“That order is based in Europe, sir,” Delaporte said, sounding doubtful. “We’ve yet to find any of them operating in America.”

“They may be using the churches here as cover.” Genaro picked up the crucifix statue Carasegas had on his desk. “This country is obsessed with religion.” He tossed the cross into a drawer.

“Yes, sir. I’ll call you when I have new information.” Delaporte disconnected the line.

Marlow appeared outside the door’s window, knocking once before looking in. “The owner of the café across the street is at the front desk. She claims Riordan and a woman had coffee there before leaving together last night. She claims she doesn’t know who the woman was, but she’s lying.”

“Does she speak English?” When Marlow nodded, Genaro stood and took off his jacket. “Bring her to me.”

The café owner, an older woman still wearing a flour-dusted apron and hairnet, came in accompanied by Marlow. She glanced around, her expression curious.

“What is this?” she asked. “Where is Chief Carasegas?”

“The chief is out conducting a search of the city.” Genaro indicated the chair in front of the desk. “Sit down, please.” As soon as she did, he glanced at Marlow, who closed the door and came to stand behind the chair. “You reported that you saw the serial killer bring a woman to your café last night. Who was she?”

The woman shrugged but averted her gaze. “I tell your man, I never see her before.”

Genaro weighed the time-saving benefits of having her taken to one of the interrogation rooms and beaten until she talked. However, she had come to the station on her own, and her business was located across the street. For those reasons he would have to use persuasion. “Señora, this man has already murdered three people over the last two days. As soon as he is finished using this young woman, he will kill her, too. Help us save her life.”

The café owner looked uncertain. “But she tell me that he is friend.”

“I believe she was trying to protect you, ma’am,” Marlow put in. “She knew if she asked for your help, you would be in danger.”

“Perdóname, mi Madre.” She paled and crossed herself. “Her name Agraciana Flores. She come from my husband’s village.”

“There was a PROFEPA agent named Flores assigned to the Tacal case,” Marlow said.

“Sí,” the woman said, nodding eagerly. “Agraciana work for people protect islands.”

“Did she tell you anything about the man she was with, or where they were going?” Genaro asked.

“No, señor. She have café with him, and then drive away together.” The woman wrapped her arms around her waist.

“Which direction did they go?” Marlow prompted.

“She take bay road.” She gestured in the general direction, and then gave Genaro a stricken look. “Agraciana have beach house there. Maybe he make her take him there.”

“We’ll call Chief Carasegas and let him know to check on Ms. Flores,” Genaro lied. “Thank you for helping us. Marlow, would you show the lady out?”

After the café owner left, Genaro returned to the command center to make several calls, where Marlow joined him a short time later.

“I’ve put a man on the café to watch for Flores and Riordan,” the team leader said. “But they’re probably hunkering down at her beach house.”

“I doubt Riordan would be that stupid. Flores called her office this morning to request two days off.” He paused as one of the techs handed him a sheaf of fax copies of the PROFEPA agent’s government personnel file and several police reports.

“She told her supervisor her mother was ill.”

Marlow’s brows rose. “So she is helping him.”

“Given that Flores’s mother disappeared ten years ago, and was declared dead by her husband in 2008, that is a reasonable assumption.”

Genaro went to one of the computer stations. “I want to see this police report.” He handed a fax to the tech, who performed a search and opened the file on the screen, translating the page into English.

Marlow scanned the report. “Looks like she disappeared on her way home from work.”

Genaro tapped an address on the screen. “Display this on a map.”

The tech brought up a satellite image of the city with one small red balloon.

Marlow glanced at Genaro. “Her mother was working at Energúmeno’s compound when she disappeared.”

Genaro thought of the old women he had seen in the gardens. “Or she never left.”

Charlie silently followed Samuel back to the villa, but as soon as they were inside she stopped and focused. The islanders had spread out in all different directions, their emotions muted, their thoughts intense. “Everything is working now. I can feel all of them out there.”

“I think we need a cup of tea.” He led her into the kitchen. “Can you hear what they’re thinking?”

“Loud and clear, now that Colotl has dispensed with his shields.” She pressed her fingertips to her temples. “Only problem is, they’re all thinking in that odd language. I can’t understand a word of it.”

“I’m not a linguist, but what I heard sounded almost archaic,” he said as he took out a pan and filled it with water. “If it is an obscure or dead language, this master Tlemi spoke of probably used it as a control measure.”

“How would it control them?” She joined him at the stove.

“If any of them escaped his custody, speaking an uncommon language assured they wouldn’t be able to easily communicate with outsiders.” He glanced at her. “How old were you when you were adopted?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “The Marenas thought I was about five or six.”

“I meant your first family.”

“No idea. Probably a baby.” Charlie went over to the fridge. “Do you want some fruit?”

“No, thank you.” He took out two cups and a tin, opening the lid to sniff the contents before spooning some into the cups. “When my parents adopted me, I was about a year old, but I had already learned to speak a few words.”

She could imagine what a beautiful baby boy he must have been, and felt a pang of longing. “‘Mama’ and ‘Dada’?”

“My mother told me later that they had no idea what I was saying, but she wrote down in my baby book the words I spoke by how they sounded.” He watched her arrange some pineapple slices on a plate. “A few years ago I had the sounds analyzed. It turned out that my cradle language was Chinese.”

“Some of the other Takyn mentioned that they spoke odd languages as kids.” She sealed the plastic container before returning it to the fridge. “I couldn’t speak Spanish when I met the Marenas, and they didn’t speak any English, but I understood their thoughts perfectly. I also don’t have a problem with any other non–English speaker’s thoughts. So why can’t I understand the castaways?”

“Perhaps because you’ve never before been exposed to this particular language.” He added hot water from the pan to the cups before he picked them up from the counter. “Why don’t we go and talk in the living room?”

“You mean the pit of decadence and depravity?” She grimaced. “All that red makes me nervous.”

He seemed surprised. “I thought most women find it romantic.”

“Maybe women who don’t work in the medical field,” she said. “All it reminds me of are severe injuries, bio-hazardous material, and blood.”

“We should still make use of the room occasionally.” He turned his back on the kitchen camera. “If we are going to plan a successful escape, we’ll have to keep up appearances.” He shifted his eyes up.

That reminded her. “I don’t like the idea of your going by yourself to this cave tomorrow night,” she said as she followed him to the living room. “We don’t know how Segundo is getting his information; they could have an informer among them. And even with Colotl’s shields, eventually he will find out about whatever you and the men have planned.”

“There will be risks,” he agreed. “But, Charlotte, consider the alternative. As much as I would enjoy having a child with you, I will not allow either of us to be bred like animals.”

He always came up with something she couldn’t argue with, and while he was right, she still felt annoyed. Even the way he remained standing, politely waiting for her to sit down first, got on her nerves.

Deliberately she set the fruit on a table and moved around the room. “Why does someone buy twelve American children of mixed blood, raise them to speak a language no one understands, and then strand them on an island to fend for themselves?”

“He could be attempting to create a gene pool,” Samuel said as he sipped his tea. “Or he purchased one that had already been created. Aside from the placement of their tattoos and the racial diversity, the way they interacted with each other gave me the impression they were a unit.”

“All but Pici,” Charlie pointed out. “She isn’t tattooed on the forearm like the other women. She’s also younger than the others by at least five years.” She idly picked up a red satin pillow and plucked at the corner tassels. “If that’s his goal, he’s going to need more livestock.”

“Seven couples aren’t a viable gene pool?” When she nodded, Samuel asked, “What if every man impregnates every woman and each of their unrelated female offspring?”

“Still not enough. Even if you could convince the couples to play musical beds and breed with the next generation to produce a superhuman population, you have to allow for infertility, stillbirths, genetic anomalies, and diseases,” she told him. “Even under ideal circumstances with near-perfect reproduction, you’d have to start with at least two hundred unrelated couples. Otherwise inbreeding is inevitable within a few generations.”