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The second police car was joined by a third. They pulled in nose to nose, blocking off the entrance. But otherwise they did not disturb anyone. Clara announced she had to go to the clinic. When Simon started to demand some answers, she halted him with an upraised hand. “As soon as it is safe to talk, you will know. Until then, go with God.”

Simon was still trying to find a response as she crossed the courtyard, spoke with the police, climbed into her car, and drove away.

Simon fought against a sudden urge to scale the rear wall and flee. He returned to the classroom and tried to work but found it impossible. The heat congealed into a lump at the core of his being, so vast and heavy he had difficulty breathing around it. Finally he picked up Harold's book and returned to the director's office.

He heard Harold's breathing from the back bedroom, slow and steady. Simon settled into the chair by the piano and found his place. The words on the page flitted in and out of his brain. Even so, it was comforting, as though he could hear Harold talking to him. Of a moment beyond this one. Of a future with meaning. Of hope.

Simon did not find peace in the pages, or even answers. But he did find patience. And just then, it was enough.

He was still there an hour later. More cars pulled up before the gates. Harold woke to the sound of car doors slamming shut, two, three, four, five.

Harold called through the open bedroom door, “What is it?”

Simon's chair was positioned so he could look through the office window and see the front gates. “Two more cops. Sofia. Juan. Enrique. The woman agent, what's her name, Martinez. And Pedro's back. He looks angry.”

“Come help me up.”

Simon entered the bedroom. “Clara said you needed to rest.”

“I don't have strength to argue, son.”

Simon gripped Harold's good arm and took most of the old man's weight. At Harold's direction, Simon slipped a shirt through the free arm and draped it around his shoulder. Then he supported Harold through the office and out to the veranda. As soon as they came into view, Pedro shouted, “How
could
you?”

Simon realized the assistant town manager was addressing him. Enrique demanded, “Who assembled these lanterns?”

“Me and the kids.”

Harold demanded weakly, “What is going on here?”

Enrique reached behind him, and an officer handed over a solar lantern. He popped off the lid and turned it upside down. A plastic bag filled with white powder fell to the ground. A rustle of shock and indrawn breath flitted through the courtyard. Every kid knew what that plastic bag contained.

Enrique said, “Pedro is fortunate our friends on the police were tipped off about this shipment before he arrived at the border.”

Pedro covered his face and bent over at the waist. His sister rushed to comfort him. Sofia gripped her brother by the shoulders and turned an angry face toward Simon. “Is this your deep, dark secret? That you used us to smuggle drugs?”

“I didn't do this.” The protest was feeble, weak even before it was formed. “Pedro, listen to me. Harold, you have to believe me, I didn't—”

“Why don't you tell everyone why you really came to Mexico?” Enrique's voice rang in the silence. “Could it be for the same reason you went to prison in America?”

Simon watched from a great distance as two of the uniformed police moved toward him. The manacles glittered in the afternoon light. He opened his mouth, but the power of speech was gone.

“Should you tell our friends what you did to the professor? How you repaid his trust?” Even Enrique's outrage carried a polished quality. “Harold, do you know why Professor Vasquez left MIT? Shall I tell them, Simon? Because Simon
betrayed
him.”

Simon wanted to speak, to explain, to object. But his throat was clogged by too much shame. Not even when the police swung him around and snicked the cuffs in too tightly could he speak. The officers gripped his arms and pressed him forward. Across the courtyard and through the gates and into the waiting car.

The officer slipped into the front seat and started the motor. Simon took a shaky breath and did not look up as they drove away. His one coherent thought was that cop cars all smelled the same.

Sofia and Pedro helped Harold back into bed and propped him up with pillows. Sofia felt as though she observed everything from a great distance. She saw Juan move to his customary position, though his face was streaked with anxious tears. Pedro's features were creased by the very same concerns. The three most important men in her life, all wracked with pain and helpless worry.

Enrique planted himself in Harold's office. He spoke on the office phone, barking unnecessarily at the police. Then he paced. His own features were creased. He looked tired. The sun was rising. For the first time in years, there would be no morning chapel. The orphanage was quiet, the kids hiding in their dormitories. Pedro sat hunched in Harold's chair. He stared at his hands, clenching and unclenching them on the desk. She wanted to go to him. Share with her brother what she had learned from Agent Martinez. But it would have to wait.

Then Pedro looked at her. A swift lifting of his head just as Enrique completed another circuit and turned his back to them both. Brother to sister. One quick glance.

It was enough for her to be certain that Pedro already knew about Enrique. How he knew was not important. Because the message in Pedro's gaze was very clear.

She had to be careful. They all did.

Pedro said, “It doesn't add up. Where could Simon have gotten the drugs?”

Sofia remained silent until Pedro tightened his gaze, a silent urging. Sofia said slowly, “I can't believe how dumb we were.”

Enrique wheeled about. As though . . . Sofia had the distinct impression that he had been needing for them to speak. Like an actor waiting for his line. He said, “Has anyone checked his room?”

Pedro slowly shook his head. “Not since we returned to the orphanage.”

Sofia said to Juan, “Go bring down everything in the guestroom.”

Enrique said, “And from the classroom where Simon worked on the device. That is also where he assembled the lanterns, no? Go bring everything he has touched.”

When the boy bounded away, Pedro said softly, “Simon played us for fools. Now the whole orphanage is at risk.”

“Not necessarily.” Enrique patted Sofia's shoulder. “I already have people working on damage control.”

She forced herself not to flinch away. “Thank you, Enrique.”

“Just do what I say and everything will be fine.”

From somewhere deep inside there came the strength to smile. “What would we do without you?”

Juan pattered down the stairs and dumped an armload on the desk. “All the clothes were loaned to him by Harold.” Then he was off again, his footsteps racing across the courtyard.

They gathered in tightly. Pedro reached for Harold's book. He opened it at the page marked by Simon's pencil. Sofia realized Simon had worked his way through two-thirds of the book.

Juan's load was heavier this second time. He dumped the apparatus and the carryall and a plastic bag from the electronics store on Harold's desk. Pedro said quietly, “Thank you, Juan. You are a big help. As always.”

For once, Juan's smile did not light up the room. “Is it really true, Señor Simon did a bad thing?”

“Very bad,” Enrique said, his tone funereal.

Sofia forced herself not to argue, though the tragic disappointment in Juan's face made that even harder still. Enrique was busy stuffing everything on the desk into the duffel. “The police tell me they have the gunman in custody. He fits the description Pedro gave me of the man at the professor's house. You will go down and make an identification, please.”

Juan asked, “What will happen to Simon?”

“That is for the authorities.” Enrique hefted the duffel and turned for the door. “He will be dealt with in the appropriate manner.”

Sofia bit down on her protest.

“Now you must excuse me, my dear. I have a dozen things that cannot wait. A hundred.”

Though the effort seemed to rob her legs of strength, she returned his embrace. “Good bye, Enrique. And thank you.”

Enrique went to each of them in turn, offering a smooth farewell, even checking in on the slumbering Harold before slipping into the night.

Only when the mayor's car drove away did the voice emerge from the bedroom's shadows. “Somebody come in here and help me up.”

Sofia found it piercingly sad to aid the man who had so often in the past been there to help and strengthen her. As they walked into the bedroom, Pedro started, “Harold—”

“Son, I don't have the time or the energy to deal with your worries. Just know that I share them.”

“What are you going to do?”

He waited until Sofia had helped him across the office and through the doorway to respond, as though he was intent upon giving them no chance to object. “The same thing I've been doing for thirty years. You're going to drive me to the prison, so I can be there for a young man in his dark hour. Simon needs to be reminded that he is not alone.”

They brought Simon to Ojinaga's main police station, a nondescript building in the valley between the city and Boys' Town. They led him into a windowless back room and chained his wrists to a table. Maybe the Mexican system was different. Maybe he didn't need to be officially booked. Maybe it was normal to lock a foreigner in a holding room for hours on end. The ceiling light buzzed faintly. As though hope and a future were words that belonged to other people. As though he had run away one time too often.

Simon stared at the whitewashed metal door. There was a bitter logic to the situation. As though he had driven two thousand miles and endured a brutal week, just so he could arrive at this point. The fate he had deserved all along.

His mind locked down upon the night Vasquez shared with Simon his breakthrough. The night Vasquez sketched out his great concept on the damp bar napkins. The night he presented to Simon the very real prospect of finding personal definitions for words like
purpose
and
destiny
.

That particular night, trouble had shown up in the form of two very bad men. They arrived about an hour after Vasquez departed. One sat at the stool Vasquez vacated. The other stood to Simon's left. It was their usual approach. They scared Simon. They always had. They were frightening people. It was nothing they said or did. They rarely stayed long and never spoke more than a few words. But they carried with them an aura of danger. That evening two women sidled over, smiling and available. Totally blind to the men's treacherous nature. Or perhaps they were drawn to it. Like moths to a flame. Like Simon.

The men dismissed the ladies with a word, then told Simon to join them in the alley behind the bar. Simon waited for his normal break time, then exited the bar by the rear door. The pair was seated in their Cadillac, waiting patiently, as usual. Simon had been surprised that two men like these would even bother with supplying a small-time dealer like him with a few packets of class-A drugs.

The two men came straight to the point. “That guy who just left the bar.”

“Professor Vasquez.”

“Him. We want into his lab.”

Simon had been utterly shocked. It was the last thing he expected to hear. “Vasquez is a good man.”

“Did we ask you about the man's credentials? No we did not.”

The other guy spoke for the first time that night. He rarely opened his mouth, which was a good thing because to Simon his voice carried the sibilant promise of ruin. “We're not gonna hurt the prof.”

The first guy went on. “The professor's lab connects to the science building's main supply center. They got two things we need: a professional-grade centrifuge and some chemicals we can't get on the open market. We used to be able to, but not anymore. The feds are cracking down.”