When they reached the highway and headed north, Amelia said, "They will kill me."

Jose glanced at her, then returned his attention to the road. After a minute he said, "Not if they can't find you."

CASEY FINISHED HER RUN AND DIDN'T BOTHER TO TOWEL OFF before she fired up her computer, got the phone number of the first boyfriend she'd had after her divorce, and called him at his new home in Washington, DC.

"Tommy? Casey Jordan."

She heard him clear his throat. In a groggy voice he said, "It's six o'clock."

"I know," she said, speaking fast. "I'm sorry. I had a client deported. Well, she went voluntarily, but that was because they were holding her two-year-old daughter. She's near Monterrey. That's where they sent her and I need your help to get her back."

"Is this really Casey?" he asked. Tommy Gillespie worked for the State Department, a mid-level administrator, and a former standout baseball player at A &M. While unmarried, blond, and handsome, he was too young for Casey and too committed to a career that kept him bouncing from place to place.

"I know I haven't been good about staying in touch," she said. "But I think about you."

"I saw that thing on TV," he said.

Casey felt her cheeks warm.

"Yeah, it was pretty good," he said. "Happy ending and everything. The girl I'm seeing, she got a little choked up. She actually wanted to call you, but I told her no."

"I thought the whole thing was stupid," Casey said.

"Well, she liked it."

"I didn't mean it like that," Casey said. "Anyway, can you help me?"

"I'll try."

Casey explained what happened to Isodora, then told him about the lawsuit she had already put in motion.

"I remember the DA had a witness for a case I tried in Austin a few years ago," she said. "The guy was an illegal from Mexico. I didn't want him testifying and I tried to make something of his status to the judge, but it was all by the book. They went to the State Department and got him some kind of a visa I guess you have for people involved in legal matters."

"Sure," he said. "A visitor's visa for business, a B-1."

"Well, this is a lawsuit," Casey said.

"You think we could do business in this country without lawsuits? Litigation is covered under a B-1. It's no big deal."

"And it supersedes this voluntary deportation?"

"Sure," he said.

"What if she's on some kind of watch list?"

"Is this like that time you asked me if I liked to see justice being served and I ended up as an expert witness in that crazy trial with the woman who stole her kids?"

"Those kids were hers, and you know it," Casey said. "The senator in this case called in some favors. Evidently, the dead husband has a brother who's a Latin King. They painted her with the organized-crime thing."

"I'd like it if every bit of information got referenced and cross-checked between agencies by now, but the truth is, there's a lot less information sharing than you'd think," Tommy said. "I'm not saying you could fly her in. TSA is linked up pretty good. But if you bring her back in a car with a B-1 from the State Department? Customs won't think twice. A visa's a visa."

"Perfect."

"Not for me if someone catches it, but it works for you."

"So how do we do this?" Casey asked.

"I'll have it drawn up and faxed to you for your signature and your input of information on the lawsuit," Tommy said. "You send it back and I'll have it waiting for her in-where'd you say she was? Monterrey?"

"Yes."

"At the consulate there," he said.

"Can you get it done by tomorrow?" she asked.

"Tomorrow?" he asked.

"I need to get this done," she said. "Can you have it waiting at the consulate in Monterrey?"

Tommy chuckled and said, "You're so bashful."

"Please."

"Okay," Tommy said. "One favor."

"Name it."

"My girlfriend, Lauren? Just give her cell phone a call and leave a message. Say anything. 'Hi, this is Casey. Tommy says you're great.' She's in love with you."

"Jesus, Tommy."

"Hey, I'm the one manipulating the federal government."

"I thought it was standard to issue a B-1 for a litigation?"

"Yeah, and it takes about six months to process. You're going to get it in about six hours."

CASEY LOOKED OUT THE WINDOW AND GRIPPED JOSe'S KNEE as a thermal column buffeted their plane. They banked wide, circling to land, and she could see the cluster of downtown buildings and high-rises, dark and lifeless under a heavy pancake of brown-and-yellow smog. From factory stacks, plumes of blackened air flowed upward like hellish geysers, while orange flames licked at the soot, burning off vents of methane. The signs of industry and progress promised cheap goods, processed food, and electric power, all the same comforts offered across the border to the north. Jagged mountains looked on from a distance, dead as slag.

"My God," Casey said.

She tightened her belt and was glad she had when they hit the runway hard enough to bounce and rattle the bins in the small pantry. Jose pried her fingers from his knee.

"Sorry," she said.

"I didn't know you hated flying," he said. "You turned white."

"Flying is fine. Crash landings I don't like."

Jose teased her about her pallor all the way to the car rental counter, where he argued with the woman in Spanish for a time before turning to Casey and explaining in frustration that the luxury sedan they thought they had reserved was actually a jeep.

"That's not too bad," Casey said. "Like a small SUV."

"I don't think it's that kind of jeep," he said, scooping the keys off the counter and signing his name.

Jose led her outside to the parking spot that matched the number on his keys.

"At least it's got a roll bar," Casey said, rounding the machine and eyeing the patches of chipped red paint that showed the original color to be a drab army green. She looked down at her Donna Karan pantsuit, sighed, took the jacket off, and tucked it into her shoulder bag before stowing the bag behind her seat, rolling up her sleeves, and getting in.

"If it was any hotter I think the tires would melt," Jose said, tossing his own bag onto the floor beneath the tiny back bench seat and stripping off his outer denim shirt to reveal a snug V-neck T-shirt tucked in to the narrow waist of his jeans.

"We'll get a nice breeze," she said, undoing the scarf around her neck and using it to fasten down her hair.

"Like a hair dryer," he said, gazing up through a pair of Oakley sunglasses at a sun that burned orange through the dirty haze.

Jose navigated with a map he kept pinned beneath his leg, weaving through traffic and down side streets until they found the American consulate, where Isodora's and her daughter's visas were waiting as promised for Casey to pick up. The sun crested, angry and red at its apex as they finally broke free from the city. Its final destitute slums spilled to the edge of a barren brown landscape littered with rocks, garbage, and bleached animal bones. Despite the deafening wind, the oppressive heat had Casey sweating by the time they turned off the main highway and began a long climb into the mountains on a road of stone and oil, baked and broken by the heat. A slick milky mud in the bottom of the potholes spoke of a recent rain. Otherwise, dry dust coated all, prickly pear, mesquite, cactus, and jeep.

At first, Jose eased the jeep over the rougher terrain, but after a time they simply held tight and he plowed over it all. As they climbed, the sun lost its colorful hue and glared blindly down, a hot white eye. Casey looked back at the dust cloud that extended like a bushy tail, disappearing into the smog below. The only traffic they met was a battered white minivan, empty except for two bearded men with eyes hidden behind sunglasses. When they stopped for Jose to ponder a fork in the road, her teeth felt loose and finding solid ground beneath her feet had an unnatural quality she had never noticed before.