Down Among the Dead Men (A Thriller) Read online

  “I’m tired,” Beth said. “Why don’t we just go back to the ship and eat there?”

  “Now why would we want to eat assembly-line hamburgers when we can go for some authentic local food? Come on, you can pick the place.”

  “And pay the bill?”

  Jen offered her a sheepish smile. “Don’t you still have a couple of Peter’s credit cards?”

  “Ha-ha,” Beth said. “You’re hilarious.”

  26

  THEY CHOSE AN outdoor café called Taqueria Tapatia, an oblong open-air enclosure that ran the length of the sidewalk, the chef’s station smack in the middle of half a dozen tables.

  Jen, being Jen, became immediately enamored with the chef, a curly-haired twentysomething hunk with a nice body and an even nicer smile. But to her credit, she kept it low-key, in an effort, Beth supposed, to avoid upsetting the prude. And Beth suddenly felt guilty for always trying to suppress what came naturally to Jen.

  Why couldn’t she just accept her sister for who she was?

  “I’m thinking about going back to school,” Jen said as their waitress set their taco plates in front of them.

  Beth was surprised. “Since when?”

  Jen took a bite of taco, then took a moment to chew and swallow. “I know this’ll sound like bs, but you’re not the only one who’s jealous. A lot of times I look at you, look at what you’ve accomplished, and I think, What the hell? Why am I such a loser?”

  “You’re not a loser.”

  “What else do you call it, then? I’ve spent the last decade bouncing from guy to guy, job to job, party to party and I’ve got nothing to show for it but a failed marriage, an empty bank account, and a constant hangover.”

  Beth had to admit she had a point.

  “It could be worse,” she said. “You could be crippled. Or blind.”

  Jen laughed and shook her head. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. No direction, no ambition. And I can only blame so much of it on Mom and Dad.” She paused, took another bite of taco. “I know you don’t want to hear this, but last night kinda opened my eyes.”

  Beth stiffened. “Meaning?”

  “Marta and I spent a lot of time talking about things I don’t usually bother thinking about. It might be hard to believe, but she and Rafael are very spiritual people.”

  “If you consider witchcraft and phony psychics spiritual, sure.”

  Jen shook her head. “I really wish you could be a little more open-minded. Some people believe there’s a man in the sky watching over us. Does that make them con artists?”

  “Not all of them. No.”

  Beth wasn’t the most religious person in the world, but she did believe in God. A belief that was based on gut, not intellect. But she also knew that there was no shortage of people in this world who would try to exploit that belief.

  “Despite what you think of her,” Jen said, “Marta really believes the things she talks about.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like the power of the dead, for one. She says they’re always among us, ready to guide us, counsel us when we ask for help. And I know this’ll sound stupid, but when she told me that, it was the first time I’ve actually felt like there might be some hope for me after all. Like maybe since they died, Mom and Dad have been watching over us. Maybe it’s time for me to stop disappointing them.”

  “Is that Marta talking, or you?”

  Jen frowned. “I do have a brain, you know. I can think for myself.”

  She went inward for a moment, seemed to be struggling with a thought.

  Then she said, “I cried like a baby last night. Right there in their stateroom.”

  “What happened?”

  “Marta and I were talking and all of a sudden I started crying. It just came over me.”

  Beth nodded. “You were in over your head with those two. Finally realized you’d gone too far.”

  “No,” Jen said, looking annoyed. “That’s not it at all.”

  “Then what?”

  “I already told you, Rafael and Marta made me feel special. Wanted. Like this was much more than some random hookup. It felt like they’d both somehow managed to channel my thoughts and feelings and were speaking to me in a language only I could understand.”

  “Was this before or after you all took Ecstasy?”

  Jen’s eyes hardened. “It wasn’t the drugs, Beth. Or the booze. Besides, I’m done with all that stuff. As sappy as it sounds, I started crying because I felt…I don’t know…loved. Unconditionally. By two people who barely even know me.”

  Beth bit her tongue. Her immediate instinct was to dismiss Jen’s talk as nonsense, to explain that that was exactly what Ecstasy, or MDMA, did to you—something Jen should well know. But there was a sincerity in her voice that couldn’t be ignored. She was vulnerable. And hurting. And Beth knew that, in many ways, and for many years, she had contributed to that hurt, just as Jen had contributed to hers.

  But none of this changed her opinion of the Santiagos. The more she heard about them, the less she trusted them. And if they were taking advantage of Jen’s vulnerability, she might just have to kick their perfect little asses.

  “So this is what got you thinking about the direction of your life? About going to school?”

  “Partly,” Jen said. “But there’s something else I’ve been wanting to tell you. Something…”

  Jen paused, looking anguished. Guilty.

  “What?” Beth asked. “What’s wrong?”

  Jen thought a moment, then shook her head. “We’ll talk about it later. And this whole school thing is just an idea. I’m not really sure what I want.”

  “That’s true for about ninety percent of the people who walk this planet. Even the dead ones.”

  Jen frowned again. “Are you making fun of me?”

  “No,” Beth said, immediately regretting her words. “Just a joke. And a bad one at that.”

  Jen sighed. “You’re never going to take me seriously, are you?”

  “Look, I didn’t mean anything by it. It was just a stupid—”

  “I’ve gotta pee,” Jen said abruptly, then threw her napkin on the table and turned to the waitress, whose command of English was halting at best. Fortunately, they’d been able to point to their choices on the menu. “¿Adónde está el baño?”

  Phrase number two.

  “Disculpa, esta fuera de servicio,” the waitress said, then gestured to a leather-goods shop across the street. “Puedes usar el que esta al otro lado de la calle.”

  Jen pushed her chair back and stood. “I hope that means they have a toilet.”

  “Jen, wait—”

  “Don’t worry, I’m not gonna go mental on you. I just can’t hold it anymore.”

  Then she crossed the street and disappeared into the leather-goods shop without a backward glance.

  And that was the last time Beth saw her.

  27

  Vargas

  NOBODY COULD EVER accuse Vargas of being smart.

  The smart thing to do would be to go back to the motel office, ask to use the phone (his cell had been stolen along with his car keys), and call Agent Harmon.

  The problem with this idea was that Harmon already thought Vargas was a drug-addicted, attention-mongering crackpot and the presence of his car in the Western Suites parking lot would more than likely bolster that opinion.

  Vargas still had no idea how they’d managed to get the thing across the border—seeing as how the Border Patrol was reportedly on the lookout for it—but that didn’t much matter, did it?

  Whoever he’d gotten himself involved with was not playing around. And if they were somehow associated with what had happened in the House of Death, a story that had gone through the usual news cycle, then faded away, they might be a bit concerned about some americano reporter starting to dig it all up again.

  How much did he know? Who had he told?

  That, if his jangled brain was remembering properly, had seemed to be Sergio’s concern. A co
ncern that was no doubt shared by “the man himself.”

  Part of Vargas wanted to simply jump into his Corolla, head straight back to California, and pretend he’d never gotten involved in any of this nonsense in the first place. But besides coming up a bit short in the smarts department, under the right set of circumstances Vargas was also insanely curious. And he could think of no better set of circumstances than the one he’d stumbled into today.

  One of his old story sources, an ex-cop in Las Vegas who had a serious obsession with cards, had once described his addiction to Vargas as an itch. One that just had to be scratched. But once you scratched it, he’d said, the itch only got worse and worse until it was all you thought about.

  Vargas had had his doubts about pursuing this story before today, but now the itch was setting in. And despite his encounter with Ainsworth and Sergio—an encounter Vargas was convinced would have led to his interrogation and possible death—he knew his only choice was to start scratching.

  So instead of calling Harmon, he decided to chance going back to his room. His laptop was there. Along with the notes from his interviews with the Chihuahua police and the information he’d gotten from the murder file. Much of this had been transferred to the Secure Digital card he always kept in his wallet, but he hadn’t managed to do a full backup before his meeting with Ainsworth.

  Going inside was a stupid move, sure, especially with his head feeling the way it did.

  But he was stupid enough to make the move anyway.

  28

  UNLIKE MANY MOTELS Vargas had stayed in over the years, the Western Suites Express was an enclosed two-story structure with its hallways and room entrances on the inside.

  It was a design that fed the illusion that you were staying at a higher-class establishment than you were actually paying for. But the illusion was shattered the moment you stepped inside to find hallway carpet made of thin, replaceable squares and wallpaper a shade too cheap and adorned with art mart reproductions in plastic frames.

  Not that any of this mattered to Vargas. But it occurred to him that if the motel charged just a couple bucks more a night, they might be able to sustain the bullshit at least until the guests got to their rooms.

  He went in through a set of double doors at the back of the building. There were entrances on either end as well, but he’d noticed shortly after he checked in that the rear doors were used almost exclusively by the maids. If anyone was waiting for him inside, they’d more than likely concentrate on the main points of entry.

  It was possible that he was being overly cautious. If someone really was waiting for him, why would they telegraph their presence by parking his Corolla in plain view? Unless they were just as stupid as he was. And neither Ainsworth nor Sergio struck him as mental giants.

  Closing the double doors behind him, he made his way down a narrow corridor past a small alcove that housed a gurgling ice machine.

  His room was on the second floor. Up ahead, on the left, was a door marked: STAIRS. He was about to cross toward it when a faint bell rang and somewhere around the corner an elevator door rolled open, voices filling the adjoining hallway.

  “So what did you do?”

  “What do you think I did? I fragged the motherfucker right there in the alleyway.”

  Shit.

  Picking up speed, Vargas lurched for the stairwell door, quickly pushed it open, then closed himself inside.

  Sucking in a breath, he held it. Waited. The sudden movement had jangled his brain again and he felt a slight burning sensation under the bandage on his scalp—not to mention the hundred and fifty thousand other protests his body was making right now.

  But had they seen him?

  Doubtful.

  And as the voices rounded the corner, Vargas realized with relief that the rush to get out of sight hadn’t even been necessary.

  They weren’t a threat. They sounded like a couple of college kids talking about a video game, in which fragging motherfuckers was apparently routine procedure. Probably spending the night on the border before a trip into Juárez the next day in search of cheap booze and cheaper women.

  Vargas let out the breath. Relaxed. Waited a few moments for his body to recover.

  Then he hit the stairs.

  THE SECOND FLOOR looked empty. So quiet you’d think it was three in the morning instead of nine thirty on a Friday night.

  Vargas left the stairwell and started for his room—which, of course, was all the way at the far end of a corridor about the length of a football field.

  He took his time, not rushing it but bracing himself, just in case he had to move quickly. He felt a little silly for being so paranoid, but then his scalp began to burn again, reminding him that his paranoia was well founded.

  He was staying in room 219. He moved past the elevator, mentally counting the numbers on the doors as he walked.

  252, 251, 250…

  He’d found himself doing that a lot lately. Counting. Wondered if he suffered from some low-grade form of Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder.

  But that was the least of his worries right now.

  246, 245, 244…

  The elevator bell rang behind him and he tensed slightly, knowing it was probably the college students returning with a bucket of ice but worried that he might be wrong. There was nowhere to hide up here, so he picked up his pace.

  238, 237, 236…

  The elevator door rolled open and his shoulders bunched up, in anticipation of the worst.

  Then the college kids’ voices filled the hallway, still talking about fragging and what Vargas assumed was game strategy. He’d never been a big video game fan and it all sounded like Greek to him.

  But he relaxed a little, continued on.

  231, 230, 229…

  Ten doors to go.

  He reached into his back pocket, pulled out his wallet, found his key card.

  224, 223, 222…

  He was a few steps from the door when he stopped in his tracks.

  If someone had managed to circumvent the lock and was waiting inside his room, then sticking a key card in the slot and just pushing the door open was probably not a terrific idea. In fact, it was one of his worst ideas ever.

  In his imaginary movie, he’d find a way to break into the adjoining room instead, sneak out onto the balcony, and come in through the sliding door at the rear of the suite, surprising any intruders. This would undoubtedly involve seducing his next-door neighbor, who was in town for a cosmetics convention and just happened to look like Salma Hayek or Angelina Jolie.

  Unfortunately, this wasn’t a movie. And his room didn’t even have a balcony. So he had no choice but to take the traditional route and hope for the best.

  He could, however, try a ruse.

  An obvious one, sure, but simple and effective.

  Stepping up to the door, Vargas rapped on it sharply and called out in his best imitation of his aunt Cecilia, a talent he had perfected at the age of nine.

  “Hola. Housekeeping.”

  Silence. No sound of movement inside. Nothing.

  It was a little late for a maid to be showing up but certainly plausible.

  He knocked again. “Housekeeping. ¿Es cualquier persona casero?”

  Still nothing.

  Vargas slipped the key card into the slot, waited for the green light to flash, then grabbed the knob and turned it, pushing the door open just a crack.

  “Hola,” he said again. “Housekeeping.”

  There was a chance he was overdoing it. He was a lot older than nine now and his falsetto wasn’t what it used to be, but as he stood there, listening to the sounds of the room, he felt pretty confident that he’d pulled it off.

  He was also pretty confident that the room was empty.

  Sucking in another breath, he pushed the door wide, staring into the darkness. He knew he was silhouetted in the hall light, his ruse now blown, but decided to trust his instincts and continued inside.

  He ran his fingers along the wall until
he found the light switch.

  When he flicked it on, the lamp atop the dresser came to life, throwing dim yellow light across the room, and all the tension drained from his body.

  Just as he had suspected, the room was empty.

  The queen-size bed was made. The towels he’d thrown on the floor had been cleared away. The dollar tip on the nightstand was gone.

  But as he moved deeper into the room, he realized that someone besides the maid had definitely been here. His suitcase lay open on the floor near the bed, half of its contents scattered around it. Shirts. Socks. Underwear.

  The stack of notes he’d left on the small, round table near the window was gone. Along with his laptop.

  And in their place was a set of keys.

  His car keys.

  Along with his cell phone.

  Vargas stiffened. Took a quick look around the room again, half-expecting someone to step out of the closet with a gun in his hand.

  But the room was empty. No surprises waiting.

  Letting out a breath, he crossed to the table and started to pick up his keys, flinching slightly when he felt something sticky.

  Pulling his hand away, he stared down at his fingers, and what he saw there sent a chill through him.

  Blood.

  They were covered with blood.

  He was contemplating the significance of this when his cell phone rang. Vibrated on the table.

  Vargas flinched, then squinted down at the screen: UNKNOWN CALLER.

  Wiping his hand on his shirt, he pushed the keys aside, picked up the phone, then put it against his ear and pressed the receive button.

  “Hello?”

  “Welcome back, Mr. Vargas.” The voice on the other end was calm, direct, vaguely Hispanic. “We trust you are feeling better now?”

  Vargas’s first instinct was to throw the phone down and run.

  Instead, he gripped it tighter, steadied himself. “Who is this?”

  “That isn’t important at the moment. We simply wanted to apologize to you for the behavior of our associates, and to give you a piece of advice.”

  “Which is?”

  “We are a family that is very protective of its privacy. As you may have noticed, your laptop and notes are gone. We took the liberty of going over them and discovered, to our satisfaction, that you are quite unaware of what you’ve stumbled into here.”