Simon showered and dressed in a T-shirt and cotton drawstring trousers that had been left for him. He returned to the window as children spilled through the chapel doors in a chattering flood. They were all dressed the same, in shorts and white T-shirts stamped with the orphanage logo of three interlocked keys.
Simon watched Sofia cross the courtyard with Harold and Juan. The kid looked gangly from this angle, all skinny limbs and barely contained energy. Simon wished the beautiful lady would glance his way. But she remained deep in conversation with Harold. If she even noticed him there in the window, she gave no sign.
Simon left his dusty shoes under the bed and padded down the stairs in his bare feet. Juan stood just inside the open doorway at the foot of the steps. Simon had the impression this was the kid’s favorite pose, hovering at the perimeter, absorbing everything.
The doorway opened into Harold’s office. His was a simple room holding a battered desk, an upright piano, stacks of papers, and a slowly revolving ceiling fan. Directly opposite where Simon stood was an old-fashioned wall clock, the white enamel face pitted with rust. The second hand ticked in slow cadence around the circle. Simon heard the soft drumbeat of passing time and felt the pressure grow.
Sofia was talking softly on the phone. She stood at Harold’s desk with her back to Simon. Her index finger traced a line down an old-fashioned ledger that lay open on the desk. Her voice in Spanish sounded lovely. Harold stood beside her, his arms crossed, his face creased in worry. Juan aped Harold’s stance, arms crossed, head cocked to one side, watching and listening with tight focus.
Finally Sofia hung up the phone. “Why didn’t you tell me you had missed four payments?”
“Because I don’t want you giving us any more of your money,” Harold replied. “You already do too much.”
“You can’t run an orphanage without electricity.”
“Tell me what the power company said.”
“They agreed to give us two days.”
“What?”
“It’s the best I could do.”
“When is the next delivery due from America?”
“Any time now.” Sofia pulled over a calendar. “The Marathon churches are a week late in their donations.”
“I’ll call them.”
“No, Harold. I will make the call. You are too soft. They need to understand how urgent things are.” She tapped the ledger. “What the orphanage needs is an income of its own. In the meantime, I’ll speak with Enrique—”
“No. I won’t have it.”
“Which would you prefer, that I speak with Enrique or the children lose their home?”
“Don’t say such things.” Harold kneaded the place over his heart. “God will provide. He always has.”
Sofia’s only response was to cross her arms. The fabric of her blouse tightened as she clenched herself. “What about Simon, when is he leaving?”
“I for one would like to see him stay.”
“Here? But the gang might have tracked him!”
“Pedro doesn’t think so. And you know how much the professor thought of him.”
“I know exactly what Vasquez thought of Simon. And so do you!”
Harold stood in partial silhouette, with the morning sun blazing through the window beside him, casting him in shadow. He was a tall man, slightly bowed by age and responsibility. His voice carried great strength even when speaking softly. Like now. “I see great things in that young man. So did the professor.”
“He ruined the professor’s life!”
“He also was the professor’s last great hope.” Harold stopped her response with an upraised hand. “What if God has brought him here for a divine purpose?”
Simon found himself flooded with bitter regret. The professor had posed the same question the last time they had spoken. What if God intended something great? Would that not make it worth their while to forgive and move on?
A handbell clanged through the open window. The sound turned Sofia around to where she spotted Simon hovering in the doorway. Her gaze tightened even further. Her full lips clamped down hard on what she was about to say. She gathered up her purse and started for the door. “I’m late for my first appointment. I will stop by this afternoon.”
Harold moved toward Simon. “Welcome, son. Good to see you up. How’s the head?”
“Sore, but healing. Thanks again for letting me stay.”
“Don’t mention it.” Harold swept up Juan in one outstretched arm and then reached forward with his free hand and clapped Simon on the shoulder. “Let’s go grab us a cup of coffee.”
As they crossed the courtyard, a gaggle of kids tried to crowd in, but Juan halted them with a word. They giggled and stared at Simon but did as Juan ordered.
The mess hall floor and walls were raw concrete. Harold poured two heavy ceramic mugs of coffee, handed one over, then pointed to a battered refrigerator. “Help yourself to milk and sugar. We keep it in there to try to hold the ants at bay.”
As they returned to Harold’s office, Pedro joined them and ruffled Juan’s hair and asked about Simon’s wound. Simon’s response was accepted with a casual nod. Clearly gunfire and wounds were not new to this crowd. Which only added another item to the growing list of reasons why Simon wanted to get back across the border.
Harold slipped around his desk and pointed Simon and Pedro into the room’s two chairs. Harold said, “In addition to his job with the mayor, Pedro helps me keep this place running. Juan is my number-one assistant.”
The kid stationed by the entrance beamed.
Pedro asked, “Who was after you yesterday?”
“No idea,” Simon replied.
“Are you sure? Ojinaga is normally a safe place.”
“The town’s isolation has been our friend.” Harold waved at the map on his back wall. “We are surrounded by desert and mountains. The violence has stayed away.”
Simon had heard the same words from Vasquez. Many times. “Yesterday was the first time I’ve ever visited Mexico. I arrived, I heard about Vasquez, I got cheated by the council, I left. I was headed back to the border. Then some thug pulled a board studded with nails across the highway, wrecked my car, and chased me to the restaurant.”
“It’s a common form of ambush in other areas of Mexico,” Harold said.
Pedro asked Simon, “So you have no idea who they were?”
“All I can tell you is, I saw the guy who chased me when I crossed the border. I think he was waiting for me.” Simon remembered the dangerous clown’s grin, the hand made into the gun, and shivered despite the heat.
“Which means they could be hunting you.” Pedro frowned. “Sofia was right. We need to return you to America.”
“There’s still that little problem,” Simon said. “My passport is back in my car.”
“Which is where, exactly?”
“In a ditch beside the highway. Close to where I slipped into the industrial zone.” He hesitated, then asked, “You said the professor died almost two weeks ago?”
Harold nodded. “He was a dear friend to me and the orphanage.”
“But Vasquez e-mailed me right up to when I left for Ojinaga.”
“Worse and worse,” Pedro muttered. “What were the messages about?”
Simon caught sight of Harold’s shrewd gaze and realized the man already knew. “A project we were working on together. He said the city council had promised us a grant to finish our work.”
“So what is it about the project that would interest the cartels?”
“We don’t know the cartels are behind this,” Harold pointed out.
“Who else could it be?” Pedro rose from his chair. “We need to go get your passport and take you to the border.”
“Go bring the truck around, I’d like to have a word with our new friend.” When Pedro had left, Harold asked, “Have you ever thought that God might have brought you here for a reason?”
“Not really. No.”
“This is a safe place, son. From the sounds of things, you need one. Here at the orphanage, the Lord is our refuge and our strength.”
“You want me to stay? Why?”
“It’s not about what I want,” Harold replied. “It’s about what God intends.”
“You heard Pedro. I was duped by the city council. They lured me down here. Every minute I spend south of the border is a risk.”
“We have allies who might be able to help you.”
“To do what?” Simon struggled to comprehend what the orphanage director was saying. “Stay here? In Mexico? Work on the project without Vasquez? Risk my life and the lives of everyone here?”
“What do you have waiting for you back in Boston?”
Harold looked at him with a compassion born on having heard it all, and seen even more. Simon’s face burned with a shame that bordered on fury. He rose from his chair. “Thanks for everything. But no thanks.”
Harold called after him, “Think on what I said, son.”
Simon headed for the truck idling by the orphanage gates. The kids were back playing soccer again. They raced around him like he was just another obstacle. Simon felt eyes on him but did not turn around. He’d have enough trouble as it was, leaving the old man’s words behind.