“Fire, Andy,” Jarron warned him. “Kill us all.”

      “That’s it!” Robart interrupted. He could smell the ozone scent of the lightning strike, and he remembered something he’d read—about lost houses in Eucalyptus groves. Marshall was right. They were sitting in a powder keg. “Get the men out.” He looked directly at Andy.

      Andy placed himself deliberately between Jarron and Colin. “I’m not leaving.” He may as well have voiced it: I’m not leaving Jarron with you.

      Colin had to admit it. It was the perfect place to finish up what his assassins had started. Nobody would blame him if Jarron turned up dead.

      Except me. I’d blame myself. “He has Gervois.” Colin met Andy’s eyes squarely. “And me.”

      Andy stood there. “Not good enough.”

      “That’s an order.”

      “Trust him,” Jarron gasped. “Go! Nowww..” The word trailed off in a groan of pain.

      Perry Gervois shoved both Colin and Andy aside. “Fuckin’ holy hell, Jar!” he whispered, squatting next to Jarron, to check out the damage. “Lie still!”

      But Jarron was looking past him. “Andy!” Andy turned, to meet his gaze. “Get them out!” There were tears of pain running down Jarron’s face now, but he seemed unaware of it. “Do it,” he pleaded. “B’fore it’s too late—”

      Jarron’s right, Andy admitted reluctantly. If he didn’t go, it would undermine Colin’s authority, at a time when Colin was acting to save lives. His refusal would be a sign to the others, that Colin couldn’t be trusted. Andy glanced over, and saw Colin watching him.

      He knows it, too.

      Staying would cost lives other than his own.

      Like Mexico. Like Marsdon. Dave Chavez and Earl Tyson, Mike Erlenberg and Doug Kingsley and all the others would be at risk. Their sense of honour—and their concern for Jarron—wouldn’t allow them to leave him helpless—and undefended.

      So, it’s time for an act of faith, Andy thought dryly. One that Colin—in Jarron’s case, anyway—hasn’t earned.

      What decided him, though, were those recollections of Mexico—and how he’d felt knowing his team was in danger. That’s how Colin’s feeling now. Andy, looking at Colin again, saw the flicker of fear in his eyes.

      Not for himself. For us.

      “Leave,” Jarron prodded, breaking into his thoughts.

      Andy nodded, but Jarron knew he wasn’t happy about it. Andy squatted down, and looked searchingly at him. “Are you sure, Jar?”

      Jarron nodded. “Safe with Colin,” he mumbled. “Later—” His eyes drifted closed.

      “Later,” Andy returned doubtfully. He turned to Chavez. “Dave, we’re going. Tyson! Kingsley!” He signalled to the others. Then he lingered for a moment, his eyes on Robart’s. “He says he’s safe with you,” Andy drawled coldly. “He’d better be right.”

      “Or I can expect a dead-of-night visit from you?” Robart sounded amused.

      Earl Tyson came over to stand at Andy’s side—between Robart and Jarron.

      Andy glanced at the big man, then back at Colin. “Count on it. And I won’t come alone.” Andy nodded curtly, then he and Tyson followed the litter carrying Mike Erlenberg back through the trees.

*

      “Things that go bump in the night,” Perry remarked sarcastically. “All this talk about leaving.” Perry looked over at Colin Robart for enlightenment. “Something I should know?”

      “You’re about to be barbecued,” Colin told him.

      The words jerked Jarron awake.

      Perry! Jarron twisted, and Perry had to grip his shoulders to force him down. “Go!” Jarron gave him a one-handed push. “Not my doctor now! Get out!” He was panting with the effort. He looked over at Colin. “Tell Cassan-” He vomited again. There was blood everywhere.

      Perry ignored his warnings. Jarron wasn’t going to make it unless they did this now. “Shut up,” he ordered. He looked dismissively at Colin. “You can go. We don’t need you.”

      “Maybe not,” Colin admitted. “But I need to stay. Nothing like a barbecue,” he added irritatingly.

      “Yeah,” Perry muttered, his fingers moving deftly to try to straighten broken bones. It must have hurt like hell, but Perry figured he didn’t have time for niceties. The last thing he wanted was to cripple the man, by healing the bones in the wrong position.

      At least, Jarron wasn’t complaining. Perry lifted his eyelid. Jar was out cold. Unless the healing worked, Perry doubted whether he’d ever regain consciousness.

      Now that the moment was upon them, he was nervous. It was like going into surgery without a scalpel. This damned healing business was so inexact. Perry’s fingers shook as he examined Jarron’s middle. What a mess! Hard to believe Jarron could have done this much damage by willpower alone. Even harder to believe that willpower alone could counter it.

      Correction, Perry. You’ve been there. It’s not willpower—it’s some kind of connection. He remembered hearing somewhere that people who’d made out-of-body excursions could get hooked on it. Well, he’d also touched that other plane. This might be as out-of-body as he ever planned on getting, but he recognised the signs of addiction. Now, whenever he came across a difficult case, the “Jarron solution” sprang to mind. He realised he had more trust in that extracorporeal “connection” than he sometimes did in modern medicine.

      Even so, it was hard for him to believe Jarron had willingly “connected” with someone so grievously injured. This kind of pain must qualify as negative feedback. It made Perry shudder to think what Jarron must have endured in taking this on. “I have to admit,” he told Colin seriously, “barbecue beats shish kebab, every time.”

      “You going to heal him?” Colin asked, a little impatiently. It seemed to him, given the circumstances, that Gervois was taking an inordinate amount of time.

      “You know?” Perry relaxed a little. This should make things easier. At least he wouldn’t have to be worried about hiding what he was doing.

      He took Jarron’s bloodied hand in his. “Here we go.” Then, he stopped, and looked a little nervously at Colin. “If it looks like it’s going wrong—” he cleared his throat, “—or too far—”

      Colin nodded. “I’ll stop it.”

      “It’s just that—”

      “Don’t bother explaining, Doctor,” Colin interrupted dryly. “I’ve seen Marshall in action before. He goes for the overblown.”

      Given his past experiences with Marshall, Colin was expecting some big light show, at the very least. Trees rattling and roots blasting out of the ground. The dead to come crawling across the surface—as just one more piece of debris…

      Stop it! But, he was going to watch Gervois closely. The man must have some basis for concern—some past experience that was making him nervous. Maybe he thought Marshall would give it all to him.

      But, he won’t. At the last, something would stop it. The doctor might get caught in the blast, and feel some of the fall-out, but it wouldn’t be Marshall who hurt him.

      Colin suddenly realised he knew Jarron better than he’d thought. Part of it was the people who were willing to vouch for him—people whom he respected.

      Andy wasn’t a fool. His eyes had recently been opened to the load of shit Colin had been enduring for years, and, if anything, it had made him more wary. Yet, he wasn’t wary when it came to Jarron.

      Because Jarron had his best interests at heart. Of all the people Colin would have selected to endow with the “gift”, Marshall would have been at the bottom of the list. He had no more skill at manipulation, than he had at lying. It was wasted on him. It could have been a damned useful skill in someone else.

      “I won’t let it get away from you—” Colin started to say.

      But, Perry wasn’t listening. He’d suddenly realised Jarron was still under his fingers.

      Too still.

      Not breathing.

      No heartbeat.

      “Dammit!” he muttered. Too late, Perry. He bled out, while you were yacking…

      “No!” Perry whammed his fist down on the centre of Jarron’s chest, in a gesture that was half-resuscitation, and half-frustration. “Fuck it!” Perry was angry now. Jarron could yank others back from the edge. “Don’t be so—damned—self-effacing!” Perry punctuated it with blows on Jarron’s chest. “Save—yourself!”

      “Do the healing!” Robart ordered. “Now!” As Perry hesitated—his medical training prompting him to do CPR—Robart shoved him aside. “I’ll do the CPR!” He started chest compressions. “Now!” he yelled again.

      Perry nodded, and quickly latched onto Jarron’s hand. We can do this, Jar, he said silently. Then, angrily, he whispered a threat, “If you don’t, you Idiot, I’ll stick you on a respirator till you rot…” Perry blinked his eyes, and focused on the shredded trunk of a nearby Eucalyptus. “I’m warning you,” he told Jarron again, then tightened his grip on the other man’s hand. “Here—we—go.”

*

      Colin knelt there tensely. He’d been giving chest compressions and respirations for nearly ten minutes now. He felt again for a pulse—nothing. Should we give it up? It’s not like we didn’t try…

      It came with a sense of relief. What my life would be like, if I didn’t have Marshall to haunt it…The temptation was strong, but the relief was too easy.

      Can’t give up, Colin.

      Why the hell not?

      A picture of Mike Erlenberg flashed into his head.

      Because Jarron wouldn’t…and he didn’t.

      Colin reapplied himself with a will. It was almost enough to tune out the screeches and cries and whines of the fire in the distance.

      Fire. It’s started, just like Marshall said.

      Almost like a living thing. Colin had fallen into a daze, brought on by the continual exertion and repetitious breaths. It made him less alert than usual; his mind drifting slightly on unwanted flights of fancy. In one of these, the more mournful of the distant sounds reminded him of his daughters’ wails, when they’d hurt themselves as children. So like a child’s voice, he thought, the sadness in it giving him an unwanted qualm.

      Colin had his face in Jarron’s—ready to give another respiration—when the man gave a sudden gasp. Colin jerked back, startled, then put his ear against Jarron’s chest—a heartbeat! He turned to Perry Gervois, to give him the good news, but the man was still out to lunch.

      See no evil. Hear no evil.

      Colin stood up, and surveyed their surroundings warily. He blinked to clear his vision; concerned because time had somehow lapsed, and the fire could well be moving their way. Snap out of it, Robart! He rubbed his eyes, and attempted to think logically.

      He didn’t know—hell, didn’t care—whether Gervois would agree, but it seemed to him that this amount of success signified a trip out of here. The Doc could do more of the healing thing again later, once they were clear of this firetrap.

      But, can I risk it? What would happen if Colin broke Gervois’ trance right now? Would it throw Marshall back into arrest? Colin wasn’t foolish enough to think that the man had come back just because of the sustained application of CPR. No—that may have kept him alive, but it was some kind of healing thing that had brought him back. Colin glanced at Marshall. He was looking a damn sight better already, if you discounted the layers of bloody refuse.

      If Marshall coded again, Colin knew his last superheated breath would probably be into the man’s lungs. As noble as that might sound, he wasn’t into suicide.

      And it’ll be mass suicide if you stay.

      We’ll head south and look for a stream, or a bare patch. Colin had extended his hand, to shake the doctor back to awareness, when the trees to the north suddenly exploded in a mass of flaming gas. Torches, whose conflagration spread like upright matchsticks, ends alight.

      There was no more time to think. It was coming at them in a massive ball of energy that had the speed of an express train. Colin could feel his face being singed, even at this distance.

      At least, it’ll be quick…

      Small consolation for a fiery end.

      Jarron and Perry were oblivious to it all—lost in Jarron’s healing.

      We should have left him—better if he’d stayed dead—unaware of it all. Colin had barely formed the thought. He wished he could share the other two men’s oblivion.

      Don’t think!

      In a last pointless gesture, Colin flung himself on top of Perry—knocking him flat.

      Then the world around him exploded.

*

      Kris was grinning as he listened to Nick on his answering machine. “This is Nicholas Acklin, world famous author and math maniac. I’d like to share a few words of wisdom with you—not that you’ll understand them—so when you get back from being your devious, sneaky, bastard self, you can give me a call. If you’re lucky, I may be ‘in’ to you—”

      “Hello, Nick.”

      “Well, if it isn’t the infamous man himself.”

      “What do you want?”

      It was obvious to Nick that Kris was nibbling on something.

      “Whatcha eating? Sounds good.”

      “Gill.” He nibbled a little more on Gill’s fingers. “Let me guess—Lys has put you on a diet…” Kris grinned as he pictured Nick’s reaction.

      “Why would she want to do that? I’m in great shape!”

      “A no-Lys diet.”

      “What’s that supposed to mean?” Nick growled.

      “Just that Lys is a perfectionist…” He left it hanging. Gill pinched his right buttock and frowned at him.

      “So-o?”

      “Look, Nick—I wouldn’t say anything unless I thought you needed it. All that cooking at your computer, and all that sitting on your southern expanses. Just a hint from a friend.”

      “Shut up, Kris! God damn it! I called you to talk about Jarron, and all I get is abuse.”

      “Now, if you fed more of that cuisine to Jar, you might fatten him up a little.”

      “Jar’s stupid to take this job.”

      “How clever of you to decide for him. I thought you were the one who insisted he needed something to do.”

      “I am, but I did the maths. If you count the people Jarron comes into contact with now, and the number of saves he’s doing, then increase it proportionally to the people he’s going to contact at the university, the numbers skyrocket. Geometric progression. Care to guess what the odds are for him surviving a month on the job? He’s gonna run himself to death.”

      “Maybe. Jar seems to think he won’t be given more than he can handle. Since Andy started helping him, he’s been handling it pretty well, too.” Kris gasped, then there was a long silence.

      “Will you two stop it? Don’t you know it’s obscene to carry on like that?”

      “I’m thinking—”

      “Yeah,” Nick said sarcastically. “No wonder you act the way you do, if that’s what you use for a brain.”

*

      It was coming; coiling up inside of him with the tension of a gigantic spring. Perry heard Jarron’s voices howling in his ears, and his eyes were watering down his face. Every muscle in his body was so tense he was rigid. Sweat streamed out of him so he felt he was bleeding out every pore.

      Do it, Perry! Now!!

      The voices were screaming in his head—rattling his frame—and Perry squinted through the wash of tears. There it was—the bulls-eye—that distant scrap of wood and bark…

      Something hit him, knocking him over onto his back.

      And Perry lost control. That burgeoning coil, which had been tensioning his insides, exploded outward. Robart’s abrupt action snapped the coil, and the energy fled, pouring out of Perry in a spreading arc across the skies.

      It was the first time a healing had ever hurt. The power fled so fast, and so completely, that Perry felt as though he’d been singed in every pore. He flopped there, his arm splayed across Jarron’s chest. He couldn’t have moved it if he’d tried.

      He lay there weakly, and stared almost impassively at the wall of fire heading his way.

*

      Colin Robart, for his part, was moving mechanically, like a zombie. He’d felt the power surge, and in his horrified anticipation, he’d taken it for the fireblast. He was still trying to figure out what it was. He’d been expecting an onslaught from above. Experience told him the explosion had come from beneath.

      Jarron.

      “What the hell!” Perry Gervois protested weakly. The world around them was alight. “Should have left me to it,” he complained. At least then, I would’ve still been on that “other plane” when I made the visit permanent.

      “‘What the hell!’ is right.” Colin was no longer watching the wall of flame, or trying to shield his face. Instead, he was watching the sky, where a patchy greyness had appeared following Jarron’s explosion.

      We’re saved! he thought, daring to hope. An icy droplet splattered on his singed shirt—then another, and another. Their world became a sizzling, hissing cacophony of steam and freezing rain as the heavens opened above their heads.

      Colin’s relief said “miracle”, but his mind insisted that Jarron’s outburst had merely seeded the clouds, and given them a chance. The next moment he realised he’d been premature. The onslaught from above, that he’d been expecting, had merely taken a different form. Slushy rain turned hard, becoming ice, that coated the ground.

      Good! he thought—until he realised that the fire surrounding them was being dampened—not by moisture but by the smothering force of the descending precipitation.

      Overblown. Colin recalled how he’d referred to Marshall’s actions. The first of the big hailstones clobbered him, and his eyes met Perry Gervois’ as the other man’s widened in consternation.

      In the next moment, their world went to hail.

*

      They weren’t alone any longer. The proprietary claims of Investigative Security and Operations had yielded to the soul-singeing roar of wind-fed flames. The fire department was out in force, but it was clearly outpaced as well as outclassed—a match-head solution in a world where flamethrowers ruled. Andy and the others worked right alongside, but they were defeated before they’d even begun. No spade or shovel could fight the high-flying kites that lifted bark skyward. These trees were designed for this—bred for this through millennia of natural selection. More than ready to defeat all usurpers who dared to pick up a smothering shovelful of dirt.

      Digging and trenching, tugging out branches and beating back flames, were better alternatives to the impotent inactivity of waiting out the elements. Better by far than waiting to locate and retrieve three insignificant piles of ash and bone.

      Andy knew he should ring someone. Someone like Marjie Robart, or Kris, or Nick, or even Gill. But he didn’t have the guts. He had to be strong, and if he had Kris here it would weaken him. Maybe even make him break down. There were too many years of friendship lurking in Kris’ and Nick’s eyes. Too many close calls, and too many shared memories.

      He remembered the way Colin had balanced him, so he wouldn’t tumble off the helicopter strut when they’d gone to rescue Jarron. The way Colin had covered for Jarron’s “eccentricities” at the cost of his own family.

      I should have trusted him. Colin was my friend. My mentor. Yet my last words to him were a warning—a threat. Andy knew it was something he’d never be able to forgive—or forget.

      It wasn’t unreasonable, he tried to tell himself. Colin had a few too many reasons to see Jarron dead.

      But, in the end, I trusted him—enough, anyway, to leave Jar in his care. Just like he trusted me, to see the men clear. Andy hoped, in Colin’s mind, that exchanged trust had counted for something.

      If it was true—and I have to believe it is—then Colin’s efforts on Jarron’s behalf were those of extraordinary bravery.

      It’s the way Marjie’s going to hear it, he vowed.

      Of Perry Gervois, and Jarron, Andy didn’t even want to think. Perry had changed from a self-centred prick to someone Andy was proud to call friend. He’d saved each of their lives at one time or another, and Andy had come to value him for his loyalty and wit. His lips creased as he recalled Perry’s references to his Aunt Polly. He will be sorely missed, Andy realised.

      But not as much as Jarron…

      To consider Jarron for the things they’d experienced would put him in the light of a saint. That was something Jarron never would have wanted. It would only have taken away from the memories—from the humour, the laughter, the tough times they’d shared. From the klutzy attempts at deception, and the amazing talent lurking at his fingertips. From the way he’d given his all for friendship, even if it meant a scorpion sting in the back, or a tree branch in the gut. Andy’s throat was aching with the tautness of unshed tears.

      He preferred to blame it on the smoke.

      For now, there was some comfort in the fight. He could lose himself in the battle, and he knew his men were doing the same. Temporary oblivion guised in smoke and flame. It was hot, and hard, and tiring, and when they finished, they’d all be a little burned—and burned out. Maybe too tired to think—or remember.

      Andy lifted his face, to stare a little blindly at the flames. The heat on his skin felt good; purifying, even.

      It had another advantage, too: it could dry his tears, before they fell.

*

      “What’s wrong?”

      Kris was frozen—lost in thought. It was one of those flashes he sometimes had, and it was so strong this time that it tightened his gut.

      “Kris! What is it?”

      “Hail,” he whispered.

      Gill moved silently, to stand by his side. “Your intuition’s screaming.”

      He nodded. He’d never told her, but he wasn’t surprised that she knew.

      “Is it Jarron? Or Andy?”

      He gave her a small smile. “Aren’t you going to ask about Nick?”

      She gave him a disapproving look. “Poor Nick’ll be too busy proving to himself that Lys still finds him attractive. He won’t be out in the weather.”

      Kris was only half-listening. He drew closer to the glass, and stared intently at the smoke rising in the distance. “They’re in that,” he whispered, appalled.

      Gill didn’t waste time. By the time he’d turned around, his expression anguished, she was back—and carrying their gear. She tossed him his jacket, and a black duffle bag. “Hail?” she asked.

      “Hail,” he confirmed. “Big chunks of it.”

      “Ouch.” She shouldered the other duffle bag, then slipped her hand into his. “Let’s go,” she urged him.

      Kris gave her a lopsided grin. “And here I thought he was safe at work.” He glanced back, at the billowing smoke that was rapidly filling the northern skies. “Smoke and hail are definitely bad for my complexion. Jar’s gonna owe me big time for this one.” He gave Gill’s hand a quick squeeze, then followed her swiftly out the door.

***

Chapter Three 
 

      _“Owee!” Perry yelped. Colin couldn’t miss it. The way they were crouched together, Gervois had bellowed it in his ear.

      “Owee?” Colin grumbled. “That the best you can do?”

      “Medical term,” Perry panted. “Latin for ‘doctor in pain’.”

      “Bruised.”

      “And bleeding.” He extended an arm that was gashed where hailstones had ripped the skin. “Where’s arnica when you need it?”

      “Look at this one.” Colin showed him a rip on his forearm.

      “You have my sympathies,” Perry said dryly.

      “None of your skills?”

      Jarron’s voice was muffled, but clear. “Just some advice: put some ice on it.” He snorted, and Perry deflected a big hailstone that was heading for his nose.

      “How are you, Marshall?” Colin asked gruffly.

      “Frozen with fear.” Jarron’s chuckle ended in a shiver, that sounded more like a hiccup.

      Perry patted his shoulder, a little absently. “Just lie still, Jar,” he warned. “I don’t know whether you’re fixed.”

      “Fixed?!” Jarron exclaimed, in mock horror. He gave his crotch a quick feel. “Whew! All there,” he said triumphantly. “You missed.”

      “Glad you find this so amusing, Marshall,” Colin said dryly, as he dodged a particularly large hailstone.

      “Hail of an adventure…” Jarron was laughing so hard by this time that his eyes were streaming.

      “What’s wrong with him?” Colin asked. “Concussion?”

      “Always goes a little wonky after he’s healed someone. Usually it’s someone else, though. Acts like he’s drunk.”

      “A real heal,” Jarron added helpfully.

      “Thanks for your input, Marshall.” Colin flung himself over Jarron as a roar of icy patter and ping splatted the ground around them.

      “Thanks for your output, Robarto.” Jarron winked, and suggested loudly, “I’d lay off the garlic if I were you.” He waved one hand. “And them beans…”

      Colin glared at Perry. “How long will this last?”

      Jarron’s teeth were chattering now, but it didn’t stop him from pinching his nose in mock despair, and V-ing his fingers behind Colin’s head.

      Perry shot him a warning look. Jarron rolled his eyes and pretended to gag.

      Perry chuckled and tried to cover it with a cough. “How long? Long enough, Robart, to make you start dreaming about a dark night—and a big club.”

*

      Someone tapped him on his shoulder.

      Kris. “They’re in there,” Andy yelled, waving his hand toward the searing flames—his voice hoarse from smoke. The last person he wanted was to see Kris—to have to explain why he’d left Jarron and Colin and Perry to burn.

      Angry, he hacked and chopped at fallen branches, as though the effort alone could rectify what he hadn’t. “I let them burn to death,” Andy said bluntly—not bothering to couch his actions in excuses.

      He didn’t turn around—he couldn’t. Instead, he viciously gouged out bigger and bigger chunks of dirt, and splayed them over the flames. “It’s so damn hot!” he muttered, wiping his face with a dirty arm.

      He worked blindly for a while—willing himself to stay absorbed in what he was doing. It seemed like he’d been chopping and digging and hauling and pounding flames for an eternity.

      Hell, he thought vaguely. Must be what hell’s like.

      He resolved to ask Jarron some time, then remembered he wouldn’t be asking Jarron anything. Andy worked harder.

      He managed to ignore Kris for nearly an hour, and by the time the hour was long gone, he’d forgotten Kris was there. He was moving like a robot now—chop, dig, toss—and it wasn’t until Kris grabbed his arm and dragged him out of the debris that he remembered his resentment.

      Not Chandler’s fault. Yours.

      “Have a drink.” Kris shoved a drink bottle into his hand. “Before you pass out.”

      Andy looked surly, and there was a mutinous look in his eyes. “Go to hell, Chandler,” he replied. He stood up and grabbed the shovel again. “They sure did,” he said, stumbling back toward the fire line.

      He didn’t make it that far. Kris was right, but Andy was too stubborn to give it up. And I’ll be damned if I’ll lose it in front of Chandler…He wobbled, and leaned against a nearby tree.