The Last Song

She searched the crowd, catching sight of some of the other teams, which only made her feel more frantic. As far as she could tell, there wasn't a special area reserved for the players, and she despaired of ever locating him with so many people around.

With only ten minutes until the game began, she was about to give up when she suddenly spotted him walking with Scott near some paramedics who were leaning against their truck. As Will pulled off his shirt, he vanished behind the truck.

She plunged through the crowd, calling out hurried apologies to the people she pushed. It took her less than a minute to reach the spot where she'd last seen him, but he was nowhere in sight. She moved forward again, and this time she thought she saw Scott--he was hard to make out in the ocean of blondes. Just as she let out a frustrated sigh, she saw Will standing by himself in the shade of the bleachers, taking a long drink from a bottle of Gatorade.

Megan had been right. She could tell by the slump of his shoulders that he was exhausted, and she couldn't see evidence of any pre-game adrenaline.

She scooted around some bystanders, breaking into a jog as she got closer. For an instant, she thought she saw surprise in his face, but he quickly turned away and she knew his dad had given him her message.

She read the pain and confusion in his reaction. She would have talked it all through with him, but with the game only minutes away, she didn't ha

ve time. As soon as she was close, she threw her arms around him and kissed him as passionately as she could. If he was surprised, he recovered quickly and began to kiss her back.

When they finally separated, he spoke. "About what happened yesterday..."

Ronnie shook her head, placing a gentle finger over his lips. "We'll talk about that later, but just so you know, I didn't mean what I said to your dad. I love you. And I need you to do something for me."

When he cocked his head questioningly, she went on.

"Play today like you've never played before."

27

Marcus

Kicking at the sand at Bower's Point, Marcus knew he should be enjoying the havoc he'd wreaked the previous evening. Everything had turned out exactly the way he'd planned it. The house had been decorated precisely as the endless newspaper articles had detailed, and loosening the tent pegs--not all the way, just enough to ensure they'd pull free when he slammed into the ropes--had been easy to do when everyone was eating dinner. He'd been thrilled to see Ronnie wander down to the dock, Will in tow; they hadn't let him down. And good old reliable Will had played his part perfectly; if there was a guy more predictable in the entire world, Marcus would be shocked. Push button X and Will would do one thing; push button Y and Will would do another. If it hadn't been so much fun, it would have been boring.

Marcus wasn't like other people; he'd known that for a long time. Growing up, he never felt guilty about anything, and he liked that about himself. There was power in the ability to do whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted to do it, but the pleasure was usually short-lived.

Last night, he'd felt more alive than he had in months; the rush had been incredible. Usually after he pulled off one of his "projects," as he liked to think of them, he would be satisfied for weeks. A good thing, too, since his urges, left unchecked, would eventually get him caught. He wasn't dumb. He knew how things worked, which was why he was always very, very careful.

Now, however, he was plagued by the feeling that he'd made a mistake. Perhaps he'd pushed his luck too far in making the Blakelees the target of his latest project. They were the closest thing to royalty in Wilmington, after all--they had power, they had connections, and they had money. And he knew that if they discovered he was involved, they'd stop at nothing to put him away for as long as possible. So he was left with a nagging doubt: Will had covered for Scott in the past, but would he do so even at the expense of his sister's wedding?

He didn't like this feeling. It felt almost like... fear. He didn't want to go to prison, no matter how short the sentence. He couldn't go to prison. He didn't belong there. He was better than that. He was smarter than that, and he couldn't imagine being locked in a cage and being ordered around by a bunch of prison guard flunkies or becoming the love interest of a three-hundred-pound neo-Nazi or eating food sprinkled with roach crap or any of the other horrors he could easily imagine.

The buildings he'd burned and the people he'd hurt meant absolutely nothing to him, but the thought of prison made him... sick. And never once had the fear felt closer than it had since last night.

So far, things were calm, he reminded himself. Obviously Will hadn't identified him, because if he had, Bower's Point would be crawling with cops. Still, he needed to lay low for a while. Real low. No parties at beach houses, no fires in warehouses, and he wouldn't go anywhere near either Will or Ronnie. It went without saying that he wouldn't utter a single word to Teddy or Lance or even Blaze. It was better to let people's memories fade.

Unless Will changed his mind.

The possibility hit him like a physical blow. Where he'd once had complete power over Will, their roles had suddenly been reversed... or at least equalized.

Maybe, he thought, it would be best if he just left town for a while. Head south to Myrtle Beach or Fort Lauderdale or Miami until the little wedding brouhaha faded away completely.

It felt like the right decision, but for that, he needed money. A lot of money. And soon. Which meant he needed to do some shows in front of some very large crowds. Luckily, the beach volleyball tournament was starting today. Will would be competing, no doubt, but there was no reason he had to go anywhere near the courts. He'd do his show on the pier... a big show.

Behind him, Blaze was sitting in the sun, wearing only jeans and her bra; her shirt lay balled up near the campfire.

"Blaze," he called out, "we're going to need nine fireballs today. There's going to be a big crowd and we need to make some money."

She didn't answer him, but her audible sigh set his teeth on edge. He was sick and tired of her. Since her mom had kicked her out, she'd been nothing but glum day in and day out. He watched her rise from her spot and grab the bottle of lighter fluid. Good. At least she was working a little to earn her keep.

Nine fireballs. Not all at the same time, of course; they normally used six in the course of a show. But adding one more here and there, something unexpected, might be enough to raise the cash he needed. In a couple of days, he'd be in Florida. Just him. Teddy and Lance and Blaze would be on their own for a while, which was fine with him. He was sick of all of them.

Already planning his trip, he barely noticed as Blaze soaked several cloth balls in lighter fluid, directly above the shirt she would later wear in the show.

28

Will

Winning their first-round game was remarkably easy; Will and Scott barely broke a sweat. In round two, their game was even easier, their opponents scoring only a single point. In the third round, both he and Scott had to work hard. Though the score appeared lopsided, Will walked off the court thinking that the team they had just beaten was a lot better than the score indicated.

They started the quarterfinals at two p.m.; the final was scheduled for six. As Will rested his hands on his knees, waiting for the opposing team's service, he knew his game was on today. They were down five to two, but he wasn't worried. He felt good, he felt quick, and every shot he placed sent the ball flying to exactly the spot he wanted. Even as his opponent tossed the ball in the air to begin his serve, Will felt unassailable.

The ball came arcing over the net with a heavy topspin; anticipating its drop, he scrambled forward and set up the ball perfectly. With flawless timing, Scott rushed up and leapt before spiking the ball crosscourt, returning the serve to their side. They won the next six points in a row before the other team got the serve back, and as he settled into position, he quickly scanned the stands for Ronnie. She was sitting in the bleachers opposite his parents and Megan--probably a good idea.

He'd hated that he couldn't tell his mom the truth about Marcus, but what could he do? If his mom knew who'd done it, she would go for blood... which could only lead to retribution. He was certain the first thing Marcus would do if arrested would be to get his sentence reduced in exchange for "useful information" about another, more serious crime--Scott's. It would cause problems for Scott at a critical time in his scholarship search, not to mention hurt Scott's parents--who also happened to be close friends of his own parents. So he'd lied, and unfortunately his mom had chosen to blame the whole thing on Ronnie.

But she'd shown up this morning and told him that she loved him nonetheless. They'd talk later, she'd promised. And she'd told him that more than anything, she wanted him to play his best in the tournament, which was exactly what he was going to do.

As the opponents served again, Will raced across court to make the shot; Scott followed with a perfect set, and Will spiked it home. From that point on, their opponents scored only one more point before the game ended; in the next game, they scored only twice.

He and Scott advanced to the semifinals, and in the stands, he could see Ronnie cheering for him.

The semifinal match was their toughest yet; they'd won the first game easily, only to lose the second game in a tiebreaker.

Will was standing on the service line, waiting for the official to signal the beginning of the third game, when his gaze wandered first to the bleachers and then to the

pier, noting that the crowd was three times larger than it had been the year before. Here and there, he saw clusters of people he'd known in high school and others he'd known growing up. There wasn't an open seat in the stands.

At the referee's signal, Will tossed the ball high in the air and took a series of quick steps. Launching himself into the air, he sent a driving serve down the baseline, aiming for a spot about three-quarters of the way back. He landed, ready to scramble into position, but he already knew it wasn't necessary. By splitting the court, both of his opponents had frozen for an instant too long; the hard-driving ball sent up a plume of sand before skating off the court.

One to zero.

Will served seven times in a row, putting Scott and him comfortably ahead, and they ended up alternating points from then on, leading to a relatively easy victory.

Walking off the court, Scott slapped his back.

"It's over," he said. "We're on fire today, so let Tyson and Landry bring it on!"

Tyson and Landry, a pair of eighteen-year-olds from Hermosa Beach, California, were the dominant junior team in the world. A year ago, they'd ranked eleventh in the world overall, which would have been good enough to represent virtually every other country in the Olympic Games. They'd been playing together since they were twelve years old and hadn't lost so much as a game in two years. Scott and Will had met them only once before in last year's semifinal of the same tournament, and they'd walked off the court with their tails between their legs. They hadn't even made a game of it.

But today was a different story: They won the first game by three points; Tyson and Landry won the next game by exactly the same margin; and in the final game, they found themselves tied at seven.

Will had been outside in the sun for nine hours. Despite the liters of water and Gatorade he'd consumed, the sun and heat should have worn him down at least a little, and maybe it had. But he didn't feel it. Not now. Not when he realized they actually had a chance to win the whole thing.

They had the serve--always a disadvantage in beach volleyball, since points were scored with every volley and the team returning the serve had the chance to set and spike the ball--but Scott sent a knuckleball serve over the net that forced Tyson out of position. Tyson was able to reach the ball in time, but he sent it flying in the wrong direction. Landry charged and somehow got his hand on the ball, but that only made matters worse; it soared into the crowd, and Will knew it would be at least another minute until the ball was back in play. When that happened, he and Scott would be leading by a point.