Vargas still had no idea how they’d managed to get the thing across the border-seeing as how the Border Patrol was reportedly on the lookout for it-but that didn’t much matter, did it?
Whoever he’d gotten himself involved with was not playing around. And if they were somehow associated with what had happened in the House of Death, a story that had gone through the usual news cycle, then faded away, they might be a bit concerned about some americano reporter starting to dig it all up again.
How much did he know? Who had he told?
That, if his jangled brain was remembering properly, had seemed to be Sergio’s concern. A concern that was no doubt shared by “the man himself.”
Part of Vargas wanted to simply jump into his Corolla, head straight back to California, and pretend he’d never gotten involved in any of this nonsense in the first place. But besides coming up a bit short in the smarts department, under the right set of circumstances Vargas was also insanely curious. And he could think of no better set of circumstances than the one he’d stumbled into today.
One of his old story sources, an ex-cop in Las Vegas who had a serious obsession with cards, had once described his addiction to Vargas as an itch. One that just had to be scratched. But once you scratched it, he’d said, the itch only got worse and worse until it was all you thought about.
Vargas had had his doubts about pursuing this story before today, but now the itch was setting in. And despite his encounter with Ainsworth and Sergio-an encounter Vargas was convinced would have led to his interrogation and possible death-he knew his only choice was to start scratching.
So instead of calling Harmon, he decided to chance going back to his room. His laptop was there. Along with the notes from his interviews with the Chihuahua police and the information he’d gotten from the murder file. Much of this had been transferred to the Secure Digital card he always kept in his wallet, but he hadn’t managed to do a full backup before his meeting with Ainsworth.
Going inside was a stupid move, sure, especially with his head feeling the way it did.
But he was stupid enough to make the move anyway.
28
Unlike many motels Vargas had stayed in over the years, the Western Suites Express was an enclosed two- story structure with its hallways and room entrances on the inside.
It was a design that fed the illusion that you were staying at a higher-class establishment than you were actually paying for. But the illusion was shattered the moment you stepped inside to find hallway carpet made of thin, replaceable squares and wallpaper a shade too cheap and adorned with art mart reproductions in plastic frames.
Not that any of this mattered to Vargas. But it occurred to him that if the motel charged just a couple bucks more a night, they might be able to sustain the bullshit at least until the guests got to their rooms.
He went in through a set of double doors at the back of the building. There were entrances on either end as well, but he’d noticed shortly after he checked in that the rear doors were used almost exclusively by the maids. If anyone was waiting for him inside, they’d more than likely concentrate on the main points of entry.
It was possible that he was being overly cautious. If someone really was waiting for him, why would they telegraph their presence by parking his Corolla in plain view? Unless they were just as stupid as he was. And neither Ainsworth nor Sergio struck him as mental giants.
Closing the double doors behind him, he made his way down a narrow corridor past a small alcove that housed a gurgling ice machine.
His room was on the second floor. Up ahead, on the left, was a door marked: STAIRS. He was about to cross toward it when a faint bell rang and somewhere around the corner an elevator door rolled open, voices filling the adjoining hallway.
“So what did you do?”
“What do you think I did? I fragged the motherfucker right there in the alleyway.”
Shit.
Picking up speed, Vargas lurched for the stairwell door, quickly pushed it open, then closed himself inside.
Sucking in a breath, he held it. Waited. The sudden movement had jangled his brain again and he felt a slight burning sensation under the bandage on his scalp-not to mention the hundred and fifty thousand other protests his body was making right now.
But had they seen him?
Doubtful.
And as the voices rounded the corner, Vargas realized with relief that the rush to get out of sight hadn’t even been necessary.
They weren’t a threat. They sounded like a couple of college kids talking about a video game, in which fragging motherfuckers was apparently routine procedure. Probably spending the night on the border before a trip into Juarez the next day in search of cheap booze and cheaper women.
Vargas let out the breath. Relaxed. Waited a few moments for his body to recover.
Then he hit the stairs.
The second floor looked empty. So quiet you’d think it was three in the morning instead of nine thirty on a Friday night.
Vargas left the stairwell and started for his room-which, of course, was all the way at the far end of a corridor about the length of a football field.
He took his time, not rushing it but bracing himself, just in case he had to move quickly. He felt a little silly for being so paranoid, but then his scalp began to burn again, reminding him that his paranoia was well founded.
He was staying in room 219. He moved past the elevator, mentally counting the numbers on the doors as he walked.
252, 251, 250…
He’d found himself doing that a lot lately. Counting. Wondered if he suffered from some low-grade form of Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder.
But that was the least of his worries right now.
246, 245, 244…
The elevator bell rang behind him and he tensed slightly, knowing it was probably the college students returning with a bucket of ice but worried that he might be wrong. There was nowhere to hide up here, so he picked up his pace.
238, 237, 236…
The elevator door rolled open and his shoulders bunched up, in anticipation of the worst.
Then the college kids’ voices filled the hallway, still talking about fragging and what Vargas assumed was game strategy. He’d never been a big video game fan and it all sounded like Greek to him.
But he relaxed a little, continued on.
231, 230, 229…
Ten doors to go.
He reached into his back pocket, pulled out his wallet, found his key card.
224, 223, 222…
He was a few steps from the door when he stopped in his tracks.
If someone had managed to circumvent the lock and was waiting inside his room, then sticking a key card in the slot and just pushing the door open was probably not a terrific idea. In fact, it was one of his worst ideas ever.
In his imaginary movie, he’d find a way to break into the adjoining room instead, sneak out onto the balcony, and come in through the sliding door at the rear of the suite, surprising any intruders. This would undoubtedly involve seducing his next-door neighbor, who was in town for a cosmetics convention and just happened to look like Salma Hayek or Angelina Jolie.
