Unlimited

by Davis Bunn

  Carlos was confused. Which for him was a dangerous condition. He responded to confusion with an icy rage. When he became bewildered, people were hurt. It was inevitable.

  And this day, the American was to blame.

  Carlos had never disobeyed a direct order from the jefe. But today might be an exception.

  He had followed the town assistant manager’s decrepit pickup from the orphanage. Carlos saw the American in the passenger seat. So long as they had remained on the main road circling to the west of Ojinaga’s downtown, Carlos could hang back. Pedro’s pickup had a tall frame holding a stepladder and cleaning equipment. Carlos could see it even with six cars between them.

  When Pedro turned off the main road and started up the hill known as Boys’ Town, following them had grown more difficult. But Carlos was not worried. They could only be headed toward the professor’s house. There was nothing else in Boys’ Town that could possibly interest them. The former houses with the women were mostly shut down. And the people around the orphanage were all religious. Carlos assumed that included the American. It meant nothing to him. It changed nothing. A job was a job. Duty was everything.

  But now he had failed the boss. He had lost them.

  Carlos could not risk keeping the truck within view. There was almost no traffic on the road that climbed the Boys’ Town ridge. When he had first come to Ojinaga, driving this road had been entirely different. After dark the traffic had been so bad, most people parked along the main road and hiked in. The visitors had been almost all men. Vaqueros in from the surrounding farms climbed the ridge, laughing against their nerves, their high-heeled boots clicking on the stones. They shared the road with loud-mouthed tourists from across the border.

  From almost every house had come music and the clink of glasses and the raucous laughter. Carlos had known Boys’ Town intimately, for it was from this place that many of the coyotes operated. The violence and the danger had lurked just beyond the reach of the gaiety, and many dawns revealed fresh corpses.

  Then the change had come to Ojinaga and all the north Chihuahua cities. Through the jefe’s actions, the brothels had been banished with the gangs and the coyotes. All these illegal activities had been tightly linked. Carlos had heard that many of the houses had simply moved into the surrounding scrublands, taking over ranches and setting up their businesses out of sight. Carlos did not care. His job was not to rid the world of badness. To do this would have meant putting a bullet in his own head. His job was to serve his family and his jefe.

  But today he had failed. Carlos hated nothing more than failure. His rage took on an icy calm, so powerful he remained untouched by the heat. Carlos pulled down the road leading to the professor’s home. The house was silent, the lane empty.

  Carlos left the car and headed inside. He would check the house, just to be certain.

  Then he would find the American. And he would try to keep his control.

  But there was no telling what might happen next.

  Chapter 13

  Simon had seen places like this on television. But he was still not prepared for what he faced. They crossed the main road and started up a road that was barely more than a steep alley. The hill they climbed was separated from Ojinaga’s other districts by the north-south highway and a narrow gorge. The cone-shaped hill was carved into a series of uneven steps, each lined by a circular lane. Houses of every size and description lined these roads, everything from brightly painted mansions to windowless hovels.

  The road grew worse the higher they climbed. The pavement was rutted, the potholes deep. They passed a couple of cars descending the grade in slow motion, dipping and rocking over the pitted surface. They climbed at such an angle Simon was pressed back into his seat.

  At a particularly steep juncture Pedro stopped, which entailed pressing both feet on the brakes and pulling out the hand brake as well. He squinted around, muttering to himself. Then he put the truck back in gear, raced the engine, and took a right. The roads circling the hill were not paved at all. The truck’s engine emitted a trickle of steam from either side of the hood.

  Simon asked, “Do you know where we’re going?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Should we ask someone?”

  “They will not tell us. The professor is dead. We are strangers. This is Mexico.”

  “Why didn’t we ask Sofia?”

  Pedro took his eye off the road long enough to cast Simon a scornful look. “She has never been to this place.”

  “I thought you said she was the professor’s friend.”

  “She was. But this hill is Boys’ Town.”

  Simon waited. When Pedro said nothing more, he pressed. “That means what exactly?”

  “It is where the bad women worked. Before. Some say there are still a few houses. But I do not think this is true. Enrique has shut down all the ones we know of.” Pedro spun the wheel and turned the truck as far as he could manage. “It is not this street. We must go up another level.”

  All Simon could see were blank walls, most of rusting metal. A few were solid concrete-block topped with barbed wire. Inside the fences, skinny dogs tracked their progress and barked. “How can you tell?”

  “The professor, he bought this home because he loved his view of the mountains.” Pedro waved at the cracked and grimy front windshield. “We have gone too far around the hill. You cannot see the mountains from here.”

  Reversing the car took nine tight maneuvers. Pedro retraced his route, then turned up the hill. He took another left, and this time Simon understood why. A hundred meters after they turned, the mountains emerged in all their glory. From this height, the view was stupendous, a rich array of desert tones and jagged peaks that laced the far horizon.

  Then Simon’s attention was drawn to the lane ahead. “Stop!”

  Pedro hit the brakes. “What’s the matter?”

  “Back up!”

  “But the professor’s house—”

  “That’s the attacker’s car!”

  Pedro clearly did not believe him, but he reversed the truck back around the bend. “Señor Simon, the town is full of dark SUVs.”

  “I’ve seen that one often enough to be certain.” He opened his door. “Turn your truck around and park where he won’t see you if he leaves.”

  Pedro’s face showed rising alarm. “What are you doing?”

  Simon shut his door. “I’ll be right back.”

  Pedro watched Simon move away from the pickup. The man was everything Sofia feared. He was a threat to the orphanage. He did not belong. He was a wastrel. Yet in spite of it all, Pedro agreed with Harold. He liked Simon. He liked him very much.

  The gringo had been hunted by a very bad man. This bad man was still out there somewhere. Why the hunter was so intent on Simon, Pedro had no idea. Many things in the border country made no sense. But Pedro knew one thing with absolute certainty. People had been afraid for too long. And Simon was not ruled by fear.

  Back at the orphanage, Simon had thought Pedro was angry with him. But this was simply not true. Pedro always left an argument with his sister feeling exhausted. He could work all day in the sun and still not be nearly as weary as he felt after five minutes with Sofia. When she started on one of those tirades, he felt like a wet dishrag being twisted in her strong hands, until every drop of energy was wrenched out.

  But nothing would have come from telling Sofia what he felt. Which was this: Simon’s coming was an act of God.

  The orphanage was in serious trouble. For weeks, Pedro and Harold had been praying for a miracle. And Harold thought Simon Orwell was the miracle they had been waiting for. Why Harold felt this way, Pedro had no idea. And he did not need to know. He trusted Harold’s judgment. For him, that was enough.

  Pedro spent a great deal of his time observing from the periphery. Especially when he was in the company of Enrique. Around the mayor
, Pedro went unnoticed. He used such times to observe the life from which he had been excluded. He saw how families had to rely upon each other. How Mexican parents were the only real authority that mattered. Most schools were abysmal failures. Parents were the main educators of their children. They were the source of their children’s identity. And for most Mexicans, success was just another word for survival.

  Most Mexican families did not seek to raise their children up to positions beyond their own. That was a confusing trait they observed north of the border. What good came of this, when the children were pushed away, never to return? Here in Mexico, family was everything. The children’s first responsibility was to be there when it mattered most and take care of their own. When their parents grew old, the children saw to their parents’ needs.

  Pedro felt his orphan status every day. It was a weight he had learned to carry and live with. But he never forgot his heritage. And he never stopped giving thanks for Harold. That one blessing made up for all the misfortune and the sorrow Pedro had known.

  He knew the situation within most state orphanages. He had visited several with Enrique. Those encounters had given him terrible nightmares. How close he had come to enduring the same tragic fate as these children. How vital it was that Harold’s orphanage find the resources necessary to survive.

  Harold had done far more for Pedro than give him a sense of identity. Harold had inspired him.

  Many of the visiting missionaries saw Pedro as a glorified janitor for a grimy border town. But thanks to Harold, Pedro knew different.

  His goal in life was to continue Harold’s dream and take over running the orphanage when it was time. For now, he protected the orphanage from his position within the city government. He needed no thanks. He desired no recognition. He knew, Harold knew, God knew. For Pedro, that was enough.

  He backed the pickup into an alley where shadows from the neighboring wall masked it from the sight of any passing vehicle. Then he slipped from the pickup and followed Simon. The young man might indeed be the answer to their prayers. But only if Pedro could keep him alive.

  And something else. Something vital. Pedro needed to be certain, absolutely positive, that God was behind Simon’s arrival. After all, Sofia could in fact be right. Simon could be nothing more than a threat. Pedro considered it his responsibility to be certain. One way or the other.

  So as he left the alley, he sent a swift plea up toward heaven. God, please give me a sign. If Simon is indeed the answer we have been praying for, please show me this clearly. The lives of the children depended upon Pedro getting this one right.

  He knew Simon carried a huge weight. Pedro had heard from his sister how Simon had wasted his life. But what man was free from wrongful deeds? And Pedro had learned from Harold that no man was a failure as long as he continued to draw breath. Simon might have given up on himself. But God had not given up on Simon. Of this Pedro was certain.

  And one other thing he knew. One thing that Sofia in her agitated fear either did not see or chose to ignore. Harold was only getting started with this one. Pedro had seen Harold’s impact on too many people to question his ability to change a life’s course.

  Pedro ran across the dusty road. Simon had no idea what was in store, just around the next bend.

  Chapter 14

  Simon moved down the silent street, slipping from shadow to shadow. From the other side of the wire fence he heard a noise inside the professor’s house. He assumed it was the hunter. Simon knew what he was doing was borderline insane. He also knew his actions were drawn from a lot more than just getting his passport back.

  He had always been attracted by danger. It was the lure he could not resist. Whenever most people started screaming and running away, Simon was at his calmest. His senses were on full alert, his mind crystal clear. He could literally count every dust mote, give a name to each blade of sunlight. The blood sang in his veins.

  The SUV’s passenger window was rolled down. Simon opened the door and slipped inside. The interior was blisteringly hot. Sunlight glared through the darkened front windshield. His ability to see was cut down by the tinted glass, but it appeared to have no impact whatsoever on the heat. Simon could not understand why anyone would want to darken the view ahead. All this sped through his brain as he rifled the dash, then did the same to the compartment between the seats and the pockets in each door. Nothing.

  He spied a briefcase on the backseat. It was one of those fancy slipcovers, without handles, to be carried like a pouch. The gold label on the front flap was carved with the word, Dunhill. A fancy container for a bad guy. He unzipped the compartment and found a few papers, all in Spanish.

  Then he heard a hiss from the other side of the street. This was followed by the slam of a door.

  Simon jammed the papers back into the briefcase and slipped out the passenger door. He could not risk shutting the door completely because just then the gate squeaked and clicked shut. He knew Pedro was across the street and petrified by the sight of the hunter approaching the car. Simon squatted in the road, tracking the hunter’s boots from underneath the SUV.

  Then the hunter started around the car.

  Simon couldn’t run for the other side of the street. To do so would expose them both. He kept his head down, still tracking the hunter’s feet, moving as soundlessly as he could manage, keeping the SUV between them.

  The hunter came around to the passenger side and halted. He examined the door, opened it, then slammed it tight. He did not move.

  Simon’s fear mixed with the adrenaline rush, and he was ready to bolt if the man saw tracks in the road-dust and started toward him. There was little chance he could make it to safety. This was the hunter’s world. Simon’s only haven was a universe away. He had no idea how to even find the orphanage.

  The hunter stood like that, staring across the street, motionless. It felt to Simon as though hours passed. Then the man turned and walked back the way he had come. He climbed into the SUV and started the motor.

  Simon scrambled backward, crablike, until a space opened between two houses. He wedged himself inside and crouched as the SUV rocked back and forth, turning around in the tight lane. The dark vehicle had a massive motor that roared as the hunter finally managed the turn and raced away.

  When the motor’s noise faded, Simon rose from the shadow. Across the street, Pedro did the same. Simon walked over, expecting rage, fear, anything but how Pedro greeted him.

  Pedro smiled. His grin was infectious. “Do you do this often? Scare people half to death?”

  Only then did Simon realize his legs were weak and shaking. He gripped the side wall. “I thought you’d be furious.”

  “Amigo, I am too scared to be angry. But give me a few minutes. Maybe I will recover.”

  Simon had to fight down a case of the giggles. He was afraid if he started laughing, he wouldn’t be able to stop. “Let’s go check it out.”

  The giddy feeling did not last. The professor’s front door was solid wood, very thick, with iron bars crosshatched over a small portal at head height. The door was locked. Simon used the key on the chain around his neck and unlocked the door. He was instantly confronted by all he had lost.

  The first thing that met him was the smell of cherry-flavored pipe tobacco. Vasquez did not often light up. The occasional pipe was his way of marking a truly good day. And by the strength of this cold odor, Vasquez had known many good moments recently.

  Pedro asked, “How do you have a key to this house around your neck?”

  “Vasquez made every lock work to just one key. Lab, filing cabinets, clean room, home. The works.”

  “But how is it . . . ?”

  “Later, okay?” Simon moved deeper into the house. There was no way he was going to be drawn into that discussion.

  The place was an utter wreck. Vasquez had never been neat and tidy. On the best days, his office resembled a tsu
nami zone. Which was hardly surprising. Many great scientists were abysmal housekeepers. What made Vasquez unique was how precise and methodical he was when it came to records. Which was why Simon was here. Vasquez would have been keeping records to the last possible moment, to his dying breath.

  If Simon was going to make any headway, he needed to find out not just the professor’s final entry, but the last established pattern.

  Vasquez’s latest research had undoubtedly taken a different turn. Simon had no idea what that was. In order to continue, he first had to determine which course of action to follow. Hundreds of possible variances existed. Thousands. Simon kept tossing up different potential avenues of research, unexplored directions that could have potentially resulted in success. But he had no idea which one Vasquez had identified. That was why he came. To find out.

  Pedro walked through the foyer and whistled softly. “Who did this?”

  “Your friend and mine, most likely. The guy in the leather jacket.”

  “But why? The professor did not have an enemy in the world.”

  “Apparently Vasquez had at least one.” Simon continued down the narrow hall that led into a living-dining area. The L-shaped room had an array of windows fronting a back porch. All the windows framed spectacular views of the mountains.

  The room had not merely been searched. It had been completely torn apart. Holes were banged in all four walls at odd intervals. The sofa and padded chair had been ripped open. The carpet had been peeled off the concrete floor. The wallpaper fell in ragged strips. The ceiling was gouged like the walls. Every light was shattered.

  “I have a bad feeling about this,” Pedro said but did not retreat. Instead he turned to the right off the front foyer rather than following Simon into the living room. Pedro’s feet scrunched over glass. “Simon.”

  “What.”

  “Come take a look.”