where we'll be safe. This fight will be over soon, and we'll return to Spain."

She knew that she would go anywhere with this man, and that if there was danger, she wanted to share it with him.

They talked of so many things. Ricardo told her of how he had first become involved with Jaime Miró, and of the broken engagement, and of his father's displeasure. But when Ricardo waited for Graciela to speak about her past, she was silent.

She looked at him and thought: I can't tell him. He'll hate me. "Hold me," Graciela begged.

They slept and woke up at dawn to watch the sun creep over the ridge of the mountain, bathing the hills in a warm red glow.

Ricardo said, "We'll be safer hiding out here today. We'll start traveling when it gets dark."

They ate from the sack of food that the gypsies had given them, and planned their future.

"There are wonderful opportunities here in Spain," Ricardo said. "Or there will be when we have peace. I have dozens of ideas. We'll own our own business. We'll buy a beautiful home and raise handsome sons."

"And beautiful daughters."

"And beautiful daughters." He smiled. "I never knew I could be so happy."

"Nor I, Ricardo."

"We'll be in Logroño in two days and meet the others,"

Ricardo said. He took her hand. "We'll tell them you won't be returning to the convent."

"I wonder if they'll understand." Then she laughed. "I don't really care. God understands. I loved my life in the convent," she said softly, "but—" She leaned over and kissed him.

Ricardo said, "I have so much to make up to you."

She was puzzled. "I don't understand."

"Those years you were in the convent, shut away from the world. Tell me, darling—does it bother you that you've lost all those years?"

How could she make him see? "Ricardo—I didn't lose anything. Have I really missed so much?"

He thought about it, not knowing where to begin. He realized that events he thought of as important would not really have mattered to the nuns in their isolation. Wars,

like the Arab-Israeli war? The Berlin Wall? Assassinations of political leaders such as the American President John Kennedy and his brother, Robert Kennedy? And of Martin Luther King,

Jr., the great black leader of the nonviolence movement for black equality? Famines? Floods? Earthquakes? Strikes and demonstrations protesting man's inhumanity to man?

In the end, how deeply would any of those things have affected her personal life? Or the personal lives of the majority of people on this earth?

Finally, Ricardo said, "In one sense, you haven't missed much. But in another sense, yes. Something important has been going on. Life. While you were shut away all those years,

babies have been born and have grown up, lovers have married,

people have suffered and been happy, people have died, and all of us out here were a part of that, a part of the living."

"And you think I never was?" Graciela asked. And the words came tumbling out before she could stop them. "I was once a part of that life you are talking about, and it was a living hell. My mother was a whore, and every night I had a different uncle. When I was fourteen years old I gave my body to a man because I was attracted to him and jealous of my mother and what she was doing." The words were coming in a torrent now. "I would have become a whore too if I had stayed there to be part of the life you think is so precious. No, I don't believe I ran away from anything. I ran to something. I found a safe world that is peaceful and good."

Ricardo was staring at her, horrified. "I—I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to—"

She was sobbing now, and he took her in his arms and said,

"Shh! It's all right. That's over. You were a child. I love you."

And it was as though Ricardo had given her absolution. She had told him about the awful things she had done in the past,

and still he forgave her. And—wonder of wonders—loved her.

He held her very close. "There is a poem by Federico

Garcia Lorca:

The night does not wish to come so that you cannot come and I cannot go…

But you will come with your tongue burned by the salt rain.

The day does not wish to come so that you cannot come and

I cannot go…

But you will come through the muddy sewers of darkness.

Neither night nor day wishes to come so that I may die for you and for me."

And suddenly she thought of the soldiers who were hunting them and she wondered if she and her beloved Ricardo were going to live long enough to have a future together.

There was a link missing, a clue to the past, and Alan Tucker was determined to find it. There had been no mention in the newspaper of a baby being abandoned, but it should be easy enough to find out the date it was brought to the orphanage. If the date coincided with the time of the plane crash, Ellen Scott would have some interesting explaining to do. She couldn't be that stupid, Alan Tucker thought. To risk pretending that the Scott heiress was dead, and then leave her on the doorstep of a farmhouse. Risky. Very risky. On the other hand, look at the reward: Scott Industries. Yes, she could have pulled it off. If it is a skeleton in her closet,

it's a live one, and it's going to cost her plenty.

Tucker knew that he had to be very careful. He had no illusion about whom he was dealing with. He was confronting raw power. He knew he had to have all the evidence in hand before he made his move.

His first stop was another visit with Father Berrendo.

"Father—I would like to speak to the farmer and his wife,

where Patricia—Megan was dropped off."

The old priest smiled. "I hope your conversation with them will not take place for a long time."

Tucker stared at him. "You mean—?"

"They died many years ago."

Damn. But there had to be other avenues to explore. "You said the baby was taken to a hospital with pneumonia?"

"Yes."

There would be records there. "Which hospital was it?"

"It burned down in 1961. There is a new hospital now." He saw the look of dismay on his visitor's face. "You must remember, señor, that the information you are seeking goes back twenty-eight years. Many things have changed."

Nothing's going to stop me, Tucker thought. Not when I've come this close. There must be a file on her somewhere.

There was still one place left to investigate: the orphanage.

He was reporting daily now to Ellen Scott.

"Keep me informed of every development. I want to know the moment the girl is found."

And Alan Tucker wondered about the urgency in her voice.

She seems in an awful big rush over something that happened all those years ago. Why? Well, that can wait. First

I have to get the proof I'm looking for.

That morning Alan Tucker visited the orphanage. He looked around the dreary community room where a noisy, chattering group of children were playing, and he thought: This is where the heiress to the Scott dynasty grew up, while that bitch in

New York kept all the money and all the power. Well, she's going to share some of that with yours truly. Yes, sir, we'll make a great team, Ellen Scott and me.

A young woman came up to him and said, "May I help you,

señor?"

He smiled. Yeah. You can help me to about a billion dollars. "I'd like to talk to whoever's in charge here."

"That would be señora Angeles."

"Is she here?"

"Sн, señor. I will take you to her."

He followed the woman through the main hall to a small office at the rear of the building.

"Go in, please."

Alan Tucker entered the office. The woman seated behind the desk was in her eighties. She had once been a very large woman, but her frame had shrunk, so she looked as though her body had at one time belonged to someone else. Her hair was gray and thin, but her eyes were bright and clear.