The rally went on. Half an hour later Mark had shot three rolls of film and there was only one roll left in his gadget bag. He sat down on the bench next to Linda, and while the song leaders began dancing their routine to the major fight song, fumbled to get the last roll of film into the camera. By the time the song was over and Peter Nakamura had picked up a megaphone to introduce the team, Mark was ready. He took up a position next to the main gate, and as Peter called out the names of the boys on the team, their numbers, and the positions they played-and the players, in full uniform, trotted out onto the field-Mark resumed shooting pictures.

Some of the players paused for Mark, others waved to him as they trotted past. One or two ignored him completely, and Robb Harris, timing the action perfectly, flipped him the finger at the exact moment the flash went off.

Finally, after a long pause accompanied by a drum roll, Peter Nakamura called JeffLaConner's name. As the crowd of teenagers in the stands got to their feet and their cheering rose to a crescendo, Mark focused the zoom lens on Jeff, who was running in place a few yards away. As his name was called, Jeff turned, dropped low to the ground for a moment, then broke into a dead run. As he came abreast of Mark he turned his head, and as the flashgun went off, he was facing the camera squarely.

The look of pure hatred in his eyes almost made Mark drop his camera.

But then Jeff was gone, and as the Wolverines' star quarterback ran onto the field, his arms spread, his hands held high over his head, Mark decided he must have been wrong. After all, it had been a couple of weeks since Linda had broken up with Jeff, and despite Linda's fears, Jeff had been perfectly friendly toward both of them.

No, he was wrong, Mark decided. He had to be. Jeff had just been putting on a ferocious expression for the sake of the camera.

JeffLaConner stood at the end of the long row of football players, his hands clenched at his sides. Though the strains of the Silverdale fight song were filling the air, and the other members of the team were singing along with the crowd, Jeff was oblivious to all of it.

His eyes were fixed on Mark Tanner, who was now standing next to Linda Harris, whispering in her ear. The familiar anger, the anger that was getting harder and harder for him to keep under control, was building inside him again.

It had happened once during the week after he'd spent the night at Rocky Mountain High. He'd been on the practice field, and was playing well. He'd been working on his passes that day, taking the ball on the snap from Roy Kramer, fading back a few yards with a quick look to see if the wide receiver was keeping to his pattern, then hurling the ball with almost perfect accuracy toward the spot where Kent Taylor would be a few seconds later.

In eleven tries, they'd completed the pass eleven times.

On the twelfth try, as he'd scanned the field, he caught a glimpse of Linda Harris and Mark Tanner, both of them laughing, walking away from the school. The play had fallen apart, his pass falling short by a good ten yards. Instantly, Phil Collins had blown his whistle and stormed onto the field, demanding to know what had happened. Jeff said nothing, barely even hearing the coach's tirade, for a wave of pure fury was sweeping over him. His vision almost seemed to desert him, his focus telescoping to the point where all he could see was Mark and Linda.

They were laughing at him-he was as certain of it as he had ever been of anything in his life.

And then, as abruptly as it had come on, the anger had drained out of him. He'd stood still for a moment, his body suddenly tired, as if he'd just run a ten-mile race.

He could still see Linda and Mark. They had paused by the corner of the building and were looking toward him. When Mark raised his hand to wave, Jeff found himself waving back. For the rest of the session Jeff's concentration was shot, his mind totally occupied with trying to figure out what had happened. He wasn't mad at either Linda or Mark. Or, anyway, he didn't think he was.

From then until the past week, he hadn't had any problems with anger. But on Monday morning, then again at lunchtime on Tuesday, he'd lost control for a moment. And yesterday it had happened twice, and today he'd carefully avoided both Linda and Mark, afraid the sudden rage might come over him again and that this time he wouldn't be able to control it at all.

Now, as he stood with the rest of the team facing the stands, it was happening again.

His eyes were fixed on the two of them, his fury tingeing their images with red. He could almost hear them talking together, and he was sure they were talking about him.

"Little prick," he muttered out loud.

Next to him, Robb Harris turned to glance at Jeff out of the corner of his eye. He thought Jeff had spoken to him, but now Jeff was looking away. From the expression on his face, it seemed Jeff was angry about something. But what? He'd been fine a few minutes ago, when they'd all been in the locker room, putting on their uniforms. Puzzled, Robb glanced around to see what Jeff was staring at.

All he could see was his sister, sitting on the bench next to Mark Tanner. But that was no big deal-Jeff had told him only a couple of days ago that he didn't blame Linda for breaking up with him. Now, though, he was glaring furiously at Mark, and when Robb glanced down, he saw that Jeff's hands were curled like claws, the knuckles white, the tendons standing out like steel wires drawn too taut.

The last notes of the fight song faded away, and the rest of the players turned, ready for JeffLaConner to lead them off the field and back to the locker room.

But Jeff didn't move. He stood where he was, as if rooted to the ground, his eyes still fixed glassily on Linda and Mark.

"Come on, Jeff," Robb whispered. "Let's go!"

Jeff didn't seem to hear him. Finally, Robb nudged him. "Will you move your ass, man? What the hell's wrong with you?"

It took a moment before Robb's words seemed to penetrate Jeff's hearing, and the bigger boy swung around to face him.

"I'mgonna get that little bastard," he said. "I'mgonna smash him up so bad, nobody's ever going to want to look at him again!"

"So what's up?" Blake Tanner asked Jerry Harris. They were sitting in theHarrises ' oak-paneled den, and though Blake had been there for almost an hour, Jerry still hadn't gotten to the point. Andtherewas a point to this visit, Blake was almost certain, for when Jerry had called him after dinner that evening and asked him to drop by, there had been something in his voice that told Blake it was to be more than just a visit between friends.

Nor did he think it had anything to do with the office, for even in the few short weeks he'd been in Silverdale, Blake had learned that if something came up in the office, Jerry Harris left it there. Of course, they talked business all the time, no matter where they were, but if the situation was primarily social, important issues were never brought up. Nevertheless, as he walked the six blocks from his own house to theHarrises ', he wondered what might be on Jerry's mind.

It was Ricardo Ramirez, he decided first, and Blake shook his head sadly as he thought about the boy. Rick was still in the hospital in Silverdale, his head held perfectly still in the metal embrace of a Stryker frame. Given his condition, Blake had come to think that the fact the boy was still in a coma was a kind of left-handed blessing, for at least Rick was totally unaware of how serious his injuries were. As far as the specialists MacMacCallum had called in could tell, Rick was nearly totally paralyzed from the neck down, and without the respirator, he would die very quickly. But his heart was still strong, and so far Maria Ramirez had refused even to consider the possibility that her son might never wake up. Indeed, she was at his bedside every day, holding her son's hand, murmuring softly to him in Spanish, certain that somehow, even through his coma, he could hear and understand what she was saying.