Caco stared at me. I wondered if he was mind-probing me a second time. I was already thinking of the trid image of the Aztlaner priest, but I tried to keep the anger and sorrow I felt out of my mind, tried to suppress the gruesome images of Mama G’s murder that came bubbling up unbidden. It was impossible. The most certain way to think about something is to try not to think about it. I wondered if my urgent need to see justice done would affect Caco’s price.