Robert Browne: Down Among the Dead Men

“Take me through it,” he said to Ainsworth. “Step by step.”

“That should be easy enough. Right, Junior?”

But Junior wasn’t listening. He was staring at the house, his dopey smile gone. He looked as if someone had just ripped out his soul.

“I wanna go home,” he said.

“Come on, now, Son, we talked about this.”

“I don’t care,” Junior said. “I wanna go. Now. I don’t like this place. I don’t like it at all.”

Ainsworth showed Vargas a tight smile.

“Boy hasn’t been right in the head since the crash. Caved in half his skull. Almost joined his mama in the morgue.” He returned his gaze to Junior. “I told you, Son, I’m not gonna let you pussy out on me. We made this man a promise and by God-”

“It’s not that big of a deal,” Vargas said. “He can wait for us here if he wants.”

Ainsworth turned sharply. “Did I ask you to butt in?”

“I’m just saying, if he doesn’t feel comfortable…”

“If God had put us on this planet to feel comfortable, Pancho, we woulda all been born with La-Z-Boys stuck to our hindquarters.”

Vargas stiffened.

“The name is Ignacio,” he said. “I told you that. Most people call me Nick.”

“Fine, Nick. But we’re doing you a favor here, so I’d appreciate it if you didn’t try to get between me and my own goddamn son. He may be a half-wit, but he’s twenty-two years old and it’s about time he grew some motherfuckin’ balls.” He eyed his rearview mirror. “You hear me, Junior?”

Junior didn’t answer, lost somewhere inside his own head.

“You hear me?”

“I wanna go home,” Junior said. “What if they’re still in there?”

“Who?”

“Them people. The dead ones.”

“Now why would you think that?”

“I seen ’em. Laying there all shot up. They kept looking at me with them dead fish eyes.”

Vargas expected another flash of anger, and was surprised when Ainsworth softened, a genuine warmth in his voice.

“Listen to me, Son. You’re mixed up, is all. I promise you, they’re not around anymore.”

“How do you know?”

“The Mex police came and tidied the place up, remember? We were here when they came.”

Junior thought about this a long moment, looking thoroughly confused; then the sun slowly rose somewhere inside his brain, shining light across the memory.

He nodded. “They asked us questions.”

“That’s right,” Ainsworth said.

“And I didn’t say nothin’ wrong.”

“Right again. You made your papa proud.”

“And they put all them people in big black bags, threw ’em in the back of a truck.”

“Every single one of ’em. And we’re here to show Mr. Vargas what we found and where we found it. He’s gonna write you up in a book, make you famous. What do you think about that?”

Junior’s smile returned.

“Like Elvis the Pelvis?”

“Just like Elvis,” Ainsworth said.

The house was farther away than it looked.

They drove along what had once been an access road but was now little more than chunks of broken earth, making passage by truck difficult and uncomfortable. Vargas had to hold on to the support bar to keep from getting knocked around inside the cab.

Ainsworth had offered to pull the bikes down, give Vargas a ride, but Vargas had declined. The one time in his life he’d taken a ride on the back of a dirt bike had scared the ever-loving crap out of him. Not an experience he was interested in reliving, especially with this guy at the wheel.

About halfway there, Ainsworth brought the truck to a stop and gestured with a nod toward a nearby dune, fronted by a patch of scrub.

“I came up over that rise and nearly put my rear tire in her face. Almost took a header in the process.”

“She the only one you found out here?”

Ainsworth nodded.

“Sonsabitches must’ve used a razor-sharp garrote. Practically took her head off. Then they shot her a couple times for good measure. Local police figured she’d managed to run for it and got caught.”

“Oh? They tell you this?”

Ainsworth huffed a dry chuckle.

“Hell no. They wouldn’t give us the time of day. For a while there, I thought they were gonna cuff us both and send us off to no-man’s-land. But that didn’t seem to keep them from jabbering on in front of us. And I may have forgotten to mention to ’em that we both speak Spanish.” He grinned. “Figured the more we looked like turistas, the better off we’d be.”

“Mi padre es un bastardo elegante,” Junior said.

Ainsworth smiled. “You’re right about that, boy. I’m what you might call a wolf in hick’s clothing.”

They both got a good laugh out of that one as Vargas stared at the patch of earth where the body had lain. After several weeks, whatever blood there’d been had been absorbed by the dirt and brush and blown away by the wind and was no longer visible. But Vargas had worked a few crime scenes in his time, and it wasn’t hard to imagine what the dead woman had looked like.

But then it wasn’t imagination he should be relying on, was it? That would only get him in trouble again.

“What was she wearing?” he asked. “Was she in her nun’s habit?”

Another dry chuckle. “You see any convents around here? She looked like a typical border bunny. Jeans and a T-shirt. First glance, that’s what the policia thought they were. A buncha wetbacks, headed for El Paso.”

Vargas bristled. “Are those the terms they used?”

Ainsworth studied him a moment.

“Look, Nick, you seem like a nice enough guy, but you start gettin’ all holier-than-thou on me, you’re not gonna get much of a story.”

Point taken. Vargas had heard his share of unrepentant bigotry over the course of his life, especially growing up around the fields of Southern California, where the term “berry picker” was not an endearment. His father had worked those fields for hours so long, at wages so low it would make you weep. But he’d never complained, despite the animosity he’d encountered on a regular basis. Much of it from the very families who bought those berries at prices his cheap labor allowed them to afford.

But this trip to Chihuahua wasn’t about old wounds. When it came to work, Vargas had always tried to keep his emotions in check. No reason that should change now.

He gestured to the house.

“Show me where you found the rest of the bodies.”

Robert Gregory Browne

Down Among the Dead Men (A Thriller)

“ I don’t know about you,” Jen said, holding the black cocktail dress against her chest and admiring herself in the mirror, “but I plan on getting laid tonight.”

Beth knew she shouldn’t be shocked by this pronouncement. Jen was painfully matter-of-fact about such things. About most things, if you wanted the God’s honest truth.

But Beth was shocked nonetheless, and could only guess that this was because she’d been playing surrogate mom to the girl for nearly half their lives and felt some knee-jerk moral obligation to express disapproval.

“Do we really have to talk about this?”

“Little sissy’s got a crush,” Jen said, blissfully ignoring the question as she laid the dress across her bunk. “Did you see that boy’s derriere?”

“Boy? I don’t remember any boys.”

“They’re all boys. You, of all people, should know that. Just look at Peter.”

This was another area of conversation that Beth would just as soon avoid. She was still smarting from the divorce and felt no need to go down that ruinous path. She was here to have fun. Maybe not as much fun as Jen was planning, but enough to help her forget what a mess her life had become.