Down Among the Dead Men

66

That night, it was the mother he chose to be with.

While it was true that she was older and imperfect, she was still a handsome woman with skills her daughter had not yet perfected.

As she pleasured him with her golden tongue, the door opened behind her and her husband entered the room, naked, and took her from behind.

She groaned with pleasure, handling her task with even greater enthusiasm now.

He didn’t object to this intrusion.

It was, after all, only natural for the husband to want to share in her joy before God.

Theywere sleeping when his cell phone rang.

He checked the screen and saw that it was one of the believers he’d assigned to watch Vargas.

“He has returned,” the caller said. “What would you like us to do?”

“Keep your distance. I want to speak to him first.”

He clicked off but didn’t call the reporter immediately. It was past one in the morning and he wanted to give Vargas time to crawl into bed and fall asleep, then catch him at a moment of vulnerability, only half-awake and more likely to tell the truth.

So instead of calling, he made himself hard again, then rolled the mother over and thrust into her from behind, feeling her come awake with a soft moan, her muscles expanding, then contracting around him.

When they were done, he made the call, surprised to find Vargas still alert. And while he knew the man was lying-could sense it-it did not matter. He had already made up his mind that El Santo was wrong about this. That Vargas needed to go.

So he called the believers outside the reporter’s apartment building and told them to get it done.

Late that morning he got word that Vargas had survived and was nowhere to be found.

Not only that, the Corolla was also missing from the apartment building parking lot, which meant that Vargas had been brave enough to return for it.

He couldn’t help but admire the man for his willingness to take such a risk.

But he knew now that he had underestimated Vargas and should not have left the task to someone else as he wasted time pleasuring his hostess. And all of this was further proof that the entire matter had been handled badly and that he should have killed Vargas back in Texas.

Perhaps El Santo wasn’t merely old but also had taken leave of his senses. Perhaps La Santisima had abandoned him. And when the old man spoke to her, he was no longer in touch with her divine spirit but merely speaking to voices inside his own addled brain.

Cursing himself for thinking such vile thoughts, he sent up a prayer, asking for forgiveness. And because he knew El Santo would soon learn of his disobedience, he called the old man and confessed.

But El Santo was in a merciful mood.

“What’s done is done,” he said. “You must come home, my son. The celebrations are about to begin. We will pray together and ask La Santisima to guide us.”

“Yes, Father. I will leave today.”

But he didn’t leave. Not immediately.

A few hours, he decided, would not make a difference, and if El Santo complained, he would explain that he had taken time to steal another car.

And this was true. He did steal a new car.

But that night, shortly past eight, he thanked the family for their hospitality, blessing them in the name of his father, then drove over to the rehabilitation clinic, parked across from the entrance, and waited.

Then, when he saw the lone security guard step outside for a cigarette, he drove around to the back, vaulted the chain-link fence, and entered the building through the courtyard, marveling at how little attention they paid to securing the place.

This was, after all, a dangerous city.

The clinic was quiet. The patients all seemed to go to bed early, with only the guard and a single nurse on duty. Their charts hung on hooks outside their doors, so it took him no time whatsoever to find her room.

Which was dark inside.

Unlike a traditional hospital, there weren’t bright lights all around, making it impossible to sleep. So he took a penlight from his pocket, flicked it on, then crossed to the bed, anxious to complete his task and leave.

But the bed was empty.

Surprised, he swept the beam around the room, but she wasn’t here.

So where had she gone?

All but the night nurse and the security guard were fast asleep, so it made no sense that she wasn’t in bed.

Crossing the room, he checked the small closet and found her robe hanging on a hook inside, along with several changes of clothing. He moved to a chest of drawers and found fresh pajamas, underwear, T-shirts, jeans. There was a pile of People magazines on top.

So where was she?

Turning, he swept the beam around the room again, coming to a stop on the nightstand, where he saw a small double-hinged picture frame. Both photographs had been removed, and next to it lay a pen and a spiral-bound notebook.

Curious, he crossed to the nightstand, picked up the notebook, and quickly leafed through it: a journal she’d been keeping of her time here.

Flipping to the last page of writing, he stared down at her words, and his bewilderment suddenly turned to anger. A hot, white living thing that grew inside his chest with each new beat of his heart.

She wasn’t just missing from her room. She had left the hospital entirely, abandoning what little she owned. Gone for good.

According to the journal entry she was headed for Playa Azul.

With someone called Nick.

The reporter.

Ignacio Vargas.