“She had a microchip in her brain,” said Matt. Somehow it made it worse to call the animal she. It made her seem more real.
“When I held you in my hands it was as though you were my own child, the boy I had lost.” Dr. Rivas shaded his eyes and fell silent for a moment. “Strange. The grief never goes away. My son was called Eduardo after me.”
“What happened to him?” Matt forced himself to ask the question.
“He works in the gardens. El Patrón made certain I knew where he was in case I had any thoughts of rebelling. That’s why I know the eejit operation can’t be reversed. I have spent years trying to do it with absolutely no success.”
Mirasol was gazing pointedly at the sandwiches, and Matt responded by giving her two. That was surely communication, he thought. He’d become better and better at reading her body language. He winced at the messy speed with which she devoured them and leaned forward to wipe her mouth with a napkin.
“She’s got you trained,” observed Dr. Rivas. “You were the best of the lot, the most intelligent, the most perfect.”
“The best of what lot?” Matt said, although he knew.
“The others were used for liver transplants and blood transfusions,” said the doctor, ignoring the question. “One, an infant, supplied a heart. It was too small, and the operation failed.”
Matt tried to see Dr. Rivas as he’d been a few moments before—a kind, friendly man who had saved his life—and failed. “How could you do it?”
“I had a family to protect. The others, except for you, were merely collections of cells.” Dr. Rivas shrugged. “You get used to being evil.”
16
DANCING THE HUKA HUKA IN NUEVA YORK
Esperanza is trying to send a message,” said Cienfuegos, coming onto the veranda. “In fact, there’s at least two dozen people trying to contact us via the holoport.”
“The patrón has to limit his contact with scanners,” Dr. Rivas said sternly. “Once every few days until he’s fully recovered.”
Matt was eager to get out of the hospital wing and enjoy the fresh air and feel of grass beneath his feet. They passed the pool where the eejit was removing leaves and went up a sweeping staircase to a shadowed porch. Inside were halls even grander than those in the Ajo hacienda. The floors were inlaid with tiles—blue-and-white Chinese willows, geometrical designs from Morocco, flowers from Spain. One room even had a Roman mosaic. The floor-to-ceiling windows were draped with heavy silk curtains. Everywhere were the sounds of fountains and birds.
“If there is Paradise, it is here, it is here, it is here,” murmured Matt. It was so delightful he wondered why El Patrón ever left it.
But the room with the holoport was cold and businesslike. The portal itself was enormous—ten feet square—and the addresses were slowly cycling. Right now it showed an office in Sydney, Australia, with a red light blinking in the corner.
“You can select an address by pressing this button.” Dr. Rivas demonstrated, and the screen immediately changed to show a multitude of icons.
Cienfuegos cried “Hah!” in surprise. “¡Por Dios, Doctor! ¡Tiene bien puestos los calzones! You’ve got guts!”
“El Patrón showed me the method,” said Dr. Rivas, smiling. “You can scroll through the icons by turning this wheel and choose one by highlighting it and pressing the button again. What you must not do, as I’m sure you know, is touch the screen.”
“You’re telling me!” The jefe wiped his face with a handkerchief. “Will you look at all those flashing lights!”
All over the screen, tiny red dots pulsed as drug dealers clamored for their supplies. Matt was bewildered. What if he merely ignored them? What if he cut off everyone’s opium, kept the border closed, and lived happily ever after?
“I’ve selected the Convent of Santa Clara,” said Dr. Rivas. The familiar room appeared. It was empty, but on a back wall was pinned the altar cloth Sor Artemesia had been working on. The Virgin was surrounded by a halo like the sun, and her foot rested on the moon. Around the edge were red roses worked in silk.
After a moment’s hesitation, Matt put his hand on the screen. Instantly his skin swarmed with crawling ants and his heart pounded. He tasted vomit. It’s me, he implored. You know it’s me. The screen dissolved into a tunnel swirling with mist. Matt sat back, sodden with sweat.
“You’re all right,” said Dr. Rivas. The boy felt the doctor’s hands grip his shoulders. He smelled rain and the crisp odor that follows a thunderstorm. The mist cleared, and the doctor took his hands away.