The baby is dead in his mother’s arms. Art can tell from the way the bodies lie—her on top, the baby beneath her—that she tried to shield her child. It’s my fault, Art thinks. I brought this on these people. I’m sorry, Art thinks. I am so, so sorry. Bending over the mother and child, Art makes the sign of the cross and whispers, “In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti.” “El poder del perro,” he hears one of the Mexican cops murmur. The power of the dog.
