Down Among the Dead Men (A Thriller) Read online

  But Beth wasn’t surprised. Why should she be?

  This was typical Jen behavior. A symptom, Beth believed, of her sister’s unending restlessness. And the unhappiness that had plagued her since the death of their parents.

  Beth chose the dining room rather than fight the crowd at the food court. It was a risky choice, considering what had happened there last night, but she decided to take her chances.

  Heading to Deck Five, she made her way inside and went straight to her assigned table, which was, thankfully, as empty as Jen’s bunk. Maybe she could eat in peace.

  As she sat, their waiter, Timothy—who, according to his name badge, hailed from Germany—came over and put a menu in front of her.

  “And how are we this morning?”

  His English was very good, with only a trace of an accent.

  “We,” Beth said, “are seriously considering retiring to a convent.”

  Timothy smiled. “And what fun would that be?”

  “Apparently I’m not allowed to have fun.”

  “Oh? Why is that?”

  “Long story,” she said, then gave the menu a quick scan and closed it. “I’ll have the lox and bagel with extra cream cheese and a cup of coffee. Black.”

  “Would you like capers with that?”

  “Sure. Why not live a little.” She handed him the menu. “My sister didn’t happen to drop by this morning, did she?”

  “Sister?”

  “The girl I was sitting with last night. The one who thought she was at a rock concert?”

  He smiled slightly. “Yes, I remember.”

  “How could you forget? I’m still mortified at the thought.”

  Timothy shook his head. “You shouldn’t let such things bother you. People drink, they go a little crazy. It’s nothing new. We see it all the time.”

  Beth nodded. “One of the perks of the job, I guess.”

  These people lived and worked on this ship 24/7 for weeks on end, so she imagined they did see quite a lot of crazy behavior. Enough to make Jen’s display last night fairly innocu—

  “Hey, Sis.”

  Beth snapped her head around and saw Jen crossing the dining room toward her.

  Jen looked—to coin one of Peter’s favorite phrases—as if she’d been rode hard and put away wet. “I was hoping I’d find you here.”

  She pulled out a chair and sat, leaning her elbows on the table. Her eyelids were drooping. Not that this made her any less beautiful.

  “Just coffee for me,” she said to Timothy.

  Timothy gave Beth a quick look, then with a small bow said, “I’ll put in your order,” before disappearing into the kitchen.

  “If I were alive,” Jen said, “I’d say he’s kinda cute. Is he the same one from last night?”

  “You don’t remember?”

  “They all wear those gold tunics, it’s hard to keep them straight. Besides, I think I’ve lived about three lifetimes since then. Are you still mad at me?”

  “Mad?” Beth said. “I wasn’t the one screaming to be left alone.”

  “I’m sorry, okay? You know how I get when I’m high.”

  “Unfortunately, yes.”

  Jen frowned. “Look at you, still in mom mode. You really have to find a new hobby, Beth. I can’t keep you entertained forever.”

  Beth just stared at her. “You’re about as entertaining as a train wreck.”

  “Nice. Tell me how you really feel.”

  “I’m sick of it, Jen. You only invited me on this trip because Debbie flaked out. You give me all this bullshit about wanting to help me work through the divorce, and the first chance you get, you’re off fucking Bob and Betty Beautiful—who, I might add, are brother and sister—and I’m stuck watching Keanu Reeves stand in for Michael Rennie.”

  “In other words, you are still mad.”

  Beth shook her head, exasperated.

  “I give up,” she said, then pushed her chair back and rose. “I want off this goddamn ship. And once we get into port, I’m catching the next plane back home.”

  “Oh, for godsakes, don’t be so dramatic.”

  “Dramatic?”

  “I told you I was going to get laid, so I got laid.”

  “You’re disgusting, you know that?”

  “Look, I don’t know what you think happened last night, but you’re wrong.”

  “Am I? It didn’t look that way to me.”

  “We were dancing, okay? Just messing around. If it makes you feel any better, when it came time to do the dirty deed, it was just me and Rafael. Marta didn’t come to the room until later.” She smiled. “Not that I would’ve minded a little extra attention…”

  Beth eyed her dully. “Enjoy the rest of the cruise. I’m out of here.”

  She started to walk away, then Jen said, “You’re just jealous.”

  Beth stopped in her tracks, spun around. “What?”

  “You’ve always been jealous. You were in—what—your second year of college before you lost your virginity? I was already working on orgasm number two thousand fourteen by then.”

  It took everything Beth had to keep her jaw from dropping. “Are you even listening to yourself?”

  “You want to know the real reason I hung out with the Santiagos last night? Because they make me feel good. Like someone special. They let me be me, without apology. And all I ever get from you is disapproval. Do you know how many times in our life you’ve treated me like an adult? Zero.”

  Beth squinted at her. “So what exactly are you saying? You don’t feel special because I don’t pump you full of drugs and use you for a sex toy? You need therapy, Jen. The sooner, the better.”

  “That’s not what I mean, and you know it.”

  “All I know,” Beth said, “is that we dock in Playa Azul in less than twenty minutes. And as soon as we get there, I’m gone.”

  And with this, she turned on her heels and headed for the exit.

  20

  SHE WAS NAVIGATING the narrow hallway to their stateroom when Jen caught up with her.

  “Beth, wait!”

  Beth waved a hand at her. “Enough. I’ve had enough.”

  “Look, I’m sorry for being so cranky. I’m hungover and haven’t had any—”

  “There’s always an excuse.”

  “It’s not an excuse. It’s a reason.”

  Beth said nothing. Just shook her head, then shoved her key card into the slot and opened their stateroom door.

  Jen grabbed her arm. “Beth, please. Don’t be mad. We’re family, for godsakes. We’re not supposed to be pissed at each other. At least not to the point that you’re ready to hop on a plane.”

  “Oh, I’m not mad. I’m just jealous, remember?”

  Jen sighed. “And I’m an idiot, okay?”

  Beth didn’t want to cry but felt the tears start to well up.

  “You’re just like Peter, you know that? One minute you treat me like shit; the next you’re trying to make nice. I can’t take it anymore.”

  “Oh, come on, Sis, don’t cry. I…” She stood back suddenly and patted her chest. “Go ahead, punch me. Right in the boob job. I deserve it.”

  “I don’t want to punch you.”

  “I’m serious. I’m a complete bitch and you’re right about everything and I deserve to be punched.”

  “Now you’re being ridiculous.”

  Beth pushed through the doorway and stepped inside, flicking on the light.

  Jen followed her. “Are you really leaving?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  Beth moved to the closet, slid open the door, and started pulling her clothes off the hangers. “Because I shouldn’t’ve come in the first place.”

  “How can you say that?”

  Beth looked at her. “You were right about me. I am jealous. I’m jealous of your ability to say ‘fuck you’ to everyone around you and never take responsibility for a goddamn thing.”

  “That isn’t fair.”

  Beth p
ulled her suitcase out and threw it on her bunk. “No, it isn’t fair. I’ve spent my entire life trying to be the rational one. The stable one. I thought coming on this trip might be my chance to let go for once, but as usual, I wind up playing babysitter.”

  “You choose that role. I’ve never asked you to watch over me.”

  Beth opened the suitcase and threw her clothes in, not bothering to fold them. “But I’m the first one you come running to whenever you screw up, aren’t I?”

  “Who am I supposed to go to? Mom and Dad?”

  “Very funny.”

  She returned to the closet and bent down, gathering up her shoes. She’d spent fifteen minutes washing Jen’s vomit off her Kenneth Coles last night, but just the sight of them made her stomach turn, so she left them behind.

  Jen watched her dump the rest of the shoes into her suitcase. “You’re really doing this, aren’t you.”

  “Yes,” Beth said. “I told you, I shouldn’t have come. I’ve got cases piling up—I don’t know why I let you talk me into this trip in the first place.”

  Jen said nothing. Just stared at her a moment, then moved to her bunk and sat, looking down at her hands.

  Then she said, “You know what next week is, right? Next Wednesday?”

  “What?”

  “The twenty-seventh. Fourteen years since they died.”

  Beth felt her gut tighten.

  Jen turned her left hand palm up and began tracing the lines with a finger.

  “I remember once, a long time ago, I read a book about palmistry and all I wanted to do when I grew up was be a fortune-teller. How stupid is that?”

  “Pretty stupid,” Beth said.

  “I learned about the head line, the life line, the heart line…and one day, when we were home for the weekend, I asked Dad if I could read his palm.” She smiled at the memory. “He had really strong hands, you know that?”

  Beth sat on her own bunk, nodded. “I know.”

  Jen’s smile faded. “When I started to do the reading, the first thing I noticed was his life line. It was really short. And I thought, This is not good. This is not good at all.” She paused, looked up at Beth. “But then I told myself I must’ve misunderstood what I’d read. So I didn’t say anything to him. I just made up some bullshit prediction about his future, then went off to watch Saved by the Bell.”

  “What are you saying?” Beth asked.

  “That I knew he was going to die. I knew he was going to die and I didn’t tell him. I didn’t warn him.”

  Beth shook her head. “They died in a plane crash, Jen. How could you warn him about that?”

  “I don’t know. But maybe if I’d told him to be careful, if I’d shown him his life line and told him what it meant, maybe they wouldn’t have chartered that plane.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “I know,” Jen said. “I know it is. But I can’t help it. I think about it almost every day. And I know none of it’s my fault, but that doesn’t stop me from feeling like it is.”

  “Let me say it again,” Beth told her. “They died in a plane crash. So unless you performed a Vulcan mind meld and told that pilot to fly into a mountain, what happened to Mom and Dad was purely accidental.”

  Jen nodded, was quiet for a moment.

  Then: “I tried to contact them last night.”

  Beth frowned. “Contact who?”

  “Who do you think, dummy? Mom and Dad.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  Jen paused before answering. “I know you can’t stand Rafael and Marta, but contrary to what you might think, I didn’t spend all my time fucking last night.”

  “Oh, brother.” Beth rose again, moved to the dresser, and started pulling out her underwear.

  “I’m trying to tell you something here, Beth. Can you at least give me the courtesy of listening?”

  “I have absolutely no interest in anything remotely related to those two.”

  “Just listen, okay?”

  Beth sighed, threw a fistful of bras and panties into the suitcase, and sat again.

  “Okay, I’m listening.”

  “Promise not to laugh?”

  “I promise,” Beth said, and waited for Jen to tell her story.

  21

  JEN TOOK A breath.

  “By the time Marta showed up, Rafael was pretty much passed out, so she and I spent a lot of time talking. She told me she’s what they call a bruja.”

  “A what?”

  “A bruja. A witch.”

  “You’re kidding me, right?”

  Jen shook her head. “She says she has powers, including the ability to communicate with the dead.”

  “I’ll bet that comes in handy.”

  Jen frowned. “It’s not a joke, Beth. After last night I’m convinced it’s true. She’s psychic. Knows things that are impossible for her to know.”

  “Like what?”

  “Stuff about my love life. About Mom and Dad. About me being…” She paused. “About a lot of things. Like she was inside my head.”

  Beth stared at her. It took everything she had to keep from rolling her eyes. Over the years she’d run across more than a few so-called psychics. Every one of them had been a con artist.

  “Have you ever heard of a cold reading?”

  Jen shook her head again.

  “It’s a technique used by people who claim to be psychic,” Beth said. “They extract information from you without you realizing it. Ask leading questions. Study your body language. It’s all designed to make you think they have special powers. But the only real power they have is the ability to extract money from your wallet.”

  “That’s not true. Marta didn’t ask me for a cent.”

  “Not yet. But if you keep hanging around with her, it’ll happen. Believe me.”

  “Why are you always such a cynic?”

  “Not a cynic,” Beth said. “A realist.” She reached across and took Jen’s hands in hers. “I know you miss them. Mom and Dad. I do, too. But Marta can no more communicate with them than we can. And if you let her convince you that she has some supernatural power, you’re only gonna be dis—”

  A bell rang over the loudspeaker in the hallway.

  “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen; this is your purser speaking. We have now docked in Playa Azul, Mexico, and will begin debarking in five minutes.”

  Beth released Jen’s hands and stood. “That’s my cue.”

  Jen grabbed her arm. “Don’t go, Beth. Please don’t go.”

  “I have to,” Beth said. “I’m sorry. But I can’t deal with—”

  “I promise to be good. No more me, me, me. From now on this vacation is all about you.”

  “We both know that won’t happen.”

  “I promise. I swear to God. And if I step out of line, you can kick my ass.”

  “Punching, kicking—what’s gotten into you?”

  “I just want you to stay, okay? Leave your suitcase here and we’ll go into town and do some shopping. You love to shop.”

  Beth sighed. “I also hate it when you beg.”

  “Does that mean you’ll stay?”

  Beth thought it over and, against her better judgment, nodded. “All right. One last chance.”

  “Hooray!” Jen said, pulling her into a hug. “And when we’re done shopping, let’s go to Armando’s for some Jell-O and tequila shots.”

  Beth pulled away abruptly, glared at her.

  Jen grinned. “I’m kidding,” she said. “Just kidding.”

  22

  Vargas

  ACCORDING TO THE placard on his chest, the Border Patrol agent’s name was S. Harmon.

  Sam? Steven? Stan?

  It didn’t much matter. He was a fastidious-looking guy in a crisp army green uniform, with neatly trimmed graying hair and a pleasant but cautious smile.

  He was hard to read, and Vargas got the impression that he was the type of guy who liked to play his cards close and would only raise a bet when he w
as looking at a sure thing.

  “You’ve managed to make a routine day pretty interesting,” he said. “I’ll give you that.”

  He stood just inside the doorway to the exam room at the local emergency clinic, a few blocks north of the border station.

  After a brief interrogation, the extent of Vargas’s head wound was assessed and he’d been brought here by ambulance. The wound was cleaned and stitched, his shoulder examined and found to be bruised but not dislocated, the puncture and wrists burns treated with Neosporin, his hand bandaged—all followed by a tetanus shot and a CT scan to make sure his brain wasn’t bleeding. The nurse who administered them all had the warmth and personality of a motel room curtain.

  Fortunately, Ainsworth and company had neglected to steal Vargas’s wallet and passport, so he’d had no trouble proving his American citizenship. And he’d had the foresight to buy a SENTRI card, which afforded him easy entry into the United States.

  None of this had done much to allay the suspicions of the border guards, however, who seemed ready to toss him into a cell as a suspected terrorist or drug smuggler. Fortunately, they didn’t have any evidence to back up their suspicions and word came down from on high—Harmon, no doubt—to cut him loose.

  So, they’d transported him to the clinic. Vargas had been on concussion watch for a good two hours and had spent a large portion of that time trying to figure out what the hell he’d stumbled into.

  He’d obviously been set up, but why? He was pretty sure he’d been right about the looting of the bodies in the House of Death, but there was something much more sinister going on here than simple robbery, and he’d be damned if he could figure out what it was.

  Ainsworth had complained of having to clean up someone else’s mess—the someone Vargas had been on his way to see before his escape.

  But who?

  The man who had slaughtered the people in that house?

  And what did he want from Vargas?

  It occurred to him that maybe the Border Patrol was on to something here. Maybe this was about smuggling. Hadn’t Ainsworth referred to himself as a courier?

  And then, of course, there was his story about the American woman. But was it even true?

  Vargas didn’t imagine Ainsworth would have any trouble lying, but Junior didn’t seem capable of it.