Down Among the Dead Men (A Thriller) (9 page)

“That isn’t fair.”

Beth pulled her suitcase out and threw it on her bunk. “No, it
isn’t
fair. I’ve spent my entire life trying to be the rational one. The stable one. I thought coming on this trip might be my chance to let go for once, but as usual, I wind up playing babysitter.”

“You
choose
that role. I’ve never asked you to watch over me.”

Beth opened the suitcase and threw her clothes in, not bothering to fold them. “But I’m the first one you come running to whenever you screw up, aren’t I?”

“Who am I supposed to go to? Mom and Dad?”

“Very funny.”

She returned to the closet and bent down, gathering up her shoes. She’d spent fifteen minutes washing Jen’s vomit off her Kenneth Coles last night, but just the sight of them made her stomach turn, so she left them behind.

Jen watched her dump the rest of the shoes into her suitcase. “You’re really doing this, aren’t you.”

“Yes,” Beth said. “I told you, I shouldn’t have come. I’ve got cases piling up—I don’t know why I let you talk me into this trip in the first place.”

Jen said nothing. Just stared at her a moment, then moved to her bunk and sat, looking down at her hands.

Then she said, “You know what next week is, right? Next Wednesday?”

“What?”

“The twenty-seventh. Fourteen years since they died.”

Beth felt her gut tighten.

Jen turned her left hand palm up and began tracing the lines with a finger.

“I remember once, a long time ago, I read a book about palmistry and all I wanted to do when I grew up was be a fortune-teller. How stupid is that?”

“Pretty stupid,” Beth said.

“I learned about the head line, the life line, the heart line…and one day, when we were home for the weekend, I asked Dad if I could read his palm.” She smiled at the memory. “He had really strong hands, you know that?”

Beth sat on her own bunk, nodded. “I know.”

Jen’s smile faded. “When I started to do the reading, the first thing I noticed was his life line. It was really short. And I thought, This is not good. This is not good at all.” She paused, looked up at Beth. “But then I told myself I must’ve misunderstood what I’d read. So I didn’t say anything to him. I just made up some bullshit prediction about his future, then went off to watch
Saved by the Bell.
”

“What are you saying?” Beth asked.

“That I knew he was going to die. I knew he was going to die and I didn’t tell him. I didn’t warn him.”

Beth shook her head. “They died in a plane crash, Jen. How could you warn him about that?”

“I don’t know. But maybe if I’d told him to be careful, if I’d shown him his life line and told him what it meant, maybe they wouldn’t have chartered that plane.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“I know,” Jen said. “I know it is. But I can’t help it. I think about it almost every day. And I know none of it’s my fault, but that doesn’t stop me from feeling like it is.”

“Let me say it again,” Beth told her. “They died in a plane crash. So unless you performed a Vulcan mind meld and told that pilot to fly into a mountain, what happened to Mom and Dad was purely accidental.”

Jen nodded, was quiet for a moment.

Then: “I tried to contact them last night.”

Beth frowned. “Contact who?”

“Who do you think, dummy? Mom and Dad.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

Jen paused before answering. “I know you can’t stand Rafael and Marta, but contrary to what you might think, I didn’t spend all my time fucking last night.”

“Oh, brother.” Beth rose again, moved to the dresser, and started pulling out her underwear.

“I’m trying to tell you something here, Beth. Can you at least give me the courtesy of listening?”

“I have absolutely no interest in anything remotely related to those two.”

“Just listen, okay?”

Beth sighed, threw a fistful of bras and panties into the suitcase, and sat again.

“Okay, I’m listening.”

“Promise not to laugh?”

“I promise,” Beth said, and waited for Jen to tell her story.

21

J
EN TOOK A
breath.

“By the time Marta showed up, Rafael was pretty much passed out, so she and I spent a lot of time talking. She told me she’s what they call a
bruja.
”

“A what?”

“A
bruja.
A witch.”

“You’re kidding me, right?”

Jen shook her head. “She says she has powers, including the ability to communicate with the dead.”

“I’ll bet that comes in handy.”

Jen frowned. “It’s not a joke, Beth. After last night I’m convinced it’s true. She’s psychic. Knows things that are impossible for her to know.”

“Like what?”

“Stuff about my love life. About Mom and Dad. About me being…” She paused. “About a lot of things. Like she was inside my head.”

Beth stared at her. It took everything she had to keep from rolling her eyes. Over the years she’d run across more than a few so-called psychics. Every one of them had been a con artist.

“Have you ever heard of a cold reading?”

Jen shook her head again.

“It’s a technique used by people who claim to be psychic,” Beth said. “They extract information from you without you realizing it. Ask leading questions. Study your body language. It’s all designed to make you think they have special powers. But the only real power they have is the ability to extract money from your wallet.”

“That’s not true. Marta didn’t ask me for a cent.”

“Not yet. But if you keep hanging around with her, it’ll happen. Believe me.”

“Why are you always such a cynic?”

“Not a cynic,” Beth said. “A realist.” She reached across and took Jen’s hands in hers. “I know you miss them. Mom and Dad. I do, too. But Marta can no more communicate with them than we can. And if you let her convince you that she has some supernatural power, you’re only gonna be dis—”

A bell rang over the loudspeaker in the hallway.

“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen; this is your purser speaking. We have now docked in Playa Azul, Mexico, and will begin debarking in five minutes.”

Beth released Jen’s hands and stood. “That’s my cue.”

Jen grabbed her arm. “Don’t go, Beth. Please don’t go.”

“I have to,” Beth said. “I’m sorry. But I can’t deal with—”

“I promise to be good. No more me, me, me. From now on this vacation is all about you.”

“We both know that won’t happen.”

“I
promise.
I swear to God. And if I step out of line, you can kick my ass.”

“Punching, kicking—what’s gotten into you?”

“I just want you to stay, okay? Leave your suitcase here and we’ll go into town and do some shopping. You love to shop.”

Beth sighed. “I also hate it when you beg.”

“Does that mean you’ll stay?”

Beth thought it over and, against her better judgment, nodded. “All right. One last chance.”

“Hooray!” Jen said, pulling her into a hug. “And when we’re done shopping, let’s go to Armando’s for some Jell-O and tequila shots.”

Beth pulled away abruptly, glared at her.

Jen grinned. “I’m
kidding,
” she said. “Just kidding.”

22

Vargas

A
CCORDING TO THE
placard on his chest, the Border Patrol agent’s name was S. Harmon.

Sam? Steven? Stan?

It didn’t much matter. He was a fastidious-looking guy in a crisp army green uniform, with neatly trimmed graying hair and a pleasant but cautious smile.

He was hard to read, and Vargas got the impression that he was the type of guy who liked to play his cards close and would only raise a bet when he was looking at a sure thing.

“You’ve managed to make a routine day pretty interesting,” he said. “I’ll give you that.”

He stood just inside the doorway to the exam room at the local emergency clinic, a few blocks north of the border station.

After a brief interrogation, the extent of Vargas’s head wound was assessed and he’d been brought here by ambulance. The wound was cleaned and stitched, his shoulder examined and found to be bruised but not dislocated, the puncture and wrists burns treated with Neosporin, his hand bandaged—all followed by a tetanus shot and a CT scan to make sure his brain wasn’t bleeding. The nurse who administered them all had the warmth and personality of a motel room curtain.

Fortunately, Ainsworth and company had neglected to steal Vargas’s wallet and passport, so he’d had no trouble proving his American citizenship. And he’d had the foresight to buy a SENTRI card, which afforded him easy entry into the United States.

None of this had done much to allay the suspicions of the border guards, however, who seemed ready to toss him into a cell as a suspected terrorist or drug smuggler. Fortunately, they didn’t have any evidence to back up their suspicions and word came down from on high—Harmon, no doubt—to cut him loose.

So, they’d transported him to the clinic. Vargas had been on concussion watch for a good two hours and had spent a large portion of that time trying to figure out what the hell he’d stumbled into.

He’d obviously been set up, but why? He was pretty sure he’d been right about the looting of the bodies in the House of Death, but there was something much more sinister going on here than simple robbery, and he’d be damned if he could figure out what it was.

Ainsworth had complained of having to clean up someone else’s mess—the someone Vargas had been on his way to see before his escape.

But who?

The man who had slaughtered the people in that house?

And what did he want from
Vargas
?

It occurred to him that maybe the Border Patrol was on to something here. Maybe this
was
about smuggling. Hadn’t Ainsworth referred to himself as a courier?

And then, of course, there was his story about the American woman. But was it even true?

Vargas didn’t imagine Ainsworth would have any trouble lying, but Junior didn’t seem capable of it.

So who was this American woman? And how did she fit into the equation?

Harmon approached the gurney where Vargas lay. Vargas had no idea why he was here but figured he was about to find out.

“My crew tells me you’re claiming somebody’s after you. That you were trussed up and thrown into the trunk of your own car.”

“Not a claim,” Vargas said. “A fact.”

Harmon nodded. “They showed me the duct tape.” He glanced at Vargas’s wrists. “And I’ve seen rope burns before. Unfortunately, your car’s nowhere in the vicinity.”

“I gave them a statement. Names.”

“That you did. And I have to admit I was pretty surprised when I heard those names.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m not familiar with this Sergio fella, but Jim Ainsworth happens to be an old family friend of mine. And I’ve known Junior since he was just a gleam in his daddy’s eye.”

Oh, Christ, Vargas thought.

“Hard to believe, I know. Over half a million people in El Paso proper, and I just happen to know the ones you say jumped you.” He paused. “And I suppose you think that means I won’t be fair and impartial, but there’s not much I can do about that.”

“You could be fair and impartial,” Vargas said.

Another nod. “Just remember it cuts both ways. Thing is, the crime you’re alleging took place on Mexican soil, so we’re not really in a position to claim jurisdiction. And I’m not sure we need to get the FBI involved.”

“You want me to go to the Chihuahua state police. Is that what you’re saying?”

“That’s entirely up to you.”

Vargas chuckled and shook his head. Which was a mistake. His brain felt like the business end of a battering ram floating in a thick, soupy liquid.

He waited for it to stop sloshing around inside his skull.

“So that’s why you’re here? To more or less tell me to fuck off?”

“No,” Harmon said. “You live this close to another country, there tends to be a lot of spillover when it comes to crime. These are nasty times, and we’d like to keep the less desirable elements of Juárez from contaminating our water, so to speak.”

“That’s understandable.”

“Problem is, I don’t put Jim and Junior in that category. So the question I have to ask is, why? Why would they want to hurt you?”

“I’ve been wondering the same thing. But you must’ve read my statement.”