Robert Browne: Down Among the Dead Men

The brothels were closed, the smuggling operation shut down, and before we knew it, the so-called believers were turning on one another, exposing a network of criminals and corrupt law enforcement agents that spread not just through Mexico but all the way into the United States and even parts of Canada.

There was a brief investigation into the shooting deaths of Marta and Jen, but with no witnesses and little evidence, the Mexican police hit a dead end.

The man who shot me in Albuquerque-Rojas-was stripped of his job and thrown in jail.

Peter has been arrested and charged with criminal conspiracy. He’s scheduled to be arraigned in a few days, and I’ve been asked to testify.

Cristo and his young friends were reunited with their families. And after Nick and I bid Ortiz good-bye and returned to the United States, I decided to check myself back into the clinic, to be kept under observation until Dr. Stanley tells me I’m ready to go.

That should be any day now.

Little Andy has been taken into temporary foster care here in Los Angeles. I’ve filed for custody, and my attorney thinks that, given my steady progress, the judge will grant it. The foster parents regularly e-mail photos of Andy, and I can’t help seeing Jen in his eyes.

He is her legacy. Her gift to me.

Nick comes to see me every morning, and brings me new pages of his book. I may be biased-no doubt about it, in fact-but I think he’s got something there. A real stab at reversing some of the damage he did to his career.

My own career is still waiting for me. After the scandal of Peter’s arrest, the DA decided it would be good publicity to allow me to return to my old job, with a substantial bump in pay.

But I haven’t decided whether I’ll return. I’m not sure I want to go back to a world so full of darkness. I would be content to live my days alone with Nick, listening to him read his words to me.

This isn’t a realistic prospect, of course. Merely a dream. I know that when I walk out of here I’ll have to find something to do with myself. Something to help me push away the pain. To help me move forward.

There is, however, in the back of my mind, one small concern. It’s probably nothing, but I’ve lived with it every day-a mild but constant bit of paranoia that just doesn’t seem to want to leave me alone. And what it stems from is this:

When the Mexican police found the crumpled Jaguar on the side of the road, Rafael was not inside. All that was left was a bit of blood on the seat.

And sometimes, late at night, I wake up in the darkness of my room and feel as if someone has been watching me.

Watching and waiting.

So a few days ago, I asked Nick to bring me one of the pistols Ortiz gave him.

And I keep it under my pillow.

Just in case.