Down Among the Dead Men (A Thriller) Read online

  But he’d never before backed down.

  Never.

  He knew it was a miracle that he was still alive. Whoever was behind this thing, this House of Death massacre, could easily have killed him and been done with it. He wasn’t sure why he had been spared but thought that it might have something to do with his profession, no matter how tarnished his reputation might be.

  A dead or missing reporter—especially one as notorious as Vargas—was like a dead or missing whistle-blower. It might raise more questions than these people could afford. So why not scare the ever-loving crap out of the guy and send him on his way?

  And it had worked.

  He was about as spooked as a man could get.

  Despite all those past brushes with injury and death, despite all his thoughts of an itch needing to be scratched, Vargas had caved. And caved big-time.

  The sight of that severed head—which he’d left in the alleyway Dumpster—had done exactly what it was intended to do.

  And he felt ashamed.

  Ashamed for letting them terrorize him. For letting them scare him away from a story that was looking to be much bigger than he had ever imagined. A story he had hoped would be the first step in salvaging a ruined career.

  And he needed that career. Needed it desperately.

  But he also liked breathing.

  A waitress came over. She didn’t look much older than a high school kid, but she sounded like an old truck stop pro.

  “What can I get you, hon?”

  A backbone, Vargas almost told her, but he wasn’t in the mood for conversation. “Just coffee.”

  “You look like you could use something stronger. Bad night?”

  Vargas glanced at his reflection in the window. Was it that obvious?

  “Bad enough,” he said.

  She nodded. “I know how that goes. How about a piece of cherry pie to cheer you up a bit?”

  Vargas shook his head, feeling his stomach flip-flop. “Just the coffee.”

  She nodded again and went away and he returned his attention to the parking lot as another big rig pulled in. A beefy trucker wearing a cowboy hat climbed down from the driver’s seat, eyeballing Vargas as he crossed toward the café entrance.

  Vargas averted his gaze, then immediately regretted it, feeling like a spineless fool. Not that he gave a shit about macho stare-downs, but Jesus, what the hell was the matter with him?

  When had he lost his edge?

  He sat there, waiting for his coffee, sinking deeper and deeper into the quicksand of depression, wondering where the old Nick Vargas had gone.

  He thought about the men who had brutalized him, about the bodies in that desert house. About the American woman, who was probably long dead but certainly deserved better than she’d gotten.

  Deserved to have her story told.

  Sure, he could forget about her and go back to California, maybe get a job writing technical manuals or working up travel brochures, and he might lead a safe, carefree life—maybe even a comfortable one.

  But he’d never get another book deal, and he’d never again work for a major newspaper, would never feel the pride he’d once felt when he saw his byline above the fold.

  And he would always be remembered as the Hillbilly Heroin Addict who almost faked his way to a Pulitzer.

  All because he had turned tail and run. Had let himself be intimidated by three border rats and a thug with a half-burnt face.

  Mr. Blister.

  A voice on the phone.

  And as the waitress brought Vargas’s coffee, smiling warmly as she set it in front of him, he knew he was about to do something stupid again, if for no other reason than to rid himself of this feeling of shame.

  He may have lost his edge, but he could get it back. He may well lose his life in the process, but what good was it if he lived it as a coward?

  He had every right in the world to be afraid, but even the darkest of fears could be overcome.

  He was, after all—as old-fashioned and corny as it might sound—a muckraker.

  A truth seeker.

  And maybe some of that truth was waiting for him on an egg ranch in El Paso.

  33

  Beth

  THE FIRST THING she did was go back to their stateroom, hoping that Jen was either inside sulking or getting some much-needed sleep.

  But it was empty.

  As dark and uninviting as ever.

  Not that she’d expected anything else.

  Trying to convince herself that Jen’s abrupt disappearance was just her way of saying, Fuck you, Beth took the elevator to the atrium, found an empty deck chair, and sat, staring out the windows at the flat, unmoving ocean.

  She could feel another headache coming on. One of several she’d had to fight off in the last couple of months. Probably stress from the job. And the divorce.

  But a headache was the least of her concerns.

  She knew she was often too quick to dismiss Jen’s feelings, and the joke she’d made at lunch had been insensitive and maybe even a little cruel. So it made sense that Jen was mad at her.

  But that didn’t keep the uneasiness from rising in her chest. A feeling that something might be wrong.

  Don’t worry.

  I’m not gonna go mental on you.

  Beth took her phone out of her purse and tried calling again.

  As before, she was transferred straight to voice mail. Which only compounded her uneasiness.

  She didn’t bother waiting for the beep. Instead, she clicked off, then punched in a quick text message:

  WTF?

  It wasn’t like her sister to shut off her phone or let the battery go dead. But then, Beth had to remember that they were in Mexico and neither of them had expected to use their cell phones all that much.

  Still, wouldn’t Jen have found a way to call her by now?

  When she couldn’t take staring out at the ocean anymore, she went back downstairs and checked their stateroom again.

  Still empty.

  Stepping into the corridor, she noticed that their steward, a young, pleasant-faced Ethiopian man, was busy cleaning the cabin three doors down from theirs.

  Beth stuck her head in the doorway.

  “Excuse me, I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m in cabin eight-twenty-nine?”

  He turned, trash basket in hand. Nodded politely. “You need something, ma’am?”

  “I’m looking for my sister. Have you seen her come by the room?”

  “No, ma’am. I see her this morning, but she don’t come again.”

  “What time this morning?”

  “Before breakfast. Right before we dock.”

  Disappointed, Beth nodded thanks, letting him get back to work.

  She was turning away when the steward said, “Her name is Jennifer, yes?”

  Beth stopped. “Yes. How did you know?”

  “She tell me last night when I come to turn down the beds. And earlier this morning, two people come knocking on your door, calling her name.”

  “What two people?”

  As if Beth had to guess.

  “A man and woman.”

  Ugh.

  Why couldn’t those sleazoids just go away?

  “If I see her,” the steward said, “I tell her you look for her.”

  Beth thanked him a second time and moved back down the corridor. She went inside the stateroom again and flicked on the light, conscious for the first time that the place had been cleaned and her suitcase, which she’d left open on her bunk, had been closed and tucked in a corner.

  God, this place was small. Borderline claustrophobic. And she sure as hell didn’t feel like hanging around in here, waiting for her phone to ring.

  She was about to leave when she remembered that Jen had forgotten her wallet.

  Closing the door behind her, Beth checked the dresser top and the nightstand but saw no sign of it. She opened Jen’s dresser drawer and found three pairs of panties, some socks, two barely there bikinis, Jen’s c
ruise line voucher and passport, and nothing else.

  Did that mean she’d come back to get the wallet? Or had she left it somewhere else—like the Santiagos’ stateroom?

  Maybe that was the reason they’d been knocking on the door.

  But why, then, hadn’t Rafael said anything about the wallet when he saw Beth at the restaurant? Wouldn’t he have given it to her?

  Unless, of course, he had already given it to Jen.

  Or Marta had.

  Could they have run into Jen at the leather-goods shop as Beth waited at the restaurant? Had Rafael merely been distracting Beth so Jen and Marta could sneak away for a date with some Jell-O shooters?

  The notion seemed so goddamned juvenile it wasn’t funny. But it was also within the realm of possibility. Maybe Beth’s earlier thought had been right. She really had been ditched.

  As she stood there feeling anger start to boil up, her gaze drifted to her suitcase, and she had half a mind to scoop it up and follow through on the threat she’d made in the dining room. Find the nearest airport and go home.

  The ultimate ditch.

  The quintessential “fuck you.”

  But what if she was wrong? What if this wasn’t a junior high prank at all?

  What if Jen was in some kind of trouble?

  They were, after all, in a foreign country. And while Beth had never had a xenophobic bone in her body, she’d be lying if she didn’t admit that she’d felt just the slightest bit of trepidation as they’d walked the streets of Playa Azul.

  She thought of the gangbangers who had been ogling Jen with undisguised lust.

  Could one of them have followed her? Confronted her when she was alone?

  Beth’s anger dissipated as the uneasiness grew inside her stomach. She tried to talk herself down.

  She was, after all, in a profession that examined the worst of people. Her natural instinct was to look at the dark side of human nature, simply because she was always surrounded by it. She’d interviewed enough rape victims and prosecuted enough of their assailants to permanently color her view of the world.

  She’d always tried not to let this carry over into her private life, but how could it not?

  Yet she knew it was still too early for panic.

  Much too early.

  She considered heading back into town to have another look around but decided to check the ship first, from top to bottom, stern to bow—every restaurant and bar and extracurricular activity in progress—in hopes that she’d find Jen hiding out.

  Or getting drunk.

  Because a drunk, unhappy Jen was better than no Jen at all.

  34

  “MAY I HELP you, ma’am?”

  The purser was a gray-haired, distinguished-looking gentleman in a crisp white uniform. He stood behind a narrow counter, typing something into a computer.

  Beth had waited five minutes to speak to him, but now that she was at the front of the line she wasn’t sure how to start without sounding melodramatic.

  “I…I’m a little worried about my sister,” she said.

  The purser continued typing, barely glanced up. “Is she ill? Would you like some seasick tablets?”

  He started to reach under the counter, but Beth put a hand up, stopping him.

  “No, it’s not that,” she said. “We went into town this morning, and…well…I guess you could say I’ve misplaced her.”

  She followed this with a soft, embarrassed laugh. This whole situation had thrown her off her game and she felt more like a hapless victim than a seasoned prosecutor.

  The purser frowned. “Misplaced her?”

  “She’s missing.”

  “And this happened on board ship or in port?”

  “I just told you,” Beth said. “I lost her in Playa Azul.”

  “How long ago?”

  “About an hour and a half.” Beth had spent a good half of that time conducting her search of the ship, which had yielded a big fat donut. “We were having lunch and she went across the street to use the restroom. I haven’t seen her since.”

  The purser shrugged. “An hour and a half isn’t long. There’s a lot to do in town.”

  “You aren’t listening,” Beth said. “She went to the restroom and never came back.”

  “I’m sure there’s an explanation. Maybe she got distracted, saw a shop she wanted to explore, and lost track of you. It happens. She’ll turn up.”

  He shifted his attention to his computer screen again, and feeling her assertiveness return, Beth reached out, blocking his view with her hand.

  The purser jerked his head back in surprise and irritation.

  “I just told you,” Beth said, “my sister is missing. I think she may be in trouble. I’ve tried calling her half a dozen times, but her phone is turned off. I’ve searched every inch of this ship that’s accessible to guests and—”

  “Why search the ship if she disappeared in Playa Azul?”

  Beth looked at him. It was certainly a reasonable question. “I thought she might have come back here.”

  “Well,” he said with another shrug, “that’s easy enough to find out.”

  “How?”

  “Her seafarer’s card. You remember how security scanned your card when you came back on board?”

  Beth nodded. She’d been asked to push it into a slot so a ship’s security officer could check the photo they had on file to make sure she was really who she claimed to be. The photos had been taken as they boarded the ship for the first time back in Long Beach. It had seemed a bit Big Brotherish to Beth, but she understood the reasons for it. Security at the DA’s office was nearly as tight.

  “If your sister came back to the ship,” the purser said, “they would’ve scanned hers as well. In which case, we’ll have a record of her return. Did you book your passage together?”

  Beth nodded.

  “What’s your cabin number?”

  Beth told him and he keyed it into the computer, then frowned.

  “I have a note here that you were involved in an incident in the dining room last night.”

  Beth felt herself redden. “My sister,” she said. “She had too much to drink. It won’t happen again.”

  He eyed her warily, then hit a few more keys and stared at the screen a moment.

  “I’m afraid there’s no record of her return. So she must still be in town. I can contact the Mexican authorities, if you like, but I’m pretty sure they’ll agree that an hour and a half isn’t all that much time.”

  Beth thought about it, and despite her concern, she still wasn’t absolutely sure Jen hadn’t disappeared by choice.

  Then an idea struck her.

  “She’s been hanging around with some friends of ours. Rafael and Marta Santiago. Maybe they know where she is. Do you think you could check to see if they’ve returned?”

  The purser shook his head. “We have strict guest privacy rules. Have you tried calling them yourself? Or checking their cabin?”

  “I’m not sure what room they’re in. We just met them last night.”

  “Then I’m afraid you’re out of luck. I will, however, be happy to have security stop by their cabin and ask them if they’ve seen her.”

  “Thank you,” Beth said. “I think I’ll go back into town and look around some more.”

  The purser nodded. Feigned a little empathy. “Not to worry, I’m sure you’ll find her. You might check some of the bars.”

  Beth knew this was a backhanded reference to last night’s embarrassment but decided to let it go. No point in creating a scene.

  Besides, he was probably right.

  “And don’t forget,” he continued. “The gangplank closes at five thirty. We sail at six.”

  She hesitated, thinking about this, then thanked him again and went downstairs to the debarking station.

  The first place she planned to hit when she got back into town was Armando’s Cantina.

  35

  Vargas

  ACCORDING TO GOOGLE Maps, the Ai
nsworth ranch was located on three acres of dusty countryside just north of an El Paso suburb called Montoya.

  Thanks to the phone’s Secure Digital expansion slot, Vargas was able to access the laptop data he’d backed up to the SD card in his wallet. This included the witness contact information he’d copied from the Casa de la Muerte police file.

  Not everything was there, but it was enough.

  After transferring Ainsworth’s address to the phone’s Google navigation system, he called up the directions and started driving.

  The ranch stood across the street from a housing tract still under construction and was accessible by a narrow dirt road. A faded, beat-up sign at the top of the road said:

  HAVE AN EGG-CELLENT MEAL

  WITH AINSWORTH FAMILY EGGS

  There were no streetlights out here, but there was enough moonlight to make out a distant cluster of small, dilapidated warehouses and an old two-story dwelling that could best be described as a fixer-upper, circa 1922.

  Vargas had no intention of driving down that road. Instead, he turned into the housing tract and parked next to a vacant lot.

  In the middle of the lot stood another, newer sign, announcing the impending construction of a luxury four-bedroom home, which, if it ever got built, would one day stand in stark contrast to the Ainsworth house across the street.

  As he killed the engine, Vargas started having second thoughts about this little excursion. What exactly did he hope to accomplish out here?

  He had no interest in confronting Ainsworth directly.

  Been there, done that.

  Considering Vargas’s current physical condition, any attempt at face time would be an exercise in disaster. He couldn’t just walk up to the guy and say, “Hey, tell me everything you know about your psycho friends.” Not if he wanted to avoid winding up in a box in some warehouse district alleyway.

  Instead, he was forced to go into stealth mode. Convinced that Ainsworth and Junior had ransacked those bodies back in the desert, he hoped that an uninvited tour of their house might yield some of their ill-gotten bounty. And if he was lucky, he might just find something that pointed to the American woman’s identity.