Robert Browne: Down Among the Dead Men

“Before or during dinner?”

“It’s the rum. I swear to God, I should know better. Rum always knocks me on my ass.”

“I don’t think your ass is the problem.”

“Huh?”

“Never mind,” Beth said. “Let’s just get you into bed.”

They’d had plans to hit the casino after dinner, then maybe the dance club on the uppermost deck, but thanks to Jen’s overindulgence and sudden need to express herself, it now looked as if Beth would be curling up with a paperback book.

“What happened back there?” Jen said. “Am I dreaming, or did I flash my boobs again?”

Again?

Beth wasn’t aware of any previous boob flashing-unless you counted the teeny-weeny bikinis Jen favored-but then Jen had long been an exhibitionist. If she was drunk enough and some guy pointed a video camera in her direction, she’d surely be the first one to say, Why the hell not?

In fact, she probably wouldn’t even have to be drunk.

“Let’s put it this way,” Beth said. “I’m pretty sure you and your two new friends are the talk of the ship right now. And I can almost guarantee we’ll be getting a phone call from the purser tomorrow morning.”

Jen slumped against the wall. “I am such an idiot. Why do I always do this?”

“Let’s save the pity party for later, okay?”

“I promised myself I wouldn’t drink so much, and what’s the first thing I do?”

“It’s a little tough to say no when you’re surrounded by the stuff.”

Jen shook her head. “I am so fucking predictable. And I’ve ruined your vacation. I ruin everything for everybody.”

“Quit being dramatic,” Beth said, then tried a smile. “If they don’t throw us off the ship tomorrow, you’ve still got three days to make it up to-”

Jen clutched her stomach. “Uhhhhh. Tell it to stop. Make it freaking…ohhhh, shit.”

Then it came. Jen’s appetizer, dinner salad, three beers, and two Bahama Mamas, all over the standard-issue cruise ship blue and green carpet — and Beth’s brand-new Kenneth Cole sandals.

Her smile abruptly disappeared.

“Oh…my…fucking…Lord…,” she said, and nearly threw up herself.

He never thought he could be so easily creeped out in daylight, yet the moment Vargas climbed out of the truck and stood in front of the house something cold and dry crawled up his spine.

A sense of anticipation. And dread.

The place was fairly typical for this part of the country. A large crumbling rectangle of sun-dried clay that had undoubtedly once housed the family who ran the gas station near the highway.

Its walls were adorned with more graffiti. One of the newer additions read: CASA DE LA MUERTE.

House of Death.

Despite the missing chunks of tile roof that let in swathes of mottled sunlight, there was a darkness of spirit here. A malevolence. The entrance was a doorless hole that reminded Vargas of an open maw. And to step past its threshold was to risk being swallowed alive.

Apparently he wasn’t the only one who felt this way.

“I’m not goin’ in there again,” Junior said. He was still in the F-150, uncertainty in his eyes.

Ainsworth spat into the dirt, then squinted at him through the open driver’s door.

“What did I just tell you, boy?”

“I don’t like this place.”

“It’s a goddamn house. It’s not gonna bite you.” Ainsworth lowered his voice, but there was no softness or warmth this time. “Now you can sit in there like a friggin’ faggot, or you can paint that sorry butt white and start runnin’ with the antelope. Which is it gonna be?”

Junior was quiet for a moment, then finally wilted under the heat of his father’s gaze.

“Okay,” he said quietly.

“Okay what?”

“I’ll come out.”

Ainsworth’s gaze didn’t waver. “You’re gonna do a helluva lot more than that, Kimo Sabe. You’re gonna lead the way. Take us inside, show Nick here where we found the rest of those bodies.”

Junior solemnly nodded his head. “Yessir.”

Climbing out of the truck, he stared at the house a long moment before moving up to its crumbling doorway. Pausing at the threshold, he shot his father a nervous glance, then gestured for Vargas to follow him inside.

Robert Gregory Browne

Down Among the Dead Men (A Thriller)

Vargas didn’t believe in ghosts. His childhood had been full of the usual stories, like the tale of La Llorona, the inconsolable widow who wandered the countryside crying for her dead children. Or the shuffling specter of a murdered husband in search of his golden arm.

But Vargas had always taken such tales for exactly what they were: harmless folklore. Make-believe stories told in hushed tones by his older brother, Manny, who was always trying to get a rise out of little Nick as they huddled in the darkness of their bedroom.

Yet there was something about this place-a sense of foreboding-that brought the memory of those nights flooding back to him, and he knew that if his brother were still alive he’d be milking it for all it was worth.

Vargas followed Junior through the doorway into a small room with a dusty plank floor and faded yellow walls. More graffiti. The word paraiso — or paradise-was spray painted atop it all in bold red letters.

A decades-old sofa sat against one wall, its upholstery ripped to shreds, its stuffing long gone. There were a couple of tattered aluminum patio chairs next to it, probably brought in by squatters long after the house had been abandoned. A few used syringes and crushed cigarette butts were scattered around them.

“This room was empty,” Ainsworth said as he stepped inside behind Vargas. “We found it pretty much like it is now.”

“Through here,” Junior said, then crossed to a doorway on his left. Vargas followed, moving with him down a narrow, litter-strewn hallway to a large room with a sink and overturned icebox. Obviously the kitchen. Beyond it was another short hallway that ended at what seemed to be the only door left in the place, a dilapidated slab of wood with peeling blue paint and a hole where the knob should be.

Junior came to a stop just short of the second hallway.

“In there,” he said, gesturing to the door. “That’s where we found ’em. Me and Big Papa.”

“All four?”

“Five,” Ainsworth said behind him.

Vargas turned. “Four in there and the one outside, right?”

Ainsworth shook his head. “There were six bodies altogether.”

“But the police said-”

“I don’t give a good goddamn what those bastards told you. We found one outside and five in the room. Even Junior can do the math on that one.”

“But I spoke to the investigating officer. He said there were only five bodies.”

“Cops say a lot of things. Don’t mean it’s true. Especially down here.”

“Why would he lie?”

Ainsworth shrugged. “My guess is he doesn’t want anyone to know about the American gal.”

Vargas paused. “The what?”

“You heard me.”

Vargas frowned. He had personally gone over the police file and there was never any mention that one of the victims was an American, female or otherwise. It was true that the lead detective, Rojas, had declined to show him the crime scene photos, but that had merely been a gesture to protect the dignity of the victims.

At least that’s what Rojas had said.

But could the police files have been sanitized before Vargas got hold of them?

If Ainsworth was telling the truth, this put a whole new spin on things. And maybe all the time Vargas had spent on this story so far would turn out not to be a waste. Far from it.

Ainsworth grinned. “You ain’t no Mike Wallace, are you, son?”