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Through a side door, Simon spotted what looked like Vasquez’s office. “In a minute.”

  “Simon. Now.”

  Reluctantly he retraced his steps down the central hall and entered the kitchen. “Whoa.”

  The cabinets and fridge and stove and tiled floor were all porcelain white. Every cupboard was smashed beyond repair. The fridge door hung on one hinge. Again, every light was shattered.

  The door leading from the kitchen to the rear veranda had an upper portion of glass. The smoked glass was impact resistant, two panes with thin wire crisscrossed through the central seam. The glass on the floor came from the ceiling lights and a second window, narrow and long and set above the stove.

  The second window was framed by iron bars. No doubt the hunter had tried this one first, then realized he could not pry back the bars so he turned his attention to the door. What made the scene almost ludicrous was how the door was now shut. No doubt the hunter still had some childhood habit of closing the door behind him. Under different circumstances, Simon would have laughed out loud.

  Pedro looked aghast at a red stain that swept like an evil rainbow over the wall and the stove and the sink and the fridge. “They said Vasquez had a heart attack.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “The police, soon after it happened. I work for the mayor. I asked, they told me. His heart.” He tracked the stain’s broad arc. “Why would they lie?”

  Simon backed out of the room. “You’re asking the wrong question.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He did not answer. That discussion needed to wait. Simon retraced his steps back through the living room and entered the study. Here the professor’s imprint was most visible and the damage most total.

  The professor had taken out the rear wall and extended the home. His office had once been the garage. The concrete floor remained, but the roof had been perforated by two sparkling new skylights. The office area contained a desk and shelves and a faded Oriental carpet that Simon remembered from Cambridge. The new extension held a pair of lab tables, an industrial generator, high-speed ventilators, compressors, and strip lighting connected to adjustable chains. The lighting was shattered and the shelves beneath the lab tables smashed open.

  Simon’s attention was held by the one item in the entire house that remained intact. The professor’s laptop sat in the middle of the desk. It stood out like a jewel on a ruined stage. Every side of the desk had been hammered open, no doubt searching for hidden compartments. But there on the top was the laptop. Undamaged. Waiting.

  Simon opened the laptop. It hummed out of sleep mode and the screen lit up. The first thing that popped up was the last e-mail. The one that had invited him to Mexico. The e-mail was dated three days ago. Telling Simon to hurry. Repeating the confirmation of the city council’s funding but warning that their patience was wearing thin, and they needed to hear from the American scientist who was working with Vasquez.

  Someone who spoke precise enough English to mimic the professor’s way of writing had lured him to Mexico. Simon slapped the laptop shut. He would go through the files later. He scouted around, trying to see beyond the mess.

  As Simon surveyed the demolished chamber, Pedro stepped toward the left-hand wall. The floor-to-ceiling bookshelves were torn out. Holes had been punched in the wall behind. The floor was littered with books and manuals and sheaves of printed data and the sort of debris that every successful scientist gathered over a lifetime. Pedro gingerly picked up a broken picture frame and shook away the glass before extracting a photograph.

  Simon stepped to where he could look over Pedro’s shoulder. “I know that woman!”

  Pedro said nothing.

  “She’s the woman who ran the city council meeting. She lied to my face!”

  “That sounds like her.” Pedro’s voice had gone flat. Toneless.

  “Who is she?”

  “Her name is Dr. Clara. She is the dark face of Mexico. The public figure who will do anything, say anything, for those who remain hidden. Enrique fights against her a great deal.” Pedro shook his head slightly, little more than a twitch. “Professor Vasquez saw something in her. He claimed she was the most misunderstood woman in all of Ojinaga. In this, the professor was very wrong.”

  “You think she was behind the attack on the highway?” When Pedro did not respond, Simon added, “She was behind the professor’s death?”

  Pedro sighed. “We may never know. But yes. I think it is possible.”

  “What was Vasquez doing with someone like that?”

  “The professor knew Dr. Clara since childhood. We heard they had been seeing each other. Sofia tried to warn him, but it was too late. Vasquez was growing very close to Dr. Clara. I heard a rumor they were engaged.”

  Simon shot him a look. There had never been a woman in Vasquez’s life. Simon had asked him about it once, and the professor stared sadly into the distance and spoke about a woman he had left behind when he came to America. Simon had never mentioned it again. The thought that Dr. Clara, who had cheated them both and possibly caused the professor’s death, was who he had spent years pining over left Simon queasy. “Is that a joke?”

  “No joke.” Pedro folded the photograph lengthwise and stowed it in his pocket. “Can we go?”

  “Not yet.” Simon started to turn away when he spotted a second photograph. He slid it out from underneath a pair of textbooks, brushed away the glass, and lifted it free of the frame. The picture was of the professor and him, taken on a snowy morning in front of the main physics lab. The professor had his arm around Simon’s shoulders. They both were laughing. “I remember when that was taken.”

  “He would like you to have it. Come. We should go.”

  “In a minute.”

  “Every instant we stay here is a risk. To everyone.”

  Simon nodded but did not speak. He had not found what he came for. It had to be here. It had to.

  Then he saw the globe.

  “What is it?”

  “The professor kept this in his office.” Vasquez had found it in a Boston flea market. The hand-painted surface was battered and deeply dented. But Simon knew the antique globe held a very special secret.

  For the second time that afternoon, Simon slipped the key from around his neck.

  The lock was hidden under Antarctica. The continent had to be pressed in a special manner or else the spring didn’t give. The professor had reworked the lock so it opened to the same key. The professor had been obsessed by this notion. Vasquez was always losing everything. Especially keys. He had made a joke of it as he handed Simon the key. The only other person in the world who had a duplicate. It was as great a gift as Simon had ever received.

  Which was why Simon’s vision was none too clear as he unlocked the globe.

  The secret compartment was not large and held only two items. One was his personal Bible. The other was a set of lab papers containing long lists of numbers. At the top of the first page, two lines were scrawled in Vasquez’s almost illegible script.

  Don’t let me down.

  I wish you every success.

  Simon knew exactly what he held. He whispered, “Bingo.”

  Which was the moment when everything changed.

  Chapter 15

  The front gate squeaked.

  A shadow crossed the narrow window facing the street. The glass was milky white, intended to let in light but not permit passers-by to see into the professor’s office and lab.

  As the shadow swept by, Simon recognized the man’s profile. The bulky jacket, the round head, the scraggly contour of a closely trimmed beard. Pedro stared at Simon, helpless in his fear.

  Simon’s response could not have been more different. He felt the familiar wash of adrenaline, the heightened awareness, the sudden ability to pierce the moment and see things most people remained blind to. He knew the hunter
had not tried the front door, which could only mean one thing. The hunter often came here and assumed the front door was still locked. Which was why the upper glass in the kitchen door had been broken out. This was where the hunter was headed now. Back along a path that had become familiar. The hunter did not yet know they were inside.

  There was only one logical course of action. Simon ran for the kitchen.

  As he raced across the lab’s concrete floor, he scooped up a black cable. The hunter had probably used it to shift the generator, moving it far enough to ensure nothing had been hidden underneath. And had torn it out in the process. The cord was supple and covered in woven cloth.

  Simon reached the kitchen before the hunter. He quietly slipped the door’s dead bolt into place. The hunter’s footsteps moved down the side of the house. The man whistled softly, a pair of notes, up and down. Simon doubted the man was even aware of the sound he made.

  Simon fashioned a noose from the cable. He had always been good with knots. It had been his one merit badge as a Boy Scout, before he had been kicked out for fighting. He then tied the cable’s other end around the copper gas pipe where it ran out of the wall. And waited.

  The hunter tried the door, found it locked, and grunted softly. He reached inside and fumbled blindly.

  Simon crammed the noose over the hand and hauled back.

  The hunter’s arm and shoulder came through the broken upper door and his head slammed against the shattered door frame. Simon lashed the cable down tight, trapping the man halfway inside the door. The man’s astonished face was inches from his own.

  He scrambled away from the hunter. “Give me back my passport!”

  The hunter grinned back at him. There was no humor in those glittering black eyes. No life. Nothing.

  Then he barked. Like an animal’s bark. A predator in sight of prey.

  From outside the door there was the snick of metal-on-metal. The hunter’s other hand came into view, holding an open switchblade.

  Simon raced from the kitchen. Pedro stood by the front door, eyes round, mouth gaping like he was struggling to draw breath in a vacuum.

  They fled.

  “What were you thinking?” Harold demanded.

  Simon watched Pedro hang his head as though he was being punished. But there was no criticism in Harold’s voice that Simon could hear. Instead the man seemed genuinely curious. As though he was seeking to understand before passing judgment.

  “Did you even give a thought to the orphanage? Or the children?”

  “Of course I did,” Pedro replied to Harold. “I hardly ever think of anything else.”

  “Then how could you take such a risk?”

  “You said it yourself. Because of what Simon might be.”

  Simon was certain the hunter took his orders from someone else. The man’s gaze had held a predatory gleam but no deep intelligence. He was probably very good at his job. It was doubtful he had any scruples whatsoever. Simon couldn’t understand how a man would serve another person so slavishly. He could still taste the man’s breath, the foul odor of beef and chili spices. He remembered those eyes and knew the man would not give up. It was only a matter of time before he attacked again.

  Harold said, “That did not give you permission to endanger our young charges.”

  “I did not do this thing to endanger anyone. I did it to save us.”

  Simon liked Pedro. The man held a quiet strength, a quality he hid away most of the time. As though he preferred people to underestimate him.

  “I can understand Simon taking a risk like that. But you?”

  “Every day holds risk. Every breath we draw in these days. Life itself is a risk.”

  Harold stopped then. And waited. Like he knew Pedro was not going to give and there was nothing to be gained by pushing. Two men who had known each other for a lifetime and knew how the other thought. They trusted one another, at a level far beyond words, beyond any quarrel or worry. Simon wondered what it would be like to know another person so intimately. He had spent a lifetime keeping people at arm’s length.

  Then he noticed the new paper on Harold’s board.

  The side wall was covered by an oversized corkboard. Upon it were dozens of paintings and drawings and stories. The words were written on wide-ruled paper used by very young children learning to write. Many contained letters of love to Harold. The paintings were cheerful and bright and happy.

  There in the center of the board hung Simon’s two goals. They held pride of position, right at the heart of the community. The words were so tawdry, the wishes so cynical. As empty as his life.

  “Simon.”

  Reluctantly he turned back around. And faced the man on the other side of the battered desk.

  “Did you find something that justified taking such a risk?”

  “Maybe.”

  “What are you going to do with it?”

  “I’m not sure. Yet. Can I be excused?”

  Harold cocked his head to one side. Inspecting him carefully. Then he nodded. “Yes, Simon. You can go.”

  He rose from his chair and reached to the board. He took down the page that contained his two empty goals. And walked from the room.

  At the doorway he could not help but glance back. Harold was seated there, his head still cocked slightly. Only now he was smiling. As though Simon had done the right thing. For once.

  Simon heard the bell ring through his room’s open window. The sound pulled on him like a magnet. He resisted the urge. He remained where he was, sitting at his table on his little stool. Studying the two pages Vasquez had left for him. The scrawled words at the top of the first page branded themselves into his brain. “Don’t let me down. I wish you every success.”

  The children erupted from the chapel. A few minutes later, the dinner bell clanged. Simon went outside and joined the line snaking out the mess hall door. The kids giggled and pointed. But when he did not respond, they left him alone. Juan slipped over and asked if he wanted anything. Simon thanked him and said no. Juan must have seen he was more than simply distracted, for the kid didn’t say anything more.

  Simon took his metal plate and mug to the table by the far window and sat by himself. Even when all the other places became filled, he remained alone. Lost in thought, the lines of numbers danced in the golden light spilling through the western window.

  When he was finished eating, he took his plate and mug and utensils to the plastic trays by the dishwasher’s portal. Then he walked back to the doorway leading to Harold’s room and the orphanage guestroom. The kids were playing their perpetual game of soccer in the courtyard. Juan called to him. Still deep in thought, Simon did not respond. The kids laughed at him, and he carried the happy sound back upstairs.

  He left the two pages from Vasquez on the guestroom’s battered table and stepped to the window. Only the older kids were playing now, and they played well. Extremely well, in fact. Simon had played intramural soccer through his high school and college years. He knew talent when he saw it. The kids were playing some serious soccer. Their bare feet became a sunset dance, throwing up golden clouds of dust and laughter. He saw a happiness and simple joy, something he had thought lost to him forever.

  He shut the window and returned to the table. But the lines of data didn’t hold him. Simon rose from the stool and opened the professor’s Bible. The book was well worn, the cover so supple he could fold it back upon itself. The onion-skin pages were heavily lined and annotated in the professor’s illegible script. Simon had a sense of the professor standing behind him, watching in approval as Simon studied the pages for the first time in his adult life.

  He set the Bible to one side and unfolded the photograph. The picture had been taken by a grad student on the day Vasquez had given Simon the key he still wore around his neck. Vasquez had his peculiarities. Most of the MIT professors and many of the students had some o
dd trait or another. The resulting jokes were a means by which the brilliant minds could be kept in human perspective. At the time that picture was taken, Simon and the professor were becoming very close. The professor had seen Simon as the student who would someday take his place and continue his research. The afternoon he had given Simon a copy of his key, Vasquez had revealed his secret research and his longing to provide free power to Mexico’s poorest citizens. Vasquez had then bestowed the key like a king offering a loyal subject a crown.

  And Simon had responded with a joke.

  While the sounds of kids playing soccer filled his room with the music of heartfelt joy, Simon tried his best to tell the professor good-bye. But the professor’s smile mocked his desire to turn away.

  Simon unfolded the page he had taken down from Harold’s board. The orphanage director’s handwriting was almost as bad as Vasquez’s. The two desires Harold had copied down were pitiful. They were certainly not funny. They mocked him as well.

  Simon turned the sheet over. The blank page was an invitation. Not merely to write something down. Rather, Simon heard a faint call to move on. To start anew.

  He was still staring at the blank sheet of paper when the kids went silent, and night drew a desert hush over his bare room. Simon rose from the stool and stretched. He cut off the light and lay down on the cot. He stared at the ceiling for a time. Finally he rose and turned the light back on and went over to the table. The empty page was there beside the professor’s photograph. Waiting.

  Simon knew if he didn’t write, he would not sleep. He put down the number one and beside it wrote the words that had been bouncing around inside his head ever since leaving the professor’s house.

  To do something more.

  He set the pen down and started to turn away. He wanted to, but he knew he was not done. The professor stared up at him. Waiting.

  Simon picked up the pen and wrote the hardest four words of his entire life.

  Beside the number two, he put: To make things right.

  The words raked across his heart with talons of bitter regret. But after he cut off the light and lay back down, he discovered that the act granted him a sense of release. The burden he had been carrying for nearly a year was not entirely gone. But a tiny chip had been broken off. The weight was not so heavy. He breathed a little easier.