The Edge

our right, the third one along this side of the corridor. I opened it as quietly as I could and we slipped inside. We listened. Then we heard a noise, just the clearing of a throat.

    Both of us whipped around to see an old man sitting at a small table in the corner, tucked away in shadows, just beneath a narrow, high window, eating a bowl of soup. He was bald and his face was scored with lines, the color of brown leather. He had a long dirty-gray beard. He was wearing an old dark brown wool robe, a rope tied around his waist.

    He was staring at us, a tortilla halfway to his mouth. I whispered in Spanish for him not to move, "Quedate, Father. Don't even twitch your beard."

    I looked up at Laura. She was standing pressed to the door, still listening, her fingers pressed against her lips for quiet. The boots marched by. No one stopped. The priest didn't move.

    "Who are you?" he asked me in Spanish in a deep and ancient voice.

    "We're American federal agents. They drugged us and brought us here as prisoners. They're going to kill us if they get ahold of us again. We're trying to get away. Are you a prisoner too, Father?"

    He shook his head. "No, I come to the compound once a week to minister to all the people. When I arrive, one of the women gives me breakfast." His words rolled into one another, nearly slurring. It was hard for me to understand him. But I understood enough.

    "What day is it?"

    He had to repeat it twice before I understood. Thursday. We'd lost a day.

    "Where are we, Father?"

    He looked at me like I'd lost my mind. "You're just outside of Dos Brazos."

    More boots were marching this way. They were slowing. We were trapped. The one narrow window wouldn't let a skinny kid through it. The old man looked at us, then said slowly, "There's no more time. Both of you, get under the bed, quickly. I will deal with the men."

    If he betrayed us, we had less of a chance pinned under the narrow sagging bed in the far corner. We had no choice. Laura and I scooted under it. At least the stringy blanket fell over the bed nearly to the floor. We fit, barely. I was nearly lying on the AK-47, Laura pressed against my back, her weapon pressed against my spine.

    The door opened, no knock. I saw at least three pairs of boots. I heard a man with a shrill voice say in Spanish, "Father, have you been here long?"

    "Si. I am still eating my breakfast."

    "You haven't heard anything, no people, no running?"

    "Just you, senor, and your men. Que haces? What is the matter? Is there a fire?"

    "Oh no, nothing like that. Some people-a man and a woman-we were holding them for the policia. They've gotten away. Don't worry, Father. We'll find them."

    The priest didn't say anything. Was he giving them a sign? No. The men turned and marched back out the

    door. Then, suddenly, one of them said, "Father Orlando, the woman Hestia told me that her son is in great pain. She wants you to see him now. Can you come? My men will escort you to keep you safe from the foreign man and woman."

    "I will come," said the priest. He was wearing old Birkenstock sandals, no socks. His feet were as worn and scarred as a tree trunk.

    The door finally closed. We slowly moved out from under the bed.

    "That was close," Laura said, wiping herself down. I stared toward the small table. There were three soft tortillas just lying there. I was still hungry. I grabbed them up, rolled them, gave Laura a big bite, and stuffed the rest in my mouth.

    "I'm starting to feel human again."

Chapter Twenty-Two

    We were in some sort of old wooden barracks that turned and twisted about like a rabbit warren. The first two rooms we looked into were empty, but in the third one there was a man sleeping in a lower bunk, his back to us. He didn't stir. We quietly closed the door and kept looking. Savich and Sherlock had to be in one of these rooms.

    We eased out into the corridor again. We came to a corner, and I motioned Laura to stay back while I went down on my haunches and took a quick look. I nearly lost my tortillas I was so startled. Not fifteen feet from me were at least ten men of all ages, dressed in fatigues and combat boots, all at stiff attention, their weapons held against their shoulders, their backs to me. They were silent, not a single twitch. I couldn't even hear them breathe.

    An older man, in his early fifties, stood in front of them. He wore civilian clothes, a white linen shirt open at the neck, tan slacks, and Italian loafers. He was perfectly