Eduardo was falling.

"Pendejo! Not so fast!" It was the roof guy's first day without supervision, and he was already making life-threatening errors. Rope work required a certain feel, a natural grasp for balance and tension. The new guy seemed to lack it all.

Eduardo clutched his security harness for dear life, eyeing the jumble of rusted patio furniture four stories below. There were much worse ways to die. He knew, he had seen them up close. A thirty-meter fall wouldn't deliver up much pain—it would be quick. Terrifying, but quick.

The aluminum platform stabilized in series of wrenching jolts. Eduardo's feet settled on the base as he loosened his grip on the security rope. Others might have made the sign of the cross, or kissed one of their gold charms, but Eduardo did not. He was less superstitious than the other washers were, perhaps because he had less to lose. The others had wives and children for whom they carried weathered photographs in their wallets and charms on their wrists and necks. They sent twenty-five percent of their earnings across the border, where their extended families opened panaderias and pirated DVDs of American action films. Since the old man died, Eduardo only had himself—and that was enough for now.

"We good Eduardo?" The roof guy peeked his bulbous head over the side of the building. Eduardo could only see his silhouette from this angle, and with his wool cap the way it was, he looked like a grapefruit with a tin hat.

"I'm still living. But they no pay us to wash the bricks!" Eduardo turned his palms to the sky then pointed to the brick wall in front of him. "Lift me four feet higher."

"Hoo!" The man gave the "O.K." sign, and then popped back over the rail.

Eduardo gave him the finger. He didn't trust Americans. He had dealt with them up close in another life—a not-too-distant life. Now that he lived in America, he honored the wisdom he gained from his past experiences. He kept to himself, avoided conversation, and stuck to the Spanish areas of the city.

The only American Eduardo had ever liked was also the only woman he had ever lost his sense of direction over. He was young, still under the old man's patronage. She was a college student from some American university who had crossed the border for a summer internship. Josie was her name. Her hair was thick and blonde like a Hollywood actress and she wore it pulled back tight around her ears. When she laughed her eyes narrowed into jeweled slits of emerald that tossed the light back in striking glints. She'd throw her change down at the store where he worked and butcher his language in the most attractive way he ever heard. Then she'd apologize and shoot him a wry smile with those heavenly lips that made him want to make love to the flan after she walked off.

He would write a whole anthology of poems about her. One day the old man caught him dreamily blinking out the window over a scribbled pad of paper and found his words. Although dark and erotic, the old man pressed his literary will into one of the more promising pieces and had it submitted to the local newspaper. To both their astonishment, the paper published the poem. Eduardo's heart sank, however, when the editor accidentally omitted the "i" in "Josie," instantly transforming the object of his erotic fantasies into José.

The platform shimmied and creaked as it began a slow ascent. As he cleared the brick ledge, he uncapped the bucket of foamy water and plunged his squeegee into it. The new guy had mixed the cleaning agent too strong, and he was having trouble removing the viscous film from the windows.

This time he settled square in the lower plane of the apartment window. He never knew what to expect upon that first moment of leveling off. Sometimes furious dogs would blare their tartared fangs through the window and sound off through the whole procedure. Other washers bragged about lonely housewives who played erotic games through the glass. Eduardo, however, tried not to look too intently into the rooms—it was a bad habit that opened the possibility for trouble.

He had had enough trouble. When the old man got sick, his whole world changed for the worse. He had been kind to accept Eduardo as his own, to clothe him and feed him. He let him work in the store and paid him well. But the sickness took it all: the store, the education, the stability. He was surprised how quickly the street remembered his face, how it embraced him as its lost child. And if the street was his surrogate mother, than the Cartel was his surrogate father. It was cold and disciplinary—but it provided. Soon Eduardo found himself in a troubling world of drugs and money and death. He had to do things—terrible things—for the Cartel. Things he wouldn't wish on anyone now. But he was good at it. That's why they wouldn't let him go.

Libertad. Freedom. He kept hearing that word on the radio and on the street. Politicians talked about it in strange contexts as though it were contained in the bright corners of a board game that you landed on if you had a lucky roll. Eduardo knew better. If libertad were a board game, than the only winning square was the large black one at the end; the one everyone landed on without trying. The rest of the game was a chase. Always.

Before he died, the old man sent him to a curandera, an Indian shaman. He knew Eduardo was working for the Cartel, and that he was doing so to keep the medicine coming. His last gift was to help him find a way out.

"Dejame en paz, hijo," the old man told him as he lay in the gathering presence of death. "The curandera will give you what you need."

Eduardo was reluctant, but he did as he said and followed Highway 16 deep into the Mapimí Desert into the mysterious Zona del Silencio, where radios lose their signal. The curandera lived in a hollow berm at the base of a mountain, marked by a creosote bush enveloped in feathers. The way the bush looked with the myriad of plumage was like a giant flightless bird that nestled into the sand. At the entrance to the berm, two poles slanted out of the ground with desiccated skulls propped at their apex. Just entering took more courage than Eduardo thought he had.

"Are you r-r-r-Roúl …?" A wrinkled woman with leather skin appeared at the door. She wore a crimson tunic and dangled a dead hare from her hands.

"No, I'm not Roúl."

"Javier?"

"No, señora."

"You must be Rubén!"

"My name is Eduardo. I've come for—"

"Nonsense, come in before you're swallowed by the sand."

Inside, the berm was circular, with a small fire crackling in the center. Pelts of various desert animals formed a lazy oval around the fire. A heavy floral scent drifted through the room and mixed with the smoke, creating an exotic incense. As Eduardo's eyes adjusted, he saw several adjoining rooms dug into the sandy walls, each draped with feathers and skins and backlit by a faint glow.

"Wait for me in there. Take off your clothes." The woman shook her dead rabbit in the direction of one of the backlit rooms.

Eduardo pushed through the smoky interior toward the wall. The pelt felt dry in his hands as he pulled it aside to enter.

"Azotame mama!" An elderly man pressed his naked body into the corner of the room Eduardo had entered; his toothless gape was one of sheer exhilaration. A woman of the same age stood on a wooden stool, whipping him in the buttocks with white lilies. She too, was having a blast. "Azotame bien!"

The curandera cackled by the fire. "The other room!" She lifted the paw of her rabbit and made it point to a second room with a heftier fur doorway.

The procedure was simple, involving a few applications of hot wax and some fingernail clipping. The old woman had soft hands, and applied her magic with a gentle touch. The most difficult part of the experience was parting with his clothes. Instead of putting them back on, the curandera insisted on throwing them into the fire pit, where they smoldered briefly before succumbing to a thick cloud of white smoke.

"When your chance comes, take it. Eres una pluma sin pájaro (You are a birdless feather)." The old woman patted him on the shoulder and turned toward the fire, where she prodded at the burning clothes with an iron poker. "Go now."

It would be four years before his first opportunity to split from the Cartel. During a drop in El Paso, he took a cut of the money—enough to buy documents and food—and never looked back. If they found him, they would kill him. Execution was always a possibility, but perhaps less so now that he had settled into his new life in the American Northeast. He had let his hair grow wild and sprouted a thin mustache. Now, as he studied his reflection in the immaculate window, he saw that his face had grown rounder at the sides. He looked older and less suspect.

Eduardo shouted at the sky. "Hoo!"

"Hoo," replied the roof guy, as the platform came alive with a precarious shimmy.

It was now mid-afternoon; the sky was beginning a cobalt gradient that darkened at the edges. A flock of birds minced their positions in a nearby tree as the platform moved, some darting out and cutting into the corridor between buildings. School kids shuffled about in the alley below, their bright-colored backpacks made them look like a cheerful gathering of animals. One of them noticed Eduardo and pointed.

"Whoa! Look at him." The small voice just managed to reach. "What if he fell?" The others gave their comments on what would most likely happen, including various emphatic splatty noises, then they moved on.

The building passed before him. Empty cocoons decayed in the shallow grooves of the mortar. There were things like this no one would ever see but him. Black, nickel-sized dabs of gum clung to the bottom of the next windowsill, as though some child had been hiding candy from his mother. By the looks of the gum, the child was most likely ready for retirement by now—perhaps long since lost his teeth because of his clandestine chewing obsession.

Eduardo dunked his squeegee back into the soapy water, ready for another scrubbing. He paused, however, when he noticed something stuck to the inside of the window. There was a piece of paper taped to the glass, with money attached. Eduardo tightened his face—it was a one hundred dollar bill. On the paper to which it was attached was a message in red capital letters: PLENTY MORE WHERE THIS CAME FROM. COME IN AND TAKE WHAT YOU WANT. The note closed with a hurried: LOOK AT THE COFFEE TABLE. The window was open wide enough to stick his arm through.

Eduardo combed his thin mustache with his fingernails. Was it a joke? A trap? He leaned into the open gap in the window frame and looked around the room. It was a sparse corner apartment, devoid of art or personal effect. The walls were the color of wet ashes, the floor providing the only hint of color due to its varied hues of stained wood. A lonely bookshelf leaned against the far wall, occupied by no more than seven or eight books of varying widths. There was a brown couch, and a small coffee table made of polished steel and a mirrored top. Upon the coffee table rested what looked like a bundle of cash and another piece of paper with writing on it.

Eduardo reached in and grabbed the bill stuck to the window. It looked genuine: the soft corners and fibrous quality made it appear that the bill was not manufactured recently. He shook his head and stuffed the bill into his pocket, then pressed his hands on the window frame to push it closed. But the open space framed the coffee table and bundle of cash as though it were a still life painting. It would be easy to crawl through, snatch the money and continue with his day. After all, the note invited him to do just that.

He figured that since it generally took about ten to fifteen minutes to clean the glass and apply the protective coating, there would be little chance of the roof guy catching him in the act. Besides, if he was caught, a couple hundred dollars would be enough to keep things quiet.

Cupping the base of the window with both hands, he lifted the plane and stuck his head through.

"Alo?" His voice was soft and unassuming; as though he were peeking through the front door. There was no response. "Alo, Alo?" Eduardo pulled his body through the opening. There was just enough room to curl his legs up into the window frame so he wouldn't have to slither in on his stomach. He swung his legs around and planted them on the floor.

The apartment was quiet. The windows on the opposite wall were open, and a cross-breeze filled the room with fresh air. The living room opened up to the left into two other rooms: a kitchen and a hallway. He inched toward the mirrored table. Taking one more look around, he descended upon the stack of currency, and flipped through the bundle with his thumb. They were all one hundred dollar bills—perhaps five thousand dollars' worth.

Eduardo put the cash down the front of pants and turned toward the window, but the note on the table caught his eye. He was paranoid—why would someone give this money away? If it was a joke, or a trap, it was not too late to leave the money and walk off with the hundred from the window. He knelt down and slid the letter toward the edge of the table, studying its red words. Although English was his second language, the letters were the same, and he rarely had a problem getting the gist of simple instructions. NICE CHOICE, it read, TAKE IT ALL, I NO LONGER HAVE USE FOR MONEY. IF YOU WANT MORE, CHECK THE COUCH. Eduardo looked up to scan the brown couch for signs of hidden money. IF IT'S AN EXPLANATION YOU'RE AFTER, I'M WAITING IN THE HALL.

When the words "waiting in the hall" registered, it made Eduardo's stomach rush, and a short breath passed through his nose. He tilted his head toward the entrance of the hall and reached into his pants for the stack of bills. He'd throw it down—he'd throw it down and dive back into the platform that dangled outside. A soft breeze blew into the apartment, and Eduardo heard a creak in the hallway.

He yanked out the stack of bills and knelt down again to place it back on the table. He stopped. Instead of letting go of the bills, he placed them instead on the floor, and tilted the mirrored table on its side, so the reflection angled down the hall. Tilting more, he slid the table, careful not to make any noise.

"Demonios!" Eduardo let the table clatter onto the hardwood floor and clambered to the entryway. A corpulent man hung from a rope at the end of the hall, the fat on his face exaggerated by the noose around his neck. Another breeze pushed into the room, causing the man to rotate in a lazy semi-circle. He wore a black suit with heavy lapels, and a lightly ruffled undershirt that jutted out under the jacket cuffs, revealing round garnet cufflinks. His pleated trousers rode up his ankles, exposing a fresh pair of socks and polished shoes that captured the ambient light. From his chest dangled another note, written in the same style lettering, in the same color.

Eduardo actually felt relieved: he was not unaccustomed to the sight of dead men. It had startled him, sure. But the intensity of the situation had passed, and now he was alone again. He went to the window and stuck his head out, making sure the roof guy wasn't peeking over, wondering where he had gone. Then he hurried to the dead man and pulled the note from his chest. There were actually two slips of paper attached.

IF YOU ARE THE WASHER, TAKE THE CASH FROM THE COUCH AND ENJOY YOUR NEW LIFE. BURN THESE NOTES SO NO ONE GETS WISE. IF YOU ARE THE ASSASSIN COME TO TAKE CARE OF ME—I'VE ALREADY DONE THE JOB FOR YOU. TAKE YOUR MONEY AND GET OUT.—REGARDS, TONY

The second slip of paper was a letter from the building management, notifying all tenants of the window-washing schedule. Eduardo crumpled both pieces of paper and shoved them into his pocket. He felt a sudden urge to use the bathroom; the initial shock to his nerves unsettled his intestines.

Ignoring the urge, he went to the couch and pounded the cushions. The first felt soft, if there was money in there, there wasn't much. He punched the second cushion—and retracted his hand in pain. It was solid. Flipping the cushion on end, he pulled the zipper down its length. Stacks of money filled the interior of the same width and denomination as the one he had found on the table. Eduardo felt around the edges of the cushion—it was solid all the way around. If the money was consistent all the way through, the total would be close to three hundred tall. His intestines knotted up again, and he doubled over. He would have to go soon. He looked down at the cushion, then back across at the dead man. Even though Eduardo was out only six or seven grand with the Cartel, he knew they would kill him over it if they had the chance. The amount of money in the cushion could leave a wake of murders in its path that would rival anything Eduardo had seen. All the same, Eduardo reasoned that he could use it to buy his way out of debt with the Cartel, plus interest. The rest would get him out of state, where he could buy a new identity and live the easy life.

He zipped up the sides of the cushion and heaved it up against his chest, then barreled to the window where he balanced it on the lip of the sill. The roof guy would peer over any minute now, wondering how Eduardo's progress was coming with the cleaning. Somehow, he knew this tenant wouldn't mind the dirty windows. He tipped the cushion out the window, and pushed it out into the basket where it landed square and firm on the aluminum floor.

The pain was now unbearable. Eduardo lifted his leg onto the sill, but knew right away he wasn't going to make it. Glancing one more time at the brown cushion in the platform, he rushed to use the dead man's toilet.

With the sound of water still loud in the pipes, Eduardo exited the bathroom and inched his way around the swiveling corpse. As he did so, a splintering crash exploded on the doorpost, just at eye level. Eduardo curled to the floor, his hands shooting out to cover his head.

A polished dagger with an ornate bronze guard and black handle quivered in the wood. In the hallway, a fair-skinned brunette stood with her hand still high in the air. Her brows bunched in the center of her face over narrowing blue-gray eyes as she lowered her hand. Her blouse opened into two thin lapels, framing her strong collarbones and full chest. She wore a skirt that wrapped tight around the smart lines of her waist and hips, and from it emerged two lightly sculpted thighs that trailed into legs and heels. Her hair waved at the lines in her cheek before falling loose around her shoulders. A pocketed black pouch tied around her waist, populated with shiny objects.

"Ju missed," said Eduardo.

"I never miss." She had already produced another knife, longer this time and more narrow. She flicked the edge of the blade with her thumb. "Just indecisive."

Eduardo's eyes locked on the blade. She was holding it in an odd way, with her fingers fanned out over the base where the handle met the steel. He saw that her two center fingers were fused together, forming one fleshy digit.

"Syndactyly," she said.

"Eduardo," he offered, nervous.

The assassin let a smile spread across her face, long and slow.

"It's not my name, it's what's wrong with my fingers."

"Oh." He forced his bottom lip out and nodded. He still did not quite understand, but figured the ignorance would work in his favor. "Why no ju get them fixed?"

The assassin's shoulders dropped as she studied her knife and exhaled a long breath through pursed lips. "I think of it as a trademark." Her heels clacked on the hardwood floor as she stepped toward Eduardo. She paused to study the dead man, and then gave him a firm push on the side, causing him to spin a tired circle. With a blink, the knife was on Eduardo's throat, dragging slowly the wrong direction over his rough whiskers. The hall seemed to fill with that grating sound. She whispered in his ear. "I'll ask the questions from now on, O.K. Eduardo?"

"Jes," he agreed.

The assassin flicked her knife toward the living room, urging Eduardo to walk out ahead of her. The clacking was loud in the hall, and he wondered how she planned to sneak up on Tony with those shoes. On the other hand, her knife work was impeccable—Eduardo had honed his prior profession using large caliber weapons, where kills were attributed to those who could get in, make the most amount of noise, and get out as quickly as possible. This woman worked with stealth and precision; it was a level of operation that baffled him.

She stopped him before they entered the living room.

"Tell me, Eduardo," her voice was slow and grainy, "what kind of interrogation work were you planning that required a hard hat." She leaned against the wall and stroked her chin with her thumb. "Brutal."

Eduardo pressed his palms out in the air. "He was dead when I got here. I no kill him—I came in for the bathroom, that's all."

She laughed softly. "Yes, I heard you." The smile dissipated, then turned into a hard scowl. "Did you have a key? Tony installed some hefty locks on the door."

"I came in through the window."

Her eyes grew wide. "We're on the fifth floor, Eduardo."

It was all over now. Once the assassin realized what had happened, she would go to the window and find the money. He looked around the room for something he could use, some weapon to fend off the inevitable attack. There was nothing. Eduardo's shifting eyes seemed to make her nervous.

"Put your palms on the wall, Ed," she said. "If your story's not interesting enough, you'll shortly die—so annunciate slowly and use colorful words." She pushed her knife through a loose gathering of flannel in his shirt, then yanked up rhythmically, tearing a dreadful hole. "Talk!"

"O.K.! I talk," said Eduardo, his fingers nervously drumming the wall. "I was cleaning the windows outside, with a platform—that's why I wear a hard hat—the window was open, I had to use the bathroom so I come in." He hung his head in defeat. "Then I meet you in the hall."

"Good boy, Ed." She removed the knife from his shirt and leaned comfortably against the wall again. "Now tell me about the dead man and the half million in cash."

"I know nothing."

"Hmmm. That's too bad." She picked at the cuticle on her left thumb with the tip of the blade. "See, I have two items of business here. The first is to kill the fat man. Thankfully, it looks as though that's already taken care of. The second is to retrieve the money. How much is your ignorance worth to you, Eduardo? Not in terms of dollars, but let's say—fingers? Tick tock."

Eduardo was silent. He was calculating the value of his fingers.

"Hold the phone …" She leaned into the threshold separating the hall from the living room, noting the upturned coffee table. She moved into the room. "Come look at this, Ed. Oh, I do enjoy a good crime scene. Let's see, a knocked-over table, a bundle of money on the floor …" She turned her attention to the couch. "And a missing cushion." She knelt down to pick up the stack of bills, and flipped through as Eduardo had done. "These bills miss their family, Ed. Help reunite them, will you?"

The game was up.

"On the platform. The money's there."

The assassin turned to the window, where the top of the platform and the security ropes were visible outside.

"Go stand by that bookcase where I can see you." Her tone was no longer playful; it was all business.

Eduardo shuffled to the sparse bookcase as the assassin leaned into the window frame, taking a sideways glance into the platform. While she peered out the window, Eduardo pawed a thick book with large red lettering, and hurled it across the room. The pages fluttered wildly in the air, then struck the assassin in the shoulder, causing her to step back into the wall. The book fell to the floor, cover-side up.

"Oh how terribly pedestrian of you, Ed! Trying to kill me with the Joy of Cooking?" She rubbed her shoulder and glowered. "That hurt, dammit!"

Eduardo's eyes were fervid with excitement. His open hand slid along the left side of his torso—it was instinct. He had been in situations like this before, but there had always been something to grab onto just under his jacket.

"Let me leave," he said. "Ju see the money outside—take it! Just let me leave." He took a step toward the hallway. As he did so, the woman flung the blade at his foot. It penetrated the fabric of his left shoe and planted firm into the hardwood floor. The steel was cold against his hot toes—it had cut his shoe, but his flesh had been spared. She had another knife waiting.

"The reason you're not currently choking on that blade," she began, her nostrils dilating as she breathed through her nose, "is because I need you to do something for me. Yes, I see the money out there—at least what I presume to be the container for the money. But there's no way in heaven I'm climbing onto that platform."

"Why no?"

She peered out the window once more. Her face was beginning to turn pale.

"I told you." She was angry. "I ask the questions. Now take your shoes off."

"Como?"

"You heard me, I want to see those pink toes of yours. Now!"

Eduardo bent down and unlaced his shoes.

"If you touch that knife, there will be another one right behind it," she warned.

Eduardo slipped his heels out of his shoes, and then peeled the socks off his feet.

"Good boy. Now this is how it's going to work. You're going to crawl onto the platform and retrieve that cushion." She switched her knife out for a longer one that ended in a dramatic loop. "All the while, your ankle will be at the mercy of this Chinese hook sword. Any sudden kicks or attempt to flee will result in amputation. Comprende?"

Eduardo nodded.

"Come along, now."

Eduardo approached the window, the hook sword looming over him like a guillotine. He put his palms on top of the sill, and then looked out at the cushion that sat square in the corner of the platform. He tilted his head back toward the assassin.

"Go on," she shouted.

He lifted his knee on top of the sill and reached out to grab the aluminum rail. He felt the cold steel of the sword envelope his ankle; its razor-sharp edge stung as it made tiny cuts into his skin. With both hands on the platform, he lifted his other knee onto the sill, and then pulled his upper body slowly onto the platform, careful not to allow movement from his captive ankle. He scooted in more, arms extending out towards the cash. His fingers made contact with the fabric, and he gripped the cushion by either side and began to retract it. "That's it, good boy." The assassin strained to get a line of sight on the progress.

Eduardo grunted as he struggled to retrieve the money. It was an awkward angle to begin with, and the cushion was impossibly heavy.

"That's it, pull …"

He glanced back over his shoulder at the woman in the window, then planted his hand on the soap bucket for balance. He was breathing heavy, and his muscles were quivering under the strain. He closed his eyes, then bit hard on his lower lip.

Rolling to his side, Eduardo grabbed the bucket with both hands and heaved it with all his might into the open space of the window. A wave of pain bled from his ankle as he did so, but the bucket managed to enter and unloaded its contents all over the inside of the window and floor. He saw her face briefly, as the surprise turned to an instant determination to amputate his foot. As she stepped in to press into the sword, her feet shot out beneath her, and she fell hard, the back of her head impacting with the brick sill. Her face did not reappear in the glass.

As the world slowly blurred back into being, Anastosa LeMarc found herself restrained. A cold wind pressed into her from behind, and the temperature brought awareness of a dull sting on the back of her head. As her eyes focused, she saw the brown cushion at her feet, from which a barefooted man perched. She rolled her head painfully to the left, and gasped. Gasping, however, seemed inadequate—so she screamed—but her voice failed at her throat. Her arms were fastened to the railing of the aluminum platform, and the entire world seemed to spin violent circles below her. She forced her eyelids shut, then batted them open in near paralysis. The washer stood over her; his face was without expression.

"Ed," she said with a quivering whisper, her eyes wide and glossy. "You're bleeding."

Eduardo squatted beside her, their knees touching. He touched the deep, wet fissure on his ankle with an index finger, then rubbed the substance with the thumb of the same hand.

"Jes," he said. "Ju cut me pretty bad."

"Ed," she said again, her voice cracking. "You gonna take all that money?"