"You're hedging. How is he?"

"In some kind of shock."

"What do you mean?"

"He's not said a word since I found him. I'm hoping all he needs is rest-"

"He needs a doctor."

"I know a good one here; I'm taking him right over."

"Do. Keep me informed."

"Of course I will." "What about Luis? Where the hell is he?"

"I've no idea. His car..." He trailed off into silence, his mind working rapidly.

"What is it? Richard? Do you know something?"

"Luis's car wasn't there when I arrived. Suppose he drove in after it was over, saw what happened, then fled."

"Without trying to find out if there were survivors?" Contempt seeped into Bourland's tone. But then he'd not seen the total destruction wrought by the blast.

"It was very bad, Philip. One look and you'd know how hopeless."

"But if he'd been there, then how did he miss spotting you?"

"He might not have gotten close enough. It was a fearful mess. He could still be alive, hiding somewhere." Richard's thoughts churned with a new realization. "Look, by the condition of the-of things, the murders took place in the morning. The killer had all day to set up the bombs. He was only waiting for Luis to come home from work and find what was left. That's the sort of retribution Alejandro would arrange. He would want Luis to see what he'd brought upon himself and his family for his betrayal."

"Damn him."

"When I got there the killer must have slipped out the back and hid, allowing me just enough time to find the bodies-or rather he meant it to be Luis. We're about the same build, and it was dark. He mistook me for Luis, detonated the bomb, then left me for dead. It would certainly explain the perfect timing."

"My God, then he really could still be alive."

Yes, they might yet salvage something from the disaster. "There's a chance of it."

"What about the police down there?"

"Sorry?"

"What are they doing about this?"

"I've not spoken to them."

"For God's sake, why not?"

"Philip, stop and think about it. If I bring them in, I won't be free to act in a manner I deem... appropriate."

Bourland caught on instantly. "I understand. I'm taking the next flight out."

"No, please, I need you exactly where you are."

"But-"

"I need help. Your kind of help."

A pause, as Bourland took in the implications. "Anything. Name it."

"Information. I need free access to the databases of the CIA, FBI, DEA, Interpol, and anyone else you can think of at the highest clearance you can manage. All the major law enforcement agencies, the local police, too, the airlines, Immigration. Get me their access codes."

There was a long silence at the other end of the phone. "I don't know if I can."

"Philip, for Stephanie's sake you will. I must have them if I'm to find Alejandro."

That shot hit home. "I'll see what I can arrange... and Richard?"

"Yes?"

"Alejandro or whoever did the killing for him may well know Michael is alive. That child is in extreme danger."

Richard's gut lurched. Damnation, why hadn't he thought of that? Of course the killer knew the boy had gotten away. And would be looking for him. "He's safe, and I will keep him that way. I'm going to be on the move, so use my cell number. Just get me the information I need."

"Soon." Bourland hung up with no further comment.

Richard sank back in his chair, his gaze hard on the closed bedroom door. Ah, Michael. Poor Michael. What would become of him? His family dead or missing, the absolute loss beyond his young comprehension, he might never wake from his withdrawal.

Across the room on a table Richard caught sight of a gold framed photo of his twin goddaughters. It was one of the few personal items he kept here. Elena and Seraphina had been seven at the time and laughed at the camera as they sat on their pony.

Oh, God, those poor girls.

And suddenly the grief welled up in him once again. In a desperate stolen way, sweet Elena and Seraphina had been his daughters, his innocent, helpless children. It was mere technicality that Luis was their father. Had Richard not been there at their christenings, holding them tenderly, grinning into the camera with a parent's absurd doting pride? He always remembered their birthday, knew every tiny, immensely important event of their young lives. Photographs his cherished Stephanie had taken were in his wallet, creased with wear.

And now some bastard had murdered them all.

Richard had seen much over the long centuries and of necessity had learned to maintain a certain amount of emotional distance from those few and fragile souls that he loved. They died. He lived on. That was the way of things.

He had had to pull back time and time again to survive the years with any sort of sanity intact. Yet now, with the events of the past twenty-four hours crowding upon him, he could not pull back far enough for this.

His sight blurred, his breath shortened. Great heavy sobs began to rack his body, and he did not fight them. He let them take him, for this was the only way to deal with the grief.

Try as he might, wish as he might, he would never be too old or too stony of heart not to weep.

Richard splashed cold water on his face, wishing he could as easily wash away the sorrow along with his tears. The grieving was not over, he was fully aware of that, but he'd vented enough to be able to push it to one side, allowing him to focus and function. He would give himself time to truly mourn only after he'd caught Alejandro.

He padded to the bedroom to check on Michael and was surprised to see the child seated cross-legged in front of the TV there. Michael stared, empty-eyed, at a dark screen, for it was not turned on.

Damn, damn, damn. He suppressed an inner groan, then got down on the floor to be in the boy's line of sight.

"Michael?"

No reaction.

"Michael, it's Uncle Richard. Will you look at me?"

Nothing.

He fought back a twinge of panic. The boy needed and would get professional help. Now. Richard donned his daylight coverings, gently gathered up Michael, and headed for the elevator.

Some thirty minutes later, child in arms, he bulled through the door of the Med-Mission Clinic, startling the patients in the waiting room. Helen Mesquita buzzed him straight through the second door and pointed. He'd called ahead on his cell phone to give Dr. Sam some warning, sketching out what was required. Richard found the examination room, and eased Michael down on the table there.

Helen came in, a clipboard in hand, dark eyes wide with unvoiced questions. "Well, who have we got here?" she asked, addressing Michael. His lack of response didn't seem to bother her, giving Richard to understand that she'd been primed about what to expect.

"This is Michael, my godson," Richard answered.

She wrote the name down on the form on the board. "Last name?"

"No paperwork for this one. Sam will confirm it."

This was unheard of. She started to object, but after a few seconds of eye contact Richard persuaded her to forget the matter. She put the form aside and turned to the child, smiling. "Hi, Michael, I'm glad to meet you. My name is Helen.

We're just going to check you out and make sure everything's running fine. Is that okay with you?"

The boy's eyes moved, downward. It was the first sign he'd given of being aware of anything. She glanced at Richard, taking in the mixed emotions on his face. "Sure it is."

Richard felt a hand on his arm and repressed an urge to flinch. It was Sam, only trying to push past. He murmured requests to Helen, and the two of them proceeded to make a swift and efficient examination of the boy.

"Who's his pediatrician?" asked Sam. "You might want to notify him."

"I don't know."

Sam gave him a sharp look, head-to-toe. "Richard, you look like hell."

"How's the boy?"

"Dehydrated, some scratches, bruises, needs food, a bath, and clean clothes. How'd he get this way?"

"I'll explain. Can you do all that here?"

"We can manage."

Helen smiled at Michael. "Yes, we're old friends now. I'll look after him if you tell Ruth to keep holding the fort out front for me."

Sam saw to it, then took Richard back to his office. Sunlight blasted harsh through the window, warming the place past the limits of the otherwise efficient air conditioning. Richard shut the blinds and dropped his long frame into the same chair as before.

Sam perched on the edge of his desk. "So... what is going on? What happened to that boy? Why come here instead of to an emergency room?"

"Because I can answer your questions; I wouldn't have been able to answer theirs."

"Don't tell me you've kidnapped him." Sam was only half serious, the other half was plainly alarmed.

"No, nothing like that, but any official notice of the child could put him in danger."

"Why is that? What's happened to him?"

"Yesterday morning he saw his mother and sisters murdered. The killer is still loose and probably looking for him."

That stopped Sam's questions for a very long minute. He shifted from the desk to his own chair, looking at Richard the whole time. "I think you know what I'll ask next, so please..." He gestured, palm up, for more information.

Richard kept his story short, the barest of bare bones. It was the only way he could get through it again.

"My God," Sam whispered. "I heard something on the radio when I drove in, but I never thought..." He glanced at his watch, then swiveled his chair so as to turn on a small black-and-white portable TV jammed onto a crowded bookshelf.

The picture was fuzzy, but served. The images and sound marched their slow way through the credits of a sports show and some ads, then the local carrier station news center broke in with the day's headlines. They gave a full thirty seconds to the mysterious explosion of a house in Addison. A helicopter view of the area was shown as the narrator spoke of arson.

Richard made himself look at the near obliteration of the house, made small by the screen, but still naked and awful in the daylight.

The TV voice continued, "... and an inside source has revealed that some type of powerful explosive was involved.

Police, FBI, and BATF agents are searching the site for clues and bodies."

And if I don't come forward now and they discover I was there...

But the likelihood of that was slim, very slim. Yes, the authorities would not be happy with him, but he couldn't allow himself to be restrained by the limits of the law, or allow Michael to be taken from his custody by well-meaning strangers who could get the boy killed for lack of security.

A commercial suddenly replaced the blackened wreckage on the screen.

Sam shut the thing off. "He was in that? "

"Not quite, but close."

"And the murders... they were killed just to make an example?" Sam shook his head. "I don't understand that kind of evil. I see it all the time, but his own brother? He would kill children? " "Sam. Believe me, you don't want to understand it. This is the kind of corruption found in gangrenous limbs.

Alejandro had his face rubbed in it when Luis turned on him, and he swore vengeance."

Sam shook his head. "Damn, but I try most of the time to forget how awful the world really is."

"With your line of work? With what you do here?"

"I've got a selective memory. It helps me get through some of the bad days." He sighed, frowning at his desk. "Now what?"

"Now I go after the man behind it."

"You? Why not the cops?"

Richard made no reply.