She kicked her legs back and barely managed to stop herself from continuing to skid over the edge. From the sound of their steps on the metal treads, the MPs had reached the second landing now. She breathed as deeply as she could, forcing herself to be calm.

"Somebody stop her!" Boyd Fletcher yelled. "She's going to get my son killed!"

My son. Megan heard the words, but she didn't believe it. Boyd Fletcher hadn't ever called Gerry by his name in her hearing before. He'd referred to the boy as a possession; the same as saying "my car."

Pain burned through her arm. She focused on Gerry. His eyes were wide with panic. His fingernails clawed into her arm, leaving bloody furrows. Her own fear allowed her to ignore the burning pain of the deep scratches, as if it were someone else's flesh that was getting torn.

"Mrs. Gander! Mrs. Gander! Please help me!"

"I am, Gerry. I am." Megan tried to keep the tears from her eyes but she couldn't. She was going to drop him. She'd never be able to hold him till help arrived. He seemed to get heavier with each passing second, a weight like a blacksmith's anvil kicking and yelling at the end of her arm.

"Stop her!" Boyd Fletcher yelled. "She's going to kill him! She's crazy! " He struggled, trying to break away from the two MPs who had stayed with him, even though his hands were cuffed behind his back. One of the MPs slapped his stick at the backs of Fletcher's legs, knocking the man into a crumpled kneeling position. He leaned down, pinning Fletcher with one hand against the small of his back.

Fletcher screamed curses.

"Calm down, Private," one of the MPs ordered.

To Megan the voices, even Fletcher's yells, seemed like they came from a million miles away.

"Mrs. Gander!" Gerry hung on to her desperately.

Megan slid another couple inches, getting dangerously close to losing her scant purchase at the roofs edge. "God," she shouted, "please help me! Please help me with this!"

But there was no answer.

There had never been an answer when she had asked for help. Sometimes, most of the time, she had to admit, the situations she prayed over had gotten better. Bill told her that God acted in the world, gave signs that built faith if people trusted enough to look for them. Even in the Old Testament, when God had spoken to His prophets on a regular basis, those ancient men had struggled more to disbelieve and discount than to accept. Bill had suggested that was why idolatry had sprung up, that man had a self-defeating need to reach out to things that didn't exist rather than admit God's love was there for them.

Idols couldn't hold a person accountable for his or her actions. A person couldn't break faith with an idol. An idol was a fabrication, a thing a person chose to believe in because she could exercise some control over the idol by choosing to worship it or not worship it. Blame could be placed on an idol, payoffs withheld from that idol, a new idol found.

But what about God's love? Megan asked herself frantically as she slid another inch. Where is His hand in this? I'm going to lose this boy, God! I'm not strong enough to hold him! Please! You can see this! You have to be able to see this! Help me!

"Mrs. Gander!" Gerry slipped another inch.

Megan's grip on the boy's hand loosened. Her hand grew numb and ached miserably from her sustained effort. Goose could have pulled the boy back up. She felt certain of that. Goose was strong, stable. He could handle anything the world threw at him and keep going. She had seen that.

Gerry slipped again, and Megan slid forward across the roofs edge. She knew that if she didn't release him his weight was going to drag her into a free fall with him. Part of her-the animal part that lived in the lowest recesses of her brain, still afraid of fire and storms and any kind of change-screamed at her to let go. No one could blame her for saving herself. She had already risked her life. Saving Gerry Fletcher was impossible-Nothing is impossible with God's help-it would have been better if she had missed him-Why didn't I miss him?

Gerry's hand slipped from her forearm, no longer able to hang on, his clasp sliding from her arm to her hand.

"Mrs. Gander!"

"I've got you, Gerry. I've got you. Just hang on. Just hang on a moment longer."

The MPs were on the final landing, headed for the rooftop. They were big and strong. They could hold Gerry and make him safe. All they had to do was "We just have to hang on a few more seconds." Megan's arm felt like fire had invaded the joint. "Just a little longer." Tears blurred her vision and she knew she was crying. God! Why? Why have You abandoned us?

The blood from the scratches along her forearm threaded down her hand and onto Gerry's. The grip they shared became slick and uncertain.

"I'm falling!" Gerry screamed. "I'm falling!"

"No," Megan said, stifling the urge she had to scream as well. "I've got you, Gerry. I've got you." She felt the rooftop shake under her as the MPs raced toward them. "Just don't let go. Don't let go, Gerry."

Thin as a whisper, silent as snow, gone in the blink of an eye, Gerry's hand slipped through hers.

"No!" Megan screamed as she felt his fingers glide through the blood that coated her hand.

Gerry wailed in terror. And he fell, plummeting toward the unyielding concrete in front of the apartment building.

United States of America Fort Benning, Georgia Local Time 1:21 A.M.

Time slowed as Megan watched Gerry Fletcher fall. Time slowed but never stopped, moving inexorably on in horrifying tiny ticks rather than in a brain-numbing rush.

Gerry dropped like a rock, tumbling over backward, his arms stretched out and reaching helplessly for a handhold, his legs bicycling. A scream stretched the boy's mouth wide, but Megan couldn't hear it over her own yell of anguish. She'd had him ... and she'd lost him.

Why, God? Why did You let both of us come up on this roof tonight? If everything happens for a reason, if I'm supposed to believe that, what good was it for Gerry to be up here? Why did I have to be up here? The last bit was selfish. She knew that and regretted the thought in the same moment she had it.

Gerry tumbled, turning to face away from her.

Tears blurred Megan's vision. She blinked them away unconsciously, and when she opened her eyes again, she saw Gerry hit the ground. At least, she thought the boy had hit the ground. But looking down now, she knew that something was wrong.

The pile of clothes at the bottom of the building didn't look big enough to be a boy. They only looked big enough to be-to be a pile of clothes.

That's denial, Megan told herself, knowing that had to be true because nothing else made sense. My mind is shutting out the real sight of Gerry down there, shutting out the true image of blood and broken pavement. He fell. He hit. 0 God, what have I done? Why did You forsake us? He was just a baby.

The two MPs on the rooftop grabbed Megan's legs. She hadn't even noticed she'd still been falling, skidding slowly but surely over the side of the roof. Gerry's certain death had paralyzed even the lizard's instinct for survival in the back of her brain.

"Mrs. Gander," one of the MPs said. "Mrs. Gander, relax. We've got you. It's over."

Stubbornly, Megan clung to the roofs edge. One of the MPs guarding Boyd Fletcher ran toward the impact area. Impact area? Is that what you call it? She didn't know how she could be so callous. The MP reached the pile of clothes and stared down. His head swiveled around, looking for something.

"Where is he?" Boyd Fletcher yelled. "Where is Gerry? I saw him up there. She hid him. Check the rooftop. He can't have gone far." He struggled to get to his feet, but the MP holding him down never moved, grinding him down on his face.

In the end, Megan couldn't hold on to the roofs edge. The MPs proved too strong. They talked softly to her, like she was a child or a trauma victim. Shaking and shivering, not certain that she was strong enough to walk on her own two feet, Megan allowed the men to hold her from either side.

"Mrs. Gander."

Megan tracked the voice, turning to the man on the right when she wanted to go look over the roofs edge again. It's only clothes. Only clothes. And that made no sense at all.

"Yes?" Her voice came out as a croak.

"Are you all right, ma'am?"

She tried to speak, found she couldn't, then tried again. "I think so."

"Do you feel strong enough to take the stairs, ma'am? If not, we can probably get a rescue unit to come take you off the roof. It would be a lot easier if you could make it under your own steam." The MP was in his fifties, a black man gone gray at the temples, with a seamed face that offered strength and support.

Megan nodded.

"I'm sorry, ma'am, but I need you to audibly answer me. I need to know that you understand what I'm asking." The MP's grip on her arm was gentle but firm.

"Yes," Megan said. "I can walk."

"Then-when you're ready, ma'am."

Megan started forward, aiming for the fire escape.

"Have you got her, Dave?" the other, younger MP asked. "I gotta look for that kid."

"Yeah," the big MP answered. "I can make it. If not, we'll stop partway down and you can catch up, or one of the others can come up here."

Megan stopped and turned to the younger MP. "What did you say you were going to do?" She couldn't believe she stopped, but what the man had said had jarred her.

The man stared at her. "I'm gonna look for that kid, Mrs. Gander Do you know where he got off to?"

Megan made herself breathe out. "His name is Gerry." That was important. He wasn't just some chattel of Boyd's, a possession; he wasn't just his abusive father's property.

"Yes, ma'am," the MP answered politely. "I've gotta look for Gerry."

"He fell," Megan said. God, he slipped right through my fingers. How could You allow something like that to happen? "He's down there on the pavement."

"No, ma'am," the young MP insisted. "All that's down there are his clothes."

Megan stared at the man. "His clothes?"

"Yes, ma'am." The MP nodded and shined his flashlight around the rooftop. Nothing came into view. "Can you tell me where the kid-where Gerry is, Mrs. Gander? Things will probably go easier if we can bring him in."

"We won't let his father at him," Dave, the older MP, promised. He obviously mistook Megan's shocked silence as trepidation. "Private Fletcher is going to be in lockdown tonight. He won't touch the boy."

The young MP grimaced and glanced at his partner. "Is there another way down off of this roof?"

Dave shook his head. "This is it."

"The kid couldn't have flown down from the roof, Dave. He's either up here or he's down there."

"Pete." The older MP licked his lips. "Maybe the boy was never up here."

"I saw him," Pete said. "I saw him." He glanced at the roofs edge trailing the flashlight beam along it. "And I swear, Dave, I swear I saw that kid fall from the building."

"If you did, he'd be down there," Dave Said "All that hit the ground was clothes. You heard Mitchell and Rick the same as I did. You only saw clothes hit the ground. Nothing else." "Then we're looking for a naked kid?"

"Maybe he was never up here. Maybe Mrs. Gander only had his clothes. "

Megan couldn't believe what she was hearing. Why would anyone think she'd only been up on the building with clothing? Why did they think only clothing had hit the ground?

"That sounds kind of weird, don't you think?" Pete asked.

Dave shrugged. "You look. I'll get Mrs. Gander to the ground, then I'll come back up and help you look some more."

"You saw the kid, didn't you, Dave?" Pete looked desperate. "You saw him up on this rooftop, didn't you?"

Dave let out a long breath and Megan saw the fear in the man's eyes. "It was dark," the older MP said. "I don't know what I saw."

Dazed, not comprehending what was going on, Megan allowed herself to be led away. She descended the metal stairs mechanically, barely noticing the bright light of the camcorder trained on her from one of the building's windows.

"Get that camera out of here," Dave growled.

Reluctantly, the young soldier filling the third-floor window did as he was ordered. He was shirtless, and his dog tags gleamed in the reflected illumination. The camcorder light died. "Did you see that boy disappear, Sarge?" the young soldier asked.

"Be quiet, soldier," the MP snapped. "You look like you've been drinking tonight. You sure don't want someone prowling around inside your apartment if you've got a shift in the morning. You'd get a referral in no time flat."

The guy stood his ground but didn't say anything.

As she descended the stairs, Megan kept staring at the pile of clothing that Gerry Fletcher had been wearing only moments ago. She tried to comprehend what she was seeing, trying to make some sense of it. How could there only be a few clothes left from a young boy that had fallen from a four-story rooftop?

But when she reached the ground level, those clothes were all that was left of Gerry Fletcher. The memory of the boy's screams as he fell haunted Megan.

"What did you do with my son?" Boyd Fletcher yelled. He arched his back and turned to look at the man holding him down. "Make her tell you. Make her tell you what she's done with my son. That's your job."

"I didn't do anything with him," Megan said, staring at the clothing. She remembered the garments from when she'd first seen them in the hospital, then again when Gerry had slipped from her grip and twisted through the intervening distance. God help her, she thought that was one memory she'd never forget.

"She's lying!" Boyd Fletcher screamed. "You all know my son was up there. He's still up there. Find him!"

In a daze, Megan approached the clothing. She knelt and touched the sweatpants with the tattered knee, the sweatshirt, the smudged socks and sneakers. Silver gleamed in the combined lights of the MPs and the curious onlookers that had gathered from the nearby apartments. She moved the socks and shoes, revealing the silver necklace Gerry's mother had gotten him last year. Almost hypnotized, she lifted the necklace in her fingers. The small sterling silver cross hanging from the necklace spun and caught the light.

"Get her away from those clothes! " Boyd Fletcher bellowed. "Get her away from them now! They aren't hers! She has no business with them!"

On her knees, Megan stared at the cross. She remembered how proud Gerry had been of his necklace. He wouldn't have left it behind. She wrapped her hand around the cross, thinking that she could still feel the warmth of the boy's body in it even at the same time knowing that had to be impossible.

Gerry wouldn't have left the necklace. He wouldn't have left his clothes. He didn't leave. He fell. The words thundered through Megan's mind, overriding even Boyd Fletcher's loud curses and demands that someone find his son.

"Mrs. Gander."

Megan was suddenly aware of the big MP at her side. His hand was once more on her arm. This time his grip wasn't just supportive; it constrained her as well, letting her know she wasn't leaving unless he agreed to it.

"Mrs. Gander," the MP said, "I'm afraid you're going to have to come with me."

"I can't." Megan rose, feeling the MP's hand tighten around her arm. He's afraid I'm going to try to run. The realization flooded through her like cold water, triggering an instinctive impulse to do precisely that.

"Ma'am," the MP said with polite determination. "There are going to be a lot of questions."

"I can't," Megan said. "I promised my son I'd come for him."

"Where's your son?"

"At the child-care facility."