She pushed Patricia in front of the mirror. "Any straight male looking at you isn't even gonna look at your face. Don't slump, dear."

"They're heavy!"

Liz turned sideways to the mirror and lifted her own largish breasts with both hands. "No heavier than the real thing, baby. You are so lucky. But you need to flaunt 'em. Back in a second." She went out the door.

Patricia turned around and around, bemused. The image in the mirror brought back memories of adolescent pain. In high school, the well-endowed Angela Bustamonte had called her "pirate's delight"-sunken chest. Well, she'd called Angela "mountain bust" in return.

Liz came back in, carrying a long Velcro strap. "Here we go. It's for broken collarbones, but you won't believe what it does for your posture."

The strap wound around Patricia's shoulders, forming a figure eight in back. Liz pulled it tight, drawing the shoulders back until Patricia thought her shoulder blades would grind together. The difference in the posture was amazing, changing her entire upper torso. She took a deep breath and watched the bra rise.

Liz inspected her, nodding. "I could've gotten you to pull your shoulders back, but unless you were aware of it every minute, you'd slump again. Better youshouldn't have any choice."

The next thing she pulled out of the suitcase was a pair of high heeled, midcalf boots. "These may be a little big. They've got lifts in them, though, and between the heels and the lifts, you'll gain three inches in height. You wear high heels much?"

Patricia rolled her eyes. "Oh, yeah. It's right up there with oral surgery-something I do as often as possible."

Liz laughed. "Well, think about your center of gravity being really low. Take your time as you step. Keep your weight on your toes and let your hips move. Nothing unnatural, just don't constrain their movement. You do that, they'll split their time between your breasts and pelvis with maybe a little attention paid to your legs."

The dress Liz produced from the suitcase, a simple red rayon dress with a moderate decolletage, was just a bit tight around Patricia's augmented chest.

"Perfect!" said Liz. "We'll double-date. I'll take your leavings." She opened the other case, revealing a mixture of theatrical and street makeup. "You want to make up your own face?"

"Uh. I guess. The color of this dress-it doesn't really work with my hair, does it?"

"Of course not!" Liz turned back to the suitcase and emerged with her fist upright, draped with a shoulder-length black wig. "But then, we're not going to let anybody see your hair."

Patricia left the hospital by the pediatric clinic entrance on the other side of the hospital from ER. Liz Bowers y Romero stayed behind, in her place, dressed in a hospital gown, a large gauze dressing on her forehead and her service automatic under the cover.

The small Band-Aid covering Patricia's own stitches was hidden under the wig's long bangs, and she carried a shopping bag with two other dresses, a stash of makeup, and her own dirty clothes. She caught glimpses of herself in the mirror, a stranger with lipstick the same shade as her dress and wearing large sunglasses.

The reflection reminded her of Toni more than herself.

She pulled cash from an ATM, wondering if they were able to trace those transactions. Then, passing a music boutique, she bought a replacement stereo for Toni, plus a replacement disc of the lost Grand Mal tape. The exact stereo was no longer available, so she went with a more expensive model. The clerk was extremely courteous and attentive. He arranged a messenger to deliver both and jumped around the end of the counter to hold the door for her when she left.

She was wondering what to do next when her bra started beeping, a faint musical chime. She pulled the pager from within, nestled deep between the gel bags.MY NEW PAGER 32423 AT GTE DASH BEEPS DOT COM.

PUBLIC TERMINALS BEST.

REMEMBER OUR DEAL.

KEEPING SAFE LETS US.

COME BACK TO EACH OTHER.

T.

She spent an hour wandering around the downtown shopping district, buying another two dresses and some hosiery, an overnight bag, underwear, pajamas, and minimal toiletries. Men looked at her, but nobody seemed to be following her with the exception of one man who asked politely if he could buy her dinner and insisted on leaving his card with her.

Maybe I could give him the tits and he could take them out to dinner. He'd had the same kind of good looks as Geoffrey and she'd been more repelled than tempted. She dropped his card in the trash can as soon as she turned the corner.

The hotel, Posada del Angel, was run by a cousin of Tio Rodolfo, and he accepted enough cash for a week and put Ms. Viola Sebastian in the computer. She made one trip out to a public phone and sent an e-mail to Thomas's pager.

GONE TO GROUND.

THE ROOM IS SMALL.

BUT THE BED ISNT.

WHAT DO I KNOW THAT KEEPS THEM AFTER ME.

P.

She was back in the hotel room drying off from a shower when she got the next page.

THAT IS THE QUESTION.

THINK ON IT.

I AM YOURS.

T.

She borrowed a line from Shakespeare and, wearing the wig, the breasts, and one of her newly bought dresses, sent a page from a public terminal before eating.

I HAVE UNCLASPD TO THEE.

THE BOOK EVEN OF MY SECRET SOULAND CAN THINK OF NOUGHT.

THE BED IS STILL NICE.

(BUT TOO LARGE FOR ONE).

P.

His answering page came back while she was drinking her after-meal coffee.

YOU MUST KNOW SOMETHING THAT SCARES THEM.

YOUR TALK OF BEDS DISTRACTS ME.

I'LL BE THERE TOMORROW.

TO UNFOLD THE PASSION OF MY LOVE.

T.

Well, he worked it back around to Twelfth Night. She wondered if he knew the play or if he had Web-searched her phrase to get there. And does he mean it or is it just wordplay for him?

She went back to the room, locked the door, put on the pajamas, and tried to sleep, but woke up bolt upright in bed, hands held out to push away the dripping dead.

She turned on the television and scanned the news channels. The bomb had made the local news.

The camera was apparently on a boat, well out from the dock, but the picture showed the blown-out doors on the sub pen and lots of yellow crime-scene tape.

SubLorraine was visible through the door, she could see Perito talking to a uniformed policeman back in the hangar. "-Assembly Alternate Patricia Beenan is in guarded condition at St. Joseph's Hospital." The scene changed to a helicopter shot of a rusty coastal freighter held upright in a large dry dock, but Patricia didn't realize which freighter until the reporter's voice said, "Beenan discovered the sunken Open Lotus last week with over fifty dead aboard."

The dead. Well, I already remembered that part.

"Police have not commented about whether the two incidents are linked, but a source within the department indicates that this is the second attempt on Ms. Beenan's life in the three days."

Uh, oh. Bet that pisses Barney off.

The next bit of video put all thoughts of Major Paine and the bodies out of her head.

"U.S. Representative Katherine Beenan, mother of Assemblywoman Patricia Beenan, arrived in New Galveston this afternoon." The scene showed Patricia'smom walking through the terminal with a group of aides. She paused a moment to give a statement.

"I'm here for multiple reasons. Yes, I'm very concerned about my daughter, but I'm also here on behalf of the Joint Immigration Oversight Committee. We're very concerned with the horrible deaths aboard the Open Lotus. This sort of thing should not happen in U.S. waters."

A microphone jabbed forward, and a voice said, "Are you saying the INS should've taken the boat out of U.S. waters before sinking it?"

Patricia's mother rolled her eyes to the ceiling. "Why, no, I'm not still beating my husband. If you have any proof linking the INS with this horrible crime, my committee will be glad to see it. We're not interested in a cover-up. We want to know what happened. My press secretary will notify you when we have more to say."

Although her mother was smiling politely on the screen, Patricia thought she could detect the inevitable onset of mal de mer. Still, Patricia didn't feel sorry for her.

Nobody was trying to kill her, after all.

She thought about all the unanswered phone messages. Damn and damn. I'll have to go see her.

13.

Becket: Brujas y madres

On the way from the airport, Thomas's beeper went off.

ARE YOU HERE YET.

P.

At the Hyatt he used a public terminal.

I AM HERE.

WITH ADORATIONS FERTILE TEARS.

WITH GROANS THAT THUNDER LOVE WITH SIGHS OF FIRE.

IVE MEETINGS ALL AFTERNOON BUT TONIGHT.

TThey'd put Congresswoman Beenan on the concierge floor and one of her aides had to escort Thomas up. He left Terkel, Guterson, and the police escort that Major Paine had provided in the lobby. He wondered if he should've told Patricia that he was meeting with her mother. He was curious but also irritated.

Admiral Rylant had passed on the request and made it just short of an order. "If you absolutely don't have time to meet with her, then I'll send somebody from enforcement. But they don't know anything."

"That's not necessarily a bad thing. Congressional staffs leak like a colander."

"Well, I don't want you to tell her any details. It's more of a diplomatic mission.

Let her know we're making progress."

I wish we were.

He almost refused, but curiosity finally pushed him over the edge. This was Patricia's mother, after all.

The concierge floor was richly appointed, thick carpet and gold-glazed fixtures mounted on mahogany panels. A city cop sat by the elevator and another stood outside the suite. The aide used a keycard to open the door.

Congresswoman Beenan was seated behind an imposing desk. She didn't stand.

A single chair sat out in the middle of the room. It didn't match the furniture, so it must've been brought from the adjoining dining room. The drapes, but not the sheers, had been opened on the floor-to-ceiling window behind the desk, and the sunlight lit the sheers to painful intensity, silhouetting the congresswoman.

Thomas almost laughed out loud. I wonder if this works on some people?

The congresswoman gestured at the chair. "Please be seated, Commander."

Thomas walked over to the chair and dropped his hat on it. He was wearing his dress whites with all the ribbons. Guterson had even sneaked his Navy Cross onto the tunic, and Thomas left it. What the hell. He didn't sit down but continued walking, behind the desk, to the corner where the draw cords for the drape traverse were. He pulled them, closing the drapes and darkening the room.

"What do you think you're doing?" The woman sounded outraged.

He leaned over and turned on the desk light, then walked back around to the chair.

"If you want to run this briefing like an interrogation, you can always flip up the shade on that light and shine it in my eyes. That way you can intimidate me without exposing either of us to sniper fire." He picked up his hat and pulled the chair closer to the desk before sitting.

With the lamp on and the curtains closed, he could see her face now. The resemblance to Patricia was slight-a matter of the eyes and hair color. She didn'tlook as old as her fifty-eight years, but the anger on her face rendered her pleasant features ugly.

She leaned back suddenly, and her face went still, considering him.

Thomas crossed his legs and looked back, equally still. With the anger gone from her face, the resemblance was greater, and he found himself affected, wanting to relent, to be more polite, for Patricia's sake. He stilled the impulse.

"I wonder why Admiral Rylant would send someone so rude to brief me."