Down Among the Dead Men Read online

  Maybe it was the boob job, which Jen didn’t hesitate to flaunt at every possible opportunity. Or maybe it was the close confines of this budget traveler’s stateroom they’d been stuck in. They didn’t even have a window-or porthole, to be nautically correct-and the light in here was weak and depressing. They were practically on top of each other, and seeing Jen’s newly acquired attributes waving hello from less than two feet away did not exactly warm and comfort Beth.

  “I’m no doctor,” Jen said, slipping off her suit bottom now, “but a couple hours with the right guy and I’ll bet those headaches of yours will clear up real quick.”

  “That’s your solution to everything, isn’t it?”

  Jen shrugged. “More or less.”

  “Just do me a favor and take your shower,” Beth said. “They’re seating us in less than fifteen minutes.”

  5

  Dining on a cruise ship is an elaborate affair.

  Long, intricately set tables crowded with your shipmates, some of whom are dressed to the nines. Two or more waiters. A five-course gourmet meal that has the potential to be mediocre but is actually quite good considering the amount of food being pumped out of the ship’s kitchen.

  Beth ordered an escargot appetizer, a Caesar salad, seafood chowder, medallions of beef, a plate of cheeses, and a scoop of green tea ice cream. A definite case of eyes bigger than stomach.

  They’d been surrounded by food from the moment they’d first stepped foot onto the ship that afternoon, but Beth had passed on the burgers and greasy fries and pizza slices and soft-serve ice cream offered upstairs on the pool deck. And by the time dinner came around, she was famished.

  Jen, on the other hand, had opted for a liquid diet and was drunk before the meal was half-over. Ordering only an appetizer and a small salad, she washed it all down with a couple of colorful rum drinks that came in tall glasses carrying the cruise line’s logo. Add that to the three Dos Equis good old Julio had served her by the pool, and it wasn’t long before she was a candidate for the Long Beach drunk tank.

  Of course, they were quite a distance from port at that point, so Beth figured it didn’t much matter. Still, she tried more than once to get Jen to slow down, but Jen wouldn’t have it.

  “Loosen up, Aunt Martha, I’m just getting started.”

  The problem was that she was wildly unpredictable when she got drunk. Or just plain wild. Once the liquid started flowing, you never knew which Jen would surface, and while all were quite beautiful, few of them were pretty.

  By the time dessert was served, she was well into an unapologetic flirt session with the newlywed husband sitting next to her. Much to the chagrin of his sadly mousy wife.

  Maybe “flirt” was too mild of a word. This was an all-out, full-frontal assault.

  “Let’s go dancing. You wanna go dancing?”

  “I–I don’t really dance,” the man said, shooting his wife an awkward glance.

  “Oh? You look like a dancer to me.” Jen reached over and squeezed his bicep. “There’s a lot of muscle under that fancy jacket.”

  The man colored slightly, then shrugged. “I work out.”

  “Ugh,” Jen said, then put her lips to her straw and took a noisy final slurp of her second drink. “I can’t stand working out. The sight of all those treadmills up in the gym gives me hives. If I’m gonna get sweaty it had better be worth my while, if you know what I mean.”

  Her speech was slurred, but she managed that patented Jen fuck-me smile, and Beth wondered what had happened to her newfound lust for Julio.

  “When I need to shed a few pounds,” Jen continued, “I just call the man with the magic wand.”

  The newlywed’s face went beet red then and Jen laughed and shook her head.

  “Not that kind of wand, dummy. My surgeon.”

  “Surgeon?”

  “You know. Liposuction?” She waved an imaginary lipo wand in the air, then turned in her chair, facing him, and leaned back slightly. It was a tricky maneuver for someone so drunk, but she managed to avoid falling on the floor. “Take a guess.”

  “About what?”

  She cupped her breasts through the black fabric of her cocktail dress. It was obvious she wasn’t wearing a bra. Not that she needed one.

  “How much you think these babies cost me?”

  Beth pushed her ice cream aside. “All right, Jennifer, that’s enough.”

  Jen shot her a look, then turned again to the newlywed. “Well? How much?”

  Despite his scowling wife, the man stared openly at Jen’s offering, and Beth knew there’d be storm clouds in the honeymoon suite tonight.

  “I dunno. A couple grand?”

  Jen laughed. “A couple grand? Where does your wife get her work done? JC Penney’s?”

  Her voice-almost a screech now-rose above the din of the dining room. Not only were most of the people at the table gaping at her (forks held in suspended animation above their creme brulees and flourless chocolate cakes), but a few from the adjoining tables were staring as well.

  “Jen, please, you’re drunk. Let’s go back to the cabin.”

  Ignoring Beth, Jen turned to the elderly couple directly across from her and smiled at the silver-haired husband.

  “Tell me the truth now. Do these look like they’re only worth a measly two grand?”

  And with that, she unceremoniously yanked down the top of her dress, exposing herself to their small corner of the world.

  6

  She threw up halfway back to the stateroom. They were on the stairs leading up to Deck Seven when she gripped the rail.

  “Are we swaying? Why are we swaying?”

  Beth steadied her. “We’re on a ship, remember?”

  “Uhhhh. I don’t feel so good. How many drinks did I have?”

  “Before or during dinner?”

  “It’s the rum. I swear to God, I should know better. Rum always knocks me on my ass.”

  “I don’t think your ass is the problem.”

  “Huh?”

  “Never mind,” Beth said. “Let’s just get you into bed.”

  They’d had plans to hit the casino after dinner, then maybe the dance club on the uppermost deck, but thanks to Jen’s overindulgence and sudden need to express herself, it now looked as if Beth would be curling up with a paperback book.

  “What happened back there?” Jen said. “Am I dreaming, or did I flash my boobs again?”

  Again?

  Beth wasn’t aware of any previous boob flashing-unless you counted the teeny-weeny bikinis Jen favored-but then Jen had long been an exhibitionist. If she was drunk enough and some guy pointed a video camera in her direction, she’d surely be the first one to say, Why the hell not?

  In fact, she probably wouldn’t even have to be drunk.

  “Let’s put it this way,” Beth said. “I’m pretty sure you and your two new friends are the talk of the ship right now. And I can almost guarantee we’ll be getting a phone call from the purser tomorrow morning.”

  Jen slumped against the wall. “I am such an idiot. Why do I always do this?”

  “Let’s save the pity party for later, okay?”

  “I promised myself I wouldn’t drink so much, and what’s the first thing I do?”

  “It’s a little tough to say no when you’re surrounded by the stuff.”

  Jen shook her head. “I am so fucking predictable. And I’ve ruined your vacation. I ruin everything for everybody.”

  “Quit being dramatic,” Beth said, then tried a smile. “If they don’t throw us off the ship tomorrow, you’ve still got three days to make it up to-”

  Jen clutched her stomach. “Uhhhhh. Tell it to stop. Make it freaking…ohhhh, shit.”

  Then it came. Jen’s appetizer, dinner salad, three beers, and two Bahama Mamas, all over the standard-issue cruise ship blue and green carpet — and Beth’s brand-new Kenneth Cole sandals.

  Her smile abruptly disappeared.

  “Oh…my…fucking…Lord…,” she said, and ne
arly threw up herself.

  7

  Vargas

  He never thought he could be so easily creeped out in daylight, yet the moment Vargas climbed out of the truck and stood in front of the house something cold and dry crawled up his spine.

  A sense of anticipation. And dread.

  The place was fairly typical for this part of the country. A large crumbling rectangle of sun-dried clay that had undoubtedly once housed the family who ran the gas station near the highway.

  Its walls were adorned with more graffiti. One of the newer additions read: CASA DE LA MUERTE.

  House of Death.

  Despite the missing chunks of tile roof that let in swathes of mottled sunlight, there was a darkness of spirit here. A malevolence. The entrance was a doorless hole that reminded Vargas of an open maw. And to step past its threshold was to risk being swallowed alive.

  Apparently he wasn’t the only one who felt this way.

  “I’m not goin’ in there again,” Junior said. He was still in the F-150, uncertainty in his eyes.

  Ainsworth spat into the dirt, then squinted at him through the open driver’s door.

  “What did I just tell you, boy?”

  “I don’t like this place.”

  “It’s a goddamn house. It’s not gonna bite you.” Ainsworth lowered his voice, but there was no softness or warmth this time. “Now you can sit in there like a friggin’ faggot, or you can paint that sorry butt white and start runnin’ with the antelope. Which is it gonna be?”

  Junior was quiet for a moment, then finally wilted under the heat of his father’s gaze.

  “Okay,” he said quietly.

  “Okay what?”

  “I’ll come out.”

  Ainsworth’s gaze didn’t waver. “You’re gonna do a helluva lot more than that, Kimo Sabe. You’re gonna lead the way. Take us inside, show Nick here where we found the rest of those bodies.”

  Junior solemnly nodded his head. “Yessir.”

  Climbing out of the truck, he stared at the house a long moment before moving up to its crumbling doorway. Pausing at the threshold, he shot his father a nervous glance, then gestured for Vargas to follow him inside.

  Robert Gregory Browne

  Down Among the Dead Men (A Thriller)

  8

  Vargas didn’t believe in ghosts. His childhood had been full of the usual stories, like the tale of La Llorona, the inconsolable widow who wandered the countryside crying for her dead children. Or the shuffling specter of a murdered husband in search of his golden arm.

  But Vargas had always taken such tales for exactly what they were: harmless folklore. Make-believe stories told in hushed tones by his older brother, Manny, who was always trying to get a rise out of little Nick as they huddled in the darkness of their bedroom.

  Yet there was something about this place-a sense of foreboding-that brought the memory of those nights flooding back to him, and he knew that if his brother were still alive he’d be milking it for all it was worth.

  Vargas followed Junior through the doorway into a small room with a dusty plank floor and faded yellow walls. More graffiti. The word paraiso — or paradise-was spray painted atop it all in bold red letters.

  A decades-old sofa sat against one wall, its upholstery ripped to shreds, its stuffing long gone. There were a couple of tattered aluminum patio chairs next to it, probably brought in by squatters long after the house had been abandoned. A few used syringes and crushed cigarette butts were scattered around them.

  “This room was empty,” Ainsworth said as he stepped inside behind Vargas. “We found it pretty much like it is now.”

  “Through here,” Junior said, then crossed to a doorway on his left. Vargas followed, moving with him down a narrow, litter-strewn hallway to a large room with a sink and overturned icebox. Obviously the kitchen. Beyond it was another short hallway that ended at what seemed to be the only door left in the place, a dilapidated slab of wood with peeling blue paint and a hole where the knob should be.

  Junior came to a stop just short of the second hallway.

  “In there,” he said, gesturing to the door. “That’s where we found ’em. Me and Big Papa.”

  “All four?”

  “Five,” Ainsworth said behind him.

  Vargas turned. “Four in there and the one outside, right?”

  Ainsworth shook his head. “There were six bodies altogether.”

  “But the police said-”

  “I don’t give a good goddamn what those bastards told you. We found one outside and five in the room. Even Junior can do the math on that one.”

  “But I spoke to the investigating officer. He said there were only five bodies.”

  “Cops say a lot of things. Don’t mean it’s true. Especially down here.”

  “Why would he lie?”

  Ainsworth shrugged. “My guess is he doesn’t want anyone to know about the American gal.”

  Vargas paused. “The what?”

  “You heard me.”

  Vargas frowned. He had personally gone over the police file and there was never any mention that one of the victims was an American, female or otherwise. It was true that the lead detective, Rojas, had declined to show him the crime scene photos, but that had merely been a gesture to protect the dignity of the victims.

  At least that’s what Rojas had said.

  But could the police files have been sanitized before Vargas got hold of them?

  If Ainsworth was telling the truth, this put a whole new spin on things. And maybe all the time Vargas had spent on this story so far would turn out not to be a waste. Far from it.

  Ainsworth grinned. “You ain’t no Mike Wallace, are you, son?”

  “Cut the bullshit,” Vargas said. “Did you really find an American?”

  With an impatient gesture, Ainsworth pushed past Junior and moved to the dilapidated blue door.

  “Let me show you,” he said, then pushed it open and stepped inside.

  9

  Vargas followed Ainsworth, with Junior now bringing up the rear. He wasn’t sure why, but he suddenly felt uncomfortable being sandwiched between these two men.

  Pushing the thought aside, he stepped into a large room, what must have been the master bedroom. A single paneless window looked out onto the desert landscape, the late-afternoon sun streaming in, falling across a ruined old queen-size mattress.

  The mattress was caked with grime and dried blood.

  Lots of it.

  Soaked in deep.

  The floor was also painted with the stuff, the graffiti-laden walls covered with splashes of arterial spray, now darkened with age.

  Vargas felt the chill again. Stronger than before. Accompanied by a wave of revulsion.

  This was where it had happened. The massacre he’d first heard about on Channel Z, then read about in El Diario de Chihuahua. The house full of butchered nuns. A story that, for reasons he couldn’t explain, had grabbed hold of him and refused to leave him in peace. Looking around the room, he could imagine the screams of horror, the cries of pain, echoing through the desert. Heard by no one.

  Except the killers.

  Ainsworth pointed to the floor.

  “There were three of ’em right here.” He stood in the center of the room, an odd half smile on his face. He looked a lot like his son. “Three women. All Mex. Two of ’em with their throats slit and the third shot straight through the heart.”

  “What about the American?”

  “On the bed. Pretty little white gal and another local. The Mexican had been gutted, and the American had taken at least two bullets to the chest.” He shook his head. “Whatever happened in here, it musta been one helluva party.”

  Vargas nodded. “How do you know the white girl was an American?”

  Something shifted in Ainsworth’s eyes. As if he’d been thrown off guard by the question.

  “I just know, is all.”

  “How?”

  “She looked it, for one. Had that well-tended
thing going. Never seen a hard day’s work in her life. Plus she was wearing a USC sweatshirt. Go, Trojans.”

  “That doesn’t mean much. Did she have any kind of identification on her? Driver’s license?”

  Junior, who stood in the doorway, said, “We didn’t touch anything. We didn’t take-”

  “Shut your tamale trap,” Ainsworth snapped. Then he turned again to Vargas. “You think we find a bunch of dead bodies, we start checking IDs? You’re just gonna have to take my word for it on the American thing.”

  And all at once Vargas understood. These two Texas shit kickers had not only found the bodies, they’d ransacked them, too. Cash, jewelry. Anything they could find. It wasn’t likely they’d gotten much for their effort, but Vargas had no doubt they’d done it.

  But why, then, call the local police and report their discovery? That part didn’t make sense.

  “If she really was an American,” he said, “then why is this the first time I’m hearing about it?”

  Ainsworth shrugged. “Try looking at it from Chihuahua’s point of view. You find a bunch of dead wetbacks, it’s nothing really new. It makes the papers, maybe a couple of local news shows. They do their Casa de la Muerte bit, but in the end it’s the same old, same old. A run for the border gone wrong.”

  “Except these were nuns.”

  Another shrug. “So that adds a juicy little twist to the story, maybe gets a little traction north of the border, gets the Jesus huggers all in a bind. But in the end, it’s something you can contain because, let’s face it, a dead wetback’s a dead wetback.”

  He paused, scratching his chin.

  “But think about it. You throw a nice, creamy white American gal into the soup, and all of a sudden you’ve gone international. You’ve got the U.S. embassy involved, the family, maybe the FBI, a shitload of press, and a lot of angry goddamn Texans coming down into Juarez and Tolentino and shootin’ at citizens. It’s a national fuckin’ nightmare.”