Rune felt her heart slamming as the thick green bags were wheeled or carried past. Even the Emergency Medical Service guys, who she guessed were pretty used to this sort of thing, looked edgy and green at the gills. Their lips were squeezed tight and their eyes were fixed ahead of them.

She eased closer to where one of the medics was talking to a fireman. And though the young man tried to sound cool, slinging out the words with a grin, his voice was shaky. “Four dead, but two are mystery stiffs — not even enough left for a dental.”

She swallowed; nausea and an urge to cry were balanced within her for a moment.

The queasiness returned when she realized something else: Three or four tons of smoldering concrete and plaster now rested on the same sidewalk squares where she'd been strolling just minutes before. Walking and skipping like a schoolgirl, careful to miss the cracks to save her mother's back, glancing at the movie poster and admiring the long blonde hair of the star of Lusty Cousins.

The very spot! A few minutes earlier and...

“What happened?” Rune asked a pock-faced young woman in a tight red T-shirt. Her voice cracked and she had to repeat the question.

“A bomb, a gas line.” The woman shrugged. “Maybe propane. I don't know.”

Rune nodded slowly.

The cops were hostile and bored. Authoritative voices droned, “Move along, come on, everybody. Move along.”

Rune stayed put.

“Excuse me, miss.” A man's polite voice was speaking to her. Rune turned and saw a cowboy. “Can I get by?” He'd walked out of the burnt-out theater and was heading for a cluster of officers in the middle of the street.

He was about six two. Wearing blue jeans, a work shirt and a soldier's vest stiff with plates of armor. Boots. He had thinning hair, swept back, and a mustache. His face was reserved and somber. He wore battered canvas gloves. Rune glanced at his badge, pinned to his thick, stained belt, and stepped aside.

He ducked under the yellow police tape and walked into the street. She edged after him. He stopped at a blue-and-white station wagon stenciled with bomb squad and leaned on the hood. Rune, slipping into eavesdropping range, heard:

“What've we got?” a fat man in a brown suit asked Cowboy.

“Plastic, looks like. A half ki.” He looked up from under salt-and-pepper brows. “I can't figure it. No I.R.A. targets here. The bar was Greek.” He nodded. “And the Syndicate only blows things up after hours. Anyway, their M.O. is, if you want to scare folks, they miss protection payments, you use Tovex from a construction site or maybe a concussion grenade. Something that makes a big noise. But military plastic? Sitting right next to the gas line? I don't get it.”