Fourteeners

by Sarah Latchaw

  I gazed out the window and thought of Marieta. Did she know Daniel Rodriguez was dead? Had she watched his funeral procession leave the tiny village church and travel into the cemetery, where his family buried only his feet beneath a wooden cross? Was she concealed in some hole-in-the-wall, alone, mourning for the man she loved?

  Unless she was dead, too.

  So many questions. I shivered and calculated the time until I’d see my husband’s Subaru pull into the driveway. It all depended on the next flight out of Mexico.

  Heavy rain brawled with whipping tree limbs through the night. As morning passed, the TrilbyJones foyer became an obstacle course of open umbrellas and galoshes, a common sight in Seattle, perhaps, but not arid Boulder. The storm lashed and rattled the old Victorian and, in a moment that struck panic in my heart, caused the electricity to flicker. But soon it died to a steady sprinkle and the day became another blah Tuesday.

  Jaime called, just as I debated whether to pay her a visit after work.

  “If you do, I’ll feed you to my Labs,” she warned.

  “How about I skip the social visit and you tell me what you’ve found on Uncle Javi?”

  “Not much. No record of Javier Sanchez in the slum apartment next door to Marieta. A woman lives there, Camila Flores García. In Mexico, those two apellidos are as common as ‘Smith’ and ‘Jones’ in the States. So no red flags, until I traced her back to her hometown. Let’s see how smart you are.”

  “La Vereda.”

  “A-plus for you. It gets more complex. Javier’s ‘wife’ is not a wife, at least not on the books. No marriage between Javier and Camila that I can find, no record of children, either.”

  I absently twisted my wedding ring. This branch of Samuel’s family tree was more complicated than sex in a hammock. “Maybe Javier also lied about having kids.”

  “Or they’re simply off the books, too.”

  Unclaimed children…unclaimed lovers… I thought of my dad up in Cheyenne, managing his buddy’s property. With his good looks and easy smile, surely he’d found another woman to love him by now. Did women cling to Javier Sanchez like my mom and I had clung to Tom Trilby? Had Marieta begged Daniel not to expose the Zacatóns, just like I’d begged Samuel not to return to Tamaulipas?

  “I’m trying to dig up Daniel’s passport and photo, but it’s proving hard. He probably wiped all his identification off the Dark Web, so I’ll have to go straight to the government sites.”

  “Daniel’s dead, you know,” I said flatly.

  “¡No mames! Are you sure?”

  “His family found a few stray body parts along the highway, feet included. They buried him last week.”

  Jaime hissed. “How did I not hear about this?”

  “I suppose none of La Vereda’s fifty residents have surfed the Dark Web lately.”

  “That’s too bad, he was a decent guy. But Javier also seemed like a good one, in the beginning.”

  “If Javier sold out his own niece to the Zacatón Cartel, then he’s a monster.”

  “People do horrible things to save their own hides. In my line of work, I’ve seen spouses turn their backs on their husbands and wives for far less. A lover, a salary raise, even a bowling league. It doesn’t take much.”

  “How depressing.”

  “Now you see why I keep my relationships superficial.”

  My laugh was completely void of humor. “Now you see why I don’t.”

  Samuel called later that evening, just as I finished a conference call with Molly.

  “Are you out of Mexico?” I asked the minute I picked up my phone.

  “Yes, but we’re stuck in San Antonio at the airport and we can’t get a flight until tomorrow. I’m too tired to mess with a car rental.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief. “No trouble in customs?”

  “Just the usual extra ten minutes of questioning—my passport stamps are beginning to tell a shady story.”

  “Any sign of her?”

  “We got close. But now that I know who Javier really is, it’s too risky. She obviously doesn’t want him to find her and I’m not doing her any favors by playing his tracking dog.”

  “Good thing this is the last trip. You’ve given the Mexican Feds more than enough to work with.”

  “Hmm.”

  Chapter 18

  Gripped

  One is gripped on a climb when immobilized by terror.

  Wednesday morning, the gully-washer arrived. Rain pounded the windows, wind thrashed the trees. I watched a mail truck careen through a puddle six inches deep, judging by the water it kicked up. No way was I going out to the mailbox in this weather. As it turned out, not only did I check my mail, I had to make a trip out to Left Hand Canyon. My contractor called, concerned about erosion around the foundation where grass had yet to grow.

  “What can we do about it?” I asked.

  “Me and some guys will haul sandbags out there if it’s needed. Take a look yourself, let me know what you think.”

  I grabbed my rain coat and boots from the lobby and grumbled about paying my contractor to sit in his warm, dry office while I sloshed through a downpour to check out the condition of our home. Ash, my intern-slash-Nixie fan stopped me.

  “Be careful on the way out to the canyon. Remember the exhibit we promoted for the Front Range Museum?”

  I racked my brain. “The one about the Big Thompson Canyon floods in the seventies?”

  “They’re saying on Twitter we might get close to six inches of rain today, and that means flash floods. Don’t go all Neelie Nixie on me, bestie.”

  I looked skyward. “Thanks for the heads up.”

  “Someone has to write my recommendation letter for grad school, which I need by Friday,” she hinted.

  “Oh crud, it’s almost done. Lemme finish it up right now.”

  I tossed my raincoat over my desk chair and restarted my computer, opened the file. I had just printed and signed the final page when there was a rap at my door. All six feet of Hector Valdez leaned against the doorframe. His hands were jammed into his pockets, his tattooed muscles flexed with that ceaseless, restless energy that filled the space around him. His clothing was damp with rain (he hadn’t bothered with an umbrella). He grinned, all joy and, I had to admit, my heart flipped. Bro was laying it on thick—he really wanted something from me.

  “What is it, Hector?”

  “Nice manners, mamacita. What happened to my polite, rosy-faced Cabbage Patch doll?” I chucked a promotional pen at his head. He ducked.

  “You call me ‘Cabbage Patch’ again and I’ll use my ninja skills.”

  “And what, nunchaku me with your stapler? Listen, I didn’t swing by to be maimed by office supplies. You see that beautiful downpour outside?”

  “Is that what it is? I thought Boulder had the power washers out today.”

  He shook his head. “Oh Kaye, marriage to that stick-in-the-mud has ruined your sense of humor. You used to be funny.”

  “Says the man-child who thinks hippie puns are hilarious.”

  “That reminds me. What kind of cigarettes do hippies smoke?”

  “The illegal kind. Now what about the rain?”

  He poked me in the shoulder. ‘Yours,’ you dummy. Ay ay ay, there’s no hope for you. But yeah, the rain. It’s supposed to hit six inches by the end of today.”

  I lifted my red rain-booted feet. “Some are predicting nine.”

  Hector whistled. “Even better.”

  “Why on earth would nine inches of rain be a good thing? Do you know the kind of flash flooding it will cause? Tomorrow’s gonna be ugly.”

  “Kaye, now you’re really scaring me. Seriously, what has happened to my adventuress? Can you even fathom the kind of rapids this rain will kick up in the watershed? We’re talking level five the whole freaking ride, sweet cheeks, the likes of which Colorado has never seen nor will see for a hundred years. It’s our one chance. All of the river rats will be out.”

  “I don’t think so,
Hector.”

  “Is ‘Mr. Trilby’ still out of town?”

  “He is.”

  “Then what’s stopping you?” His mouth curled, sultry, seductive.

  Until that moment, he nearly had me. I could feel the power of the rapids break against my face, my body, the lurch of my stomach as we rose and dipped, raced and braced and conquered the river. But then, like an unexpected kick to the back of the knees, he floored me with his disrespect.

  “What is this about?” I asked, suspicious.

  Hector straightened, his eyes now cold, full of accusation. He wiped his hands against his shirt, his jeans, and shrugged. “I asked you to go kill the rapids with me, you said no. Whatever. I’ll give Luca a call.”

  “Nuh-uh. We never dealt with what happened up on the mountain. I think it’s time, don’t you?”

  “You want to air your dirty laundry for your whole office to hear? Be my guest.”

  I sputtered. “No. I...I just don’t like...”

  “Mamacita, don’t.” He sighed, closed my office door and plopped into the chair across from my desk. “I called you out for your boring life, your safe marriage. You got all fired up and feisty, and it turned me on, nothing more. But sometimes, argh!” His hands curled into fists. “Sometimes you drive me insane, lady.”

  “Hector, you’re married, I’m married. I love my husband.”

  “I know, okay? I see what you have, and that’s the rub of it. I see the way you love him, the way he loves you, and I hate it. I don’t even want you like that, Kaye.”

  “Then why...?”

  He growled and scrubbed his bald head. “Sometimes I just want to...to kiss the hell out of you, touch you and everything else, but I don’t want to keep you. You’re beautiful. You have this smile, and eyes, and man, you’ve got guts. I’m a terrible friend just telling you this—how sometimes I want to use you up and throw you away. But I’m your friend first and I wouldn’t do that to you, even though I can’t stand Cabral!”

  My body flushed, as if I stood over a hissing radiator and allowed steam to scald me. My hands trembled and I struggled to ignore this man who I thought I’d known, but maybe didn’t know at all, and continue typing whatever the hell I’d been composing before he’d upended my uninteresting, rainy morning. How was it possible to feel so desired and cheapened at the same time? Whatever angle Hector worked, he’d twisted me into a gob of fluster and fury. Dropping the pretense, I slammed my laptop shut.

  “I don’t understand. Why do you dislike Samuel? Why do you hate what we have? Why would you even say these…these things to me?”

  “Because you left me alone, Kaye! You abandoned me, what we had, for him—the guy who ditched you, who’s still ditching you. You used me, your little Band-Aid for the Samuel-sized hole in your life. When you and Cabral fought, who’s the first person you called to drag you on another adventure?”

  Oh. The spitting radiator cooled, and guilt and shame sat so heavily upon me, my body sagged. This was my fault, too. “Hector, I’m sorry. I’ve always had an ugly selfish streak. But in all fairness, I’ve also been honest with you about Samuel.”

  He shrugged. “It matches your ugly jealous streak. Don’t think I didn’t see the ice you used to shoot Jaime. You don’t do it to Tricia, though.”

  Because he doesn’t love Tricia, not the way a husband is supposed to love his wife. I could never voice this, but I didn’t have to.

  “Samuel warned me I was in danger of an emotional affair. That’s what we’ve been doing, isn’t it? It all seemed innocent—climbing partners, tackling fourteeners together, you helping me get my mountain legs back.” Heck, the climbs had even been Samuel’s idea. He’d trusted me and I’d betrayed that trust.

  “It was going well until the gringo dropped out,” he spat.

  Heat rose again. “Samuel did what he had to do. The fact is, I should never have gone alone with you. When I married, when you married, when anyone marries, relationships have to change. Maybe you think I’m a photocopy of my former brilliant, carefree, careless self. Whatever. That’s your opinion. But at least I’m faithful, at least my husband knows I will always choose him over those mountains, over my friends, over my career, and certainly over a stupid adrenaline rush. Can your wife say the same?”

  He sneered. “Can you say the same about your husband? Word is, he’s chasing some woman in Mexico.”

  I rolled my desk chair back so hard, it banged into the wall and a motivational poster clattered to the ground. I skirted around him and yanked open the door. “Out of my office.”

  He jumped up from his chair and shoved it into my desk. “Fuck you, Kaye, and your shitty friendship.”

  “Ride the piss out of those rapids, Hector,” I called as he stomped out of my office. “At the rate you’re going, you won’t be here for Christmas!” He had already rounded the hall.

  Stunned eyes peered over cubicles as embarrassment flooded my face and mingled with angry purple. I pushed a hand into my curls, exhaled. Screw it.

  I grabbed my raincoat, closed up my office, and called it a day.

  Time for a trip up to the new house, see why the contractor was concerned. Hector Valdez would be dealt with another day.

  As I wound into the Canyon, I was shocked to see the banks of Left Hand Creek filled to the brim with rushing water, a swift transformation from the docile trickle at the bottom of the rock bed. Tree branches and other woodland debris bobbed in and out of sight and piled at the culvert, damming the waters. Alarm bells rang. If the culvert was clogged, wouldn’t that force the raging creek back into the canyon? That, or it would swell up and around the culvert, over the road. Disaster was stamped all over those rising waters.

  When I reached our new home, I was relieved to see the surrounding earth work was holding steady against this never-ending downpour. It was a mud pit, but it was still there. My boots sucked and popped as I walked the perimeter. It was difficult to tell if our home was snug and dry against the deluge. I dug into my zip pocket for the house key then promptly dropped it in a puddle. My fingers were numb and shaking. I hadn’t even noticed the rain was cold. I sloshed through water until I came up with the key and unlocked the house. Dry, fresh timber tickled my senses. I ditched my waterlogged boots, socks, and raincoat in what would be the mud room and crept across the cold but thankfully dry floors, checked the foundation.

  Watertight.

  Surely the rain would let up in an hour or so. I wasn’t in a hurry to put on cold wet socks, so I spread out my sodden items to dry. A pity I hadn’t stored any extra clothing or blankets, even a flashlight out here. Samuel keeps one in the trunk. I squinted through the fogged window at my Jeep. It was only late-afternoon, but heavy storm clouds blocked the sun and what little light remained would be gone soon, up here in the mountains. I’d have to hit the road. With a sigh, I trudged back to my pointless rain gear. At least the soggy socks and boots would save my feet from hidden nails and other dangers on a construction site. With one last glance around the dry, cheery home, I stepped back into the torrent and secured the door.

  The drive east into the canyon was slow and perilous. Water from Left Hand Creek now flirted with the edge of the road. Not good. The farther I drove, the harder it became to navigate the tight curves of the mountain blacktop in the deep gray of twilight. Branches, rocks, other debris littered the road. Water trickling down the slopes morphed into streams. As I neared the bridge, a small, niggling voice grew louder until I was so uneasy with its shouting, I stopped the car.

  Check the bridge.

  Was it safe to cross? Should I try it? I wavered behind my steering wheel, not wanting to subject myself to the biting rain.

  Check the bridge, it repeated, urgent.

  Sighing, I flipped up my hood, opened my car door, and peered down at the bridge. What was all over the surface? It looked like a patch of black tar. Mud? I couldn’t quite tell, but it was fluid, gushing...

  Mother of pearl. I popped the trunk and hoped the flashl
ight was there. It was. “Thank you, Samuel,” I whispered. The beam bounced over the bridge. Rather, what should have been the bridge. What once was pavement was now a roaring river…I hadn’t seen tar, or mud, or even puddles, but the creek itself, rushing through a massive, gaping hole where the bridge had crumbled away.

  I closed my eyes. You’re royally screwed, aren’t you, Kaye?

  I scanned the left side of the road, the right, even up, hoping against hope another way might appear. The only option was the way I’d come. I squared my shoulders and returned to the Jeep.

  The windshield wipers heaved aside rivers as I inched back to the house. Water from the creek now sloshed over asphalt—in less than an hour, the road would be completely swallowed into wild rapids. My phone buzzed in my purse. Clutching the steering wheel, I ignored it and navigated an obstacle course, teeth clenched, until I reached what I thought was the turn-off for our home. My tires spun and slipped, struggled to get up the hill.

  “Come on!”

  I hit the gas and careened up the slope, then wrenched the wheel and side-swept into gravel to keep from sliding back down. My Jeep barreled into a pile of covered timber and a black tarp fluttered loose, wrapped around the side mirror, a tree, and then sailed into the air.

  Perfect. I grabbed the flashlight and my purse and shot out of the Jeep for the door.

  Once I’d shed all of my wet things a second time, I curled into a corner next to the window and savored the smell of fresh wood beams and sheet rock. Nothing to do but wait the storm out. I absently traced the white ink tattoo of a trilby hat on my foot, bones beneath thin skin, callouses on my ankles, pads, heels. Counted scars on my legs, knees, elbows.

  Eleven…twelve…thirteen…fourteen…fifteen…until the last bit of daylight succumbed to the storm, the mountains, the night.