In the bright light of mid-morning Benton Fraser picked his way carefully among the piles of burned wreckage that had once been 221 West Racine Street. Twisted rebar, charred bricks, and the misshapen remains of bedsprings and kitchen appliances made maneuvering almost impossible; broken glass and crockery crunched underfoot. The steel framework of the ancient elevator shaft was still mostly intact, toppled along the northern wall like a toy knocked over by a petulant child.

He had left Diefenbaker at the consulate this time. He never should have let the wolf wander into the wreckage--there were far too many razor-sharp hazards underfoot.

He carefully worked his way across a charred beam, suffering a greasy black stain on his jeans for his trouble. His heavy work gloves were already caked with the stuff, the residue of oily smoke and soot. He gingerly lifted the corner of a sheet of heavy plywood that had likely once been a part of a subfloor. The underside of the plywood was studded with the smashed remains of white bathroom tiles, smeared with soot. Underneath he found a pedestal sink and half a toilet, its pink toilet seat still intact.

According to the fire marshall, the fire had started on the third floor and had fallen through to incinerate the floors below in turn; the entire building had been engulfed in flames at least five minutes before the first fire trucks had reached it.

Total loss.

No deaths.

Numerous minor injuries, mostly smoke inhalation. One critical injury. The detective who was not Ray Vecchio had promised to get names for him by the afternoon.

He tore his eyes away from the blackened debris and looked up to the open sky. It was one of those glorious early autumn days, when the air was crisp and delicately cool, the sky was deep azure with only the faintest wisps of cirrus clouds in the west. And yet here was the faint whiff of ambergris and scented oils mixed with the heavy stench of charred wood and molten plastic. He was standing precisely where his own apartment would have fallen, and yet he could see that there was no hope of finding anything here.

"Constable Fraser?"

He spun awkwardly, cracking his knee on a broken-off waste pipe. Margarita Gamez was standing on the sidewalk beyond the yellow caution tape, clutching the hand of her youngest son. She held her other hand over her nose and mouth, as if to ward off the smell. Little Esteban squirmed and pulled at her hand, eager to enter this new and strange playground, not even recognizing it as his home.

"Mrs. Gamez! You're all right. I was worried. . . ." Fraser scrambled back to the sidewalk, almost glad to be done with the futile search. He stripped off his gloves and grabbed the collar of Esteban's red jacket just as the boy broke loose from his mother's grip. "Steady on, son! Stay here with your mother--that's no place for children."

She gave Fraser a brief, awkward hug before sweeping Esteban up into her arms. "I called your office to find out when you would be coming home--"

"I arrived the day before yesterday."

"Yes. So he told me. You must have arrived just after. . . I'm so sorry. The shock must have been terrible."

Fraser studied his neighbor's concerned face. She was clearly unharmed, her son as well, but there were signs of weary strain in the heavy dark circles under her eyes. "No need to be concerned, Mrs. Gamez. How are you? Where are you living?"

She absently pushed a lock of hair out of Esteban's eyes. "The Red Cross has found us a hotel room near the hospital. I have been looking for a new apartment when I can--and I pray God something will come up soon. But where will you sleep?"

"My superior officer has permitted me to set up a cot in my office at the consulate for the time being--" Fraser stopped suddenly. "Close to the hospital?"

The woman smiled sadly, but her voice wavered with tension. "I asked the taxi driver to wait around the corner. Will you come with me? Please?"

"Who. . . ?"

"Mario."

Fraser turned and strode off toward the waiting taxi. "Let's go."

"He is in the Burn Unit at the University of Chicago Children's Hospital."

"Is it very serious?"

There was a long pause while Mrs. Gamez stared out the window of the taxi at the passing traffic. When the car stopped at the traffic light on Marquette, she turned back to him and sighed. "There were bad burns on arms and on his chest. On his face and neck too, but not so bad. The doctors say. . . " she hesitated, pressing a finger to her nose as if to hold back the tears that were threatening to come. "The doctors say that there may be scars. . . ."

"Mama? What's a scar, mama?"

"I'm sure they'll do the best they can."

The toddler poked incessantly at his mother's arm. "What's a scar, mama? What's a scar!"

"Be quiet please, Esteban." The strain was beginning to show in her voice.

Fraser firmly grasped the boy's wrist and pulled it away from his mother. He leaned over and touched the chubby fingers to his own jaw, to the smooth, beardless line that marked the place where he'd sliced his face crashing through a tempered glass door six years earlier. "This is a scar, Esteban. It's a place where the skin was injured and then healed."

"Does it hurt?"

"Not any more. It's all better now."

They rode in silence for several blocks, while the little boy made a careful inspection of the scar on the Mountie's chin. Fraser finally asked gently, "Have you. . . have you been in contact with the others?"

Mrs. Gamez nodded. "Some of them. Charlie Randall and Lucy are living in the same hotel as me and my children. So is Grace Harris, although I think she will be moving out into another apartment soon. You know, the strobe light fire alarm you installed in her apartment probably saved her life."

"I'm glad. Have you spoken to Mr. Mustafi?"

"No. I think he went to his son's home in Milwaukee."

"Mr. Klein? Mrs. Krezfapolov?"

"I haven't seen them since the fire."

"I'll have to find out where they are. What about Dennis?"

"I don't know!" She passed a hand across her face, as if to ward of the weariness and grief. "You'll have to ask the Red Cross. . . ."

"I will."

She shrugged. "I can only worry about my own children--I don't have the strength to keep track of everybody else."

"I understand."

She pulled a limp tissue from her pocket and blew her nose. "Constable Turnbull told me that you found the bastard who did this?"

"It was a woman." Fraser fumbled with the brim of his Stetson. "Yes. She'll be arraigned this afternoon."

"Why. . . ?"

Fraser considered a moment before answering. "She was angry at me. She was angry because I once arrested a man she admires."

"And for this she burns an entire building down? She destroys the homes of two dozen families? That makes no sense!"

"You're right, Mrs. Gamez. It makes no sense at all."

Fraser paid the taxi driver and added a generous tip for waiting on West Racine. Esteban raced ahead into the hospital, almost amusing in his excitement over the automatic doors. The adults had to jog a few steps to catch up with the boy near the elevators.

"Do they let him into the room?"

"Yes. But he gets bored easily, with Mario asleep most of the time. He is. . . he is on some very strong pain medicines. He sleeps so much. . . ."

"Sleep's probably the best thing for him right now."

"That's what the doctors say."

The elevator doors opened on the fourth floor. The woman led the way now, anxious to be reunited with her injured son. Fraser had to quicken his step to keep up with her as she turned the corner and headed down the long corridor of the Pediatric Burn Unit.

"Mrs. Gamez? I've been wondering about one thing. Everyone else in the building got out with nothing worse than minor injuries and smoke inhalation. You're fine, Esteban's fine--"

"Teresa and Orlando are fine, too. The smoke detector went off while the children were getting ready for school. I went to the apartment door and felt it. It was so hot--I knew we could not leave that way. So we went through the window onto the fire escape."

"That was very wise. But Mario was burned--"

"He was right behind me. When we started down the fire escape, I looked back and he was right behind me! But I had to pay attention to the steps--I was carrying Esteban, and the smoke was so thick--when we got to the ground I looked around and Mario was not there."

"Had he fallen? Tripped?"

"No. The rest of us went down--but Mario climbed up." Mrs. Gamez pushed open the door of room 427. Inside, Mario lay very still in his hospital bed. Fourteen-year-old Teresa was seated in the visitor's chair, reading aloud to her brother Orlando, who sat cross-legged at her feet.

Astonished, Fraser looked to Mario Gamez, swaddled in white bandages and peacefully asleep. The boy's proud mother touched the stunned constable on the arm.

"Have you ever heard of anything so foolish? He went back into a burning building, just to rescue some books."