Robert Browne - Down Among the Dead Men

Every time they walked the perimeter, Beth would look out at the city streets and wish that she could close her eyes and will herself back into her old life. Back to the days when she would slip behind the wheel of her BMW, drive down the 101 to the building on Spring Street, then settle into her office chair, ready to take on the new morning.

Back when Jen was still here. And Peter had not yet been exposed as an unrepentant philanderer. Before his late-night meetings with “clients,” the faint but unmistakable lipstick stains, the condoms in his wallet.

Beth had been blissfully ignorant of his cheating before then, and maybe she was better off that way.

Growing up, she’d thought that the worst that could ever happen to her already had: the death of her parents.

But she’d been wrong about that, hadn’t she?

Very wrong.

A hand touched her shoulder and she turned with a start, looking up from her wheelchair into the pleasant but rather bland face of her physical therapist.

David?

Danny?

“Time to go,” he said, then helped her to her feet and guided her toward the courtyard door.

When they got outside, Beth was happy to see that the sky was clearer than usual. The smog had decided to take an unscheduled holiday. The morning was bright and clean and she drank it in, wishing every day in Los Angeles could be so beautiful.

She remembered the first morning after the breakup, when she had moved into her own apartment. It had been a day a lot like this one, the sky clean, sunlight slanting through her bedroom window, and she had hoped it would be the start of a new life.

Apparently it was. Just not the one she’d bargained for.

Now, that apartment was gone. Given up after she went missing. Peter had had all of her things sent to a storage facility; then later some of it was transferred here.

Clothes. Family photos. A box full of her favorite books. Her entire life summed up by a few meager possessions.

Pretty pathetic, when you thought about it.

As David or Danny guided her toward their usual starting point at the edge of the field, Beth looked out at the street again, at the rows of cars parked on either side.

She couldn’t tell you why, but something drew her attention to the distant street corner. A sense that she was…what?

Being watched?

Yes, that was it.

There was no rational explanation for this feeling, of course. Something Dr. Stanley would have a field day with. All she saw there was a parked car, covered with dust, as if it had just traveled a long distance.

She couldn’t even see the driver.

Yet she sensed he was in there. Watching her.

Waiting for something.

Beth averted her gaze-afraid to stare too intently-and let Danny (Dennis?) guide her along the path around the field.

But as they rounded the second turn, Beth found herself looking back toward the street again.

At that dust-covered car.

She recognized the make. It was a lot like the one her parents used to drive so long ago.

What was it called again?

She had to strain to remember. It was there on the periphery of her mind, but not quite fully formed.

Then, finally, the effort paid off and it came. Another small victory for the lady with the bullet in her brain.

Whoever was out there, watching her, was driving a Town Car.

A Lincoln Town Car.

He drove eleven hours straight, taking Highway 40 from Albuquerque, which, somewhere along the line, had turned into the 15. He stopped only to pee and for coffee, the only thing keeping him awake.

Around 1:00 A.M. he hit Los Angeles-or the outskirts of Burbank, to be more precise-where he lived in a tiny studio apartment that could best be described as shabby. One room, one bath. A bed, a desk, and a sliding glass door that led to a minuscule balcony overlooking a pockmarked street.

Despite this, it felt good to be home.

After taking a shower to wash off the day and shampooing his hair for the first time since he’d been attacked, he checked his wounds and saw that they were healing nicely.

He knew he should sleep, but there was something he wanted to do before hitting the sack. Taking the SD card from his wallet, he went to transfer the data and crime scene photos to his desktop PC, only to discover that it was turned off.

Not unusual in most households, he supposed, but Vargas always kept his computer on, even when he was away from home. A techie at the Tribune had once told him that the circuits lasted longer that way.

So why was it off?

He glanced at the clock next to his bed and saw that it was still keeping time, no flashing digits that would indicate a power loss.

It was possible that the PC could have died, but as he looked around the room he started to get a funny feeling in his gut.

Something not quite right, here.

Not that he could see it. Everything was in its usual place.

But somehow it just didn’t feel right. As if his space had been invaded by a foreign presence.

The building manager, maybe?

No.

The guy was useless. Wouldn’t even change the lightbulbs in the stairwell unless the day ended with something other than a y.

So it wasn’t the manager.

And no one else had the key.

Vargas stared at his computer a moment, trying to fight the sudden chill in his bones, then leaned down and turned it on.

A couple of beeps later, it came to life, booting up Windows, and he was starting to second-guess himself, wondering if maybe he had turned it off, that maybe this feeling was just a touch of paranoia rearing its ugly His landline rang.

Vargas snatched the receiver from his desk, checked the screen, and saw an UNKNOWN CALLER message.

But he didn’t need caller ID to tell him who it was.

And while he’d made his decision to move forward with this story-damn the consequences-that didn’t keep a wave of dread from washing through him.

He clicked the receiver button. “Yes?”

“Imagine my surprise,” Mr. Blister said, “when I drove so far to see you and you were not at home.”

The dread deepened. Did they know what he’d been up to? Confronting Rojas had been a risk, yes, but since he was still alive, he figured he’d gotten away with it.

“I stopped off in Vegas to see an old friend,” he said. “Wanted to try my luck at blackjack.”

“There is no luck, Mr. Vargas. Only destiny. And at the moment, yours does not look promising.”

“Wait, now. I did what you asked and got the hell out of Texas. I didn’t think it would matter if I took a detour.”

“Then you were mistaken. Were we mistaken as well?”

Vargas said nothing.

There was silence on the line and he tucked the phone under his chin, quickly grabbed his pants from the floor, and started pulling them on, just in case he had to move fast.

“As difficult as it may be for someone on the outside to understand,” Mr. Blister said, “it is counter to our beliefs to do harm to those who do not deserve it. As I told you, Mr. Vargas, we have no desire to punish the innocent. But perhaps we misjudged you. Perhaps you are not quite so innocent after all.”

“I’ve never claimed to be.”

“I do hope you realize that you are benefiting from our strong sense of benevolence.”

“So you keep telling me.”

“But we are not fools, either. So consider this call a reminder. Stay out of our business and we will stay out of yours.”

“You’ve made that pretty clear, too.”

“I do hope so. Because if you hear from us again, Mr. Vargas, it will not be over the telephone. Understood?”

An image skittered through Vargas’s mind. Mr. Blister shooting Junior point-blank, then peering suspiciously into the darkness of the warehouse.