Down Among the Dead Men

88

Ortiz hadn’t been lying about needing a map with an X on it.

Once a small fishing village off the Sea of Cortez, Ciudad de Almas had at least quadrupled in size over the decades, taking up a long stretch of coastline.

The city was a mix of old and new: retro adobe buildings nestled between modern business offices and tourist shops.

But what stood out were the cliffs that overlooked the place like all-seeing, all-knowing gods.

The sun was up well before they arrived. The drive had been long-Ortiz refusing to relinquish the wheel-so Vargas and Beth had slept in the backseat, arms intertwined.

When they pulled into town, the Dia de los Muertos festival had begun in earnest. Everywhere you turned, there was celebration: a street parade full of papier-mache skulls, mariachi bands, dancing children with painted faces, tourists and locals wearing skull masks, all under the watchful eye of the local policia.

It was, for the most part, a harmless exercise in tradition, a joyous occasion for everyone involved. But somewhere in town, that X was marked, and the lives of a woman and her son depended on them finding it.

While Vargas bought Beth a pair of jeans and a Day of the Dead T-shirt and waited for her to dress under the blanket in the car, Ortiz tracked down a local map.

None of them were hungry, but they knew they needed something to give them energy, so they found a small cafe, ordered espressos and Mexican pastries, and unfolded the map in front of them.

“Here’s the listing of landmarks,” Beth said, then ran her finger down the page.

There was a fierceness to her demeanor that Vargas hadn’t seen before. A clarity of purpose.

He couldn’t be sure, of course-he was no expert-but he sensed that after last night’s violence she had turned some kind of corner, and had seen the last of her headaches.

Her refusal to visit a doctor hadn’t surprised Vargas. Despite the emotional seesaw she’d been riding, she was a strong, stubborn woman, as determined as she was beautiful.

“Here it is,” she said. “ Iglesia del Sagrado Corazon. Church of the Sacred Heart.”

“You realize,” Vargas told her, “there’s no guarantee this priest will know anything.”

Ortiz cut in before Beth could respond. “Like you said last night. It’s the only thing we’ve got.”

“He knows something,” Beth said. She had a faraway look in her eyes. Had gone inward for a moment.

“How can you be sure?”

She focused on Vargas now. “There’s something about this place that speaks to me, Nick. Rafael said it was my home for a while, and I definitely feel like I’ve been here before.”

“You’re starting to remember?”

She shook her head. “Not exactly. It’s like what I told you about the whole Andy thing-I see these dark shapes, and I’m just waiting for them to surface.”

Vargas had been thrown by the Andy/Angie revelation. There had never been any indication that a child was involved in this, but each new day Vargas spent with this story seemed to bring a fresh new surprise.

“And the priest is one of those shapes?”

“He’d have to be, wouldn’t he? The nuns in that house didn’t just happen to bump into me on the road. Whatever we were up to, we were in it together and the priest knows about it. I’m sure he does.”

“How far is the church?” Vargas asked.

Ortiz was measuring the distance with his fingers. “Not far,” he said. “We could drive, but with everything going on around here, we might be better off on foot.”

Vargas looked at Beth. “You up to walking?”

She shot him a look. “I just killed a man with two hands and a piece of rope, Nick. I think I can manage to walk a few blocks.”

“Easy, kiddo, I’m not the enemy.”

She softened. “I’m sorry. I’m just worried about Jen and Andy.”

She stood up, a bundle of adrenaline. She hadn’t touched her espresso or her pastry.

“I can’t sit here anymore. Let’s do it.”