"Easy kid " he soothed her as he would have soothed Treemonisha in a thunderstorm. "Tell me how you know they were controlled."

She crossed her arms tightly across her chest and hunched her shoulders in misery. "I can feel it,"

she said. "It's still here. They were like in a nightmare where you try to run and can't." Her nostrils flared, like a horse scenting smoke. "I I know how to do it, too I could control two, maybe three people myself if I had to. I'd be more subtle, though." She closed her eyes in a spasmodic grimace of pain. "And I wouldn't do it if there were any other way. But I couldn't control thirty-eight. Not if my life depended on it."

"There were five of them," he reminded her, "and half of those thirty-eight were kids, and not too b.l.o.o.d.y likely to run away from their parents. That's seventeen adults to control, and you can bet they only used psi-coercion on the ones that were likely to bolt. Say, half of the seventeen. What does that bring the total down to?"

"Nine-ish." She gave him a look that said she wanted to hope that he was right, but was afraid to.

"Less than two each," he persisted, laying a hand on her arm, with a gesture he hoped would steady her. "Whatcha think, Pancho?"

Ramirez nodded thoughtfully. "Makes sense to me," he agreed, rubbing his chin. "I mean, I don't know squat about this stuff, but stands to reason if they were good enough to put the whammy on thirty-eight people, Di, they'd have squashed you like a bug last night."

"And they didn't," Mark a.s.serted. "Did they."

"No they didn't even try to hurt me or someone connected with me. They got that kraut reporter instead." She was standing a little straighter, and losing some of that haunted expression. "What's more, they didn't cross my protections; they didn't even try. Maybe they couldn't. Maybe I am still their equal. I think you might be right."

Mark heaved a mental sigh of relief. "How 'bout we get away from here get somewhere you can think?"

She nodded, and unfolded her arms. He took the hand nearest him and gave it a brief squeeze before dropping it.

"Look on the bright side," he said, guiding her toward the car with one hand lightly on her forearm.

"We're clear for another three weeks "

"Sure," she agreed somberly, as Ramirez parted from them to trudge across the worn asphalt to his own vehicle. "And then it begins again worse than this."

Di had never been one to use drugs as a crutch but she was glad of the emergency one -pill stash of Valium in her purse. She needed more than herb tea to calm her nerves after the revelations of this morning. It was dangerous to be tranked but far more dangerous to be on a hair trigger and ready to break if someone sneezed. When the pill took hold it steadied her enough to cope, but left her still pretty well in control of psi-senses and shielding.

I daren't try a levinbolt but hopefully I won't need to use one until after the pill wears off.

Okay reality check. She took a careful accounting of herself. I'll be okay. I'm wired enough that it isn't making me fuzzy or shutting me down, just getting me a little unwired. But no more after this one wears off.

She parted from Mark at headquarters, but only after giving him the address she was going to be seeking. If she didn't show up at the university by the time his appointment with Professor Jermaine came due Hopefully they wouldn't have to worry about that. But after last night, she was taking no more stupid chances.

She was headed once again for the barrio and the home of the bruja. And this time she was armed with more than mere words.

The bus was jammed full; noisy, hot, and full of diesel fumes. The fumes gave her a headache, and she was literally squashed up against the window. She leaned her forehead against the window-gla.s.s, unfocusing her vision and shutting her ears, and delicately probed at the minds around hers, looking for danger, for hidden enemies.

For there must have been one of those unknown enemies on the bus last night, following her and she had been too inward-turned to pick him or her out of the crowd. She would not make that mistake again.

There was nothing and no one to set off her internal alarms. Not a hint of magic, not a trace of anything other than the normal flickers of almost-psi encountered in any crowd.

But that did not mean she dared relax her vigilance.

Ogoun told me to be wary; I didn't take the warning seriously enough. Some "warrior" I am! Oh Andre I wish you were here She sighed, and rubbed the sweat-slick skin of her forehead between her eyebrows with her index finger. If wishes were fishes we'd eat for a year. Thank the G.o.ds I get off at the next stop.

She reached up for the signal cord and managed to yank it without disturbing the old lady dozing in the seat next to her. The woman woke as she slid out, but only gave her a kind of half-smile, and settled back into her nap.

The driver glared at her as she pa.s.sed him, as if he resented having to stop. She jumped down off the bus and the driver nearly closed the door on her heels, taking off again with a surly and completely unnecessary revving of the engine. She coughed and wrinkled her nose in the resulting cloud of fumes; her eyes burned and watered in the acrid smoke.

The bruja's apartment was not more than a few feet from the bus stop; but this time Di climbed the linoleum-covered stairs to the fourth floor alone. And found herself standing before the worn wooden door for the second time in less than twenty-four hours.

But this time this time I'm prepared.

She knocked softly and heard the approach of footsteps on the other side of the door. Even if she hadn't heard the footsteps she'd have known there was someone there; the feeling of presence was that strong. She waited then, waited for several minutes, feeling eyes upon her.

I am not going away, senora, she thought grimly. I'll park out here all afternoon if I have to.

At length the door creaked open, slowly, reluctantly.

"Senorita," the widow said, her tone as flat and expressionless as her face.

"Senora Montenegro " Di replied firmly, "I would not have chosen to disturb you, but many things have happened since last night that I think you must learn of."

Once again the widow led the way to the two benches in the room that held her altar and the feeling Di got from her was still one of fear, with a faint hint of hope that something about the room would make Di go away.

It isn't going to work, Di projected. I need you and I need what you know. She settled onto the unforgiving seat of one of the benches, and the widow perforce took the other, reluctantly.

Then Di pulled the photos taken at Possum Kingdom Park out of her purse.

It took only one the pictures supplied by the Forensics team were in full color and merciless in their detail. Senora Montenegro folded within seconds. Just the one picture did it the one of the six - year-old girl still twisted in her death-agonies.... The bruja moaned with anguish after that one glance, and pushed Di's hand away.

"No more por favor " she begged, her eyes filling with tears. "Senorita, you are right, I am wrong. Please, show me no more."

Di took pity on her, and shoved the rest of the two-dozen photos she had yet to display back in her purse. She was quite willing not to have to look at them again herself.

"So?" she said, making the word a demand for information.

The widow looked about her, furtively, as if she suspected unfriendly ears in her own living room.

"There is a brujo," she said, almost too softly to hear. "A most evil brujo. He is calling upon ancient magic, forbidden magic. He has been among us since the Feast of the Resurrection."

"Last spring, then," Di translated. The widow nodded, fearfully, her black eyes still scanning the room. And she was using more than her eyes to scan for enemies, Di sensed.

"He has not sought followers not until very recently. He calls upon those of the indios, the Mestizo always of the pure, or nearly pure blood. He promises much power, and the magic that only death and blood can fuel. And they answer him; more every day, especially the young bravos." She twisted her hands together on her lap, the beads of her ebony rosary tangled in her work-roughened fingers.

"Why?" Di asked, baffled. "I can't imagine gang members going in for that. Not magic "

The bruja shook her head. "Indeed, no, not brujiera. Not my way, the uncertain and slow no, no.

Not the magic that does not always answer to the caller. But this one it is said that his magic does not fail, not ever. And it is said that he promises great things, a new age for those who will follow him; he promises that a day will come soon when he will call forth an army and they shall slay the oppressors with their new powers of magic and take the land back from them."

Di felt her eyes widening. Good G.o.ds that sounds exactly like the line Johnnie Mountainhawk told Mark about The woman was continuing. "This is the last that I know I have felt his power calling me, and it is like a sickness in the blood, like the craving for drug or drink. At first he took only the eager, but now it may be that he can claim all of the old blood. It may be that the Mestizo must answer now, his power grows so great."

"Who is he?" Di asked the obvious question.

The bruja shook her head. "I have not answered to his calling, so I do not know what this brujo names himself. I only know that my magic tells me that he is all that he claims, I can feel it in the part of me that wishes to answer the calling. And one thing more "

Di waited, while the woman took a deep breath and whispered the last bit of information.

"He has caused the word to be sent forth that he is nearly ready, this one. And the word is that the rising shall be within the next pair of months."

"This is a remarkable photograph, young man," the professor said, staring at Mark over the top edge of it. His white mane stood out sharply against the dark bindings of the books crammed into the bookshelf that ran floor-to-ceiling on the wall behind his desk. "Rather too remarkable."

Mark sighed. It had taken him most of the afternoon to finally get in to see Professor Jermaine, and now the man was treating him like he was some kind of fraud.

"Professor, you've seen my credentials "

The crusty old fart waved a dismissing hand at him, and the little breeze he raised stirred some of the nest of papers spread untidily all over his desk. "Really, young man, don't you think I've had pranks played on me before? Of course your credentials look genuine; so does your badge. The more elaborate the hoax, the better the props "

There was a slight, hesitant tap, and the professor's secretary poked her mousy head in the door.

"Professor, a Miss Tregarde is here," she said diffidently, "She says you were expecting her with Mr.

Valdez."

"You might as well show her in too," the irascible old man grumbled, setting the photograph down and shoving it across the desk to Mark. "Might as well have all the jolly tricksters in one place."

The secretary vanished; Di opened the door wider and strode through it, wearing a certain air of confidence. Mark heaved a sigh of relief that he didn't bother to conceal. Now that Di was here he saw that she'd donned her "successful professional" suit, and realized that she had probably dealt with characters like Jermaine before this. She'd know how to handle this old SOB. Mark had been feeling sorely out of his depth.

"Professor Jermaine?" she began then took a long look at the professor's rather cynical expression.

"Doctor Jermaine is convinced we're trying to play an elaborate April Fool's joke on him a couple months too early," Mark said sourly, taking back the color photo of the swatch of brocade.

She c.o.c.ked her head to one side and her face went unreadable. Her stance changed entirely, became challenging. "Oh, really?" Her tone was as dry as the professor's. "And just why would we be playing a prank on him when neither of us are students here?"

"Heavens, I don't know," Professor Jermaine replied, a little fl.u.s.tered that she had gone on the offensive. "For all I know you've been hired by "

"The Dallas police?" she interrupted sarcastically, crossing her arms and giving him a cynical glare of her own. "If you were really interested in finding out if we were on the level, all you'd have to do would be to have your secretary call Homicide. Obviously you aren't interested in anything except saving some of your precious time. Obviously you have no intention of helping us. Come on, Mark." She crooked a finger at him. "I think I can possibly talk Carolyn Reseune into identifying this for us. The photo should fax all right "

"Carolyn Reseune?" The professor reacted to that name the way a bull reacts to a matador's cape.

He rose abruptly out of his chair; his voice rose as he did. "Doctor Carolyn Reseune? Of Yale?"

Mark had started to leave his own chair, now he settled back, repressing a smirk. Di had the professor well and truly hooked.

"I don't know of any other Carolyn Reseune," Di replied acidly. "I know she's busy, but she knows me; she knows I don't waste my time or anyone else's on stupid pranks. I suspect she'll make some time for me."

"But " The professor's voice rose another octave, as he protested the wisdom of her decision.

" she specializes in Incan work she couldn't possibly dammit, give me that photograph!" He leaned over the desk and s.n.a.t.c.hed it out of Mark's hand.

Di fixed the professor with a needle-like stare. "Do I take it that you've changed your mind?"

The professor just grumbled, and rummaged in the clutter on his desk for a magnifying gla.s.s. Di took the chair beside Mark's without invitation, settling herself into it and taking a position that said as much in body language as a book the size of any of the tomes on the archaeologist's desk could have.

Everything, from the way her legs were crossed to the way she held her head, was a challenge; her whole posture was saying, "All right, you old fraud prove to me you aren't wasting my time now!"

After a few minutes' scrutiny, he looked up from the photo, stabbing the both of them with a calculating glance of his own.

"Where's the garment this came from?" he asked, his voice full of sharp-edged overtones. "I need to see it!"

"I would say that only two people are likely to know that," Mark replied politely. If Di is going to play "bad cop" I'm only too happy to play "good cop." "The first is the owner, and the second is rather dead."

"And just why do you need to see it?" Di asked on the heels of Mark's statement, her tone still conveying impatience and annoyance.

"Young lady, the patterns woven into this sc.r.a.p are patterns that have not been seen since the days of the Conquistadors!" he exclaimed. "No one certainly no modern weaver knows how to produce them! Great good G.o.d, no modern weaver would produce them even if they knew how, it would be sacrilege bordering on insanity to reproduce the sacred garments reserved for Tezcatlipoca and his priestesses! It could only bring the weaver and the wearer the worst of misfortune!"

"Who?" Mark asked, bewildered by the strange name.

"Tezcatlipoca," the professor repeated impatiently. And at Mark's look of blank incomprehension, translated, even more impatiently, "Smoking Mirror."

Mark shook his head, still not understanding.

"The Aztec G.o.d of war and warriors," the professor explained with a sigh of exasperation.

Mark could literally see the light go on inside Di's head, but didn't want to wait for enlightenment. "Look, I'm just a dumb cop," he replied, "Can you tell me more about this Smoking Mirror?"

"He was the especial G.o.d of the Aztecs and of their capital city," Professor Jermaine began, and visibly thawed at the intense interest in Mark's face. "His symbol was the 'tiger' actually, the jaguar; 'el tigre' is a misnomer. His sacred time of day was the afternoon the descending sun. His particular feast took place in April, nearly the same time as our own Easter, but he permeated the entire sacrificial year and presided as chief priest over many of the other sacrifices in the person of a young man, a kind of Chosen One or avatar. This Chosen One in his turn was sacrificed at Smoking Mirror's feast, and resurrected again immediately in the body of another Chosen One. It was really a very unusual ritual for the Aztecs in that the Chosen One was quite often a volunteer, and at this particular sacrifice, which was the culmination of their ritual year, there was only the single individual as sacrifice instead of the mult.i.tude of victims normally put to the knife."

"Why was that?" Mark asked.

"Because the Chosen One was literally Tezcatlipoca himself," the professor answered warmly.

Mark's unwavering interest was obviously flattering to his ego. "He was treated all year long with all the honor and deference given the G.o.d he was given four of the most beautiful virgins in the city to be his priestesses and handmaidens, and feasted and pleasured during his entire reign. So for the Aztecs, the man was the G.o.d, and the special G.o.d who had chosen them as his people."

"I thought the chief Aztec G.o.d was Quetzalcoatl," Di said slowly.

The professor shook his head vigorously. "A common misconception. Quetzalcoatl was the t.i.tular deity of the Toltecs, the people who preceded the Aztecs in the region. The Aztecs incorporated Quetzalcoatl into their pantheon, but as Smoking Mirror's brother and subordinate; in fact, in their mythology, the Smoking Mirror is the Feathered Serpent's implacable enemy and his ultimate destroyer."

This was beginning to make more and more sense. This Burning Water he must have set himself up as a priest of this Tezcat whatsis, and he's using the old Aztec rites mixed up with brujiera. If we can match the timing of these things, we'll have every correspondence we need for a positive match.

"What kind of calendar were the Aztecs on?" Mark asked carefully.

"Nothing like ours," Professor Jermaine said. "They had an eighteen-month cycle, with each month being about three weeks long twenty days, if you want to be precise about it. There were major and minor sacrifices at each month-end feast. Let's see, the last ones would have been " he reached behind him without seeming to look and pulled a book down from the shelf and flipped it open. " ah about three weeks ago would have been the Feast of Tlaloc. The major sacrifice would have been children, mostly. Following that in fact, it's only just over was Xipe -Totec, the Flayed One."

"What kind of sacrifices are you talking about?" Mark asked. "I'd like more than generalities, if you would."

The professor raised an eyebrow. "They aren't for the squeamish " For the first time, he smiled.

"Foolish of me you did say you were from Homicide, didn't you. Well, the central sacrifice to Tlaloc was designed to determine how long it would be before the rains began; the priestess would paint the sacrificial children with rubber-tree sap, and the priest would hold them under water until they drowned. How many breaths it took for them to die would tell them how many weeks it would be until the rains."