Unlimited (4 page)

“Help me, somebody—”

Gunfire sounded behind him. Dusty furrows were dug from the earth to his right. Simon ran harder still.

His lungs sawed for a breath in the hot air. He could feel the hot wetness drip down his face. The pain was almost blinding. But the buildings were closer now, the shadows longer.

Simon lanced between two tall dormitories. He raced down an alley that felt choked with despair. He bounded out the other side, scrambled down another weed-strewn lane, tripped over an unseen ledge, and tumbled into the dusty plaza.

Most of the stalls were locked for the night. The plaza was almost empty. A few stragglers wandered away from him. The departing stallholders either did not hear or chose to ignore him. One woman's face showed vague alarm as she locked her stall and hurried away.

Then he spotted lights belonging to a slightly larger stall, one with a screened-in front section. Simon did not shout because he no longer had the air to form a word. He could scarcely carry himself across the plaza. He had no idea how close the hunter was. He could no longer hear the SUV. His ears were filled with the sawing rasp of his own breaths and a faint buzzing sound, like the drone of a thousand angry insects.

He slammed through the screened door and spilled onto the raw wood floor. Even then he kept moving. He crawled on his knees around the plywood counter. A lone customer occupied the last stool. This man looked vaguely familiar, but Simon's pounding head refused to form a coherent thought. The customer and the lone cook both gaped as Simon crawled into the space beneath the counter. The cook said something in high-pitched Spanish. Then the sound of shouts and footsteps rang out, and the cook went silent.

The customer bolted into action. He leapt around the counter and hefted a boiling pot off the stove. He backed up two paces, so he was clear of the counter, and slung the contents onto the floor.

Simon's foggy brain finally recognized the man. He managed to croak, “Pedro.”

“Hush, for your life.” As the city manager poured the steaming pot over the bloodstains, he spoke in a staccato undertone to the man behind the counter. The cook responded with a fearful whine. Pedro spoke again, just one or two words.

The cook grabbed the broom propped in the corner by the portable gas stove and walked around the counter. Simon heard feet thump against the counter wall by his head and realized Pedro had returned to his seat.

The cook pushed the screen door open and swept the water outside. A third voice yelled in protest, probably because the water splashed over his boots. This new voice was hard, sharp. The Spanish coming from this man was knife-edged. Simon gripped his knees and scrunched in tighter. He shivered uncontrollably.

The third man entered, pushing the cook back with his voice. Simon heard the broom skitter across the floor. Heavy footsteps creaked the floorboards. The hunter's voice grew louder, angrier. The cook responded with the same fearful whine.

Then Pedro added his own words, his tone subservient. Respectful. But not afraid. The hunter growled once more, then stomped from the place.

Then silence gripped them all. Simon's brain registered everything through the dual veils of terror and pain. Outside, the hunter snarled in frustration as he moved away.

Pedro murmured softly, “Stay where you are.”

Simon shut his eyes. His head stabbed with every racing heartbeat. He could feel blood from his forehead leak onto the floor. His shivers were growing stronger now.

But he was safe.

The knowledge was exquisite.

Pedro's voice remained very steady. “My truck is parked outside. I will back it around so the passenger door is by the exit. When you come out, stay low.” He spoke to the cook in Spanish, who handed Simon a clean dish towel. Pedro told him, “Press the cloth to your forehead.”

“It hurts.”

“You have been shot, yes? It's supposed to hurt. Press hard.”

Simon did as he was told. Pedro pulled out his keys and pushed open the cantina's screen door. Simon heard him whistling a little tune.

The pickup's door creaked open and shut. When the engine fired, Simon crawled from his hiding place. His head and neck and shoulders had stiffened, which caused him to groan aloud. The cook responded with a fearful tirade. Simon crept around the counter as the truck pulled in tight. Simon slipped out the door just as Pedro reached over and opened the passenger door.

The pickup was moving before Simon settled into the seat. Pedro said, “I will take you to the border.”

“Great. Thanks.” Then Simon paused. “Wait, that won't work.”

“There is no waiting. The men who seek you, they are still out there.”

Simon's tongue felt too thick for the confines of his mouth. “My car was forced off the road. My passport is locked in the trunk.”

Pedro gave a heavy sigh. He scouted in all directions, then crossed over the highway and headed into the rough terrain. “They will still be out there, the people who hunt you.”

“It was just one man.”

“One man that you saw.” The truck jounced hard over a rocky outcropping. “Where is your car?”

“In a ditch.” The fringes of his vision began to blur. “They put a board across the road. Blew out the tires.”

“That is a common tactic of the drug cartels. You are involved in drugs?”

“I'm down here to meet with your town council, remember?”

“If this was the cartel, they will have allies among the border agents. They might hold you until your hunters arrive.” Pedro lightly drummed the wheel. Then he spun the wheel and drove back in the direction they had come. As he pulled onto the road, he checked carefully in all directions. “Slide down into the foot well.”

“Where are you taking me?”

Pedro drove slowly into the ever-deepening night. “Somewhere safe.”

Sofia Marin did not want to enter that room.

She knew who was waiting for her. Though they had never met, she knew Simon Orwell, and she knew his faults. Sofia knew how bad he could be. She knew all too well. “Why did you bring him here?”

Pedro continued to tug on her hand. “You want to stand and discuss this now? While he bleeds?”

“He was shot. You said it yourself. He was chased. The gangs want him.”

“You don't know that.”

“If it wasn't the cartel, then who? What if he brings the gangs here? What if you were followed?”

Her brother tightened the grip on her hand and pulled her forward. “Enough with the what-ifs. You could question a donkey to death.”

“What if his being here endangers the children?”

“We were not followed.”

The closer she came to that door, the more she held back. “You know this how?”

“For one thing, the gunman was behind the tenements when I put Simon in the truck. I saw his SUV drive away.” Impatiently Pedro dragged her through the doorway. “For another, I cut across the desert. If anyone had followed, I would have seen them for miles. But I wasn't followed. Now come and help.”

Simon lay upon the bed. He was just like the photographs Vasquez had shown her. Even with the blood soaking his head and shirt, he was just as handsome. Just as appealing. Just as dangerous. “He should not be here.”

“Then help to get him ready to leave!” Pedro let go of her, so he could flap his arms in exasperation. “You have to fight me at every turn. You can never just do what you are going to do anyway. First you have to argue. Then you have to run away.”

It was a familiar refrain, and it bit especially deep because that was exactly what she wanted to do. Turn and run from this man.

Instead she pulled over the room's one chair and seated herself by the bed. “Juan.”

The young boy stood in the doorway, as Sofia knew he would be. He knew everything that happened around the orphanage before it happened. “Yes?”

“Run to the infirmary for my kit.”

The boy, all overlong limbs and angles, entered the room. “I have it here already.”

“Of course you do.” She accepted the leather satchel with a smile she did not feel. “Now go find Harold and tell him he has to come. Immediately.”

Simon swam up through deep, dark waters. He came to the surface gradually and opened his eyes to a soft light and very harsh pain.

A beautiful woman was seated beside his bed. She had just finished sewing his forehead. She clipped the thread and set her utensils in a metal plate. The fingers of her gloved hands were stained with his blood. He probably should have felt a little queasy at the sight, but just then all he could think about was that he was safe. The place, wherever it was, radiated a sense of calm.

His vision expanded to where he could take in the room. Four people watched him, all with very somber expressions. One was Pedro, the mayor's assistant. Beside the lady's chair stood an older man, very erect, with knowing eyes. He studied Simon with a severe intensity.

The fourth figure stood to his right, over in the doorway. Simon could have shifted his head around and looked more closely, but just then he could not be bothered. The half-seen person was no threat. Of this he was certain. Besides, if he moved his head he would not be able to look at the woman.

She had the most perfect skin he had ever seen. Her complexion was a dusky gold. Her hair was a bit longer than shoulder length and swept in two careless curves about her face, like the fall of waves on a windless night. Her features shone with a vibrant intelligence.

She was also very angry. With him. Every time she met his gaze, she blistered him with all the words she kept trapped behind her tightly compressed lips. Simon knew the expression. He should. He had angered far too many women in his life.

But it usually took a little longer to get them this upset.

It was the older man who spoke. “You're Simon Orwell, the friend of Professor Vasquez?”

He nodded. “He's dead, right?”

“Yes. We lost our friend eleven days ago.”

“Twelve days.” The beautiful woman corrected him. “It's after midnight.”

“That's impossible,” Simon declared.

“Why do you say that?”

“Because his last e-mail was four days ago.”

Their response surprised him. No one protested that what he said was absurd. If anything, his words seemed almost expected. As though what he told them heightened some deep concern.

The woman peeled the back off a pressure bandage. Her gestures were tight. She said to the man who had saved him, “You see? You do not bring the friend of Vasquez to this place. You bring danger.”

Pedro said, “What was I supposed to do, Sofia, stand by and let him die?”

“Better that than . . .” She glared at him and mashed the bandage down hard.

“Ow!”

“You hush. You should not be here.” She stripped off the gloves and rose from her seat. “You are nothing but trouble. Vasquez always said that. Now we know why.”

Sofia looked at the key that hung around his neck. Her expression said it all. She knew about the key. And she knew about what Simon had done with it. Even so, he could not look away. When her gaze returned to his face, angry and pained and worried, all Simon could think was,
Guilty
.

The old man said softly, “Vasquez also said many other things about him.”

“I know this one. I know his type better than any of you. Better you dump him on the street.”

Pedro frowned. “Sofia, how you talk.”

“You mark my words.” She lifted the metal plate in one hand and a black leather case in the other. She stomped across the floor, pausing in the doorway only long enough to say, “When the children are in danger, you remember what I tell you this night.”

The two men stared at the empty doorway. Simon had the impression they had stood and stared like this on many other occasions.

Finally the older man asked, “Do you have someone you want us to call and tell you are all right?”

Simon felt the burn of old familiar shame. “No. It can wait.”

“Get some rest. We will talk in the morning.”

“Where am I?”

“Everything can wait until tomorrow.”

The old man cut off the light as he left the room. As they clumped down unseen stairs, Simon heard Pedro murmur something, but he could not catch the words.

But he did hear the old man's response. That came through with a piercing quality. It was precisely what Vasquez had said on another dark night, perhaps the darkest hour Simon had ever known.

The old man said, “It is all in God's hands.”