Latitude Zero

by Diana Renn

  “So where are you two going?” I heard Lucia ask Santiago, in Spanish.

  “I forgot about a Vuelta activity scheduled today,” said Santiago, also in Spanish. “I am taking some volunteers up to El Panecillo.”

  I closed my eyes for a moment, listening to him speak his native language. It was like hearing Juan Carlos again—the words, the cadence, even the laugh, a kind of sly chuckle. I could almost pretend I was hearing Juan Carlos. But Santiago’s voice was deeper. Different.

  Lucia made a clucking sound. “Walking up there is not safe. There have been robberies.”

  “It is no problem this time of day. There will be a group of us,” Santiago assured her. “And I will drive to the top.” He went on to describe the group excursion so beautifully—the views we would enjoy, the lunch afterward in the Old Town—I started to wish I was going.

  His description worked its magic. Lucia let me go.

  Amparo flounced on the couch next to her brother, who was playing a handheld video game. The sound of tiny bullets ricocheted in staccato bursts.

  “You’ll still help me with my pageant speech this afternoon, right?” Amparo asked me.

  “I will. I promise,” I said, wincing as I remembered making similar vague promises to Kylie. Why did I always manage to let people down when I was trying to do the right thing?

  /////

  “YOU LOOK different,” Santiago said as I slid into the passenger seat of the Pathfinder. “Your outfit, maybe. You are cold?”

  “A little.” I was wearing yesterday’s full Ecuadorian tourist disguise again, including the hat. I’d also added another layer between me and Darwin’s “eyes and ears”: big rhinestone-studded sunglasses, obvious knockoffs (“Lucci” brand), borrowed from Amparo.

  Santiago stared at the sunglasses in surprise. I could see why.

  The low-hanging clouds and haze lingered, as if the neighborhood, and the city and the hills beyond, had all been draped in gauze. “The sun’s brighter in Ecuador even with the cloud cover, thanks to the hole in the ozone,” I said. “Anyway, thanks for springing me.”

  Lucia’s concerned face appeared at the living room window.

  “There she is again. Watching,” I said

  “This is strange for you?”

  “Are you kidding? It’s deeply strange! I’m used to going out at home whenever I want.”

  “Some families in Ecuador are more careful with their girls,” Santiago admitted as he backed the car out of the driveway. “I am not saying this is right, but this is common. And she has concern because we are the same age, you are a boy, I am a girl,” he said. “I mean, I am a boy. You are a girl.” His cheeks reddened.

  I smiled to myself.

  I waved at Lucia, who waved back but still looked worried. My driving with some boy? Santiago should be the least of her worries. I was on the radar of spies, who might also be drug dealers, and who could resurface anywhere, anytime.

  She shouldn’t worry about me and Santiago together anyway. I stole a glance at him. He was absolutely not my type. So different from Jake and Juan Carlos. A what-you-see-is-what-you-get type. Santiago didn’t seem to have a lot of stories.

  He slammed on the brakes to avoid plowing into the day guard, Paolo, who was running toward the car, waving his hands. He rapped on my window. I rolled it down.

  “Buenos días, señorita. Disculpe.” He handed me a folded piece of paper. “This arrived for you. It was taped to the gate when I arrived this morning.”

  “Did you see who left it?” I asked in Spanish.

  “No, I have seen nobody since I began my shift,” he replied. “Perhaps someone came by in the night. I will ask Victor if he saw a car or a person stop.”

  “Gracias, Paolo. Muy amable.”

  “De nada, señorita. Que tengas un buen día.”

  There was no stamp. No address. Just my name scrawled on the front in block letters.

  “Maybe it is from your friend? From Mari?” Santiago suggested as he drove.

  “Maybe.” I had a sinking feeling, though, that someone else had dropped by last night.

  I tore the envelope open. It was a computer printout of a note, in all caps.

  WE HAVE AN ASSIGNMENT FOR YOU.

  OPPORTUNITY FOR LUCRATIVE PAY.

  TIME IS OF THE ESSENCE. ACT NOW!

  USE A PAY PHONE TO CALL THE NUMBER BELOW.

  A phone number, with the area code for Quito, followed.

  Shaking, I folded up the note and stuffed it deep in my jeans pocket.

  Darwin and his crew. At least now I had some idea of why they were after me here. To get me to do some assignment. If they were part of a drug cartel, did they want to hire me as some backpacking mule, ferrying money or drugs across borders? And if so, why me? This country was full of backpackers and students, many of them desperate for money and willing to work. Maybe Darwin had something else in mind for me.

  I had no intention of calling that number.

  And yet. I fished the paper out of my jeans pocket and read it again. I could be a step closer to finding out who killed Juan Carlos, and how that stolen spare bike might be connected to the bike sabotage, if I called this number and just talked to Darwin. Bianca Slade wouldn’t ignore a hot lead like this.

  But first I had to talk to Mari. I had to find out why she wasn’t answering my emails and if anyone from Darwin’s group might have gotten to her—either because they thought she might have information, too, or because they thought they could get to me through her.

  “So this note, it was from your friend?” Santiago asked, casting me a look of concern as I folded up the paper and repocketed it. Small lines appeared in his smooth-skinned forehead.

  “Um, yeah,” I lied. “She said to come by her apartment today.”

  “Ah.” An awkward silence fell. I was pretty sure he knew I was lying; my story made no sense. But I appreciated that he didn’t ask more questions.

  “So. What do you do at home?” he asked. “For fun?”

  The question startled me. It sounded like a foreign language, even though he spoke in English. “Fun?” I rolled the word around in my mouth. Fun. Had I had fun before Chain Reaction? Before Juan Carlos died? Before scary people followed me around and chased me out of international airports and left me strange notes in the night? Maybe I had. It seemed long ago.

  I’d had fun with Kylie and Sarita. I suddenly, desperately, missed them. Especially Kylie, who hadn’t gone on the pre-trip shopping spree with Sarita and me, just wished me safe travels in a short, curt email. So on the way to La Zona, I talked about my friends. Lattes in the Fingernail. Our favorite ice-cream place, near Cabot.

  Answering Santiago’s questions about my friends and Shady Pines made the ride fly by. He then told me he had one year left in the polytechnic high school in Quito, and hoped to study engineering at a university in the United States. But that’s all I had time to get out of him, because suddenly we were in La Zona.

  Santiago parked on a side street. I peered out the window, thinking I’d witness drug deals in alleys, or hear gunshots ring out.

  But I didn’t see anything scary as I got out of the car. The buildings were warm and inviting, all pastel and white stucco. Red geraniums spilled out of window boxes. There were nightclubs, yes—all closed—including one called Salsoteca Mundial, with thick red drapes covering all the windows, that looked more intriguing than seedy. I saw lively cafés with plastic tables and Latin music spilling out into the street. Waitresses serving fresh-squeezed juices in tall glasses. Backpackers poring over maps and guidebooks. Art galleries. Boutiques.

  “I don’t get what Lucia was so worried about,” I said when Santiago got out of the car.

  “In the night, it is different,” he explained. “Tourists attract thieves. And many over-the-table business deals have taken place in these clubs and cafés.�
��

  “Don’t you mean under-the-table?”

  “Yes, yes, that is the expression.” He flashed me a sheepish smile. “But relax. These deals take place mostly after dark. And you are not a target for such things.”

  That’s what you think. Darwin’s note crinkled in my jeans pocket every time I moved my leg.

  “After you,” said Santiago, gesturing for me to pass in front of him to the crosswalk.

  “Aren’t you taking volunteers up to El Panecillo?”

  “I made that up. I was trying to get you out of the house. I thought the Ruizes would let you go on a group activity. But if you would like to go to El Panecillo, we can go there, yes. In fact, why don’t you invite your friend, if she is home and if she is all right?” Santiago suggested. “We can all go together. Maybe she needs a break from this problem she is having.”

  Oh, no. I liked Santiago. But I couldn’t bring him along to talk to Mari. He couldn’t know what I had gotten mixed up in. I started walking toward a yellow-painted building that matched the address she’d emailed me.

  “Not today, thanks. Another time. That’d be great.” I knew I sounded brusque, even cold. The look on his face said it all. But I had to find Mari.

  “Wait! You do not know if she is at home.” Santiago jogged after me. “At least let me make sure you get inside. It is our custom here to not leave people in the street.”

  Something softened inside me. I knew how it felt to be left at the side of a road. Santiago was offering me an alternative. But I couldn’t put Santiago in harm’s way, or jeopardize my position at Vuelta.

  “I really need to go alone,” I said. “It’s . . . complicated. If she’s out, I’ll wait for her here.”

  He gave me a long look. I couldn’t meet his gaze. “Bueno,” he said, shrugging and shoving his hands into his jeans pockets. “I will get a coffee and pick you up here, by the door. How much time do you need? One hour?”

  I thought fast. If Darwin showed up here—if I were walking into some trap he’d set up—it would be good to have that get-ahead vehicle and a capable driver on hand. “That’d be great. In fact, if you wouldn’t mind waiting here at the car, that would be awesome.”

  “But—”

  “Thanks a million. You’re the best. Chao!” I winced at the forced cheer in my voice. And I felt his eyes on my back as I hurried to Mari’s place, alone.

  38

  MARI’S COUSIN’S apartment was in a dirty, lemon-colored building. A small restaurant with plastic chairs and tables took up the first floor. A woman sloshed buckets of water over the tiles out front. Rivulets of brown water rolled toward my feet.

  No armed guards manned this building. I ran up a dingy staircase to the third-floor apartment, passing closed doors that concealed crises. An alarm clock beeping. A cat in heat, yowling. A woman crying, a man shouting—real life or a telenovela? I couldn’t be sure.

  I came to apartmento cinco, which was quiet. The number five hung crookedly on the apartment door, which was covered by a wrought-iron gate. I pressed the buzzer beside it. Then I pressed it again. Finally I saw movement at a peephole, then heard fumbling with locks inside. Lots of locks. The door opened a couple of inches. And, finally, Mari peered out. She sucked in her breath. “Tessa?” she whispered. “Oh my God. You’re here.”

  Looking at her through the iron gate, it almost seemed like she was in prison. She seemed thinner. Tired. Her unbrushed hair hung loose around her face, more of a shaggy mop than her usual sleek bob or ponytail. I peered past her, trying to see if there were other people in there with her. Like Darwin, Pizarro, and Balboa. All I could see was a body on the floor of the room, behind her, lying, limbs splayed, beneath a blanket.

  A body! I jumped back and prepared to bolt.

  Then the body stirred. It was somebody sleeping.

  Mari looked down the hall behind me, both ways. “Are you here alone?” she whispered.

  “Yeah. But why—”

  “Shh.” She fumbled with two more locks on the iron gate.

  The last lock sprang free, and Mari ushered me inside. Then she closed the door and locked everything up again. Six locks. “My roommates are sleeping. They were out late partying last night,” she said with an apologetic look at the body under the blanket. Two bodies, I now saw, a guy and a girl, their limbs and long hair all entwined in a way that made me think, strangely, of worms.

  “Where’s your cousin?” I asked.

  “In Riobamba. With her boyfriend. She practically lives there now. She just keeps this apartment in case her parents visit. Then she kicks everyone out to the youth hostel for a night.”

  “Are you okay? Are you really having migraines?”

  Mari bit a nail and looked down. “No.”

  “Wilson said you only showed up at Vuelta for two shifts. And you haven’t replied to my emails for days.” I could feel my voice rising with panic, but I couldn’t stop. “I got followed out of the airport. By people who knew Juan Carlos. Has anyone been talking to you? Asking you weird questions?”

  She stared at me, fear in her eyes. Then she nodded, and glanced at the sleeping roommates. “There’s a balcony off my room where we can talk. Follow me.”

  I stepped over piles of clothes, plastic shopping bags, paperback novels and Ecuador guidebooks, and empty SuperChicken containers. The place smelled of rotting fruit and greasy food. Mold crept up one wall. The living room was furnished with cast-off furniture and cardboard boxes. The whole place just seemed . . . sad.

  “So who lives here, besides you?” I asked.

  “Jim and Liz back there, whose faces you almost stepped on? They’re backpackers,” said Mari. “Sandy and Susannah are the two girls who have my cousin’s room when she’s away. They’re ESL teachers and part-time Vuelta volunteers. Oh, and there’s an older woman who comes in and out sometimes—she has the couch.”

  “Wait. You have five roommates?” Suddenly life at the Ruiz house didn’t seem so bad. These guys were living like mice here. “And this is your room?” I looked around in disbelief.

  Mari had led me around a tall bookshelf off the kitchen. It separated her sleeping quarters from the rest of the apartment. There was a thin mattress and a sleeping bag on the floor, and a suitcase, opened. A tool kit with bike tools. A copy of a book called The Saddest Pleasure. That was all.

  “This isn’t a room, Mari. It’s a partition!” A large bug ambled across the white tile floor. “Really? Is this healthy?”

  “It’s cheap,” Mari said, lifting her chin. “I’m not earning a salary here, remember? I didn’t want a homestay. I wanted to show my family I could live on my own, so they’d let me live away from home when I start at MIT. And you can’t beat the location. I can walk or bike easily to Vuelta from here.”

  “But you’re not walking or biking to Vuelta,” I reminded her. “You’re not there at all. What are you doing all day?”

  “Reading a lot.” She gestured toward some books. They were well-thumbed through, with bookmarks, too. “Come outside. I don’t want my roommates to hear anything and worry. They think I’m just having some trouble with migraines. It’s easier to let them think that.”

  “Easier than what?” I asked.

  “The truth.”

  I followed her out onto the balcony, where we sat on cracked plastic chairs that looked like they’d been swiped from the restaurant below. The emerging sun heated up the blue and white tiles beneath our feet. I removed Amparo’s sunglasses and the woolen cap with ear flaps. I shook my hair loose.

  Mari offered me a bottle of warm Inca Kola. “Juan Carlos’s favorite,” said Mari, clinking her bottle against mine. “¡Salud!”

  “Salud.” I took a sip of the sickly sweet yellow beverage.

  “What’s with the outfit?” she asked, observing my ensemble and the hat I’d laid on the table. “You look like a crafts market ex
plosion.”

  “First tell me what’s with all the locks on your door?”

  She sighed and rubbed her forehead. For a moment, she looked like she did have a migraine. “We were robbed soon after I got here.”

  “Robbed!”

  “Well, the only thing they took was my laptop. But that sucked, since I needed that for college, and nobody else’s computer got stolen. Plus, the place got ransacked. They went through everything.”

  I almost knocked over my Inca Kola.

  Her laptop had been stolen! Mari and I had emailed each other about what to pack—and my flight itinerary. That must be how they knew when I’d be at the airport. It would be easy for Darwin to pull out that information from her computer.

  “Did you report this?”

  “I called the police,” Mari confirmed. “And they filed a report. But”—she shrugged—“they made it pretty clear they’re not going to pursue a breaking and entering case, especially here in La Zona, where this kind of thing goes on all the time. I could tell they thought I was just some stupid tourist who brought a fancy laptop to a bad neighborhood. They probably thought I deserved it.”

  “Did the police have any ideas of who did it?”

  “They suspect a gang looking for drugs. Or cash. They told me to change the locks. So I blew through most of my summer travel money on that. I’d wanted to get a temporary cell phone, even a landline, but I went nearly broke on the locksmith.” She chewed what was left of her fingernail. “And I don’t want to ask my parents for money. I can’t.”

  “I can see why you’d change the locks. That’s so scary! What do your roommates think?”

  “They think I’m being paranoid. Lightning can’t strike twice and all that. Everyone here has been mugged or hassled at one time or another. They think I’m taking it to an extreme, and so I’ve stopped explaining.”

  “But why wouldn’t you go to Vuelta?” I persisted. “At least there you’d be around people all day. You’re like under house arrest here.”