Penny's parents were dead. She lived with her grandfather, in a huge old brick house on a side street.
They found her lying at the foot of the front steps. Rocks' heart leaped into his mouth when he saw the white form lying there, crumpled and twisted, in the rays from the light burning over the front door. Until that moment he had not fully known how much she meant to him.
"Penny," he whispered.
Had the same horrible death struck at her? Had she tried to flee only to find death racing after her, death coming faster than she could run?
He was trembling as he knelt beside her.
Then—she stirred in his arms. Her dress did not fall into dust at his touch, as Morton's clothing had. And her skin was white, not a hideous blotched red. Death had passed her by.
"Oh, Rocks," she whispered. "It was awful—"
Kennedy and his two men paused only long enough to make certain Penny was not injured. Then they went on into the house, and Rocks, even in the pressure of that moment, found time to admire their courage. Good boys, those cops were. They knew they might find something inside that house against which their guns would prove useless. But they drew the guns, and went in.
"Are you all right?" Rocks whispered.
"I—I think so. After I called you, I ran outside to call for help and I slipped and fell down the steps."