Down Among the Dead Men Read online

  The mexican wrestlers were back.

  He caught only fleeting glimpses of them as they grabbed hold of him and tossed him around as if he were nothing more than an oversized suitcase.

  One of them said something to him, but in a language he didn’t understand, and all he could do was groan in response. It must have been enough, however, because the crowd watching them cheered.

  Then he was picked up again and tossed around and the next thing he knew there were blinding lights in his eyes and the wrestlers were gone, replaced now by angels in pastel greens and blues.

  One of them was rubbing his aching shoulder, and suddenly the pain went away and he was gone again, only to awaken in a hospital bed, surrounded by curtains and the sound of voices and beeping machinery, his shirt and shoes gone, a patch of gauze taped to the space between his neck and his right shoulder, an IV attached to a tube in the back of his hand.

  Only then did he remember what had happened and was surprised to discover that he was still alive.

  He felt a presence nearby, someone moving around next to him, playing with tubes or wires or buttons or whatever. Then one of the angels appeared in front of him, leaning forward, her pastel blue-covered breasts brushing against his arm as she checked something above him.

  He looked up at her and saw an attractive short-haired Asian woman who smelled faintly of lilac.

  “Welcome back,” she said.

  “Did I go somewhere?”

  “You drifted off a few times, but that was mostly because of the medication. The effects should wear off pretty soon.”

  “How long have I been here?”

  “Not long. The doctor will be in in a moment to fill in the details.”

  “Somebody shot me.”

  “That’s the general consensus,” she said. “But you got lucky. The bullet went straight through and didn’t manage to do much damage. You lost some blood, but nothing substantial.”

  “I can’t feel a thing.”

  A soft laugh. She patted his arm.

  “You will when the local wears off. But then you probably already know that.” She gestured toward his stitches. “Looks like you’ve had extensive experience in that area.”

  She fussed with some of the machinery again, checked the tube in his hand, then turned and reached for the curtain.

  “I’ll let the police know you’re awake. They’ll want to see you as soon as the doctor is finished.”

  Vargas’s stomach dropped. “Police?”

  “They’ve been waiting to talk to you. We have to report all gunshot wounds.”

  “What do they look like?”

  She frowned at him. A question she hadn’t anticipated. “Look like?”

  “Black, white, Hispanic?”

  “They look like a couple of bored cops in uniform. What difference does it make?”

  Vargas shook his head. “Never mind,” he said. “Thanks for your help.”

  She studied him a moment, uncertainty in her eyes, then said, “I’ll get the doctor,” as she disappeared behind the curtain.

  When she was gone, Vargas sat up, looking around the cubicle for his shirt and shoes. He didn’t know if the cops out there were the same ones who had shot at him, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to wait around to find out. Besides, even if they weren’t, how could he know who to trust anymore? La Santa Muerte might very well have tentacles that reached far and wide.

  He felt a stab of pain as he yanked the IV free, then stood up, surveying the small space again, looking for his clothes and backpack.

  He found them under the gurney, his shirt neatly folded inside a plastic bag but torn and covered with blood, his shoes and backpack lying next to it.

  The shirt would make him a target, but so be it. It was all he had. He pulled it from the bag and slipped it on, felt the damp liquid against his shoulder as he buttoned it up.

  Then he slipped into his shoes, checked to make sure he still had his wallet and keys and cell phone, then slung his backpack over his good shoulder and moved to the curtain, peeking out into what looked like every other emergency room he’d ever seen: a cluster of computers at the center, people in scrubs moving about in a deliberate but hurried pace, shouting code words to one another, a row of curtained cubicles on either side.

  A clock on the wall read: 4:00 A.M.

  Vargas looked to his left and saw a short hallway that led to a set of double doors. Above them was a standard-issue green exit sign.

  His immediate destination.

  Checking to make sure his nurse was nowhere around, he quickly slipped out of his cubicle and beelined it for the doors.

  If anyone noticed him, they didn’t say anything. Didn’t try to stop him. And the next thing he knew he was through the doors and moving down a longer corridor past a row of vending machines.

  He found another set of doors marked exit and pushed through them into the ambulance bay, which was pretty quiet at this time of morning.

  There were a couple of LAPD patrol cars parked among the ambulances but no cops visible, so Vargas kept moving, heading straight for the driveway and on into the street.

  There was a thrift-store on Magnolia that opened at 6:00 A.M. He’d grown up wearing thrift-store clothes, and he knew it would be a good place to buy a shirt for little cash.

  So his first priority was to find an ATM, then call a cab.

  60

  Beth

  She had another bad night.

  One of the nurses found her wandering the halls, claiming she’d just been mugged by a man in a Meat Without Feet T-shirt.

  She’d thought the nurse was a Mexican police officer but then slowly came to her senses-doing it on her own this time, remembering where she was without having to be slapped back into reality.

  Which, she supposed, was a good sign.

  But the realization that Jen was nearly a year gone hurt just as much as ever. She didn’t have the benefit of time to dampen her grief, because time would remain at a standstill until her brain healed and her memory returned.

  Assuming it ever would.

  She hadn’t been able to sleep the rest of the night. She lay in bed, her head pounding, not wanting to close her eyes for fear that she’d wake up in Mexico again.

  Not that sleep had anything to do with the problem. It just seemed safer somehow to stay awake.

  She watched the sun rise in her window. Then, at breakfast time, she climbed out of bed, shuffled to the dining room, and sat alone, a plate of fruit and a soft-boiled egg in front of her.

  But she didn’t eat. Didn’t have much of an appetite. Spent the next half hour pushing the food around the plate, listening to the murmur of voices in the room-other patients, eating and talking, new bonds formed out of shared pain.

  But Beth kept to herself. Was even less interested in making friends than she was in eating. She’d always been something of a loner anyway.

  Her physical therapist came around shortly after breakfast and took her for a walk. As they moved around the field, she looked again at the street, wondering if the dusty Lincoln Town Car was still out there.

  But she saw no sign of it.

  She spent most of the morning in the dayroom, leafing through magazines, reading about troubled celebrities, and thinking what a bunch of whiny spoiled brats they were.

  Try living my life for a few days and see how you like it.

  But maybe she was a whiny spoiled brat herself.

  The good news was that she stayed lucid for the entire morning. No sudden trips to the past. No conversations with Jen or Rafael or Marta.

  So maybe she was getting better.

  Dr. Stanley would be pleased.

  As the clock rolled closer toward noon, visiting hour came and the dayroom began to fill with friends and family. Not Beth’s friends and family, of course. She had none. But she enjoyed watching the other patients’ faces light up when a mother or father or husband or child came into the room. Hugs and kisses. Warm smiles.

 
Some of those patients had no idea who they were hugging and kissing, but it didn’t much matter. It felt good to be loved. To know, even if only for that brief moment, that someone in this world cared about you.

  Beth watched them all from behind a magazine. Every once in a while, a visitor would glance in her direction and she’d avert her gaze. Didn’t want to be caught invading their special moment.

  At one point, she felt herself being stared at and saw a small boy sitting quietly in a chair, a ragged stuffed animal in his lap. He looked at her, unsmiling, a bit bewildered by his surroundings. He couldn’t have been much more than a year old. And for some reason Beth didn’t look away this time.

  She had no idea who he belonged to, but the sight of him made her heart break. He had somehow summoned up one of her buried memories, one that was too deep to grab hold of but was painful nevertheless, and before she knew it tears were rolling down her cheeks.

  Embarrassed, she got up and went to the restroom and grabbed a tissue, staring at herself in the mirror as she wiped her eyes, not exactly pleased by what she saw.

  Too thin. Too frightened. Too sad.

  Was the old Beth in there somewhere?

  Did it really matter anymore?

  At least her hair was growing back. She could still see the scar, but it was mostly covered by fresh new growth, and before long it would be completely hidden.

  Maybe she’d have her memory back by then.

  She almost laughed at that one.

  “Elizabeth?”

  Beth turned and saw one of the nurses standing in the doorway. A slender redhead with a face full of professional concern. Her name was Mary.

  Marion?

  “Are you okay?” she asked.

  Beth frowned, not happy with the interruption. She was beginning to feel like a prisoner in this place.

  “Can’t I even go to the bathroom in peace?”

  The words came out harsher than she’d meant them to be, but Mary/Marion didn’t seem to notice.

  “Better make yourself presentable. You have a visitor.”

  Beth stared at her, surprised. “Who?”

  “One of the best-looking men I’ve seen around here in a long, long time.”

  Peter?

  Why would Peter be coming to see her? He could barely handle her on the phone.

  Mary/Marion gestured for her to hurry up.

  “Come on, girl. Trust me, you don’t want to keep this one waiting.”

  Curious now, Beth followed her out the door.

  61

  It wasn’t Peter.

  Mary/Marion led her back into the dayroom and pointed through the glass doors toward the courtyard, where an athletic-looking man with dark hair stood with his back toward them, a backpack slung over his shoulder.

  “He says he’s an old friend from USC.”

  Beth had been an SC undergrad, courtesy of her college trust fund, but hadn’t really kept in touch with any of her classmates.

  “He just heard about what happened to you and wanted to come by and see how you’re doing. Isn’t that sweet?”

  Beth stared at him and, for a brief, panic-filled moment, thought he was Rafael Santiago.

  But then he turned, looking through the glass at the other patients and their families, and while he might have given Rafael a run for his money in the looks department, she didn’t recall the face.

  “My, my, my,” Mary/Marion said.

  Beth wondered if she should order the woman a drool cup.

  “Did he give you a name?”

  “You don’t recognize him?”

  “You may not realize this,” Beth said, “but my brain is a bit scrambled.”

  Again, the words came out harsher than she’d meant them to be. But, honestly, if you work in a TBI rehabilitation clinic, shouldn’t you know the territory?

  Mary/Marion was as oblivious as ever.

  “He says his name is Nick. Nick Vargas. Does that ring any bells?”

  Beth ran the name through her head, straining to come up with a memory, but found nothing. Which was a bit odd, since the only memories she seemed to have problems with were post-Jen. Her college years had never been an issue.

  She stared at the man, wondering for a moment if he drove a dusty Lincoln Town Car.

  Then, at Mary/Marion’s urging, she went out to the courtyard to greet him.

  Closing the doors behind her, she said, “Mr. Vargas?”

  He assessed her without apology, his eyes clear and direct-and mildly surprised. But in a good way. As if he liked what he saw.

  “That’s right,” he said. “Ms. Crawford?”

  “Beth,” she told him. “Please call me Beth. Nobody else seems to want to.”

  “All right, Beth it is. And I’m Nick.”

  He offered a hand to shake, and she must have looked unsteady on her feet, because when she hesitated, the hand went directly to her elbow and guided her to a nearby chair. Then he set his backpack down and pulled up a chair next to hers.

  He winced slightly as he sat down, as if he were in some kind of pain. “Now that we’re on a first-name basis, I have to be honest with you. I lied to the nurse. We’ve never met before.”

  “I didn’t think so.”

  “My brother had an injury similar to yours, and I know how difficult dealing with TBI can be. I don’t want to confuse you.”

  “I appreciate that,” Beth said. “So why are you here?”

  “I’m a reporter. Or at least I used to be. Now I’m writing a book.”

  She frowned. She’d dealt with enough reporters in her time to know when to be wary. The majority of them were bottom-feeders.

  “What kind of book?”

  “True crime.”

  “And what does it have to do with me? Is this about one of my old cases?”

  “It could be,” he said. “But I’m not sure.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means I’m pretty much running blind at this point. And I’m hoping you can clear some things up.”

  “Clearing things up is not exactly my strong suit these days. What about?”

  “About what happened in Albuquerque.”

  Beth stared at him. She couldn’t fathom why anyone would be even remotely interested in what had happened to her. There was nothing exciting or sexy or book-worthy about it, and she wondered if this was some kind of reporter’s trick. Was he trying to play her?

  But to what end?

  Feeling anger start to burn inside her chest, she said, “Why are you doing this? Why did you come here?”

  “I just told you-”

  “Can’t you see that I’m in recovery? Was it really necessary to invade my privacy for whatever it is you’re looking for?”

  “I’m sorry. I have a story to write. I’m just trying to get to the truth.”

  “Then you’re out of luck, because I have no interest in talking to you.”

  She started to rise, but he reached a hand out and touched her forearm.

  “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  She pulled away. “Oh, I’m sure you didn’t.” This time she intended the words to sound harsh. Hoped the sarcasm was clear. “It was bad enough dealing with people like you before I got shot. I don’t see any compelling reason to deal with you now. So if you’re thinking the lady with the brain damage is gonna spill some confidential tidbit about one of her old cases, you’re shit out of luck.”

  She started for the glass doors, and he stood, wincing again as he moved after her.

  “At least let me explain.”

  “Why? What difference would it make?”

  “I just got back from Mexico,” he said.

  “How nice for you.”

  “And I know how you wound up in that Taco Bell parking lot.”

  This stopped her. She turned.

  “What?”

  His dark eyes didn’t waver. “I know the man who shot you.”

  62

  Beth wasn’t quite sure she’d hea
rd him right.

  “How could you possibly know who shot me? The police can’t even figure it out.”

  “Until yesterday, the police didn’t know what I know. So why don’t we sit back down and I’ll lay it all out for you.”

  Beth had half a mind to suggest he go fuck himself, but what if this wasn’t a ruse? What if he was telling the truth?

  There was a time when she could spot a lying witness with very little effort. But when she looked into his eyes, she saw nothing there that gave him away one way or the other.

  Moving back to her chair, she sat and crossed her arms in front of her, feeling much like she did when she took a seat at the prosecution table, challenging a defense attorney to a courtroom duel.

  “All right,” she said. “Make your case.”

  Vargas returned to his chair and sank into it, keeping his right shoulder still as he moved. The source of his pain.

  He was quiet for a moment. Seemed to be searching for a place to start.

  “A couple months ago,” he said, “I was watching the news on Channel Z. You know it?”

  Beth nodded. They covered events relating to the local Hispanic community but also broadcast news from Mexico and other Latin American countries.

  “There was a report that never got much traction up here,” Vargas continued. “About an abandoned old house near Juarez, where several women were found shot. A couple of them had slit throats. They called it the House of Death.”

  He waited, as if expecting a reaction, so she gave him one. “Sounds like a run for the border gone wrong.”

  “That’s exactly what the local policia thought. And as much as I hate to admit it, it’s the kind of story I usually forget about five minutes after I’ve seen it. But for some reason this one resonated. Maybe I was feeling sentimental that day. My parents were illegals when they first came here.”

  “This is fascinating,” Beth said, “but what does it have to do with Albuquerque?”

  He looked at her. “None of this sounds even vaguely familiar to you?”

  She looked right back. “Two months ago I was in a coma. So, no, it doesn’t sound familiar. Should it?”

  “You really don’t remember, do you.”