Robert Browne: Down Among the Dead Men

Beth called out to her and waved but was drowned out by the music. Stepping onto the dance floor, she squeezed past several dancers, pushing toward Jen — then stopped cold, a ball of bile rising straight to her throat.

Jen was dancing with a man and a woman.

But not just any man and woman.

Rafael and Marta Santiago.

And on closer inspection, it was much more than dancing. Jen was sandwiched between the two, Rafael behind, Marta facing her, breast to breast, all three rubbing their bodies against one another. Rafael’s hands roamed Jen’s ass as Marta kept her arms around her neck, staring intently into her eyes.

Beth watched them in utter amazement, unable to quite understand what she was looking at, trying to convince herself that she’d made a mistake, that this wasn’t Jen at all, that the flashing lights were playing tricks on her eyes.

But of course that was only wishful thinking.

It was Jen, all right.

Her little sister.

And like any protective mother, Beth waded into the crowd toward them with only rescue on her mind.

Jen turned as Beth approached, let loose a squeal. “Beth! We were just talking about you.”

Rafael and Marta also turned, smiling at her, as Jen reached out and tried to pull Beth into an embrace. Jen was drunk again-or still-and, judging by her glazed eyes, was high on more than booze. God only knew where it had come from, but Beth had her suspicions.

Avoiding the embrace, she shouted above the music:

“Jen, what the hell are you doing?”

“Didn’t you get my note?”

“That’s not what I’m talking about. What are you doing with them?”

Jen frowned, glancing at Rafael and Marta. “What does it look like I’m doing?”

“Whatever it is, it’s making me sick to my stomach.” She grabbed Jen’s arm. “Come on, let’s go.”

“ Hey, I just got here.”

“Do you know anything about these people?”

A shrug. “They’re hot, they can dance, and they’ve got really good drugs. What else is there to know?”

Rafael broke in. “Is there a problem, Beth?”

She shot him a look. “Fuck off, perv.”

“You disappeared without a word. If I’ve offended you in some-”

“Spare me, asshole. I don’t care what you and your sister do when nobody’s looking, but keep my sister out of it.” She tugged on Jen’s arm. “Come on.”

Angry now, Jen yanked free. “Do you mind?”

“These people are sick. You don’t know what I saw them-”

“Oh, for godsakes, Beth, get a goddamn life, will you? And leave me alone.”

“Come on, Jen. You can’t do this.”

“Do what? Have fun? I’m sorry I don’t live in Beth land, where everybody sits around moping all the time, but I didn’t come on this cruise to play shuffleboard. So kindly fuck off, okay?”

“Jen, I-”

“Leave. Me. Alone.”

And with that, she abruptly turned, grabbing hold of Rafael and Marta and pulling them with her, deeper into the crowd.

Beth stood there a moment, stung, a motionless figure amid all the writhing bodies.

Feeling tears well up, she quickly backed away.

Then headed for the door.

Vargas had never been much of a car guy. If it got you from point A to point B, he’d drive it, no matter how battered. And if you were expecting any upkeep other than the occasional tune and tire change, you’d be sorely disappointed.

He rarely looked under the hood of his Corolla, and couldn’t remember ever picking up the manual, which had been stashed in his glove box since the day he bought the car, used, a year and a half ago.

If you’d told him then that he would one day be bludgeoned and gagged and tied up and locked inside his own goddamned trunk, he would have looked at you as if you were a candidate for a straitjacket.

Yet here he was. And it occurred to him that if he’d ever bothered to crack open that manual, he might know how to get himself out of this mess. There had to be an emergency lever or something, right?

Maybe. But he was thinking too far ahead.

He wouldn’t be pulling any levers, emergency or otherwise, if he couldn’t maneuver. And he couldn’t maneuver with his wrists and ankles bound. Whoever had tied them-Ainsworth, no doubt-had done a damn good job, leaving him very little wiggle room.

His fingers were starting to go numb.

Reaching his ankles would be impossible at this point, and every time he tried to move his hands, to get a little air between his wrists, the rope cut deep, digging into his flesh-a rough, burning sensation that he could have happily avoided his entire life without feeling he’d missed out on something.

His only solution, he decided, was a sharp surface of some kind, and there was bound to be one in here somewhere. The last time he’d bothered to pay any attention to the underside of his trunk lid (during a move to a new apartment, when he’d overloaded the trunk and was forced to tie the lid down with bungee cords), he’d noticed all kinds of exposed metal. But would any of it do the trick?

Hard to tell, when you’ve got no light.

He’d have to feel his way through this.

Twisting his body slightly, he tried to roll over onto his back, and managed to get only halfway there before the base of his spine once again made contact with the spare tire lodged beneath him.

Making a mental note to rip the thing out of there and roll it off the nearest cliff-just in case he should find himself in this predicament again-he readjusted his body, then took it slower this time.

And hit his head on the trunk hinge.

Fuck.

A bullet of pain shot through his skull and he cried out, the sound muffled by the layers of duct tape. Taking a moment to let the pain settle into a dull throb, he carefully ducked his head, rolled slightly, then shifted around until he was more or less facing upward, his legs twisted awkwardly beneath him.

All of this took him a hell of a lot longer than he’d expected it to, and he could tell by the growing sound of traffic around them that they’d reached civilization. Which meant their destination might not be as far away as he needed it to be.

Reaching out, he ran his hands along the surface of the trunk lid, finding nooks and crannies and metallic edges but nothing sharp enough to do the trick. Everything was as smooth as the back side of a butter knife.

Then he hit something, almost stabbing himself in the process.

A screw.

Holy shit.

A fucking screw.

It wasn’t just any screw, however, but a long, sharp one, probably rusted, protruding through the metal next to a circular hollow spot just above his head, on the far left side of the trunk.

Vargas had no idea how it had gotten there, but he knew it couldn’t be part of the car’s original design-too much of a hazard-so it had to be the handiwork of the previous owner, an old navy veteran named Harry “Jackhammer” Bridger. A handyman’s handyman, Harry had worked maintenance at the LA Tribune building until throat cancer forced him to retire, then killed him less than six months later. God only knew what he’d attached to the inside of the trunk, but when he’d ripped it out, he’d left behind this screw.

Thanks, old buddy. Rest in peace.

Readjusting his hands, Vargas brought his wrists up to the tip of the screw and began scraping the rope against it.

It wasn’t quiet work, especially in the confines of the trunk, but he figured the hum of the tires and the blasting radio would mask the noise from Sergio’s ears. Vargas moved as quickly as he could, feeling the screw snag and grab hold, then cut through the fibers, a nanometer at a time, each move of his hands forcing the rope to dig deeper into his wrists.