Down Among the Dead Men (A Thriller) (33 page)

D—N—A—Y

Y—N—A—D

N—A—D—Y

A—D—N—Y

And then it hit her, like a sledgehammer directly to the brain:

A—N—D—Y.

Andy.

And suddenly she knew. Wasn’t sure it was a full-fledged memory, but she
knew
that that was the name she’d muttered over and over through blood-spattered lips as she lay there dying.

Not “Angie”—but
Andy.
 

And for the first time since they’d scraped her off that parking-lot asphalt, she remembered something beyond Playa Azul. A face broke through the membrane—a child’s face, a
baby’s
face—staring up at her as she cradled him in her arms.

But not just any baby.
Jen’s
baby.

Beth’s little nephew.

Andy.

78

A
T FIVE MINUTES
past midnight, a man in a white suit emerged from the red door and lit up a cigarette.

“This is it,” Ortiz said.

He and Vargas climbed out of the taxi and moved up the street, Vargas once again feeling as if his imaginary movie had somehow overtaken the real world and come to life.

The man in white gestured as they approached. “Hands.”

Vargas and Ortiz put their hands out, showing them empty, and the man stuck the cigarette between his lips and quickly patted them down, taking the Tomcat from Vargas and a Glock from Ortiz.

“You’ll get these back when you leave,” he said, then held up Ortiz’s cell phone. “And this stays off as long as you’re inside.”

Ortiz and Vargas said nothing as the man in white pocketed the weapons, then shut off the cell phone and handed it back to Ortiz. Ditching his cigarette, he opened the red door and ushered them inside.

They moved down a long, narrow corridor to another door, this one made of metal.

The man rapped on it and a moment later a slide opened, revealing a pair of female eyes. A pounding bass beat filtered out from behind her.

She eyeballed Vargas and Ortiz; then a latch clicked and the door swung open to an attractive young girl wearing only a red leather thong and matching nipple clamps as a blast of music hit them full force.

Inside was a large dark room, full of flashing lights and writhing, half-naked bodies, most of them women—a private, very exclusive dance club/whorehouse/S and M parlor with all the requisite accessories.

Too bad the Ainsworths weren’t alive to see this place.

Ortiz seemed mesmerized, staring at Ms. Red Satin’s bobbling breasts with all the subtlety of a cat eying a ball of yarn.

The man in white pushed him past her and they skirted the crowd, moving to an enclosed set of stairs that wound upward toward the second floor.

They moved up the steps, the sound of the music growing muffled as they came to another door.

The man in white knocked, waved at the surveillance camera mounted above it, and a moment later the door was opened by a big guy wearing a gun in a shoulder holster.

Another
Bullitt
clone.

He gestured them inside and they all stepped into a room overlooking the dance floor, reminding Vargas of a box seat at a football stadium.

There were several men and women here, some seated, some standing, drinks in hand, free hands roaming. Another woman in a red leather thong, sans the nipple clamps, was snorting a line of coke off of a tabletop.

“Over here,” a voice said. “Come over here.”

Vargas turned and several of the people stepped to one side as a woman in a black leather bustier and fishnet nylons waved them away.

Little Fina, Vargas assumed.

Only there was something wrong with this picture.

Not only was Little Fina not little; she also wasn’t really a woman at all. She was most definitely a man dressed in drag, complete with a five o’clock shadow shading her jaw.

Vargas glanced at Ortiz, but either Ortiz didn’t notice or he was too petrified to acknowledge the look.

Little Fina smiled, cutting straight to the chase. “Ortiz here tells me you have a photograph you want me to look at. May I see it?”

Vargas took the mended passport photo out and handed it to her.

Little Fina studied it. “Lovely creature. Is she a friend of yours?”

“I’ve never met her,” Vargas said. “She’s the sister of a friend.”

“And you’ve been tasked to find her, is that it?”

“More or less.”

Little Fina frowned. “You know, I’ve never understood that phrase. Is it more or is it less? Seems to me there’s quite a bit of difference between the two.”

“The answer is ‘yes,’” Vargas said. “I’ve been tasked to find her.”

“And what does this have to do with the book you’re writing? The one that Ortiz tells me will make me famous.”

“I think Ortiz may have overstated that a bit.”

“What a surprise,” Little Fina said. “But he has a habit of doing that. He thinks he’s a gangster, but he’s really a frightened little boy who’s all too eager to please. Isn’t that right, Ortiz?”

Ortiz shifted uncomfortably next to Vargas, looking like he’d swallowed something sour. “Yes, ma’am.”

Little Fina assessed him for a moment, then shifted her gaze to Vargas and handed the photo back.

“I’m sorry to disappoint you, Mr. Vargas, but she’s not one of mine. Never has been.”

“And you’ve never seen her before.”

Little Fina smiled. “There are over five hundred thousand people in this city, Mr. Vargas, and millions of tourists flow through here every week. I do my best, but it’s hard to keep track of them all.”

“Then I guess we’re done,” Vargas said.

He pocketed the photo and started to turn toward the door when the temperature of Fina’s voice dropped about forty degrees.

“We’re done when I say we’re done.”

Remembering Ortiz’s warning, Vargas stopped himself and returned his gaze to her. “I meant no disrespect.”

“Of course you didn’t.” The warmth had returned as abruptly as it left. “But I’m curious to know about this book of yours. What’s it about?”

“Murder,” Vargas told her. “The Casa de la Muerte murders.”

“Ahhh,” she said. “The nuns up in Juárez. Poor dears.” She paused. “Do you have any suspects?”

Vargas saw no harm in telling her. “There’s someone I’ve been looking at, yeah. And I guess I must have struck a chord, because they’re after me now.” He pulled the collar of his shirt back to show her his bandage.

“Ohhh,” she said. “That looks painful. Do
they
have a name?”

“A religious cult called La Santa Muerte.”

The moment the words left his mouth, the room suddenly went silent, like one of those old E. F. Hutton commercials. Even the half-naked woman snorting coke in the corner jerked her head up, white powder ringing her nose.

Vargas would have laughed if it hadn’t all been so deadly serious.

For a brief moment, Little Fina looked as if she’d been impaled. But she recovered quickly.

And fiercely.

“Ortiz, what were you thinking? The man is being hunted by La Santa Muerte and you bring him here?”

Ortiz threw his hands up in protest. “I didn’t know. I swear I didn’t—”

“What’s wrong?” Vargas said to Fina. “What do you know about them?”

“More than I want to.”

“Meaning what?”

“They’re ghosts. Phantoms. They can be everywhere and nowhere at the same time. And if they find out that you were in my club, I’ll be as dead as you are.”

“Last I looked, I was still standing.”

“Then you’re a lucky man,” she said. “But your luck won’t last long, so take your weapons and go. Trust me, you’ll need them.”

“Where can I find these people? Do you know?”

Little Fina scowled at him. “Haven’t you been listening to me? Get out. Now. Before I kill you myself.”

She made a quick hand gesture and the man in the white suit grabbed both Vargas and Ortiz by the collar and shoved them toward the stairs.

And as they headed into the abyss below, Little Fina shouted, “Come back here again, Ortiz, and I’ll have your fucking head!”

79

S
HE TRIED CALLING
the number twice and got Ortiz’s voice mail both times.

Damn it, Nick.

So much for Plan B.

She knew she was only supposed to call if the headaches started again, but she was so bowled over by her sudden revelation, she needed to talk to him, as soon as possible.

On her third try, she left a message.

“Nick, get back here as soon as you can. I have news.”

But what
was
the news?

Sure, she’d remembered the name, and little Andy’s face staring up at her, and she knew that he was Jen’s child—Jen’s
baby,
for godsakes—but
how
did she know this? And what exactly did it mean?

Was Jen was alive? And if so, where was she? And where was the baby?

It had been ten months since their trip to Playa Azul, but the face Beth saw staring up at her in her mind’s eye was at least three months old, which meant that Jen had to have been pregnant during the cruise.

But why hadn’t she told Beth?

And how on earth had she hidden it so well?

Beth had seen her naked, standing in their cramped stateroom, and maybe Jen had looked a little thicker than usual, but Beth had attributed that to the breast implants.

But she knew that many women don’t start to show until the middle of their second trimester, so Jen could easily have been four months pregnant when she disappeared.

Beth thought back to their lunch together on that last day. She had relived the conversation so many times that she knew the words by heart:

There’s something else I’ve been wanting to tell you. Something…

Jen had paused, unable to say the words. And Beth had been too stupid and self-absorbed to pick up on it.

But then this begged a whole new question, didn’t it?

If Jen had disappeared before giving birth, how on earth could Beth have held little Andy in her arms?

Either she was confabulating big-time—which would undoubtedly make Dr. Stanley’s day—or that day in Playa Azul was not the last time she’d seen Jen.

Far from it.

Sitting on the edge of her chair, Beth closed her eyes, straining to remember, working the image of little Andy’s face through her mind, trying to connect it to a place or an event—

—but nothing came.

Nothing.

Come on, come on, she thought, squeezing her eyelids tight and concentrating with everything she had.

Break through, goddammit, break through.

But no matter how she tried, she could not dig deep enough to summon up the memory. The face and name were all she had—

—and it just wasn’t enough.

Consumed by frustration, she jumped to her feet, began pacing the room. More than ever before, she felt trapped. Trapped by a brain that wouldn’t cooperate.

Moving to the nightstand, she stared at herself in the mirror, at the scar atop her head, and all she wanted to do was strike out at herself, pummel her brain into submission.

Remember, goddammit.

Please,
just fucking remember.…
 

And then she began to cry again and hated herself for turning into a weepy little hag, but the tears were all she had, the only way she could purge the frustration. So she let them flow without hindrance, rolling down her cheeks and onto her bare chest. Then she suddenly swung her arms up, banging her fists against her reflection, cracking the glass.

Remember, remember, remember, remember, remember, remember, remember, remember, remember.…

But it wouldn’t come.

It would never come.

She knew that now.

Stumbling to the bed, she fell across the mattress and continued to cry into a pillow, wishing—not for the first time—that she had never made it out of that Taco Bell parking lot.

Because even death would be better than this.

Death was relief.

Release.

Freedom.

Peace.

And she continued to cry, crying until no more tears would come, until her eyes were so swollen she couldn’t keep them open, and just as she was about to drift off into sleep, a familiar voice said, “Hello, Elizabeth.”