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feet away and was shining a flashlight around the periphery of the roof. The roof was flat; the stone parapet that surrounded it was about hip-high.
    As Liv reached him, A.K. abruptly held out his arm, preventing her from moving forward.
    She heard Ted climbing up through the opening, huffing slightly. He needed to get more exercise. Maybe she’d suggest he and Whiskey take up jogging instead of singing.
    “See anything?” Ted asked, coming up to her.
    “Nothing yet.”
    The powerful beam from A.K.’s utility flashlight panned across the roof surface in meticulous order. No wild searching for this marine. He slowed as his light picked out dividing walls; illuminated dark corners only to plunge them into deeper darkness when the light moved on to the rounded walls of the turret, the square corners of the asymmetrical house; then ran along the individual stones of the parapet.
    And out in the night the fireworks continued to light the sky. They only made the roof seem darker.
    Liv was just beginning to think it was a false alarm when the light stopped, moved back, and came to rest on something lying on the floor.
    A man dressed in the long brown coat of the Minutemen lay on his side. On the ground next to him, the lantern lay on its side, its light extinguished.
    A.K. stepped forward and shined the flashlight beam directly on the man’s face, spotlighting the longish, lank hair covering his cheek.
    “Stay here,” A.K. said, and bent over to peer at the fallen figure, checked for a pulse.
    “Should I call nine-one-one?” Liv asked.
    A.K. held up a hand for her to wait.
    “Ted.” A.K. motioned him forward. Liv went, too.
    A.K. thrust his flashlight into Ted’s hand and turned the man over.
    The flashlight jerked in Ted’s hand. Liv recoiled. A.K. sucked in his breath.
    When the light once again shone on the man, it also showed the gaping hole in his stomach and the Rorschach of blood that covered his uniform.
    Liv covered her mouth.
    “If you’re going to be sick, move away,” A.K. said.
    She shook her head.
    “Do either of you know who this is?” A.K. asked.
    Ted had to clear his throat before he could answer. “It’s Henry Gallantine’s gardener. Jacob Rundle.”
    “Shouldn’t we call the EMTs?” Liv asked. “Maybe they can—”
    A.K. shook his head. “The crime-scene boys. But there’s no hurry. He must have bled out in a matter of seconds.”
    Liv swayed back and Ted put a sustaining arm around her shoulders.
    The three of them stayed that way, Liv and Ted standing together and A.K. crouched down over the body, while the sky lit up with white stars. Then with a
pop pop pop
, the stars exploded and rained down in a waterfall of red.
    Ooh
s and
aah
s wafted up from the crowd below and became silent. And that’s when they heard someone moaning. And close by.
    A.K. was on his feet faster than a man his size should be able to move. He took the flashlight from Ted and searched the darkness at the far end of the roof.
    “Oh Lord,” said Ted.
    In the far corner, pressed against the parapet, was a crouching figure. When the light shone on him, he scuttled even closer to the wall and brandished a rifle at them. Its bayonet glinted in the lantern light. The blood that covered it turned to black.
    For a moment none of them moved, then Ted asked uncertainly, “Leo?”
    Leo was shaking so violently that he flickered like an old movie. And Liv was having a hard time reconciling the boy with the “gentle soul” with the strapping young man clutching the musket and bayonet.
    Ted took a step toward the boy. “It’s okay, Leo. Put the rifle down.”
    “Stay back,” A.K. ordered under his breath.
    “It’s all right,” Ted told him. “It’s one of the boys from the community center. He’s harmless.”
    “He might be harmless, but he’s armed and may be dangerous. We’re not taking any chances.”
    Ted ignored him and took a step closer. “Leo, put down the rifle. Everything’s going to be