In San Lorenzo, confusion reigned. The volunteer fire brigade was attempting to marshal its members for a rescue effort, and the main square was filled with confused and frightened townspeople. Eric drove through the crowd, his horn blaring, and braked hard in front of El Lobo. Tend Vivienne as best I can, he thought. Get her things. Get mine. Expunge any evidence that we were here.

He wrenched the door open and got out. Already people were crowding around him, gazing with curiosity through the car window at Vivienne’s immobile, nearly naked form. He feared to leave her unguarded.

As he hesitated, Vincente materialized out of the crowd. “Vaya!” he shouted at the gathering throng. “Get away!” His expression was angry, and people looked at him and moved back. He peered in at the window. “Go and get your medical things,” he told Eric. “I will stay with her.”

Still Eric hesitated, but Vincente draped an arm around his shoulder. “It is over, friend,” he said. “Am I right?” Smoke from the explosion was already drifting across the square.

Eric nodded,

“Good,” Vincente said. “I am sorry for those inside - on both sides - but it is good that it is ended.” He clapped his hands and glared at several young boys who were attempting to approach the car, and scampered off into the crowd. “He paid me, of course. He paid me to be your friend, to spy on you. But I liked you all the same.”

Vivienne stirred and moaned, but didn’t wake. “Hurry and get your bag,” said Vincente. “I promise she will not come to harm.” He removed his arm from Eric’s shoulder. “I give you my word.”

Eric nodded. Talmidge was dead. There was no reason for Vincente to lie anymore.

He took the stairs three at a time and headed first for his own room. Quickly he grabbed his medical bag from the closet floor where he’d stashed it ever since he’d started at the Institute, hauled down his battered suitcase, stuffed his clothes inside, and sat on it to make it flat enough to zip. He dumped the suitcase and medical bag out on the landing and headed to Vivienne’s room, where he pulled the drawers from the dresser and dumped their contents on the bed. He chose some clothing and a makeup bag, then filled her suitcase and carryall with the rest and lugged everything out onto the landing too. Below, Vincente had seated himself on the car hood, arms akimbo, as though daring anyone to come close. Eric struggled the baggage down the stairs and over to the car; Vincente jumped off to help him load the trunk.

“Better we leave now,” Vincente said. He stared at Eric’s shoulder; the wound had again re-opened and his shirt was soaked in blood. “I will drive.”

“All the way to Barcelona? How will you get home?”

“My father is dead. From today, Barcelona is my home.”

“Your father?”

“So many times I said to him, ‘Let me go to Barcelona. Let me live my life away from here.’“ Vincente sighed and fell silent as he drove carefully through the crowd and out onto the south road. Eric tended Vivienne’s incision and she half-woke while he was attempting to dress her. She was muzzy and confused, but her color had returned.

“Dr. Talmidge was my father,” Vincente said at last. “When he first came here, he had not yet his . . . harem, you say in English? And my mother was very beautiful. A small town like this, a baby out of marriage . . . it was never easy for her, but he made sure she was protected. When I got older, he told me she would be safe so long as I . . . obeyed. For her sake, I had to stay. Now I am free.”

“He never taught you medicine? He didn’t even teach you English?”

“He did not love me enough,” said Vincente without rancor. “He did not love me at all. I was just . . . useful.”

“Can I help you?” Eric offered. “I have money, pesetas . . .”

“Thank you, no,” Vincente said with dignity. “I have friends in Barcelona, people who have left San Lorenzo. Soon everyone will leave, I think. I will find a job, send for my mother . . .” He turned around and smiled at Eric and Vivienne, holding each other close. “Something bad ends,” he said. “Something good begins.”

As the plane lifted into the air, Eric discovered he was ravenous. While Vivienne picked at her salad, he cleaned both their trays, then sat back, replete. Vicente’s bandaging had been inexpert, but at least he wouldn’t soil the upholstery.

Vivienne huddled in her first-class seat, exhausted and weak. Eric had gotten her some pills at the airport pharmacy. But though the incision in her chest was no longer painful, her thoughts were. Talmidge was gone, but so was everything else. And Eric . . .

“Can you really forgive me?” she asked him softly. “You were so close . . . if I hadn’t come, you’d be flying home with the secrets in your pocket.”

He smiled sadly. “He would never have told me,” he said bitterly. “He’d have kept me hanging on, year after year. Sure, he saw me as his . . . heir, maybe. But would he really have just handed over my legacy without years of loyalty and reassurance from me? Never!”

He took her hand between his. “Don’t blame yourself,” he said. Then he brightened. “There are a few things I did learn,” he told her. “And other things I can guess at. I can’t do what he did - God knows I wouldn’t want to - but . . .” He thought of the computer disk he’d rescued from its hiding place in the library several nights before, currently nestling innocuously among his shirts and shorts. Someday someone would figure out how to unlock the data on it. But thanks to Vivienne, he now knew how important it would be to guard that data carefully.

He touched her cheek. “I found something far more valuable than Talmidge’s secrets,” he said and was only a little surprised to find that he meant it.