Brad Taylor - The Polaris Protocol

In Mexico.

12

Jennifer pulled into the parking lot, wondering if she should put on surgical gloves before going inside. The place was called the Traveler’s Inn, but it looked more like the Motel That Stayed in Business Because of Seedy People. Just off of I-10, on the northern outskirts of El Paso, it looked like it sold rooms by the hour. An L-shaped building, it was a one-story dilapidated structure, with a neon sign that she was sure no longer worked. There was a smattering of cars in the lot facing the motel, most rusted, with dents and dings. A family was loading a pickup, three small kids and a mother and father, all of Hispanic heritage. The sight gave her a little hope. They didn’t look like criminals. More like people who simply needed a cheap place to stay. She sat in the car for a moment, wondering what Jack had been doing here.

She’d flown into Dallas the day before, the jet lag tearing her down but the anxiety about her brother’s fate driving her forward. Her mother was waiting for her outside of baggage claim, and there was no mistaking the relationship. They had always looked like sisters, and the similarities still lingered, although her mother now colored her hair to keep it the same dirty blond it had always been. The one difference was the eyes. Her mother’s were chestnut brown to Jennifer’s gray. The single genetic vestige within her from her deadbeat father. Many men had told her they were beautiful, but in truth she didn’t think so. The color reminded her of betrayal and loss. She would have traded them for her mother’s eyes without hesitation. Make the familial similarities with the person who had raised her complete. Get rid of the genetic flaw given by the person who had deserted them.

Her mother had smiled upon seeing her, and Jennifer saw the wrinkles. Lines where there had been none before. It dawned on her that her mother was getting old. Right before her eyes. She wondered how much was the strain of Jack’s disappearance and how much was the march of time.

They hugged and Jennifer said, “Anything new since I left Germany?”

“No. I’ve got a meeting set up with Andy Cochrane. He’s Jack’s editor at the paper and knew what Jack was working on. He’s the one Jack was calling when he misdialed you. Andy wouldn’t talk on the phone.”

“What about the police? Has anyone alerted them?”

“Andy did as soon as I called him about your voice mail. They won’t do anything for forty-eight hours.”

“Even when his damn phone doesn’t get answered? And Andy tells them what he was working on?”

Her mother grimaced and said, “Even then. We’re on our own, but we’ve been there before.”

“Where’s Scott?”

“He’s still overseas. He wanted to come home and I told him to stay.”

Jennifer’s eyes narrowed and her mother said, “Jenn, he’s a tour guide. He can’t do anything here. He’ll want to start raising hell just to raise hell, but it won’t help.”

Jennifer knew she was right, as she had been all of their lives. Her other brother had been a hellion as a child—much like Jennifer herself—but unlike her, he’d never managed to focus on a set path. He ran off at the next big thing every few months and was now conducting guided tours in the mountains of Croatia for college students. He made no money, but he enjoyed it. Even so, she would have liked to have him here. If anyone could handle Mexico, it would be Scott. He’d traveled all over the world, living out of a backpack and facing down countless obstacles. Because of it, he had an antenna for this sort of thing.

Then again, he’s no match for Pike.

Who was a half a world away.

They’d gone to the newspaper office and met Andy, a balding, pensive man now wringing his hands about the danger he’d placed Jack in. He told them that Jack had been building an exposé on the infiltration of drug cartels into America and that he’d warned Jack about the risks. In fact, he hadn’t paid for any of the investigation because the paper simply couldn’t afford it and the topic was too volatile. Jack had done it all freelance.

Andy had cracked at one point, saying it was all his fault because the story would have put the paper on the national scene, would have guaranteed its solvency, and yet he’d done nothing to protect Jack from retribution.

Jennifer had calmed him down and gleaned the specifics of the hotel in El Paso. Jack had been meticulous in letting Andy know what he was doing, and that trail had led here. The sleazy Traveler’s Inn.

On the way down from Dallas she’d received the trace of Jack’s phone in Ciudad Juárez. Jennifer had no idea how Pike had managed the track, but the location did nothing to make her feel better. Like a sailor clinging to a sinking ship, creating hope where none should exist, she found excuses in her mind for the trace. The phone had been lost. Or stolen. Or the trace was wrong. Anything to contradict the reality that the boat was going down and she was about to be floating in the ocean by herself.

Jennifer exited the car and surveyed the dilapidated motel, finding room twelve. Her brother’s room. She went to the front desk, the door tinkling a small bell like it was still the 1950s. The office was clean but clearly old, a utilitarian checkin counter taking up most of the room. A Hispanic man of about sixty entered from a back door.

“Can I help you?”

She smiled, trying to disarm him, unsure of how to proceed. “Yes, I’m looking for someone who stayed here a few days ago. His name is Jack Cahill, but I’m not sure what he called himself when he checked in. He’s Caucasian, about five ten with brown hair—”

He cut her off. “Are you the police?”

She pulled a picture out of her purse and said, “No, no. I—”

“Then I can’t give you any information. Would you like a room?”

“No. I don’t want a room. I just want to know if you’ve seen Jack Cahill.” She held out the photo and said, “This is what he looks like. He would have checked out two days ago.”

She saw a flash of recognition in his eyes, but he said, “Never seen him. He never came here.”

“Can you at least tell me if he checked in? Maybe he came when you weren’t on duty. Can you look? Please?”

He held her eyes for a moment, then went to an ancient computer and tapped a few keys. After a minute, still scrolling on the screen, he said, “Nobody by that name checked in or out.” He turned back to her and said, “That’s all I can do. No Jack Cahill came or went. Now, if you want a room, I’ve got plenty. If not, I don’t know what else to tell you.”

She said nothing, simply staring, and his eyes slid away. He fidgeted from one foot to the other. Seeing all she needed to, she put away the photo and said, “Thank you for your time.”

He waved a hand, then returned to the back room, closing the door. She exited and saw a maid pushing a cart along the sidewalk. Jennifer glanced back through the office window, seeing the counter still empty. She walked up to the maid and said, “Excuse me, I’ve locked myself out of my room. Room twelve. Can you let me in?”

The wizened old woman, barely scratching five feet in height, said, “No hablo inglés.”

Jennifer pulled two twenty-dollar bills out of her purse and said, “Habitación doce.”

The woman glanced back at the office, then snatched the money and scurried to room twelve, unlocking the door. She returned to her cart, eyes downcast, ignoring Jennifer.

Jennifer entered the room and found it made up, ready for a new guest. Her heart sank. Anything left by Jack would be long gone. She searched it anyway, going through the closet and bathroom. Growing frustrated, she knelt down and peered underneath the bed. And saw something metal, hidden in the shadow. She lay down and stretched her arm out, batting the object until she could reach it from the side. She pulled it out, recognizing the device as a battery-operated digital recorder.