He ignored the request, stopping in front of her table. “Why so hostile, Beth?”
“I think you know.”
“Jennifer told us how protective you are. That’s quite an admirable trait.”
“Did I ask for your opinion?”
“No,” he said. “No, you didn’t. And I have a terrible habit of offering them unsolicited. But Marta and I got to know Jennifer quite well last night and-”
“Don’t say another word.”
Unwanted images flitted through Beth’s brain again, and as she tried to shut them out she silently cursed Rafael’s very existence.
“You need to unburden yourself of this anger, Beth. I understand how someone such as you might have trouble accepting that Marta and I are free spirits, but we mean no harm.”
“Free spirits? Is that what you call what I saw in the bar last night?”
“What you saw was harmless.”
Beth scoffed. “You practically had your tongue down your sister’s throat.”
“And your thinking is clouded by a false sense of morality. We come from a family that doesn’t believe in hiding our affection for one another.”
“Oh, Christ. There are more of you?”
He gestured at their surroundings. “Everywhere you look.”
Beth frowned. “What the hell does that mean?”
Rafael shook his head. “Nothing you would understand. There are those who seek enlightenment and those who resist. When we first met last night, I thought you might be a seeker, but Marta is much more intuitive than I. She saw it the moment she met you, and I know now that she was right.”
“About what?”
“About the wall you’ve built. The one you’ve spent a lifetime building.”
“So let me get this straight,” Beth said. “She’s a witch and a clinical psychologist? How fascinating.”
He smiled. “She is a child of La Santisima. As we all are.”
Beth just stared at him. La Santisima? She had no idea what this meant, and didn’t really want to know. She was tired of this pretty boy and his unrepentant arrogance.
“I have five simple words for you,” she said. “‘Stay away from my sister.’”
His smile widened. “Protective to the last.” His gaze shifted to her left hand. “I like the ring.”
Then he turned and headed down the sidewalk.
Beth glanced at the tiny hooded skull on her finger, and when she looked up again, Rafael was gone, nowhere to be seen.
Good riddance to bad rubbish, she thought, hoping she could avoid running into him on board ship.
Fortunately, it was a big place.
Offering up one last silent curse, she turned her attention to the leather-goods shop.
Where the hell was Jen?
30
The shop’s proprietor was a small, unkempt woman with a shock of gray-white hair. She sat on a stool behind a counter with a cash register, surrounded floor to ceiling by racks full of black, red, and brown leather jackets and handbags.
The counter was made of scarred glass, and neatly laid out inside were wallets and checkbook covers with the words MEXICO and PLAYA AZUL burned into them.
The place wasn’t exactly large, and Beth saw no sign of Jen anywhere. In fact, the proprietor seemed to be alone.
“Excuse me. I’m looking for my sister. She came in to use the restroom?”
The woman shook her head. “No ingles.”
Wonderful.
Beth’s command of Spanish wasn’t much better than Jen’s, but working in the Los Angeles criminal court system, she’d managed to pick up bits and pieces of a dozen different languages.
“Mis hermana,” she said. “El bano.”
The old woman held out a hand, palm up. “One dollar.”
“No, I don’t want to use the restroom. I’m looking for my sister. Mis herm — ”
She suddenly realized that if using the facilities cost a dollar, Jen would’ve been out of luck. She’d forgotten her wallet. But she hadn’t come to Beth, begging for more money, so it only made sense that she’d gone in search of a free toilet.
Beth wondered why she hadn’t seen Jen leave the shop, but then it wasn’t as if she’d been keeping constant vigil.
Nodding thanks to the old woman, Beth moved past the racks of jackets and stepped outside, scanning the street, hoping to see Jen headed back toward the restaurant.
No such luck.
She opened her purse, dug out her cell phone. Someone had told her that the wireless charges down here would cost her a fortune, but she was pretty sure a twenty-second call wouldn’t break her.
She hit speed dial, waited for it to ring. Instead it went straight to voice mail and Jen’s greeting came on the line:
“Hi, this is Jen. If you’re an old boyfriend, fuck off. Otherwise, leave a message at the beep.”
Beth hung up. Couldn’t believe Jen was still using that greeting, but then why should she be surprised? No matter how many “eye-opening” nights her sister had-whether it be with some biker bad boy or a couple of spiritual, incestuous whack jobs-Jen would always be Jen.
Beth looked across at the restaurant again but saw no sign of her sister. At the top of the block, however, was a McDonald’s, one of Jen’s comfort zones, one that might just have a free public toilet. Beth dropped her cell into her purse and headed toward that familiar red and yellow sign.
A few moments later, she was standing inside, amidst the usual mix of locals and tourists chowing on burgers and McNuggets. The restrooms were tucked into a corner near the back, and Beth crossed to them, pushing her way into the one marked: MUJERES.
There was one stall. Empty.
Damn it.
Where the hell was she?
Turning, Beth headed back outside and pulled her cell phone out again, checking up and down the street as she dialed.
Again, no ring. Straight to voice mail. Which meant that Jen was in a dead zone or had her cell phone off.
Beth waited for the beep.
“Hey, where are you? I went to the leather-goods shop and you were gone. I’m at McDonald’s now, but I’m going back to the restaurant. If you’re there, don’t move.”
Hanging up, she tucked the phone back into her purse and headed down the street, hoping she’d see Jen standing outside the restaurant.
But when she got there, there was still no sign of the girl.
Their waitress wasn’t there, either. Beth flagged another one, who stood nearby. “Excuse me.”
“Si, senorita?”
“I’m sorry,” Beth said. “Do you speak English?”
The waitress shook her head. “No. No ingles.” Then she turned and said something in Spanish to the chef, who had just finished preparing another taco plate.
The chef stepped out from behind his stove, wiped his hands on his apron, and came over.
“Is something wrong, senorita?”
“No,” Beth said. “I mean, yes, but not with the food or anything. I don’t know if you noticed, but I had lunch here a little while ago with my sister.”
He nodded. “ Si, I remember. But you were alone.”
“No, that was later. The girl I was with was about my height-a younger, prettier version of me-and she was wearing cutoff jeans and a halter top. She asked the waitress if she could use the restroom.”
The chef shook his head. “Our washroom is out of order. Most people use the one across the street.”
“Yes,” Beth said, trying to remain calm. “Yes, I know. I went over there, but she’s gone. I was hoping she came back here. Have you seen anyone around here in the last few minutes that looked like the girl I described?”
“No, senorita.”
“What about our waitress? Is she around?”
He shook his head. “She go home early on Saturdays.”
Beth gestured to the other waitress. “What about her? Could you ask if she’s seen my sister?”
He nodded and called out, saying a few words in Sp
anish. The waitress, who was busy wiping a table, looked at him blankly, then shook her head and rattled off a reply that didn’t sound promising.
The chef returned his gaze to Beth. “I’m sorry, senorita, she hasn’t seen anyone like that.”
“We just had lunch here.”
He shrugged. “We serve many customers, most of them turistas. You come from the cruise ship, si?”
Beth nodded.
“Perhaps she was tired of shopping and went back there.”
“No,” Beth said. “She wouldn’t have gone without me. She wouldn’t…”
Beth paused, thinking about it. Jen had been upset when she left. Maybe this was her way of punishing Beth for not taking her seriously. A classic ditch, straight out of junior high.
In other words, typical Jen.
Still, if this wasn’t a ditch, Jen could be looking for her right now. May have come back to the restaurant, seen that she was gone, and started checking shops in the area.
But why no phone call?
And why had Jen turned off her phone?
Was the battery dead?
It wasn’t time for panic. Much too early for that. There was undoubtedly a simple explanation for all of this, but that didn’t keep a tiny tickle of fear from fluttering through Beth’s stomach.
“Senorita?”
Beth focused, looking at the chef.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m keeping you from your work. Thanks for your help.”
He nodded, then tightened the strings on his apron and went back to his stove.
Beth decided the best thing to do was stay put, in hopes that Jen would either return or call.
Twenty minutes later, she gave up and started back toward the ship.
31
Vargas
“ I’d like to check out.”
The night clerk was an elderly gentlemen, just a few years shy of retirement. He looked up from his magazine and set it aside, his eyes widening slightly at the sight of the bandage on Vargas’s head.
“Is there a problem with the room, sir?”
It was a wonder he couldn’t hear Vargas’s heart beating.
“No, the room’s fine. I got some unexpected news and I have to leave.”
“I’m afraid you’ll be charged for the entire night. Company policy.”
Vargas was expecting this and didn’t object. He just wanted to get out of here.
The clerk quickly processed the checkout, gave Vargas a receipt, and five minutes later he was rolling his suitcase toward the Corolla, heart still pounding, a knot the size of a fist in his stomach.
The battered, bungee-corded rear end of his car seemed to call out to him, a beacon for both his dread and his curiosity.
Check your trunk, Mr. Vargas.
I think the message is clear.
After the phone call, he had resisted the urge to immediately run down to the parking lot. Had instead washed the blood off his keys, then taken a shower to wash the remaining blood and dirt off his body, before changing into a fresh set of clothes.
Repacking his suitcase, he’d checked the room for anything he may have forgotten, then closed the door behind him and went straight to the motel lobby.
He had considered abandoning the Corolla altogether, but it was the only transportation he had-or could afford-so his choice was clear no matter what might be waiting for him beneath that battered trunk lid.
But he couldn’t check it here.
There were possibly dozens of eyes staring down on him in the motel parking lot. Not the place to try to satisfy his curiosity.
He needed to get somewhere private.
Throwing his suitcase in the backseat, he climbed behind the wheel, jammed the key into the ignition, and started the engine.
Ten minutes later, he found himself driving through an industrial section of town, steering toward a dark cluster of warehouses.
Pulling into a narrow alley between a glass factory and an unfinished furniture wholesaler, he parked near a Dumpster and waited a full half hour to make sure that no night watchmen were about. He checked the high corners of the warehouses for any sign of surveillance cameras.
Satisfied that he was alone and not being recorded, he took his flashlight from the glove compartment, then opened his door, stepped around to the rear of the car. The knot in his stomach started to burn, and his heart seemed to have burrowed its way up into his throat.
Couching down, he unhooked the bungee cord from his bumper and let the broken trunk lid rise, then stood up and shone the flashlight inside.
He had expected to find a body. But to his great relief, all that greeted him was a cardboard box. Just big enough to hold, say, a soccer ball.
What the hell?
He picked it up, felt something loose inside, banging against the sides of the box. The flaps were sealed shut by a strip of duct tape, not unlike the one he’d pulled from his mouth.
Setting the box back down, he peeled the tape away, opened the flaps, and pointed the flashlight beam inside.
What he saw made him step backward involuntarily, a wave of revulsion rising in his chest.
It was a severed head.
Eyes wide. Frozen in horror.
Sergio?
Vargas stared down at it in disbelief and continued stepping backward until his back met the wall of the glass factory. Feeling his legs start to give out, he leaned against it for support and tried to keep his breathing steady.
Then his cell phone rang.
Knowing instinctively who the caller was, he dug it out of his pocket, clicked it on.
“Across the street,” the voice said.
Vargas turned sharply, looking out through the mouth of the alley. There was a car parked on the far side of the street-a Lincoln Town Car-a man leaning casually against the driver’s door, cell phone to his ear. He made no attempt to hide himself, clearly illuminated under a streetlight.
His dark hair was on the longish side, hanging loose around his collar. The left half of his face was mottled with red, blistery burn marks.
Vargas felt something cold and prickly skitter up his spine.
“There is only one question you need to answer, Mr. Vargas: Has the message been received?”
Vargas tried to swallow. “…What?”
“Has the message…been…received.”
Vargas’s voice wavered. “Yes. Yes, it has.”
“Excellent,” the man said. “You had better go now. You have a long drive ahead of you.”
Vargas just nodded, unable to speak, then clicked off the phone.
32
He must’ve checked his rearview mirror at least a hundred times before he hit the interstate, but he saw no sign of the Town Car.
Not that this was any guarantee he wasn’t being followed.
He left the way he came, shooting up the 10 toward Las Cruces, figuring he’d drive straight into Phoenix, take a rest, then continue on to Los Angeles. But by the time he reached New Mexico-a short forty-minute drive from El Paso-he was feeling sick to his stomach and pulled into a truck stop to throw up.
Staggering out of the restroom, he sat in a booth near the windows of the truck stop cafe, searching the parking lot for any sign of the Town Car.
All he saw were half a dozen big rigs and his own battered Corolla.
This gave him some relief, but there was something else gnawing at him that just didn’t seem to want to let go. It was, he thought, the thing that had made him sick. A feeling he’d had only once in the past, when confronted about his drug abuse and those accusations of fraud:
Shame.
He felt ashamed.
Vargas had been in tight situations before. Had seen his life in danger. Had been threatened and terrorized by gang members on the streets of East Los Angeles. Had gone up against striking Teamsters who wanted to beat him senseless. Had even been shot by a psycho ex-cop whose career he had managed to destroy with a series of articles on police corruption.
But he’d n
ever before backed down.
Never.
He knew it was a miracle that he was still alive. Whoever was behind this thing, this House of Death massacre, could easily have killed him and been done with it. He wasn’t sure why he had been spared but thought that it might have something to do with his profession, no matter how tarnished his reputation might be.
A dead or missing reporter-especially one as notorious as Vargas-was like a dead or missing whistle-blower. It might raise more questions than these people could afford. So why not scare the ever-loving crap out of the guy and send him on his way?
And it had worked.
He was about as spooked as a man could get.
Despite all those past brushes with injury and death, despite all his thoughts of an itch needing to be scratched, Vargas had caved. And caved big-time.
The sight of that severed head-which he’d left in the alleyway Dumpster-had done exactly what it was intended to do.
And he felt ashamed.
Ashamed for letting them terrorize him. For letting them scare him away from a story that was looking to be much bigger than he had ever imagined. A story he had hoped would be the first step in salvaging a ruined career.
And he needed that career. Needed it desperately.
But he also liked breathing.
A waitress came over. She didn’t look much older than a high school kid, but she sounded like an old truck stop pro.
“What can I get you, hon?”
A backbone, Vargas almost told her, but he wasn’t in the mood for conversation. “Just coffee.”
“You look like you could use something stronger. Bad night?”
Vargas glanced at his reflection in the window. Was it that obvious?
“Bad enough,” he said.
She nodded. “I know how that goes. How about a piece of cherry pie to cheer you up a bit?”
Vargas shook his head, feeling his stomach flip-flop. “Just the coffee.”
She nodded again and went away and he returned his attention to the parking lot as another big rig pulled in. A beefy trucker wearing a cowboy hat climbed down from the driver’s seat, eyeballing Vargas as he crossed toward the cafe entrance.
Down Among the Dead Men Page 9
