Winifred nodded curtly and took the list. Eleven names stretching over a period of sixty years, but most of them were clustered around the years before the Senator became a senator.

Jesus Mendoza. Maria Elena Sandoval. Manuel Velasquez. Randal

Mullins. Sharon Miller. Christopher Smith. Raul Sandoval. Maryanne Black. Seguro Sanchez. David McCall. Suzanne Fields.

All or none of them could be the Senator's. Four of them were dead. Two of them were grandmothers or great-grandmothers. Not one of them had claimed to be the Senator's offspring.

The name Winifred had expected, hoped, feared, wasn't there.

She handed the list back to Carly. "Keep digging. There were more kids born than are on this list."

Carly started to object but thought better of it.

"Why didn't Sylvia divorce the Senator?" Carly asked as she put the list away.

"Catholic. And keeping the land. For Andrew."

"Then Andrew died and she had a stroke."

"No," Winifred managed. "Tried to-kill the Senator. Fought him. Survived. Brain didn't."

Carly and Dan both went still. There was nothing, not even a hint of a whisper, in the family record or in the doctor's report after Sylvia's so-called stroke.

"My God," Carly said. "How did you-"

"Find out?" Winifred cut in.

"Yes."

"He told me-to let her die. And why."

"But you didn't," Carly said.

The line of Winifred's mouth was too savage to be called a smile. "He drove her-to it. Castillo land. Always."

"Of course," Carly said gently, trying to soothe the increasingly agitated older woman. "The Senator is dead and the land will go to Sylvia's son, a Castillo as well as a Quintrell."

Winifred's face darkened as she coughed harshly, uselessly, gasping for air.

Dr. Sands rushed into the suite. "No more talking, Miss Winifred. I mean it." He bent over and replaced the oxygen mask she'd pulled off an hour ago. "If I have to, I'll transport you to a hospital against your will. The governor agreed with me. If necessary, we'll call a judge and have you declared incompetent."

Winifred gave the doctor a burning look and fought to control her breathing.

Carly started to gather up photos and documents, only to discover that Dan already had. Together they quickly walked out of the room, leaving Winifred and the doctor to their clashing wills.

"I should have asked her about the old Spanish documents first," Carly said.

"Other people read old Spanish. Winifred is the only one left alive who remembers the Quintrell family during the last half of the twentieth century."

"What about the governor? He's alive."

"He probably knows less about what his family was like than you do. Josh Quintrell didn't even come home for Christmases."

"So Sylvia tried to kill the Senator," Carly said. "I wonder what triggered it?"

"Maybe she found out he was fathering bastards when he damn well knew how to prevent it. We'll check the birth dates around that time. All of the birth dates, not just the probable ones."

The whap whap whap of a helicopter's rotors announced that the governor might have missed all the holidays with his family, but he would make it to Sylvia's memorial service.

Carly wondered why.

"Why what?" Dan asked.

"Sorry, I didn't know I said it aloud."

Dan waited.

"Why does he bother coming here at all?" Carly said. "His parents sent him off to year-round boarding schools when he was seven and never looked back until his older brother died."

"Josh is the Senator's son through and through," Dan said.

"What does that mean?"

"He's political to his core. The last thing a politician would do is miss his mother's funeral."

"Gee, you have a cheery view of human nature," Carly said.

"What does cheer have to do with it?"

"Nothing."

"Bingo," Dan said, smiling grimly.

He set down the cartons of supplies and photos before he gestured for her to precede him into the next room, the place where Sylvia had spent so much of her life. Winifred had wanted the memorial service to be here. No one had argued.

Maybe no one had cared. Certainly the guests hadn't eaten much of'the food that had been put out, despite the attractive presentation of canapes and glass coffee cups and saucers, and crystal wine goblets. There was a striking geometric design made by very small cups with no handles, like Turkish espresso cups, set out on an antique silver tray. Apparently the cups were meant for later in the ceremony, because two red ribbons in the form of a cross were laid protectively over them. The rich satin of the ribbon contrasted with the unglazed, undecorated clay cups and the nearby small, unglazed clay pitcher. The plain clay looked quite at home next to the array of santos glaring down at the table from nearby walls.

Carly glanced away from the primitive, and somehow primal, carvings of saints. There was something about the obviously hand-carved santos that made her uneasy in the same way that much Mayan art made her uneasy.

A fire burned cheerfully in the corner hearth, as if to counter the dark oppression of the santos.

Melissa, Pete, Alma, and Lucia were already sitting in four of the folding chairs that had been set up in the back of the room. Three other chairs were set up near the quietly burning hearth. Carly assumed those seats were for the family, so she headed toward Melissa and the ever-sullen Alma. Lucia nodded and smiled toward Carly. Feeling like a second thumb, Carly smiled back and sat in an empty chair. Dan sat next to her. If he felt out of place it didn't show in his expression.

A few moments later, Dr. Sands wheeled Winifred past the folding chairs to the front of the room. He set the brakes of her wheelchair, checked the oxygen flow, and walked briskly to the back of the room. Without a word to anyone, he sat near Dan.

Governor Quintrell came into the room, shook hands and ex-changed pleasantries with everyone except Carly and Dan. Whatever the governor said to Pete surprised him.

"You're sure, Governor?" Pete asked.

"Absolutely. I decided that you're right, that now isn't a good time to think about cutting back on charitable contributions. I want you to concentrate exclusively on getting the ranch books in shape for the sale."

"Do you have someone interested already?" Pete asked.

"Several parties. It's not often a ranch this size comes on the market. Everyone from developers to conservation outfits are lined up waving money at me. Tell Melissa to start packing up the small stuff in the house and sending the contents to Santa Fe."

With that, the governor chose the chair that was closest to Winifred and sat down, ignoring the other empty chairs. He glanced at the minister and nodded abruptly.

The minister walked to the fireplace and faced the room. "We are gathered together here today to commemorate the valiant spirit of…"

After listening for thirty seconds, Carly decided that the minister hadn't had enough time to pillage dead poets for Sylvia, or perhaps only the Senator's death required such resonant language. Today the minister had come down solidly in the dead center of the mundane.

With a small sigh Carly began memorizing the feel of the room so that she could record it in the history she would write. Someone had brought in fresh pine boughs and placed them on a linen-covered table. The boughs were arranged around the tray of ten, no eleven, cups. The santos gave color to the table and peered from unlikely parts of the room. The bright colors and dark features of the santos reinforced the crude vigor of the statues.

But the longer Carly sat there, the less she liked the look of the primitive saint figures. Something Dan had said about Penitentes lashing themselves through the stations of the cross came back to her. She wondered if the Castillo side of the family worshiped at the small roadside altars she had caught glimpses of as she drove through rural New Mexico, if the Castillos relished the darkness that surrounded the santos like ghostly cloaks.