Down Among the Dead Men

35

According to Google Maps, the Ainsworth ranch was located on three acres of dusty countryside just north of an El Paso suburb called Montoya.

Thanks to the phone’s Secure Digital expansion slot, Vargas was able to access the laptop data he’d backed up to the SD card in his wallet. This included the witness contact information he’d copied from the Casa de la Muerte police file.

Not everything was there, but it was enough.

After transferring Ainsworth’s address to the phone’s Google navigation system, he called up the directions and started driving.

The ranch stood across the street from a housing tract still under construction and was accessible by a narrow dirt road. A faded, beat-up sign at the top of the road said:

HAVE AN EGG-CELLENT MEAL WITH AINSWORTH FAMILY EGGS

There were no streetlights out here, but there was enough moonlight to make out a distant cluster of small, dilapidated warehouses and an old two-story dwelling that could best be described as a fixer-upper, circa 1922.

Vargas had no intention of driving down that road. Instead, he turned into the housing tract and parked next to a vacant lot.

In the middle of the lot stood another, newer sign, announcing the impending construction of a luxury four-bedroom home, which, if it ever got built, would one day stand in stark contrast to the Ainsworth house across the street.

As he killed the engine, Vargas started having second thoughts about this little excursion. What exactly did he hope to accomplish out here?

He had no interest in confronting Ainsworth directly.

Been there, done that.

Considering Vargas’s current physical condition, any attempt at face time would be an exercise in disaster. He couldn’t just walk up to the guy and say, “Hey, tell me everything you know about your psycho friends.” Not if he wanted to avoid winding up in a box in some warehouse district alleyway.

Instead, he was forced to go into stealth mode. Convinced that Ainsworth and Junior had ransacked those bodies back in the desert, he hoped that an uninvited tour of their house might yield some of their ill-gotten bounty. And if he was lucky, he might just find something that pointed to the American woman’s identity.

A driver’s license. Credit card. Family photo.

Considering the amount of time that had passed, it was a long shot, sure.

But it was the only shot he had.

Still, as he sat there listening to the Corolla’s engine rattle and die, he realized he’d been running on pure impulse and had no real plan of attack.

When he was a teenager, he and his brother, Manny, had spent a couple summers breaking into houses in their neighborhood to steal beer and cigarettes, which they sold to their friends at the local rec center. They got so good at it that most of their victims never even knew they’d been there at all.

But that was a long time ago, and Vargas wasn’t sure if he still had the skill-or the guts-to pull off a B and E. Breaking into a neighbor’s house was one thing. If you got caught, they’d probably call your parents. But if Vargas were to get caught now, Ainsworth would likely blow his head off.

So his only hope was that Big Papa and Junior had taken a detour to a Mexican whorehouse and hadn’t yet returned from Juarez.

Locking his car, he glanced around to make sure he was alone and unobserved. The housing tract had the feel of a ghost town-which, he assumed, was a fairly accurate description. Thanks to the failing economy, construction sites all over the country had stalled or gone bankrupt, and he didn’t figure it was any different out here.

Checking up and down the street, he saw no people, no traffic, no Town Cars…

So he sucked in a breath and crossed toward Ainsworth’s property.