Down Among the Dead Men (A Thriller) Read online

  “Are you sure that’s what you want me to say?”

  “I’m not afraid of him.”

  “You should be, mi amigo.”

  “You ask me, only a coward leaves a mess and tells somebody else to clean it up. And cowards don’t scare me.” A pause. “Besides, the way he’s been pissing his pants over our boy here tells me he’s the one who…”

  Another pause, and Vargas knew instinctively that he was being stared at.

  “What?” Sergio asked. “What’s wrong?”

  “Might be my imagination, but I think this son of a bitch is awake.”

  And before Vargas could assess what had given him away, he felt something thud against the side of his head, followed by an intense, hot white pain.

  Then darkness.

  13

  WHEN HE CAME to, he had to fight his way through a hazy field of cobwebs and cotton before he remembered where he was and what had happened to him. But the rope around his wrists and ankles and the layers of duct tape wrapped around his head and covering his mouth were fairly good reminders.

  And the heat.

  Jesus, it was hot.

  The Corolla was moving, and he was now locked inside the trunk, his body screwed up into an impossible position, the road bumping beneath him, sending little jolts of pain through his tailbone and along his spine.

  His head throbbed worse than ever, blood and sweat trickling along his temple, across his cheek, then down past the tape and into his mouth.

  He recognized the taste.

  When he was six years old, his father had fashioned a toy parachute for him using some string, a handkerchief, and a small lead weight. For hours he had delighted in tossing it into the air and watching it float to the ground like a miniature paratrooper about to land on some foreign beach.

  One time, however, he threw it high and into the sun and immediately lost track of it. Spinning in a circle to see where it would come down, he couldn’t for the life of him find it.

  Then something hit his head, pain shooting through him, and what seemed like a bucket of blood began to flow into his eyes and mouth.

  Horrified, he ran into the house, screaming for help. And after his father had washed and treated what turned out to be a fairly insignificant wound, Vargas had asked how such a small piece of lead could have caused so much blood.

  “The head is very sensitive, mijo. Even the tiniest of cuts will bring on the blood of a hundred more.” Then his father smiled. “Just be thankful that none of your brains leaked out along with it.”

  Vargas wasn’t sure he could be so thankful this time. Ainsworth had thumped him pretty good—twice—and he had no doubt that he’d need stitches to repair the damage.

  He lay there, fighting off the urge to panic, and tried to assess his predicament.

  There was no sound of conversation in the car. A song played on the radio—an old corrido that had always been one of his grandmother’s favorites. But other than that and the hum of the tires, there was silence.

  Which meant that either no one felt like talking or the driver was alone. And based on the conversation Vargas had overheard earlier, he figured the one called Sergio was behind the wheel.

  Where Ainsworth and son might be was anyone’s guess, but Vargas didn’t think they were here. Ainsworth liked to talk too much. Enjoyed listening to himself. And Vargas couldn’t imagine he’d leave the F-150 behind.

  So it was just Vargas and Sergio.

  Better odds, but still not good.

  Where you headed?

  Safe house in Juárez. He’s waiting for us.

  Vargas had no idea who they’d been talking about—that was a question for another time—but was pretty sure that if he didn’t do something, right now, he wouldn’t be getting out of this little rendezvous alive.

  And since Juárez was less than an hour’s drive from Dead Man’s Dunes, chances were good that he and Sergio would soon be arriving at their destination.

  Too soon.

  So Vargas had only one goal in mind: to get out of this trunk.

  As fast as humanly possible.

  14

  Beth

  IT TOOK THEM three tries to find a bar they liked.

  The first was close to the bow of the ship—the Seafarer’s Lounge, a large, glow-in-the-dark cave that was packed to the gills with drunken karaoke lovers.

  Beth told him she’d rather eat ground glass than go inside.

  Taking the elevator to Deck Eleven, they were halfway to the next one, a place called the Vibe, when the sound of raucous laughter and a pounding bass beat assaulted them.

  Without a word, Rafael took her by the elbow and steered her away—winning points in the process—then led her through a long hallway to a set of wrought-iron steps that wound downward to a small, enclosed piano bar.

  This was more like it.

  The place was sparsely populated, a slightly elevated stage featuring a solo pianist playing a slow jazz tune, Bill Evans or Herbie Hancock or— Beth wasn’t sure who. Peter had been the jazz buff in the family.

  Rafael’s hand touched the small of her back, gently guiding her toward the bar itself, a wide semi-circle that dominated the place.

  She had to admit she liked the feel of that hand.

  “Shall we sit here?” he asked.

  “Wherever you want.”

  The bartender, a tall Norwegian whose name tag read edvard, nodded to them as they slid onto stools.

  Beth was carrying nothing but a small clutch purse that held her cell phone, a packet of gum, lipstick, a couple of Band-Aids, and her seafarer’s card. The cards were given to passengers as they checked in at port, and not only unlocked their stateroom doors but also were linked to their identification.

  And, more important, to their credit cards. The seafarer’s cards were used as cash aboard ship for paperbacks and trinkets and toiletry kits and drinks. Mostly drinks. Beth imagined that quite a few guests would be in for a shock when the final bill was tallied.

  As she laid her purse on the bar, Rafael brought out his own seafarer’s card and handed it to Edvard.

  “Tequila Tonic,” he said, then turned to Beth and waited.

  She smiled. “Long Island Iced Tea.”

  It was a strong drink—what her boss had once called, dollar for dollar, the best value in booze—but she knew her limits, and didn’t imagine she’d be flashing her boobs anytime soon.

  Edvard nodded, carried the card to the register, passed it under a scanner, then handed it back to Rafael and began mixing their drinks.

  “For the record,” Rafael said, “I don’t normally skulk around in the dark, spying on beautiful women.”

  It took Beth a moment to realize she’d been complimented—something she wasn’t used to these days—but she said nothing.

  “You know that, sí? That you’re beautiful?”

  She smiled again. “I’m sure that kind of flattery works on your typical tourist. Unfortunately, I have a mirror. More than one, in fact.”

  Not that she considered herself ugly, by any means. Or even plain. But when she looked into those mirrors, what she saw staring back at her was no movie star. She was a slightly above-average woman who could stand to lose five pounds. At the very least. And when she wore the right makeup, the right outfit, the right shoes, she might even lean toward attractive.

  But beautiful? That was Jen’s territory, not hers.

  “True beauty,” Rafael said, “has little to do with the surface of the skin.”

  Oh, brother. Deduct a boatload of points for that one. Pun intended.

  She touched her heart. “Let me guess. It’s what’s in here that counts.”

  He frowned. “Why do you mock me?”

  “Sorry. But I know a line when I hear it. Especially when it’s not all that original.”

  “I don’t claim originality. Only sincerity.”

  “That’s sweet, Rafael, it really is, but you just met me. For all you know, I’ve got the heart of a Gila mons
ter.”

  “I know people,” he said. “Or perhaps I should say I sense them.”

  “Sense them?”

  “I am a student of the soul. I see things that most people overlook.”

  Beth studied him. Was this more bullshit on top of the previous shovelful, or did he actually believe what he was saying?

  Determined not to let the surface of his skin cloud her judgment—God, he was gorgeous—she decided to keep the red flag flying.

  For now, at least.

  She was not, after all, merely Beth the Dutiful. She was also Beth the Cautious. A trait that had served her well over the years. If you didn’t count her ex-husband, that is.

  Of course, none of this kept her from thinking about that hand on her back. Or those eyes.

  Edvard set their drinks in front of them and Beth reached for hers, took a sip.

  Strong as predicted, but manageable.

  “I’ve offended you,” Rafael said. “That certainly wasn’t my intention.”

  “Just call me a skeptic. I make a living at it.”

  “Oh? What do you do?”

  She shook her head, suddenly sorry she’d brought it up. The last thing she wanted to think about was prosecuting rapists and pedophiles. That was buzz kill of the worst kind.

  “Let’s talk about you, instead.”

  He smiled. “I’m afraid I am not very interesting, but what would you like to know?”

  “Where you’re from would be a start. Why you’re here.”

  He took a sip of his tequila.

  “My home is a place called Ciudad de Almas. But I do not spend much time there.”

  “Why not?”

  “My work requires me to travel. Mexico City. San Antonio. El Paso.” He gestured to their surroundings. “And sometimes I like to get away. Have some fun.”

  “Alone?”

  “That would be unusual?”

  “Cruising doesn’t strike me as a solo sport.”

  He smiled again. “You are right. I am traveling with someone.”

  She knew he was too good to be true. But before she could give this too much thought, the lights began to dim and Rafael quickly checked his watch.

  “Speak of the devil. We’re here just in time.”

  “For what?”

  He nodded toward the stage. “To meet my traveling companion.”

  15

  BETH TURNED AS a spotlight came to life near the piano and a woman stepped onstage.

  Tall. Brown. Exotic.

  A cascade of raven hair. Dark eyes. A killer body in a black satin dress. A perfect combination of genes and breeding that sucked the life out of every other female in a room the moment she entered it. Including Beth.

  In short, she was stunning.

  Moving up to a microphone, she waited as the piano player tinkled a few keys, then she launched into a smoky Latin jazz tune—singing in Spanish, wrapping her voice around the words and melody in a way that Beth hadn’t quite heard before. Low, sultry, but with phrasing just unique enough to take her beyond the average lounge singer, into the realm of the anointed.

  The cliché “oozes charisma” popped into Beth’s mind. And it was an accurate one.

  Except for the piano and the sound of that voice, the bar was silent, all eyes riveted to the creature onstage. And Beth knew that the men in the bar—and possibly a few of their wives or girlfriends—were suddenly reevaluating their lives, wishing they could steal just a few moments away from their current entanglements to pursue this woman, no matter how futile such a pursuit might be.

  Beth watched and listened, glancing at Rafael, thinking how well matched the two were. Perfect specimens—mirror images really—who belonged together.

  As the song came to an end, the bar erupted into applause and whistles. The woman said a throaty “gracias,” then nodded to the piano player and launched into another tune, this one a bit more up-tempo than the first.

  As Beth listened, she felt a hand graze her shoulder, then turned to find Rafael holding her drink.

  “Don’t forget this,” he said.

  As he handed it to her, she thanked him, then took a long sip and returned her attention to the stage, where the woman was proving that she wasn’t a one-hit wonder.

  But Beth didn’t really feel like drinking anymore. The pre-Rafael low-grade depression she had been battling as she stood at the ship’s rail was starting to return. Whatever adolescent fantasy she had been harboring had become instantly laughable. With someone like this woman to keep him company, why would Rafael be even remotely interested in her? Not that she’d ever really believed he was anyway.

  The wisest thing she could do right now was thank him for the drink, then wish him a good night and go to bed.

  She was about to do just that when the second song came to an end, followed by another burst of applause.

  Apparently believing in the motto “leave them wanting more,” the woman thanked the audience, then stepped off the stage as the piano player launched into another solo.

  A moment later, she was at Rafael’s side, kissing his cheek, murmuring something in Spanish. Then she turned, assessing Beth. A mildly aggressive look, but not hostile.

  “Who is your friend?” she asked Rafael.

  He gestured, said, “Beth, I’d like you to meet Marta Santiago. My sister.”

  Sister?

  Beth almost laughed.

  Of course. As they stood side by side it was obvious now that they came from the same gene pool. And a fairly exclusive one at that.

  Marta continued to assess Beth. “I remember you from dinner.”

  “Oh?”

  “We were dining at a table near yours.” She turned to her brother. “You remember, don’t you, Rafael?”

  Rafael said nothing, avoiding Beth’s gaze.

  Oh, crap, Beth thought, they saw Jen’s spontaneous unveiling. And apparently Rafael had been too polite to bring it up.

  Marta said, “Is something wrong?”

  Beth smiled weakly. “My sister has a few issues. I sometimes think of her as my evil twin.”

  “Ah, sí,” Rafael said with a sly smile. “I can see the resemblance.”

  “But only from the neck up, right?”

  They both looked at Beth, surprised, then burst into laughter.

  Beth joined in, the ice broken.

  After a moment, Rafael lifted his Tequila Tonic in a toast.

  “To sisters,” he said. “A blessing and a curse.”

  Marta shot him a quick look, then they laughed again as Beth clinked his glass with hers and took another long sip. Not that she needed it. She was already starting to feel a little woozy.

  She said to Marta, “So you work for the cruise line?”

  Marta shook her head, gesturing toward the piano player. “Actually, I met Miguel in the food court this afternoon and he was kind enough to let me have some fun.”

  What a surprise, Beth thought. Most guys would let this woman do anything she wanted. Join me onstage? Sure, why not.

  “You have a remarkable voice.”

  “Thank you. I don’t often have an opportunity to show it off.”

  “Oh? You’re not a professional?”

  “Singing is more of an avocation for me. A form of release.”

  “With a voice like that, I’m surprised you don’t have a record deal.”

  Marta shrugged. “Such things don’t interest me.” She glanced at her watch. “And I don’t mean to be rude, but Rafael, we need to talk.”

  Rafael’s eyebrows rose. “What is it?”

  She looked at Beth. “Do you mind if I steal him for a moment?”

  “No, not at all.”

  “It was nice meeting you.” Marta took Rafael by the hand, and he shrugged at Beth, saying, “Una momento,” as his sister led him across the floor to a spot near the wrought-iron staircase. They huddled together, speaking into each other’s ears, Marta doing most of the talking.

  Beth tried not to watch them, tried inst
ead to concentrate on Miguel, the piano player, but she couldn’t help herself. Rafael and Marta’s conversation seemed to be growing heated—a fiery look in Marta’s eyes—and Beth had a feeling they were arguing about her.

  Which made no sense at all.

  As if to confirm it, however, Rafael glanced in her direction—forcing Beth to momentarily avert her gaze.

  Then Marta touched his cheek, looking apologetic, and Beth got the sense that something more was going on here than a simple spat between siblings. Something in their body language that went beyond the bond of brother and sister.

  With a quick look around, Marta pulled Rafael into the shadows beneath the staircase. Beth could barely see them now, but what she could see made her stomach turn.

  Marta leaned into him, kissed him.

  Full on the mouth.

  And this was no sisterly kiss. And least not where Beth came from.

  Worse yet, Rafael seemed to be kissing Marta back, neither of them even remotely close to coming up for air.

  Oh. My. God.

  Turning away from the spectacle, Beth took a nice big gulp of her drink, then set it on the counter. Waited for her stomach to settle.

  This was obviously her cue to exit. She had no interest in hanging around with Mexico’s answer to the Appalachia twins. And from all appearances, they seemed to be getting on just fine without her.

  Ugh.

  Scooping up her purse, she crossed to a doorway on the opposite side of the bar and fled.

  16

  WHEN SHE GOT back to their stateroom, Jen was gone. A note on her bunk said:

  GOT MY SECOND WIND. WENT DANCING.

  Beth sighed. Only Jen could be throwing up one minute and raring to go the next. She never ceased to amaze.

  Pulling off her dress, Beth crawled onto her bunk, grabbed the remote from her nightstand, and flicked on the TV. Not that there was anything playing that could top what she’d witnessed tonight.

  She was no stranger to incest. In her work at the prosecutor’s office, she’d seen more cases of father/daughter couplings than she’d wanted to, but those were always crimes of abuse. Some twisted fuck taking advantage of his parental authority, perverting a child’s love.