Down Among the Dead Men (A Thriller) Read online

  What Beth had seen between Rafael and Marta, however, was obviously consensual. But that didn’t make it any more palatable. Some might argue that her objection to it was both morally and intellectually empty—Rafael and Marta were adults, after all—but that didn’t keep it from creeping her out. The ick factor was almost too much to bear. And the image of two his-and-her beauty queens macking on each other was not likely to go away anytime soon.

  Beth shivered, trying to concentrate on the TV, which was showing a remake of The Day the Earth Stood Still with Keanu Reeves. She managed to stare at it for a full thirty minutes but would be hard-pressed to tell anyone what she’d seen.

  This was turning out to be one hell of a vacation.

  But if Jen could recover so quickly, why couldn’t she? The original plan was to go dancing together, and late was better than never.

  Flicking off the tube, she got up, pulled on some jeans, a T-shirt, and a pair of shoes, then grabbed her purse and headed out the door.

  Two staircases and an elevator ride later, she was back on Deck Eleven, standing outside of the Vibe, the pounding beat vibrating beneath her shoes as the bodies inside moved to the rhythm—a sea of bobbing heads and waving arms and drunken, smiling faces.

  Jen was bound to be in there somewhere.

  Pushing past a couple locked in an embrace, Beth squeezed into the room and searched the crowded dance floor.

  It was dark, except for swirling, multicolored lights and a spotlight on the DJ, who looked a little lame wearing his ship’s uniform. At least he played good music.

  But there was no sign of Jen.

  Anywhere.

  Shit.

  Thinking she may have made a mistake, Beth was about to turn and head back out the door when she heard a familiar peal of laughter rise above the din. Spinning around, she saw a cluster of bodies move from the shadows onto the dance floor, Jen at the very center, head thrown back, hair wild and flowing.

  Beth called out to her and waved but was drowned out by the music. Stepping onto the dance floor, she squeezed past several dancers, pushing toward Jen—

  —then stopped cold, a ball of bile rising straight to her throat.

  Jen was dancing with a man and a woman.

  But not just any man and woman.

  Rafael and Marta Santiago.

  And on closer inspection, it was much more than dancing. Jen was sandwiched between the two, Rafael behind, Marta facing her, breast to breast, all three rubbing their bodies against one another. Rafael’s hands roamed Jen’s ass as Marta kept her arms around her neck, staring intently into her eyes.

  Beth watched them in utter amazement, unable to quite understand what she was looking at, trying to convince herself that she’d made a mistake, that this wasn’t Jen at all, that the flashing lights were playing tricks on her eyes.

  But of course that was only wishful thinking.

  It was Jen, all right.

  Her little sister.

  And like any protective mother, Beth waded into the crowd toward them with only rescue on her mind.

  Jen turned as Beth approached, let loose a squeal. “Beth! We were just talking about you.”

  Rafael and Marta also turned, smiling at her, as Jen reached out and tried to pull Beth into an embrace. Jen was drunk again—or still—and, judging by her glazed eyes, was high on more than booze. God only knew where it had come from, but Beth had her suspicions.

  Avoiding the embrace, she shouted above the music:

  “Jen, what the hell are you doing?”

  “Didn’t you get my note?”

  “That’s not what I’m talking about. What are you doing with them?”

  Jen frowned, glancing at Rafael and Marta. “What does it look like I’m doing?”

  “Whatever it is, it’s making me sick to my stomach.” She grabbed Jen’s arm. “Come on, let’s go.”

  “Hey, I just got here.”

  “Do you know anything about these people?”

  A shrug. “They’re hot, they can dance, and they’ve got really good drugs. What else is there to know?”

  Rafael broke in. “Is there a problem, Beth?”

  She shot him a look. “Fuck off, perv.”

  “You disappeared without a word. If I’ve offended you in some—”

  “Spare me, asshole. I don’t care what you and your sister do when nobody’s looking, but keep my sister out of it.” She tugged on Jen’s arm. “Come on.”

  Angry now, Jen yanked free. “Do you mind?”

  “These people are sick. You don’t know what I saw them—”

  “Oh, for godsakes, Beth, get a goddamn life, will you? And leave me alone.”

  “Come on, Jen. You can’t do this.”

  “Do what? Have fun? I’m sorry I don’t live in Beth land, where everybody sits around moping all the time, but I didn’t come on this cruise to play shuffleboard. So kindly fuck off, okay?”

  “Jen, I—”

  “Leave. Me. Alone.”

  And with that, she abruptly turned, grabbing hold of Rafael and Marta and pulling them with her, deeper into the crowd.

  Beth stood there a moment, stung, a motionless figure amid all the writhing bodies.

  Feeling tears well up, she quickly backed away.

  Then headed for the door.

  17

  Vargas

  VARGAS HAD NEVER been much of a car guy. If it got you from point A to point B, he’d drive it, no matter how battered. And if you were expecting any upkeep other than the occasional tune and tire change, you’d be sorely disappointed.

  He rarely looked under the hood of his Corolla, and couldn’t remember ever picking up the manual, which had been stashed in his glove box since the day he bought the car, used, a year and a half ago.

  If you’d told him then that he would one day be bludgeoned and gagged and tied up and locked inside his own goddamned trunk, he would have looked at you as if you were a candidate for a straitjacket.

  Yet here he was. And it occurred to him that if he’d ever bothered to crack open that manual, he might know how to get himself out of this mess. There had to be an emergency lever or something, right?

  Maybe. But he was thinking too far ahead.

  He wouldn’t be pulling any levers, emergency or otherwise, if he couldn’t maneuver. And he couldn’t maneuver with his wrists and ankles bound. Whoever had tied them—Ainsworth, no doubt—had done a damn good job, leaving him very little wiggle room.

  His fingers were starting to go numb.

  Reaching his ankles would be impossible at this point, and every time he tried to move his hands, to get a little air between his wrists, the rope cut deep, digging into his flesh—a rough, burning sensation that he could have happily avoided his entire life without feeling he’d missed out on something.

  His only solution, he decided, was a sharp surface of some kind, and there was bound to be one in here somewhere. The last time he’d bothered to pay any attention to the underside of his trunk lid (during a move to a new apartment, when he’d overloaded the trunk and was forced to tie the lid down with bungee cords), he’d noticed all kinds of exposed metal. But would any of it do the trick?

  Hard to tell, when you’ve got no light.

  He’d have to feel his way through this.

  Twisting his body slightly, he tried to roll over onto his back, and managed to get only halfway there before the base of his spine once again made contact with the spare tire lodged beneath him.

  Making a mental note to rip the thing out of there and roll it off the nearest cliff—just in case he should find himself in this predicament again—he readjusted his body, then took it slower this time.

  And hit his head on the trunk hinge.

  Fuck.

  A bullet of pain shot through his skull and he cried out, the sound muffled by the layers of duct tape. Taking a moment to let the pain settle into a dull throb, he carefully ducked his head, rolled slightly, then shifted around until he was more or less facing up
ward, his legs twisted awkwardly beneath him.

  All of this took him a hell of a lot longer than he’d expected it to, and he could tell by the growing sound of traffic around them that they’d reached civilization. Which meant their destination might not be as far away as he needed it to be.

  Reaching out, he ran his hands along the surface of the trunk lid, finding nooks and crannies and metallic edges but nothing sharp enough to do the trick. Everything was as smooth as the back side of a butter knife.

  Then he hit something, almost stabbing himself in the process.

  A screw.

  Holy shit.

  A fucking screw.

  It wasn’t just any screw, however, but a long, sharp one, probably rusted, protruding through the metal next to a circular hollow spot just above his head, on the far left side of the trunk.

  Vargas had no idea how it had gotten there, but he knew it couldn’t be part of the car’s original design—too much of a hazard—so it had to be the handiwork of the previous owner, an old navy veteran named Harry “Jackhammer” Bridger. A handyman’s handyman, Harry had worked maintenance at the LA Tribune building until throat cancer forced him to retire, then killed him less than six months later. God only knew what he’d attached to the inside of the trunk, but when he’d ripped it out, he’d left behind this screw.

  Thanks, old buddy. Rest in peace.

  Readjusting his hands, Vargas brought his wrists up to the tip of the screw and began scraping the rope against it.

  It wasn’t quiet work, especially in the confines of the trunk, but he figured the hum of the tires and the blasting radio would mask the noise from Sergio’s ears. Vargas moved as quickly as he could, feeling the screw snag and grab hold, then cut through the fibers, a nanometer at a time, each move of his hands forcing the rope to dig deeper into his wrists.

  Then the brakes squeaked and the car came to a sudden halt.

  Vargas’s hands slipped, jerking upward, and the screw pierced flesh, driving deep. Hot pain shot through the left side of his hand, radiating up into the pinky.

  It took everything he had to keep from screaming.

  Yanking his hands free, he brought them down to his thigh, pressing the wound against it, and squeezed his eyes shut, as if this would somehow put out the fire.

  No such luck.

  He could still hear cars around him, their engines idling, which meant they were at a stoplight. Inside the Corolla, Sergio started singing along with the tune on the radio.

  But these were only peripheral observations. Most of Vargas’s concentration was centered on the one small part of his body that stung like a motherfucker. And he felt like singing, too—but it wouldn’t be a happy tune.

  Wondering how much more damage he could do to himself, he waited for the pain to subside, and when the car lurched into motion again he quickly raised his hands to the trunk lid and resumed his task.

  But he’d have to make it fast. He had a feeling that the next time this car stopped, it wouldn’t be for something as insignificant as a traffic light.

  18

  FIVE MINUTES LATER, Vargas felt something give, and the rope loosened.

  It wasn’t much, but it might be enough.

  Twisting his hands back and forth, feeling the burn and not giving a damn, he worked the rope, forcing it to give again, and then again, until finally, thankfully, he pulled his wrists free.

  He let out a breath. Felt exhausted. But he couldn’t quit now.

  Carefully rolling onto his side, he brought his knees up toward his chest, then reached down to his ankles with his right hand, found the knot in the rope, and started tugging at it. It was tight and rock hard, but Vargas wasn’t about to let that stop him. He kept working at it, wiggling it back and forth until it, too, loosened and came free.

  He didn’t bother with the tape across his mouth. That could be taken care of later.

  Instead, he shifted his body again and and let his hands roam the trunk, searching for an emergency lever or cable or anything that might pop the lid.

  Then he found one, near the rear of the trunk, next to the panel behind the backseat, where the rear speakers were supposed to be mounted.

  A small knob.

  He had no idea if this was the emergency trunk release or simply a lever that allowed the backseats to be lowered. But it didn’t matter. Either way, it was his ticket out. Escaping through the backseat might be more problematic with Sergio up there, but it was a chance Vargas would have to take.

  Grabbing hold of the knob with his good hand, he pulled on it as hard as he could.

  Nothing happened.

  What the hell?

  Muttering into the duct tape, he tried again, and this time got something in return for his efforts:

  With a sharp, snapping sound—snapping cable, that is—the knob came loose in his fingers.

  Broken. Useless.

  Sonofabitch.

  Vargas dropped the knob and lay still for a moment, feeling the hump of that goddamned tire beneath him and wondering what his next move should be. He could search for another knob, another lever, but he had a feeling he’d pretty much shot his wad on that front.

  So what now, genius?

  Time isn’t exactly on your side.

  He was searching desperately for a Plan B when a sudden thought occurred to him.

  The tire.

  The goddamned tire.

  Where there’s a spare, there’s bound to be a tire iron, right?

  Why hadn’t he thought of that before?

  Every car came equipped with one. And it might be true that he was a pitiful excuse for a car owner, but the previous owner, good old Harry, would be the last person in the world to leave his trunk without the proper emergency gear.

  At least Vargas hoped so.

  Harry hadn’t been too diligent about cable replacement, had he?

  Still, Vargas had a feeling that somewhere down in that tire well there was a jack, some flares, and a tire iron, which, like the manual in his glove box, had lain untouched for at least a year and a half.

  Finding the edge of the carpet, he peeled it back and reached down into the well, rooting around down there until he found a bulky cloth sack with a drawstring on top. The tools inside clanked as he picked it up.

  Bingo.

  Pulling it out, he loosened the string, opened the sack, and found the tire iron—at least what felt like a tire iron—nestled up against the jack. He grabbed it, set the sack aside, then ran his fingers along the rim of the trunk lid until he found the latch.

  Shifting his weight for leverage, he shoved the sharp side of the tire iron between the latch and the lid and levered it back with a quick, hard jerk.

  The latch snapped and the lid flew open, Vargas scrabbling up to the edge, looking down at the road passing beneath him. His only choice was to jump, but he knew he’d do some damage in the process.

  Then the Corolla began to slow, Sergio apparently aware that something was up, and Vargas started over the side—

  —only to hear the loud, long honk of a horn.

  Snapping his head up, he saw a familiar F-150 headed straight for him. Fast.

  Shit.

  Ainsworth.

  He’d forgotten about him.

  Vargas pulled back just as the F-150 smashed into the rear of the Corolla, the impact throwing him forward again. Grabbing onto the lip of the trunk, he held tight, trying to avoid becoming part of the truck’s grille, just as Sergio put on the brakes.

  Ainsworth braked, too, getting some distance between them, then sped up again, about to ram the Corolla a second time.

  Knowing it was now or never, Vargas scrambled over the edge, then dove sideways toward the road, tucking his head as he went.

  He hit the pavement hard, tumbling like a cat caught in a dryer, feeling his shoulder give, another stab of pain. The world swirled around him, quick flashes of color, as he rolled into the dirt at the side of the road and lay still.

  Hearing the screech
of tires, he willed himself to sit up, saw Ainsworth and Junior and a squat, muscular Mexican guy—Sergio—emerging from their vehicles, shouting at him, and he knew he had to get to his feet, fast.

  Glancing around, he saw that he was on a main drag, a cluster of buildings in the distance. And beyond that—

  —the border station—

  —the fucking border station—

  —where several rows of cars were lined up for passage into El Paso.

  Vargas jumped to his feet, his body protesting, then turned toward the station and ran, not looking back, not thinking about how close the others might be.

  Someone shouted his name again—Sergio this time—and Vargas picked up speed, forcing his legs to move faster than they’d ever moved before, feeling as if they could give out on him at any moment.

  Approaching the line of cars, he began to weave through them, not slowing down, doing his best to make himself a difficult target. Grabbing hold of the duct tape plastered over his mouth, he yanked it free.

  “Help me!” he shouted. “Somebody help me!”

  All around him drivers rolled down their windows and craned their necks, trying to get a look at what was going on. Trying to get a glimpse of the shouting madman.

  Up ahead, a guard came scrambling out of his booth, drawing his sidearm as he went.

  He pointed it directly at Vargas. “Alto! Manos arriba!”

  Chancing a look behind him, Vargas saw that Ainsworth and crew had stopped short at the sight of the guard, their gazes unwavering. And none of them looked happy.

  “Alto o disparo!” the guard shouted, and Vargas snapped his head around. There were two more of them now, guns trained on Vargas.

  Coming to an abrupt halt, he dropped to his knees and threw his hands into the air as the guards ran toward him.

  “I’m an American!” he shouted. “Soy americano!”

  And a moment later, as they pulled him to his feet, he repeated the words, much softer this time.

  “Soy americano…”

  19

  Beth

  BETH DIDN’T HAVE much of an appetite, but she went to breakfast anyway. After tossing and turning all night, she awoke early, only to find that Jen hadn’t returned and her bunk was empty.