Down Among the Dead Men

63

So Vargas told her, laying it out just as he had twenty-four hours ago, for Detective Pasternak.

He told her what was fact and what was rumor, about the nuns and Rojas and the Ainsworths, and about Pasternak’s promise to take the investigation into her shooting down to Juarez.

But none of it broke through.

None of it was able to penetrate the wall her injured brain had erected around that part of her past.

When she had first appeared in the courtyard and introduced herself, Vargas had been surprised that she was walking on her own and seemed so clearheaded. The way Pasternak had described her, Vargas had thought this visit might be premature. But it had quickly become obvious that in a few short weeks she had made more progress than Manny had made in fifteen long years.

Vargas had also been surprised to discover that she wasn’t the woman from the passport photo. There were vague similarities, yes, but it was obvious to him now that the discrepancies between the passport and crime scene photos had nothing to do with age or gunshot wounds. It was much simpler than that.

The passport photo was merely a keepsake.

Crawford was the older sister.

And to Vargas’s further surprise, he found himself attracted to her. She may not have been as drop-dead gorgeous as her sibling, but she was beautiful in her own way. And smart and vulnerable and not afraid to speak her mind.

And he liked that.

He liked it a lot.

“Is any of this helping?” he asked.

She stared at the image on the computer screen for a long moment, then lowered her head, looking down at her hands in her lap.

They were trembling.

He shifted his gaze to the scar on her scalp, the tufts of hair growing around it, and had the sudden urge to reach out and place his palm against it, wishing he could somehow heal her wounded psyche with his touch. Make her whole again.

In his imaginary movie, her face would light up and all of the pieces of the puzzle that were missing would come to her in quick, dramatic flashes and he would pull her into his arms and kiss her, celebrating the miraculous breakthrough.

But, once again, reality intruded. The conveniences of Hollywood wouldn’t play here.

She looked up at him now, and there were tears in her eyes.

“Thank you,” she said softly. She wiped her tears with her sleeve. “At least now I know how it happened. How I got this way. And that’s something, isn’t it?”

He nodded. “But maybe you’re better off not remembering.”

“I wouldn’t go that far. I’d be happy to suffer a little emotional distress if it meant a fully functioning brain.”

“Point taken,” Vargas said. “So let’s try one last thing.”

She looked at him quizzically as he reached into his pocket and pulled out the string that held the hooded skull ring. La Santisima.

“The boy I told you about. Junior? He took this from you when they found you in the house.”

He placed it in her hands.

Beth stared at it, her brow furrowing.

Then suddenly she was crying again, a flood of uncontrolled tears rolling down her cheeks.

“Oh my God,” she said. “Oh my God.”