Agent Martinez insisted on driving Sofia and Juan back to Ojinaga in her car, while her partner followed them in Sofia’s van. Martinez expressed the invitation as politely as she could, but the steel was there in the policewoman’s voice. Sofia assumed it always was present to a certain extent. As they passed through the cordon of soldiers ringing Juárez, Sofia wondered at the things this woman must have seen.
The agent drove a late-model Ford SUV with an oversized engine and dark tinted windows. The seats were woven leather and the steering wheel was burl. The dash and the central console and the doors were rimmed in chrome. Sofia ran a hand over the soft leather door handle. “Very nice.”
“It was confiscated in a raid on the cartels. Many of the best police equipment comes to us care of our enemies.”
Juan asked from the rear seat, “Have you always wanted to be a policewoman?”
“Not always. When I was your age, all I wanted to do was run track.”
“What happened?”
“I come from Sonora. My father is a pastor. I see I have surprised you. Yes. We are trained not to speak of our past. It is a way of protecting our families. When I was in high school, I won the state championships. I was a sprinter. I went to the junior nationals and placed in the hundred meter, the four hundred, and the relay.” She smiled tightly at the memory. “In those days, if I was going anywhere, I ran.”
“And then?”
Her smile slipped away. “I was in a car accident. I damaged my knee. It was repaired well enough. But my running days were over.”
“And the police?”
“My father let me wail and weep over my fate for a time. Then he asked me what I wanted to do with my life. What would give me a purpose worth living for. Because whether I saw it or not, surviving that wreck was a gift from above. In time I realized that my father was right. And the simple fact was, I was a fighter. Sprints are all about power, about transforming the body into a bullet. And my father and my upbringing had taught me a strong sense of right and wrong. I hated seeing the changes that were happening to my country. So I decided I was going to do something about it.”
“What . . . ?” Sofia’s phone rang. She checked the readout and saw it was Enrique. “Excuse me, I must take this.”
He demanded, “Where are you?”
“Twenty miles east of Juárez.”
“Why did you leave?”
Sofia did not try to hide the acid she felt rising with her answer. “Ask your mother.”
He sighed. “My love, did it ever occur to you that your response was precisely what my mother was after?”
Sofia mulled that over. “It did not. No.”
“She is finally accepting that my affection for you is genuine. She does not approve. She will not say this, because she knows that for once I am not bending to her will. So her only hope is to push you away.”
“She succeeded.”
“Sofia, I hope you are listening, because I will only say this once. This indecision of yours only makes it worse for everyone. It is important—”
Sofia broke in to ask, “Do you truly believe in God?”
Enrique went silent. Martinez glanced over but did not speak.
“This is not a difficult question, Enrique. Do you accept Jesus Christ as your Lord and Savior?”
“Sofia, my dear, we have spoken of this so often.”
“And we will continue to speak of it for as long as we are together. For as long as I have breath.”
“But why now? Why over a phone in the middle of a frantic day?”
“Because of something your mother said.”
“My mother the troublemaker. Can we please have this discussion another time? I have a building full of people waiting for me and an empty chair beside my own.”
“Yes, Enrique, we can discuss this any time you like.” Sofia cut the connection and clenched the phone with both of her hands. It all came down to that.
Juan asked, “The mayor does not follow Jesus?”
“He has said . . .” Sofia shook her head and stared at the road ahead. “He has said many things. And I have been willing to hear what I needed to, instead of what he has not said.”
Martinez spoke quietly, “He is a politician.”
Sofia studied the woman seated beside her. The strong hands, the tensile strength to her slender frame, the dark hair cropped short as a man’s. “Juan and I thank you for this gift of safety.”
The policewoman smiled into the rearview mirror. “You and our handsome escort are both welcome.” She hesitated, then said, “I would like to ask you something. It may not be proper.”
“Please. Ask.”
“The orphanage, Enrique mentioned that it has financial difficulties.”
“Very serious ones. Harold’s money is almost gone, and the American churches are giving less because of the recession.”
“And yet, the mayor, he is rich.”
“His family is rich. All the assets are parked in trusts.” Enrique had explained this often enough, the frustration he knew over his inability to do more for Harold. “He hopes that his family would offer a larger payment as a gift for our marriage.”
“A dowry.”
Juan asked, “Enrique will save our orphanage if you marry him?”
“Perhaps. If his family agrees. He hopes they would see the orphanage as something to hold up to the press. A symbol of where I came from. They could not do this if the orphanage were to close.”
“Then why . . . ?”
Sofia admired Juan for not fully shaping the question. She reached back between the seats and took hold of his hand. “I do not know why I haven’t accepted his marriage proposal. I have prayed and prayed for guidance. I have asked the Lord to take away my fears and my reluctance. But God has been silent. I have never felt farther from Him than over these past weeks. And so I wait. And I pray.”
Juan declared, “I will pray with you. Every day.”
She turned to offer him a from-the-heart smile. “You are more than my family. You are my friend.”
They broke midway through the return journey for an early dinner in the last village before the mountains. The sunset turned the vista into a field of gold beneath an azure sky. They sat on the covered veranda and watched children play hide-and-seek around a dusty plaza. Three times Martinez rose from her chair to field phone calls, each time returning more somber. When they had finished, Consuela signaled to her partner, a taciturn man with a powerful build and fathomless eyes. He rose to his feet and spoke for the first time that day, asking Juan if he would like to inspect his guns.
When they had strolled back to the police vehicle, Consuela asked, “Do you object to my partner showing Juan his weapons?”
“Did you see his response? Juan was as delighted as any other fourteen-year-old boy.”
“I need to ask you something. But I don’t know how to shape my question.”
“Is there a problem?” Sofia frowned.
“There is. Perhaps. Yes.”
“With the orphanage?”
“Not that I am aware. Well, that is not entirely true.”
“Your hesitation is scaring me.”
“I spend much of my days being afraid.” Consuela cast her a long look. “I would like to ask that you trust me.”
“I do.”
“Just like that?”
“We have known each other for how long, two years? In that time you have delivered almost twenty children to the orphanage. I see your care and concern for the little ones. I wonder at how you can remain a good person and see the things you must. Of course I trust you.” Sofia fought against the constriction in her chest. “Now tell me what is so bad you are afraid to share the news. Please.”
“It is not the news that is the concern. It is the need to ask related questions. Possibly.”
“You need to ask me something difficult.”
“I do. Yes.”
“It doesn’t have to do with the orphanage, your questions.”
“No.”
She saw the formal way Consuela sat, the cautious blankness to her gaze. It could only mean one thing. “You want to ask me about Enrique.”
Consuela responded with a fraction of a nod. “Before I do this thing, I wish to share with you a confidence. By telling you this, I place two lives in your hands. My own and another.”
“Are you certain you must?”
“No. But I think I should.”
Sofia braced herself. “Very well. I am ready.”
“I am escorting you and Juan back to Ojinaga because it offers me a cover, an excuse that I can display publicly. I have a confidential source in Ojinaga. A highly placed secret informant. It is why I was transferred from Mexico City to the state police. So that I could handle this source. She sought me out, you see. Apparently she knew my father.”
“What does all this have to do with me?”
“She has been feeding me information for some time, this source. Occasionally there have been items that have made no sense. Until today, I have discounted the evidence. But it does not mean she is untrustworthy, this source. She could have been intentionally misled. It happens.”
“This information, it has to do with Enrique?”
“Perhaps.” Consuela’s words grew very slow, as though each required great effort. “I have been very reluctant to even consider such a thing. But lately . . .”
Sofia straightened in her chair. “Ask your questions.”
Instead Martinez glanced over her shoulder and shook her head. Sofia heard her partner offer Juan an ice from the sweet shop across the plaza. Martinez waited until they moved away. “Harold has been shot.”
“What?”
“There was an attempt to rob Simon in the central square. Or so the police have claimed. And the report could of course be true. But Ojinaga does not normally attract the sort of violent person who would hold up a tourist in the middle of the day in the town’s central market.”
Her head was spinning. “Harold was shot? Or Simon?”
“Harold. Simon was with your brother in the electronics shop. A man came in demanding Simon’s carryall. Harold hit him with a vase. A gun went off. Harold was grazed. He is fine.”
“I must go to him. He is in the hospital?”
“No. My . . . source felt it was not safe. She took him back to the orphanage.”
“I don’t understand. Your source happened to be there?”
“This was no coincidence. She has been following them ever since she received word that certain people in power were showing a keen interest in Simon Orwell.”
“Wait, please. If Harold is not in the hospital, how can your source be certain he is all right?”
Martinez leaned across the table. “My source is Dr. Clara.”
“No. The bruja? Impossible.”
“I assure you, it is so. And she is no witch. She is a doctor who became sickened by seeing so many young men die a senseless death. So she came to me and asked how she could help stop the violence. We trained her. Then slowly, slowly, she let it be known to the dark forces in our society that her loyalty was for sale. For six years now she has been the cartel’s trusted ally in the Ojinaga city council.”
Sofia felt her head swirling from multiple shocks. “What does this have to do with Enrique?”
“Most of the border regions have been placed under the watch of the military and my own task force. It is becoming hard for the cartels to operate profitably. We have heard they want to move into Ojinaga. But do so in total secrecy. Which means they must have a hidden protector.”
“No,” Sofia protested weakly.
“When Dr. Clara first suggested it was your fiancé, we of course discounted the possibility. But there have been hints recently. Fragments of evidence. Nothing definite, but taken all together they suggest that this may indeed be true.”
She felt all her own doubts, all her hesitations, all her unanswered yearnings coalesce into one great lump at the core of her being. Sofia forced herself to say, “Ask your questions.”
Martinez’s face appeared carved from golden stone. “I would be grateful if you would tell me everything you possibly can about Enrique Morales.”