Robert Browne - Down Among the Dead Men

“Is that Marta talking, or you?”

Jen frowned. “I do have a brain, you know. I can think for myself.”

She went inward for a moment, seemed to be struggling with a thought.

Then she said, “I cried like a baby last night. Right there in their stateroom.”

“What happened?”

“Marta and I were talking and all of a sudden I started crying. It just came over me.”

Beth nodded. “You were in over your head with those two. Finally realized you’d gone too far.”

“No,” Jen said, looking annoyed. “That’s not it at all.”

“Then what?”

“I already told you, Rafael and Marta made me feel special. Wanted. Like this was much more than some random hookup. It felt like they’d both somehow managed to channel my thoughts and feelings and were speaking to me in a language only I could understand.”

“Was this before or after you all took Ecstasy?”

Jen’s eyes hardened. “It wasn’t the drugs, Beth. Or the booze. Besides, I’m done with all that stuff. As sappy as it sounds, I started crying because I felt…I don’t know… loved. Unconditionally. By two people who barely even know me.”

Beth bit her tongue. Her immediate instinct was to dismiss Jen’s talk as nonsense, to explain that that was exactly what Ecstasy, or MDMA, did to you-something Jen should well know. But there was a sincerity in her voice that couldn’t be ignored. She was vulnerable. And hurting. And Beth knew that, in many ways, and for many years, she had contributed to that hurt, just as Jen had contributed to hers.

But none of this changed her opinion of the Santiagos. The more she heard about them, the less she trusted them. And if they were taking advantage of Jen’s vulnerability, she might just have to kick their perfect little asses.

“So this is what got you thinking about the direction of your life? About going to school?”

“Partly,” Jen said. “But there’s something else I’ve been wanting to tell you. Something…”

Jen paused, looking anguished. Guilty.

“What?” Beth asked. “What’s wrong?”

Jen thought a moment, then shook her head. “We’ll talk about it later. And this whole school thing is just an idea. I’m not really sure what I want.”

“That’s true for about ninety percent of the people who walk this planet. Even the dead ones.”

Jen frowned again. “Are you making fun of me?”

“No,” Beth said, immediately regretting her words. “Just a joke. And a bad one at that.”

Jen sighed. “You’re never going to take me seriously, are you?”

“Look, I didn’t mean anything by it. It was just a stupid-”

“I’ve gotta pee,” Jen said abruptly, then threw her napkin on the table and turned to the waitress, whose command of English was halting at best. Fortunately, they’d been able to point to their choices on the menu. “?Adonde esta el bano?”

Phrase number two.

“Disculpa, esta fuera de servicio,” the waitress said, then gestured to a leather-goods shop across the street. “Puedes usar el que esta al otro lado de la calle.”

Jen pushed her chair back and stood. “I hope that means they have a toilet.”

“Jen, wait-”

“Don’t worry, I’m not gonna go mental on you. I just can’t hold it anymore.”

Then she crossed the street and disappeared into the leather-goods shop without a backward glance.

And that was the last time Beth saw her.

Nobody could ever accuse Vargas of being smart.

The smart thing to do would be to go back to the motel office, ask to use the phone (his cell had been stolen along with his car keys), and call Agent Harmon.

The problem with this idea was that Harmon already thought Vargas was a drug-addicted, attention-mongering crackpot and the presence of his car in the Western Suites parking lot would more than likely bolster that opinion.

Vargas still had no idea how they’d managed to get the thing across the border-seeing as how the Border Patrol was reportedly on the lookout for it-but that didn’t much matter, did it?

Whoever he’d gotten himself involved with was not playing around. And if they were somehow associated with what had happened in the House of Death, a story that had gone through the usual news cycle, then faded away, they might be a bit concerned about some americano reporter starting to dig it all up again.

How much did he know? Who had he told?

That, if his jangled brain was remembering properly, had seemed to be Sergio’s concern. A concern that was no doubt shared by “the man himself.”

Part of Vargas wanted to simply jump into his Corolla, head straight back to California, and pretend he’d never gotten involved in any of this nonsense in the first place. But besides coming up a bit short in the smarts department, under the right set of circumstances Vargas was also insanely curious. And he could think of no better set of circumstances than the one he’d stumbled into today.

One of his old story sources, an ex-cop in Las Vegas who had a serious obsession with cards, had once described his addiction to Vargas as an itch. One that just had to be scratched. But once you scratched it, he’d said, the itch only got worse and worse until it was all you thought about.

Vargas had had his doubts about pursuing this story before today, but now the itch was setting in. And despite his encounter with Ainsworth and Sergio-an encounter Vargas was convinced would have led to his interrogation and possible death-he knew his only choice was to start scratching.

So instead of calling Harmon, he decided to chance going back to his room. His laptop was there. Along with the notes from his interviews with the Chihuahua police and the information he’d gotten from the murder file. Much of this had been transferred to the Secure Digital card he always kept in his wallet, but he hadn’t managed to do a full backup before his meeting with Ainsworth.

Going inside was a stupid move, sure, especially with his head feeling the way it did.

But he was stupid enough to make the move anyway.

Unlike many motels Vargas had stayed in over the years, the Western Suites Express was an enclosed two-story structure with its hallways and room entrances on the inside.

It was a design that fed the illusion that you were staying at a higher-class establishment than you were actually paying for. But the illusion was shattered the moment you stepped inside to find hallway carpet made of thin, replaceable squares and wallpaper a shade too cheap and adorned with art mart reproductions in plastic frames.

Not that any of this mattered to Vargas. But it occurred to him that if the motel charged just a couple bucks more a night, they might be able to sustain the bullshit at least until the guests got to their rooms.

He went in through a set of double doors at the back of the building. There were entrances on either end as well, but he’d noticed shortly after he checked in that the rear doors were used almost exclusively by the maids. If anyone was waiting for him inside, they’d more than likely concentrate on the main points of entry.

It was possible that he was being overly cautious. If someone really was waiting for him, why would they telegraph their presence by parking his Corolla in plain view? Unless they were just as stupid as he was. And neither Ainsworth nor Sergio struck him as mental giants.

Closing the double doors behind him, he made his way down a narrow corridor past a small alcove that housed a gurgling ice machine.

His room was on the second floor. Up ahead, on the left, was a door marked: STAIRS. He was about to cross toward it when a faint bell rang and somewhere around the corner an elevator door rolled open, voices filling the adjoining hallway.