Off the Rails

by Jill Sorenson

  She went inside the store to browse the shelves. She found a trial-size bottle of baby shampoo, a disposable razor, and a little tube of toothpaste. Then she rifled through a bin of secondhand clothes, selecting two cotton T-shirts and two pairs of socks. The items smelled like they’d been washed. After she paid at the front counter, she went to the medical office. She had to stand in line for a long time, but she got a couple of extra-large bandages for free. She was also given a small canvas tote bag with a towel and a “health kit” inside. The kit appeared to have alcohol wipes and antibiotic ointment. All in all, a pretty good score.

  She walked out of the building with a smile on her face. Ian, who was on the pay phone, scowled when he saw her. He hung up the receiver and came forward.

  “Did you talk to your boss?” she asked.

  “No. I had to leave a message, which is pretty fucking useless.”

  “Why?”

  “How’s he going to return my call?”

  “What happened to your cellphone?”

  “It got stolen,” he said in a clipped voice.

  “Oh.” She hadn’t realized that he’d been robbed before he came to her aid. His backpack and fancy camera equipment were gone. “If you have money, you can buy a new one.”

  “Yeah, where?”

  She didn’t know. The store wouldn’t have them. He might be able to buy a cheap one from another passenger, but most of them didn’t carry phones. “Look what I got,” she said, focusing on the positive. “We can shower and change clothes.”

  He rubbed a hand down his haggard face. “Whatever.”

  She didn’t press her luck by suggesting a nap, though he clearly needed one. They went to buy a token for the showers. It was a short wait, because there was a separate bathroom for women and she was the only female in line.

  “Solamente mujeres,” the man who sold the tokens said to her. Women only.

  “Fuck that,” Ian said. “I’m going in with her.”

  The man protested that Ian couldn’t be in the women’s restroom. Ian paid a few extra dollars to shut him up and followed her inside. It was a cramped space with a sink on one side and a single shower stall on the other, behind a flimsy flowered curtain. There was a plastic chair to set their belongings on. The door shut, but didn’t lock.

  “See this?” Ian said, rattling the knob. “Security here is a joke.”

  Maria crossed her arms in front of her chest, struck by a sudden wave of modesty. She didn’t want to take off her clothes while he was watching. She felt ugly and dirty and claustrophobic. Memories from last night washed over her, making her skin crawl. She remembered the bandit’s fetid breath in her face. The sharp blade against her throat.

  “What’s wrong?” Ian asked.

  Tears filled her eyes and she shook her head, unsure of what to say. Although she knew Ian wouldn’t hurt her, and she felt safer in his presence, she didn’t want to be touched or looked at right now. She needed some space to recover from last night.

  “Do you want me to go first?”

  “No. I want to get it over with.”

  He nodded easily. He didn’t seem confused about her strange behavior. Maybe he understood that she was having a delayed reaction to the bandit’s attack. He turned the chair around, facing the door, and sat down. “Take as long as you need. I’m right here.”

  His patience calmed her. He was there, but not watching. Not expecting anything. Just offering his protection and support. Taking a deep breath, she hung up her towel and arranged her toiletries at the edge of the stall. She bent down to untie her shoes with shaking hands. Then she removed her clothes and stepped into the stall, trembling.

  She turned on the faucet. The pipes sputtered and groaned for a few seconds. Then water burst forth in a steady spray that was surprisingly pleasant. It soaked into her hair and poured down her shoulders, like warm rain.

  Chapter 13

  Armando was winded before he reached the bottom of the hill.

  He stopped and bent forward, breathing hard, fingertips pressed to his aching side. His wound felt raw and open, torn anew by the strenuous activity, but the bandage looked okay. It wasn’t soaked with blood. He didn’t think he was going to lose consciousness or drop dead on the side of the street, less than a mile from Moreno’s hideaway.

  He straightened, with some difficulty, and glanced over his shoulder. The road was deserted. He couldn’t believe they hadn’t come after him. That was an incredible stroke of luck, because they would have caught up with him easily. He was as weak as a goddamned baby. No shirt, no shoes, no money. Not a single person to call for help.

  He hadn’t put much thought into what he’d do after he escaped. He hadn’t really expected to make it out the front gate. That hadn’t stopped him from trying, of course. Life had taught him that many improbable feats could be accomplished if a person was crazy enough to go for it. He was plenty crazy. Sometimes not thinking was the key to survival. A blank mind held the fear and doubt at bay.

  Now that he was free, he had to think ahead and anticipate his rivals’ next move. He couldn’t afford to get recaptured. He figured that Jorge hadn’t followed him because he had more important things to do. The mystery patient Domingo had spoken of had to be Moreno himself. Armando wondered what had befallen the drug lord. Maybe he’d been shot by Chuy Peña.

  Armando had never liked Peña. His partner had been one of Moreno’s top earners, but he was reckless. He’d abused drugs and women. That was why Moreno had paired them up. Armando was supposed to keep an eye on Peña and report back. He’d been Moreno’s spy, ironically enough.

  Armando hadn’t enjoyed the task, and he was glad Peña was dead. The problem was that Peña had caused a major clusterfuck on his way out. He might have blown Armando’s cover.

  What was left of it, anyway. Armando had lost contact with the PFM years ago, after the director was assassinated. This assignment had become his reality. He’d stayed with Moreno out of necessity and self-preservation. Over time, Moreno had earned Armando’s loyalty. The drug boss didn’t target women or children. He didn’t kill indiscriminately. He was no angel, but neither were most cops. They were violent men who led violent lives. It no longer mattered which side Armando fought for.

  Right, wrong, good, bad. It was all the same.

  Now that Armando had fled Moreno’s crew, he didn’t know where to turn. He couldn’t trust anyone in the PFM to protect him, and he doubted they’d believe his story. He needed to contact Sarai. He also needed clothes, cash, and a vehicle.

  The opportunity for all three awaited him around the next corner. A dapper young man in a suit and tie was walking toward a red Mazda by the curb.

  Armando didn’t think. He just advanced and struck. One hard fist swung up, into the guy’s face. They both went down in the dirt, with Armando’s forearm crushing his windpipe. The guy dropped his keys, eyes wide with shock.

  Armando applied more pressure to his throat, making sure it hurt. Then he let up a little. “Is there money in the car?”

  “No.”

  He grabbed the keys and scrambled to his feet. “Give me all your cash.”

  The guy gaped at him, incredulous. He wasn’t an ideal target. Too young and fit. Blood trickled from his slender nose. He looked like someone who wouldn’t cooperate. At the very least, he’d call the police as soon as possible.

  Armando didn’t have time to fuck around, so he punched the guy again, knocking him out. Then he went through his pockets. He had a lousy fifty pesos in his wallet. Armando was considering his fancy shoes and jacket when a pretty young woman ran outside, screaming loud enough to alert the whole neighborhood.

  “¡Mi amor! ¿Qué haces?”

  Chingado. He climbed behind the wheel and got the hell out of there. He drove as fast as he dared, desperate to reach a busy highway and disappear. His eyes darted from the road to his rearview mirror every few seconds. Downtown Tijuana was a traffic nightmare, as usual. He maneuvered through the city center, but
he didn’t feel safe there, either. The red car was too noticeable.

  He couldn’t sell it, because everyone he trusted was connected to Moreno. He’d have to ditch it and steal another one. His first priority was checking on Sarai, however. He hadn’t gone on the run to stay out of jail, or even to save his own life. He’d done it for Sarai.

  She was the only person who mattered to him.

  Those goatfuckers from Los Rojos had murdered his wife. Now that he was on their radar again, unprotected by his crew, they would go after his daughter.

  He spotted an Internet café and drove around the block to park. There was a suit on a hanger in the backseat, but it looked too small for his shoulders. He got out to check the trunk for something else. Sure enough, he found a gym bag with workout clothes. He put on a wrinkled white T-shirt and a pair of ratty tennis shoes. Both fit well enough.

  He bought a used baseball cap and a pair of sunglasses on the street for twenty pesos before he continued into the café. The only available computer was a dusty old dinosaur on a lopsided school desk next to the front counter.

  He sat down and logged on, fingers drumming against the surface of the desk. Cyber-investigation wasn’t his area of expertise, so he had no idea how risky this was. He usually communicated with Sarai by cellphone. They weren’t allowed at her school, but she had one anyway. She replied to his texts with one-word responses, and rarely accepted his calls.

  She hated him. She’d hated him forever. First she’d hated him for having a dangerous job and ruthless enemies. Then she’d hated him for sending her away to school and avenging her mother. Now she hated him for years of abandonment.

  It was a fair response. He hated himself for all of the same things. But his love for her had never wavered. Somehow it stayed strong, even as his humanity dwindled. It was stronger than ever, actually. Most days, it was the only thing he could feel.

  As he waited for the slow connection, he spared a thought for the woman he’d kidnapped. She’d done a fair job of doctoring him, for a hostage. He wouldn’t have survived without her. Would she try to escape at some point like he had? He tried to imagine a positive outcome for her, but couldn’t. His mind was blank and his heart was black.

  The computer screen lit up with a bright welcome. He accessed his Facebook account, which he’d created under a fake name. The page was an alternate contact point between him and Sarai, in case of an emergency. He could have tried to contact her from a pay phone, but he doubted she’d pick up a call from an unknown number.

  Her Facebook status gave him a chilling update. It said “on vacation,” which was their code for “in trouble.” Although her page was set to private, like his, he didn’t know if their communications here were secure.

  He clicked on his instant messages and found a series of short texts, all recent. It was the first time she’d initiated contact with him since he’d left.

  Where are u? I can’t reach your cell.

  Tía Mariposa visited today. She brought the letter. If you’re dead, fuck you.

  He barked out a short laugh, raking a hand through his hair. She’d never been one to spare his feelings.

  I can’t stay here. Going to SJ to see AF.

  This message made his gut clench with unease. Why would she leave her school? His sister-in-law’s place in San Juan wasn’t safe. She must have gone there to get false documents, and maybe a plane ticket to the United States. That meant she was coming north, to find him.

  “No,” he breathed, horrified by the thought. He’d assumed that she would be angry with him, because she was always angry with him. He’d counted on it! The idea that she might be worried—so worried that she’d risk her life to search for him—was unfathomable.

  I had to leave AF’s. Some bad men came and she told me to run. I think they killed her.

  He stared at the words on the screen, his pulse pounding with fear and fury. The men had to be from Los Rojos. They’d probably been watching Anita’s place to see if he’d show up there. He slammed his fist against the desk, startling another café patron.

  You’re dead, aren’t you? I’m alone on the tren de la muerte. I’m so scared. Papá, if you’re reading this…I’m sorry.

  Moisture flooded his eyes. The sensation was so unexpected, and so foreign to the person he’d become that he almost didn’t recognize it for what it was. He hadn’t cried since the day Alma had died in his arms. He’d broken down and wept for hours. He’d shed a lifetime of tears. Then a cold rage had swept over him, numbing everything in its wake.

  Papá, please. I need help.

  The next text, a moment later:

  Never mind. I still hate you.

  He laughed again, wiping the tears from his eyes. Let her hate him, as long as she stayed alive. As long as she kept fighting. The last message read:

  On the train near Gja. I think Tía M is here. Did you send her after me?

  He searched for more clues, more words, more context. But there was nothing else on Facebook or anywhere online. He found an article about Anita, who had been murdered in her apartment. She was forty-four years old. First Alma, now Anita. Both taken too soon. Both taken because of him.

  There were no mentions of his name in the media, which was odd. No one seemed to be looking for him. If the U.S. authorities didn’t know by now that he’d kidnapped an American woman—a doctor, no less—they were slipping.

  They had to know. They just weren’t advertising it.

  He couldn’t imagine why Maria would be riding La Bestia. The train was no place for females. A woman who looked like her couldn’t escape notice in a crowd of rowdy young men. With a start, it occurred to him that Sarai would be equally vulnerable. She was seventeen now. He saw her as a child, but the other passengers wouldn’t.

  He closed his eyes for a moment, tortured by the realization. Then he began to type.

  Sarai, I’m alive. Sorry about that.

  With a frown, he deleted the second sentence. Too dark.

  I was unconscious for a few days, but I’m okay now. I’m glad you’re okay. I understand why you got on the train, but it’s too dangerous for a girl. It’s not worth the risk. Get off at the next stop and stay where you are. I’ll come to you.

  He studied those words, uncertain. His message might make her angry. Everything he did seemed to make her angry. After a short pause, he added another few sentences.

  I asked Tía M to deliver the letter, not to follow you. Is she alone? If you see a man with her, describe him to me.

  Maria was kind and brave, but she wasn’t stupid. She wouldn’t ride La Bestia alone. Perhaps she’d reunited with that DEA agent she was so fond of. Armando knew all about their affair. It was his business to know everything that went down at the Hotel del Oro, and he’d paid special attention to her. She was nice to look at, but that wasn’t the only reason.

  When he’d first laid eyes on her—and hands, because he was trying to subdue her—he’d been struck by her beauty. Then he’d been struck by her teeth. She’d bitten him and drawn blood. She was a headstrong woman, full of fire. Like Alma.

  Everyone seemed to want a piece of her, including Chuy Peña and the undercover agent who’d been buying product at the hotel. Armando had watched her from afar. She made him miss female company, and soft skin, and home.

  It was too late to go home, though. He’d been on this path of destruction too long. There was no home to return to, no soft pleasures awaiting him. There was only Sarai, and he couldn’t let her down. He didn’t trust Ian Foster, or anyone associated with the American authorities, to help her. They wouldn’t give her asylum. They’d use her to get to him, and then throw her to the wolves.

  He refused to let that happen. His mission in life was to secure a future for his daughter, and he was willing to fight for this cause. He was ready to kill for it too. Anyone who got between him and Sarai would pay the price.

  Before he logged off, he wrote a few more lines.

  I’m leaving right now. I’ll che
ck my messages again tomorrow.

  Then he typed and deleted I love you, over and over again. It wasn’t like him to get emotional, even in writing. He’d told her how he felt in that letter. Here, it seemed overly sentimental. He didn’t want a Facebook IM to be their last communication. But what if it was, and he never got the chance to say those words in person?

  He was about to hit send when his thirty-minute session timed out, making the decision for him. He stared at the blank screen, his nostrils flaring. An impotent rage coursed through him. He wanted to upend the table, throw the computer on the floor, smash some shit to pieces.

  Instead he got up and left.

  Chapter 14

  Ian stared at the door while Maria showered, trying to keep his thoughts pure.

  It wasn’t that difficult. There was nothing remotely sexy about their stark surroundings, or the tense situation they were in. Last night’s incident weighed heavily on him, and the terrified look on her face was like a splash of cold water. She was a rape victim who’d suffered another close call. Fear had never been one of his turn-ons.

  He was ashamed of the way he’d manhandled her at the cargo station. She wasn’t the kind of woman he could lift against a wall, or paw in a public restroom.

  Instead of listening to the trickling water and imagining her soap-slick skin, he considered what she’d said about leaving a message for Sarai. Maybe that could work, if they didn’t use any names. The more urgent problem was getting through to LaGuardia. Ian had told the SAC’s secretary he’d call back in an hour. But what to say?

  Funny story. I got robbed last night and sort of killed the guy. Also, I need an escort for the woman I’ve been traveling with against your direct orders. Please send someone to see her home safely. Thanks.

  Yeah, right.

  He definitely had to notify his boss about the train bandits. Failing to report the crime would only make him look guilty. LaGuardia might pull him off the assignment immediately. That was a common response to officer-involved deaths.