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“One did.”

“Which one? Can you point him out to the court?”

“Mr. Buxton indicated that he did not wish to leave his cell.”

“And how did he do that?”

“We found him on his cot in the fetal position. He did not answer us at first when we spoke to him, then begged us to leave him.”

“What was his physical condition, Dr. Rivers?”

Movement to one side catches her eye, as Alderson pushes back his chair and begins to rise. He pauses for a moment, his backside canted awkwardly at the audience, then flushes and sits down abruptly. One juror covers her mouth with her hand, her black eyes sparkling. Koda glances down at her hands, making a note to ask Harcourt exactly how he has intimidated the prosecutor out of his objection. Then she says, “He was dehydrated and thin bordering on emaciation. When he stood, his feet were unsteady, and he had to be assisted to walk.”

Boudreax gives a clearly satisfied nod, then asks, “Dr. Rivers, have you ever attended human beings as well as your more accustomed four-footed and winged patients?”

“I have.”

“Under what circumstances?”

Briefly Koda recounts her service as unofficial Air Force medic to the Bobcats and their allies, both before and after their return to the Base. “I’ve also set the odd bone or two on my ranch or my parents,’ and given a good many insulin and B-12 shots to older folks in the neighborhood.”

“I see. So you could be trusted to know that when someone’s ribs are showing, he’s underweight, even though he’s not a horse?”

With an effort, Koda keeps her face straight. “I do believe so, Major.”

“No further questions.”

“You may step down,” Harcourt says, bringing his gavel down resoundingly on its holder. “Court adjourned until two o’clock.”

On her way out, Koda pauses at the rear bench where the blind man sits. She says, “You’re Harry the singer, aren’t you?”

“I am.” His face turns toward her, his head angled to hear more clearly. “You just testified. You’re Dakota Rivers.”

“Yes. I understand you sang a fine song at the census.”

Harry grins hugely. “I had some good material. Good story, good tune. Maybe you’ll let me sing it for you, sometime.”

“Maybe. Meanwhile, thanks.” Koda gives his hand a squeeze, unobtrusively palming a a folded piece of paper. “This will get you onto the Base and to the infirmary if you ever need anything. Don’t be shy about using it.”

Not waiting for thanks, she slips quietly from the room. Outside, she checks her watch and turns down the path that leads to the officers’ housing. If she hurries, she can make a brief lunch with Kirsten before returning to the clinic. She smiles at the thought, and quickens her pace.

CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

TACOMA SNEAKS A LOOK in his rearview mirror as the caravan snakes its way back toward the base. Two armored patrol carriers are followed by two flatbed eighteen wheelers which carry two gigantic fans they have appropriated from OverDale Windfarm, Inc. All seems clear, but something is niggling at the back of his neck, making the hairs there stand up stiffly. The road they’re traveling on is little used, and there are no trees or other sightline obstructions to block the view.

He catches Manny out of the corner of his eye. The younger man is grinning like a kid playing hooky—which in a way is exactly what he’s doing. “’sup, cuz?”

Tacoma takes another quick look in the rearview mirror before turning to his cousin, pushing his concerns, for the moment, to the back of his mind.

“You’d better think about getting back in touch with the floorboards, Manny. We’ll be nearing the base pretty soon.”

Manny rolls his eyes, grinning at his cousin. “Stop being such a wuss, cuz. The Colonel’s in court all day, and if she steps outside to take a whiz, Anderson’s covering for me. We’ve got it knocked, so stop worrying about it.”

“I am worried about it,” Tacoma replies, staring at the younger man until Manny pales slightly and turns away.

His eyes widen and his skin goes a shocky white as he just catches something he can’t identify—though it looks frighteningly human—standing in the exact center of the road. “Watch out!!”

Tacoma looks forward just in time to feel the truck impact with whatever it is he’s hit. The object is borne under the vehicle and the driver’s side tires rise and fall with sick thuds. He slams on the brakes, bringing the truck to a skidding halt, and slumps back against the seat, face greasy with sudden sweat. “Please tell me that was a deer.”

“I don’t think so, cuz,” Manny replies in a small voice. He’s about to say more when a sound like a sharp, muffled cough is heard behind them. “Holy fuck! What was that??”

Tacoma, who’s heard that sound too many times to count, is already reacting, snapping open his harness and lunging out the door, his gun already to hand.

The APC that had been behind them is a smoking wreck from which injured men continue to emerge, their clothes and exposed skin covered with smoke, soot, and blood.

“Is there anybody still inside?” Tacoma demands, pulling a soot-covered, violently coughing soldier out by one singed and smoking arm.

“Donaldson, sir!” the airman chokes out. “He…was the…driver! Got…hurt bad, sir!”

Fire blooms up in the truck as Tacoma pushes the injured man out of the way. He jumps back himself as flames shoot out of the shattered windows, feeling his eyebrows singe and the skin on his face and hands grow hot and tight with the great heat. With a soft cry, he races around the front of the burning vehicle toward the drivers’ side where flames pour from the shattered frame like water from an open hydrant. He feels a hand grab his arm and he shakes it off savagely, only to have it grabbed again.

“Are you crazy, man?!?” Manny screams into his ear. “This thing’s about to blow sky high!”

“Get back! I’m getting Donaldson out!”

Manny’s face blooms before his streaming eyes. “He’s dead, thanhanshi! He’s already dead!”

*

Ripping open his shirt, Tacoma peels it off and uses it to beat back the flames. They die down enough for him to get a glimpse inside the smoke-shrouded interior. The young man inside is fully conscious; startlingly pale green eyes stare out from a face blackened by soot and burns, beseeching. Fire blooms upward again, forcing Tacoma back a step. He beats down the flames a second time, and reaches inside, grabbing the injured man under his armpit and pulling backward, muscles straining against Donaldson’s dead weight.

The young man screams as the bones in his shattered legs grind against one another, trapped beneath the remains of the console. Tacoma eases up as another man, one he can’t recognize through the smoky haze, shoots a chemical extinguisher into the damaged compartment, covering everything with a thin layer of white foam. He feels a body brush by him and, looking down, he sees Manny reaching beneath the still smoking and twisted metal, attempting to free the trapped man’s crushed legs.

The man screams again, though it has a breathless, wheezing quality to it that Tacoma doesn’t like at all. “Hurry!” he commands, earning only a glare from his cousin as Manny returns to his task.

The metal is scorching hot, burning his palms and fingers and arms with every touch. He ignores the pain, concentrating only on the desperate need to free Donaldson before the remains of the APC blow to heaven.

The flames rise again, undaunted by the chemical trying to kill them.

“The gastank’s ready to blow, sir!” comes an unknown voice screaming down on them from the outside, from safety. “Goddamnit, get out of there, sirs! Now!”