"What's going on, buddy? You seem distracted." Don had spread out the map on the table in the conference room, expecting his younger brother to jump on it with all of his usual enthusiasm for an FBI case. Charlie loved these cases, saw them as a chance to 'really make a difference'. As if teaching students wasn't also making a difference. As if coming up with Nobel-worthy theories wasn't also making a difference…he could go on, but the fact was that right now Charlie was here in the flesh but his mind was somewhere else.

"Sorry, Don. I am distracted." Charlie tried to focus his thoughts, determinedly pulling them away from his father's project. He couldn't do anything more on that end until he returned to Dr. del Castillo's old estate to take more measurements, and that wouldn't happen for another couple of days when everyone was free. He blinked, using the action to re-direct his thoughts. "Okay. You're trying to figure out the most likely route for these people to cross the border and get to L.A., right?"

"Right," Don confirmed, watching him anxiously. If there was ever a time he needed Charlie to work his magic, this was it. "Border Patrol identified sixteen different routes that the smugglers could use, and nine points where they think Rivera may have stashed his vans that he uses to transport everyone to L.A. There's no way I can requisition that many people to cover all that territory, buddy. You can figure this out, right? Tell me which way Rivera's gonna jump? I'm coming up blank, Charlie. I need to nail this guy with the goods."

"I can give you probabilities, Don," Charlie corrected. "I can't tell you absolutely for certain, but I can tell you which way he's most likely to move. Give me the information that you have, all of it. The routes, the towns that your suspect gathers his people in, the suspected hideouts for the vans, everything. I'll run it through a Diaspora Analysis."

"A what?"

One corner of Charlie's mouth quirked up. "My black box of mathematical magic."

"Oh." Relief. Charlie wasn't going to subject him to another lecture. Good. "'Cause I didn't know how I was going to ask for enough people to eyeball sixteen different ways of getting to L.A."

"One hundred and nineteen."

"Huh?"

"One hundred and nineteen," Charlie repeated gently. "According to your sources, there are sixteen routes across the border, and seven different possible locations for the vans that your suspect uses, so there are one hundred and twelve different paths to be watched prior to arriving at the vans you were talking about, and then another seven possible routes from the van locations to the central site in L.A."

"Right." The glazed look that was in Don's eyes was rapidly turning to fear.

"But even that wouldn't be a proper use of resources," Charlie told him gently. "Because there are only seven different van locations, some of your lookouts could cover more than one border crossing. Depending on my findings, you might only need fifty lookouts to cover everything."

The fear stayed. "But you can cut that down, right?"

"I can give you probabilities," Charlie again corrected. "I can tell you the most likely route, given the circumstances and given that I have adequate data to work with. I can't guarantee you success."

"Right. No guarantees," Don repeated. "Just do your best. Right, buddy?"

Charlie started to gather up the map and the files that contained the details he'd need. Then he paused. "Don, just how many agents do you have available to cover these routes? How many routes can you watch at a time?"

"How many routes?" Don smiled crookedly. There was no humor in his expression. "Two."


'Hyper-focused' they called it. 'Concentrating' was Charlie's own name; blotting out the rest of the world so that he could work. It came easily to him, had ever since he was a child.

It wasn't so much a matter of ignoring the world as it was simply overlooking the extraneous parts. That was why the headphones worked so well: the music faded into the background so that the important pieces—the numbers, the concepts—grew and evolved into what they were supposed to. That was the wonderful thing about numbers, the way they came out right when they were manipulated properly. There was an immense satisfaction when the equation worked.

This was a difficult equation that Don had set him to. There were so many different variables, different pieces of the puzzle to consider. Some parts were easy: Rivera selected route A forty six percent of the time, and B twenty three percent, and so on, down the line of the sixteen different routes. Some of the variables were clear, and would eliminate some of the routes: if people gathered in Villa de las Flores, on the Mexican side of the border, then they could eliminate routes H, I, and J. If they gathered in San Marcos, then routes A, B, or M were most likely to be selected. And so on, and so on. Then there was the weather. And the routines of the Border Patrol, which almost always seemed to be watching the wrong route no matter what. And there was a period of time when the vans weren't at Location Three at all. Or when the arroyo along route J was flooded with water off of the mountains.

In other words: lots of data to crunch.

Charlie assigned weights to the various components, telling the computer to all but ignore the arroyo—a lot offlooding was expected for the next few months—and to pay strict attention to the Border Patrol schedules. There were other parts to weigh, things that several phone calls to Don added significance to—"How should I know how likely Rivera is to pay attention to the plants in bloom? Whether or not he has hay fever isn't in his file, Charlie!"—and increased the accuracy of the program he'd designed.

Done. Charlie leaned back in his chair, regarding the computer screen. The little hourglass was flickering, demanding the entirety of the computer's attention—something else to be hyper-focused—and Charlie knew that it would take a while for the computer to crunch all the data. More than a while; more like several hours. More like the rest of the day. He glanced at his watch: ten AM. He had the rest of the day to accomplish other tasks. Which one should he turn to? There were the rest of the tests to be graded, the ones that that graduate student hadn't done before going home sick. The fact that the tests were still there suggested that Mark was still sick in bed. Charlie wasn't surprised; the grad student had looked pretty wiped yesterday when Charlie had seen him. But the tests weren't due back to the students until after the week end, so there was plenty of time and Charlie had other things to do. There was that second draft of Maguire's Ph.D thesis to go through and, considering that Charlie had argued against offering Maguire admission to the program, Charlie was not looking forward to critiquing the work. From what he'd heard, Maguire had more than justified Charlie's poor opinion and the entire Math department was wishing that they'd listened to Charlie.

So, nothing on his desk that he particularly wanted to pick up. There was his own work, but there was something else that was begging for attention: the del Castillo estate. Those odd dimensions were still niggling at him, distracting him from other work. Charlie glanced at the computer once more; yup, the answers wouldn't be spit out until at least seven this evening and more likely closer to ten. He'd have plenty of time to go to the estate and back. Neither his father nor Elena del Castillo would be available—one was at the appraiser's and the other busy teaching—but that shouldn't matter. It was daylight. And he could take the bus. No use exposing a car to pilferage. It was daylight, so it should be safe. It was only after the sun went down that sensible people made sure to stay securely inside.

Decision made. Charlie stuffed a small pad of paper into his pocket and headed out.

The estate was exactly as he remembered it, only this time the outlines of the building mocked him. There was something wrong here, something off about the numbers. They didn't add up correctly, but now Charlie thought he knew why. It was up to him to prove it.

He entered through the broken door, stepping carefully around the hole in the floor in the entryway. The boards creaked beneath his feet, but that didn't matter. The first floor wasn't where the problem was. He headed upstairs.

The second floor was the sleeping quarters for the house, all with windows to let the cool ocean breezes flow through. Never mind that only one out of three windows was still intact; that could be, and would be, repaired. No, what Charlie had in mind was a little more mundane.

He started by measuring the dimensions of each bedroom, each room located on the upper floor of the estate, noting the measurements on his pad of paper. It took him almost an hour, but the results were gratifying: there was a ten foot section of the house missing.

Well, obviously it wasn't really missing. Just mislaid. Hidden somewhere, actually. This got more interesting. Charlie felt his eagerness rise. It always did when there was a puzzle to be solved, and this was far better than any five thousand pieces of cardboard to put together. The question was: where was the missing room?

It wasn't elegant, but it got the job done: Charlie darted from room to room, taking sightings on the mangled landscape outside through the broken panes, estimating where each room was in relationship to the rest of the house.

He ended up in the master bedroom, the largest bedroom in the house and the one underneath the bell tower. They'd been up in the bell tower earlier; the bell had cracked a generation ago, Elena had told them, and never been replaced or recast. There hadn't been any need and even then the family finances were feeling the strain of the new economic situations. The entrance to the bell tower was a door that they'd all had to duck to get through; people had grown taller since the estate was built.

Charlie looked around the master bedroom, trying to figure out where the entrance to the missing room was. It was somewhere close; it had to be!

And it had to be along this wall, the southern end. His estimates using the outside weren't particularly precise, but they didn't need to be. He was after qualitative, not quantitative. He rapped his knuckles on the wooden panels and rewarded by a hollow sound there. He grinned to himself: well-done, Abuelito, he silently saluted Dr. del Castillo's grandfather. Kept this secret to yourself to the end.

How to get in? This would be a pleasure to hand over to Elena. Then Charlie stopped short. No, he'd give this secret to his father, let his father tell Elena. After all, this was his father's project. It's what Alan Eppes had been hired to do, to renovate this estate. Charity or not, Charlie was just the consultant brought in by the master planner on the project. This would be his father's information to tell the client.

But first Charlie had to find the way into the hidden room, a way that preferably didn't involve axes or saws. For this room to remain hidden for so many years there had to be a secret entrance.

The bell tower steps, that had to be it. Charlie eased the door to the bell tower open, wincing at the creaks and moans that the door gave forth, hoping that the hinges weren't about to let go of the rotting wood. The upper hinge threatened, one screw actually coming loose and falling to the floor, but the rest stayed intact and Charlie was able to prop the door open.

He gingerly stepped inside the landing, testing the flooring so that he wouldn't end up in the parlor directly below. He rapped on the wall again, echo-locating the room behind.

But there was no entrance to the hidden room in the stairwell to the bell tower. The walls were plain and unadorned, the planks solid. Charlie rapped and prodded, twisted and turned everything he could discover, with no luck. He could feel the axe coming closer as the only means of entry.

Okay, if it wasn't in the bell tower, then where was it? Charlie took a step back, both mentally and figuratively, surveying the problem.

The room was there. The numbers proved it. The hollow sound to his rapping confirmed it. And where there was a room there was, logically, a door. Perhaps outside? Unlikely; there would have to be some means of ascending to this level and that would be too obvious for a hidden sanctuary. No, the entrance to the room had to be here. He was simply overlooking it.

Charlie began to look for a pattern, for a large enough square that would allow a body to pass through. It had to be roughly a meter square, if not larger—there! There, partially obscured by the free-standing closet that still held a couple of old and dusty black suits that had been the height of fashion half a century ago. The edges were cleverly concealed in the paneling, outlining a door barely large enough to admit Charlie himself.

No doorknob.

No problem. Charlie had seen many similar puzzles. He carefully pressed against a knothole here, another one there. This was completely random. There was nothing to guide him in one direction or another, and in cases like this the only sensible way was to simply try one combination after another until—

Click.

Yes! The paneling slid back the barest half inch, and a rush of moldy and stale air seeped out. Charlie put his shoulder to the panel and urged it open further. Dust cascaded down over him.

It didn't matter. What was important was seeing inside a room that hadn't seen the light of day for who knew how many years.

It was hard to see. There was no light, no windows. But Charlie could make out a comfortable easy chair, several bookcases, and a small table with an overlarge ashtray on it. An ancient, half-smoked cigar lay on the edge of the ashtray, its owner clearly interrupted. A newspaper sat yellowing beside it with a tall lamp that would plug into some long dead outlet. Charlie started forward, intending to explore.

No. This was Elena's house, and her history. This was for her to explore, to remember her grandfather, to cherish her heritage. Charlie stepped back. Next step: contact his father, so that he could bring the news to his client.

He pulled out his cell phone and flipped it open. A blank screen greeted him. What—? He tabbed the power switch. Nothing. And with a grimace, he recalled the electronic toy telling him just two days ago, or was it three, that it needed feeding. Never mind. He'd tell his father as soon as he got back to his office that the mystery of the irregular house dimensions was solved. He started for the steps, intending to head out and back to CalSci. And intending to plug his phone into its charger.

A noise stopped him. Not just a noise—voices. Angry voices, speaking in Spanish. Charlie couldn't tell what they were saying, but the meaning was clear: someone was displeased. Several someones were displeased, and they were taking their wrath out on several someone elses. A slap, and a cry followed it. A blow, and someone crashed into a piece of furniture. Charlie could hear the beating taking place. He stumbled backward, knocking over a small table in the corner. It clattered loudly to the floor.

"Escuche!" Listen!

Silence struck. Charlie froze.

"Quien esta alli?" Who is there?

No place to hide. Charlie breathed through his mouth, striving for lack of sound. Anything to escape notice. The only way out was down the stairs past the intruders, or jump out through a broken window. Neither seemed likely to succeed, and the chance that the trespassers would be pleased to see him was also remote. Not in this neighborhood. Not in this abandoned house.

"Rafael, vaya." Charlie heard a heavy footstep on the stairs, knew that someone had just been told to check out the noise he'd made. Not good. He cast a desperate glance around, hunting for a way out of this mess.

It was obvious: Abuelito's hidden study. If it had remained secret for all these years, it could remain secret a little longer. Charlie slipped inside, cursing the creaking floor boards, and slid the door shut. It clicked into place, closing out all of the light. Charlie was plunged into darkness.

It didn't matter. He kept his ear to the wall, listening to Rafael making his way through the bedrooms, searching for the perpetrator of the sound.

It took forever. Charlie held his breath as Rafael entered the master bedroom, not daring to breathe in case the man had good hearing, only letting the air out when Rafael's footsteps trailed off back down the main staircase.

"Nadie, Rodolfo." Nobody.

"Bueno. Ven aca." Come back.

Charlie listened to the footsteps returning down the staircase, heard the man jump over the steps that were trying to collapse under the weight of man and age. He heard the group murmur, heard more commands. He heard voices grow louder and demanding.

Then more slappings. More cries. More angry voices. More punishment being doled out to some unlucky people. Charlie cringed, but there was nothing he could do except get himself caught and subjected to the same abuse.

Then silence.

Charlie waited a few minutes longer until he was certain that they, whoever they were, had left the house. It had been close. Those people hadn't belonged here, and wouldn't have taken kindly to Charlie's observations. His father had been right; not one of them should be here alone, even in broad daylight. Charlie should have waited for the others before returning to solve this mystery.

He'd learned his lesson, and lived through it. He'd get out of here as quickly as possible, tell his father about this room, and come back with the rest of them so that Elena could explore. Maybe they could persuade the police to stake the place out to wait for those gang types who had been downstairs. Maybe Don could exert some of his considerable influence to get the low lifes run out. Maybe, maybe.

Charlie pushed at the door to Abuelito's study.

Nothing. The door didn't move.

Charlie pushed again, a little harder this time. Still it didn't budge.

It was dark in the study, and Charlie couldn't see, couldn't remember where the doorknob was. He felt around the wall, searching. A sinking feeling hit: he couldn't remember seeing a doorknob at all. Just as the outside had been, there was no doorknob on the inside.

Nothing. No doorknob. No knots in the door, no way to get out. No one to hear him bang on the walls.

No way to get out.


Best time of the day, was Alan Eppes' opinion. Mid-morning, newspaper in hand, coffee on the table and still fresh and hot. Couldn't be better. No kids around, not even grown-up kids. He finished the column, noting with mild annoyance that he'd have to go searching further back in the paper if he wanted to learn the conclusion of what happened to that crook that Don had hauled in to justice just three months ago. Why couldn't newspapers learn to keep a story decently in one place instead of spreading it all throughout the whole litany of pages? Of course, he could simply ask his son, but that would be cheating. Besides, if he didn't read the morning paper, who would keep the journalists in business?

Life didn't get much better. A leisurely cup of coffee, then he'd go wake his shaggy-haired son who wanted so badly to go back to the estate project to figure out whatever it was that he wanted to figure out. For a kid who was that eager, Charlie was sure sleeping late. Made sense, though; Charlie had worked to all hours of the night at CalSci. Probably had been working on the most recent case of Don's. Alan himself had gone to bed before his math professor son had come home. Charlie would have let himself in quietly and gone up to his room to tumble into bed.

Someone fumbled at the back door. Alan looked up. "Come on in; it's open."

More fumbling, then the knob twisted and Don entered, a bag of something fresh in his hand smelling of cinnamon. "You gotta get that door fixed," he complained by way of a greeting. "I think the pins in the lock are slipping. Where's Charlie?"

"Good morning to you, too, O eldest son of mine," Alan returned. He ruffled the paper. "What brings you out to see me on this glorious and sunshine-y day?"

Don grimaced. "Charlie. He was supposed to call me yesterday evening. He's working on something for me."

"Another case, I presume?" As if they both didn't know.

"That's right."

"Can you share any of it with your old man?"

Don sighed. "A tough one. We've got drug smuggler who's diversifying the action. Not only does he smuggle drugs across the border, he gets illegals across as well."

"Two for one kind of operation."

"And that's not the half of it." Don plopped down onto one of the chairs and set the bag onto the table. He pulled a cinnamon bun out, fragrant and sticky, and bit into it before offering the bag to his father. "He then grabs the pretty ones, and sells them into white slavery. A real pillar of society type."

That raised his father's eyebrows. "I can see why you're so anxious to shut him down. And Charlie's end of it?"

Another sigh. "This guy has more than a dozen routes across the border. Border Patrol hasn't been able to lay a finger on him, so the Powers That Be have handed the case over to the FBI."

"In other words, you." Alan nodded in understanding.

"Right. I've got Charlie working on telling me which route this guy will take. Once we nab him in the act, he's finished." Don looked around. "Charlie's home, right?"

"Upstairs, sleeping. He got in late last night, after I went up. I don't know when he actually got in. Must have been late for him to be sleeping this long." Alan glanced at his watch. "Go wake him up."

"Me?"

"Either you or me. Charlie said that he wanted to go back to the del Castillo estate. If he doesn't get a move on, I'm leaving him behind."

"Can I dump water on him?" With a grin.

"Sure." And then added, as Don started to move toward the sink, "as long as you clean it up."

The water stayed where it was. Don headed up the stairs to the bedrooms.

He passed his own old room, trying to keep himself from glancing in. It looked much as it did when he lived here, a few baseball posters still tacked to the wall with sticky stuff, a bunch of trophies collecting dust on a wooden shelf that he'd made himself in shop class. Bergermeister, that was the guy's name who taught that woodworking class. Always going on about safety and wearing safety goggles, taking off points whenever Don set the damn glasses down for a moment. He was one of the few teachers that gave Charlie a hard time, never thought Charlie would be anything worthwhile. Don he grudgingly allowed might do, since Don was into the manly sport of baseball in a serious way. Geeks, in Bergermeister's book, weren't worth much. Boy, had Charlie proved him wrong. And baseball had gone by the wayside.

Which reminded Don, he had practice with the pick up team this afternoon. He'd better get the magic numbers from Charlie so he could set up a surveillance team in the right spot for tonight. Too much stuff to cram into a single day. Maybe the surveillance could be postponed for a day?

Charlie's door was almost closed, a sliver of light shining through from the windowwhere the curtains never seemed to properly shade the sun out. Don used his knuckle to rap on the wooden door. "Charlie? You in there? Time to get up, buddy. You're going to miss the school bus."

Silence. Not even a grunt of I heard you, now go away. His brother must be sleeping hard. What time did the man get in last night? Must have been late, if he thought that it was too late to call Don with the results of his number crunching. "Yo, Charlie! C'mon. Up and at 'em." He pushed the door open.

The covers were rumpled—Charlie never could remember to straighten up—but there was no sleeping, tousle-haired man underneath them. Don glanced automatically around the small room, not seeing anyone.

He ambled back downstairs. "He's gone. Did he head back to CalSci already?"

Alan set the newspaper down, glancing at his watch. "If he did, then it was before I got up. Did you try him at school?"

"Hang on a sec." Don pulled out his cell and pushed the speed dial. Only Charlie's voicemail answered him. "Hey, Charlie, give me a call back ASAP, will ya? I need that data from you." He snapped the cell shut and stuffed it into his pocket. "Well, short of going down there and wringing it out of him, there's nothing more I can do."

"Maybe he needs more time," Alan suggested. "Maybe he hasn't worked it out yet. You know how he gets when he gets a problem into his head."

Don looked at his watch. He really did need that information from his brother. He considered. "I think I'll swing by his office, see what's cooking."

Alan ruffled the paper back in front of his nose. "If you see him, remind him that Elena and I will be working at the hacienda this afternoon, if he wants to join us."

Don nodded. "How's the project going?"

"Slow, but well. We're kind of holding off a lot of heavy duty labor until we can get the pieces in place to hire local help. Plus, we want to give the local thugs a chance to quietly move off of the place without any hassle."

"Local thugs?" Don's ears perked up. "Dad, is it safe there?"

"As safe as any place in L.A." Alan reassured him.

To Don, that was little better than saying 'we're waiting until the bullets stop flying to move into the line of fire.' "Maybe I want to have LAPD do a few patrols in the area?"

"Wouldn't hurt," Alan agreed, the paper between his face and his eldest. "Don't really know what's going on in there, and I figure the less I know, the better. I'd rather not rile people unnecessarily, if you know what I mean."

Unfortunately, Don did. This project was intended to improve the local neighborhood and the local economy, and it couldn't do that by incarcerating the teenagers who lived there. Gently moving them into an improved lifestyle would be more beneficial, as would encouraging the hard core gang members to move to a different section of town where they wouldn't get hassled. The whole process would take on a life of its own: without fear of bullets, people would start walking with heads held up high. They'd take jobs at the hacienda, earn better livings than menial wages; in short, they'd be aimed at the American Dream. "I'll put the word in the police chief's ear. They owe me some favors."

"Thanks," Alan said, meaning it. He set the newspaper down, too lazy at the moment to put it away. "Time to go. I'm picking up Dr. del Castillo, and heading over to the estate. Want to come, see the place?"

"Maybe later." Don looked at his watch again. Charlie hadn't called him back, not that Don had truly expected it. Not if Charlie was deep in thought. "I think I will check and see if Charlie's at his office. I really need those numbers. You think he's got class this morning?"

Alan considered. "Nope. His freshman calc class was yesterday; I remember him complaining about one girl who expected him to give her an 'A' on her test because she dyed her hair blonde." One corner of his mouth quirked up. "Things may have changed since my day, but not all that much."

Don grunted. "See you later, Dad."


Charlie froze. They were back! Angry voices, voices speaking in Spanish, were yelling at each other.

He couldn't tell what time it was—there were no windows, and he'd forgotten to wear his watch again—but it seemed like it was early morning, as in before daybreak type early morning.

More blows, more yelps of pain. Another cry, this one long and drawn out as though the torture was going on too long. Someone was angry, and someone else was paying the price. It wasn't hard to guess that calling out for help would not be the best way to live to grow old gracefully. Charlie kept his mouth shut.

Someone would come to rescue him. Someone would be here, and he could talk them through the process needed to open the hidden door. His father and Elena del Castillo would eventually arrive to work on the hacienda, and he could call out to them, tell them how to unlock the door.

The voices left, taking the sobbing and tortured voice with them. Charlie tried to curl up in the easy chair, tried to make himself as comfortable as possible. Tried to sleep. There was nothing else to do in the dark room.

Sleep wouldn't come.


"I can't stand this," Elena del Castillo announced, surveying the outside of the hacienda with displeasure. "Alan, I wish you could have seen this place when my grandfather was in good health. It was beautiful. The azaleas would bloom every year, the gardeners would water the annuals to keep the flowers coming. The birds nested in the bushes. That rose bush over there, the one climbing the trellis? A robin nested there every year. We were never certain if it was the same one, but we thought so. And we used to keep a feeder for the hummingbirds in that tree. It was my job to refill it with sugar water twice every week, every Wednesday and Saturday."

Alan smiled in understanding. "I take it this means that today's project is yanking out a few weeds."

Elena screwed up her face. "Would you mind? I know we ought to work at cleaning out the things inside, but…"

Alan grinned. "Hey, I may be the project manager, but you're the boss. And if the boss says we work outside, who am I to complain?" He gestured at the sunny sky. "I can't say that I disagree. As project manager, I can even come up with a good excuse." He struck a pose. "We soon will be coming to the point where we will be carrying out larger furniture items. For solid footing and safety, clearing away a significant walkway is imperative." He grinned again. "How was that?"

"Great," Elena told him, beaming. She slid her hands into some gloves and attacked the vines that were slowly crawling over the fallen trellis. "Where do we toss the trash?"

Alan glanced around. "The dumpster isn't scheduled to be delivered until Monday. How about putting everything over in that corner? We can transfer it to the dumpster when it gets here." He looked around. It was a weekday, and their potential employees were all back in school, thanks to a couple of calls by Dr. del Castillo. Alan himself was getting talked into holding some extra help classes in history and English, to be held in the parlor until the place took shape as a neighborhood center. Charlie, of course, would handle the math. Speaking of whom, where was his son? The way Charlie had acted the last time they were here, Alan would have sworn that the math professor would be chomping at the bit to get back.

Fickle, that's what Charlie was. The house problem one night, then let older brother Don come along with a new problem and Charlie was off and running on that one. Let Don deal with him for a bit.


Don's second stop on the CalSci campus was Professor Larry Fleinhardt's office, and he couldn't help but marvel how two such brilliant men could be so different and yet be such good friends. Guess it's true what they say, he mused. Opposites attract. Charlie's office could politely be described as making the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina look tidy, but Larry's office was more pristine than any professor that Don had ever known in four years as an undergrad and then his time at Quantico after that. Most of Dr. Fleinhardt's things were carefully shut away behind cupboard doors. The rest were…well, the best way to express the concept was arranged. Everything was in order. Everything was in place. The copious numbers of books weren't stacked according to an alphabetized listing of authors, but rather as to size and shape of the tome itself. The shelves and the cupboards where those books sat were of identical height and width and wood color. There were no holes or other marks on the walls, and everything was painted white. Even Dr. Fleinhardt's Ph.D diploma had been placed into a neat frame and was placed in the exact center of the white-washed wall above the symmetrical shelves. The desk was in what Don privately thought was the exact center of the room, and the throw rug that sat in front of the desk was completely square. Most throw rugs tended to wander, tended to migrate to either one side or the other, throwing off the symmetry of the room. Not this one. Even the pile of the carpet was brushed in the same direction: explicitly north.

Dr. Fleinhardt himself was seated behind his desk, pencil in hand, frowning as he marked the paper in front of him. His face brightened. "Don! A pleasure. What brings you here?" He indicated the less than stellar example of intellectual effort in front of him. "Tell me that you need my help instead of that of Charles, for a change. These inane freshmen attempts at retrieving the wisdom of the ages are trying my patience. I would welcome the respite."

Don winced. "You know I always value your advice, Larry."

"As do I yours, Don. What is your present dilemma?"

"Actually, I really was looking for Charlie," Don confessed before he could dig himself in too deep. "He was working on some equations for me. Calculating some routes. I was trying to find him, see if he'd finished it yet."

"Ah, yes. Charles mentioned it to me, told me that he had invoked the Diaspora Theorum. I quite approved, given the data that you presented him with. A small problem, quite solvable within the limits of the problem, although the results may not be as clear cut as one would hope for. The primary reason for the delay in presentation of the results is the sheer quantity of data points to be entered into the equation." Larry steepled his fingers, allowing the pencil to sit unattended on the offending paper. "You see, when you have as many variables as you gave Charles, one can only discuss the probabilities of success. And with the widespread variation among the variables, the likelihood of one route over another may be miniscule, to say the least. I fear the answers may not help you as much as we would like, Don."

Don struggled to derive some meaning from Larry's words. "You mean, you and Charlie solved it already?"

"No, I fear I cannot take credit for the endeavor," Larry returned. "Charles consulted me on a minor point, I gave him my opinion, and then I regretfully returned to evaluating the student efforts that you see before me." He frowned. "I suspect my time would have been better spent in assisting Charles. Certainly it would have been more intriguing, despite the fact that Charles had all but completed the work."

"But Charlie finished it?" Don persisted.

"By now? Indubitably. We discussed the decision points no later than yesterday afternoon. Why? Hasn't Charles presented you with the results?"

"No, he hasn't." And that wasn't like his brother. Absent-minded, yes. Flaky, and then some. But once he'd puzzled out a problem, Charlie wasted no time in bringing the results to Don. Charlie took that responsibility quite seriously. A small ice cube formed inside. "Larry, when was the last time you saw Charlie?"

Larry automatically glanced at his watch. "We discussed the analysis over lunch, then Charles returned to his office. He would not have required more than one hour's time to complete it, although the computer program itself would have taken several hours. But by now—actually, by ten last evening—the program should have reached a final conclusion." Don's concern spread to the physics professor. "Don, where is Charles?"

"Good question," Don said grimly. "He's not home, he's not at his office, he's not answering his cell phone. Any other place he could be?"

Larry pursed his lips. "The library, perhaps? Although Charles' own collection would be far more pertinent to this field of endeavor—no, perhaps not. If Charles required additional data as to the topological features of the terrain, he would have sought such details out in the main library." Larry shoved the papers aside, then took a moment to straighten them into an orderly pile. "Come. We'll see if he's there in the library."

But he was not.


Charlie had lost all sense of time long ago. He had slept, he'd scrounged through his pockets to see if there was anything edible—there wasn't—and shouting hadn't worked. No one could hear him from the street, and no one had come to work on the hacienda. What had happened? His father and Elena del Castillo had expected to come back every day to get a little more done, to harvest the treasures left behind by her grandfather. Why hadn't they shown up?

The only people to arrive at the hacienda were those angry voices, and Charlie had no intention of going from the frying pan into the fire. The words they used he couldn't understand, but the meaning was clear enough. The gang had come back once more since he'd been stuck in this room, and Charlie had stayed silent again. If they would torture one of their own, they'd certainly kill an intruder.

No one knew he was here. How long had it been? No; the real question was, was anyone looking for him yet? Let's puzzle this out logically: he'd slept more than once, so that implied that he'd been stuck in this room for several hours. A day? Maybe. In which case someone would have missed him, his father at least. And his father would have called Don, who would have… Well, Charlie didn't know what Don would do. Weren't there policies and protocols to go through when someone went missing? A twenty four hour thing, something like that? Had it been twenty four hours yet? It must have been; he'd already gone through being hungry and was back to that dull, gnawing pain inside that he usually ignored when he was on the track to solving a math problem. When had he eaten last? That could be a clue to how long it had been. Let's see, he'd lunched with Larry, discussed that point about the Diaspora Analysis and Larry had given him excellent insight into the point that related to the ravines that crossed three of the routes that Don had given him as data. His next stop had been to Huizenga Library to research the geography of the area—the library had excellent maps of the region—and then back to plug in the data into the university mainframe. That had taken him to three o'clock in the afternoon. The results wouldn't trickle in until at least seven, so Charlie had put the intervening time to good use: he'd come here to the hacienda. The odd dimensions had still been nagging at him at that point, had driven him back here to investigate. It had still been the middle of the day, had been bright out. It was safe, wasn't it? Charlie snorted to himself. Safe. Right. That's why he was stuck here. No food, no water, no white board to work out problems. All the necessities of life: missing.

Well, if no one was going to come to the hacienda to rescue him, Charlie would simply have to get himself out of this mess. If there was no doorknob, no mechanism to unlock, then brute force would have to do. There were times when an elegant solution was not the optimum solution. And the wood in this house was old and falling apart. Charlie shouldn't have too much trouble breaking the door down.

He felt around for the proper spot where he'd come in, rapping his knuckles to see if he could determine the weakest area, the most hollow. No luck; the entire area sounded hollow, which made sense since it led into the master bedroom. The bedroom itself would act as an echo chamber to his questing fingers. He could hear it, Charlie grumbled. Why couldn't anyone else?

No help for it. Charlie leaned his shoulder against the spot where he thought that the door was, and applied gentle pressure. No use in destroying more than he had to in order to escape.

The wood didn't even creak. It didn't give an inch, didn't give a centimeter, didn't even budge the tiniest millimeter. Charlie increased his force, using his legs to help push against the rotting wood.

Rotting wood apparently was unaware that it was supposed to splinter into sawdust. Either that, or this part of the hacienda wasn't rotting.

Charlie tried kicking, tried slamming things into the wall, tried everything he could think of. He even wondered about setting fire to the wood but dismissed that as a) too risky and b) impractical. He had nothing with which to start a fire.

And the cell phone hadn't miraculously acquired power.

And his pockets remained empty of food, water, and whatever else he needed to sustain life.

And, worst of all, there was nothing to write down mathematical equations onto. He'd have to be satisfied with remembering them, until someone found his desiccated corpse sitting in the easy chair when they finally got around to demolishing the hacienda and erecting the community center.


"I think you know a little more than you're telling us, Senora Colon," Megan said, trying for a mixture of severe authority balanced with woman-to-woman understanding. "You need to tell us what's going on."

"Please. You ask Senor Rivera. He knows what you are asking. I'm just a poor pesante, trying to make a better life for my ninos."

"And they're coming to join you, right?" Megan oozed. The interrogation room was cold and austere, no pictures on the walls, only windows around the edges with one way glass. It didn't matter; Senora Colon knew she was being observed by others but Megan was the only person she could see. The only person asking the questions.

"Si. My children, they are coming here to America. They will have a good life."

Megan switched tactics. "How old are they? How many?"

"Four," Senora Colon said proudly. "Three boys, one girl. Pilar Cristina, she is the youngest."

"That's a pretty name," Megan said. "How long has it been since you've seen her?"

The woman's face fell. "Five years. I left her with my sister five years ago."

"So she would be, what, twelve?" Megan guessed, watching the woman's face.

"Fifteen," Senora Colon sighed. "My sister, she sent me a picture of Pilar and the boys. My daughter is very beautiful. I ask Senor Rivera to bring her here. She is so beautiful, she can be a model and earn lots of money. Senor Rivera, he said he will send for her."

"She's coming soon?"

It was too much. Senora Colon's face froze. "No," she said woodenly.

It was a lie. Even the observers outside the one way windows could see that. It was clear that Senora Colon knew how Don Juan Rivera earned his money, and wasn't about to jeopardize it now, not when her family was ready to cross the border.

But did she know exactly? Did Senora Colon know the details of Don Juan Rivera's operation? Did she know what happened to the young and beautiful girls and boys that crossed over with Rivera's guides?

Megan pulled out pictures, pictures taken with a long range telephoto lens. They showed a small shanty town on the Mexican side of the border, a town that barely deserved the title of civilization. It was just a couple of tossed together shacks that would funnel the rain away and, if you happened to be sitting in exactly the right spot, would protect from the wind. For the two dozen people milling around in the picture, there was little cover.

"Do you recognize this?" Megan asked.

"No," Senora Colon lied, her eyes widening.

"Let's see if I can get a better picture." Megan leafed through the manila folder, looking for a certain picture. She selected one; not the one she was really after, but one that would build the tension. She placed another picture on the table and swiveled it around so that Senora Colon could see it. "How about this one?"

It showed several people, most just over childhood, all with pretty features grimed with dust and mud and determination. Senora Colon's attention was riveted to the photo, her eyes wide.

"I think I have a few that show the faces better." Megan's gaze wasn't on the photos. It was on Senora Colon. Megan pulled out several pictures this time, pictures that showed several of the people in far better detail. The pictures had been enhanced to clear up the features of the intended crossers. Megan pushed the pictures at Senora Colon.

The effect was electric. Senora Colon touched the photos, as if her fingers could see better than her eyes. Her lips moved; Megan could just barely make out 'Juan Miguel'. A tear formed in Senora Colon's eye. Her hands began to tremble.

"How about this one?" Megan asked softly, pushing another photo toward the woman. It was the one she was saving for last, going on gut instinct.

"Pilar." It was barely audible.

"These pictures were taken four days ago." Megan hardened her voice. "Those people are already in the United States."

"No."

Megan had a map ready. She pulled in out of her file and spread it onto the table. "This is the town where they gathered. That's where the pictures were taken, four days ago. Our people saw them head for the border. They went into a ravine, and we lost them. We don't know where they came out. But we know that they're somewhere in Los Angeles. Why hasn't Senor Rivera brought your children to you, senora? Why has he kept them from you?"

She waited for that to sink in. Waited for Senora Colon to be ready to process more information. More horror.

"You have four children, Senora Colon. Are those two of them? Are the other two boys there as well?"

"No." It was a lie. They both knew it.

"Pilar is very beautiful, Senora." Megan paused. "Senor Rivera will get a great deal of money when he sells her. And your son; who will buy him, Senora? What will they do with him once they purchase him?" Megan then gentled her voice. "You raised him to be a good Catholic boy, didn't you, senora? There was a church in the town where you came from. You went to church every Sunday, and on the Saints' Days." Another pause, to let the senora contemplate the horror. "Senor Rivera has taken them, senora. He has taken your children. He is going to sell them to bad people. Do you want that to happen to your children?"

"No." The tears were flowing.

"Then help us, senora. Tell us where they are. Let us save your children."

"But Senor Rivera—he promised! He promised me to bring me my babies! I paid him money!"

"He lied to you, Senora. He lies to everyone. You work for him; you know what he does." Megan pushed the pictures back in front of her. "Four days, senora. Four days he has your children. Soon he will sell them."

"No!"

"Why hasn't he brought you your babies?" The children were all but grown, but to Senora Colon, they would always be 'her babies'. "Where are your children? Where are Pilar and Juan Miguel?"

Senora Colon broke. "Tonight!" she wailed. "Esta noche! Cada mes, el se llama a los—"

The story poured out. Megan called in an interpreter to keep up with the flood of Spanish. Every month, they learned, Rivera held an auction to sell the cream of the illegal immigrants to the wealthy and unscrupulous of the world. Some purchasers would fly in from other countries to attend, bringing cash with them. Others lived here in this country. Those that were purchased were taken away and never seen again.

Each auction would be held in a different place. Sometimes it would be held at Don Juan's estate in the hills, sometimes elsewhere; Senora Colon didn't know quite where. Many important people came. Senora Colon and the others would prepare the food for the guests, sometimes would serve on trays until it was time for the auction. Then the important guests would go into a back room where the auction took place. Senora Colon had never been there, had never seen an auction.

But she sometimes heard the cries.