World's Scariest Places: Volume Two

by Bates, Jeremy

  “I don’t know.” She looked about helplessly. “I don’t think so.”

  “How did you guys get to the island? Did you take one of those gondolas?”

  “Trajineras,” Pita said.

  “Trajineras,” I amended.

  Rosa shook her head. “We took a canoe.”

  “So if we found the canoe, do you think you could find your camp?”

  She nodded. “Easy.”

  2

  Nitro and Elizaveta returned a few minutes later—Elizaveta had gone off to take some pictures with her small digital camera—and we gave them a quick rundown of everything Rosa told us. Like the rest of us, Elizaveta was visibly agitated by the possibility a murder had occurred on the island. Nitro’s reaction, however, was the exact opposite: he seemed pumped, like a Hardy Boy keen to tackle a new mystery. He even went so far as to scavenge a stick to defend us with.

  We didn’t want to split up given a killer might be lurking about, but we didn’t have a choice. Jesus’s sprained ankle made him immobile. So in the end we decided to divide the group in half. Elizaveta and Pita would stay behind with Jesus, while Nitro, Pepper, and I (with Rosa guiding us) would set off along the bank to circumvent the perimeter of the island in search of the canoe.

  Nitro and his stick took vanguard. Pepper and I came next with Rosa between us, holding our hands. We followed a strip of land that ran between the tree-line and the water. The ground was mostly hardpan and scrub, occasionally overrun with huge ferns and waist-high vegetation, but it was relatively easy-going. The dolls were strung up in greater concentration here, along the waterfront, than anywhere else on the island, though no one mentioned them. The fun and games were over; our little day trip had suddenly become very serious business.

  The weather continued to worsen, and quickly. A wind picked up shivering foliage and small twigs, and it started to rain lightly. The clouds blocked out the sun completely, so everything was lit in a premature, felt-gray twilight, more dusk than midafternoon.

  “Great,” Pepper said, holding out his free hand to verify it was raining.

  “Maybe it will blow over,” I said.

  “I checked the forecast this morning,” he said. “The meteorologist didn’t say anything about rain today. I swear.”

  “What channel do you watch?” Nitro asked him.

  “Canal de las Estrellas.”

  “Switch to El Trece. The weather girl on that one…” He whistled. “Major smoking hot front, you know what I’m saying?”

  “Do you have a girlfriend, Muscles?” I asked him.

  “What’s it to you, Jack Goff?”

  “I take that as a no.”

  “Take it whichever way you want, brother.”

  “Maybe the ponytail’s the problem,” I went on. “You should have left it in the nineties.”

  Nitro laughed. “We go to a bar babe-hunting, you and me, I’ll outscore you ten-zero, you better believe that.”

  “Babe-hunting?”

  “The girl I’m pounding right now, she’s vaginamite.”

  “Vaginamite?” The guy really was a douchebag—a prurient douchebag.

  “Fucking right, Jack Goff.”

  “Watch your language around Rosa.”

  “I don’t mind,” she piped up.

  I glanced down at her. She was watching the ground where she walked, almost skipping to keep pace with Pepper and I. Suddenly I felt absurdly proud of her. She believed her brother was dead. She believed a ghost shared the island with us. She’d spent a night on her own beneath a bed. And here she was telling me she didn’t mind if someone cussed around her? She was made of something tougher than the rest of us put together.

  “Can I ask you something, Rosa?” I asked her.

  She bobbed her head. “If you want.”

  “How long was Miguel seeing Lucinda for?”

  “Hmmm. Maybe two months? Maybe more?”

  “Did they ever fight?”

  “No, not really. Why?”

  “Well, I’ve been thinking,” I said, “and maybe Lucinda got angry at Miguel yesterday and did something to him. It might not have been on purpose, not completely. It might have been an accident, sort of.”

  “An accident?”

  “Maybe she wanted to hurt him a bit, but she ended up hurting him a lot. Maybe that’s why he screamed…”

  Rosa seemed to think about this, then she shook her head. “I don’t think Lucinda would even want to hurt Miguel a bit. She was really nice.”

  “But why would a ghost want to hurt him?”

  “Because this is her island. She doesn’t want us here.”

  “That’s what Miguel told you?”

  Rosa nodded gravely.

  “Hey, Rosa,” Pepper said. “Do you want to be on TV?”

  “She’s not going in your documentary, Pepper!” I said.

  “Why not? She’d be great.”

  “Why can’t I be on TV?” she asked me.

  “Because,” I said.

  “Because what?”

  “Just because…your mother wouldn’t like it,” I added.

  Rosa frowned at this. “You’re probably right. She doesn’t like me doing anything fun.”

  “She let you come to this island though…?”

  “No, she didn’t.”

  “She doesn’t know you’re here?”

  Rosa shook her head. “My sister—my oldest one—is getting married soon. She and my mom went to a special party all weekend. Miguel was babysitting me.”

  “And he brought you all the way here?”

  Rosa nodded. “Because he couldn’t leave me alone.”

  “What about your father?” Pepper asked. “Couldn’t he look after you?”

  “He’s living in France right now.”

  “He works there?”

  She nodded again. “He’s an embajador. I don’t know the English.”

  “A diplomat?”

  “I think that’s it.”

  “What school do you go to?” Nitro asked.

  “Greengates.”

  “The British international school?” Pepper said. “That’s where Jesus and Pita went!”

  “They went to my school?”

  Pepper nodded. “Their dad was rich like yours. But that was a long time ago.”

  “How long?”

  “More than ten years.”

  “Wow, I didn’t know they were so old.”

  “Don’t tell Pita that,” I said.

  “She’s like as old as my mom—”

  Nitro called out abruptly, cutting Rosa off.

  Twenty feet ahead was the canoe.

  3

  The canoe was pulled up onto the bank so it wouldn’t float away. Scuffs and dents marred the aluminum hull. Two wooden paddles lay within it, propped against the yoke.

  “This is the one you came in?” I asked Rosa, using my hand to shield my eyes against the rain, which had become a steady drizzle. The once mirror-smooth canal was now a simmering boil. Waves crashed against the bank, the penumbra of their spray dissolving into fine droplets.

  She nodded. “That means the campground isn’t far. It’s just that way, past a big pond.” She pointed to the trees.

  I hesitated. “Maybe it would be better if you stayed here—say, with Pepper—while Nitro and I checked it out. What do you think?”

  “Why?”

  I didn’t want to splinter the group further, but I hadn’t been thinking clearly before when I’d suggested Rosa lead us to the campground. Exposing her to whatever might have happened to her brother had not been one of my better ideas. “Pepper’s a big scaredy cat,” I told her by way of explanation. “He doesn’t want to go to the campground. He needs someone to look after him.”

  Rosa studied Pepper. “He doesn’t look like a scaredy cat. He looks like the Purple People Eater.”

  “I should tell you, young miss,” Pepper said, indicating his clothing, “this is a very fashionable ensemble.”

  “Well, I guess
I can look after him.”

  I said to Pepper, “You don’t mind staying back?”

  “As long as you two don’t dawdle.”

  “You should find some shelter.”

  He pointed to a nearby magnolia, the branches of which seemed to be bending beneath the weight of its wet blooms and foliage. “We’ll wait under that.”

  “Okay,” I said. “And remember, we’ll be within hearing distance. So if you see anybody, yell.”

  Pepper tried a smile. “That’s reassuring, Jack. Thanks.”

  4

  The canopy and understory blocked out some of the rain and the wind. However, there was no path like the one I’d followed across the island earlier. Instead Nitro and I were forced to circumvent the tall trees and duck low-sprouting branches. A tangle of broadleaf shrubs and palms and woody plants obscured much of the ground, so we didn’t really know where we were putting our feet down. Vipers could be found across Mexico, and their bite was dangerous to humans. I hoped if there were any on this island they abided by the old adage that they should be more scared of me than I was of them.

  To take my mind off snakes, I turned my attention to what might await us at the campground. I wanted to believe that Rosa was wrong, that her brother hadn’t been attacked, that it was an uncanny misunderstanding. But how could this be the case? She had heard him screaming. He had told her to run. So something had happened, something bad.

  Which brought me back to the million-dollar question: Who would attack him? Rosa said Lucinda was nice, and she and Miguel didn’t fight, but who knew what went on between them in private? Besides, there was no rule to say nice people didn’t do bad things, especially in the heat of the moment.

  Then again, if Lucinda suddenly lost the plot, why would Miguel tell Rosa to run? Wouldn’t he instead implore her to help him? Telling her to run implied he thought she was in danger too. Yet why would he think she would be in danger from Lucinda if Lucinda’s beef was with him?

  And then there was the whole problem with the canoe. Why hadn’t Lucinda taken it back to the docks? Why had she remained on the island?

  To search for Rosa?

  To silence the only witness?

  “Nitro,” I said, his name coming off my tongue awkwardly. I don’t think I’d ever addressed him as anything but Muscles. “Any theories on what might have happened you’re not sharing?”

  “Why do you care what I think, chavo?” he said without looking back.

  It was a good question. I suppose because while the others would have been content to play ostrich until the boatman returned to take us back to the docks, Nitro had been all action, gung-ho to discover answers, and that was something I respected.

  I couldn’t bring myself to tell him this, of course, and I was about to tell him to forget it, when he said, “Money.”

  “You think Miguel owed Lucinda money?”

  “Think big, chavo. Her father’s an ambassador. That means big bucks in Mexico.”

  “You mean a kidnapping?” Kidnappings were serious business in Mexico, a daily occurrence, the reason people like Jesus often had a bodyguard or two with him in public. Even I was a target simply because I was a foreigner, which was the reason I never took gypsy cabs. There were, I’d been told, roughly two thousand kidnappings a year. This was a conservative figure, as many were never reported because the police weren’t trusted not to be involved. “You think someone would follow him all the way here just to kidnap him?”

  Nitro shrugged. “A few hours work for a potential big payoff, why not?”

  “What about Lucinda then?”

  “What about her?”

  “If they took Miguel,” I said, pushing a branch out of my way, “what happened to her?”

  “Who’s to say she wasn’t the target? She might come from a wealthier family than Miguel. Unfortunately for him, wrong place, wrong time. Or maybe they took her too. Or maybe they offed her. No witnesses—”

  Nitro came to an abrupt halt. I looked past him and saw the pond ahead and to the left.

  Nitro put his finger to his lips, and we continued forward in silence. Twenty yards on he mumbled something and began moving more quickly. I stuck behind him, searching for what he’d seen.

  I saw the body a moment later.

  5

  We entered the glade where Miguel and Lucinda had made camp. A dozen dolls, maybe two dozen, swayed from branches in the wind and rain, their glass eyes and evocative smiles all too lifelike. Two backpacks, one green and one orange, and two sleeping bags, both rolled up, sat on the grassy ground at the base of a cedar. Next to these items were a scattering of clothing: shorts, a T-shirt, boxers, a dress, a lacy bra, silk panties.

  In the middle of the clearing lay Miguel—at least I assumed it was Miguel. He was facedown, naked, his back shredded with what appeared to be stab wounds. Red-brown blood covered his bare skin, from the nape of his neck to his buttocks.

  My pulse quickened at the ghastly sight. My legs turned rubbery, as if they no longer wanted to support my weight. I opened my mouth to say something, but I didn’t know what was appropriate.

  He was dead, Miguel was dead, nothing now but offal and decay.

  Nitro knelt next to the body, which was thick with flies. I hadn’t noticed their maddening buzzing until right then, though now it seemed to fill the air, loud and angry. Same with the smell. I hadn’t detected it before. But it hit me like a truck, a maggoty stench.

  “Eleven,” Nitro said, examining the cuts. “Someone stabbed him eleven times. Looks like they used a serrated knife.”

  Nitro rolled the body onto its back.

  “Fuck me,” I said softly. I wanted to look away, but I couldn’t. The morbidity, the wrongness, transfixed me.

  The man’s eyes were missing.

  In the next instant a startled centipede, sinuous and black with bright yellow legs and a flattened head bearing probing antennae, scurried out of the left bloodied orbit, down the once handsome face to the ground, and wiggled beneath the leaf litter.

  Nitro glanced back at me, scowling. “I think we might have stumbled into some deep shit, chavo.”

  1955

  1

  Patricia Diaz entered through the front doors of María’s school, trying to ignore the apprehension that had been churning in her gut ever since the phone call from the principal the day before. She had been summoned to the school on several previous occasions to discuss her daughter’s academic development or bullying or other sensitive topics. However, these meetings had always been with María’s teachers, never with the resident psychologist.

  In the front office a secretary told her the directions to the psychologist’s office, and a few minutes later Patricia was knocking on a door with a bronze plate attached to it that read: Dr. Lola Cavazos.

  The door opened and a woman wearing a champagne-colored dress smiled at her. “Mrs. Diaz?” She had an urchin haircut and a friendly demeanor. She stuck out her hand. “I’m Dr. Cavazos.”

  “Good afternoon,” she said, shaking.

  “Please come in. I’m so happy you were able to come this morning. May I get you a cup of tea?”

  “No, I’m fine, thank you.”

  “Have a seat.” She gestured to a seat on one side of a desk, while she settled into the seat on the other side. “How are you today?”

  “A little nervous to be here.”

  “Understandably. So let me get to the point. I’d like to talk to you about your daughter, María. Specifically, how she is coping in grade four. First, however, let me begin by saying I’ve had the pleasure of spending some time with her over the last week, and she is a very well-mannered child.”

  Patricia smiled. “Yes, she is.”

  “She is also sweet and helpful.”

  “She always has been.”

  “Mrs. Diaz, from what I understand, you’ve had several meetings with her teachers in the past. What have they told you about her academic performance?”

  “That she’s a little
behind some of her classmates. Her last teacher, Mrs. Ramirez, said she was having difficulty concentrating and was easily distracted.”

  “And her general behavior?”

  “She hasn’t made many friends. She…keeps to herself, I guess you would say.”

  “Would you say, generally speaking, her behavior resembles the behavior of other eight year olds?”

  Patricia wanted to say yes, but she wasn’t here to deceive anybody. She was here to get María help. “No, I suppose not.”

  “If you were to name an age you believe her to be functioning at…?”

  “Perhaps a seven year old.” She hesitated. “Perhaps even a six year old.”

  Dr. Cavazos nodded. “From the assessments I have done, I would say she has the overall skillset of a five year old, so we are both pretty close—”

  “Five?” Patricia’s stomach sank.

  “The point, Mrs. Diaz, is that we are in agreement that she is progressing at a much slower rate than her classmates not just academically but in all areas. Would you agree with this statement?”

  “Well, yes. But five… Are you sure? I know she’s a little shy around other students—”

  “Yes, I’ve noticed that. Nevertheless, I don’t think it’s a case of mere shyness. I don’t believe she can carry a two-way conversation with her peers. Also, she seems to have a difficult time remembering things. For example, she struggles to retain simple math facts that should come very easy to someone of her age. She also can’t recall details of a book that she has read only minutes before.”

  “I’ve tried to help her with her math and reading at home. Her father works late. But I usually spend an hour with her each evening.”

  “And how has this been working out?”

  “I think it’s helping. I know she’s a bit forgetful. But she’s still very young.”

  “You are aware that she has temper tantrums?”

  “Don’t all children?” she said with a bit too much asperity. She was beginning to feel as though the psychologist was attacking María.

  “They do, certainly,” Dr. Cavazos said calmly. “Such outbursts arise because young children have difficulties expressing themselves, especially complex emotions. Having said that, by grade four they have usually grown beyond this stage. María, it seems, hasn’t. She still can’t fully express herself, what she wants to say, what she’s feeling. Which, I believe, is why she isolates herself from other children. And why she has her temper tantrums. She’s frustrated.” Dr. Cavazos paused. “Mrs. Diaz, have you heard of intelligence quotient tests—or IQ tests?”