He keeps on moving, slowing down. Running attracts attention. Can’t do that.

Denise lifts her head. “Daddy?” and her voice is stronger.

“Almost there, hon, almost there.”

He gets them out of the parking lot, and now they’re in a set of little green parks, walkways, other parking lots. Palm trees. Spiky bushes. Men and women and children walking around, almost all in beach gear. His heart is thumping so hard he’s sure that Denise can feel the vibration in her chest.

Where now?

The beachgoers are looking at them with open curiosity, and it’s easy to see why, for they’re not dressed for rest and relaxation, haven’t bathed in a while, and the panic on both of their faces is probably as clear as a siren cutting through the night.

“Almost there,” he whispers. “Almost…”

But where the hell is “there”?

There are four- or five-story resort-type buildings, with brass numbers on the doorways, but if they are in some foreign land, can he waste the time to try to talk to whoever’s on duty, to find a phone, to find someone in authority?

Now they are on a smooth paved road, curving to the right, that leads to a metal gate and a high stone wall, but the gate is open iron and there is a crowded street out there, with lots of pedestrians and traffic, and yes, that’s where they are going. Get lost in the crowd. Find out where the hell they are, find a phone, or a cell phone, or a goddamn telegraph station.

Next to the large gate is a smaller opening allowing pedestrians in and out, and at the gate is a black SUV with dark windows, and the gate starts rattling to the right.

Fine, he thinks, fine.

We walk past the SUV, get through the pedestrian gate, and we’re out, we’re free.

Tom kisses the top of Denise’s head.

“Just a few seconds, hon, just a few seconds more.”

“Daddy…my foot really, really hurts…”

“I know, I know,” he says, and now the weight of his ten-year-old girl has suddenly materialized, and he realizes how damn bone-tired he is, but seeing the open street out there and the lines of people…

Make it, he thinks. We’re going to make it.

Just a few yards more.

He can hear the people out there talking as they walk by, the rumble of the traffic, a few horns.

Just a couple of yards more.

He squeezes Denise’s waist, hunches her up more so her legs are wrapped around his waist, and then—

The rear passenger door to the SUV suddenly opens up.

He dodges to the left, and a man is blocking his way, smiling.

Pelayo Abboud is blocking his way, wearing a light-blue linen suit, crisp white shirt, a wide smile on his face, holding a glass Coca-Cola bottle in his beefy hand, a straw jutting out.

He lifts up the bottle in a salute.

“Are you sure I can’t offer you both a drink?” he asks. “You two look very, very thirsty.”