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they always did. You think they’ve changed? Gringos never change. Oh, they won’t say anything! They’ll be polite. But see if any of them invite you to their homes.” Her eyes had flashed with fury, and her body had quivered with the pent-up anger of the years. “Their homes!” she had spit. “The homes they stole from our ancestors!”

“That was generations ago, Mama,” he had protested. “It’s all forgotten. None of these people had anything to do with what happened a hundred years ago. And I grew up with Marty.”

“Grew up with her,” the old woman had scoffed. “Sí, you grew up with her, and went to school with her. But did she ever speak to you? Did she ever treat you like a human being?” María Torres’s eyes had narrowed shrewdly. “It’s not for her you go to the funeral. It’s something else. What, Ramón?”

Under his mother’s penetrating gaze, Raymond Torres found his carefully maintained self-confidence slipping away. How did she know? How did she know that his interest in the funeral went beyond the mere paying of respects to the memory of someone he’d known long ago? Did she know that deep in his heart he wanted to see the pain in the eyes of Martha Lewis’s friends, see the bewilderment on Cynthia Evans’s face, see all of them suffering as he’d suffered so many years ago? No, he decided, she couldn’t know all that, and he would never admit it to her.

“It’s Alex,” he had finally told her. “I want to see what happens to him at the funeral.” He told her about Alex’s experience in San Francisco, and the old woman nodded knowingly.

“You don’t know whose grave that was?” she asked. “Don Roberto had a brother. His name was Fernando, and he was a priest.”

“Are you suggesting that Alex Lonsdale saw a ghost?” he asked, his voice betraying his disbelief in his mother’s faith.

The old woman’s eyes glittered. “Do not be so quick to scoff. There are legends about Don Roberto’s family.”

“Among our people, there are legends about everything,” Torres replied dryly. “In fact, that’s about all we’ve got left.”

“No,” María had replied. “We have something else. We have our pride, too. Except for you. For you, pride was never enough. You wanted more—you wanted what the gringos have, even if it meant becoming one of them to get it. And now you have tried, and you have failed. Look at you, with your fancy cars, and your fancy clothes, and gringo education. But do they accept you? No. And they never will.”

And so he had left the little house he had been born in. His mother had been right. He had felt out of place at the funeral, even though he knew almost everyone there.

But he was right to have gone.

Something had happened to Alex Lonsdale. For a few moments, before his father had grasped his arm, Alex’s whole demeanor had changed.

His eyes had come to life, and he had seemed to be listening to something.

But what?

Raymond Torres thought about it all the way back to Palo Alto. When he reached the Institute, he went directly to his office and began going over the records of Alex’s case once more.

Somewhere, something had gone wrong. Alex was showing more signs of emotional behavior.

If it went too far, it would destroy everything, including Alex himself.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Alex stood in the middle of the plaza, waiting for the pain to strike his brain, and the strange memories that didn’t fit with the real world to begin churning through his mind. He gazed intently at the old buildings that fronted on the plaza, searching for the unfamiliar details that he had expected to find in them. But nothing struck a chord. The buildings merely looked as they had always looked—a village hall that had once been a mission church, and a library that had once been a school.

No voices whispered in his head, and no pain racked his mind. It was all as it had been throughout his lifetime.

When he was at last certain that nothing in the plaza or the buildings around it was going to trigger something in his mind, he walked slowly into the library and approached the desk. Arlette Pringle, who had been librarian in La Paloma for thirty years, raised her brows reprovingly.

“Did someone declare a holiday without telling me, Alex?”

Alex shook his head. “I went to Mrs. Lewis’s funeral this morning. And this afternoon … well, there’s some things I need to look up,