Every day she combed the city streets, showing Craig’s photograph to people in restaurants, bars, and every vendor she encountered. She went to the local police department where an officer listened to her story and took a brief report, but she got the distinct impression he wasn’t interested in searching for what seemed like a tourist who lost his way. She showed his picture to the sunbathers at both Altata Beach and El Dorado Beach and even asked the local fishermen who frequented the Sinaloa Reservoir, but no one had seen or even heard of Craig Phillips. She was now accustomed to it—the apologetic shrug and shake of the head, along with a wish for good luck elsewhere. Everywhere she turned, she came up empty-handed.
Now she stood outside a small, whitewashed café in the middle of the block. The smell of hot coffee beckoned her inside the aged, adobe walls. She sat down at one of the tiny tables, and almost immediately, a waiter, or more like a boy, approached her.
“Habla usted Inglés?” she asked the boy hopefully.
“No, Señorita. No Inglés.”
Figures, Taylor thought with frustration. She spoke again, hoping her limited high school Spanish would carry her through a simple conversation.
“Un café sin leche,” she told him, “nada mas.” She wasn’t hungry in the least, but she waited, hoping he understood her order for coffee.
“Si, Señorita. Gracias,” he said with a polite smile and walked away. Taylor felt relieved. It was only lately that she was finally beginning to feel comfortable with the basics of the language, learning enough to get her by without any rebuffs from the locals.
The boy brought the thick brew, and she sat back, researching sites on her cell phone to learn her way around this part of town, perhaps uncover a new avenue to explore in the hopes of finding Craig’s whereabouts.
Now, as she sat alone with her thoughts, the urge to succumb to the impulse to just give up and go home began to creep into her mind. Few of the locals spoke English and the authorities, although listening politely to her story, were less than willing to help the gringa who strayed into their midst. Furthermore, rushing aimlessly, without a clue as to where she was going, wasn’t helping her finances. She was nearly out of money and time. Soon she would have no choice but to return to Los Angeles. And to her father’s wrath.
Suddenly she became acutely aware of being watched. Glancing around, she noticed a man seated at a corner table, peering at her with dark, blazing eyes over his morning newspaper. He was not young, judging by the wisps of gray in his jet-black hair and telltale age lines around his eyes.
Feeling suddenly uncomfortable, Taylor looked away and continued thumbing through her phone searches. A minute later, she looked back at him. He had resumed reading his paper. Good, she thought. It was probably her depressed, fatigued mind playing tricks on her, anyway. Of course he wasn’t watching her! What was she getting so jumpy about?
She sighed as she put her phone down and gazed out the coffee shop window. Susan and her father were right, she thought dejectedly. What was she doing here? It was a wild, late-night absurdity to just take off on a half-cocked odyssey to a foreign country without so much as a plan of action as to where she was going or what she was doing. Perhaps she should have just called the authorities and let them handle Craig’s and Shaun’s disappearance and concentrated her efforts on managing the press when the story went public. Here she was in a place she knew very little about, looking for, literally, a needle in a haystack. How could she have expected to succeed in finding Craig under such circumstances? It started to occur to her that she made a big mistake to embark on this journey without really knowing what the hell she was doing.
Even after giving it such a diligent try, she was beginning to face the fact that Craig probably wasn’t in Culiacan at all, although she had no concrete way of knowing for sure. For all she knew, he could have left Mexico days ago and gone to South America, or beyond.
Or maybe he knew she was here and was purposely avoiding contacting her at all. Perhaps he planned it that way all along, to leave her and everything they had together behind and return to the life he had. Or to another woman.
She clenched her jaw to kill the sob in her throat. She mustn’t think like that. Her mind was making up wild imaginings that had no basis in fact. She would find him, she vowed to herself. She simply had to pull her thoughts together and approach her search with a fresh, optimistic head. But how could she, with so little to go on and with doors slammed on her at every turn?
A half hour later, her waiter brought her check. She began to pick it up and leave when suddenly, a strong hand came down over hers.
“I’ve got this.”
Startled, she glanced up to see a rather dark figure of a man standing above her. With a soft gasp, she realized that it was the same man who had been staring at her so intently earlier. He gazed down at her with eyes that were sharp yet compelling.
Taylor looked at him curiously. “I beg your pardon?”
“You will let me pay this for you,” he replied simply, taking the slip from the table. It wasn’t a request but a statement of fact. His voice carried an authoritative force.
He’s American, Taylor realized with a start. Or rather by his complexion, perhaps Mexican-American. She stared at him, confused, trying to draw her eyes away from that dark, powerful gaze. Finally, she found her voice and stood up. “You don’t need to do that.”
Without answering her, he summoned the waiter over. Removing a rich tan leather wallet from his jacket, he said something quickly in Spanish to the boy, then handed him the check along with a large bill, a rather sizeable sum for a simple cup of coffee.
The boy’s eyes lit up. “Muchas gracias, Señor! Si, muchas gracias!” He disappeared with his newly acquired fortune, leaving them standing alone.
“I don’t know what to say—” Taylor began.
His face creased to a smile, his teeth bright against his olive skin. “I suppose a thank you would be nice.”
Taylor laughed. “Yes, of course. Thank you for your generosity.”
“Are you headed anywhere in particular right now?” he asked as he guided her back onto the street.
“Not really.”
“Then perhaps we could walk a bit, and you can get more of a glimpse of this part of the city.”
“I don’t know—” Taylor began hesitantly, her caution rising. She was neither familiar with this man nor her surroundings.
His laugh was deep and warm. “Señorita, the days of Pancho Villa are long gone. I don’t intend to kidnap you and hold you for ransom!”
He was right. He was American, and naturally he would be attracted to someone from his own country. Of course he wasn’t intending anything improper! She felt totally ridiculous.
A smile found its way through her embarrassment. “All right. I’d love to see more of the city.”
He smiled. “I’m glad that’s settled,” he said. His hand touched her elbow as he guided her down the sidewalk.
“I’m afraid I don’t know your name,” Taylor said as they walked.
“Cabrera,” he replied smoothly. “Robert Cabrera.”
Cabrera. For an instant, something clicked in her mind. That name. It sounded familiar, as if she had heard it somewhere before, but she couldn’t place where. No, she decided. It was a common Spanish name she had heard a thousand times in her life.
He stopped walking suddenly and looked at her. “Taylor Fairchild, isn’t it?”
She halted, stunned. “How did you—”
How could this man, whom she had never seen before in her life, know anything about her at all? She stood there staring at him, amazed.
“Apparently, you’ve been in this city for a while, searching for someone and showing his photograph around,” he said. “I heard about your story and came here to meet you. I think I can help you.”
“Help me?”
“You’re an American woman, attempting to gain information from a nation of people who have a natural resistance toward the Americanos, as you may have discovered. I’m from the States as well, but I have lived here a long time, and I know the language and the right people to go to when I encounter a problem. Perhaps I can help you find the one you seek.”
Taylor’s hopes soared. “Oh, Mr. Cabrera, do you think you can help?”
He smiled. “Please, call me Robert. And why don’t we discuss this matter over dinner tonight? You can tell me the entire story, and then I can think about ways to help you in your search—” he broke off in mid-sentence. “That is, if you would like to have dinner with me tonight?”
Taylor broke into a wide smile. “I’d like that.”
“Then it’s a date. Shall I pick you up around seven?”
“Seven will be fine.”
They spent the rest of the morning strolling down the narrow, picturesque sidewalks where the city’s modern buildings were set beside well-preserved Mexican colonial structures. They sat on a bench next to a decorative fountain on the Plaza Obregon. An old cathedral faced a huge, grassy park, where stood some of the most unusual avant-garde architecture Taylor had ever seen.
“You know, Culiacan derives its name from the word Colhuacan, which means ‘Palace of Snakes’.” It originally was the place where the Indian god Coltzin was revered,” Robert told her. “The city is built on an ancient Indian settlement, in fact.”
“You certainly know this city, and its people, very well,” Taylor commented, sipping the bottled water that Robert had bought her from a corner vendor. It felt cool and refreshing on such a warm day.
“Well, you might say I am more comfortable with the Mexican way of life,” Robert said rather fondly. “I’ve taken up residence here, speak the language, and enjoy the people. To know them well takes more than average insight which, if done the right way, can only be to one’s advantage.”
Taylor got the impression that he was a perceptive and intelligent man, yet she also detected a decisive, almost intimidating air of authority about him, as if he were well accustomed to giving orders, and having those orders obeyed. She sensed that he was an unusual man; a man of many moods. Never had she met such a complex individual, one who exuded such strength and power yet, at the same time, enjoyed slow, tranquil walks through the city parks.
Later, when they walked back to her car, Robert held the door for her while she got into the driver’s side.
“I’m staying at the Maribel Hotel downtown,” Taylor said as she started the car.
“I know.”
“How did you—” she began, then stopped and laughed. “Well, I suppose I told so many people where to contact me that the entire city probably knows where I’m staying.”
He smiled. “Yes. See you tonight.”
Feeling heady with excitement and hope, Taylor drove away from the curb toward her hotel. She failed to notice Robert Cabrera intently watching her as her car traveled down the city street and out of sight, a wicked, victorious grin slowly twisting across his lips.
That evening, Taylor told him her story as they sat across from each other at dinner. They sat at a gleaming wood table in a small, cozy dining room. The Hacienda de Loredo sat high on a hillside, with a breathless view of the Sierras towering above them. The elegant, flower-filled restaurant was actually a beautifully refurbished 200-year-old hacienda and the accommodations were first class. The dining room was decorated in natural Mexican colonial style, from the rough, cream-colored adobe walls down to the cool, clay-tiled floor. The restaurant was colored in a creative array of mauve, deep rust, and light browns. The coarsely painted walls and homespun rugs accented the clay pottery and other folk art objects that adorned the room, further exemplifying the beauty of the country’s rugged heritage. Robert had ordered them a lavish dinner along with a bottle of rich burgundy. Taylor relished the atmosphere of the restaurant as she ate. It was peaceful and dignified.
Now, as she finished her story, she felt almost out of breath. Robert said nothing while she spoke, but listened intently, nodding seriously now and again. And as the evening wore on, Taylor soon discovered that he was a brilliant conversationalist as well as concentrated listener. She had only known him for a short time, yet incredibly, she became completely relaxed with him and easily spoke her thoughts. Judging by the late-model Mercedes he arrived in to pick her up and the fine quality of the clothes he wore, Taylor knew he was highly successful. He was also warm and sympathetic, a welcome change from the usual reception she received from the locals.
“Don’t worry,” Robert promised, reaching across the table and taking her hand. “We’ll do everything possible to find your Craig Phillips.”
Touched by his concern, Taylor smiled warmly. “I can’t thank you enough for your help. I was just about ready to give up and go home.”
“You have already thanked me,” he said, “by staying in Culiacan and having dinner with me tonight.”
Taylor blushed, feeling the heat rise to her face. The man had taken a fast liking to her and seemed genuinely interested in helping her. Could her luck finally be changing?
“Here, have more wine,” Robert offered, refilling her glass.
“I don’t know if I should,” Taylor said. “I think I may have had too much wine already.”
“One can never have too much fine wine,” he said, then paused. “Or fine company.” He gave her a flirtatious smile.
Is he hitting on me? She asked herself. She hadn’t felt very attractive lately, or even desired, since Craig—
Her spirits began to sink as his image floated into her mind. She didn’t reply but drew in a deep breath and picked up her glass, letting the burgundy’s rich, heavy aroma fill her nostrils.
“So, how long have you lived in Mexico?” she asked Robert, hoping the change of subject would chase the depressing thoughts of Craig from her mind and lighten her mood.
“I’ve spent many years here,” Robert replied, “although my business has taken me all over the world to live.”
“Really? What is it that you do?”
“I own a cattle ranch on the outskirts of the city at the base of the mountains, which keeps me quite busy.”
Suddenly something caught Taylor’s eye. She glanced over to the large picture window next to the front door where a young man stood on the other side of the glass, openly watching her.
She stiffened.
“What’s wrong?” Robert asked.
“A man,” Taylor said quietly. “Over there. He’s watching us.”
Robert turned and followed her gaze. Then he smiled and brought his attention back to her. “Him? Oh, don’t worry about Pedro.”
Taylor stared at him. “Who is he?”
“He works for me. He’s just keeping an eye on his employer, sort of extra security for me when I’m in the city. It’s understandable, Taylor. There are residents here who are either members of the local mafia, or political terrorists. In my business, people can get, well, competitive.”
“Doesn’t that frighten you?” Taylor asked.
“Nothing frightens me.” Robert said it with such a firm tone that Taylor didn’t pursue the subject any further.
She took another sip of the wine. “I do understand what running such a large business entails. My father owns a management company back home. We represent many well-known American entertainers.”
Suddenly, for just a moment, Taylor saw his face change ever so slightly. She thought she saw him bristle for a second, his dark eyes flash with an unnatural fire. Then it was gone.
“So, your father must be a very successful man.”
“He is,” Taylor agreed, “and he’s been a great parent to me all these years. My mother died when I was
very young.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
Taylor smiled. “Well, he’s a good man. He has worked hard to make the firm what it is today. In fact, you remind me of him.”
Robert’s brows arched. “In what way?”
“You strike me as a very ambitious sort of person,” Taylor said. “I’m sure you succeed in anything you set out to do.”
“You’re right about that,” he nodded slowly. “I always make sure that I get what I want.”
He raised his glass and toasted her with its deep, red-filled wine. “And now to you, Taylor Fairchild. May you find what you seek in Mexico. And from what I’ve seen so far, I’m sure you will succeed.”
Taylor reached for her glass, aware of his appreciative gaze. “You know, I can’t tell you how good it feels to talk to someone in my own language,” she said. “I felt so frustrated, not being able to say but the simplest phrases in Spanish to anyone I met.”
“It’s true the language causes a big cultural rift between Mexico and the States,” he said. “The Americans who come here make no effort to learn Spanish, so they wind up seeking each other out like the proverbial birds of a feather.”
His statement ended on such a bitter note, Taylor asked him directly, “Does the American behavior annoy you?”
He laughed. “Oh, no! Actually, my parents were Mexican farm workers who immigrated to America many years ago. I just wish the tourists would take the time to understand what gives Mexico its enchantment and not look upon this country as a place to vacation at a cheap price. But I suppose that will never happen. The Mexicans and the Americans come from different worlds culturally.”
She looked at him, puzzled. “Why do you say that?”
“Well, for one thing—” Robert paused momentarily while the waiter cleared their dinner dishes. He refilled his glass with wine. “For one thing,” he continued, “The people here have a deep loyalty for their cultural values. They have learned to express themselves by feeling, rather than reason.”
A Perilous Pursuit Page 22
