Robert Browne - Down Among the Dead Men

Beth thought about it, and despite her concern, she still wasn’t absolutely sure Jen hadn’t disappeared by choice.

Then an idea struck her.

“She’s been hanging around with some friends of ours. Rafael and Marta Santiago. Maybe they know where she is. Do you think you could check to see if they’ve returned?”

The purser shook his head. “We have strict guest privacy rules. Have you tried calling them yourself? Or checking their cabin?”

“I’m not sure what room they’re in. We just met them last night.”

“Then I’m afraid you’re out of luck. I will, however, be happy to have security stop by their cabin and ask them if they’ve seen her.”

“Thank you,” Beth said. “I think I’ll go back into town and look around some more.”

The purser nodded. Feigned a little empathy. “Not to worry, I’m sure you’ll find her. You might check some of the bars.”

Beth knew this was a backhanded reference to last night’s embarrassment but decided to let it go. No point in creating a scene.

Besides, he was probably right.

“And don’t forget,” he continued. “The gangplank closes at five thirty. We sail at six.”

She hesitated, thinking about this, then thanked him again and went downstairs to the debarking station.

The first place she planned to hit when she got back into town was Armando’s Cantina.

According to Google Maps, the Ainsworth ranch was located on three acres of dusty countryside just north of an El Paso suburb called Montoya.

Thanks to the phone’s Secure Digital expansion slot, Vargas was able to access the laptop data he’d backed up to the SD card in his wallet. This included the witness contact information he’d copied from the Casa de la Muerte police file.

Not everything was there, but it was enough.

After transferring Ainsworth’s address to the phone’s Google navigation system, he called up the directions and started driving.

The ranch stood across the street from a housing tract still under construction and was accessible by a narrow dirt road. A faded, beat-up sign at the top of the road said:

HAVE AN EGG-CELLENT MEAL WITH AINSWORTH FAMILY EGGS

There were no streetlights out here, but there was enough moonlight to make out a distant cluster of small, dilapidated warehouses and an old two-story dwelling that could best be described as a fixer-upper, circa 1922.

Vargas had no intention of driving down that road. Instead, he turned into the housing tract and parked next to a vacant lot.

In the middle of the lot stood another, newer sign, announcing the impending construction of a luxury four-bedroom home, which, if it ever got built, would one day stand in stark contrast to the Ainsworth house across the street.

As he killed the engine, Vargas started having second thoughts about this little excursion. What exactly did he hope to accomplish out here?

He had no interest in confronting Ainsworth directly.

Been there, done that.

Considering Vargas’s current physical condition, any attempt at face time would be an exercise in disaster. He couldn’t just walk up to the guy and say, “Hey, tell me everything you know about your psycho friends.” Not if he wanted to avoid winding up in a box in some warehouse district alleyway.

Instead, he was forced to go into stealth mode. Convinced that Ainsworth and Junior had ransacked those bodies back in the desert, he hoped that an uninvited tour of their house might yield some of their ill-gotten bounty. And if he was lucky, he might just find something that pointed to the American woman’s identity.

A driver’s license. Credit card. Family photo.

Considering the amount of time that had passed, it was a long shot, sure.

But it was the only shot he had.

Still, as he sat there listening to the Corolla’s engine rattle and die, he realized he’d been running on pure impulse and had no real plan of attack.

When he was a teenager, he and his brother, Manny, had spent a couple summers breaking into houses in their neighborhood to steal beer and cigarettes, which they sold to their friends at the local rec center. They got so good at it that most of their victims never even knew they’d been there at all.

But that was a long time ago, and Vargas wasn’t sure if he still had the skill-or the guts-to pull off a B and E. Breaking into a neighbor’s house was one thing. If you got caught, they’d probably call your parents. But if Vargas were to get caught now, Ainsworth would likely blow his head off.

So his only hope was that Big Papa and Junior had taken a detour to a Mexican whorehouse and hadn’t yet returned from Juarez.

Locking his car, he glanced around to make sure he was alone and unobserved. The housing tract had the feel of a ghost town-which, he assumed, was a fairly accurate description. Thanks to the failing economy, construction sites all over the country had stalled or gone bankrupt, and he didn’t figure it was any different out here.

Checking up and down the street, he saw no people, no traffic, no Town Cars…

So he sucked in a breath and crossed toward Ainsworth’s property.

If he stayed low, there was just enough brush to give him cover. Keeping about ten yards out from the access road, he moved parallel to it, working his way slowly toward the grouping of warehouses that sat a good distance from the main dwelling.

He assumed that one of them was a chicken coop and had expected to hear clucking sounds coming from inside.

But the place was still and silent. Another ghost town. Which might explain why Ainsworth and Junior were working for the bad guys.

Reaching the first warehouse, Vargas pressed his back against the rusted aluminum siding. There was an open doorway about ten feet away and nothing but darkness inside.

Vargas looked across the yard at the Ainsworth house.

No lights. No sign of the F-150.

Maybe he’d been blessed with a bit of luck for once.

Still, it was wise to be cautious. His best approach, he decided, was from the rear of the place. If he continued to stay low and quiet, he could circle around with minimum risk, then put his burglary skills to the test on one of the rear windows.

He was about to make his move when he heard it. On the road behind him.

The sound of a truck approaching.

Shit.

So much for luck.

Headlights flashed in his direction and he dropped down, scurrying-as best as he could-through the open warehouse door. He watched from the shadows as not one but two sets of headlights, one after the other, bounced along the road toward the house and two familiar vehicles came to a stop out front:

Ainsworth’s F-150.

And the Lincoln Town Car.

Something cold and dead wrapped its fingers around Vargas’s heart.

Check your trunk, Mr. Vargas.

I think the message is clear.

Doors flew open and Ainsworth and the burnt-faced man, Mr. Blister, emerged from their vehicles, Ainsworth looking a little less cocksure than normal.

Vargas waited for Junior to climb out also, but it didn’t happen. Which was odd, considering that father and son seemed to be glued together at the hip.

He thought of Sergio’s fate and wondered if Junior had joined him. That might explain Ainsworth’s change of demeanor.

“Where is it?” Mr. Blister asked.

Ainsworth gestured toward the side of the house. “Still in the shed. We just got the bikes unloaded when you called, and I figured it was best to get a move on. I know the boss man don’t like to be kept waiting.”

“Show me,” Mr. Blister said.

They walked toward the house, moving into the darkness along the right side. After a moment, a light came on, revealing a row of rabbit cages. The two men stepped past them to a small metal shed, its doors chained and padlocked.