Methodically Dan began emptying his pockets onto the table. As he'd left everything but keys and some money locked in the truck, it didn't take long. He toed off his boots, set them on the table, and took a sip of beer. It tasted like South America, thick and rich, earthy.

Somewhere in the back of the building a door slammed. A minute later two men younger than Dan strode into the room. The first man was slim and dressed in black but for a belt with a solid gold buckle. There was a heavy diamond-studded gold cross hanging around his neck. The gun he carried was steel with silver and gold inlays. The briefcase was the same supple black leather as his jacket and pants. The second man wore jeans rather than leather pants. His gun was all steel and fully automatic. The blind muzzle followed Dan's heart.

The barkeep went into the kitchen. He didn't come back.

Without a word Dan stood up, held his arms out from his sides, widened his stance, and waited to be searched.

The first man looked at the stuff on the table approvingly. "Senor Sandoval, he said you would understand."

The second man stepped to the side where he'd be able to keep Dan under his gun without getting in the way.

Dan watched with interest as the first man pulled a lightweight, very sensitive metal detector from the case. Cutting-edge and very expensive.

Not a low-tech operation. No surprise there.

Sandoval might use human mules for his heroin and pistol-whip people he didn't like, but when it came to conducting business he protected himself with the best technology money could buy.

The man put the metal detector back, pulled out another piece of equipment, and all but combed Dan's hair and clothes with it down to and including shoving it inside his underwear.

Wish I'd had this model in Colombia, Dan thought wryly. Bet I'd have found the bug before they used it to track me down. Then those kids wouldn't have been killed.

But he wouldn't think about that. He needed to stay calm, businesslike, in control.

The bug detector went back into the case.

The final test was as old-fashioned as pistol-whipping-a thorough, slyly sexual pat-down that the slim man enjoyed more than Dan did.

Dan knew the search was meant to be intimidating and humiliating. It failed. He'd been through a lot worse.

"Bueno," the man said, taking Dan's boots and walking out of the room.

Dan watched his boots disappear. "Careful with those. I just got them broken in."

"Sit," said the second man, the one whose gun muzzle kept staring at Dan's heart.

Dan scooped his keys and change off the table and sat.

And sat.

No impatience showed on Dan's face or in his posture. He leaned back, crossed his arms over his chest, and did a good imitation of falling asleep.

Just one more part of the game.

Armando must have had better things to do than watch his caller sleep. After fifteen minutes he put an end to the nap by walking into the room. The gun in his shoulder holster was obvious enough. The gun in his boot less so.

Dan spotted them both. He didn't react. He wasn't here for a fight and he doubted Armando was, either. The narcotraficante was simply doing the machismo dance so as not to lose respect with his men.

He hadn't liked being told to meet Dan.

Dan knew it, just as he knew that the pat-down by un pato had been Armando's revenge.

"I am busy," Armando said. "What do you want?"

The bluntness surprised Dan. He'd been expecting a lot of fencing, a lot of posturing. Armando must have a load coming or going right now.

Not my problem, Dan reminded himself. Not this time. This time my only problem is keeping Carolina May alive.

"I'm on medical leave," Dan said. "In other words, I'm not in New Mexico for any other than personal reasons. Personal, not professional. Tu comprendes?"

Armando's thick black eyebrows rose at the use of the intimate address rather than the more formal Spanish.

"Si." And his tone said that he wasn't buying it, not completely.

"Did you tell Alma to put opiates in Sylvia's death toast?" Dan asked.

Armando didn't even try to hide his surprise. Of all the questions he'd expected Dan to ask, obviously this wasn't even close. He looked at Dan and shook his head. "No."

Dan believed him. "Do you know who did?"

Armando shrugged. He didn't know and he didn't care. "Senorita Winifred is old. The old people make errors-mistakes. Even las brujas."

Dan studied the other man. There was no nervousness, no shifting of feet or licking of lips, no unconscious gestures with his hands, no looking away. Either he was an uncommonly good liar or he was telling what he believed to be the truth.

"Bueno," Dan said. "Do you have any professional or personal interest in Ms. Carolina May?"

Armando frowned. "I no like her and Lucia." He lifted his shoulders slightly in a shrug. "But is a small thing, like a fly buzzing."

A corner of Dan's mouth turned up. "Are your Colombian cousins still trying to kill me?"

"In Colombia, maybe, but not here. Here I am el jefe. I say killing well-connected Anglos is bad for business."

"Yeah. You'd be up to your lips in jalapenos real quick."

"Si. New Mexico is not Colombia."

Yet.

And Dan was doing everything he could to keep it that way.

Chapter 41

TAOS

FRIDAY NOON

CARLY STRETCHED, THEN BENT OVER THE MICROFILM READER AND WENT BACK TO work on the articles about the death of Isobel Castillo Quintrell in 1880, when she was only thirty. Reading between the lines, Isobel had been worn out by marrying at fifteen, then bearing three live children, plus ten premature or stillborn babies in the next fifteen years.

"They had methods of birth control then," Carly murmured into her recorder. "It must have been obvious what all the pregnancies were costing her. Why didn't… cancel that. She was a deeply religious Catholic wife."

Carly read quickly, skimming for the facts she would need to recreate the funeral in print. " 'Predeceased by only sister, Juana de Castillo y Castillo, tragically lost during the birth of her first child in 1872.' Editorial comment: the Castillo sisters had a hard time with labor and pregnancy; maybe their parents married one too many cousins. Or maybe they married and started getting pregnant too early. Interesting. Wonder if there are any studies about the correlation between very young brides and wives dying very young."

Her eyes searched the text, looking for names of people attending the funeral. There weren't any unfamiliar names, so'she went to the next item on her list and read, talking occasionally into her recorder. For the Castillo book, she would include reproductions of newspaper articles and images; she was already compiling a list for Dan to transfer.

What she needed now was some sense of how close the children of the Castillo sisters had been.

After two hours of reading, it was clear that major events-funerals, marriages, baptisms, Quinceaneras-were shared by first cousins. The generation after that there was more separation. They gathered for some funerals, but little else. The Quintrells became the backbone of the emergent gringo political system. The Castillo/Simmons/Sandovals stayed a fixture within the hispano community, making up a secondary, nearly parallel government. Instead of taxes, there was tribute. Instead of cattle, there was smuggling. Instead of English, there was Spanish and/or Indian languages.

And through both cultures ran the same blood, the same genes, the same hopes and disappointments and joys.

A feeling of excitement fizzed in Carly. She forgot the careful list she'd made and simply enjoyed the tapestry of family and New Mexico history that was condensing in her mind. This was what she loved about her job, the moment when the chaos of facts and questions stopped whirling around and settled into a pattern of family generations played out against a timeless land and a constantly changing culture. This was what she wanted to give to future generations of Quintrells and Castillos, an understanding that each person was part of a chain stretching back across the centuries and reaching out to the coming centuries. This was-