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  Then the bell began ringing.

  The kids scampered over to an outside pair of faucets. They crowded about, washing their hands and faces and bare feet. Then they lined up, littlest in front and tallest behind. All aimed at the door directly below the tolling bell.

  “It is time for morning chapel,” Juan declared. “You will come?”

  “You go ahead.” Simon kept his face to the window as the kid scampered down the stairs. Juan’s invitation and the ringing bell brought the professor’s absence a great deal closer. Faith had remained a vital component of Vasquez’s life.

  A clutch of villagers entered through the orphanage’s main gate and headed for the chapel. The beautiful woman, Sofia, was the last through the portal. She shooed Juan ahead of her, her voice a musical chant even when scolding. After she climbed the three steps, she turned back. Sofia looked straight at him, a blistering moment of silent communication.

  Simon raised his cup in a mock salute. She snapped her head back around. Her hair shimmered like a wave of liquid onyx. Then she was gone.

  The bell went silent. Simon stared at the open doorway and listened as the kids began to sing. He could still feel Sofia’s gaze. And he understood her silent message. All too well.

  He had to get out of here. Before he got one of those kids killed.

  Sofia sat in her customary seat, near the back of the chapel. And tried hard to stop thinking about Simon.

  Her brother was in his normal place, up front leading the children’s choir. Because of Pedro’s responsibilities as assistant town manager, he could not attend morning chapel more than once or twice a week. The children treated his appearances as causes for celebration. The orphanage choir stood in a semicircle around him. Pedro pretended to pull on a massive rope, struggling to make them sing on tempo. They sang and they laughed at the same time.

  As she observed her brother, she recalled the day she and Pedro had arrived here. She had been six, her brother scarcely three. A woman had come to their home and shown a paper to the weeping nanny. The woman had then driven them here to the Three Keys. Pedro had cried for their parents on the way. The woman had smiled and said they would come soon and bring them candy. But Sofia had sensed a dark secret hidden in the woman’s smile.

  Three weeks after they had arrived, Harold brought her into his office and spoke to her about how the cartel had mistaken her parents for enemies and sent them home to Jesus. Sofia had not moved or scarcely even breathed because she did not want to cry in front of him. Pedro still wept at night for their mother and father, Sofia could hear him in the boy’s dorm next door, his wails piercing the dark. She had to be strong for them both.

  Harold spoke to her in his heavily accented Spanish, his face suffused with the love and compassion he carried with him everywhere. He asked if she would like him to pray with her. When she nodded, he settled his hand upon her head and asked for a special blessing upon her heart and her life as a result of this change, and that God’s healing grace would restore Pedro and her. He asked for God to help them both through this transition.

  Sofia did not understand much of what Harold prayed, but she felt a stillness fill her, the first such calm she had known since their life had been taken away.

  Sometime before her seventh birthday, she felt as though her parents stopped really existing. She never spoke about this with Pedro. She feared that saying the words would bring back his cries in the night. But for her, Harold became her father and her mother.

  Despite herself, she glanced at the chapel’s open doorway. Hoping Simon would appear. But it was not going to happen. Though she had never set eyes on him before last night, she knew him inside and out. And she knew this chapel was the last place on earth he would ever come.

  When Harold stepped to the podium, Sofia forced herself to turn back around. Simon was not of this place. He did not belong. And today he would leave.

  Before it was too late.

  Chapter 6

  Simon showered and dressed in a T-shirt and cotton drawstring trousers that had been left for him. He returned to the window as children spilled through the chapel doors in a chattering flood. They were all dressed the same, in shorts and white T-shirts stamped with the orphanage logo of three interlocked keys.

  Simon watched Sofia cross the courtyard with Harold and Juan. The kid looked gangly from this angle, all skinny limbs and barely contained energy. Simon wished the beautiful lady would glance his way. But she remained deep in conversation with Harold. If she even noticed him there in the window, she gave no sign.

  Simon left his dusty shoes under the bed and padded down the stairs in his bare feet. Juan stood just inside the open doorway at the foot of the steps. Simon had the impression this was the kid’s favorite pose, hovering at the perimeter, absorbing everything.

  The doorway opened into Harold’s office. His was a simple room holding a battered desk, an upright piano, stacks of papers, and a slowly revolving ceiling fan. Directly opposite where Simon stood was an old-fashioned wall clock, the white enamel face pitted with rust. The second hand ticked in slow cadence around the circle. Simon heard the soft drumbeat of passing time and felt the pressure grow.

  Sofia was talking softly on the phone. She stood at Harold’s desk with her back to Simon. Her index finger traced a line down an old-fashioned ledger that lay open on the desk. Her voice in Spanish sounded lovely. Harold stood beside her, his arms crossed, his face creased in worry. Juan aped Harold’s stance, arms crossed, head cocked to one side, watching and listening with tight focus.

  Finally Sofia hung up the phone. “Why didn’t you tell me you had missed four payments?”

  “Because I don’t want you giving us any more of your money,” Harold replied. “You already do too much.”

  “You can’t run an orphanage without electricity.”

  “Tell me what the power company said.”

  “They agreed to give us two days.”

  “What?”

  “It’s the best I could do.”

  “When is the next delivery due from America?”

  “Any time now.” Sofia pulled over a calendar. “The Marathon churches are a week late in their donations.”

  “I’ll call them.”

  “No, Harold. I will make the call. You are too soft. They need to understand how urgent things are.” She tapped the ledger. “What the orphanage needs is an income of its own. In the meantime, I’ll speak with Enrique—”

  “No. I won’t have it.”

  “Which would you prefer, that I speak with Enrique or the children lose their home?”

  “Don’t say such things.” Harold kneaded the place over his heart. “God will provide. He always has.”

  Sofia’s only response was to cross her arms. The fabric of her blouse tightened as she clenched herself. “What about Simon, when is he leaving?”

  “I for one would like to see him stay.”

  “Here? But the gang might have tracked him!”

  “Pedro doesn’t think so. And you know how much the professor thought of him.”

  “I know exactly what Vasquez thought of Simon. And so do you!”

  Harold stood in partial silhouette, with the morning sun blazing through the window beside him, casting him in shadow. He was a tall man, slightly bowed by age and responsibility. His voice carried great strength even when speaking softly. Like now. “I see great things in that young man. So did the professor.”

  “He ruined the professor’s life!”

  “He also was the professor’s last great hope.” Harold stopped her response with an upraised hand. “What if God has brought him here for a divine purpose?”

  Simon found himself flooded with bitter regret. The professor had posed the same question the last time they had spoken. What if God intended something great? Would that not make it worth their while to forgive and move on?
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br />   A handbell clanged through the open window. The sound turned Sofia around to where she spotted Simon hovering in the doorway. Her gaze tightened even further. Her full lips clamped down hard on what she was about to say. She gathered up her purse and started for the door. “I’m late for my first appointment. I will stop by this afternoon.”

  Harold moved toward Simon. “Welcome, son. Good to see you up. How’s the head?”

  “Sore, but healing. Thanks again for letting me stay.”

  “Don’t mention it.” Harold swept up Juan in one outstretched arm and then reached forward with his free hand and clapped Simon on the shoulder. “Let’s go grab us a cup of coffee.”

  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.

  Chapter 7

  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 shoo
ting 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?”