"I still think we're barking up the wrong tree," Jackson replied. "But I guess we might as well have a talk with the Lonsdale boy."

"Yeah," Finnerty agreed. Then he rolled his eyes. "Kids amaze me," he said. "They spend a whole evening together, and the only odd thing the girl can remember is that her boyfriend didn't blush. Isn't that something?"

Jackson frowned. "Maybe it is is important," he said. "Maybe it's very important." important," he said. "Maybe it's very important."

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE.

Marsh Lonsdale sat listening as the two officers interviewed Alex about the events of the night before, but found himself concentrating much more on the manner in which his son spoke than on the words themselves. They were in the living room, gathered around the fireplace, and at the far end-huddled alone in a chair as if she wanted to divorce herself from everything-Ellen seemed not to be listening at all.

"Everything," Finnerty had said an hour ago. "We want you to tell us everything you remember about last night, just the way you remember it."

And ever since, Alex had been speaking, his voice steady and expressionless, recounting what he remembered of his activities the night before, from the time he left the house to go to Jake's, to the moment he returned. It was, Marsh realized, almost like listening to a tape recorder. Alex remembered what everyone had said, and repeated it verbatim. After the first twenty minutes, both Finnerty and Jackson had stopped taking notes, and were now simply sitting, listening. When, at last, Alex's recitation was over, there was a long silence, then Roscoe Finnerty got to his feet and went to the mantel. Resting most of his weight on the heavy oak beam that ran the width of the fireplace, he gazed curiously at Alex.

"You really remember all that?" he asked at last.

Alex nodded.

"In that kind of detail?" Finnerty mused aloud.

"His memory is remarkable," Marsh said, speaking for the first time since the interview had begun. "It seems to be a function of the brain surgery that was done after his accident. If he says he remembers all of what he just told you, then you can believe he does."

Finnerty nodded. "I'm not doubting it," he said. "I'm just amazed at the detail, that's all." He turned back to Alex. "You've told us everything that happened at Jake's, and you've told us everything everyone said. But what I want to know is if you noticed anything about Kate Lewis and Bob Carey. Did they act...well, normal?" normal?"

Alex gazed steadily at Finnerty. "I don't know," he said. "I don't really know what normal is anymore. What you're asking me to do is describe how they appeared to be feeling, but I can't do that, since I don't have feelings anymore. I had them before the accident-or at least everyone says I did-but since the accident I don't. But they acted just like they always have." Suddenly he grinned uncomfortably. "Bob was teasing me a little."

"I know," Tom Jackson said. "Your girlfriend told us about that. And she said you didn't blush."

"I don't think I can blush. I might be able to learn how, but I haven't yet."

"Learn how?" Jackson echoed blankly. "But you just smiled." smiled."

Alex glanced at his father, and Marsh nodded. "I've been practicing. I'm not like other people, so I'm practicing being like other people. It seemed like I ought to grin before I admitted that Bob was teasing me, so I did."

"Okay," Finnerty said, staring at the boy and feeling chilled. "Is there anything else you remember? Anything at all?"

Alex hesitated, then shook his head. A few minutes later, Finnerty and Jackson were gone.

"Alex?" Marsh asked. "Is there something else you remember about last night that you didn't tell them?"

Once again, Alex shook his head. Everything he remembered, he'd told them about. But they hadn't asked him if he knew who killed Valerie Benson. If they had, he would have told them, though he wouldn't have been able to tell them why she died, or why Mrs. Lewis died, either. But when he'd awakened this morning, the last pieces had fallen into place, and it had all come together in his mind. He understood his brain now, and soon he would understand exactly what had happened.

He would understand what had happened, and he would know who he was.

"Why, Alex," Arlette Pringle said, her plain features lighting up with a smile, "you're becoming quite a regular here, aren't you?"

"I need some more information, Miss Pringle," Alex replied. "I need to know more about the town."

"La Paloma?" Miss Pringle asked, her voice doubtful. "I'm afraid I just don't have much. I have the book I showed you a couple of days ago, but that's about it." She shrugged ruefully. "I'm afraid not much ever happened here. Nothing worth writing about, anyway."

"But there has to be something," Alex pressed. "Something about the old days, when the town was mostly Mexican."

"Mexican," Arlette repeated, her lips pursing thoughtfully as her fingers tapped on her desktop. "I'm afraid I just don't know exactly what you want. I have some information about the Franciscan fathers, and the missions, but I'm not sure there's much that's specifically about our our mission. La Paloma just wasn't that important." mission. La Paloma just wasn't that important."

"What about when the Americans came?"

Again Arlette shrugged. "Not that I know of. Of course, there are the old stories, but I don't pay any attention to them, and I don't think they're written down anywhere."

"What stories?"

"Oh, some of the older Chicanos in town still talk about the old days, when Don Roberto de Melendez y Ruiz still had the hacienda, and about what happened after the treaty was signed." She leaned forward, and her voice dropped confidentially. "Supposedly there was a ma.s.sacre up there."

Alex frowned slightly, as a vague memory stirred on the edges of his consciousness. "At the hacienda?"

"That's what they say. But of course, the stories have been pa.s.sed down through the generations, and I don't suppose there's much truth to any of them, really. But if you really want to know about them, why don't you go see Mrs. Torres?"

"Maria?" Alex asked, his voice suddenly hollow. For the first time since his operation, a pang of genuine fear crashed through the barriers in his mind, and he felt himself tremble. It fit. It fit perfectly with the idea that had begun forming in his mind last night, then come to fruition this morning.

Arlette Pringle nodded. "That's right. She still lives around the corner in a little house behind the mission. You tell her I sent you, but I warn you, once she starts talking, she won't stop." She wrote an address on a slip of paper and handed it to Alex. "Now, don't believe everything she says," she cautioned as Alex was about to leave the library. "Don't forget, she's old, and she's always been very bitter. I can't say I blame her, really, but still, it's best not to put too much stock in her stories. I'm afraid a lot of them have been terribly exaggerated."

Alex left the library, and glanced at the address on the sc.r.a.p of paper, then crumpled it and threw it into a trash bin. A few minutes later he was a block and a half away, his eyes fixed on a tiny frame house that seemed on the verge of falling in on itself.

Home.

The word flashed into his mind, and images of the little house tumbled over one another. He knew, with all the certainty of a lifetime of memories, that he had come home. He pushed his way through the broken gate and made his way up onto the sagging porch. He knocked at the front door, then waited. As he was about to knock again, the door opened a crack, and the ancient eyes of Maria Torres peered out at him.

A sigh drifted from her throat, and she opened the door wider.

"M-Mama?" Alex stammered uncertainly.

Maria gazed at him for a moment, then slowly shook her head. "No," she said softly. "You are not my son. You are someone else. What do you want?"

"M-Miss Pringle sent me." Alex faltered. "She said you might be able to tell me what happened here a long time ago."

There was a long silence while she seemed to consider his words. "You want to know?" she asked at last, her eyes narrowing to slits. "But you already know. You are Alejandro."

Alex frowned, suddenly certain that the familiar searing pain was about to rip through his mind and that the voices were about to start whispering to him. He could almost feel them, niggling around the edges of his consciousness. Doggedly he fought against them. "I...I just want to know what happened a long time ago," he managed to repeat.

Maria Torres fell silent once more, regarding him thoughtfully. At last she nodded. "You are Alejandro," she said again. "You should know what happened." She held the door wide, and Alex stepped through into the eerily familiar confines of a tiny living room furnished only with a threadbare couch, a sagging easy chair, and a Formica-topped table surrounded by four worn dining chairs.

All of it was exactly as it had been in his memories a few moments before.

The shades were drawn, but from one corner a color television suffused the room with an eerie light. Its sound was muted.

"For company," the old woman muttered. "I don't listen, but I watch." She lowered herself carefully into the easy chair, and Alex sat gingerly on the edge of the sofa. "What stories you want to hear?"

"The thieves," Alex said quietly. "Tell me about the thieves and the murderers."

Maria Torres's eyes flashed darkly in the dim light. "Por que?" "Por que?" she demanded. "Why do you want to know now?" she demanded. "Why do you want to know now?"

"I remember things," Alex said. "I remember things that happened, and I want to know more about them."

"What things?" The old woman was leaning forward now, her eyes fixed intently on Alex.

"Fernando," Alex said. "Tio Fernando. He's buried in San Francisco, at the mission."

Maria's eyes widened momentarily, then she nodded, and let herself sag back in the chair once again. "Su tio," "Su tio," she muttered. " she muttered. "Si, es la verdad..."

"The truth?" Alex asked. "What's the truth?"

Once again the old woman's eyes brightened. "Habla usted espanol?" "Habla usted espanol?"

"I...I don't know," Alex said. "But I understood what you said."

The old lady fell silent again, and examined Alex closely through her bleary eyes. In the light of the television set, his features were indistinct, and yet, she realized, the coloring was right. His hair was dark, and his eyes were blue, just as her grandfather had told her Don Roberto's had been, and as his own had been. Making up her mind, she nodded emphatically. "Si," she muttered. "Es la verdad. Don Alejando ha regresado..."

"Tell me the stories," Alex said again. "Please just tell me the stories."

"They stole," Maria said finally. "They came and they stole our lands, and murdered our people. They went up into the canyons first, and murdered the wives of the overseers while the men were out on the land. Then they went to the hacienda and took Don Roberto away and hanged him."

Alex frowned. "The tree," he said. "They hanged him from the big tree."

"Si," Maria agreed. "And then they went back to the hacienda, and they killed his family. They killed Dona Maria, and Isabella, and Estellita. And they would have killed Alejandro, too, if they had found him."

"Alejandro?" Alex asked.

"El hijo," Maria Torres said softly. "The son of Don Roberto de Melendez y Ruiz. Dona Maria told them she had sent him to Sonora, and they believed her. But he stayed. He hid in the mission with his uncle, who was the priest, and they fled to San Francisco. And then, when Padre Fernando died, Alejandro returned to La Paloma." Maria Torres said softly. "The son of Don Roberto de Melendez y Ruiz. Dona Maria told them she had sent him to Sonora, and they believed her. But he stayed. He hid in the mission with his uncle, who was the priest, and they fled to San Francisco. And then, when Padre Fernando died, Alejandro returned to La Paloma."

"Why?" Alex asked. "Why did he come back?"

Maria Torres stared at him for a long time. When she spoke, her voice was barely audible, but nonetheless her words seemed to fill the room. "Venganza," "Venganza," she said. "He came for vengeance on the thieves and the murderers. Even when he was dying, he said he would never leave. From beyond the grave, he said. From beyond the grave, she said. "He came for vengeance on the thieves and the murderers. Even when he was dying, he said he would never leave. From beyond the grave, he said. From beyond the grave, venganza." venganza."

Alex emerged from the little house into the blazing sun of the September morning. He began walking through the village, pausing here and there, turning over the bits and pieces of the story Maria Torres had told him, examining them carefully, searching for the flaw. His mind told him that the answer he had come up with was impossible, but still the pieces of the story matched his strange memories too well. He knew, though, where he would find the ultimate truth, and what he would do once he found it.

The phone on his desk jangled loudly. For a moment Marsh was tempted to let it ring. Then he realized the call was coming in on his private line. Only a few people knew that number, and even they used it only when it was an emergency.

"I trust you aren't going to force me to implement the provisions of the release," Raymond Torres's cold voice said.

"How did you get this number?"

"I've had this number since the moment I took on your son's case, Dr. Lonsdale. Not that it matters. The only thing that matters is that your wife was to bring Alex to me today."

"I'm afraid that won't be possible, Dr. Torres," Marsh replied. "We've discussed the matter, and it's my decision that you can do Alex no more good. I'm afraid he won't be coming back there anymore."

There was a long silence, and when Torres's voice finally came over the line again, its tone had hardened even further. "And I'm afraid that's not your decision to make, Dr. Lonsdale."

"Nonetheless," Marsh replied, "that's the decision I've made. And I wouldn't advise you to try to come and get him, or have anyone else try to come and get him either. I'm his father, Dr. Torres, and despite your release, I have some rights."

"I see," Torres said, and Marsh thought he heard a sigh come through the phone. "Very well, I'm willing to strike a compromise with you. Bring Alex down this afternoon, and I will explain to you exactly what my procedures have been up until now, and why I think it's necessary that he come back to the Inst.i.tute."

"Not a chance. Until I know exactly what you've done, you won't see Alex again."

In the privacy of his office, Raymond Torres slumped tiredly behind his desk. Too many hours of too little sleep had finally taken their toll, and he knew he was no longer thinking clearly. But he also knew that letting Alex leave the Inst.i.tute yesterday had been a mistake. Whatever the consequences, he had to get him back. "Very well," he said. "What time can I expect you?"

Marsh glanced at his appointment book. "A couple of hours?"

"Fine. And after you've heard what I have to say, I'm sure you'll agree that Alex should be back here." The line went dead in Marsh's hand.

Alex paused at the garden gate, and stared at the high vine-covered wall that separated the patio from the street. Then, making up his mind, he went into the patio, then into the house. The house, as he had hoped it would be, was empty. He went to the garage and began searching through the mound of boxes that still sat, unpacked, against the back wall. Each of them was neatly marked with its contents, and it didn't take him long to find the two he was looking for.

The hedge clippers were at the bottom of the first box. As Alex worked them loose from the tangle of other tools, he wondered if he was doing the right thing. And yet, he had to know. The vines covering the garden wall were part of the pattern, and he had to see for himself if he was right.

The book, after all, might have been wrong.

The clippers in hand, he left the garage and walked down the driveway to the sidewalk. Then, working slowly and deliberately, he began cutting the vines off as close to the ground as the strength in his arms and the thickness of the trunks would allow. He worked his way slowly up the hill until the last stems had been cut; then, going the other way, he tore the thickly matted vegetation loose, letting it pile on the sidewalk at his feet. When he was done, he stepped back and looked at the wall once more.

Though it was covered with the collected dust and dirt of the years, and its whitewash had long since disappeared, the tiles remained.

The wall looked exactly as he had thought it should look when he had first come home from the Inst.i.tute.

He went back into the garage and opened the second box. His father's shotgun was on top, neatly packed away in its case. He opened the case and methodically began putting the pieces together. When the gun was fully a.s.sembled, he took five sh.e.l.ls from a half-full box of ammunition and put them in his pocket. Carrying the gun easily in the crook of his right arm, he left the garage and walked once more down the driveway, then turned to the right and started the long climb up toward the hacienda....

It had been a bad morning for Ellen, and as she started up Hacienda Drive she was beginning to wonder if she was going to get through the next few days at all.

She'd spent most of the morning with Carol Cochran, and none of it had been easy. Part of the time they'd simply cried, and part of the time they'd tried to make plans for Valerie Benson's funeral. And over it all hung the question of who had killed Valerie.

And then there had been Carol's oddly phrased questions about Alex: "But is he really getting better? I mean, Lisa keeps telling me about strange things he says."

"No, I don't really remember what"-though Ellen was quite sure she did, and simply didn't want to tell her. "But Lisa really seems very worried. In fact, I think she's just a little frightened of Alex."

Ellen had become increasingly certain that after Valerie's funeral, the Cochrans and the Lonsdales would be seeing a lot less of each other.

She came around the last curve, swinging wide to pull into the driveway, when she suddenly slammed on the brakes. Piled on the sidewalk, nearly blocking the driveway itself, lay the ruins of the ma.s.ses of morning glory that had covered the patio wall only two hours ago.

"I don't believe it," she whispered aloud, though she was alone in the car. Suddenly the sound of a horn yanked her attention away from the tangle of vines, and she jerkily pulled into the driveway to make room for the car that was coming down the hill. She sat numbly behind the wheel for a moment, then got out of the car and walked back down the drive to stare once more at the mess on the sidewalk.

Who would do such a thing? It made no sense-no sense whatever. It would take years for the vines to grow back. She surveyed the wall, slowly taking in the streaked and stained expanse of plaster, and the intricate patterns of tile that were now all that broke its forbidding expanse. And then, behind her, a voice spoke. Startled, she turned to see one of the neighbors standing on the sidewalk looking glumly at the vines. Ellen's mind suddenly blanked and she had to grope for the woman's name. Then it came back to her. Sheila. Sheila Rosenberg.

"Sheila," she said. Then, her bewilderment showing in her voice: "Look at this. Just look at it!"

Sheila smiled ruefully. "That's kids," she said.

Ellen's expression suddenly hardened. "Kids? Kids did this?"