Down Among the Dead Men (A Thriller) (11 page)

“They’re wonderful,” Beth said.

Jen nodded and gestured. “Put out your hand.”

Beth obliged, offering the left one, and Jen slipped the ring onto her newly bare fourth finger.

“Perfect.” Jen took the second ring and slid it onto her own finger. “We’re officially best friends forever,” she said, then smiled. “With the devil.”

Beth laughed. “Been there, done that.”

She started to pull the ring off, but Jen stopped her.

“Consider it my way of apologizing for being such a bitch.”

“Jen, you don’t have to keep—”

“It’s either this or a pack of horse shit cigarettes. Which would you prefer?”

Beth smiled. “The cigarettes might be more appropriate.”

Jen stuck her tongue out, then turned to the vendor, a slender man in a T-shirt, jeans, and sunglasses.

“¿Cuánto cuesta esto?”

She’d told Beth earlier that she only knew two phrases in Spanish: “How much does this cost?” and “Where’s the bathroom?”

Beth suspected she butchered them both.

The vendor’s accent was thick, but at least his English was better than Jen’s Spanish.

“Sixty dollar for two,” he said.

“Seriously?”

“On especial today. Forty-five.”

“I was thinking more like ten bucks each,” Jen said, and started to take hers off.

“Thirty dollar,” the vendor told her.

“Make it twenty-five and you’ve got a deal.”

He nodded, and Jen dug into her purse for the cash. She rooted around for a while, then said, “Shit.”

“What?” Beth asked.

“I must’ve left my wallet in the cabin.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“I could’ve sworn I had it, but all I’ve got is my seafarer’s card and a bunch of loose change. Can I borrow a few bucks?”

Beth rolled her eyes.

“Come on,” Jen said. “I’m good for it, I swear. Soon as we get back on board.”

Beth looked at the ring on her finger, the tiny hooded skull staring up at her. It belonged on the hand of a punk rocker or a goth girl or a wild child like Jen. Certainly not her. But she liked it and thought, what the hell, why not do something unpredictable for once. Maybe she’d even wear it for her next opening argument, see what the jury made of it.

Reaching into her purse, she pulled out her wallet, opened it, and extracted a twenty and a five, handing it across to the vendor. He quickly stuffed the cash into his pants pocket, then turned his attention to an elderly couple who had just approached.

Jen grinned at Beth and held up her hand, admiring the ring. “Big sis to the rescue again.”

“Don’t even start.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Beth heard a faint gurgling sound and Jen frowned, patting her stomach.

“You hear that? I’ve got the growlies. Let’s find some food.”

“I’m tired,” Beth said. “Why don’t we just go back to the ship and eat there?”

“Now why would we want to eat assembly-line hamburgers when we can go for some authentic local food? Come on, you can pick the place.”

“
And
pay the bill?”

Jen offered her a sheepish smile. “Don’t you still have a couple of Peter’s credit cards?”

“Ha-ha,” Beth said. “You’re hilarious.”

26

T
HEY CHOSE AN
outdoor café called Taqueria Tapatia, an oblong open-air enclosure that ran the length of the sidewalk, the chef’s station smack in the middle of half a dozen tables.

Jen, being Jen, became immediately enamored with the chef, a curly-haired twentysomething hunk with a nice body and an even nicer smile. But to her credit, she kept it low-key, in an effort, Beth supposed, to avoid upsetting the prude. And Beth suddenly felt guilty for always trying to suppress what came naturally to Jen.

Why couldn’t she just accept her sister for who she was?

“I’m thinking about going back to school,” Jen said as their waitress set their taco plates in front of them.

Beth was surprised. “Since when?”

Jen took a bite of taco, then took a moment to chew and swallow. “I know this’ll sound like bs, but you’re not the only one who’s jealous. A lot of times I look at you, look at what you’ve accomplished, and I think, What the hell? Why am I such a loser?”

“You’re not a loser.”

“What else do you call it, then? I’ve spent the last decade bouncing from guy to guy, job to job, party to party and I’ve got nothing to show for it but a failed marriage, an empty bank account, and a constant hangover.”

Beth had to admit she had a point.

“It could be worse,” she said. “You could be crippled. Or blind.”

Jen laughed and shook her head. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. No direction, no ambition. And I can only blame so much of it on Mom and Dad.” She paused, took another bite of taco. “I know you don’t want to hear this, but last night kinda opened my eyes.”

Beth stiffened. “Meaning?”

“Marta and I spent a lot of time talking about things I don’t usually bother thinking about. It might be hard to believe, but she and Rafael are very spiritual people.”

“If you consider witchcraft and phony psychics spiritual, sure.”

Jen shook her head. “I really wish you could be a little more open-minded. Some people believe there’s a man in the sky watching over us. Does that make them con artists?”

“Not all of them. No.”

Beth wasn’t the most religious person in the world, but she did believe in God. A belief that was based on gut, not intellect. But she also knew that there was no shortage of people in this world who would try to exploit that belief.

“Despite what you think of her,” Jen said, “Marta really believes the things she talks about.”

“Like what?”

“Like the power of the dead, for one. She says they’re always among us, ready to guide us, counsel us when we ask for help. And I know this’ll sound stupid, but when she told me that, it was the first time I’ve actually felt like there might be some hope for me after all. Like maybe since they died, Mom and Dad have been watching over us. Maybe it’s time for me to stop disappointing them.”

“Is that Marta talking, or you?”

Jen frowned. “I do have a brain, you know. I can think for myself.”

She went inward for a moment, seemed to be struggling with a thought.

Then she said, “I cried like a baby last night. Right there in their stateroom.”

“What happened?”

“Marta and I were talking and all of a sudden I started crying. It just came over me.”

Beth nodded. “You were in over your head with those two. Finally realized you’d gone too far.”

“No,” Jen said, looking annoyed. “That’s not it at all.”

“Then what?”

“I already told you, Rafael and Marta made me feel special. Wanted. Like this was much more than some random hookup. It felt like they’d both somehow managed to channel my thoughts and feelings and were speaking to me in a language only I could understand.”

“Was this before or after you all took Ecstasy?”

Jen’s eyes hardened. “It wasn’t the drugs, Beth. Or the booze. Besides, I’m done with all that stuff. As sappy as it sounds, I started crying because I felt…I don’t know…
loved.
Unconditionally. By two people who barely even know me.”

Beth bit her tongue. Her immediate instinct was to dismiss Jen’s talk as nonsense, to explain that that was exactly what Ecstasy, or MDMA, did to you—something Jen should well know. But there was a sincerity in her voice that couldn’t be ignored. She was vulnerable. And hurting. And Beth knew that, in many ways, and for many years, she had contributed to that hurt, just as Jen had contributed to hers.

But none of this changed her opinion of the Santiagos. The more she heard about them, the less she trusted them. And if they were taking advantage of Jen’s vulnerability, she might just have to kick their perfect little asses.

“So this is what got you thinking about the direction of your life? About going to school?”

“Partly,” Jen said. “But there’s something else I’ve been wanting to tell you. Something…”

Jen paused, looking anguished. Guilty.

“What?” Beth asked. “What’s wrong?”

Jen thought a moment, then shook her head. “We’ll talk about it later. And this whole school thing is just an idea. I’m not really sure
what
I want.”

“That’s true for about ninety percent of the people who walk this planet. Even the dead ones.”

Jen frowned again. “Are you making fun of me?”

“No,” Beth said, immediately regretting her words. “Just a joke. And a bad one at that.”

Jen sighed. “You’re never going to take me seriously, are you?”

“Look, I didn’t mean anything by it. It was just a stupid—”

“I’ve gotta pee,” Jen said abruptly, then threw her napkin on the table and turned to the waitress, whose command of English was halting at best. Fortunately, they’d been able to point to their choices on the menu.
“¿Adónde está el baño?”
 

Phrase number two.

“Disculpa, esta fuera de servicio,”
the waitress said, then gestured to a leather-goods shop across the street.
“Puedes usar el que esta al otro lado de la calle.”
 

Jen pushed her chair back and stood. “I hope that means they have a toilet.”

“Jen, wait—”

“Don’t worry, I’m not gonna go mental on you. I just can’t hold it anymore.”

Then she crossed the street and disappeared into the leather-goods shop without a backward glance.

And that was the last time Beth saw her.

27

Vargas

N
OBODY COULD EVER
accuse Vargas of being smart.

The smart thing to do would be to go back to the motel office, ask to use the phone (his cell had been stolen along with his car keys), and call Agent Harmon.

The problem with this idea was that Harmon already thought Vargas was a drug-addicted, attention-mongering crackpot and the presence of his car in the Western Suites parking lot would more than likely bolster that opinion.

Vargas still had no idea how they’d managed to get the thing across the border—seeing as how the Border Patrol was reportedly on the lookout for it—but that didn’t much matter, did it?

Whoever he’d gotten himself involved with was not playing around. And if they were somehow associated with what had happened in the House of Death, a story that had gone through the usual news cycle, then faded away, they might be a bit concerned about some
americano
reporter starting to dig it all up again.

How much did he know? Who had he told?

That, if his jangled brain was remembering properly, had seemed to be Sergio’s concern. A concern that was no doubt shared by “the man himself.”

Part of Vargas wanted to simply jump into his Corolla, head straight back to California, and pretend he’d never gotten involved in any of this nonsense in the first place. But besides coming up a bit short in the smarts department, under the right set of circumstances Vargas was also insanely curious. And he could think of no better set of circumstances than the one he’d stumbled into today.

One of his old story sources, an ex-cop in Las Vegas who had a serious obsession with cards, had once described his addiction to Vargas as an itch. One that just had to be scratched. But once you scratched it, he’d said, the itch only got worse and worse until it was all you thought about.

Vargas had had his doubts about pursuing this story before today, but now the itch was setting in. And despite his encounter with Ainsworth and Sergio—an encounter Vargas was convinced would have led to his interrogation and possible death—he knew his only choice was to start scratching.

So instead of calling Harmon, he decided to chance going back to his room. His laptop was there. Along with the notes from his interviews with the Chihuahua police and the information he’d gotten from the murder file. Much of this had been transferred to the Secure Digital card he always kept in his wallet, but he hadn’t managed to do a full backup before his meeting with Ainsworth.

Going inside was a stupid move, sure, especially with his head feeling the way it did.

But he was stupid enough to make the move anyway.

28

U
NLIKE MANY MOTELS
Vargas had stayed in over the years, the Western Suites Express was an enclosed two-story structure with its hallways and room entrances on the inside.

It was a design that fed the illusion that you were staying at a higher-class establishment than you were actually paying for. But the illusion was shattered the moment you stepped inside to find hallway carpet made of thin, replaceable squares and wallpaper a shade too cheap and adorned with art mart reproductions in plastic frames.