Down Among the Dead Men

28

Unlike many motels Vargas had stayed in over the years, the Western Suites Express was an enclosed two-story structure with its hallways and room entrances on the inside.

It was a design that fed the illusion that you were staying at a higher-class establishment than you were actually paying for. But the illusion was shattered the moment you stepped inside to find hallway carpet made of thin, replaceable squares and wallpaper a shade too cheap and adorned with art mart reproductions in plastic frames.

Not that any of this mattered to Vargas. But it occurred to him that if the motel charged just a couple bucks more a night, they might be able to sustain the bullshit at least until the guests got to their rooms.

He went in through a set of double doors at the back of the building. There were entrances on either end as well, but he’d noticed shortly after he checked in that the rear doors were used almost exclusively by the maids. If anyone was waiting for him inside, they’d more than likely concentrate on the main points of entry.

It was possible that he was being overly cautious. If someone really was waiting for him, why would they telegraph their presence by parking his Corolla in plain view? Unless they were just as stupid as he was. And neither Ainsworth nor Sergio struck him as mental giants.

Closing the double doors behind him, he made his way down a narrow corridor past a small alcove that housed a gurgling ice machine.

His room was on the second floor. Up ahead, on the left, was a door marked: STAIRS. He was about to cross toward it when a faint bell rang and somewhere around the corner an elevator door rolled open, voices filling the adjoining hallway.

“So what did you do?”

“What do you think I did? I fragged the motherfucker right there in the alleyway.”

Shit.

Picking up speed, Vargas lurched for the stairwell door, quickly pushed it open, then closed himself inside.

Sucking in a breath, he held it. Waited. The sudden movement had jangled his brain again and he felt a slight burning sensation under the bandage on his scalp-not to mention the hundred and fifty thousand other protests his body was making right now.

But had they seen him?

Doubtful.

And as the voices rounded the corner, Vargas realized with relief that the rush to get out of sight hadn’t even been necessary.

They weren’t a threat. They sounded like a couple of college kids talking about a video game, in which fragging motherfuckers was apparently routine procedure. Probably spending the night on the border before a trip into Juarez the next day in search of cheap booze and cheaper women.

Vargas let out the breath. Relaxed. Waited a few moments for his body to recover.

Then he hit the stairs.

The second floor looked empty. So quiet you’d think it was three in the morning instead of nine thirty on a Friday night.

Vargas left the stairwell and started for his room-which, of course, was all the way at the far end of a corridor about the length of a football field.

He took his time, not rushing it but bracing himself, just in case he had to move quickly. He felt a little silly for being so paranoid, but then his scalp began to burn again, reminding him that his paranoia was well founded.

He was staying in room 219. He moved past the elevator, mentally counting the numbers on the doors as he walked.

252, 251, 250…

He’d found himself doing that a lot lately. Counting. Wondered if he suffered from some low-grade form of Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder.

But that was the least of his worries right now.

246, 245, 244…

The elevator bell rang behind him and he tensed slightly, knowing it was probably the college students returning with a bucket of ice but worried that he might be wrong. There was nowhere to hide up here, so he picked up his pace.

238, 237, 236…

The elevator door rolled open and his shoulders bunched up, in anticipation of the worst.

Then the college kids’ voices filled the hallway, still talking about fragging and what Vargas assumed was game strategy. He’d never been a big video game fan and it all sounded like Greek to him.

But he relaxed a little, continued on.

231, 230, 229…

Ten doors to go.

He reached into his back pocket, pulled out his wallet, found his key card.

224, 223, 222…

He was a few steps from the door when he stopped in his tracks.

If someone had managed to circumvent the lock and was waiting inside his room, then sticking a key card in the slot and just pushing the door open was probably not a terrific idea. In fact, it was one of his worst ideas ever.

In his imaginary movie, he’d find a way to break into the adjoining room instead, sneak out onto the balcony, and come in through the sliding door at the rear of the suite, surprising any intruders. This would undoubtedly involve seducing his next-door neighbor, who was in town for a cosmetics convention and just happened to look like Salma Hayek or Angelina Jolie.

Unfortunately, this wasn’t a movie. And his room didn’t even have a balcony. So he had no choice but to take the traditional route and hope for the best.

He could, however, try a ruse.

An obvious one, sure, but simple and effective.

Stepping up to the door, Vargas rapped on it sharply and called out in his best imitation of his aunt Cecilia, a talent he had perfected at the age of nine.

“ Hola. Housekeeping.”

Silence. No sound of movement inside. Nothing.

It was a little late for a maid to be showing up but certainly plausible.

He knocked again. “Housekeeping.?Es cualquier persona casero? ”

Still nothing.

Vargas slipped the key card into the slot, waited for the green light to flash, then grabbed the knob and turned it, pushing the door open just a crack.

“Hola,” he said again. “Housekeeping.”

There was a chance he was overdoing it. He was a lot older than nine now and his falsetto wasn’t what it used to be, but as he stood there, listening to the sounds of the room, he felt pretty confident that he’d pulled it off.

He was also pretty confident that the room was empty.

Sucking in another breath, he pushed the door wide, staring into the darkness. He knew he was silhouetted in the hall light, his ruse now blown, but decided to trust his instincts and continued inside.

He ran his fingers along the wall until he found the light switch.

When he flicked it on, the lamp atop the dresser came to life, throwing dim yellow light across the room, and all the tension drained from his body.

Just as he had suspected, the room was empty.

The queen-size bed was made. The towels he’d thrown on the floor had been cleared away. The dollar tip on the nightstand was gone.

But as he moved deeper into the room, he realized that someone besides the maid had definitely been here. His suitcase lay open on the floor near the bed, half of its contents scattered around it. Shirts. Socks. Underwear.

The stack of notes he’d left on the small, round table near the window was gone. Along with his laptop.

And in their place was a set of keys.

His car keys.

Along with his cell phone.

Vargas stiffened. Took a quick look around the room again, half-expecting someone to step out of the closet with a gun in his hand.

But the room was empty. No surprises waiting.

Letting out a breath, he crossed to the table and started to pick up his keys, flinching slightly when he felt something sticky.

Pulling his hand away, he stared down at his fingers, and what he saw there sent a chill through him.

Blood.

They were covered with blood.

He was contemplating the significance of this when his cell phone rang. Vibrated on the table.

Vargas flinched, then squinted down at the screen: UNKNOWN CALLER.

Wiping his hand on his shirt, he pushed the keys aside, picked up the phone, then put it against his ear and pressed the receive button.

“Hello?”

“Welcome back, Mr. Vargas.” The voice on the other end was calm, direct, vaguely Hispanic. “We trust you are feeling better now?”

Vargas’s first instinct was to throw the phone down and run.

Instead, he gripped it tighter, steadied himself. “Who is this?”

“That isn’t important at the moment. We simply wanted to apologize to you for the behavior of our associates, and to give you a piece of advice.”

“Which is?”

“We are a family that is very protective of its privacy. As you may have noticed, your laptop and notes are gone. We took the liberty of going over them and discovered, to our satisfaction, that you are quite unaware of what you’ve stumbled into here.”

“So, in other words, you jumped the gun. Sent your goons after me too soon.”

A pause. “I hope you’ll forgive their enthusiasm. We merely wanted to speak to you.”

“Why do I have a hard time believing that?”

“If it weren’t true, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

Vargas felt his gut tighten. “So are you the one that Ainsworth and Sergio were talking about? The big man? Did you have something to do with the people in that house?”

“You don’t want to be asking such questions.”

“All right, fine. What’s this piece of advice you have for me?”

“Simply this: Go home. Back to California. Find another story. We have no desire to punish the innocent, and who we are and what we do is none of your concern. I hope you’ll decide to keep it that way.”

“And if I don’t?”

Another pause. “Check your trunk, Mr. Vargas. We think the message is clear.”

Then the line clicked.