Unlimited (6 page)

As they crossed the courtyard, a gaggle of kids tried to crowd in, but Juan halted them with a word. They giggled and stared at Simon but did as Juan ordered.

The mess hall floor and walls were raw concrete. Harold poured two heavy ceramic mugs of coffee, handed one over, then pointed to a battered refrigerator. “Help yourself to milk and sugar. We keep it in there to try to hold the ants at bay.”

As they returned to Harold's office, Pedro joined them and ruffled Juan's hair and asked about Simon's wound. Simon's response was accepted with a casual nod. Clearly gunfire and wounds were not new to this crowd. Which only added another item to the growing list of reasons why Simon wanted to get back across the border.

Harold slipped around his desk and pointed Simon and Pedro into the room's two chairs. Harold said, “In addition to his job with the mayor, Pedro helps me keep this place running. Juan is my number-one assistant.”

The kid stationed by the entrance beamed.

Pedro asked, “Who was after you yesterday?”

“No idea,” Simon replied.

“Are you sure? Ojinaga is normally a safe place.”

“The town's isolation has been our friend.” Harold waved at the map on his back wall. “We are surrounded by desert and mountains. The violence has stayed away.”

Simon had heard the same words from Vasquez. Many times. “Yesterday was the first time I've ever visited Mexico. I arrived, I heard about Vasquez, I got cheated by the council, I left. I was headed back to the border. Then some thug pulled a board studded with nails across the highway, wrecked my car, and chased me to the restaurant.”

“It's a common form of ambush in other areas of Mexico,” Harold said.

Pedro asked Simon, “So you have no idea who they were?”

“All I can tell you is, I saw the guy who chased me when I crossed the border. I think he was waiting for me.” Simon remembered the dangerous clown's grin, the hand made into the gun, and shivered despite the heat.

“Which means they could be hunting you.” Pedro frowned. “Sofia was right. We need to return you to America.”

“There's still that little problem,” Simon said. “My passport is back in my car.”

“Which is where, exactly?”

“In a ditch beside the highway. Close to where I slipped into the industrial zone.” He hesitated, then asked, “You said the professor died almost two weeks ago?”

Harold nodded. “He was a dear friend to me and the orphanage.”

“But Vasquez e-mailed me right up to when I left for Ojinaga.”

“Worse and worse,” Pedro muttered. “What were the messages about?”

Simon caught sight of Harold's shrewd gaze and realized the man already knew. “A project we were working on together. He said the city council had promised us a grant to finish our work.”

“So what is it about the project that would interest the cartels?”

“We don't know the cartels are behind this,” Harold pointed out.

“Who else could it be?” Pedro rose from his chair. “We need to go get your passport and take you to the border.”

“Go bring the truck around, I'd like to have a word with our new friend.” When Pedro had left, Harold asked, “Have you ever thought that God might have brought you here for a reason?”

“Not really. No.”

“This is a safe place, son. From the sounds of things, you need one. Here at the orphanage, the Lord is our refuge and our strength.”

“You want me to stay? Why?”

“It's not about what I want,” Harold replied. “It's about what God intends.”

“You heard Pedro. I was duped by the city council. They lured me down here. Every minute I spend south of the border is a risk.”

“We have allies who might be able to help you.”

“To do what?” Simon struggled to comprehend what the orphanage director was saying. “Stay here? In Mexico? Work on the project without Vasquez? Risk my life and the lives of everyone here?”

“What do you have waiting for you back in Boston?”

Harold looked at him with a compassion born on having heard it all, and seen even more. Simon's face burned with a shame that bordered on fury. He rose from his chair. “Thanks for everything. But no thanks.”

Harold called after him, “Think on what I said, son.”

Simon headed for the truck idling by the orphanage gates. The kids were back playing soccer again. They raced around him like he was just another obstacle. Simon felt eyes on him but did not turn around. He'd have enough trouble as it was, leaving the old man's words behind.

Pedro took the road headed away from the industrial zone. He waited for a protest, then realized Simon had been unconscious when they had arrived at the orphanage. Pedro glanced over. Simon frowned at the sunlight and tapped his fingers on the side window. He appeared oblivious to the outside world. Pedro had no idea why Sofia was so tense and worried around Simon. He did not need to know. He just needed to get the man his passport and send him back to America where he belonged.

Which brought Pedro back to Harold's attitude. Why he felt drawn to this young man was a mystery. Especially when Sofia was so adamant that Simon's presence could only mean trouble for them. Trouble was one thing they did not need more of. Especially now with their mounting money problems.

Pedro knew what Simon was going to say before the gringo even opened his mouth.

“So . . .” Simon glanced over.

Pedro shot him a warning look. Pedro hoped the man would keep the words bottled up and save them both the hassle.

“So, what's the story with your sister?”

As subtle as a car wreck, this one. “Sofia is a very special lady.”

“Yeah, I caught that much. You were both orphaned, right?”

“When I was three and Sofia six. She cared for me. Now she cares for everybody. She lives in an apartment just beyond the orphanage gates. Harold owns the place, and she rents it back and pays too much. Harold won't take money from her, so this is her way of helping.”

“What does she do?”

Pedro wanted to ask, what did it matter? Simon was on his way out of Mexico in a matter of minutes. “She trained as a pharmacist. She runs a small company supplying pharmacies and
supermercados
with medical supplies and medicines through all Chihuahua.” Before Simon could ask the next question, Pedro whipped the wheel and said, “Hang on.”

The truck bounced hard as they turned off the road. They headed across the desert, holding to a rutted track that led in a vast semicircle around the town's outskirts. If Ojinaga continued to grow, this was slated to become the city's ring road, rimmed by low-cost housing. Right now, though, such plans were meaningless. OJ, as the town was known among locals, was barely holding on. If the new plants had not recently opened up in the maquiladora, they would be losing population every day.

Pedro disliked how OJ was profiting from the violence in Juárez. He hated watching the news these days, seeing what was happening so close to OJ, all the families struck by the violence, all the lives wasted. In his town, there had only been one shooting in the past twelve months, and no murders at all. Pedro could not help but glance over again. Simon's wound would double that statistic.

He turned his attention back to the road, then felt the American's gaze on him and expected him to whine about the rough ride. “I am sorry for the bouncing. It must hurt your head.”

“Hey, no problem. If it helps us get there safely, bring it on.”

Perhaps this gringo was not quite as soft as he first appeared. “Hold on, Señor Simon. We will be there soon.”

They returned to the highway by a billboard showing the mayor, Enrique, flashing his brilliant smile. Pedro parked in the same lot where he had been the previous day. It may have been the exact same space. Simon had been too woozy to remember clearly. Pedro cut the motor. “Wait here, please.”

So polite, this guy. As if Simon had any choice but to do what he was told. Simon watched through the scratched and dirty windscreen as Pedro walked across the lot and entered the same little restaurant. The place had
El Bandito
painted in a rainbow of letters across the front window. A long, low roof shaded the outdoor sitting area that was framed by a one-pole fence, like a hitching post. Pedro greeted the diners on the veranda before entering the restaurant.

He was not inside long. When he came out, he was eating a burrito and carried another wrapped in wax paper. He motioned with the burrito for Simon to join him, then turned the motion into a wave at the other diners.

As they crossed the dusty plaza, Simon unwrapped his burrito and took a bite. The taste was astonishing. Eggs and white cheese and spinach and chopped tomatoes and salsa. “Wow.”

“You like?”

“This is great.”

Pedro grinned. “You are thinking maybe I went to that restaurant for the ambience? The romantic atmosphere, perhaps? The fine linen tablecloth and candles?”

“Can we stop by for another on the way out?”

Pedro stowed his smile away. “First we must survive what comes next.”

They meandered through the stalls surrounding the plaza. Pedro greeted a few of the locals and received soft words in reply. Instead of heading for the fence, Pedro took a well-beaten path toward the factories. Simon felt his hackles rise as they approached the run-down buildings farthest from the highway. He could almost hear the gunshot. His forehead pulsed hard.

Pedro searched the empty area and asked softly, “Where did you cross the fence?”

“About fifty feet back.”

“You are certain?”

“See where the pole is broken and the fence dips down almost to the earth? That's where I came through.” In the distance, a machine whined a very high note. It was probably a sander polishing a metal surface, but to Simon it sounded like an alarm. “Are we going or not?”

In reply, Pedro headed for the fence.

The surrounding desert was littered with refuse and cactus. Dark-winged birds circled lazily far overhead. Given his current run of luck, Simon assumed they were vultures. “What happened to Vasquez?”

Pedro picked his way carefully around a clump of rocks. “They say it was a heart attack.”

“Who is ‘they'?”

Pedro gave him that sour look Simon had been seeing a lot of lately. Like his questions revealed a myriad of issues these people would rather not think about. “In Mexico, there is always a ‘they.'”

“Great. That explains everything.”

Pedro's footsteps were a delicate dance as his eyes scoured the way ahead. “The police have not released the body.”

“Why not?”

“They will not say. We have asked. Many times.”

Simon realized the man's subtle way of moving was probably because of snakes. He stepped farther away from the next rocky shadow. “So the police think it could be murder?”

Pedro was clearly reluctant to answer. “Or the police are involved. Or someone the police answer to.”

Which made no sense at all. “The professor didn't have an enemy to his name.”

“You must ask your questions to Harold. And Sofia. I saw Vasquez, of course. He was often by the orphanage. But he was their particular friend.” Pedro pointed off to their right. “The highway is over there.”

“I need to make a stop.” Simon was having trouble getting his bearings. He struggled to fix his position based upon memories laced with panic. Then he saw the long vein of shade running in too straight a line to be anything but man-made. “Over here.”

Simon scampered to the trench and dropped over the ledge. He ran down its length until he spotted the crack in the concrete pipe. He knelt in the dirt and fished around in the dark. It was hard to say what scared him more—finding snakes or finding nothing at all.

But the duffel was there. As he dragged it out, though, he heard a dismal clank. “Oh no.”

“What is that?”

“The apparatus. Why I came to Mexico.” The clank turned into a hundred clatters as he slung it over his shoulder. Like he was carrying a sack filled with loose coins. “The wreck and my run must have damaged it.”

“We can worry about that later.” Pedro kept squinting at the distance. “Right now we must hurry.”

Long before they arrived at the highway, Simon was fairly certain there was nothing to recover. They followed a lone plume of smoke to the burned-out hulk, all that remained of Simon's car. The destruction was total. The trunk lid lay some twenty feet away, blackened and crumpled, obviously blown there when the gas tank exploded. The few cars that passed slowed, but no one stopped. His entire life was exactly like the car. A wrecked and ruined hulk. His one remaining friend, gone. His ticket back across the border, lost. His chance at resurrecting his career, over. He murmured, “It's all gone now. Everything.”

He turned away. As destroyed as his car.

Then he saw the man.