CHAPTER 1
NATALIE BENOIT WATCHED the streets of Ciudad Juárez roll by outside the bus window, wishing the driver would turn up the air-conditioning. It wasn’t yet noon and already the city was an oven. Even the palm trees seemed to wither in the July heat.
“With three other seasons in the year, why did SPJ have to choose summer for this conference?” She fanned herself with her copy of the day’s program, perspiration trickling between her breasts.
“Don’t tell me you think it’s hot,chula.” Joaquin Ramirez, the newspaper’s best shooter, grinned at her from across the aisle, his camera still aimed out the window. “This can’t be any worse than New Orleans in the summer.”
“Is that where you are from, Miss Benoit—New Orleans?” Enrique Marquez, a journalist from Culiacán, glanced back from the seat in front of her, his Spanish accent making both her name and the name of her hometown sound exotic. In his fifties, he was still a handsome man, with salt-and-pepper hair, a well-trimmed mustache, and brown eyes that twinkled whenever he spoke of his grandchildren.
“Can’t you tell by her accent?” Joaquin gave Natalie a wink.
Natalie ignored Joaquin, refusing to take the bait. “Yes, sir. I was born there and grew up in the Garden District.” Which was why she didnothave an accent, no matter what her colleagues might think. “I left Louisiana many years ago and live in Denver now.”
She hoped Sr. Marquez would let it go, but was almost certain he wouldn’t. Mention New Orleans, and people just had to ask about the storm. Given that journalists were far more curious than most people, Natalie supposed his next question was inevitable.
“Did you live there during Hurricane Katrina?”
She looked out the window, letting the words come with no thought and no emotion, as if what they represented meant nothing to her. “Yes, sir. It was a terrible time for so many of us. I moved to Denver after that.”
She said nothing about where she’d been during the storm or what she’d endured or what had happened to her fiancé, Beau, and her parents in the aftermath.
“Lo siento. I am sorry, Miss Benoit.”
“No le gusta hablar de eso,” Joaquin said softly.
Natalie didn’t speak Spanish well, but she understood that much. And Joaquin was right. She didn’t like to talk about it. She’d left New Orleans in part so she wouldn’t have to talk about it. Even six years later, it still hurt too much.
People told her she should move on, get over it, get on with her life. Oh, how she hated those words! They were easy to say, but no one had yet been able to explain to her exactlyhowshe was supposed to “move on.” Losing her parents had been hard enough, but losing Beau . . . How could she “get over” him?
How could she forget the man who’d died out of love for her?
It wasn’t that she hadn’ttriedto move on. Selling her parents’ home—the house at First and Chestnut where she’d grown up—had been a big step, as had moving to Denver. After a year, she’d stopped wearing her engagement ring. She’d even joined an online dating service and gone on several dates. But none of the men she’d met, no matter how intelligent, kind, or attractive, had sparked anything inside her.
It was as if some part of her had forgotten how to feel.
Banamex. Telcel. McDonald’s. Lucerna. Pemex.
The names of banks, businesses, restaurants, and gas stations drifted before her, barely registering with her mind. What shedidnotice were the vibrant colors of the buildings. Bright oranges. Vivid blues. Lush greens. Lemony yellows. And blazing blood reds. Everywhere reds. It was as if the residents of Juárez had decided to strike a blow on behalf of color in defiance of the drab brown landscape that surrounded them.
Natalie had signed up for the trip because she’d wanted to get away from the newsroom for a few days. She’d been working at theDenver Independentfor almost three years now, and she felt stuck in some kind of professional ennui. Not that she didn’t love her job. She did. Having a spot on the paper’s award-winning investigative team—the I-Team—was every investigative journalist’s dream. But journalism wasn’t a low-stress profession even on the best of days. Burnout was a very real hazard of the job. Or maybe the lethargy that had taken over the rest of her life was affecting her job now, too.
Regardless, she’d needed a change of pace, and this trip had offered that.
She and thirty-nine other journalists—most American, some Mexican—had crossed the border from El Paso into Juárez early this morning, part of a three-day convention and tour put together by the Society of Professional Journalists and the U.S. State Department as a way of bringing Mexican and American journalists together to learn about the intermingled issues of immigration, the drug trade, and human trafficking. They’d started the day with breakfast at the U.S. consulate. Then, under the protection of two dozen armedfederales, they’d toured a police station and the offices ofEl Diario, the local newspaper, where bullet holes in the walls reminded them just how dangerous it was to be a journalist in Mexico.
“And I thoughtmyjob sucked,” one of the other American reporters had said, running his fingers over the scarred wall.
The sight of those bullet holes—and the empty desk of the journalist who’d been killed—had put a few things in perspective for Natalie, too. The worst thing she had to put up with during the course of the average workday was her editor’s temper. But no amount of yelling from Tom Trent could compare to flying bullets.
Now they were on their way to the Museo de Historia—the beautiful Museum of History—where President Taft had once dined. After that, they’d visit a new five-star hotel in the downtown area for lunch. It was clear that Mexican officials were proud of their town and were making certain that the tour included a look at the beauty and culture of Juárez, and not just the violence for which the city was unfortunately known.
Natalie couldn’t blame them for that. There were at least two sides to every story, and although the drug cartels made headlines, most people who lived here were decent men and women just trying to raise families and live their lives. Despite the poverty and the unremitting violence, Ciudad Juárez was a city that still dared to hope.
In the streets below, a young mother, her dark hair pulled back in a bouncy ponytail, pushed a baby in a stroller. A shopkeeper in a royal blue apron swept the stone steps of his store. Two teenage boys in bright white T-shirts and jeans walked past a gaggle of pretty girls, their heads craning for a better look as the girls passed them. The girls, well aware of this attention, covered their mouths with their hands and broke into giggles. Nearby, two elderly gentlemen sat on a bench, lost in conversation, straw fedoras on their heads, cigars in their hands.
Natalie felt the bus lurch to a stop but was so caught up in the tableau outside her window that she didn’t realize something was wrong until the scene changed. The teenage boys stopped, then turned and ran up an alley. The shopkeeper dropped his broom and disappeared indoors. The woman with the stroller grabbed her baby and backed into a doorway, a look of fear on her face as she left the empty stroller to roll down the sidewalk. The two old men dropped to their knees and crouched behind the bench.
And then Natalie heard it—the grinding fire of automatic weapons.