Down Among the Dead Men (A Thriller) (42 page)
Read Down Among the Dead Men (A Thriller) Online
Authors: Robert Gregory Browne
Tags: #Mystery, #Suspense, #Thriller, #Crime
“No,” she said, moving back to Jen. “You lie. It is not true.”
“I’m afraid so, sweetie. Your lecherous, murderous, drug-smuggling, daughter-fucking asshole of a father is dead and headed straight to hell, exactly where he belongs.”
She raised the gun.
“Now do me a favor and get away from my sister so I can send you there, too.”
And as the truth sank in, Marta’s look of disbelief slowly turned to sorrow, then anger, then rage. And with a bloodcurdling scream, she launched herself at Beth like something straight out of a vampire movie, her teeth bared, a crazed, feral look in her eyes as she went for Beth’s throat—
—and Beth squeezed the trigger, putting a bullet in Marta’s brain, dropping her right there on the bedroom floor.
Jen screamed then and scrambled off the bed, moving to Marta, who now lay wide-eyed, blood leaking all over her carpet. She stood over the dead woman, tears filling her eyes.
Beth was trembling. Lowered the pistol. Not quite believing she’d just done what she’d done.
But she’d had no choice, right?
“Come on, Jen. We need to get you out of here.”
Then Jen looked up at her, the tears now streaming down that hideous face. There was a clarity in Jen’s eyes that hadn’t been there before. The drugs had worn off.
“What about Andy? Is he…?”
“He’s fine,” Beth said. “He’s with my friends.”
“Thank God, thank God. I can’t believe I almost killed him tonight.”
“It’s not your fault, Jen. They warped your mind. Drugged you. Manipulated you. Took advantage of your vulnerability. It’s what they do.” She paused, gestured. “Now, come on. Let’s go.”
“No,” Jen said. “My whole life I’ve been a burden to you. I can’t be that anymore.”
“You’ve never been anything but my little sister. And no matter what you’ve done, I’ve always loved you and I always will.”
“Then let me go.”
Beth frowned. “What are you saying?”
“Look at me. Look at my face. Look at what I did to myself. And to you. I could spend a hundred years trying to heal, trying to forgive myself, but I’ll never be whole again. I’ll never be what I was before.” She paused. “I was willing to give my life to God tonight. And that hasn’t changed.”
“What do you mean?”
Jen stared at her, intently. Beth could barely stand to look at her face, so she concentrated on the eyes instead, remembering the laughing girl on board that ship who just wanted to get laid.
“Send me to God,” Jen said. “Help me do what I should have done when I climbed that clock tower at school all those years ago.”
“Stop, Jen, you’re talking nonsense.”
“Am I? Think about it, Beth. Would you want to look like this for the rest of your life? Could you live with yourself knowing that you had almost sent your son to his death? If you have any mercy at all, if you love me, you’ll do what I ask.”
Beth shook her head, not wanting to listen to this, but some small part of her knew that Jen was right. If she were in the same position, she wouldn’t want to live, either.
“What about Andy? He needs his mother.”
“You’ll be a better mother to him than I could ever be.”
“That’s crazy talk.”
“Please, Beth. If you truly do love me, if you have any mercy in your heart for the girl who tried to kill you…”
Beth continued to stare at Jen, thinking about all their years together, all the laughter and pain and grieving and frustration—and this was what it had come down to. A damaged soul, asking to be set free.
“Please, Beth. Please…”
And as Jen stared up at her, Beth the Dutiful raised the pistol again and pulled the trigger.
Patient’s Journal
Day 92?
11:00 A.M.
They say that time heals, but I’m not quite sure that’s really true.
Time may lessen the sting, may allow you to relegate the pain to another part of your mind, to box it up and store it away, only to be brought out on special occasions—those melancholy moments that remind us of who we are.…
But we can never be truly healed.
That’s the thing about memories. There is so much we wish we could forget. We go through our lives wanting to erase the data banks, to start anew, but even if we could, what would we lose in the process?
I cherish the memories I have. Both the good and the bad. I remember them clearly and in great detail and do not regret that.
I’ve done things. Horrible things. But I know down deep that they were justified. That they needed to be done.
And I know that at this very moment Jen is in the loving arms of our parents. Which, in truth, is the only place she ever wanted to be.
After I said my good-byes to her that night, I found Nick and Cristo waiting for me in the tunnels, ready to guide me back to the church. But I didn’t need a guide. After so many months of traveling through them, I knew those passages as if they’d been etched into my brain.
In the days that followed, Nick’s detective friends, both here and in Mexico, were able to rally together and put a stop to what was left of La Santa Muerte.
The brothels were closed, the smuggling operation shut down, and before we knew it, the so-called believers were turning on one another, exposing a network of criminals and corrupt law enforcement agents that spread not just through Mexico but all the way into the United States and even parts of Canada.
There was a brief investigation into the shooting deaths of Marta and Jen, but with no witnesses and little evidence, the Mexican police hit a dead end.
The man who shot me in Albuquerque—Rojas—was stripped of his job and thrown in jail.
Peter has been arrested and charged with criminal conspiracy. He’s scheduled to be arraigned in a few days, and I’ve been asked to testify.
Cristo and his young friends were reunited with their families. And after Nick and I bid Ortiz good-bye and returned to the United States, I decided to check myself back into the clinic, to be kept under observation until Dr. Stanley tells me I’m ready to go.
That should be any day now.
Little Andy has been taken into temporary foster care here in Los Angeles. I’ve filed for custody, and my attorney thinks that, given my steady progress, the judge will grant it. The foster parents regularly e-mail photos of Andy, and I can’t help seeing Jen in his eyes.
He is her legacy. Her gift to me.
Nick comes to see me every morning, and brings me new pages of his book. I may be biased—no doubt about it, in fact—but I think he’s got something there. A real stab at reversing some of the damage he did to his career.
My own career is still waiting for me. After the scandal of Peter’s arrest, the DA decided it would be good publicity to allow me to return to my old job, with a substantial bump in pay.
But I haven’t decided whether I’ll return. I’m not sure I want to go back to a world so full of darkness. I would be content to live my days alone with Nick, listening to him read his words to me.
This isn’t a realistic prospect, of course. Merely a dream. I know that when I walk out of here I’ll have to find something to do with myself. Something to help me push away the pain. To help me move forward.
There is, however, in the back of my mind, one small concern. It’s probably nothing, but I’ve lived with it every day—a mild but constant bit of paranoia that just doesn’t seem to want to leave me alone. And what it stems from is this:
When the Mexican police found the crumpled Jaguar on the side of the road, Rafael was not inside. All that was left was a bit of blood on the seat.
And sometimes, late at night, I wake up in the darkness of my room and feel as if someone has been watching me.
Watching and waiting.
So a few days ago, I asked Nick to bring me one of the pistols Ortiz gave him.
And I keep it under my pillow.
Just in case.
Acknowledgments
I want to again thank all the usual suspects—you know who you are.
Thanks also to Emmanuel Ruiz, for his invaluable assistance with the Spanish translations; and agent extraordinaire Scott Miller of Trident Media Group.
And thank you to Marc Resnick and Sarah Lumnah, whose insights have made this a better book. You guys are the best.
And, as always, Leila.
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Table of Contents
Table of Contents