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in a breath, shivering uncontrollably, teeth chattering, lips a purplish-blue and bleeding from where she'd bitten down on them. "Scoop. He saved me. He saved my life."
    Shrapnel from the bomb or something on Abigail's porch--a propane tank, a grill, a bucket, the railing--had ripped into Scoop, cutting his back, his arms, his legs. His shirt was shredded, the white fabric soaked in blood. A hunk of metal stuck out of the back of his neck, just below his hairline. Several other pieces were embedded in the meat of his upper left arm.
    A single jagged piece of metal was stuck in his leg below the hem of his khaki shorts.
    Bob knelt on one knee and checked Scoop's wrist for a pulse, getting one almost immediately. "He's alive, Fi."
    She tightened her grip on him, blood seeping between her fingers. "What happened?"
    "There was an explosion. Firefighters and paramedics are on the way. Just don't move, okay?" Bob tried to give her a reassuring smile. "Don't move."
    Scoop moaned and shifted position, maybe a quarter inch.
    Bob said, "Don't you move, either, Scoop."
    Most of the blood seemed to be from superficial cuts, and the blast could have just knocked the wind out of him, but Bob wasn't taking any chances. With his shaved head and thick muscles, Scoop was a ferocious-looking cop even bloodied and sinking into shock. If he wasn't feeling pain now, he would soon.
    Bob hesitated, but he knew he had to ask. "Before the blast--did you see Abigail?"
    Fiona paled even more. "The phone rang. She..."
    "Easy, Fi. Just take it slow." But Bob could feel his own urgency mounting, dread crawling over him, sucking the breath out of him. He had to concentrate to keep it out of his expression, his voice. "Okay?"
    "She went to answer the phone."
    "When?"
    "Just before the explosion." Fiona squeezed her eyes shut, fresh tears leaking out the corners and joining up with the rest of the mess on her cheeks. "Not long before. I can't remember. Minutes?" She opened her eyes, sniffled. "I... Dad . I'm going to be sick."
    Bob shook his head. "Nah. You're not going to puke on Scoop."
    Had he misinterpreted the partially open doors? What if Abigail hadn't been fleeing the fire but, instead, someone had gone in after her?
    Why?
    What was he missing?
    He placed his palm on his daughter's cheek, noted with a jolt how cold it was. "Help will be here soon." He spoke softly, trying to stay calm, to be assertive and clear without scaring her more. "We can't move Scoop. It's too dangerous."
    "I'll stay with him."
    Bob nodded. "Okay. The fire won't get here. Do what you can to keep Scoop still, so he doesn't dislodge a piece of shrapnel and make the bleeding worse. You be still, too. You could be hurt and not feel it."
    "I'm not hurt, Dad, and I know first aid."
    He lowered his hand from her cheek. She'd always been stubborn--and strong. "Hang in there, kid. I won't let anything happen to you." But hadn't he already?
    Her lower lip trembled. "You're going to find Abigail, aren't you?"
    Abigail . He pushed back his fear and nodded. "Yeah."
    "It's okay, Dad." Fiona gave him a ragged smile. "You can count on me."
    His heart nearly broke. He hated to leave her, but she and Scoop would be better off staying put than having him try to get them out to the street.
    And he had to find Abigail.
    Bob leaned his fire extinguisher next to the compost bin and pulled his cell phone out of his pocket. "I don't know what all you heard," he said to the dispatcher, "but you can talk to my daughter."
    Fiona's fingers closed around the phone. They were callused from endless hours of harp practice. She should be practicing now, but here she was, the victim of some dirtbag.
    He couldn't think about that now. "The 911 dispatcher is on the line. He'll help you. Do what he says."
    She nodded.
    Bob looked back toward the house. Scoop's porch was on fire now, too. The triple-decker was a hundred years old. Bob had seen others like it burn. Firefighters would have to get there fast if they