Robert Browne: Down Among the Dead Men

“Cut the bullshit,” Vargas said. “Did you really find an American?”

With an impatient gesture, Ainsworth pushed past Junior and moved to the dilapidated blue door.

“Let me show you,” he said, then pushed it open and stepped inside.

Vargas followed Ainsworth, with Junior now bringing up the rear. He wasn’t sure why, but he suddenly felt uncomfortable being sandwiched between these two men.

Pushing the thought aside, he stepped into a large room, what must have been the master bedroom. A single paneless window looked out onto the desert landscape, the late-afternoon sun streaming in, falling across a ruined old queen-size mattress.

The mattress was caked with grime and dried blood.

Lots of it.

Soaked in deep.

The floor was also painted with the stuff, the graffiti-laden walls covered with splashes of arterial spray, now darkened with age.

Vargas felt the chill again. Stronger than before. Accompanied by a wave of revulsion.

This was where it had happened. The massacre he’d first heard about on Channel Z, then read about in El Diario de Chihuahua. The house full of butchered nuns. A story that, for reasons he couldn’t explain, had grabbed hold of him and refused to leave him in peace. Looking around the room, he could imagine the screams of horror, the cries of pain, echoing through the desert. Heard by no one.

Except the killers.

Ainsworth pointed to the floor.

“There were three of ’em right here.” He stood in the center of the room, an odd half smile on his face. He looked a lot like his son. “Three women. All Mex. Two of ’em with their throats slit and the third shot straight through the heart.”

“What about the American?”

“On the bed. Pretty little white gal and another local. The Mexican had been gutted, and the American had taken at least two bullets to the chest.” He shook his head. “Whatever happened in here, it musta been one helluva party.”

Vargas nodded. “How do you know the white girl was an American?”

Something shifted in Ainsworth’s eyes. As if he’d been thrown off guard by the question.

“I just know, is all.”

“How?”

“She looked it, for one. Had that well-tended thing going. Never seen a hard day’s work in her life. Plus she was wearing a USC sweatshirt. Go, Trojans.”

“That doesn’t mean much. Did she have any kind of identification on her? Driver’s license?”

Junior, who stood in the doorway, said, “We didn’t touch anything. We didn’t take-”

“Shut your tamale trap,” Ainsworth snapped. Then he turned again to Vargas. “You think we find a bunch of dead bodies, we start checking IDs? You’re just gonna have to take my word for it on the American thing.”

And all at once Vargas understood. These two Texas shit kickers had not only found the bodies, they’d ransacked them, too. Cash, jewelry. Anything they could find. It wasn’t likely they’d gotten much for their effort, but Vargas had no doubt they’d done it.

But why, then, call the local police and report their discovery? That part didn’t make sense.

“If she really was an American,” he said, “then why is this the first time I’m hearing about it?”

Ainsworth shrugged. “Try looking at it from Chihuahua’s point of view. You find a bunch of dead wetbacks, it’s nothing really new. It makes the papers, maybe a couple of local news shows. They do their Casa de la Muerte bit, but in the end it’s the same old, same old. A run for the border gone wrong.”

“Except these were nuns.”

Another shrug. “So that adds a juicy little twist to the story, maybe gets a little traction north of the border, gets the Jesus huggers all in a bind. But in the end, it’s something you can contain because, let’s face it, a dead wetback’s a dead wetback.”

He paused, scratching his chin.

“But think about it. You throw a nice, creamy white American gal into the soup, and all of a sudden you’ve gone international. You’ve got the U.S. embassy involved, the family, maybe the FBI, a shitload of press, and a lot of angry goddamn Texans coming down into Juarez and Tolentino and shootin’ at citizens. It’s a national fuckin’ nightmare.”

“So you’re saying the police covered it up?”

“You’re a bona fide genius, you know that?”

“I’m just trying to get it all straight,” Vargas said. “You have any idea who this American was?”

“Why would I?”

“Angie,” Junior blurted out. “Her name was Angie.”

Ainsworth turned sharply, eyes blazing. “Didn’t I just tell you to shut the fuck up?”

“But I heard her say it, Pa.”

Vargas felt another chill slice through him.

He glanced at the blood on the mattress, then looked at Ainsworth. “She was alive?”

Ainsworth shook his head.

“He’s just imagining things. He does that sometimes. Engine’s runnin’, but nobody’s drivin’.”

“But I heard her, Pa. She said it when-”

“Goddammit, Junior!” Ainsworth shot past Vargas, grabbing the front of Junior’s shirt, and shoved him through the doorway, into the hall. “Get back outside. Go see if Sergio’s here yet.”

Vargas felt something tighten inside his chest.

“Who’s Sergio?”

Ainsworth turned. “Friend of ours. Wants to meet you.”

“Me?” Vargas said. “Why?”

“I don’t ask questions, Pancho. I just do what I’m told.”

And before Vargas could say anything more, Ainsworth put a fist in his face.

Beth stood at the ship’s bow, looking out at the moon-dappled Pacific, and at that moment she could think of no sight more beautiful.

They were rolling along at a fairly good clip, the sound of the roaring ocean rising toward her. The cool, damp wind felt wonderful against her skin. Made her feel alive.

She was alone out here, Jen fast asleep in their stateroom, the rest of the passengers inside at the casino, the variety shows, the late-night buffets, the dance club-no doubt still buzzing about the crazy girl who had flashed her boobs in the middle of the dining room. And despite her initial disappointment that she and Jen wouldn’t be partying along with them, Beth now realized that she was, in some small way, relieved that Jen had passed out.

Life was safer that way. Easier.

Beth loved her sister. She really did. But sometimes she could be so…taxing. Twenty-nine years old and still a child.

Peter Pan on an endless spring break.

Beth herself had matured fairly quickly. A matter of necessity, really, after their parents died in a plane crash in Brazil. They had moved in with their grandmother at the time, but Gramma Jean hadn’t been in the best of health, so it was up to Beth to take charge of the wild one.

It was a familiar story, and not a particularly earth-shattering one at that, and Beth did her best with the meager skills she had. But it had never been enough to tame the girl.

Jen hadn’t always been such a handful. In fact, in her younger years, long before the crash, she’d been considered the “quiet” one. She was so shy that she couldn’t muster up the courage to buy a candy bar in a convenience store and big sister Beth was always forced to come to the rescue. Even as they got into their teen years, Jen kept mostly to herself, spending her time with books and schoolwork.

But the crash had changed that.

They got the news from their school headmistress, Mrs. Llewellyn. A chartered jet had gone down in the Brazilian jungle, no survivors found. At first, Beth and Jen had grabbed onto the hope that there’d been a mistake, a mix-up of some kind, but that hope was shattered when their parents’ bodies were shipped back to Santa Barbara.