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  The calculations had haunted them both. They were so clean. So right.

  Then five weeks earlier, Vasquez had traveled to Sofia’s office in the maquiladora. The industrial zone often had service when the city’s phone service was down. Vasquez had called to announce that their goal was not, in fact, one frequency. It was a harmonious multitude.

  Which was impossible, of course. The calculations became unmanageably huge. They had been through all this before.

  But Vasquez had applied a new derivative, one drawn from recent developments in quantum physics and based upon the same principles now used to forecast weather. Vasquez had claimed a breakthrough was within their grasp and begged Simon to come.

  Simon asked Harold, “When did he make this video?”

  “The night before he died.”

  On the computer, Vasquez moved in close to the laptop. His weary features came into vivid clarity, and he offered the camera his famous grin. It was impossible one person could possess so many teeth. Or look so purely happy.

  “I hope,” Vasquez said, “that you are watching carefully.” He leaned away and hit the switch.

  All the lightbulbs at his feet lit up. The light was dim, but unmistakable.

  “What . . . ?” Simon shifted Harold’s laptop around so the screen faced him directly. “He did it?”

  Harold merely smiled.

  The lightbulbs grew brighter and brighter. The light became so strong, the laptop could not handle it. The entire screen turned white.

  “Armando called the device Ilimitado.” Harold’s features glowed from more than the screen’s light. “Unlimited.”

  The camera revealed a portly man humming to himself and dancing in unbridled joy. Then there was a series of bangs, fast as popcorn in the microwave. Then the image vanished, and the computer screen went dark.

  “What just happened?”

  “All I can tell you is, there was a power outage that struck all of Ojinaga. Possibly all of north Chihuahua state.”

  “Because of this machine? Come on.”

  “The timing is too coincidental. And you know what scientists say about coincidence.”

  “Okay, first of all, the machine was not plugged into the mains. And second, the laptop camera has a backup battery. But it went blank too.”

  “I’m only telling you what happened,” Harold replied. “Phones, televisions, computers—everything went down.”

  “Impossible.”

  Harold shrugged. “You’re missing the most important issue here, son.”

  “Which is?”

  “Armando could have reached out to anyone with this invention.”

  Simon pretended to study the blank screen. “He was so close.”

  “Listen to what I am saying. You are his last great hope. He reached out to you. Don’t let him down.”

  The knock on the door startled them both. Juan poked his head inside. For once, the kid’s happiness was extinguished. “Dr. Harold, the van is here. The police, they have brought us another one.”

  Chapter 9

  Sofia drove her van along the Texas highway. As they approached the Presidio border crossing, the U-Haul truck filled with donations moved in tight to her bumper. These days, she often served as unofficial guide and hostess to the orphanage’s American sponsors. Newcomers often looked askance at her, asking themselves how this beautiful woman survived as an orphan in Mexico. And why she went back at all.

  The answer was, she lived for the orphanage.

  In her rearview mirror she saw hands point out the truck’s windows. The church group gaped at the border fence. The line of black steel girders marched off in both directions and disappeared into the wavering heat. The tall girders were spaced so tightly that not even a large dog could fit between them. They were prison bars for a country.

  Fifteen miles to the west and nineteen to the east, the fence ended. To have extended it farther in either direction would have cost more than a four-lane interstate. To the west rose three mountain ranges, one after the other, desert peaks scarred by eons of harsh winds and temperatures that hit a hundred and forty degrees at noon. The Chinati Mountains, the Cuesta del Burro, and the Sierra Vieja were no respecters of borders. They raked the sky with defiant glee. There were no roads, nor towns, nor water, nor any chance of crossing the border and surviving.

  To the east stretched the region known as the Big Bend, two hundred miles of caverns and forest and some of the wildest territory either country still possessed. Every now and then a wildcat wandered into Ojinaga, usually in the high drought of summer, on the prowl for a stray pet.

  Not even the human traffickers would dare risk becoming lost in those harsh terrains. Which was why Ojinaga remained an island of relative safety, a haven in the middle of Mexico’s lost decade.

  The people of Chihuahua state were very humble. It was their nature to be respectful of their giant neighbor to the north. Life in much of Chihuahua was backdated twenty years. Many families still did not have cars. There was none of the cross-border hostility that marred relations in other areas. Before the troubles, if one of their kids decided to leave town, north was where they went. North to a better life.

  Back when the fence went up, most OJ locals had been baffled. What was their big neighbor to the north so afraid of? It was not like Mexicans were going to walk across the Rio Grande and start a war.

  But no one asked those questions anymore.

  Until just six or seven years ago, drugs remained a problem north of the border. This was what fueled the resentment, how the Americans blamed Mexico when the Ojinaga locals were innocent bystanders. But this was no longer true. Now, the drug problem was everywhere. Kids as young as nine were using. In towns like Ojinaga, previously the worst trouble a teenager might find was drinking mescal. Today, the tragedy scarred far too many families and cost too many young lives.

  Sofia recognized the American officer on duty in her lane. When she had started her business five years earlier, she had known some of the men and women by name. She could ask about their families. She had spoken at several of their churches in Presidio, seeking sponsorship for the orphanage. All this was gone now. The border guards were governed by new rules of engagement. All foreigners were treated as potential hostiles. Sofia endured the border inspections because she had to.

  Sofia crossed the Rio Grande, followed by the church group. The drought had reduced the river to a narrow stream. The mudflats on both banks were bone white. A flank of high cane rustled in the hot wind.

  She pulled into the inspection bay and opened all of her van’s doors and handed over the manifests. She purchased many of the surgical supplies in the U.S. because she could be more certain of sterility. She supplied hospitals and private clinics that were willing to pay almost three times the cost of the same equipment from a Mexican distributor. Sofia did not survive because she was the cheapest. Her business was built on trust.

  The church’s rented truck pulled into the next bay. The driver ran a moving company in Odessa and used a corner of his warehouse as a staging area for local donations. Friends like these formed the orphanage’s last remaining lifeline. Harold had started the orphanage with money from selling his business. But twenty years and a recession later, The Three Keys clung to life by the slimmest of margins.

  When the inspection ended, they linked up and headed south. Eight miles later, she turned off the highway and took the rutted road toward the orphanage. Sofia sent up a silent prayer that Simon was already gone. Erasing the dread and the longing. Clearing away one more obstacle from her path.

  Then she saw the police car parked in front of the gates.

  Sofia leapt from her van and raced through the gates. She crossed the silent courtyard to where Simon stood on the broad porch fronting Harold’s office. Simon’s haughty demeanor was gone, his armor shredded by what he observed.

&nbs
p; The agent’s name was Consuela Martinez. Officially she was part of the Mexican drug task force. But she also served in a number of informal capacities. One of which was rounding up young survivors of la violenza. She and Harold spoke softly. A little girl stood between them. Martinez held the girl’s hand. In the agent’s other hand was a sheaf of documents.

  Simon’s gaze looked haunted. “The little girl is an orphan?”

  “I assume so,” Sofia replied.

  The child looked shattered and so weary she could scarcely hold herself erect. She was probably nine or ten years old. She was also extremely beautiful. Her features looked sculpted from alabaster. Not even her exhaustion or tragic shock could erase the magnetic quality of her loveliness.

  Simon said, “I thought Pedro said the violence does not touch here.”

  “No place in Mexico is totally safe. But OJ is so isolated, it escapes the worst. So far.”

  “OJ?”

  “Ojinaga. It’s how we call it.” Sofia watched Harold stoop down in front of the child and pull a strand of Red Rope from his pocket. Sofia’s eyes burned at the memory of other times. Red Rope was Harold’s favorite remedy for childhood traumas. “Agent Martinez is based a hundred miles to the west in Juárez. Such a beautiful girl should not be placed in the state orphanage system. They can disappear, you understand? So she brings them here. When she can.”

  The shadow in Simon’s gaze defied the sunlight. “Is this what happened to you?”

  “We were younger than this one. I was six, Pedro three. Our parents were mistaken for members of a rival gang. Or so we heard later. At the time all we knew was, they were gone. Without Harold . . .” She could not keep the desperation from her voice. “Do you see how important it is not to bring danger to this place?”

  Simon watched Harold rise and sign the documents held by the agent. “Why does he want me to stay?”

  “That is not the question you need to be asking. Whatever Harold is thinking, you need to look at that little child and realize what you could bring down on this place.”

  Simon’s shoulders slumped further. “Soon as I get my passport, I’m out of here.”

  “I spoke with Enrique. He is on his way over. Hopefully he can help.”

  “Okay. Great.”

  Sofia studied the man standing beside her. Something about Simon left her wondering if he, too, was an orphan. Vasquez had never spoken about Simon’s family. Sofia resisted the urge to ask him. She did not need to know anything further about this one.

  Relief flooded her at the prospect that Simon would soon leave them for good. But Sofia was too honest not to admit that she also felt regret. Which was absurd, really. She knew all his bad habits. And yet, standing here and observing him at his weakest, she could not help but feel a sense of the other side, the one that Vasquez had talked about endlessly. The intelligence, the promise, the fire in Simon that had almost been extinguished and yet might still burn brightly again. If only . . .

  If only she could banish those thoughts. She said the first thing that came to mind. “When I was seventeen, I ran away.”

  He jerked out of his own sorrowful cave. “From here?”

  “From here, from Harold. I was in full teenage rebellion. And this place has so many rules. I argued with everyone.”

  “I can’t imagine that ever happening,” Simon said dryly.

  “Harold wanted me to grow up and take over the orphanage. He had it all planned out. And some days I was content with that. Other days, I could have screamed with the frustration of feeling so trapped.”

  She stopped, surprised at herself. She seldom spoke of these issues, even with Pedro. She had not even told Enrique. Why would she reveal such secrets to this man?

  “You loved it and you hated it,” he said softly, his gaze distant. “You wanted it and you wanted nothing more than to get away.”

  She felt the exact same sense of conflict now. She was thrilled by his ability to understand, to connect. And yet repelled by him and the risk he represented. And still she continued, “For the first time in my life, I saw beyond this place and yearned for a different future. What precisely, I had no idea. If I had been certain about what I wanted, Harold would not have pressed me. And when I was younger, I had told him I would run the orphanage. Harold did not realize I was changing. Or perhaps he did but assumed it was just a teenage phase. In the end, I ran away. A missionary couple I had known for years helped me obtain a scholarship to the university in El Paso. I studied biology and pharmacology on a church scholarship.”

  He was watching her intently now. “Why did you come back?”

  “This is my home. I never wanted to leave permanently. I just wanted to live here on my terms.” She pointed to the little girl who now held Harold’s hand. “I wanted to help other little girls hope and dream and grow up safely.”

  Simon nodded slowly. “I don’t want to do anything to harm these kids, Sofia.”

  “Then you must leave. Now. Today. Forget what Harold said about this big dream of yours. This apparatus. Go back to el norte and finish it there.”

  Simon’s voice grew sadder still. “I didn’t come to Ojinaga to complete this device. Not really.”

  “Then why else did you—?” Her question was cut off by the sound of an all-too-familiar siren. “Wait here.”

  Chapter 10

  As the dark SUV pulled up by the front gates, Simon felt a faint rush of fear. Other than the siren and the flashing red light attached to the roof beside the driver’s window, it could have belonged to the hunter. Then the passenger door opened, and a smiling Enrique stepped into view.

  He entered the orphanage like he owned the place.

  The kids pretty much erupted from their hiding places. They scampered over and danced around him. Enrique smiled and he talked, and the kids answered with a single unified shout. He accepted a plastic bag from his driver and started doling out handfuls of hard candy. The kids shrieked and laughed and raced about, their hands full of sweets.

  The mayor of Ojinaga was every inch a winner. He wore a starched long-sleeve shirt, white with broad chalk-blue stripes that matched his silk tie. His suit pants were a rich tan. His tasseled loafers defied the dust. Simon imagined the man had them polished twice a day.

  Simon realized he did not like the mayor. Enrique had done nothing to justify such feelings. But his gut said this guy was too used to having it all. And Sofia was part of that plan.

  At Sofia’s approach, Enrique separated himself from the kids so he could give her a kiss. The children shrieked with laughter. Simon had the distinct impression that Sofia merely endured his attentions. When she was free, she pointed to Simon, then started over to where the little girl stood with Harold and Agent Martinez.

  Juan skipped over to stand beside Simon. “That is Mayor Morales.”

  Simon watched Sofia take the little girl’s hand and lead her into the dormitory. “We’ve met.”

  “He lets me call him Enrique. He is a very good man.”

  Enrique started toward Simon, then changed course when the agent approached and saluted him. Simon said, “Sure is a popular guy.”

  “Enrique is running for governor of Chihuahua. He will win. He must. He has stood up to the drug cartels here in Ojinaga. He has arrested many of their men.”

  Then from the girl’s dormitory there came a soft wail.

  Instantly the kids went silent. Many children slipped into the shadows. Harold crossed the courtyard and entered the dorm. From inside came another soft cry, a wordless lament against a hot and uncaring world.

  Agent Martinez spoke to Enrique, gesturing back toward the girl’s dormitory. Even the mayor’s nod carried a sense of imperial smoothness, turning the gesture into a half bow. Simon could not understand what he said, but the man’s tone carried power. The agent softened enough to smile briefly.

  Then she notice
d Simon and said something that turned the mayor around. Enrique waved him over. “Señor Simon, come and meet one of the good guys!”

  Simon had no interest in talking with the cops, any cop, north or south of the border. But he had no choice. He hated how he recoiled inside, as though guilty of some crime rather than being the victim this time. Old habits died hard.

  Agent Martinez had a cop’s gaze, hard and tight and measuring. She showed no expression as Enrique said, “Señor Simon Orwell, honored guest of our fair city, was brutally attacked yesterday. How is your wound, señor?”

  “Healing.”

  “The bullet missed our guest,” Enrique said cheerfully. “The rock ricochet did not.”

  “Guns are much less common in this country,” Martinez said. “Where did this happen, señor?”

  “I was run off the highway by the industrial zone and chased through the desert.”

  Enrique set a hand on Simon’s shoulder. “Señor Orwell came to visit Professor Vasquez, formerly of MIT, perhaps you have heard of him?”

  Agent Martinez hesitated a fraction of a second, then said, “Perhaps. The name sounds familiar. What was your business with the professor?”

  “We’re working on a project to transform wasted power into usable electricity.” Simon stopped and amended, “Rather, we were.”

  “There was a discussion with our city council,” Enrique went on. “Or perhaps I should say, a misunderstanding. With Dr. Clara.”

  “Ah.” The agent nodded slowly. “Of her I have most certainly heard.”

  “Señor Orwell was on his way back to the border. A man pulled a board studded with nails across the highway. The attacker chased him into the maquiladora, where Señor Simon was rescued by my assistant town manager. Very fortunate, yes? They returned to his car this morning, only to discover it had been burned out.”

  “You were carrying drugs, señor? Or large amounts of cash?”