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.”