Down Among the Dead Men (A Thriller) (8 page)

The tire.

The goddamned tire.

Where there’s a spare, there’s bound to be a tire iron, right?

Why hadn’t he thought of that before?

Every car came equipped with one. And it might be true that he was a pitiful excuse for a car owner, but the
previous
owner, good old Harry, would be the last person in the world to leave his trunk without the proper emergency gear.

At least Vargas hoped so.

Harry hadn’t been too diligent about cable replacement, had he?

Still, Vargas had a feeling that somewhere down in that tire well there was a jack, some flares, and a tire iron, which, like the manual in his glove box, had lain untouched for at least a year and a half.

Finding the edge of the carpet, he peeled it back and reached down into the well, rooting around down there until he found a bulky cloth sack with a drawstring on top. The tools inside clanked as he picked it up.

Bingo.

Pulling it out, he loosened the string, opened the sack, and found the tire iron—at least what
felt
like a tire iron—nestled up against the jack. He grabbed it, set the sack aside, then ran his fingers along the rim of the trunk lid until he found the latch.

Shifting his weight for leverage, he shoved the sharp side of the tire iron between the latch and the lid and levered it back with a quick, hard jerk.

The latch snapped and the lid flew open, Vargas scrabbling up to the edge, looking down at the road passing beneath him. His only choice was to jump, but he knew he’d do some damage in the process.

Then the Corolla began to slow, Sergio apparently aware that something was up, and Vargas started over the side—

—only to hear the loud, long honk of a horn.

Snapping his head up, he saw a familiar F-150 headed straight for him. Fast.

Shit.

Ainsworth.

He’d forgotten about him.

Vargas pulled back just as the F-150 smashed into the rear of the Corolla, the impact throwing him forward again. Grabbing onto the lip of the trunk, he held tight, trying to avoid becoming part of the truck’s grille, just as Sergio put on the brakes.

Ainsworth braked, too, getting some distance between them, then sped up again, about to ram the Corolla a second time.

Knowing it was now or never, Vargas scrambled over the edge, then dove sideways toward the road, tucking his head as he went.

He hit the pavement hard, tumbling like a cat caught in a dryer, feeling his shoulder give, another stab of pain. The world swirled around him, quick flashes of color, as he rolled into the dirt at the side of the road and lay still.

Hearing the screech of tires, he willed himself to sit up, saw Ainsworth and Junior and a squat, muscular Mexican guy—Sergio—emerging from their vehicles, shouting at him, and he knew he had to get to his feet, fast.

Glancing around, he saw that he was on a main drag, a cluster of buildings in the distance. And beyond that—

—the border station—

—the fucking border station—

—where several rows of cars were lined up for passage into El Paso.

Vargas jumped to his feet, his body protesting, then turned toward the station and ran, not looking back, not thinking about how close the others might be.

Someone shouted his name again—Sergio this time—and Vargas picked up speed, forcing his legs to move faster than they’d ever moved before, feeling as if they could give out on him at any moment.

Approaching the line of cars, he began to weave through them, not slowing down, doing his best to make himself a difficult target. Grabbing hold of the duct tape plastered over his mouth, he yanked it free.

“Help me!” he shouted. “Somebody help me!”

All around him drivers rolled down their windows and craned their necks, trying to get a look at what was going on. Trying to get a glimpse of the shouting madman.

Up ahead, a guard came scrambling out of his booth, drawing his sidearm as he went.

He pointed it directly at Vargas.
“Alto! Manos arriba!”
 

Chancing a look behind him, Vargas saw that Ainsworth and crew had stopped short at the sight of the guard, their gazes unwavering. And none of them looked happy.

“Alto o disparo!”
the guard shouted, and Vargas snapped his head around. There were two more of them now, guns trained on Vargas.

Coming to an abrupt halt, he dropped to his knees and threw his hands into the air as the guards ran toward him.

“I’m an American!” he shouted.
“Soy americano!”
 

And a moment later, as they pulled him to his feet, he repeated the words, much softer this time.

“Soy americano…”

19

Beth

B
ETH DIDN’T HAVE
much of an appetite, but she went to breakfast anyway. After tossing and turning all night, she awoke early, only to find that Jen hadn’t returned and her bunk was empty.

But Beth wasn’t surprised. Why should she be?

This was typical Jen behavior. A symptom, Beth believed, of her sister’s unending restlessness. And the unhappiness that had plagued her since the death of their parents.

Beth chose the dining room rather than fight the crowd at the food court. It was a risky choice, considering what had happened there last night, but she decided to take her chances.

Heading to Deck Five, she made her way inside and went straight to her assigned table, which was, thankfully, as empty as Jen’s bunk. Maybe she could eat in peace.

As she sat, their waiter, Timothy—who, according to his name badge, hailed from Germany—came over and put a menu in front of her.

“And how are we this morning?”

His English was very good, with only a trace of an accent.

“We,” Beth said, “are seriously considering retiring to a convent.”

Timothy smiled. “And what fun would that be?”

“Apparently I’m not allowed to have fun.”

“Oh? Why is that?”

“Long story,” she said, then gave the menu a quick scan and closed it. “I’ll have the lox and bagel with extra cream cheese and a cup of coffee. Black.”

“Would you like capers with that?”

“Sure. Why not live a little.” She handed him the menu. “My sister didn’t happen to drop by this morning, did she?”

“Sister?”

“The girl I was sitting with last night. The one who thought she was at a rock concert?”

He smiled slightly. “Yes, I remember.”

“How could you forget? I’m still mortified at the thought.”

Timothy shook his head. “You shouldn’t let such things bother you. People drink, they go a little crazy. It’s nothing new. We see it all the time.”

Beth nodded. “One of the perks of the job, I guess.”

These people lived and worked on this ship 24/7 for weeks on end, so she imagined they did see quite a lot of crazy behavior. Enough to make Jen’s display last night fairly innocu—

“Hey, Sis.”

Beth snapped her head around and saw Jen crossing the dining room toward her.

Jen looked—to coin one of Peter’s favorite phrases—as if she’d been rode hard and put away wet. “I was hoping I’d find you here.”

She pulled out a chair and sat, leaning her elbows on the table. Her eyelids were drooping. Not that this made her any less beautiful.

“Just coffee for me,” she said to Timothy.

Timothy gave Beth a quick look, then with a small bow said, “I’ll put in your order,” before disappearing into the kitchen.

“If I were alive,” Jen said, “I’d say he’s kinda cute. Is he the same one from last night?”

“You don’t remember?”

“They all wear those gold tunics, it’s hard to keep them straight. Besides, I think I’ve lived about three lifetimes since then. Are you still mad at me?”

“Mad?” Beth said. “I wasn’t the one screaming to be left alone.”

“I’m sorry, okay? You know how I get when I’m high.”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

Jen frowned. “Look at you, still in mom mode. You really have to find a new hobby, Beth. I can’t keep you entertained forever.”

Beth just stared at her. “You’re about as entertaining as a train wreck.”

“Nice. Tell me how you really feel.”

“I’m sick of it, Jen. You only invited me on this trip because Debbie flaked out. You give me all this bullshit about wanting to help me work through the divorce, and the first chance you get, you’re off fucking Bob and Betty Beautiful—who, I might add, are brother and
sister
—and I’m stuck watching Keanu Reeves stand in for Michael Rennie.”

“In other words, you
are
still mad.”

Beth shook her head, exasperated.

“I give up,” she said, then pushed her chair back and rose. “I want off this goddamn ship. And once we get into port, I’m catching the next plane back home.”

“Oh, for godsakes, don’t be so dramatic.”

“Dramatic?”

“I told you I was going to get laid, so I got laid.”

“You’re disgusting, you know that?”

“Look, I don’t know what you think happened last night, but you’re wrong.”

“Am I? It didn’t look that way to me.”

“We were
dancing,
okay? Just messing around. If it makes you feel any better, when it came time to do the dirty deed, it was just me and Rafael. Marta didn’t come to the room until later.” She smiled. “Not that I would’ve minded a little extra attention…”

Beth eyed her dully. “Enjoy the rest of the cruise. I’m out of here.”

She started to walk away, then Jen said, “You’re just jealous.”

Beth stopped in her tracks, spun around.
“What?”
 

“You’ve always been jealous. You were in—what—your second year of college before you lost your virginity? I was already working on orgasm number two thousand fourteen by then.”

It took everything Beth had to keep her jaw from dropping. “Are you even listening to yourself?”

“You want to know the real reason I hung out with the Santiagos last night? Because they make me feel good. Like someone special. They let me be me, without apology. And all I ever get from you is disapproval. Do you know how many times in our life you’ve treated me like an adult? Zero.”

Beth squinted at her. “So what exactly are you saying? You don’t feel special because I don’t pump you full of drugs and use you for a sex toy? You need therapy, Jen. The sooner, the better.”

“That’s not what I mean, and you know it.”

“All I know,” Beth said, “is that we dock in Playa Azul in less than twenty minutes. And as soon as we get there, I’m gone.”

And with this, she turned on her heels and headed for the exit.

20

SHE WAS NAVIGATING
the narrow hallway to their stateroom when Jen caught up with her.

“Beth, wait!”

Beth waved a hand at her. “Enough. I’ve had enough.”

“Look, I’m sorry for being so cranky. I’m hungover and haven’t had any—”

“There’s always an excuse.”

“It’s not an excuse. It’s a reason.”

Beth said nothing. Just shook her head, then shoved her key card into the slot and opened their stateroom door.

Jen grabbed her arm. “Beth, please. Don’t be mad. We’re family, for godsakes. We’re not supposed to be pissed at each other. At least not to the point that you’re ready to hop on a plane.”

“Oh, I’m not mad. I’m just jealous, remember?”

Jen sighed. “And I’m an idiot, okay?”

Beth didn’t want to cry but felt the tears start to well up.

“You’re just like Peter, you know that? One minute you treat me like shit; the next you’re trying to make nice. I can’t take it anymore.”

“Oh, come on, Sis, don’t cry. I…” She stood back suddenly and patted her chest. “Go ahead, punch me. Right in the boob job. I deserve it.”

“I don’t want to punch you.”

“I’m serious. I’m a complete bitch and you’re right about everything and I deserve to be punched.”

“Now you’re being ridiculous.”

Beth pushed through the doorway and stepped inside, flicking on the light.

Jen followed her. “Are you really leaving?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Beth moved to the closet, slid open the door, and started pulling her clothes off the hangers. “Because I shouldn’t’ve come in the first place.”

“How can you say that?”

Beth looked at her. “You were right about me. I
am
jealous. I’m jealous of your ability to say ‘fuck you’ to everyone around you and never take responsibility for a goddamn thing.”