MacCallumwatched them in silence for a moment, then signaled Jenkins that he'd like to talk to him alone. When he was sure the other man understood, he went back to his office.

Five minutes later Bob Jenkins let himself intoMacCallum's office and closed the door behind him. "She'll be all right," he said, reading the unspoken question inMacCallum's eyes. He smiled tightly. "She's a remarkable woman. She's raised Rick by herself, and he was born when she was only fourteen years old." His voice hardened. "She never told anyone who his father was, and her own parents kicked her out when they found out she was pregnant. But she's never complained. She works as a waitress, and the last couple of years, since Rick's been old enough, she's been going to night school. She's absolutely determined that Rick should go to college, so she has to get another job."

"Jesus,"MacCallum whispered. He gestured Jenkins into the chair on the other side of his desk. "The boy's going to need a lot of care. If he survives, and something can be done about his spinal injuries, he's going to need a lot of physical therapy. But before all that begins, he's going to be in the hospital for a long time. Perhaps," he added, his voice dropping, "permanently. There's a good chance he won't come out of the coma at all. And if he does…" He spread his hands in an eloquent expression of unanswerable questions.

"All of which costs money," Jenkins observed, and Mac immediately nodded. "Well, Maria doesn't have any," the coach went on.

"Insurance?" Mac asked.

Jenkins shrugged. "Maybe a little, but I'm sure it won't be enough. And the school has some insurance, too, I suppose." His lips twisted in an ironic smile. "I'm going to be in an interesting position," he said. "I've been trying to convince Maria to marry me for two years, but she's always said she won't until Rick's through college. She said it wouldn't be fair to me. If only she'd married me, she and Rick would both be covered by my own insurance. So now I'm going to have to advise her to sue the school district I work for."

MacCallumpursed his lips thoughtfully. "Or sue Silverdale," he suggested. "After all, what happened, happened right here, didn't it?"

Jenkins hesitated, then nodded. "I'd already thought of that," he said. "Frankly, I didn't mention it because of you. I mean…"

He hesitated, clearly uneasy, andMacCallum suddenly understood the man's discomfort: Obviously Jenkins had assumed that he would automatically adopt the same defensive posture as Phil Collins had on the field.

Except that MacMacCallum had long since come to the conclusion that the Silverdale of the past, the Silverdale he had come to immediately after his residency, no longer existed.TarrenTech had changed it all-changed it beyond recognition-andMacCallum no longer felt any great loyalty toward the town. Indeed, if anything, he felt a deep resentment for the changes that had taken place in the village, and an even deeper anger toward the company that had brought them about.

"I don't work for the town of Silverdale," he finally replied. "I work for the county, and besides that, my only interest right now is Rick Ramirez. He's going to need a lot of help, and I intend for him to get it." He stood and held out his hand to the coach. "I've arranged to have another bed brought into Rick's room. I expect Maria will want to stay with him, at least for the moment."

Jenkins stood up and graspedMacCallum's hand. "Thank you," he said. "Maria and I both appreciate everything you've done-"

ButMacCallum cut him off. "So far, I haven't done much, and I'm not at all sure of what I'm going to be able to do. But I'll do what I can, and I'll call in anybody else I think we might need. It's going to be a long haul."

When Jenkins had left,MacCallum returned once more to the room where Rick Ramirez lay unconscious in the bed.

In the half hour he'd been gone, nothing had changed.

MacCallumwasn't sure whether that was a good sign or a bad one.

Phil Collins was stretched out in the recliner that was the dominant feature of his living room, his fingers idly pressing the buttons of the television remote, when suddenly a low growl rose from the throat of the big German shepherd sprawled on the floor next to the chair. A split second later the dog rose to its feet, its hackles rising, and Collins kicked irritably at the animal. "Shut up!" he commanded as the door bell rang. "We're not living in Chicago anymore." He tossed the remote control onto the table next to the chair, then stood up. With the dog still growling softly, and preceding him by half a step, he went to the door and opened it. On the porch, his face only half lit by the dim glow of the porch light, he recognized Bob Jenkins. Collins's brow rose a quarter of an inch, but he opened the door wider. "Down, Sparks," he ordered curtly, and the police dog obediently dropped to its haunches. "Come on in," he said. "I was sort of wondering if you might stop by. How's your boy?"

Jenkins's eyes glittered angrily as he stepped into the house, but he froze when the dog growled a warning.

"Don't worry about Sparks," Collins told him. "He's all talk and no action. Anyway," he added, a crooked grin half forming on his face, "I think he is. So far, nobody's had the guts to challenge him." The grin faded. "Your boy okay?" he repeated.

"My 'boy' is named Ricardo Ramirez," Jenkins said, his voice tight. "And no, he's not okay. His neck is broken, he has a lot of internal injuries, and he's in a coma. Which you would very well know," he went on bitterly, "if you or anyone else from your school had bothered to show up at the hospital."

"Hey!" Collins protested, his eyes widening. "How was I supposed to know? For all I knew, the ambulance took him back to Fairfield!"

"Don't try to act stupid," Jenkins snapped, his voice rising. The dog, instantly sensing a threat to its master, snarled dangerously. "And get that dog outside, Collins," he went on in a more reasonable tone. "You're not going to like what I have to say to you, and neither is your mutt. And believe me, it would give me great pleasure to sue you for every cent you're ever going to be worth."

Collins's jaw tightened, but he said nothing. Instead, he led the dog to the kitchen, returning with two cans of Coors, closing the kitchen door behind him. He offered one of the beers to Jenkins but wasn't surprised when the other man refused it. Popping the top of his own beer, he settled his heavy frame back into his recliner and indicated another chair for the Fairfield coach. But Jenkins remained on his feet.

"I came over here to tell you I'm going to be filing a complaint against your team, and JeffLaConner in particular," he said. "It seems like every year your team gets rougher, and now I've got a boy who's seriously injured."

Collins held up a conciliatory hand. "Now, hold on," he said. "I know you're upset, and I agree we better talk about this. But I don't mink you want to start talking about complaints, or lawsuits, or whatever else you've got in mind. Football's a rough game-"

"We know that," Jenkins said, his voice icy. "And no one expects that there won't be some injuries now and then. But this one was absolutely inexcusable."

Collins frowned. "It was an accident, Bob. You know it."

"It wasn't an accident," Jenkins objected. "I saw it perfectly. Your boy was going down, and he deliberately threw himself onto Rick."

Collins took a deep breath, then rose and walked to the television set, on top of which sat a video-cassette recorder. "Why don't we just take a look?" he suggested.

Jenkins gazed at the other man in surprise. "You're kidding. You mean you tape your games?"

"Every one of them," Collins replied. "How can you correct errors if you can't even show the guys what they did wrong?" He pressed the play button on the tape deck and a moment later an image of that afternoon's game flashed onto the screen. As both men watched, the penultimate play of the game unfolded before them.