Unwanted Company - Barbara Seranella (15 page)

Chacón looked at Munch sympathetically. "Friend
of yours?"

Munch nodded and blinked back tears. She had to
remind herself that she wasn't going to make any assumptions until
she knew for sure.

"
I want to go see without raising any flags,"
Mace continued. "You still got your connections down there?"

"
I'll call my mother," Chacón said.

While Chacón dialed, Mace leaned over to Munch. "His
family knows the family who owns funeral homes all through Baja. They
have a contract with the city to handle murder victims. Rico helped
them out of some trouble last year."

Chacón finished his conversation and wrote down
directions. "Just tell the girl you know me."

"
Thanks," Mace said.

"
What are you driving?" Chacón asked.

"
An unmarked unit. A Caprice."

Chacón opened his desk drawer and threw Mace a set
of keys. "Yellow Pontiac station wagon," he said. 'The
plate number is on that white tag. You buy your own gas."

"
We'll be back in a couple hours," Mace
said.

"
Good luck," Chacón said. He spoke the
words like he really meant them.

Mace and Munch took the elevator back down but exited
the building through a side door that took them to the parking lot.
They found the lemon-colored station wagon. While Munch checked the
oil and water, Mace locked his badge, ID, beeper, and gun in the
trunk of his Caprice. Within minutes they were back on the freeway
and headed south.

"What was the trouble?" Munch asked.

"Huh?"

"
At the mortuary. You said Rico helped the
people out."

"Oh, yeah," Mace said. "They do
autopsies there. Turns out that a couple of their customers weren't
all the way dead."

"
Great," she said. "And a silver
bullet is. . . ?"

He shrugged. "A favor. A free pass."

In San Ysidro, Mace exited the freeway and pulled
into the driveway of a Carl's Jr.

"What are we doing?" Munch asked.

"
I need some coffee," Mace said as he
stopped at the drive thru speaker phone.

"
Make that two," Munch said.

Five minutes later, they were back on the southbound
freeway. The line of cars waiting to cross the border stretched eight
lanes wide and half a mile long. After they entered Tijuana, they
maneuvered through a maze of one-way streets. Every other building
seemed to be a pharmacy or a body shop. Men stood on the street
waving rolls of window tinting or the flat, round hammers they used
for pounding out dents. Horns honked constantly. The smell of raw
rich exhaust gave her a headache.

Mace urged the big yellow station wagon forward. A
man carrying bundles of brightly painted miniature guitars knocked on
Munch's window and held up his wares. For a brief instant she thought
of Asia, wondering if this would be something she'd like. She was
careful to keep her eyes blank so as not to encourage the man.

They drove until they reached the funeral home. A
large truck was parked in front of the entrance. Two men unloaded
caskets of all hues: purple, pink, glossy white. There was even a
chrome one. Mace circled the block and parked around the side,
squeezing between a green taxi and a Monte Carlo with no license
plates and the darkest tinted windows Munch had ever seen. She got
out of the car, locking the door behind her. She tried to see inside
the Monte Carlo, but even the windshield was blackened.

Before they turned the corner, a thin, dark boy of
perhaps thirteen crossed the street to catch up with them. He carried
a plastic grocery bag and held his hand out for Mace's coffee cup.
Mace turned from the boy, and said, "No." The boy
persisted, mutely holding his hand out for the paper cup, his fingers
curled as if already holding it. Mace finally shook his head in
defeat and handed over the cup. The boy took it and immediately
brought it to his lips.

What sort of place was this, she wondered, where
children begged far lukewarm coffee?
She
handed him hers also. He clutched it close to his body with his other
hand and slunk away

Mace and Munch walked around to the front of the
building and pushed through the glass doors. The reception area
smelled of mildew. A glass curio case exhibited box-shaped urns made
of stone and polished metal. She wondered what you were supposed to
do with it once it was filled. Did you display it on the mantel? Make
it into a lamp?

The woman behind the reception desk looked them over,
then greeted them in English.

"We are here to identify a family member,"
Mace said. "Enrique Chacón told us that you received the body
of a woman this morning. We think we might know her."

The receptionist grabbed a ring of keys and came out
from behind the counter. She wore a short black dress and three-inch
spike high heels that brought a slight definition to her plump
calves.

"Hector," she called into the anteroom on
the other side of the entrance.

A man came out. She held up the keys, pointed at Mace
and Munch, and fired off a string of Spanish. Then she turned back to
the waiting gringos. "Follow me," she said. They walked
through a viewing room, between rows of upholstered benches covered
in the same sort of thick plastic that people staple to their carpet
to protect high-traffic areas. Large gilt crucifixes adorned the
walls. The woman led them to a door to the right of the viewing
platform and down a hallway To their right, the wide doors of a
service elevator gaped open.

"This way," the woman said.

Mace and Munch followed her until they came to a room
with a double sink. Hoses fitted to the faucet connected to an
embalming pump. The louvered windows above the sink were open,
letting in flies and sounds from the street. Munch was glad the steel
gurney in front of the sink was empty. She noted the blood smears
near the center and the used bandages lying on the floor next to the
drain.

"
Not here," the woman said, and led them to
a second room. She genuflected before opening the door. "Come
back out front when you're through."

The hum of refrigeration pumps filled the dank room.
Three bodies awaited service, their feet poking out from under
plastic tarps. The dead girl was laid out on a table in the center of
the room. What appeared to be a shower curtain covered her. It was
too opaque to make out the facial details, but it was clear that the
dead woman was naked. Munch stopped at the doorway.

"
You all right?" Mace asked. His hand
wrapped around her elbow. The simple gesture made her want to cry.

"
Just give me a second," she said, feeling
in no hurry to enter the hot, rancid room. "It smells like
someone forgot to empty the outhouses."

'
That's not what you're smelling," he said.

"I guess I knew that," she said. "I'm
ready when you are."

"
Let's do it."

They approached the body on the table together, still
linked by his hand on her elbow.

Mace reached forward and grabbed the top corner of
the tarp. Slowly, he pulled the veil of plastic back so that the face
was exposed.

Munch sank to her knees, suddenly too weak to stand.
"That's not her," she said, surprised at the tears
streaming down her face. "It's not Ellen."

He knelt down beside her. "You okay? You feel
sick? Faint? She steadied herself against his strong arm and pulled
herself up. "No, I'm fine. just relieved, but still . . ."
She stared at the slender prepubescent body before them.

"
Sorry?"

"
Exactly." She looked at him with new
respect. There was only one way he could know how she was feeling. "I
don't know who this girl was," Munch said, "but she's too
young to be so dead and naked and alone. She looks thirteen,
fourteen."

"
Yeah," he said. "They're getting
younger."

"
Who are? The victims of that Band-Aid guy?"

He looked at her sharply.

"
I heard you on the phone," she said. "It
doesn't matter. I'm not dumb. I figured there was some connection."
She looked again at the dead body. "You're going to get this
guy, right? I don't like the idea of him living in the same world as
me."

Mace pulled the sheet back to reveal the rest of the
corpse. Half inch strips of white surgical tape were pasted over much
of her torso. Each strip overlapped another, forming crisscrosses.
Mace peeled back the edge of one of the crosses, and Munch saw at its
center a knitting-needle-size puncture parting the girl's skin.

"
Can you handle this?" he asked.

"What am I looking at?" she asked.

"
Hold this," he said, indicating the edge
of the plastic tarp.

"
I want to get a picture of the wound."

She held back the tarp while he peeled off the
crosses one at a time and placed them inside a thick plastic evidence
envelope. After removing each makeshift bandage, he lifted the
Polaroid camera hanging from his neck and took pictures. Then he took
a second camera, a 35mm, from his pocket and shot another series.

"Okay," he said. "That should do it."

He walked over to the other two bodies. "These
must be the two from the river," he said.

"
You still need me?" she asked.

"No," he said. "But I'm going to be a
while."

"
I'm going to find a phone," she told him.

"Okay," he said without looking up.

She needed to hear Asia's voice.
 

CHAPTER 13

Ellen was exhausted, hungover, and pissed off. Her
feet hurt. She had two hundred dollars in her pocket, and she was
hungry. She needed to find a phone, food, and something for her
hangover. Not necessarily in that order.

She rubbed her burning eyes and thought about the
terror she had felt when Raleigh and Victor climbed up that hill.

"
Where have you been?" Raleigh had asked,
no, he'd demanded—the son of a bitch. Like who died and made him
King Kong? His lips were a tight line as he waited for her answer.
Victor's mouth had hung open, like he had nothing left to pump up his
jaw. Victor's gaze was unfocused at first, but then when it came to
rest on the area just above her forehead, he seemed to come back to
life. It was then she became aware of the emptiness there.

She reached up and felt the top of her head. It was
naked, exposed, empty. Her wig was gone. All that was left was the
knob of her own dishwater blond hair, tied up in a cheap red rubber
band. She spread her fingers, but the gesture was useless. There was
no hiding. All she could think to do was cover her eyes. She felt the
heat of her face. God, what did I do to deserve this night?

"
We've been looking all over for you,"
Raleigh said.

She uncovered her eyes and looked at him. Should she
ask them why they were wet? If she didn't notice, wouldn't they think
that odd? Something tickled her arm. Thinking it was an insect, she
swatted it. Then she looked down and realized that what she had felt
was a knotted thread dangling from the embroidery of her shirt. Well,
the shirt she was wearing anyway. It wasn't the same one she'd begun
the day with.

"Drink," she said, passing Victor the
bottle. He tipped the tequila back and took a long slug. She watched
the worm float down to the neck of the bottle, wincing as it drifted
closer to  his open mouth. "Hey, hey," she said.
"Leave a little for the rest of us."

She took the bottle back and passed it to Raleigh. He
had not moved or smiled since asking his questions. She saw a
hardness to his eyes that hadn't been there before. She leered at
him. "Hey, baby, looks like we saved you the worm." He took
the bottle from her and tilted it back, letting the final contents
drain down his throat. The big fat white worm—big as a potato
slug—was the last to go. She watched, fascinated, as it funneled
down into his waiting mouth.

"Oh, my God," she said. This had to rank
with one of the most disgusting acts she'd ever witnessed.

Raleigh threw aside the empty bottle. Grinning, he
swallowed.

They were parked next to a field of some sort of
grain that had been allowed to run wild. She slid down from the hood,
lifting her arms above her head and howling at the moon as if she
hadn't a care in the world. She landed in a furrowed row and stepped
into the moonlit meadow. The loam gave way easily beneath her shoes.
She saw dried puddles of cow shit, and thought about bullfights. She
remembered how Victor's eyes had glowed when he spoke of them—of
that immortal contest between good and evil. And she had said
something dumb about how sometimes the bull wins. Oh, Lordy, but
she'd fixed herself good this time.

Fuck the wig where are the keys? How am I going to
get back to civilization and away from these crazy assholes and those
bodies floating down the muddy river? And speaking of murder; Munch
is going to kill me when she sees the limo. Ellen reached down and
ran her fingers over the indentation in the driver's door. Had that
dent always been there? And what had happened to the hood ornament
and the antennae?