Rune sat up slowly. She brushed at her ears. They felt cottony, stuffed with ash. She snapped her fingers near them; she couldn't hear a sound. Not her fingers, not even the huge Seagrave fire truck as it braked to a halt ten feet from her, whose siren was probably screaming loudly.

She stood, supporting herself on the van. She was dizzy. She waited for the sensation to pass but it didn't and she wondered if maybe she had a concussion.

Rune wondered too if there was something wrong with her vision-because she found she was focusing perfectly on two things at the same time: one near, the other far away.

The close object was a feather of thin paper, gilt-edged and printed with fine lettering. It sailed decorously down past her cheek and slipped away in the uneasy current of air.

The other thing Rune could see all too clearly, even through the column of black smoke, was the hole in the third floor of the building in front of her-the cavern that had been the office where Shelly Lowe had been standing to shout to Rune what would be, apparently, the last words she'd ever say.

Their faces were stone.

Rune sat in the back of an NYPD patrol car, the door open, her feet on the ground outside, and wiped at her tears. She was aware of the two men who stood five feet away, watching her, but she didn't return their gaze.

The fire was out. A foul, chemical reek filled the air and a film of smoke hung over the street like an oily fog.

Rune's face and elbows had been cleaned and bandaged by the EMS attendants. They used Band-Aids. She thought they would've used something more elaborate but they just scrubbed the skin, slapped on flesh-colored strips and went upstairs. They walked slowly. No one up there needed their talents.

She pressed the shredded wad of Kleenex into her eyes one final time and looked up at the men, who were dressed in dark suits. "She's dead, isn't she?"

"You're shouting," one of the detectives said.

She couldn't hear her own voice-her ears were still numb. She repeated the question, trying to talk more softly.

The question surprised them. One had an expression that could have been a faint smile. He said something she couldn't hear. Rune asked him to repeat it. He said, "She's extremely dead."

It was confusing, talking to them. She caught fragments of phrases, missed others. She had to look at their eyes to make sense of what they were asking.

"What happened?" she asked.

Neither of them responded. One asked gruffly, "What's your name, miss?"

She told them.

She heard: "Not your stage name, honey, not the one you use when you're up on the silver screen, your real name." He gazed at her coldly.

"Rune is my real name. Wait… You think I worked with Shelly?"

"Work? You call itwork? What does your mother say about your career?"

Anger burst in her face. "I'm not a porn actress."

The other smiled. "Well, I guess that's not too hard to figure out." His eyes scanned her body. "So whatta you do for the company? Get coffee? Do makeup? Give the actors head to get 'em up before the shoot?"

She started up. "Listen-"

"Sit down." He waved her back into the car. "I've got a lot better things to do with my time than talk to one of you people." His partner didn't seem as angry but he wasn't stopping the man's tirade. "You want to do this kind of bullshit with your life, encouraging people to get diseases and things, fine. It's a free country. Just don't expect me to like you and tell you how sorry I am your friend got blown the fuck up. Now, I wanna ask my questions and get the hell outa here. So tell me what you saw." A notebook appeared.

She was crying again, messy, sniffling tears, as she told them what happened, about the party they were going to, about Shelly getting a phone message, Rune waiting for her downstairs.

Rune said, "I saw her in the window, then the room exploded." She closed her eyes. The blast replayed in slow motion; she opened her eyes again. The scene continued, vivid, in her mind. "It was… it was soloud."

The one who was taking notes, the mean one, nodded and slipped his pad into his coat pocket. "You didn't see anybody else?"

"No."

He turned to the other with a feigned frown of thought. "Maybe we should take her up to see the body. She could ID it."

"Yeah, with that blast, the ME's office'll have a bitch of a time. You can be a big help. Come on, Miss Porn, you've got a strong stomach, don't you?" He took her by the arm, pulled her from the car.

The other was grinning. "Half her skin's blown off and the rest is pretty burnt." He pushed her toward the doorway.

A voice behind them: "Howdy, gentlemen. What's up?"

Cowboy stood on the sidewalk, moving his knuckles slowly along the rim of his baseball cap. He glanced at Rune, then back to the cops.

A detective nodded toward her. "Eyewitness. We were just-"

Rune pulled away, stepped toward Cowboy. "They were going to make me go upstairs and look at Shelly's body."

Cowboy's brow creased. "Were they?"

One of the cops shrugged, a grin on his face.

Cowboy said, "They took it out ten minutes ago, sent it to the ME's office. You guys saw it go."

The detectives grinned. "Having a little fun is all, Sam."

He was nodding, not pissed, but not smiling back either. "You finished with her?"

"Guess."

"Mind if I talk to her for a bit?"

"She's all yours." The detective turned to her. "We'll want you to sign a statement. Where can we get in touch with you?"

Rune gave them the phone number of L amp;R Productions.

Climbing into their unmarked car, one detective said, "I hope you consider this a lesson, young lady. Get your life together."

"I wasn't-," Rune began. But they slammed the doors and sped off.

Cowboy was studying her face. "Not too bad."

"What do you mean by that?"

"The cuts, I mean. You were lucky. It'd been on ground level, you might not have made it."

Rune was staring at the smoldering hole, where firemen had set up portable lights in metal cages hanging from scorched wires and conduit.

"What was her name?" he asked.

"Shelly Lowe. That was her stage name. She was an adult-film star."

"That was a studio?"

"Lame Duck Productions."

He nodded, looking up at the hole in the side of the building. "Another porn bombing."

"They" -she nodded at the detectives who'd just left- "thought I worked for them."

"They were giving you the shock treatment. They do the same thing with kids they find with drugs, and hookers and drunk drivers. You humiliate them, they're supposed to change their wayward lifestyle and go back to school or go on the wagon and join the church. I did it myself when I was a portable."

"A what?"

"A beat cop."

She walked a foot or two toward the building, staring at the opening. "I didn't work with her. I'm doing a documentary about her. I don't do those kind of films."

"I've seen you before."

"I was at the other bombing, the theater, and I saw you. Then again last night."

"I saw somebody with acamera. I didn't recognize you."

"I asked you something and you didn't answer me."

"I didn't hear," he answered. He touched his ear. "Hearing's not so great. Been doing bomb work for a few years now."

"I'm Rune." She stuck out her hand.

His fingers were narrow, but thick with calluses. "Sam Healy."

Healy motioned for her to step back as several blue-and-white police cars pulled away. Rune noticed that most of the police were gone. Just a half-dozen fire trucks were left. And the blue-and-white Bomb Squad station wagon.

He stood with his hands on his hips, looking at the shattered wall. He paced up and down.

"Why is everyone gone?"