Unlimited (27 page)

Sofia sat on the veranda outside Harold's office, her arm draped over Pedro's shoulders. She ached with her brother. His pain was hers. As it had been all their lives.

He moaned, “How could I have been so blind?”

She huffed a laugh she did not feel. “You have stolen the words from my own mind.”

“The signs were there all along.”

“I hope you are wrong, brother. I would hate to think I willfully missed seeing the truth about Enrique.”

“I so wanted his promises to be real.”

“We all did. It is the myth of Mexican strength. Trust others to be powerful for us.” She stroked her brother's back. He was so strong, this one. Sofia felt the love rise up inside her. “I am so proud of you.”

“How can you say that? Especially now, when I've allowed myself to play the mayor's fool?”

She knew he did not want a response. Pedro was merely giving voice to his sorrow. He would recover, and soon. He had to. They all needed him to be strong.

Dr. Clara was inside with Harold. Martinez stood by the front gates, talking on her radio. For once, Juan was not in his customary position, at the edge of everything, watching. Instead he had taken on the role of helping around the orphanage, filling in for Harold. He left the dining hall hand in hand with Gabriella.

The little girl was coming along nicely, thanks to Juan and Harold and the other children. Sofia made a mental note that it would soon be time for her to speak with the child, introduce her to Harold's teachings, one young woman to another.

She sought some way to draw her brother out of his remorse and into the present. But the only words that came to mind were, “I can't help but worry about Simon.”

Pedro wiped his face. “Martinez assures us he is safe.”

“I was talking about us.”

Pedro straightened and looked at her. “Us, as in, Simon with the orphanage?” He showed a glimmer of a smile. “Or us, as in you and him?”

She could not meet his gaze. “I, too, have been willfully blind. I tried to argue away the fact that I did not love Enrique. The idea of a partner who could help me fulfill my ambition to assist all our country's orphans was too alluring.”

“And Simon?”

“Simon challenges everything I believe in. Even so, I have feelings for him. Genuine, deep, profound.” Her heart swelled around the confession. “These feelings challenge my plan to live in sacrifice. Simon knows nothing about sacrifice. He lives for nothing but himself.”

Pedro's voice strengthened. “He is changing. We have seen him change.”

“But he is still Simon.”

“He is also the loneliest man I have ever known. Now that Vasquez is gone, Simon has no one.”

“Another orphan.” She found it hard to draw a full breath. “In this moment when no one else is there for him, I feel like . . .”

“He needs you.”

She studied her brother's face. “Do you really think this?”

His smile grew stronger. “My sister is asking me for advice? Has the world tilted on its axis?”

She bit her lip but could not keep the words from emerging. “That is how it feels to me.”

Dr. Clara opened the bedroom door and studied them for a moment. To Sofia it seemed that the doctor's gaze held a haunted quality. “Harold is ready for you.”

As Pedro crossed to the door and called to Martinez, Sofia asked, “How is he?”

“Tired. But the wound is healing well.” Dr. Clara hesitated, then asked, “You know what I have been doing?”

“Martinez told me some of it.” Sofia still had difficulty believing the doctor had been serving the antidrug group in secret. But she had been fooled by so much for so long. “I thought wrong of you. For that I apologize.”

“I have done many wrong things.”

“For all the right reasons, I'm sure.”

“In the daylight, I can say those words and be satisfied.” Dr. Clara nodded a greeting as Agent Martinez entered the office. “But at night . . .”

“The tainted life is harder to accept.” Harold's voice came softly through the open door. “The justifications for all the wrong actions don't ring true anymore.”

The four of them entered the bedroom together. Dr. Clara resumed her seat by Harold's bed. “I just wanted to make the killings stop. I just wanted to help.”

“And you did.”

“But at what cost? Look at me. I am reviled. Hated. Called a witch to my face by the people I yearn to help. And in the dark hours I think they are right to say what they do.”

“You have learned a crucial lesson,” Harold said. “Corruption is a virus. You cannot remain just a little bit infected. But you either fight it off, or it takes over.”

“It is too late.”

“I'm sorry, Clara. But that is just not true.” Harold's gaze swiveled to where Sofia stood by the door.

Sofia offered, “Perhaps you and I can discuss this?”

The eyes that turned to her held a desperate hunger. “You will help me?”

“We can start tonight, if you like.”

“Now we need to turn our attention to the other matter.” Harold eased himself up slightly in the bed. “First, can you tell us how you knew?”

“Suspected,” the doctor corrected.

“If we had known for certain, if there had been evidence, we would have arrested Enrique Morales long ago,” Martinez said.

Dr. Clara went on, “Investigating criminal activity is much like hunting for an illness. A doctor is trained to scrutinize any number of symptoms and find how they interlink. Gradually a pattern emerges, until a diagnosis was made.”

Harold nodded. “And your conclusion was . . . ?”

“The criminals never left. They simply became more hidden.”

“That was the first point,” Martinez agreed. “And the second was, someone very powerful was behind this masquerade.”

“It was only since Armando's murder that we even considered that Enrique might indeed be the puppet master.”

“We trusted him too much,” Pedro muttered.

“We have every reason to,” Martinez replied. “He was masterful at burnishing his good image and using it to hide all manners of evil.”

“What tipped you off?”

“Many crimes have been linked to a man only known as Jefe,” Clara said.

“He works through a bearded assailant that Simon has identified,” Martinez said. “We have a possible link between this attacker and Enrique. And something more. It appears that the cartel run by El Noche is moving into Chihuahua state. They now almost control Juárez. We have two undercover agents inside his organization. They tell us that Ojinaga is to become their new center of operations into the United States.”

Sofia felt her body grow cold. “If this is true and Enrique is indeed the culprit you seek . . .”

“It means El Noche is tied to Enrique.” Pedro finished for her.

“There are hints of a major undertaking about to take place here.” Martinez went on. “Something big enough to bring the cartel's leader himself to our city.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow night.”

Harold looked from one woman to the other. “What are we going to do about it?”

Martinez looked at Sofia. “I have an idea. But it requires your help.”

“Of course.”

As Martinez described her plan, Sofia gripped her arms across her middle. It was an action from her childhood, a means of keeping all her emotions and fears trapped inside. Her voice sounded small to her own ears. “I will do this thing.”

The month after Enrique had been elected mayor of Ojinaga, he had transformed a windowless stockroom into a small conference room. The walls now held paintings from his personal collection. A lovely silk carpet adorned the floor. A rosewood table was surrounded by five swivel chairs. He used the main conference chamber for larger meetings. This room was reserved for private discussions, and was swept twice each day for listening devices.

Enrique sat in his customary seat at the head of the table. “I have the professor's apparatus.”

The man on the other end of the phone had the most curious voice Enrique had ever heard. El Noche's words sounded like wind through desert-dry cane, a parched rattle that never rose nor fell. “You are certain it works?”

“As positive as I can be without turning it on. Which we cannot do for two reasons. First, each time it has been turned on, the apparatus has shorted out. My technician says it is the most complicated piece of equipment he has ever seen. He could not possibly repair it by tomorrow. But he has checked it thoroughly and assures me that every component is in place and functioning.”

“And the Yanqui scientist?”

It was the question Enrique had been dreading. “He is being taken care of.”

“Is he dead?”

“Not yet. There have been . . . complications.”

“Explain.”

“The scientist is in solitary lockdown. Not even the prison guards are permitted into his chamber. My man Carlos, the one who allowed himself to be arrested, has vanished. I assume he is under control of the federals. Everything points to Agent Martinez.”

There came the rattling hiss, the man's one expression of rage. “I want you to erase that woman.”

Despite himself, Enrique shivered and sweated both. “Of course. It will be done.”

“And the Yanqui.”

“As soon as he is released.” Enrique hesitated, then said, “Perhaps we should postpone.”

“That is impossible. Things on the other side of the border are in place. There can be no delay. It is not permitted. Are we clear?”

“Of course, I was simply—”

But the man had already cut the connection. Enrique remained where he was, breathing heavily.

When he emerged from the conference room, he was shocked to discover Pedro seated in the chair closest to the room's entrance. Pedro almost never came to his office. Their meetings generally took place in the hallways, or outside a restaurant, or before Enrique entered some meeting. Pedro disliked being in the company of power.

“Pedro! How long have you been out here?”

The man looked beyond exhausted. He leaned his head against the wall, just beside the door leading into the conference room. His eyes flickered once, twice, then opened slowly. “Forgive me, Padron. It is these problems involving the orphanage. May I have a word?”

His secretary said, “You are late for the council meeting.”

“Two minutes, Padron. Please.”

It was so rare for Pedro to ask for anything, Enrique found himself unable to do what was foremost in his mind, which was to determine whether the man had heard anything through the wall. “What is it?”

“I need to take a few days off. Just until Harold is better. Someone must run things at the orphanage. I cannot do that and my job for the city.”

“What about your sister?”

“She tells me she is already too busy, between her work and campaigning with you. Your next few days are to be your last swing through Ojinaga, yes? Sofia says you have told her it is crucial that she appear at your side.”

“Of course you must do what is required, though we will miss you.”

“The doctor tells me Harold should be able to manage by next week.”

Enrique remembered, “Harold was to speak at my campaign event this afternoon. Even if he does not speak, have him join me on the podium, yes?”

Pedro shrugged. He fumbled with his hands in the manner of a peasant twisting his hat brim. Enrique detested such signs of submission. Pedro said, “I will pass on your message, Padron.”

Agent Martinez did not come for Simon until after dark. He emerged from the station and walked down the street, drinking deep of the cool dry air.

She drove him back to the orphanage. But instead of halting by the main gates, Martinez turned down the alley that ran behind the square. “Wait here.”

A few minutes later, Pedro rapped on his window. “Come with me.”

Pedro led him up a set of stairs and into an apartment. “This is Sofia's. We will stay here tonight. She is sleeping in the orphanage guestroom.”

The place held a sweet fragrance, an invisible presence that surrounded and comforted. “Can I take a shower?”

“Of course. Are you hungry?”

“Starving.”

“I will go to the restaurant down the street.”

Simon turned the water hot enough to scald and remained there until the shower turned cold. He found more of the simple clothes laid out for him on the bed: T-shirt and drawstring pants. As Simon dressed, Pedro returned with two steaming plates. Over dinner Pedro described how Enrique had fooled them. Simon ate and listened, until exhaustion started rising up like waves.

Pedro must have noticed for he said, “Go and sleep. I will clean up.”

“You haven't finished telling me everything.”

“I could talk for days and not be finished. Sleep well, my friend.”

Simon woke to the first pale light of dawn. He rose from the bed and padded through the living room. Pedro snored softly on the sofa. Simon eased open the balcony door and stepped outside. The air was bitingly cold, but he did not mind. The feeling of liberation, of a freedom far beyond having stepped outside the jail, was exquisite.