“Yes.”

“Most Mexicans know very little about the Magonistas. It’s one of the sad things about my country. Our history is only found in the shadows. You’re an odd gringo that you see those shadows.”

“I never knew my father very well,” Faroe said. “I was born late in his life. The only trips we ever took were to the mountains east of here, between Ojos Azules and El Alamo. My father was either crazy or a shaman, or both at once. The poor people accepted, even celebrated, his differences. He was a marijuana smuggler back before marijuana became an international commodity. He loved to smoke weed and he loved that wild country and its stoic people. After he died, I came down to Ensenada to go surfing. The ocean was the color of his eyes.”

Magon studied Faroe’s face. There was nothing to see but intent green eyes, wariness, surprising intelligence, and the relaxation of someone who was used to being alert without being anxious.

“Yet here you are,” the priest said. “Between the surfer and the man you are now lies much history, yes? You have a hard look about you, the look of a policeman rather than a smuggler.”

“I was a cop once,” Faroe said, “just like that guy outside with the gun, just like the Chicharrones Brigade keeping Lane in his four-bedroom prison. You don’t have to be honest to carry a badge. Or a crucifix.”

“So cynical,” Magon said wryly.

“It’s a dirty job, but if someone doesn’t do it, everyone will have to. There are still some innocents in this corrupt world. Lane is one of them.”

“And his mother?”

“What about her?”

“I was wondering if there might be some personal relationship between you and the beautiful judge.”

It was Faroe’s turn to be surprised. News of the hot act in the marina parking lot had made it to Mexico sooner than he’d expected. “Since when do the federales report to you?”

Magon looked puzzled. Then he dragged on the cigar, making its tip glow beneath a pale layer of ash. “I didn’t need a federale to tell me there is something between you and the woman. I saw the three of you walking down there on the sand. A close relationship would explain why you’re trampling where angels fear to tiptoe.”

“You have your motives,” Faroe said. “I have mine. The only real question is if we can find common ground.”

Magon sighed. “I don’t want Lane harmed. That’s true of all my charges. But Lane is…different. Intelligent enough to fear, brave enough not to show it, a natural athlete, a superb student once he realized it mattered, and with surprising insight into adults for a boy his age.”

Something in Faroe began to relax. The risk he’d taken was very close to paying off. “Can I count on you to keep Lane safe while I try to untangle this mess?”

“This ‘mess,’ as you call it, is quite complicated. It’s not likely to yield to the efforts of a single man, no matter how skillful or dangerous he is. The outcome is in God’s hands.”

“My objectives are more limited than yours,” Faroe said. “If necessary, I can work alone. Your pope wouldn’t like the results.”

“This situation has very high stakes. No one controls all the players. No one can guarantee the outcome.”

“Not even God?”

“He works in ways we mortals don’t always understand.”

“Save it for the believers. I hold individual mortals responsible for earthly outcomes.”

Magon straightened. “You’re threatening me.”

“Amen.”

The priest’s blue eyes stared through the little window, studying Faroe. Magon puffed quickly on the cigar and his face disappeared in a billow of smoke. When the air cleared, his eyes had changed. They were direct, hard.

“If I am as corrupt as you suspect I might be,” Magon said, “why wouldn’t I run straight to the men who hold Lane?”

“Because you learned this secret in the confessional, Father.”

“Only believers are protected by the sanctity of the confessional.”

“A lawyer, as well as a diplomat and a spy,” Faroe said dryly. “I should have expected no less from the Vatican. Yes, I’m taking a calculated risk with you. I trust our mutual friend in Rome. He may or may not know what you’re up to but he knows you’re more complex than you appear to be.”

“A cynic, yet still a man of some faith,” Magon said.

“I’ve learned to trust a few people. Damned few.”

“I, too, have faith in a few people. For the moment I’ll keep the confidences of a man who walks into danger by choice.”

Faroe almost smiled. Under other circumstances, he would have enjoyed Father Rafael Magon, radical pragmatist and Vatican spy.

“Where can I find Hector Rivas?” Faroe asked.

“Why?”

“He holds Lane’s life in his murdering hands,” Faroe said.

Savoring his cigar, Magon considered the request for a full minute. A feudal lord and traficante like Hector Rivas Osuna had many enemies. A man like Faroe could find many ways to ambush even the highly protected Hector.

“I have nothing to gain by killing Hector,” Faroe said, understanding the reason for Magon’s hesitation. “With Hector dead, Lane would be in more danger, not less. I’m here to negotiate before anyone gets real nervous. Nerves and guns scare the hell out of me.”

Magon looked at the tip of the glowing cigar and sighed a smoke-laden breath. “Normally, I wouldn’t be able to answer your question. Hector is always on the move, never sleeping in the same place twice in a row. Sometimes he moves several times in the same night.”

“Yeah, well, the man has a lot to worry about,” Faroe said sardonically. “History is one long list of people who lay awake wondering who to trust. Some of them guessed right. Others died young.”

The priest smiled, then sighed again. “One of Hector’s nephews is getting married. I will perform the ceremony this weekend at the Rivas rancho east of Jacumba.”

“My condolences to the bride,” Faroe said under his breath.

“Tonight there’s a celebration in Ensenada,” Magon said. “Hector is the patriarch of an extended clan. He will attend the party, even if only for an hour or so.”

“Ensenada is too big to search in an hour or so. Can you narrow it down?”

“Try the Cancion. It’s a restaurant on the grounds of the Encantamar, just off the ocean walk, the malecon, in Ensenada. Hector likes the abalone there.”

“Thank you, Father.”

“Understand that Hector Rivas Osuna is a ticking bomb.”

“Anything in particular that will set him off?”

“Everything, at any moment. He has become addicted to rock and nicotine.”

The confessional window slid closed.

Shit. A crackhead toking doctored Mexican cigarettes. He could blow up at any instant.

The chapel was so quiet Faroe could hear the gentle trickle of water in the fountain beneath the pepper tree.

The complex Father Rafael Magon had vanished.

ALL SAINTS SCHOOL

SUNDAY AFTERNOON

THE SUN WAS HIDDEN behind a seething silver mass of clouds. Waves humped up man high, higher, then exploded on the beach in a boil of sand and froth. The wind whipped wave tops into a salty mist. Onshore, the wind stripped fine sand from the beach and scored unprotected skin.

Faroe spotted Grace and Lane sitting together, watching the wild waves. The boy’s shoulders were hunched in fatigue, his mother’s in tension. Neither seemed to notice the seagulls wheeling and keening above them, begging for scraps.

The armed guards lounged twenty yards up the beach, smoking and waiting, watching, always watching.

Grace sensed Faroe’s approach and turned to look at him. Her face was smooth, expressionless. She was working hard to keep her fears under control.

Good for you, woman, Faroe thought, even if Lane reads you like a billboard. Both of you get points for trying to help each other.