"What's up?" he asked.

She faced Al. "My mother was rushed to Jackson Memorial Hospital this morning. She's in the ICU."

"What happened?"

"Pneumonia." Seneca pressed the contacts icon on her phone and scrolled through her stored numbers. "I've got to get back to Miami right away."

"Matt, you go on to Mexico." Al put his hand on Seneca's arm. "I'm going with you."

"No, you don't have to. I can manage."

"I know you can," Al said. "But I want to go. I'll arrange for the tickets. Besides I want to make sure Brenda's getting the best care. Maybe call in another doctor. I don't care what it costs."

Seneca turned and paced. She didn't want to take any more handouts from her father, having already become more dependent on him than she wanted.

Al already had someone on his phone taking care of flight reservations.

Matt took Seneca's hand. "Al only wants to help."

She knew he was right.

"Is your mother going to be all right?"

Robbed of her voice as she choked back tears, Seneca closed her eyes and shrugged.

PICAROON 2012, MIAMI.

AFTER LANDING AT MIAMI International, Seneca found her car and headed straight for Jackson Memorial Hospital. She and Al had managed to get on the same flight, but his car was located in a different parking garage. He was to meet her at the hospital. They had discussed Al staying behind and making a quick trip to the island to retrieve evidence from the dead man's body that might lead to his identification. But Al had said that could be postponed. After all, they knew the corpse wasn't going anywhere. Al would go back as soon as Brenda was stable or ...

She didn't like to think of that.

It was at the peak of visiting hours and Jackson was crowded as she made her way down the hall on the second floor of the North Wing building. She stopped at the doorway to her mother's semiprivate room. The good news was that her mother had been taken out of the intensive care unit that morning.

Occupying the first bed was a woman with long gray spidery hair, reminding Seneca of the Spanish moss that dripped from southern granddaddy oaks. Her pale skin was drawn tight over toothpick bones. Seneca caught a glimpse as she passed by the half-drawn curtain surrounding the bed, but it was enough to wrench a sad flash of sympathy from her gut.

In the far bed, her mother lay sleeping. "Mom," Seneca whispered, grasping the railing on the side of the bed. Brenda's closed eyes didn't blink, nor did she flinch at the sound of Seneca's voice. The papery skin of her frail arms bore multiple patches of deep purple bruises. Even the slightest, most simple trauma resulted in almost instant discoloration. Seneca knew that beneath the sheet and blanket, her mother's legs bore the same blemishes. Prednisone was a wonderful drug, but the bruising side effect made her mother look like she had been battered. Something as ordinary as a gentle bump against a table leg left its mark.

A snarl of tubes dangled from polyvinyl bags hung on a fourhook IV pole. Beeping, humming, and silent monitors tracked Brenda's vitals and blood oxygen saturation. Oxygen was delivered through another set of tubing, much like what Seneca used for her aquarium pump. Even with the extra supply of oxygen to her lungs, Brenda's every breath appeared labored, and was accompanied by a wet, rattling wheeze. Seneca noticed sourness in the air that even the vapors from antiseptics and medicines couldn't mask. A human odor that she imagined came from dying cells.

She circled the bed, touched her mother's cold cheek, then sat in the visitor's chair, deciding to wait there until her mother awakened no matter how long it took. She leaned her head back and closed her eyes.

God, dying is so awful.

A sick feeling spread from deep in her belly to her fingertips. Images and sensations flooded in, flickering past like an old movie reel. Chilly as the room was, in some crevice of her memory she felt the heat of Daniel's blood ooze through her fingers and spread over her, and the tackiness as it dried, then caked on her skin. A burst of light and then the vision of the last moment of the island imposter's life snapped into view-his body locked and violently seizing, the deathly whites of his eyes, the loss of control of his body functions, all playing out to the soundtrack of the rattle from her mother's breathing.

Knowing she was about to lose it, Seneca rose and went into the bathroom. She didn't want to wake her mother, and Al would be along any minute. He couldn't be that far behind her, and she would rather not be blubbering when he arrived.

Seneca sat on the toilet, folded her arms around her middle, and cried until she had drained the last drop of emotion. Standing, she moved to the sink while avoiding the mirror, leaned over and splashed water on her face. As she raised her head she heard a loud male voice.

"Brenda Hunt. Can you hear me? Wake up."

It wasn't Al's voice. Must be the doctor. She wanted to talk to him.

Seneca wiped the water from her face, and just as she put her hand on the door handle, she heard, "Where's your daughter?"

Cautiously, she put her ear to the door.

Her mother mumbled something, but she couldn't make it out.

"I'm a friend of your daughter. She was here. I must have just missed her. I went by her old place, but it looks like she's moved. Where is she living now? I want to visit her."

"Have you fed Picaroon?"

There was a pause, and Seneca knew the man had to be wondering what her mother was talking about. Picaroon was their pet African Grey Parrot years ago, named after the pirate word for rascal.

"Pica what?" The voice lacked all tenderness. "Look, just tell me where your daughter is living now."

"Picaroon. When he talks he sounds exactly like a person." Brenda's voice was weak and thin. "You'd never know the difference."

"Fuck," the man said, and Seneca heard what sounded like his fist connect with a hard surface. "This is useless." His footsteps were audible as he obviously stormed out of the room.

Seneca gently nudged the handle down and urged the door open. She peered through the crack, opening it a little at a time.

Brenda's empty eyes stared at her daughter as Seneca quietly came to the side of her bed.

Even though she was sure her mother wouldn't understand, Seneca felt the need to explain why she was leaving.

"I've got to go, Mom. I'm in trouble. When that man gets down to the parking lot he'll see my car is still here and come back looking for me." She stretched over the rail and kissed her mother's cheek.

"Do we have fresh fruit for Picaroon?"

Out of the corner of her eye, Seneca caught sight of movement. She turned, only able to see below the curtain guard. The pants and shoes of a man appeared as he strode in her direction. She ducked on the far side of the bed, crouching with every nerve fiber alive and firing panic.

SISTER ANGELICA 2012, MEXICO CITY.

"WE HAVE BEEN EXPECTING you, Senor Everhart." The man offered his hand. "I'm Dr. Domingo, Chief of Administration here at Hospital de Jesus Nazareno."

"Pleased to meet you," Matt said as they exchanged handshakes. After arriving late that afternoon at Juarez International Airport from Panama City, he had checked into the Torre Lindavista Hotel before taking a taxi to the hospital.

"You must have friends in high places," Domingo smiled, exposing a line of well-shaped but yellow-stained teeth beneath a pencil-thin mustache. He was a few inches shorter than Matt, but heavier by at least fifty pounds.

"Why do you say that?" The odor of tobacco was strong, and Matt guessed the teeth discoloration was a result of years of smoking. He never understood how a physician could be a smoker.

"Access to Professor Flores's collection is almost always denied. It's usually reserved for graduate students working on their doc torates at the university. Most have to reserve time months in advance. You are the first nonacademic I can remember who's been allowed to see the Flores collection. And the permission was granted within hours."

"Then I am humbled at the privilege." They stood in Domingo's office on the fifth floor of the hospital administration wing. "Will you be assisting me?"

"No, I have to begin my rounds shortly. But I have an assistant who will." Domingo went to his desk and pushed a button on the phone. "Please summon Sister Angelica."

A moment later the office door opened and a woman Matt thought to be in her mid-thirties entered. Dressed in a nurse's uniform, she was medium height and trim with short black hair framing a cherubic face. But it was her dark eyes that seemed to catch and hold the light in the room that captured Matt's attention.

"This is Sister Angelica. She will be helping you with your research in the Flores's collection library."

"It's a pleasure, Senor Everhart." The nun extended her hand. "I've enjoyed all your novels and am looking forward to the next in your Sariel series."

"Thank you." She definitely had an appropriate name, he thought, since her appearance was quite angelic. "Do you read my books in English or Spanish?"

"English. As much as I'm sure the translations are more than adequate, I don't believe anyone can properly capture the original writer's style and nuances in a different language."

"I couldn't say. English is my only language. I'd be happy to sign your copies before I leave if you like."

"I'd like that."

"If you're ready, Mr. Everhart, Sister Angelica will show you the way back down and unlock the library for you."

"Thanks again, Dr. Domingo." The two men shook hands. "I appreciate your time."

"I hope you find what you're looking for."

Matt and Sister Angelica left the office.

"Let's catch the elevator back to the ground floor." She led the way down the hall. "The library is restricted, so you won't have any distractions."

"Great." Matt followed her to a bank of elevators. He hoped once they got to the library, the antiseptic smell of the hospital would diminish. "I really appreciate you taking the time to help me out. How long have you been with the hospital?" They entered the elevator.

"Five years."

"Are you from Mexico City?"

"No, Santa Monica. I was born in Southern California. My family is originally from Mexico, but my parents were both born in the United States. I grew up a typical American teenager who loved to surf and eat cheeseburgers."

The elevator doors opened on the ground floor with a hiss. "I'm curious as to why Flores would donate his collection to the hospital and not the university."

"It was an act of gratitude and appreciation. The professor's daughter was a near drowning victim-a waterskiing accident that left her in a vegetative state. She was cared for here for over two months until her death, which was just before retirement. He looked in on her every day."

"What about Mrs. Flores?"

"She passed away many years ago."

At the end of the tiled floor corridor, they arrived at a large wooden door. "This is the entrance to the Flores library."

Matt noticed that on the door was a sign with the words No Entre painted in gold script lettering. Metal strips and studs, tarnished and darkened with age, reinforced its ancient surface.

Sister Angelica removed a key from her pocket and unlocked the door. Inside, she flipped on a wall switch, and the room came alive with a set of overhead Spanish chandeliers.

The library was about thirty feet square and consisted of floorto-ceiling shelves stocked with hundreds of books and manuscripts. The walls were rich, dark paneling and the floor a burgundy Mexican tile. Two desks sat in the middle of the room facing each other. On one rested a computer, monitor, and laser printer.

"Professor Flores had a huge collection of books dealing with the history and conquest of Mexico, most rare and irreplaceable. He also maintained thousands of personal journals and notebooks containing his writings over a thirty-year career at the University of Mexico. We are able to cross-reference and locate a great deal of the information he documented."

"That should make our job a little easier." Matt let his eyes wander around the room. "I'm envious of his collection. What's here is obviously invaluable to the history of Mexico."

"What exactly are you looking for?"

"To be honest, I'm not totally sure. But I have a pretty good idea where to start."

"Tell me." She motioned for him to sit at a desk while she took a seat at the one with the computer.

"I'm sure you're familiar with a sacred relic known as the Veil of Veronica?"

"Somehow I figured I wouldn't stump you on that one." When she barely broke a smile, he cleared his throat and continued, "Anyway, I have reason to believe that the Veil of Veronica may have some connection to the history of Mexico, particularly during the conquest of the Aztecs. I have a suspicion that the veil was brought to the New World."

"That's an interesting premise, but I was always led to believe the artifact resided in the Vatican. On what do you base your theory?"

For the next five minutes he relayed the story of the veil as uncovered by Al's research. He concluded with, "We've traced the relic to Diego Velazquez de Cuellar, governor of Cuba who supposedly had it in his possession in 1517. That's where the story ends, and the veil seems to have disappeared."

"Then let's start with Velazquez. There should be a great deal of information available on him."

As Matt came to stand behind her chair, she brought up a search interface on the computer monitor and typed in the governor's name. A few seconds later, a list of links appeared.

"I thought so. There are many references to Velazquez. So let's associate the relic with his name." She filled in a few additional fields. "We'll put in Veil, Veronica, relic, holy cloth, image of Jesus, and a few others."

The return of links was quicker this time, and the list shorter. Sister Angelica scanned the links and clicked on a few. Because they were in Spanish, Matt took on the role of a bystander waiting for her progress report.

After scrolling through three pages of returns, she went back to the first page and reread one of the references. "Okay, this is really a stretch, but there's a manifest listing from one of the ships Velazquez furnished Cortes to sail from Cuba to Mexico. And it was in the year you mentioned-1517."

"What does it say?"

"Only that Cortes had among his personal items an object called a holy box or reliquary containing a sacred object. It was given to him by the governor."

"But we don't know what it was?"

"No, but there's also a reference to a diary of a Spanish officer who accompanied Cortes to Mexico. Apparently, there's a notation in the diary about a religious icon given to Cortes by the governor of Cuba."

"Now we're getting somewhere."

Sister Angelica made a note on a pad of paper, tore it off, then rose and walked to the bookshelves. "All of Professor Flores's books have been cataloged and stored in archival boxes." She ran her finger along a line of boxes about shoulder high. "Here it is."

She removed the box, opened it and checked the 3 by 5 identification card inside against the label on the box. Bringing it to the desk, she opened a drawer and removed a pair of surgical gloves. Pulling them onto her hands, she gently lifted the book-a small, dark leather-bound volume about the size of a passport, and a half-inch thick. She glanced at her notes, then, with great care, opened the diary. Using a desk knife, she separated the pages until she found the one she sought.

She read for a moment. "The officer referred to the relic as imagen verdadera which means true image."

"So it could be the veil?"

She turned to look at him and shrugged. "Maybe, maybe not."

"What's that?" Matt pointed to a piece of yellowed paper sticking out of the diary.

Sister Angelica used the desk knife to turn the page and expose a small sheet of folded notebook paper. "It might be one of Professor Flores's personal notes. Looks like the paper he always used, and I've found his one-page notes to himself stuffed in books before."