Robert Browne - Down Among the Dead Men

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 Juarez 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.”

“That I did.”

“So then you know I think they’re involved in those murders down in Dead Man’s Dunes.”

“Of course they’re involved,” Harmon said. “They found the bodies. That’s no secret. Isn’t that why you contacted them in the first place? To give you the dollar tour?”

“Yes, but-”

“So here’s my problem. I happen to know that Jim Ainsworth is a simple egg rancher who may be a bit too arrogant for his own good, but he doesn’t have a violent bone in his body.”

Vargas gestured to the stitches in his scalp. “I beg to differ.”

“I gave Jim a call, asked him about it, and you know what I heard in the background?”

“What?”

“A dirt bike. That annoying little insect buzz? Turns out he and Junior have been riding all afternoon. Says they showed you the house, then dropped you off at the Cafe Tecuba.”

“He’s lying.”

“I had a feeling you’d say that.”

Vargas gestured to his head again. “Are you suggesting I did this to myself?”

“I’m not suggesting anything. Just trying to be fair and impartial.”

It was Vargas’s experience that people who said such things were usually anything but.

“I got on the computer,” Harmon continued, “ran your name through the law enforcement databases, and didn’t get any significant hits.”

“Because I’m a law-abiding citizen.”

“That you are. But imagine my surprise when I Googled you.”

Vargas’s gut tightened.

Uh-oh. Here it comes.

“That’s right, sunshine. Turns out you’re the one knows a lot about lying.”

“ That was blown out of proportion,” Vargas said.

“Not according to the LA Tribune. Seems your former editor doesn’t think too highly of you. I called him, too, and he told me I shouldn’t believe a word you say.”

“That was one isolated incident. I was under a lot of stress.”

“Is that what you call it?” Harmon paused. “Look, son, I don’t give a flying fart about what kind of drugs you use any more than I care about you phonying up a couple of newspaper stories. You’re probably not the first, and you sure as hell won’t be the last. But I think you understand why you might have a bit of a credibility problem.”

“I’m past all that. I went to rehab. And I wouldn’t even let them give me painkillers for my head.”

It had been two years since the incident in question, a foolish wrong turn by Vargas that he’d been paying for ever since. Due to a confluence of circumstances, he’d managed to get himself hooked on Rush Limbaugh’s drug of choice-OxyContin-and paid the price. Vargas’s story output had dwindled to almost nothing, and in his zeal to remain employed he’d done a series of articles about the Mexican Mafia called “El Asesino: Confessions of a Hit Man.” The series was hard-hitting and dramatic, but with one small problem: It was based on interviews Vargas had conducted with a man who existed wholly within his imagination.