Down Among the Dead Men

by Robert Gregory Browne

  He found nothing, but that didn’t settle his uneasiness. And he knew that this wasn’t over.

  Sooner or later, something would have to be done.

  That same night, he parked the Town Car near a street corner several yards from the rehabilitation clinic.

  He had no right to be here.

  Another of El Santo’s commands.

  “We made a promise,” the old man had told him. “We leave her alone.”

  “And if she remembers?”

  “Then we will pray for guidance and act accordingly. Until that day, however, we must honor our pledge.”

  But no matter how he tried, he could not bring himself to let it rest. To forget about her.

  She was, after all, the woman who had changed his life forever. She was the reason he could not look into a mirror without feeling revulsion and anger consume him, aching to be released.

  She was the woman he loved.

  So he sat in his car, watching the building that housed her, wondering if she was asleep. All he would have to do was slip inside, put a pillow over her face, and that would be the end of it.

  Clean. Quiet. Simple.

  But then it wouldn’t really be so simple, would it? Soon El Santo would find out, would know what he’d done, and he would face the threat of banishment, all his years of devotion marked by shame and humiliation.

  “Leave her to La Santisima, my son. She has already been punished enough.”

  But he couldn’t leave her. He continued to watch the building until he could no longer keep his eyes open.

  Then, the next morning, he came awake, surprised to find himself stretched across the seat.

  And as he sat up, he received a message from God. What else could it be?

  He saw her, walking along the edge of the field behind the clinic, a man in white guiding her, ready to catch her should she fall.

  As they rounded a corner, she glanced back in his direction, and his heart momentarily stopped, but he didn’t think she could see him from this distance.

  She did, however, look much better than they’d been led to believe.

  Thinner, perhaps. But healthy. Beautiful.

  And he knew at that moment that whatever the consequences, he could not wait for El Santo’s permission to do what he knew must be done.

  For his own sanity, if nothing else.

  Soon he would return, find her in her room, and make his offering to La Santisima.

  Robert Gregory Browne

  Down Among the Dead Men (A Thriller)

  66

  That night, it was the mother he chose to be with.

  While it was true that she was older and imperfect, she was still a handsome woman with skills her daughter had not yet perfected.

  As she pleasured him with her golden tongue, the door opened behind her and her husband entered the room, naked, and took her from behind.

  She groaned with pleasure, handling her task with even greater enthusiasm now.

  He didn’t object to this intrusion.

  It was, after all, only natural for the husband to want to share in her joy before God.

  Theywere sleeping when his cell phone rang.

  He checked the screen and saw that it was one of the believers he’d assigned to watch Vargas.

  “He has returned,” the caller said. “What would you like us to do?”

  “Keep your distance. I want to speak to him first.”

  He clicked off but didn’t call the reporter immediately. It was past one in the morning and he wanted to give Vargas time to crawl into bed and fall asleep, then catch him at a moment of vulnerability, only half-awake and more likely to tell the truth.

  So instead of calling, he made himself hard again, then rolled the mother over and thrust into her from behind, feeling her come awake with a soft moan, her muscles expanding, then contracting around him.

  When they were done, he made the call, surprised to find Vargas still alert. And while he knew the man was lying-could sense it-it did not matter. He had already made up his mind that El Santo was wrong about this. That Vargas needed to go.

  So he called the believers outside the reporter’s apartment building and told them to get it done.

  Late that morning he got word that Vargas had survived and was nowhere to be found.

  Not only that, the Corolla was also missing from the apartment building parking lot, which meant that Vargas had been brave enough to return for it.

  He couldn’t help but admire the man for his willingness to take such a risk.

  But he knew now that he had underestimated Vargas and should not have left the task to someone else as he wasted time pleasuring his hostess. And all of this was further proof that the entire matter had been handled badly and that he should have killed Vargas back in Texas.

  Perhaps El Santo wasn’t merely old but also had taken leave of his senses. Perhaps La Santisima had abandoned him. And when the old man spoke to her, he was no longer in touch with her divine spirit but merely speaking to voices inside his own addled brain.

  Cursing himself for thinking such vile thoughts, he sent up a prayer, asking for forgiveness. And because he knew El Santo would soon learn of his disobedience, he called the old man and confessed.

  But El Santo was in a merciful mood.

  “What’s done is done,” he said. “You must come home, my son. The celebrations are about to begin. We will pray together and ask La Santisima to guide us.”

  “Yes, Father. I will leave today.”

  But he didn’t leave. Not immediately.

  A few hours, he decided, would not make a difference, and if El Santo complained, he would explain that he had taken time to steal another car.

  And this was true. He did steal a new car.

  But that night, shortly past eight, he thanked the family for their hospitality, blessing them in the name of his father, then drove over to the rehabilitation clinic, parked across from the entrance, and waited.

  Then, when he saw the lone security guard step outside for a cigarette, he drove around to the back, vaulted the chain-link fence, and entered the building through the courtyard, marveling at how little attention they paid to securing the place.

  This was, after all, a dangerous city.

  The clinic was quiet. The patients all seemed to go to bed early, with only the guard and a single nurse on duty. Their charts hung on hooks outside their doors, so it took him no time whatsoever to find her room.

  Which was dark inside.

  Unlike a traditional hospital, there weren’t bright lights all around, making it impossible to sleep. So he took a penlight from his pocket, flicked it on, then crossed to the bed, anxious to complete his task and leave.

  But the bed was empty.

  Surprised, he swept the beam around the room, but she wasn’t here.

  So where had she gone?

  All but the night nurse and the security guard were fast asleep, so it made no sense that she wasn’t in bed.

  Crossing the room, he checked the small closet and found her robe hanging on a hook inside, along with several changes of clothing. He moved to a chest of drawers and found fresh pajamas, underwear, T-shirts, jeans. There was a pile of People magazines on top.

  So where was she?

  Turning, he swept the beam around the room again, coming to a stop on the nightstand, where he saw a small double-hinged picture frame. Both photographs had been removed, and next to it lay a pen and a spiral-bound notebook.

  Curious, he crossed to the nightstand, picked up the notebook, and quickly leafed through it: a journal she’d been keeping of her time here.

  Flipping to the last page of writing, he stared down at her words, and his bewilderment suddenly turned to anger. A hot, white living thing that grew inside his chest with each new beat of his heart.

  She wasn’t just missing from her room. She had left the hospital entirely, abandoning what little she owned. Gone for good.

  According to the journal entry she was hea
ded for Playa Azul.

  With someone called Nick.

  The reporter.

  Ignacio Vargas.

  67

  Beth

  Before leaving Los Angeles that afternoon, they stopped at a thrift store to buy more clothes and a small suitcase to hold them. Then it was on to a supermarket for food and toiletries. They had no idea how long they’d be in Mexico, but it didn’t hurt to prepare.

  On the way to San Diego they encountered a traffic jam. A truck had jackknifed on the freeway, and according to the traffic report, several cars were damaged and three people had been killed.

  This was not, Beth thought, a good omen.

  After she had told Nick the story of Jen’s disappearance-with as many details as she figured he could stand-they spoke very little as they drove, each consumed by thoughts of their own. But what Beth found surprising was that there didn’t seem to be any of the usual awkwardness between them. That feeling of discomfort when you spend a large amount of time with someone you’ve just met.

  Despite their silence, Beth found herself at ease sitting next to him.

  Was this because of the man himself? Or the fact that they shared a common goal?

  Probably both, she thought.

  But she couldn’t be sure.

  As they crawled past the accident, Beth saw a young family standing on the side of the road near their mangled car. All seemed to have escaped in one piece, but they looked shaken and slightly shell-shocked: a man and his young wife, who cradled their baby in her arms.

  The baby was crying.

  The sight of the child once again stirred something in Beth’s mind: those shadowed memories that were trying hard to break though. And for one fleeting moment, she caught a glimpse of a face in the darkness.

  But before it could fully register, it was gone-a barely remembered whisper-and she had no idea what to make of it.

  “There’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you,” Nick said. “But you may not know the answer.”

  “Which is?”

  “Who’s Angie?”

  She looked at him. “The police told you about that, did they?”

  “Not the police,” Nick said. “The boy. Junior. He told me you said it when they found you. He thought it was your name.”

  “I’ve wondered about it ever since the police questioned me. But I don’t remember an Angie or an Angela or anything close to that.”

  Nick nodded and said nothing more, returning his concentration to the road. The traffic had started to clear and before long they were rolling into San Diego, where they took a bathroom break and picked up a couple of coffees.

  Beth noticed Nick quickly survey the area as if he was looking for someone. He continued to move stiffly, favoring his right shoulder, and she wondered if whoever had done that to him was out there somewhere, waiting to do it again.

  Or worse.

  When they got back in the car, Beth said, “Are you ever going to tell me about your shoulder?”

  Nick took a long sip of his coffee, then set it in the cup holder between the seats.

  “I warned you, there are people who are after me.”

  “Because of me.”

  “No,” he said. “Because we’re dealing with some very secretive assholes who are into some very dangerous shit. I happened to stick my nose in where it doesn’t belong, and after a couple of fuckups on their part they’re pretty anxious to cut it off.”

  “La Santa Muerte.”

  “That’s my guess, yeah.”

  “I’ve been thinking about what you said. About Juarez.”

  “What about it?”

  “All those kidnappings Rojas was under pressure to solve. What if they have something to do with La Santa Muerte, too?”

  Nick looked at her. “You think they may have been recruiting women by snatching them off the street?”

  “I spent enough years prosecuting special crimes to know never to underestimate the darkness of the human soul. And there’s no reason these people wouldn’t be just as active in Mexico City or Playa Azul or even on board a cruise ship. Where all the tourists are.”

  “Like you and your sister.”

  “I think Jen was targeted on that cruise,” Beth said. “By Rafael and Marta Santiago.”

  “It’s a theory. But it still doesn’t explain what happened to you. ”

  Beth had been thinking about this, too.

  “I guess I poked my nose in where it didn’t belong,” she said. “And got it cut off.”

  68

  By the time they reached Playa Azul, she could feel a headache coming on.

  Nothing to be alarmed about just yet, but her episodes usually began and ended with a migraine, and there was no point in taking chances.

  “I’m gonna need to lie down soon,” she said.

  “You okay?”

  “Just a headache. I’ll be fine when I’m horizontal.”

  This may or may not have been true. She had no way to predict what might happen in the next hour-or minutes, for that matter-but she saw no reason to alarm Nick.

  “I know a hotel that has decent rooms,” he said, “and even better rates.”

  “Thanks.”

  As they pulled into the city, caught up in another traffic jam, Beth looked out her window and couldn’t help feeling as if she’d never left this place-and in a way, she hadn’t.

  A cruise liner sat in the harbor, probably the very same ship she and Jen had taken down from Long Beach almost a year ago.

  Playa Azul’s streets were bustling as usual, but there seemed to be an extra current of excitement in the air. Everywhere you looked there were flowers and multicolored banners, storefronts filled with candles and full-sized skeletons, wrapped in garlands and gold satin.

  It occurred to Beth that today was Halloween in the states, but this didn’t look like any Halloween she’d ever seen and she wasn’t quite sure that that was what was going on here. All she could think about was Nick’s talk of religious cults and the world of brujas and La Santisima.

  Then, as they turned a corner, they drove past a storefront that featured a grinning skull atop an ornate, flower-laden altar, bright red roses poking out of each eye socket.

  Nick glanced at the display. “All this time I’ve been spending in Mexico and I forgot all about the festival.”

  “Festival?”

  “ El Dia de los Muertos. The Day of the Dead.”

  “How appropriate. I don’t suppose this has anything to do with El Santo and company?”

  “Hardly. El Dia de los Muertos is a celebration that dates all the way back to the Aztecs. It’s about families coming together to honor their lost loved ones.”

  Nick turned the wheel and rounded another corner, pulling up in front of a small, boxy-looking hotel that couldn’t have held more than ten rooms.

  The sign out front read: CORONA POSADA.

  Climbing out of the car, they grabbed their things and went inside to the front desk only to be told that because of the festival there were no vacancies. But when Nick explained that they were only here for the night-slipping the deskman a fifty in the process-two adjoining rooms miraculously became available.

  Ten minutes later Nick opened the door to Beth’s room and ushered her inside, dropping her suitcase near the closet. The place was tiny but clean and well maintained, with a view overlooking a beautifully manicured garden.

  Beth was impressed. But then anything looked better than a hospital room.

  “What did I tell you?” Nick said.

  “Very nice. But I don’t expect you to pay for this.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “I may have been out of commission for the last couple months, but I’ve still got money in the bank and I’m good for it.”

  “Just get some rest, okay? We’ll talk about this later.”

  Beth smiled. Was he really this good of a guy?

  Yes, she thought. Maybe he was.

  Nick crossed to the door, look
ing back at her, and she was surprised to find herself suddenly understanding Mary/Marion’s unbridled enthusiasm this morning.

  “I’ve gotta run an errand,” he said. “But I should be back in about an hour or so. I’ll be next door if you need me.”

  “Would you mind leaving your computer? I’d like to look at those photos again.”

  He nodded, then reached into his backpack, pulled out the netbook, and set it on the table by the door.

  “If you’re up to it after I get back, we can start retracing your steps in town, see if it jars anything loose.”

  Then he was gone.

  Beth stared down at the garden for a moment, then retrieved the netbook and took it to the bed. But her head was really pounding now, so she set the computer aside and lay back, trying to get her bearings, thinking how strange it felt not to be staring up at the ceiling of her hospital room.

  Sleep. That’s what she needed.

  She hadn’t had any since her episode last night.

  So she closed her eyes, hoping the headache would go away without incident.

  But when she opened them again, she was back on the deck of the cruise liner, looking out at the rolling ocean.

  69

  Vargas

  He found the house without difficulty, using Google maps on his cell phone to guide him to a neighborhood crowded with parked cars, some of which looked as if they hadn’t moved in a couple decades.

  The Corolla fit right in.

  The roads in this part of the city were graded but unpaved, and the houses all had rings of dirt around them, looking worn and well lived-in.

  Back in LA, as Vargas had waited for Beth to pick out clothes at the thrift store, he’d made a call to his cousin Tito in Tijuana, who had hooked him up with a contact here in Playa Azul.

  The contact, a guy named Ortiz, was said to be well connected in the area. But if Ortiz was making any money through those connections, it sure as hell didn’t show in his choice of houses.