"Jesus, Jose, y Maria," he muttered. He crossed himself, then fought down the nausea in his gut as he hurried into the house to find a telephone. he muttered. He crossed himself, then fought down the nausea in his gut as he hurried into the house to find a telephone.

Alex stared at himself in the mirror. Blood still oozed from the cut over his eye, and his shirt was growing stiff.

He'd already examined the shotgun, and knew that he'd fired three sh.e.l.ls.

The last two were now in the chambers.

And though he had no conscious memory of it, he knew where he'd been when the voices began whispering to him and the images from the past began to flood his mind. He also knew where he'd been when it had ended.

When it began, he'd been on the hillside overlooking the hacienda, remembering Maria Torres's stories of the past.

And when it ended, he'd been walking away from the hacienda, and the smell of gunpowder was strong, and he was bleeding, and though his body was in pain, in his soul he felt nothing.

Nothing.

But tonight, he was sure, he would dream again, and see what he had done, and feel the pain in his soul.

But it was the last time it would happen, for now he knew why it had happened, and how to end it.

And he also knew that he, Alex, had done none of it.

Everything that had been done, had been done by Alejandro de Melendez y Ruiz. Now all that was left was to kill Alejandro.

He changed his shirt, but didn't bother to bandage the cut on his forehead.

Picking up the shotgun, he went back downstairs and found the extra set of keys to his mother's car in the kitchen drawer.

He went out to the driveway and started the car. He shifted the gear lever into reverse, then kept his foot on the brake as a police car, its siren screaming, raced up the hill past the house.

He was sure he knew where it was going, and he was sure he knew what its occupants would find when they reached their destination. But instead of following the police car and trying to explain to the officers what he thought had happened, Alex went the other way.

His mind suddenly crystal clear, he drove down the hill, through La Paloma, and out of town. It would take him thirty minutes to reach Palo Alto.

"I'm telling you, something's wrong," Roscoe Finnerty had been saying when the phone on the kitchen wall suddenly rang, and he decided it could d.a.m.ned well ring until he'd finished what he was saying. "The kid said he parked across the street from Jake's. It's right here in my notes."

"And my notes say he parked in the lot next door," Tom Jackson replied. He nodded toward the phone. "And we're in your kitchen, so you can answer the phone."

"s.h.i.t," Finnerty muttered, reaching up and grabbing the receiver. "Yeah?" He listened for a few seconds, and Jackson saw the color drain from his face. "Aah, s.h.i.t," he said again. Then: "Yeah, we'll go up." He hung up the phone and reluctantly met his partner's eyes. "We got two more," he said. "The chief wants us to take a look and see if it looks like the other two. From what he said, though, it doesn't. This time, it's messy."

But he hadn't counted on its being as messy as it actually was. He stood in the courtyard wondering if he should even try to take a pulse from the two corpses that lay against the wall. On one of them, the face was gone, and most of the head as well. Still, he was pretty sure he knew who it was, because the other corpse had taken the shotgun blast in the chest, and the face was still clearly recognizable.

Carolyn Evans.

The other one, judging from what Finnerty could see, had to be her mother. "Call the Center," he muttered to Jackson. "And tell them to bring bags, and not to bother with the sirens." Then he turned his attention to Jose Carillo, who was sitting by the pool, resolutely looking away from the corpses and the bloodstained wall they rested against.

"You know anything about this, Jose?" Finnerty asked, though he was almost certain he knew the answer. He'd known Jose for almost ten years, and the gardener was known only for three things: his industriousness and his honesty and his refusal to involve himself in violence under any circ.u.mstances.

Jose shook his head. "I was coming up for a job. When I got here..." His voice broke off, and he shook his head helplessly. "As soon as I found them, I called the police."

"Did you see anything? Anything at all?"

Jose started to shake his head, then hesitated.

"What is it?" Finnerty urged.

"I forgot," the gardener said. "On the way up, I saw a boy. He looked like he'd been fighting, and he was carrying a gun."

"Do you know who he was?"

The gardener shook his head again. "But I know where he went."

Finnerty stiffened. "Can you show me?"

"Down the road. It's right down the road."

Finnerty glanced toward the squad car, where Jackson was still on the radio. "Let's take your truck, Jose. You feel good enough to drive?"

Jose looked uncertain, but then climbed into the cab, and while Finnerty yelled to Jackson that he'd be right back, pressed on the starter and prayed that now, of all times, the truck wouldn't finally give up. The engine sputtered and coughed, then caught.

Half a mile down the hill, Jose brought the truck to a stop and pointed. "There," he said. "He went in there."

Finnerty stared at the house for several seconds. "Are you sure, Jose? This could be very serious."

Jose's head bobbed eagerly. "I'm sure. Look at the mess. They cut the vines off the wall and didn't even clean them up. I don't forget things like that. That's the house the boy went into."

Even with the vines off the wall, Finnerty recognized the Lonsdales' house. After all, it had been little more than eight hours since he'd been there himself.

He got out of the truck, and noted the empty garage. "Jose, I want you to go back up to the hacienda and send my partner down with the car. Then wait. Okay?"

Jose nodded, and maneuvered the truck through a clumsy U-turn before disappearing back up the hill. Finnerty stayed where he was, his eyes on the house, though he had a growing feeling that it was empty. A few minutes later, Jackson arrived, and at almost the same time, a woman appeared from the house across the street and a few yards down from the Lonsdales'.

"There isn't anyone there," Sheila Rosenberg volunteered. "Marsh and Ellen left two hours ago, and I saw Alex leave in Ellen's car a few minutes ago."

"Do you know where they went? The parents, I mean?"

"I'm sure I haven't a clue," Sheila replied. "I don't keep track of everything that happens in the neighborhood, you know." Then her voice dropped slightly. "Is something wrong?"

Finnerty glared at the woman, certain that she did, indeed, keep track of everything her neighbors were doing. "No," he said. If he told her the truth, she would be the first one up the hill. "We just want to get some information, that's all."

"Then you'd better call the Center," Sheila Rosenberg replied. "I'm sure they'll know where to find Marsh."

Despite Sheila Rosenberg's a.s.sertion that the house was as empty as he thought it was, Finnerty searched it anyway.

In the bedroom he was sure was Alex's, he found the blood-soaked shirt and carefully put it in a plastic bag Jackson brought from the squad car. Then he called the Medical Center.

"I know exactly where he went," Barbara Fannon told him after he'd identified himself. "He and Ellen went down to Palo Alto to talk to Dr. Torres about Alex. Apparently he's having some kind of trouble." And that, Finnerty thought grimly as Barbara Fannon searched for the number of the Inst.i.tute for the Human Brain, is the understatement of the year.

Marsh felt his patience slipping rapidly away.

They had been at the Inst.i.tute for almost two hours, and for the first hour and a half they had cooled their heels in the waiting room. This time, Marsh had ignored the journals, in favor of pacing the room. Ellen, however, had hardly moved at all from her place on the sofa, where she sat silently, her face pale, her hands folded in her lap.

And now, as they sat in Torres's office, they were being fed double-talk. The first thing Torres had done when he'd finally deigned to see them was show them a computer reconstruction of the operation.

It had been meaningless, as far as Marsh could tell. It had been speeded up, and the graphics on the monitor were not nearly as clear as they had been when Torres had produced the original depiction of Alex's injured brain.

"This is, of course, an operating program, not a diagnostic one," Torres had said smoothly. "What you're seeing here was never really meant for human eyes. It's a program designed to be read by a computer, and fed to a robot, and the graphics simply aren't important. In fact, they're incidental."

"And they don't mean a d.a.m.ned thing to me, Dr. Torres," Marsh declared. "You told me you'd explain what's happening to Alex, and so far, all you've done is dodge the issue. You now have a choice. Either get to the point, or I'm walking out of here-with my wife-and the next time you see us we'll all be in court. Can I make it any clearer than that?" my wife-and the next time you see us we'll all be in court. Can I make it any clearer than that?"

Before Torres could make any reply, the telephone rang. "I said I wasn't to be disturbed under any circ.u.mstances," he said as soon as he'd put the phone to his ear. He listened for a moment, then frowned and held the receiver toward Marsh. "It's for you, and I take it it's some sort of emergency."

"This is Dr. Lonsdale," Marsh said, his voice almost as impatient as Torres's had been. "What is it?"

And then he, too, listened in silence as the other person talked. When he hung up, his face was pale and his hands were trembling.

"Marsh..." Ellen breathed. "Marsh, what is it?"

"It's Alex," Marsh said, his voice suddenly dead. "That was Sergeant Finnerty. He says he wants to talk to Alex."

"Again?" Ellen asked, her heart suddenly pounding. "Why?"

When he answered, Marsh kept his eyes on Raymond Torres!

"He says Cynthia and Carolyn Evans are both dead, and he says he has reason to think that Alex killed them."

As Ellen gasped, Raymond Torres rose to his feet.

"If he said that, then he's a fool," Torres rasped, his normally cold eyes glittering angrily.

"But that is is what he said," Marsh whispered. Then, as Torres sank slowly back into his chair, Marsh spoke again. "Please, Dr. Torres, tell me what you've done to my son." what he said," Marsh whispered. Then, as Torres sank slowly back into his chair, Marsh spoke again. "Please, Dr. Torres, tell me what you've done to my son."

"I saved him," Torres replied, but for the first time, his icy demeanor had disappeared. He met Marsh's eyes, and for a moment said nothing. Then he nodded almost imperceptibly.

"All right," he said quietly. "I'll tell you what I did. And when I'm done, you'll see why Alex couldn't have killed anyone." He fell silent for a moment, and when he spoke again, Marsh was almost sure he was speaking more to himself than to either Marsh or Ellen. "No, it's impossible. Alex couldn't have killed anyone."

Speaking slowly and carefully, he explained exactly what had been done to Alex Lonsdale.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE.

Ellen tried to still her trembling hands as her eyes searched her husband's face for whatever truth might be written there. But Marsh's face remained stonily impa.s.sive, as it had been all through Raymond Torres's long recitation. "But...but what does it all mean?" she finally asked. For the last hour, at least, she had no longer been able to follow the details of what Torres had been saying, nor was she sure the details mattered. What was frightening her was the implications of what she had heard.

"It doesn't matter what it means," Marsh said, "because it's medically impossible."

"Think what you like, Dr. Lonsdale," Raymond Torres replied, "but what I've told you is the absolute truth. The fact that your son is still alive is the proof of it." He offered Marsh a smile that was little more than a twisted grimace. "The morning after the operation, I believe you made reference to a miracle. You were, I a.s.sume, thinking of a medical miracle, and I chose not to correct you. What it was, though, was a technological miracle."

"If what you're saying is actually true," Marsh said, "what you've done is no miracle at all. It's an obscenity."

Ellen's eyes filled with tears, which she made no attempt to wipe away. "But he's alive, Marsh," she protested, and then shrank back in her chair as Marsh turned to face her.

"Is he? By what criteria? Let's a.s.sume that what Torres says is true. That Alex's brain was far too extensively damaged even to attempt repairs." His eyes, flashing with anger, flicked to Torres. "That is is what you said, isn't it?" what you said, isn't it?"

Torres nodded. "There was no brain activity whatever, except on the most primitive level. His heart was beating, but that was all. Without the respirator, he couldn't breathe, and as far as we could tell, he made no response to any sort of stimulation."

"In other words, he was brain dead, with no hope of recovery?"

Again Torres nodded. "Not only was his brain dead, it was physically torn beyond repair. Which is the only reason I went ahead with the techniques I used."

"Without our permission," Marsh grated.

"With your permission," Torres corrected. "The release clearly allowed me to use any methods I deemed necessary or fit, whether they were proven or unproven, traditional or experimental. And they worked." He hesitated, then went on. "Perhaps I made a mistake," he said. "Perhaps I should have declared Alex dead, and asked that his body be donated to science." your permission," Torres corrected. "The release clearly allowed me to use any methods I deemed necessary or fit, whether they were proven or unproven, traditional or experimental. And they worked." He hesitated, then went on. "Perhaps I made a mistake," he said. "Perhaps I should have declared Alex dead, and asked that his body be donated to science."

"But isn't that exactly what you did?" Marsh demanded, "Without, of course, the niceties of telling us what you were doing?"

Torres shook his head. "For the operation to be a complete success, I wanted there to be no question that Alex is still Alex. Had I declared him dead, what I have done would have led to certain questions I was not yet prepared to deal with."

Suddenly Ellen rose to her feet. "Stop it! Just stop it!" Her eyes moved wildly from Marsh to Raymond Torres. "You're talking about Alex as if he no longer exists!"

"In a way, Ellen," Torres replied, "that's exactly the truth. The Alex you knew doesn't exist anymore. The only Alex that is real is the one I created."

There was a sudden silence in the room, broken at last by Marsh's voice, barely more than a whisper. "That you created with microprocessors? microprocessors? I still can't believe it. It just isn't possible." I still can't believe it. It just isn't possible."

"But it is," Torres said. "And it isn't nearly as complicated as it sounds, except physically. It's the connections that are the most difficult. Finding exactly the right neurons to connect to the leads of the microprocessors themselves. Fortunately, the brain itself is an aid there. Given an opportunity, it will build its own pathways and straighten out most of the human errors by itself."

"But Alex is alive," Ellen insisted. "He's alive."

"His body is alive," Torres agreed. "And it's kept alive by seventeen separate microprocessors, each of which is programmed to maintain and monitor the various physical systems of his body. Three of those microprocessors are concerned with nothing except the endocrine system, and four more handle the nervous system. Some of the systems are less complicated than those two, and could be lumped together in a single chip with a backup. Four of the chips are strictly memory. They were the easy ones."

"Easy ones?" Ellen echoed, her voice weak.

Torres nodded. "This project has been under way for years, ever since I became interested in artificial intelligence-the concept of building a computer that can actually reason on its own, rather than simply make computations at an incredibly rapid speed. And the problem there is that despite all we know about the brain, we still have no real concept of how the process of original thought takes place. It very quickly became obvious to me that until we understood the process in the human brain, we couldn't hope to duplicate it in a machine. And yet, we want machines that can think like people."

"And you found the answer," Marsh said, his voice tight.

Torres ignored his tone. "I found the answer. It seemed to me that since we couldn't make a machine that could think like a man, perhaps we could create a man who could compute like a machine.

"A man with the memory capacity of a computer.

"The implication was obvious, and though the technology was not there ten years ago, it is today. The answer seemed to me to involve installing a high-capacity microprocessor inside the brain itself, giving the brain access to ma.s.sive amounts of information, and enormous computational abilities, while the brain itself provides the reasoning circuits that are not yet feasible."

"And did you do that?" Marsh asked.

Torres hesitated, then shook his head. "The risks seemed to me to be entirely too great, and the stakes too high. I had no idea what the results might be. That's when I began work on the project of which Alex is the end result." He smiled thinly. "It's no accident that the Inst.i.tute for the Human Brain is in the heart of Silicon Valley, you know. All our work is highly technical, and extremely expensive. And we have very little to show for it, despite all those articles out in the lobby." Marsh seemed about to interrupt him, but Torres held up a restraining hand. "Let me finish. As I said, my work is highly technical, and very expensive, but this is one area of the country that has an abundance of money available to just such work. And so I took my proposed solution to the problem to certain companies and venture capitalists, and managed to intrigue them to the point where they have been willing to fund my research. And what my research has been, for the last ten years, is nothing more or less than reducing the monitoring and operation of every system in the human body to language a computer can understand, and then programming that information into microprocessors."