Her laugh sounded more like a sob.

He glanced at the dashboard clock. Steele should be setting down within the hour. At least there would be a safe place for Grace while Faroe went south.

“Do you think Lane knows anything about this file?” Faroe asked.

“He never said anything to me about Ted keeping files on the computer.”

“I’ll ask when I call Lane. If he could rig a wireless connection, I could suck that file right through the satellite phone.”

“Lane knows all about wireless and 3G and a lot of other things that go right over my head.”

“I’d sure like to see what Ted figures is his federal Get-Out-of-Jail-Free card.”

“What good would that do?” Grace asked.

“I can’t answer that until I see it, but I’ve got a real good idea. I think the Plaza file is just that-a list of all the black transactions Bank of San Marco did for Hector, Carlos, and the rest of the narcotraficantes.”

“But that would implicate Ted. Why would he do that?”

“If he leads the feds to twenty or fifty or whatever million bucks, they’ll seize it, pat him on the back, and let him go.”

“But-”

“That kind of money would pay for a lot of federal task forces,” Faroe said, ignoring her interruption.

“You make it sound like law enforcement is a profit center for the U.S. government,” Grace said tiredly. “I thought that was Mexico’s specialty.”

Faroe shrugged. “Governments are made of people. Some people are better than others and everyone has a price. Sometimes, like in most of Mexico, bureaucrats and politicians get rich directly. Others run the money through political parties or even bureaucracies. It all boils down to money and power and to hell with the meadow that’s flattened while the elephants and donkeys dance for dollars.”

“But-”

“You heard Ted back there, conniving with his lawyer and government agents to work out what amounts to a political solution to his large, personal legal problems. If that isn’t a kind of corruption, what is?” Faroe asked.

“If you believe that, why bother?”

“I like meadows,” Faroe said evenly. “I especially like the individual blades of grass. Like Lane. If I can keep the elephants from smashing him while they dance, that’s good enough for me.”

Silence grew.

Miles of it.

They were within sight of the helicopters circling the border when Grace said bitterly, “Shade upon shade of gray.”

Faroe didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.

“So a rich, politically connected snake like Ted talks to the political types in Main Justice,” Grace said. “He convinces them that it’s in the best interests of everybody to let him pay an informal multimillion-dollar fine and slither off into his hole.”

“Don’t ask me to like it,” Faroe said. “And don’t ask me to pretend it doesn’t happen.”

“I won’t. When you add the clever spinning of facts by a lawyer like Sturgis, Ted could end up looking like an upstanding citizen committing a selfless act of civic virtue. If Sturgis is good enough, they’ll probably give Ted a presidential citation.”

“Yeah,” Faroe agreed, his voice tightening with anger. “And he’s already on his way to flushing both you and Lane right out of the system.”

“I can live without a judgeship-of any kind.”

Faroe shot her a fast glance. No tears, no frowns, just the kind of determination that didn’t know how to quit.

The only thing I can’t live without is my son.

“Ted won’t be able to explain away Lane’s imprisonment,” she said fiercely. “I won’t let him.”

“You’re not going to like hearing this,” Faroe said, “but I have to say it. By now, Ted and Sturgis are well on their way to painting you as a lying slut and Lane as a doper and a screwup who got himself in trouble in Mexico.”

She took a sharp breath.

“Lane won’t die a hostage,” Faroe said, his words all the more terrible for the calmness of his voice. “He’ll probably be an accidental overdose. If Hector doesn’t stick a needle in the kid’s arm, Sturgis will see to it that one is ‘found’ on the beach next to the body.”

“Stop it.”

“I’m trying to. But with Ted lawyered up and federally protected, we’re holding the slippery end of a very shitty stick. Powerful people, whether politicians or crooks, don’t like loose ends. Loose ends distract from the big, bright plasma-screen picture of reality that gets peddled all day, every day, on the news channels.”

Grace looked over and at Faroe. In the flickering mercury-vapor lights of the freeway overheads, he looked like one of the Huichol death masks she’d seen in Lane’s cottage.

“It can’t be that easy to bury the truth,” she said.

“It’s easier. Bust some mutt with a few kilos of cocaine and watch your career soar. Get evidence that points toward one of Mexico’s leading political families and watch your career tank. It isn’t important to really do something about drugs-it’s only important to appear to do something.”

Without warning, Faroe took an off-ramp and sped down smaller and smaller roads. He pulled into the parking lot of Brown Field just as a helicopter leaped off the tarmac and headed out for Spring Canyon to shut off the flow of illegal aliens that neither the U.S. nor the Mexican politicians wanted to stop.

They just wanted to appear to.

“Were we followed?” Grace asked.

All Faroe said was “Time to call Lane.”

ALL SAINTS SCHOOL

MONDAY, 1:00 A.M.

CIGARETTE SMOKE CAME INTO Lane’s room through open windows, along with gusts of warm, humid air from the storm that was inching closer to shore.

That’s why I’m sweating.

Heat, not fear.

But his sweat was cold.

In the spaces between the cry of wind and waves, men’s voices came from outside along with more smells of burning nicotine and something else, something Lane couldn’t identify. If one guard wasn’t smoking, the other was.

They were less than six feet from Lane’s bed.

If Mom calls now, Lane thought frantically, they’ll know.

Yet there was nothing Lane wanted or needed more than to hear his mother’s voice and know that he wasn’t truly alone.

The satellite phone beneath his pillow vibrated. Instantly he blocked any view from the window by diving under the sheet. He pushed the connect button.

And said nothing.

“It’s Faroe,” a man’s voice said softly. “If you can hear me but can’t answer, blow into the microphone. Once for yes.”

Lane’s breath sighed over the receiver.

At the other end of the line, Faroe’s heart kicked with relief. “Good. Are you okay?”

Lane breathed into the phone again. Once.

“Is there anyone in the room with you?” Faroe asked.

Lane blew twice into the phone, then whispered, “Wait.”

“As long as you want,” Faroe said.

Sweating, Lane lay beneath the sheet, holding the phone until his hand ached from the pressure.

The guards’ voices faded as they went on another tour of the cottage’s perimeter.

“Okay,” Lane said softly. “They’re gone. It usually takes them a couple of minutes to get back to the window.”

“Has anything changed since we were there?” Faroe asked quickly.

“No,” Lane said, keeping his voice so low it barely transmitted. “Father Rafael came to see me. He said he thought things would be okay. Do I trust him or not?”

“Until we find out a little more, treat him as an unknown quantity,” Faroe said. “But if things come unstuck, use your own judgment. He might be the best option you have. Do you understand?”

“Yeah,” Lane said. “Is Mom there with you?” The question was tentative.

“She’s here,” Faroe said carefully. He didn’t want the boy falling apart on the phone. Or Grace.

“Good,” Lane said. “I just didn’t want her to be alone right now. She worries a lot.”