Down Among the Dead Men

31
Vargas

“ I’d like to check out.”

The night clerk was an elderly gentlemen, just a few years shy of retirement. He looked up from his magazine and set it aside, his eyes widening slightly at the sight of the bandage on Vargas’s head.

“Is there a problem with the room, sir?”

It was a wonder he couldn’t hear Vargas’s heart beating.

“No, the room’s fine. I got some unexpected news and I have to leave.”

“I’m afraid you’ll be charged for the entire night. Company policy.”

Vargas was expecting this and didn’t object. He just wanted to get out of here.

The clerk quickly processed the checkout, gave Vargas a receipt, and five minutes later he was rolling his suitcase toward the Corolla, heart still pounding, a knot the size of a fist in his stomach.

The battered, bungee-corded rear end of his car seemed to call out to him, a beacon for both his dread and his curiosity.

Check your trunk, Mr. Vargas.

I think the message is clear.

After the phone call, he had resisted the urge to immediately run down to the parking lot. Had instead washed the blood off his keys, then taken a shower to wash the remaining blood and dirt off his body, before changing into a fresh set of clothes.

Repacking his suitcase, he’d checked the room for anything he may have forgotten, then closed the door behind him and went straight to the motel lobby.

He had considered abandoning the Corolla altogether, but it was the only transportation he had-or could afford-so his choice was clear no matter what might be waiting for him beneath that battered trunk lid.

But he couldn’t check it here.

There were possibly dozens of eyes staring down on him in the motel parking lot. Not the place to try to satisfy his curiosity.

He needed to get somewhere private.

Throwing his suitcase in the backseat, he climbed behind the wheel, jammed the key into the ignition, and started the engine.

Ten minutes later, he found himself driving through an industrial section of town, steering toward a dark cluster of warehouses.

Pulling into a narrow alley between a glass factory and an unfinished furniture wholesaler, he parked near a Dumpster and waited a full half hour to make sure that no night watchmen were about. He checked the high corners of the warehouses for any sign of surveillance cameras.

Satisfied that he was alone and not being recorded, he took his flashlight from the glove compartment, then opened his door, stepped around to the rear of the car. The knot in his stomach started to burn, and his heart seemed to have burrowed its way up into his throat.

Couching down, he unhooked the bungee cord from his bumper and let the broken trunk lid rise, then stood up and shone the flashlight inside.

He had expected to find a body. But to his great relief, all that greeted him was a cardboard box. Just big enough to hold, say, a soccer ball.

What the hell?

He picked it up, felt something loose inside, banging against the sides of the box. The flaps were sealed shut by a strip of duct tape, not unlike the one he’d pulled from his mouth.

Setting the box back down, he peeled the tape away, opened the flaps, and pointed the flashlight beam inside.

What he saw made him step backward involuntarily, a wave of revulsion rising in his chest.

It was a severed head.

Eyes wide. Frozen in horror.

Sergio?

Vargas stared down at it in disbelief and continued stepping backward until his back met the wall of the glass factory. Feeling his legs start to give out, he leaned against it for support and tried to keep his breathing steady.

Then his cell phone rang.

Knowing instinctively who the caller was, he dug it out of his pocket, clicked it on.

“Across the street,” the voice said.

Vargas turned sharply, looking out through the mouth of the alley. There was a car parked on the far side of the street-a Lincoln Town Car-a man leaning casually against the driver’s door, cell phone to his ear. He made no attempt to hide himself, clearly illuminated under a streetlight.

His dark hair was on the longish side, hanging loose around his collar. The left half of his face was mottled with red, blistery burn marks.

Vargas felt something cold and prickly skitter up his spine.

“There is only one question you need to answer, Mr. Vargas: Has the message been received?”

Vargas tried to swallow. “…What?”

“Has the message…been…received.”

Vargas’s voice wavered. “Yes. Yes, it has.”

“Excellent,” the man said. “You had better go now. You have a long drive ahead of you.”

Vargas just nodded, unable to speak, then clicked off the phone.