an explosion on the eighth floor, near the City Room. We're going to have to get everybody out and away from the building in case there's another explosion."

"An explosion! Oh my God! We didn't feel a thing on the first floor," Clark said. "Did you say the City Room?" he asked.

"Yeah, or near there," John answered.

"Like your father's office?" Clark asked, already guessing what John's answer would be.

John nodded, not trusting his voice not to expose the fear he felt, afraid that if he said the horrible thought, it might come true.

"I'll grab some people and get things organized down here while you check the upper floors," the reporter volunteered. He watched the people streaming past them. "It's going to be hard getting up those stairs with everybody coming down them."

"I know, but I have to try."

"Sure, I know you do," Clark said as he settled his mug in a planter near him. He muttered under his breath, "What'll we do without Mr. Reid . . . "

John grabbed his arm. "Don't even think it," he hissed. "Even if something has happened to him, and I'm not going to say it has, the Sentinel will go on. You have my word on it. As a Reid."

"I hear you, John Reid. And you can bet you'll have everybody here behind you all the way. Go up there and do what you need to. I'll take care of things here."

John rapidly climbed the crowded stairway, taking several steps at a time. Wrapped in the noisy confusion of the insistent alarms and the clatter of feet on steel, people's faces blurred past him. Several people seemed unconcerned, not knowing what had happened above them. John's urgent upward rush barely merited a pause in their conversations. Thinking that it was a fire drill, many had taken the time to grab coats, purses and an extra cup of coffee to fortify themselves for the expected wait for the all clear signal.

So far he had not seen anyone he recognized from the City Room, and as he neared the eighth floor the crowd thinned out alarmingly. The few people who passed him had felt the building shudder and knew that there was something terribly wrong. His grim demands for news of the eighth floor were met with fearful shakes of the head.

John finally reached the eighth floor, but did not rush through the door even though he desperately wanted to do. He cautiously rested his hands against the door. It was still cool to the touch. At least no fire raged out of control behind it. There existed a chance that there were survivors, perhaps even Britt and Lenore Reid.

The blast of cold air that hit him as soon as he opened the door was a shock since he still half-expected to find the floor engulfed in flames. The sprinkler system had done its job well, leaving the hallway awash in water and soggy ceiling tiles. All the lights on the floor were out except for the blindingly bright emergency lights set up high on the walls. The damage was slight where he had entered, but it became worse as he worked his way toward the lobby. Although the emergency lights in the lobby had been destroyed there was enough light filtering in from the hallway to show glass everywhere on the floor and marks on the walls where the flames had roared through before being doused by the sprinklers.

Walking through the lobby, John dodged snapping electrical wires that hung from the ceiling. The heavy metal and glass globe that usually was the lobby's centerpiece had been knocked off its pedestal. John's stomach lurched sickeningly when he looked down to see the empty eyes of a man who had been caught under it. He forced himself to look away, knowing that there was nothing he could do.

Above the keening of the winds blowing through shattered windows, John heard the moans and screams of people in pain. He headed toward the City Room, then paused near the blasted door that led into the black pit of what remained of the Publisher's suite. Time wasted searching for his parents could mean the difference between life and death for someone in the City Room. Yet, his father or mother could be breathing their last alone in the darkness.

"Hey, John, how can we help?" asked a tall, lanky man with thinning hair the color and texture of straw. Coming behind him was a small, dark-haired man who moved over the littered floor with surprising grace.

"Ed Lowrey. Boy, am I glad to see you," John said in relief. "Have the paramedics arrived yet?"

"Not yet. The traffic's a mess out there. We're going have to make do until the pros get here. Clark's downstairs getting able bodies like me, and Lee, here, to raid all the first aid boxes so we can try to patch up anybody who might be hurt," Lowrey answered, showing the small white boxes that he and the younger man were holding.

"Could be dangerous staying in the building," John warned. "There might be more explosions."

"You're here," Lowrey pointed out.

"My parents . . . " John swallowed against the hard lump in his throat, "I have to see what happened to them."

"I understand. We're all family here," A lopsided grin flashed momentarily on the reporter's face. "Clark had a hard time keeping down the number of volunteers. Everybody wanted to help."

"I'm glad for any help we can get." John frowned in concentration as he searched his memory. "Lee . . . , you're the one my mother's written to me about. She said that your father was an old friend of theirs. You're staying at the house with them, aren't you?"

"I was. I'm at the townhouse now . They're letting me use it until I can afford a place of my own." His dark eyes slid toward the Publisher's suite. "I owe them a lot," he said very quietly.

"We better get going and see what we can do in the City Room," Lowrey said. "Why don't you go check on your folks. The paramedics will be here any time now. We'll do fine by ourselves," he said encouragingly.

John nodded. "Thanks, Ed."

"Hey, don't worry," Lowrey added, "They might not even be in there."

"Sure, maybe," John said doubtfully, eyeing what used to be his father's office.

Lowrey pulled on Lee's arm, "C'mon kid, I'm going to need your help."

Lee whispered to the reporter who towered over him, "What if they're dead? Shouldn't we be with him?"

Lowrey shook his head. "No, if they're dead, I think it'd be better for him to be alone. At least for a little while."

Although he knew he was not supposed to hear the whispered conversation, John had heard every word. Perhaps Lowrey was right. Perhaps it was better to discover the truth alone, but that wouldn't make it any easier. Not any easier at all.

As he entered the anteroom of the Publisher's suite, John's feet crunched on more broken glass, and shattered paneling. Splintered furniture was everywhere, most of it unrecognizable. Mixed in with the smell of damp burned wood and upholstery was the distinctive smell of cordite. This was no accident.

The door into Britt Reid's inner office hung crazily by a single remaining hinge. John pushed slightly and it fell with a loud crash into the office. The damage was not as severe as in the anteroom, but it was still very bad. A heavy conference table had been picked up by the blast and slammed against the far wall. The chairs that had surrounded it were scattered everywhere, most of them in pieces. Here too, ceiling tiles, wall paneling and glass were everywhere. John grimaced ruefully as he moved the thin beam of his flashlight along the frame of the glass wall that separated his father's office from the City Room. Nothing remained of it except for a saw tooth edge of broken glass and a few tattered shreds of drapery. Britt had always been proud of being able to see everything going on in the City Room through that wall. Now it was completely destroyed, injuring who knows how many people in the process.

Just past the range of his flashlight, John could see people moving ghostlike in the City Room. An occasional glimpse of light told him that Lowrey and his friend were busy giving whatever aid they could. The job seemed near impossible. He silently prayed that help would come soon. He moved carefully, taking care of where he stepped, always passing his flashlight around him. The light slid across a framed picture, an old painting of a grandfather he had never met. The frame was badly broken, but the canvas was still in one piece. Repair would be possible.

A low moan coming under the large desk that had been thrown onto its side against a wall caught John's attention. Pocketing his flashlight, he rapidly pulled debris off the heavy desk and heaved it away from the wall.

"Dad!" John said, kneeling next to his father, fearfully turning him onto his back. He was shocked to see that Britt Reid's face was half covered with blood from a bad gash in his scalp. Groaning with pain, Britt tried to sit up. "Dad? Are you okay?" John asked worriedly as he helped his father up.

"John? Is that you?" Britt croaked out as he tried to reach for his son.

"Yeah, Dad, it's me. Take it easy," John said, trying to stop Britt from trying to get to his feet. "How do you feel?" It frightened him to see his father blindly grope around in confusion.

Britt shook his head and almost lost his balance. He raised his hand and felt the warm stickiness of the blood from his head wound. "I can't see you," he said, trying to keep the panic out of his voice.

John retrieved his flashlight and shined it into his father's face. "Can you see now? There's no electricity on this floor," he said as he tried to wipe the blood from his father's face.

Britt nodded slightly and almost lost his balance again. He looked around at his shattered office. "What happened?"

"I don't know. We saw what looked like an explosion in this office just as we pulled up in a taxi. Dad," he said, still worried by his father's continuing confusion, "Was Mom here?"

"Casey?" Britt said, visibly fighting the fog in his head.

John grasped him firmly, forcing Britt to look him in the eyes, terrified by the unfocused bewilderment in those eyes that usually saw so clearly. "Think Dad, where's Mom? Was she here?" he said trying to get through his father's mental haze.

Suddenly pushing John away, Britt lurched onto unsteady feet and began tearing through the debris near the desk. John tried to stop him, but Britt roughly pulled free, almost losing his balance. "She's here," he said desperately, "She was standing right next to me."

John joined him, pulling, and lifting away everything around them, searching for his mother.

"Casey!" Britt shouted, noticing an arm buried under a fallen bookcase. Both men shoved the bookcase off and Britt knelt down beside his wife.

"Don't move her," John warned. "We have paramedics on the way."

Britt nodded his understanding. With a trembling hand, he gently pushed red-gold hair away from her face. She seemed so still, so very pale in the light from John's flashlight. He hesitantly placed a finger on her throat, fearing the worse. "She's still alive," he said, sighing with relief.

II

John tiredly wandered down the hospital corridor. He had sent Fatima off to wait at a hotel while he had accompanied his parents to the hospital in the ambulance. There, while Britt and Casey were being seen in the emergency room he had been cornered by the police for questioning. For what seemed like hours they had grilled him about the explosion. Now, at least for the moment, they had all the information they needed from him and had let him go. Unfortunately, in the meantime, his father had disappeared from the emergency room. That's all that I need, he thought with a grimace.

"Dad," John said, spotting Britt talking to a thin, white-haired black woman in a small waiting room near the ICU. "I'm glad I finally found you."

"John, this is Mrs. White," Britt said, introducing the woman. "Her grandson is working as an intern at the Sentinel. He was in the City Room when the blast went off," he explained. "He's in the ICU now. We're sharing our misery together."

Long tracks of tears rolled down Mrs. White's face as she accepted John's offered hand. "The doctor says my boy might not make it and your father's been good enough to give me a shoulder to cry on." She placed a hand on Britt's arm. "Why don't you go ahead with your boy and see to your wife. You got your own grief, never mind sitting with an old woman like me. I'll do just fine, you wait and see. Those fancy doctors are gonna see how tough us Whites really are."

Britt slowly rose to his feet and grasped her hands in his own, noticing how thin and frail they looked compared to his own. "Mrs. White, if you need anything at all, let me know. I'll do everything I can to help you and your family." He pulled out a business card and wrote on its back. "This is my home number. I want you to call me if you need anything at all," he said.

As he and John walked away, Britt said, "Tommy's a fine young man. He has two more brothers and sisters at home. Every penny he earns at the paper goes to help keep them in school. I was looking forward to taking him on full time after he finished college."

"And now it looks like he might not make it," John guessed. Britt nodded in agreement.

Noticing that they were passing by the hospital cafeteria, John said, "How about I treat you to a cup of coffee?"

John waited a few moments as Britt took a long sip from his coffee cup. "Sorry it took me so long. I got held up by the cops for questioning about the blast, and now the press is trying to hunt me down too."

"I know how that is," Britt said, "That's why I try to keep moving."

"Yeah, well, some doctor is raising Hell because you took off from the emergency room before he could take a look at you," John said.

Britt shrugged. "I don't see why he should be angry. I feel fine. All I needed was a little patching up and the paramedics took care of that."

"Still, Dad . . . " John began.

"John," Britt said firmly, "I said I feel fine."

"Okay, if you say so," John said. "By the way, here's your cane. I thought you might be needing it."

"Thanks a lot." Britt scowled ruefully as he accepted it. "Unfortunately I do." He absently caressed the cane's smooth wood. "At least it's better than falling flat on my face."

"Sorry," John said quietly.

"Forget it. I guess I don't like being reminded about my bad leg." He snorted. "Not that it doesn't remind me enough as it is."

"It's been a long day. You should get some rest," John suggested. "You look like Hell."

Britt shook his head. "No. Not until I find out how your mother's doing."

"I know, but you've got to take it easy on yourself. You're not a young man, you know."

Britt glared distastefully at John's remark. "There's still a hell of a lot of stuff I can still do, young man. I'm not anywhere needing a rocking chair yet."

"Yeah, but . . . " John began.

"Just tell me what you found out from the police," Britt said, sharply changing the subject. "I expect you did ask them a few questions since they were asking you so many."

"They couldn't tell me much. It's too early for them to tell what happened, except they think some kind of bomb went off in the anteroom. They'll want to talk to you in the morning about it," John said.

"Yeah, I'm sure they will," Britt agreed. "Hell of a homecoming, huh?"

John nodded and shrugged. "This wasn't exactly the surprise I was planning on."

Britt studied his coffee for a few long minutes, like a fortune teller trying to see the future in tea leaves. "Who was that girl I saw you with before we left in the ambulance?"

"That was Fatima al Arabi. I sent her to stay at the Royal Arms until things settle down," John said.

"Fatima? Isn't she the girl you were writing us about? The one you met at the American embassy in Kahara?"

"Yeah. She was working there as an interpreter and guide."

Britt looked up, studying his son's face. He smiled. "Is she the One?" he asked.

Smiling lopsidedly, John nodded. "Yeah, your son and heir is finally going to settle down." He grew serious. "We were planning on a wedding near Christmas. But now . . . "

"Do it anyway. Time is very precious. You never know when it's going to run out on you." For a moment his voice broke. "I hope you two will be as happy as your mother and I have been." He drained his coffee in a single gulp and crushed the cup.

"Dad, Mom's going to be okay," John said, placing a hand on his father's arm as the older man fought to maintain his self control.

"Mr. Reid, I have been looking all over for you," said a slender, swarthy complexioned young man in a white coat.

Britt looked up. "What is it, Doctor? Has my wife come out of surgery?" he asked.

"Your wife?" the doctor asked, momentarily confused. "Oh, her. No, I believe she is still in surgery. She is not my case, so I wouldn't know for sure."

"Then what do you want?" Britt asked.

"Oh, Dad," John hastily broke in, "this is Doctor Singh from the emergency room."

"Mr. Reid, you really should have remained until you had been examined. It was very foolish of you to have disappeared like that. After all a man your age . . . "

"Doctor, I'm dammed tired of being reminded of my age," Britt said sharply. "I feel perfectly fine. After the paramedics bandaged the cuts on my head and hands, I saw no reason to hang around the E.R. Not while there was a lot other people who needed help more than I did."

"You are in no position to judge whether you need further medical treatment. That requires a level of medical expertise that you do not possess," Doctor Singh pointed out imperiously.

Britt pushed out of his chair, towering over the much smaller man, "Doctor, at my age, which you have been so kind to point out as being quite advanced, I am old enough to know whether I need help or not. And to decide when I will seek it out. And I am sure as Hell going to decide who the Hell I am going to be taken care of, and it's not going to be . . . "

A dry voice interrupted Britt just as he was starting to warm up. "Still making waves I see, Britt."

"Dr. Grant," Britt said, greeting a large black man with steel wool grey hair. "I didn't expect to see you here."

"I came here as soon as I heard about the explosion," Dr. Grant answered.

Doctor Singh broke in, "Doctor Grant, I was telling Mr. Reid that he needs to be examined. He left the emergency room before I could see him," he explained.

Doctor Grant shook his head, a large white smile lighting his dark face. "I'm afraid that you have just had the misfortune of meeting one of the most difficult patients in the world. Mr. Reid has a most unfortunate dislike of hospitals. He usually has to be dragged in kicking and screaming before he'll accept any care whatsoever. And when you're not looking, a bad tendency to disappear. Since I'm his personal physician, why don't you let me take a look at him and you can take care of somebody who's not as difficult."

Slightly mollified, Doctor Singh answered stiffly, "Very well, I guess you are right. It is better if Mr. Reid is seen by someone familiar with his medical history."

"Well, Britt," Doctor Grant said after Doctor Singh had stalked away muttering under his breath, "How are you feeling?"

"I feel fine," Britt answered. "All I need is a little rest and I'll be as good as new."

Doctor Grant nodded thoughtfully. "Leg bothering you?" he asked.

Britt shrugged. "As always, especially after a long day like this one."

"Headache?"

"Yes. I have a headache, but it's nothing that a few aspirins can't take care of."

"And some ringing in your ears, too, I'll bet," Doctor Grant said. "And dizziness."

"Doctor . . . " Britt began, not wanting to answer any more questions, knowing where the doctor was heading.

"Britt, I must insist you allow me to check you out. Your head injury may be a lot worse than just that cut on your scalp."

Britt hesitated. He was getting too tired to argue, especially with someone who was right. "At least let me wait until I find out how Casey's doing. The last thing I heard was that she was going into surgery. I haven't heard a thing since."

"I checked on her before I came here," Doctor Grant said. "She has a skull fracture, a slight concussion and a broken arm. She'll be out of the O.R. soon."

Britt sighed in relief. "I'm glad to hear that, Doc."

"Now will you let me check you out? Your putting it off any longer won't help her get better any faster. And it won't do her any good if something happens to you."

Britt finally relented. "Okay Doc. I'll do it."

A few hours later in his hospital room, Britt fingered the pills he had palmed when the nurse had not been looking. The pain killers were potent enough to put him out for half a day if he took the full dose. Considering the shape he was in, even a half dose would knock him for a loop. No, he decided, putting the pills onto the night stand beside his bed, he'd have to do without. He wanted to see how Casey was doing. Doctor Grant had only allowed him a brief peek before steering him into a complete physical examination. She had been sleeping then, but he had at least assured himself that she had come out of surgery in one piece. He couldn't sleep through the night though, not without checking on her one more time.

He threw the thin blanket off and eased off the high hospital bed. For a moment he stood beside the bed, waiting for the room to stop spinning around him. He took a deep breath. The explosion had left him badly bruised and, despite the suit he had been wearing, there were glass cuts on his arms and hands.

After he felt steady enough, he silently padded on the cold linoleum floor to the closet near the door, and opened it. He cursed under his breath. Some well-meaning, interfering idiot, had spirited away all of his clothes without even having the decency to leave him his briefs. He grasped the drafty opening in the back of the hospital gown and slipped out of his room. He checked up and down the hallway. The nurses' station was several doors down from his room, which was good since Casey's room was in the opposite direction. He would not have to try to sneak past them.

Using the handrail for support, Britt quietly walked toward Casey's room, checking for numbers as he went. 304, 305, 306, then 307, there was her room. He eased the door open. The light was down very low, but he could see the green light on the heart monitor trace a reassuringly regular pattern. The IV bag hanging beside her bed was less reassuring, but Britt assumed that it was normal, and probably held glucose or some kind of antibiotics. A cast was on her right arm and bandages covered her left arm from the wrist up to past the edge of the blue-checked gown. A large bandage, too white against her pale skin and hair, was wound around the top of her head. Britt shook his head, this time they had both wound up hurt. He was used to getting battered, but with Casey it was a different matter.

He gently grasped her left hand, taking extra care not to disturb the IV imbedded in her arm. She was as lovely as a sleeping angel. He stroked her hand, the diamonds in the ring he had given her for their twentieth anniversary caught the dim light, reflecting it back with hundreds of sparkling fires. She had always been there for him, no matter how bad it got, no matter how often she became involved in the danger herself. This time it was too close. Too damn close.

Her eyes fluttered open, then widened, taking in the hospital room, the hospital gown Britt was wearing and the bandages on his head and arms. "Britt? What happened?" she whispered.

"There was an explosion in your office at the paper. The police think it was a bomb." he answered quietly.

"Oh, my God!" she gasped. "Was anyone else hurt?"

Britt patted her hand, trying to put on his most comforting manner. "I'm sorry I woke you. I just wanted to see how you were doing. Close your eyes and get some rest. You need every bit you can get."

She gave a small smile. "I must really look horrible if I need so much rest."

"No, you look gorgeous," Britt said.

"Just like a Man, always complimenting a girl when she's looking her worst," she said playfully.

She grasped his hand firmly, her brows knitting with concern, "Britt, please tell me the truth. Was anyone else hurt?"

He avoided her eyes. "Wait until morning when you're feeling better. We'll talk about it then."

He moved to leave, but she wouldn't release her hold. She nodded toward the dim light filtering through a crack in the room's drapes. "It's morning now. Please tell me," she insisted.

Britt sighed, shaking his head, "I don't know if you'll get any rest after you hear what I have to say."

"Please," she demanded.

"Okay," he said, easing a hip onto her bed, "About ten other people were hurt. There probably would've been more except a lot of people had taken off early."

"How badly hurt were they?" she asked.

"Three were hurt critically. Including Thomas White."

"Thomas?" she said sadly. "Oh, his poor grandmother. What is she going to do?" The tears began welling in eyes.

"I spoke to her already. She and her family will be taken care of, as well as the families of the other people who were hurt," he assured her.

"Britt," she said softly, afraid of the answer to her next question. "Was anyone killed?"

"Two people were killed. Terry Cogsworth and Les Carson," he said. "The blast shattered all the windows in our offices. That's how most of the people were hurt."

He looked away from Casey, unsuccessfully trying to hide his grief. "Les was looking forward to retiring next week. He was planning on doing a lot of fishing and camping. It doesn't seem right, Casey. So many people were hurt because of somebody's grudge against me. Those people weren't just employees, they were my friends. Some of them had been at the Sentinel nearly as long as I have. Like Les."

"Britt," she said very softly, stroking his arm, feeling the tension in his powerful muscles. "Don't blame yourself. Maybe it wasn't directed against you personally. Remember all those threats about that Arab conference that's coming up. And there's been other bombings too in the last few weeks. It might not have anything to do with you."

"If it has anything to do with the conference then it is my fault. I've been pushing for one for years, and now that it's going to happen, the Sentinel's one of its biggest supporters. If someone is choosing violence to oppose it, then the Sentinel, and I, will be one of their main targets," he explained. His face grew hard, his pale eyes flashing like blue steel. "I swear, Casey, I'll find out who's behind this... This outrage. And I'll make sure that the price is paid in full."

III

The bright shaft of the late afternoon sun filtering through a crack between the drapes of his hospital room woke Britt from a deep sleep. The combination of exhaustion and strong pain killers had ensured that his sleep would be without dreams. It was for the best, he thought. There was so much to do, so many problems to deal with that if he had not taken the pills that the exasperated nurse had forced on him, he would have never gotten any rest at all.

He sighed and stretched, deciding that it was time to get up and get the day started. As he forced himself out of the bed, every muscle creaked and groaned. On top of the bruises from the night before, old wounds and old bones reminded him of past brushes with death. Doctor Grant had told him that his extraordinary luck been with him again. His office desk, filled as it was with electronic equipment and built of solid mahogany, would have crushed him if all of its weight had landed on him instead of merely trapping him against a wall. As it was Doctor Grant had been seriously worried about the bruising over Britt's ribs. He had ordered several X-rays just to make they had not broken again after barely healing from being fractured a few months ago. Grant also took great pains to remind him that there was a limit to the damage his body could take before something stopped functioning altogether.

He looked outside and found that the light snow from last night had melted away in the late afternoon sun. That should have been a good sign, but there had been a heavy snowfall from before last night and that was melting as well. Cars passing by the hospital trailed rooster tails behind them in the wheel high snow melt. If there was a hard freeze tonight, the streets would become a skating rink. It would be impossible to get any speed at all, never mind trying any kind of rapid maneuvering.

"Mr. Reid, I'm glad to see you're finally awake," said a nurse from behind him.

Britt, suddenly conscious of the opening in the rear of his gown, grabbed it closed.

The nurse smiled. "You don't have to worry. I've seen a lot of backsides since I've begun working here."

"I'm sure you have," Britt answered, "But I'd rather not expose mine all over the hospital."

"Did you sleep well?" she asked.

"Like a baby," Britt replied.

"That's good," she said. "There are, I'm afraid, some people who are waiting to see you."

"I can imagine there are," Britt said. "But I'd like to get some coffee, a hot shower," he rubbed the day-old stubble on his cheek, "And a shave before I see anyone."

The nurse nodded. "Your son left a suitcase with some clothes for you and a shaving kit. While you're washing up, I'll see about getting something for you to eat."

"That sounds great," Britt said. Frowning thoughtfully, he asked, "How is my wife doing today?"

"She woke up some time ago and is doing fine."

"That's good news. By the way how soon will I be able to see Doctor Grant and get out of here?"

"That'll probably be not be until later this evening. Doctor Grant finished his rounds quite a few hours ago. I know you're eager to leave, but it's better if you wait until we make sure you won't be having any problems. You know, you were very lucky to come out of that explosion alive."

"I know, but I need to get out of here as soon as possible. I have a lot of things to take care of."

Britt sipped from a coffee mug as he drew a razor through the thick lather on his face. The hot shower had been just what he had needed, and the breakfast tray had actually been fairly good, even for being hospital food. He drained the cup with a grimace. Unfortunately, the coffee was practically undrinkable, but at least it was hot and had enough caffeine to get him going.

Britt's frown deepened as he recognized the dour face of Detective Morrisey in the mirror. "Couldn't wait until I got dressed, Detective?" Britt asked.

Morrisey shook his head. "No, I couldn't. The Chief's been on my ass about this case ever since I got in this morning," Morrisey said sourly. "I've been all over town today and you're last on my list. I'd like to get this over with as soon as possible so I can call it a day."

"I'm almost done," Britt said, washing the rest of the shaving cream off his face and wiping it dry with a towel. "I'm sorry to keep you waiting," he said, attempting a pleasantness he didn't feel. "Where's your partner, Detective Weston?"

"He's talking to your wife." Morrisey's thin mouth tilted in an unaccustomed smile. "I hear you raised quite a ruckus by disappearing from your room and then reappearing in her bed."

Britt shrugged. "I went to see how she was doing and we got to talking. She was upset about what happened and needed some comforting. She finally fell asleep in my arms and I hated to disturb her by leaving," Britt explained, not knowing why he felt he had to explain himself to the cynical detective.

"Yeah, right," Morrisey said doubtfully. " I hear the Chief is threatening to put a guard in front of your and your wife's rooms for protection."

Britt frowned thoughtfully. A guard in front of his room was the last thing he needed. "He's overreacting. There's no need for a guard to be posted."

"Maybe so, but the Chief's hot to get the guy responsible. He's pulling out all the stops on this one."

"I didn't know he cared," Britt said sarcastically. "We've never gotten along very well."

"I think he's more worried about that big conference that's coming up. He doesn't want to look bad when the whole city's going to be in the limelight."

Britt snorted. "It's going to take a lot more than a couple of guards to make him look good," he commented.

"Probably," Morrisey agreed. Pulling out a spiral notebook and a chromed automatic pencil, he said, "Like I said, Mr. Reid, I'd like to get this over with, so why don't we get started."

"Why is Weston questioning my wife while you're here with me?" Britt asked, as he slipped out of his robe and slid into the new pajamas that John had delivered to the hospital. He noticed Morrisey's eyebrows rise in surprise when the detective noticed the scars on his body. "Wouldn't it be better to ask us questions at the same time? One of us might remember something that the other forgot. It could save you some time." Britt's eyes narrowed. "Or is that what you want? To check if our stories jibe?"

Morrisey looked at Britt tiredly. "You've been around long enough to know this is routine. We aren't doing anything different from what we usually do."

Britt hitched a hip onto the edge of his bed, motioning the room's single chair to Morrisey, who refused it with a shake of his head. "You don't like me much, do you?" Britt asked pointedly.

"Whether I like you or not, doesn't have a damn thing to do with the way I handle this case," Morrisey replied.

"Perhaps. But it would make things go a lot better if we cleared the air first."

Morrisey sighed wearily. "Mr. Reid, you made a fool of me a few months ago when Weston and I came to your house looking for that reporter of yours. I don't like being made a fool of," he said in a hard, even voice.

"And you don't like my kind of people," Britt supplied.

Morrisey studied the publisher a moment. Reid was a power to be reckoned with in the city. He wondered how much honesty the man was willing to bear. He'd take the chance. "Okay, I don't like your kind of people. You're a rich man, and that's fine. That's something I'd like to be myself. What I don't like is the attitude people with money get. They act like they expect the whole world to kiss their ass because they got a lot of dough. They figure they're something special and have the right to be treated different from everybody else. I don't buy that. I'll admit that you've doing right by your people in this case. I've heard that you insisted on them being taken care of before you were, and that you're even paying out of your own pocket to see that everyone is taken care of right. But that doesn't mean I think you're ready for sainthood.

I don't care if you're a rich man or a bum from under the bridge, I'm going to treat you just like I treat everybody else in this case. If I find you lying to me or proof that you did something wrong, I'm not going to sweep it under the rug." Morrisey glared defiantly at Britt. "And if you have a problem with that, you can call the Chief and I'm sure he'll be happy to put somebody else on the case."

Britt crossed his arms across his chest, weighing what Morrisey had said. A large grin of admiration slowly spread across his face. "No, Detective, I have no problem with that," he said. "Now that we've gotten that out of the way, what do you want to know?"

Morrisey's eyes widened a moment. Britt's response was the last thing he had expected. His opinion of the publisher went up a few notches. He flipped open his notebook. "Okay," he began, "You were in your office most of the day?"

Britt nodded. "Yes, I was."

"Did you see anyone or anything suspicious in or near the Daily Sentinel building?"

"No, I didn't."

"How did the package arrive at your office?"

"Package?" Britt asked. "Was the bomb in a package?"

"That's what the Explosives man is saying."

"Hmm, a package . . . " Britt said more to himself than to Morrisey. "I didn't know that, but that does sound like a logical way to get a bomb up to my office." He frowned thoughtfully. "To get there directly, it must've come by some kind of courier or messenger service," he said.

"Messenger or courier," Morrisey repeated, jotting the words down in the notebook. "Do you remember seeing one?"

Britt shook his head. "No, I don't. I have a window that looks directly into the anteroom, but that day I had the drapes closed. I do remember my wife mentioning that a package had been left by a messenger. I was planning on taking it home with me when we left for the night."

"About when was that?"

"About quarter to five."

"How regular is your work schedule?"

"Not very. I usually come in early and depending on the news day and the paperwork, stay late. Sometimes though, I don't come in at all or leave early. That's one of the perks of being the boss. I don't have to hang around watching the clock until quitting time."

"You do keep an appointment book, though, don't you?"

"Yeah, but Casey usually takes it home with her, so I can study who I'm going to see the next day."

"But somebody could take a look at it during the day, say, while she's away from her desk, and get an idea of how late you'll be staying?"

"It's possible," Britt admitted. "Do you have any leads at all?"

When Morrisey looked at him doubtfully, Britt said sharply, "My wife and I were nearly killed and some of my staff were killed. I think I have the right to know exactly where things stand."

"Mr. Reid, you don't have a right to know. This is a police matter. Leave it in the hands of the police."

Britt fought down a sudden flash of anger, forcing himself to sound reasonable, "Look, I'm a newspaperman. It's my job and that of my people to ask questions. We can find out things that the police might not be able to. People who wouldn't talk to a cop, might be more willing to talk to a reporter. Together, you and I might be able to get whoever did this. The more things you can tell me about this case. My case," he emphasized."The better the chance I won't dismiss something vital, because I don't know how it relates to the case."

"Okay," Morrisey said reluctantly, "But this is strictly off the record. I don't want to see anything I tell you wind up in your paper tomorrow. Especially since all of this is hearsay. Nothing is known for sure yet."

"Of course. You have my word. This is completely off the record," Britt agreed. "Now tell me what kind of leads you have."

Morrisey thumbed through his notebook. "I have several leads, but I don't think any of them will pan out. A Miss Travis at your paper was very helpful. She pulled out all the hate mail you or your paper received in the past few months. We're checking all the addresses out and interviewing anyone who actually had the guts, or stupidity, to use their real name or address. I don't think there's anything very promising, except for this." He pulled out a plastic bag with an envelope and a folded piece of paper and handed it to Britt. "This came to your office, or rather what's left of it, in this morning's mail. Look at the postmark. It was mailed two days ago, and yet it says that the Sentinel deserved what it got and that it could happen again if you aren't careful. Now in my book, that's the same as saying they did it, but we're having a hard time nailing anybody down in that organization for questioning."

Britt turned the bag around and studied the envelope and letter in it. "Were there any fingerprints on it?"he asked.

"There were a lots of fingerprints on it. Anything that goes through the mail has dozens of prints on it, but there's no telling which ones are from the perp and which are from somebody who handled it between the mailbox and your office. The letter was typed on an old typewriter, though, and if we can find it, we'll be able to make a match."

"What about the envelope?" Britt asked, noticing that while the letter had a printed letterhead on it, the envelope was unmarked except for the mailing address and stamp.

"Nothing out of the ordinary, you can buy two boxes for a buck at any office supply store in town."

Britt checked the letterhead on the paper. "Aryan Pride and Purity of North America," he read, noting the black double-headed eagle holding a bloody sword in its claws.

Morrisey nodded, extending his hand for the plastic bag. "That's one of those Neo-Nazi groups that's trying to spread their kind of hate all over the country."

"I know," Britt said, "but why me or the Sentinel?"

"That's what I'm wondering. Is your paper working on anything about them? Say, some kind of exposé or something?"

"Not that I know of," Britt answered.

"Wouldn't you know about something like that?"

"I should. I've frequently made it clear that I want to know ahead of time about anything as touchy as this could be. Anybody who's planning on something like that has to get my express permission before going ahead with it."

"Do they always?"

"No," Britt said ruefully. "Sometimes people like to pursue things on their own to make sure it'll pan out before coming to me with it. I'll check into it and see if anybody was working on something on the APP. How solid are your suspicions about them?"

"Outside of that letter, we have nothing else to tie them in with the bombing."

"Do you think they did it? In your personal opinion, that is."

"I doubt it. Those guys are into hi-tech stuff. That bomb wasn't their style. It could've been made in somebody's basement."

"Still, it did plenty of damage," Britt reminded him.

"Yeah, but it could've been worse if a more sophisticated bomb had been used."

"I know. So you think this was the work of an amateur?"

Morrisey nodded. "Yeah, I do."

"That's going to make it hard to find out who made it."

"Right. So can you think of anyone else who might've done it? Say, somebody who has a grudge against you or your paper?"

"Unfortunately, I have a lot of enemies. There have been quite a few attempts on my life in the past."

"Is that how you got those scars? They look like they're old bullet wounds."

"Yeah, they came from an attack almost thirty years ago. I was in a coma for a week and my left leg has never been the same since."

"I see. Hmm, nearly thirty years ago . . . " Morrisey said thoughtfully, "Wasn't the Green Hornet active around then?"

"He was."

"And now he's back in business. Could he have something against you enough to want to plant a bomb?"

"The Hornet has no reason to like me or the Daily Sentinel," Britt admitted. "He has had plenty of reasons in the past to get rid of me, but bombs aren't his style. I know from personal experience that he prefers the more direct way of settling a grudge. Besides, if that bomb was as amateurish as you said it was, it wouldn't be the Hornet's work. He's no amateur."

Morrisey made a quick note. "So the Green Hornet's out for now. What about that Arab conference the Daily Sentinel's been supporting? I bet there's a lot of people who don't want to see peace in that area. This might be their way of stopping the conference."

"That's a possibility," Britt agreed. "We have been receiving a lot of mail against it. You've probably seen it. Somebody might have figured that by attacking the newspaper the conference would be called off."

"Would it?"

"I hope not, but the people holding the conference are extremely security conscious. A serious threat to the delegates' safety could lead to cancellation or a move to a different location."

Morrisey checked through his notes. "Well, that's all for now. Now you know as much as I do. Let me know if you think of anything else."

Britt rose and extended his hand, "I sure will, and I hope that we'll be able to work together on this."

"Maybe we will, Mr. Reid," Morrisey said, the ghost of a smile cracking his dour face. "There's one thing though . . . "

"What's that?"

"I think I'm going to keep that Neo-Nazi group and the Green Hornet near the top of my list. An amateurish bomb might be a ruse to throw us off track. After all, if it had gotten to your desk, you would've been just as dead as if by something fancier."

After Morrisey had left, Britt decided that it was time to visit Casey again. This time making sure that the nurses at the desk knew where he was going. There was no need to create another uproar.

He instantly recognized the white-haired man sitting at Casey's bedside as the much talked about televangelist, Dr. Ernest P. Goode. As Dr. Goode rose to take his offered hand, Britt noticed that the man was much smaller than he had expected, barely coming up to his shoulder.

"Mr. Reid, it is a pleasure to meet you. Your lovely wife and I have been having a wonderful time talking together. She has such a fascinating viewpoint about religion," he said smiling warmly, his dark brown eyes glittering behind silver framed glasses.

Britt nodded and chuckled. "Casey does have an interesting viewpoint on religion. I'm glad you weren't offended by it. Many evangelists would not have liked it."

"I didn't say that I don't find it disagreeable. It is another example how people like her have been seduced by secular humanism. It sounds so reasonable and so logical to people who fancy themselves intellectuals." He smiled benignly down at Casey. "Unfortunately, Mrs. Reid, like so many others does not realize that God requires of us a faith that does not depend on logic or reason. Such a faith requires us to believe as a child does, with the open, unquestioning heart of pure love."

Casey's eyes flashed angrily. "A person can't stay a child forever, Dr. Goode. We all have to grow up and learn to ask questions instead of relying on what everyone is telling us." Her smile barely covered the acid in her words, "I've heard of too many cases where people have been duped by those who demanded that their authority not be questioned."

Dr. Goode gave Casey a look like that of a parent of a too precocious child who had made an embarrassing mistake. "It is a true pleasure to discuss controversial matters with you, Mrs. Reid. Not only are you beautiful, but you definitely have a mind of your own. I look forward to the day when you finally see the error of your false beliefs and decide to accept God's saving grace."

"I've never considered myself lost," Casey said defiantly.

Dr. Goode shrugged. "Those who are lost rarely are aware of being so." He raised his hand before Casey could retort. "I think at this time we must agree to disagree," he said soothingly. "I would not want to distress you any further, especially considering the circumstances that brought you and so many of your staff to this hospital."

Effectively dismissing the peeved Casey, he turned his attention to Britt who had watched the entire exchange with amused interest. "Mr. Reid, have you had any word on who might have been responsible for the attack on your paper?" he asked.

Britt shook his head. "No. I just finished talking to a police detective and he wouldn't tell me a thing about their investigation. I doubt they have any idea who might have done it."

"I see," Dr. Goode said, frowning thoughtfully. "Through my ministry I hear many things. Most of them are just rumors, but one never knows . . . "

"What kind of rumors?" Britt asked.

"Well . . . " Goode's voice lowered, his eyes flickered about conspiratorially. "You know our fair city has lately developed a very large Muslim community, and you know that they have been very active in converting a great many people, especially the black poor, from God's true faith." Goode's eyes narrowed as his voice lowered into a whisper, "People have come to me, people who have rejected the Arab's heretical cult. They have told me that there are people, Palestinians, I think they said, who are very much against the Arab conference that is coming here next week. They tell me these people are planning on attacking the delegates and the people supporting the conference. You, I understand, are one of its biggest supporters. Aren't you?"

"I am," Britt said. "Did your informants say exactly who these people are?"

"No, but I suspect they have something to do with that mosque down near the waterfront. I wouldn't be surprised to hear that they're teaching terrorism at the school that's tied to it." Dr. Goode shook his head sadly, "Evil times are upon this country when foreigners insist upon importing their alien cults here. You must beware, Mr. Reid. That attack will not be the last. Of that I am sure. If you ask me, it would be safer for everyone if that conference was canceled immediately."

"Sorry, Dr. Goode, but I'm not about to let some faceless madman dictate to me about what I will and will not do," Britt said defiantly.

"That's too bad. I hope you won't come to regret your decision," Dr. Goode said grimly.

"He gives me the creeps," Casey commented after Dr. Goode had left. "If I were the police, I'd put him at the top of my list of suspects."

"Maybe you're right," Britt admitted, "It might be a good idea to check his background," he said thoughtfully. "Why did you let him to see you anyway?"

"He came in right after Detective Weston left. I thought talking with him might be interesting."

"Was it?"

"It was, but I have to admit that people like him scare me. He's so sure that everything he does is not only right, but has God's direct approval." Her brows knitted in thought for a moment. "Doesn't James O'Leary go to his church?"

"O'Leary?"

"That young man who started a lunchtime bible study group at the Sentinel. I think he's a photographer."

"Yes, now I remember him. He seems to be a good kid, but I think I'll see if I can get Lee assigned to work with him. Maybe he can find out something about Dr. Goode from O'Leary."

"Britt," Casey said worriedly, "Do you have any plans for tonight?"

Britt smiled, caressing her hand. "You have something in mind?"

She tightly grasped his hand, seriously looking into his eyes. "You know what I mean."

"Probably not tonight. I want to wait until I get more information before hitting the streets."

"I heard what you told Dr. Goode. Is it the truth? You've heard nothing from the police about the attack?"

"According to Detective Morrisey they don't have anything definite yet. He showed me a letter from some Neo-Nazi group that came in today's mail. It mentioned the bombing, which they couldn't have known about when it was mailed. Unless, of course, they knew about it beforehand."

"Would that be the Aryan Pride and Purity of North America group?"

Britt nodded. "You've heard of them?"

"They've been sending us a lot of hate mail the last few weeks. You were so busy setting up that conference, that I went ahead and had Ed Lowrey look into them."

"What did he dig up?" Britt asked.

"Not much. They're a very secretive group, especially when it comes to talking to reporters. Ed said he has somebody in their organization that he's working on getting to talk to him."

"Good. I'll call Lowrey and find out more about these guys before we head out."

"Britt, please be careful. Ed said the leader, Anthony Hakenkrueze, is a real nutcase," Casey cautioned.

"Don't worry about me. You know I'm always careful." Britt bent down and planted a loving kiss on her forehead, but her brow remained furrowed with worry.