“About a half hour or so south. Place called Dead Man’s Dunes.”
“And the woman with her?”
“A nun. There were four more found nearby and a fifth outside.”
It took Pasternak about two seconds to put it together.
“Holy…fucking…shit. The Casa de la Muerte murders?”
He’d said it fairly loud and several of the other customers turned and stared at him. But he either was oblivious or didn’t give a damn.
“I don’t fucking believe it. We got a couple bulletins on this, but nobody ever said anything about an American woman, let alone Crawford. Where’d you get these?”
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that, but there’s a Chihuahua state police homicide investigator you might want to take a look into. Guy by the name of Rojas. He removed these photos and every other trace of Crawford from the official file.”
“Wait, wait, now,” Pasternak said. “Back up a bit. Start at the top.”
So Vargas did, telling him about the trip to Juárez and the tour of the Casa de la Muerte crime scene. About the Ainsworths letting it slip that there was an American woman named Angie, and about Rojas’s cover-up, including what Rojas had thought was a fatal shot to the head.
Vargas didn’t mention the ride in the trunk of his car or the executions at the egg ranch. No point in getting caught up in this thing as a material witness. Not right now, at least.
Pasternak would likely find out about it all himself—probably with Garcia’s help, once Operation Rojas kicked into gear—but Vargas planned to be long gone when that happened.
“You have anything in your files on a hit man with a half-burnt face?”
Pasternak shook his head. “I’m pretty sure I’d know if we did.”
“What about a religious cult called La Santa Muerte?”
“Doesn’t sound familiar.” Pasternak pointed to the photos. “They have something to do with this?”
“I can’t be sure, but it’s come up in conversation.”
“You wanna clue me in?”
“Apparently the cult is run by someone called El Santo,” Vargas said. “They’re into drug smuggling and God knows what else, and the guy with the burnt face seems to be their enforcer. I did a quick Internet search when I was down in Juárez and got zero hits. Which means they’re about as far under the radar as you can get.”
“And Juárez is so far out of our jurisdiction it might as well be Mars,” Pasternak said. “But since this is all directly connected to my case, it warrants a road trip, and I have a feeling the FBI’s gonna want to ride shotgun.”
“I have a feeling you’re right,” Vargas told him. “But all we’ve got so far is a rumored cover-up. We still don’t know how Elizabeth Crawford wound up in that house, surrounded by five dead nuns.”
“True, but what you’ve given me here puts me a step closer to closing an attempted-murder case, and if this fucker Rojas is as bent as you say he is, he’s going down.”
“You manage that one, you’ll make my source a happy man.”
Pasternak looked at the photos again. “I assume you’re gonna let me keep these?”
Vargas nodded. While he was at the Internet café, he’d paid a few extra pesos to use the scanner and transferred the images to his SD card.
Pasternak said, “I’ve gotta admit you managed to root out one helluva story.”
“That’s what I keep telling myself.”
“So what’s your next step?”
Vargas didn’t even have to think about it.
“California,” he said. “I’m headed back to California.”
56
Beth
EVERYONE KEPT TELLING her how remarkable her progress was, but Beth didn’t see it.
Physically, perhaps. Her motor skills had improved to the point that she could now walk unassisted for long periods of time, eat on her own, and even write passages in her journal—a journal Dr. Stanley had encouraged her to keep. But the inability to remember clearly was driving her mad.
That, to her mind (such as it was), was much more debilitating than not being able to clench a fist or stand without assistance. She’d gladly give up her mobility for a day free of confusion. A day in which both her long- and short-term memory were fully functioning, all synapses firing properly and glitch-free.
A day in which she stayed put. No more imaginary trips to the Mexican Riviera.
In these welcome moments of clarity, however, all she could think about was Jen. Those last few minutes Beth had spent with her sister didn’t seem to want to leave her alone.
Lunch. Fight. Bathroom break.
Gone.
And far from being a figment of Beth’s imagination, Rafael and Marta Santiago had been very real. Just because the cruise line had no record of them didn’t mean they weren’t there. Maybe they were stowaways. Maybe they had signed on under fake names, using false identification. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time that had happened.
And the fact that there wasn’t a record of them led Beth to believe that they had, indeed, been somehow involved in what had happened to Jen.
And to her.
In one of her brief, uncomfortable phone conversations with Peter, he’d told her that the FBI and the Albuquerque police were now convinced that the two didn’t exist. But Beth didn’t care what they said; she knew in her gut that these weren’t false memories.
No White House dinners or grizzly bears for her, thank you.
“You ready for your walk now, Elizabeth?”
It annoyed her that everyone around here called her Elizabeth. At first she had accepted it. They were simply reading the name off of a chart. But she was pretty sure that she had finally told them that most people called her Beth.
This was not, she decided, a particularly friendly place. Everyone was nice enough, sure, but they were just people doing their jobs, smiling professional smiles, offering professional sympathies and encouragement.
She’d done enough of that in her own job to know when it was happening to her.
But the people here always treated you as if you were a child. That they were the ones who knew best, no questions asked. A little pat on the head when you forgot your words or a face or a name.
Isn’t she cute?
She’ll do better next time.
But they couldn’t even remember Beth’s name. So who was the one with the brain damage?
“Did you hear me, Elizabeth? Time for your walk.”
Ever since Beth had learned not to rely on her wheelchair, her physical therapist had been taking her for regular walks. Not far. Just out to the courtyard and around the field, a small stretch of land bordered by trees and a chain-link fence.
Every time they walked the perimeter, Beth would look out at the city streets and wish that she could close her eyes and will herself back into her old life. Back to the days when she would slip behind the wheel of her BMW, drive down the 101 to the building on Spring Street, then settle into her office chair, ready to take on the new morning.
Back when Jen was still here. And Peter had not yet been exposed as an unrepentant philanderer. Before his late-night meetings with “clients,” the faint but unmistakable lipstick stains, the condoms in his wallet.
Beth had been blissfully ignorant of his cheating before then, and maybe she was better off that way.
Growing up, she’d thought that the worst that could ever happen to her already had: the death of her parents.
But she’d been wrong about that, hadn’t she?
Very wrong.
A hand touched her shoulder and she turned with a start, looking up from her wheelchair into the pleasant but rather bland face of her physical therapist.
David?
Danny?
“Time to go,” he said, then helped her to her feet and guided her toward the courtyard door.
When they got outside, Beth was happy to see that the sky was clearer than usual. The smog had decided to take an unscheduled holid
ay. The morning was bright and clean and she drank it in, wishing every day in Los Angeles could be so beautiful.
She remembered the first morning after the breakup, when she had moved into her own apartment. It had been a day a lot like this one, the sky clean, sunlight slanting through her bedroom window, and she had hoped it would be the start of a new life.
Apparently it was. Just not the one she’d bargained for.
Now, that apartment was gone. Given up after she went missing. Peter had had all of her things sent to a storage facility; then later some of it was transferred here.
Clothes. Family photos. A box full of her favorite books. Her entire life summed up by a few meager possessions.
Pretty pathetic, when you thought about it.
As David or Danny guided her toward their usual starting point at the edge of the field, Beth looked out at the street again, at the rows of cars parked on either side.
She couldn’t tell you why, but something drew her attention to the distant street corner. A sense that she was…what?
Being watched?
Yes, that was it.
There was no rational explanation for this feeling, of course. Something Dr. Stanley would have a field day with. All she saw there was a parked car, covered with dust, as if it had just traveled a long distance.
She couldn’t even see the driver.
Yet she sensed he was in there. Watching her.
Waiting for something.
Beth averted her gaze—afraid to stare too intently—and let Danny (Dennis?) guide her along the path around the field.
But as they rounded the second turn, Beth found herself looking back toward the street again.
At that dust-covered car.
She recognized the make. It was a lot like the one her parents used to drive so long ago.
What was it called again?
She had to strain to remember. It was there on the periphery of her mind, but not quite fully formed.
Then, finally, the effort paid off and it came. Another small victory for the lady with the bullet in her brain.
Whoever was out there, watching her, was driving a Town Car.
A Lincoln Town Car.
57
Vargas
HE DROVE ELEVEN hours straight, taking Highway 40 from Albuquerque, which, somewhere along the line, had turned into the 15. He stopped only to pee and for coffee, the only thing keeping him awake.
Around 1:00 A.M. he hit Los Angeles—or the outskirts of Burbank, to be more precise—where he lived in a tiny studio apartment that could best be described as shabby. One room, one bath. A bed, a desk, and a sliding glass door that led to a minuscule balcony overlooking a pockmarked street.
Despite this, it felt good to be home.
After taking a shower to wash off the day and shampooing his hair for the first time since he’d been attacked, he checked his wounds and saw that they were healing nicely.
He knew he should sleep, but there was something he wanted to do before hitting the sack. Taking the SD card from his wallet, he went to transfer the data and crime scene photos to his desktop PC, only to discover that it was turned off.
Not unusual in most households, he supposed, but Vargas always kept his computer on, even when he was away from home. A techie at the Tribune had once told him that the circuits lasted longer that way.
So why was it off?
He glanced at the clock next to his bed and saw that it was still keeping time, no flashing digits that would indicate a power loss.
It was possible that the PC could have died, but as he looked around the room he started to get a funny feeling in his gut.
Something not quite right, here.
Not that he could see it. Everything was in its usual place.
But somehow it just didn’t feel right. As if his space had been invaded by a foreign presence.
The building manager, maybe?
No.
The guy was useless. Wouldn’t even change the lightbulbs in the stairwell unless the day ended with something other than a y.
So it wasn’t the manager.
And no one else had the key.
Vargas stared at his computer a moment, trying to fight the sudden chill in his bones, then leaned down and turned it on.
A couple of beeps later, it came to life, booting up Windows, and he was starting to second-guess himself, wondering if maybe he had turned it off, that maybe this feeling was just a touch of paranoia rearing its ugly—
His landline rang.
Vargas snatched the receiver from his desk, checked the screen, and saw an UNKNOWN CALLER message.
But he didn’t need caller ID to tell him who it was.
And while he’d made his decision to move forward with this story—damn the consequences—that didn’t keep a wave of dread from washing through him.
He clicked the receiver button. “Yes?”
“Imagine my surprise,” Mr. Blister said, “when I drove so far to see you and you were not at home.”
The dread deepened. Did they know what he’d been up to? Confronting Rojas had been a risk, yes, but since he was still alive, he figured he’d gotten away with it.
“I stopped off in Vegas to see an old friend,” he said. “Wanted to try my luck at blackjack.”
“There is no luck, Mr. Vargas. Only destiny. And at the moment, yours does not look promising.”
“Wait, now. I did what you asked and got the hell out of Texas. I didn’t think it would matter if I took a detour.”
“Then you were mistaken. Were we mistaken as well?”
Vargas said nothing.
There was silence on the line and he tucked the phone under his chin, quickly grabbed his pants from the floor, and started pulling them on, just in case he had to move fast.
“As difficult as it may be for someone on the outside to understand,” Mr. Blister said, “it is counter to our beliefs to do harm to those who do not deserve it. As I told you, Mr. Vargas, we have no desire to punish the innocent. But perhaps we misjudged you. Perhaps you are not quite so innocent after all.”
“I’ve never claimed to be.”
“I do hope you realize that you are benefiting from our strong sense of benevolence.”
“So you keep telling me.”
“But we are not fools, either. So consider this call a reminder. Stay out of our business and we will stay out of yours.”
“You’ve made that pretty clear, too.”
“I do hope so. Because if you hear from us again, Mr. Vargas, it will not be over the telephone. Understood?”
An image skittered through Vargas’s mind. Mr. Blister shooting Junior point-blank, then peering suspiciously into the darkness of the warehouse.
Staring straight at him.
“Understood,” Vargas said.
58
THE MOMENT THE line clicked, Vargas moved.
He didn’t give a damn what he’d been promised; he wasn’t about to hang around hoping they’d leave him alone.
No matter how you sliced it, these were not benevolent people. He’d seen that firsthand. And despite his instinct to ask Mr. Blister about La Santa Muerte, he had resisted. If you don’t want a hornet to sting you, don’t start poking at its nest.
But then that was exactly what he’d been doing, wasn’t it?
And Mr. Blister hadn’t come all this way to sit in Vargas’s hot tub.
Throwing on the rest of his clothes, Vargas grabbed his keys, the SD card, and the backpack in his closet that held his spare laptop, then doused the light, and went to his door.
Stopping short of opening it, he waited a moment, listening. The hallway outside had a cement floor and tended to echo, so he strained to hear any sound of movement.
Nothing.
Maybe a little too quiet.
Sucking in a breath, he opened the door a crack and peeked out, saw that the hallway was clear.
But just as he pulled the door wide and stepped past the threshold, a voice said:
/>
“Mr. Vargas?”
Turning with a start, he saw an LAPD patrol officer topping the stairwell and heading in his direction. A powerfully built Hispanic guy with the requisite cop haircut.
“I’m looking for Ignacio Vargas. Is that you?”
Vargas’s heart was pounding. “What’s this about?”
“We had word of a disturbance. Is everything okay here?”
Disturbance, Vargas thought. What kind of disturbance? Had one of his neighbors heard Mr. Blister breaking into his apartment and called the cops?
A nice theory, but most of the people living in this building—which leaned toward off-duty prostitutes and low-rent hucksters—had no interest in contacting the cops for any reason whatsoever. It seemed that the only time the LAPD ever showed up around here was to harass or arrest someone.
Besides, he doubted that Mr. Blister would be so careless.
He was about to respond when his gaze dropped to the officer’s right hand, which was moving toward the weapon holstered on his hip. In a quick, fluid motion, the cop unsnapped the holster strap and pulled his gun free.
It was at that moment that Vargas decided that either the La Santa Muerte cult had connections that reached far beyond a rogue border patrol agent or this guy was not LAPD at all.
Whatever the case, one thing was obvious: Mr. Blister had help. And as the gun came up, Vargas dove.
The shot cracked, splintering wood somewhere above him as he rolled into his apartment, then suddenly realized that he’d just made a huge mistake.
There was nowhere to hide in here.
Jumping to his feet, he slung the backpack over his shoulder, bolted for the sliding glass door, and flung it open.
Another shot cracked and the door shattered, glass flying everywhere as—
—Vargas vaulted the balcony rail and jumped to the roof of a Grand Caravan parked at the curb below. He hit it hard, denting the roof, and the alarm started squealing as he lost his footing and tumbled to the sidewalk, landing on his hands and knees.
The impact sent a jolt of pain through him. But feeling eyes on him from the balcony above, he pushed past the pain, scrambled to his feet, and ran.
Down Among the Dead Men (A Thriller) Page 17