Down Among the Dead Men (A Thriller) (28 page)

Vargas thought about this. There was really only one place left to go.

“Back to Mexico,” he told her. “Down to Ciudad de Almas.”

“Why there?”

“That’s where the nuns were from. A small church down there—the Church of the Sacred Heart. The priest was interviewed by the Chihuahua state police, but he wasn’t much help. Maybe I’ll have more luck with…” He paused. The look in Beth’s eyes had changed. “What is it?”

“Ciudad de Almas. That’s where Rafael said he was from.”

“Probably just another coincidence,” Vargas said.

She shook her head. “No. That’s too many now. I’ve worked a lot of cases, and when the coincidences start piling up it means they aren’t coincidences at all.” She paused, weighing a thought, then looked directly at him. “Take me with you.”

“What?”

“To Mexico. This is all connected somehow. I know it is. I can feel it in my gut.”

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

“Maybe all I need to jar the memories is to get out of this godforsaken place. Feel like I’m
doing
something, rather than sitting here like a warmed-over piece of meat.”

“You’re not well,” Vargas said. “The clinic would never release you.”

“I’m here of my own free will. I can leave whenever I want to.”

Vargas hesitated. “You don’t even know me. A few minutes ago you were ready to throw me out.”

She took hold of his hands, squeezed them.

“Please, Nick. Take me with you. We’ll start in Playa Azul and work our way to Ciudad de Almas.”

“There are people trying to hurt me,” he told her. “I can’t get you mixed up in that.”

“Bullshit. I’m
already
mixed up in it. Why else would you be here?” She paused. “You have to help me, Nick. Help me fill in this gap and find out what happened to Jen. I’m begging you.”

Vargas stared at her, at the desperation in her eyes. Despite her progress, she still looked fragile and not particularly roadworthy.

But she needed to know the truth even more than he did. And when he thought about it, her quest could well be the central theme of his book. He could build the story around her.
Through
her. Her presence would give it the emotion it needed.

Besides, there was something about this woman that compelled him to want to help her—that instant, undeniable attraction he’d felt the moment she walked into the courtyard. A feeling he’d never experienced before now.

“There’s no guarantee we’ll find what you’re looking for,” he said.

“Maybe not. But I sure as hell won’t find it here.”

Patient's Journal

Day 61?
2:00 P.M.
 

My last entry.

I’m not even sure why I’m writing this, because in a few minutes I’ll be headed back to Playa Azul and everything I’ve said here will remain behind to gather dust and be forgotten.

I have no intention of telling the nurses or Dr. Stanley that I’m leaving. They would only try to stop me. Would tell me that I’m not yet ready for the outside world.

Maybe that’s true.

I have no idea how long I’ll be able to maintain this clarity, but I can’t stay in this place anymore, wondering about those missing months. Not knowing what really happened.

I’m not sure if Nick knows about my “episodes.” I couldn’t tell him myself, for fear he’d have a change of heart and leave me stranded here. It was hard enough convincing him to take me with him in the first place.

So we’ll deal with the problem if it arises.

When
it arises.

As Jen always says, it’s better to ask pardon than permission. Which, I guess, has always been the fundamental difference between us. I’ve spent too much of my life following the rules. Seeking approval.

But that’s about to change.

As I sit here, waiting for the right moment to slip away, that small boy has caught my eye again—one arm cradling the stuffed dog, while the other is wrapped around his mother’s leg.

I don’t know why he stirs something inside of me. Not sure why I feel like crying when I see him. But those dark, shapeless, almost memories are back, struggling to break through the layers of tissue that separate me from my past.

Visiting hour is almost over. In a moment I’ll go back to my room and quietly change into some street clothes. I’ll wait for the crowd of family and loved ones to start migrating toward the exit, then slip away through the south doors and climb into Nick’s waiting car.

For the first time in all the days I’ve spent here, I feel hope.

Real hope.

Dr. Stanley once told me about a patient of his who spent her days in a fantasy world, getting up every morning to go to work, then sitting at the edge of her bed as if she were typing at an office desk.

When her relatives came to visit, she greeted them as fellow employees and took coffee breaks with them in the dayroom.

Then one morning she awoke and her fantasy world was gone. She knew exactly where she was and why she was there, and spoke with a lucidity she’d never before demonstrated. It was as if a simple switch had been flipped and all was back to normal.

So maybe it
will
come back to me. All of it. A flick of a switch and I’ll finally be whole again.

That’s not too much to ask for, is it?

To be whole again?

PART THREE

Día de los Muertos

65

Mr. Blister

H
E SPENT HIS
first night in Los Angeles at a believer’s home near Silverlake.

As a gesture of respect, the father shared his oldest daughter with him, a slender nineteen-year-old who had been blessed by La Santisima with flawless beauty.

She pretended not to notice his ruined face as she took him to her bed.

And he pretended not to care.

But when she straddled him and closed her eyes, quietly praising God as she worked her hips, grinding her body against his, he wondered if she was thinking of someone else.

Someone handsome.

Like
he
used to be.

Afterward, they got dressed and had dinner with the family, followed by an hour of prayer.

The youngest daughter sang a song about Jesus, and he smiled politely and applauded, thinking that she was even more beautiful than her sister—and only a year or so away from her initiation into womanhood.

Maybe he could convince her father to save her for him.

As a gesture of respect.

H
E HAD THOUGHT
about driving by the rehabilitation clinic that night. But he was worn out by the sex and the long drive from El Paso, and the meal they’d served was weighing him down.

So he decided to go straight to bed.

In the middle of the night, he felt the mattress shift and opened his eyes to find the mother climbing in next to him, naked.

She took his hand and placed it between her thighs, letting him feel her heat. Her wetness.

“It would be an honor,” she murmured, “to serve the son of El Santo. To let my body be the vessel for his release.”

He was tired, but it would be an insult to the family to refuse her. And, unlike her daughter, she did not close her eyes. Instead, she stared at him with the gaze of the truly devoted as she received him in the name of God and La Santisima.

O
N HIS SECOND
night in Los Angeles, he went by the reporter’s apartment. El Santo had ordered him to leave the man alone, and while he understood the reasoning, he’d felt uneasy about the command ever since it had been given.

El Santo was getting old. And careless. And may have misinterpreted the signs.

His uneasiness grew when the believers he’d assigned to keep an eye on the reporter’s apartment called and told him that Vargas had not yet returned.

So, after much prayer, he drove out to the Burbank apartment building and let himself in, checking the reporter’s computer, his notes, for any indication that he might know more than they’d been led to believe.

He found nothing, but that didn’t settle his uneasiness. And he knew that this wasn’t over.

Sooner or later, something would have to be done.

T
HAT SAME NIGHT
, he parked the Town Car near a street corner several yards from the rehabilitation clinic.

He had no right to be here.

Another of El Santo’s commands.

“We made a promise,” the old man had told him. “We leave her alone.”

“And if she remembers?”

“Then we will pray for guidance and act accordingly. Until that day, however, we must honor our pledge.”

But no matter how he tried, he could not bring himself to let it rest. To forget about her.

She was, after all, the woman who had changed his life forever. She was the reason he could not look into a mirror without feeling revulsion and anger consume him, aching to be released.

She was the woman he loved.

So he sat in his car, watching the building that housed her, wondering if she was asleep. All he would have to do was slip inside, put a pillow over her face, and that would be the end of it.

Clean. Quiet. Simple.

But then it wouldn’t really be so simple, would it? Soon El Santo would find out, would
know
what he’d done, and he would face the threat of banishment, all his years of devotion marked by shame and humiliation.

“Leave her to La Santisima, my son. She has already been punished enough.”

But he couldn’t leave her. He continued to watch the building until he could no longer keep his eyes open.

Then, the next morning, he came awake, surprised to find himself stretched across the seat.

And as he sat up, he received a message from God. What else could it be?

He saw her, walking along the edge of the field behind the clinic, a man in white guiding her, ready to catch her should she fall.

As they rounded a corner, she glanced back in his direction, and his heart momentarily stopped, but he didn’t think she could see him from this distance.

She did, however, look much better than they’d been led to believe.

Thinner, perhaps. But healthy. Beautiful.

And he knew at that moment that whatever the consequences, he could not wait for El Santo’s permission to do what he knew must be done.

For his own sanity, if nothing else.

Soon he would return, find her in her room, and make his offering to La Santisima.

66

T
HAT NIGHT,
it was the mother he chose to be with.

While it was true that she was older and imperfect, she was still a handsome woman with skills her daughter had not yet perfected.

As she pleasured him with her golden tongue, the door opened behind her and her husband entered the room, naked, and took her from behind.

She groaned with pleasure, handling her task with even greater enthusiasm now.

He didn’t object to this intrusion.

It was, after all, only natural for the husband to want to share in her joy before God.

T
HEY WERE SLEEPING
when his cell phone rang.

He checked the screen and saw that it was one of the believers he’d assigned to watch Vargas.

“He has returned,” the caller said. “What would you like us to do?”

“Keep your distance. I want to speak to him first.”

He clicked off but didn’t call the reporter immediately. It was past one in the morning and he wanted to give Vargas time to crawl into bed and fall asleep, then catch him at a moment of vulnerability, only half-awake and more likely to tell the truth.

So instead of calling, he made himself hard again, then rolled the mother over and thrust into her from behind, feeling her come awake with a soft moan, her muscles expanding, then contracting around him.

When they were done, he made the call, surprised to find Vargas still alert. And while he knew the man was lying—could sense it—it did not matter. He had already made up his mind that El Santo was wrong about this. That Vargas needed to go.

So he called the believers outside the reporter’s apartment building and told them to get it done.

L
ATE THAT MORNING
he got word that Vargas had survived and was nowhere to be found.