Robert Browne - Down Among the Dead Men

“You really don’t remember, do you.”

Okay, she thought. She’d given him enough slack. It was time for him to get to the point or get the hell out of here.

“What I know is that I’ve got a gap in my brain about the size of the Grand Canyon that seems to have swallowed up everything that’s happened to me for the last ten months. So if you know something that might help me fill that gap, I wish to Christ you’d get to it, because I’ve got some important magazine reading to do.”

He studied her with those unapologetic eyes again, then found his backpack and unzipped it, pulling out a small netbook computer.

“My brother was pretty much a mess after his injury, and one of his biggest problems was his long-term memory. He had gaps, just like you.”

He lifted the lid of the netbook, pressed a key, and the computer began to hum, its small screen coming to life.

“I know every brain injury is different,” he said, “so this may not work in your case. But we discovered that we could sometimes help him with visual cues. A photograph of the family at Christmas might be enough to bring on at least part of the memory, like putting a piece of a jigsaw puzzle in place.”

Beth gestured to the laptop. “So I assume that’s what you’ve got there. A piece of the puzzle?”

“Right,” Vargas said. “But what I’m about to show you is pretty shocking.”

“I’m sure I can handle it.”

“These aren’t family photos. I doubt your doctor would approve.”

Beth sighed. “I’ve prosecuted rapists, pedophiles, and murderers, so there isn’t much I haven’t seen. Now, are you going to keep me in suspense forever or are we gonna get on with this?”

Apparently satisfied with her response, Vargas ran his finger along the touch pad, put the pointer over an icon, and clicked.

A photograph filled the screen. A black-and-white shot of two dead women on a mattress soaked with blood.

Beth had seen enough crime scene photos in her time to know exactly what she was looking at. But what she’d never seen was herself in a crime scene photo, and one of the women lying on that mattress was surely her, USC sweatshirt and all.

The sight of her inert, bloodied body rendered her momentarily speechless.

Vargas tapped the touch pad again, showing her a new photo, shot from a different angle. Then a third, more distant shot that included most of the room and three more dead bodies.

“These were taken right before they realized you were still breathing,” he said.

Beth struggled to find her voice. “Before who realized? I don’t see a head wound, and this sure as hell isn’t a Taco Bell parking lot. What’s going on here? Is this where I think it is?”

“The House of Death,” Vargas said. “You were one of the victims.”

“That’s impossible. How could I…”

But it wasn’t impossible, was it? The evidence didn’t lie. She was no expert in Photoshop manipulation, but she was pretty sure these were genuine.

But how had she gotten there? And why?

Beth reached across and tapped the touch pad, going back to the first photo. She stared at it, trying with everything she had to summon up the memory. But no matter how hard she concentrated, nothing came. It was a dark shape in an even darker room, and she’d need a much brighter light than a few photographs could provide.

“Please,” she said to Vargas, “tell me everything you know.”

“It’s not all that much. Most of it happened after these were taken, not before. With a lot of rumor thrown in for good measure.”

“I don’t care,” Beth said, feeling a sudden urgent need wash over her. A need to know. “Tell me what happened to me. Tell me how I got here.”

So Vargas told her, laying it out just as he had twenty-four hours ago, for Detective Pasternak.

He told her what was fact and what was rumor, about the nuns and Rojas and the Ainsworths, and about Pasternak’s promise to take the investigation into her shooting down to Juarez.

But none of it broke through.

None of it was able to penetrate the wall her injured brain had erected around that part of her past.

When she had first appeared in the courtyard and introduced herself, Vargas had been surprised that she was walking on her own and seemed so clearheaded. The way Pasternak had described her, Vargas had thought this visit might be premature. But it had quickly become obvious that in a few short weeks she had made more progress than Manny had made in fifteen long years.

Vargas had also been surprised to discover that she wasn’t the woman from the passport photo. There were vague similarities, yes, but it was obvious to him now that the discrepancies between the passport and crime scene photos had nothing to do with age or gunshot wounds. It was much simpler than that.

The passport photo was merely a keepsake.

Crawford was the older sister.

And to Vargas’s further surprise, he found himself attracted to her. She may not have been as drop-dead gorgeous as her sibling, but she was beautiful in her own way. And smart and vulnerable and not afraid to speak her mind.

And he liked that.

He liked it a lot.

“Is any of this helping?” he asked.

She stared at the image on the computer screen for a long moment, then lowered her head, looking down at her hands in her lap.

They were trembling.

He shifted his gaze to the scar on her scalp, the tufts of hair growing around it, and had the sudden urge to reach out and place his palm against it, wishing he could somehow heal her wounded psyche with his touch. Make her whole again.

In his imaginary movie, her face would light up and all of the pieces of the puzzle that were missing would come to her in quick, dramatic flashes and he would pull her into his arms and kiss her, celebrating the miraculous breakthrough.

But, once again, reality intruded. The conveniences of Hollywood wouldn’t play here.

She looked up at him now, and there were tears in her eyes.

“Thank you,” she said softly. She wiped her tears with her sleeve. “At least now I know how it happened. How I got this way. And that’s something, isn’t it?”

He nodded. “But maybe you’re better off not remembering.”

“I wouldn’t go that far. I’d be happy to suffer a little emotional distress if it meant a fully functioning brain.”

“Point taken,” Vargas said. “So let’s try one last thing.”

She looked at him quizzically as he reached into his pocket and pulled out the string that held the hooded skull ring. La Santisima.

“The boy I told you about. Junior? He took this from you when they found you in the house.”

He placed it in her hands.

Beth stared at it, her brow furrowing.

Then suddenly she was crying again, a flood of uncontrolled tears rolling down her cheeks.

“Oh my God,” she said. “Oh my God.”

Vargas felt helpless, wanting to console her but not quite sure how to go about it.

“What is it? Do you remember something?”

“Yes…,” she said. “I–I mean, no, not in the way you think. This is the ring my sister Jen picked out for me in Playa Azul. She had one just like it. We bought them from a street vendor, right before she disappeared.”

Beth clutched the ring tightly in her hand and closed her eyes, getting lost in the moment. Then she looked at him, wiped her tears again.

“Sorry about that.”

“Nothing to be sorry about,” he said, then nodded to the ring. “Do you know what that symbolizes?”

She looked at it, shrugged. “I figure it’s some kind of spooky, goth thing. I’m sure the kids love them.”

“It’s no goth thing,” Vargas said. “I’m pretty much convinced that what happened to you in that house may be related to a religious cult.”