Vargas tried to swallow. “…What?”
“Has the message…been…received.”
Vargas’s voice wavered. “Yes. Yes, it has.”
“Excellent,” the man said. “You had better go now. You have a long drive ahead of you.”
Vargas just nodded, unable to speak, then clicked off the phone.
32
He must’ve checked his rearview mirror at least a hundred times before he hit the interstate, but he saw no sign of the Town Car.
Not that this was any guarantee he wasn’t being followed.
He left the way he came, shooting up the 10 toward Las Cruces, figuring he’d drive straight into Phoenix, take a rest, then continue on to Los Angeles. But by the time he reached New Mexico-a short forty-minute drive from El Paso-he was feeling sick to his stomach and pulled into a truck stop to throw up.
Staggering out of the restroom, he sat in a booth near the windows of the truck stop cafe, searching the parking lot for any sign of the Town Car.
All he saw were half a dozen big rigs and his own battered Corolla.
This gave him some relief, but there was something else gnawing at him that just didn’t seem to want to let go. It was, he thought, the thing that had made him sick. A feeling he’d had only once in the past, when confronted about his drug abuse and those accusations of fraud:
Shame.
He felt ashamed.
Vargas had been in tight situations before. Had seen his life in danger. Had been threatened and terrorized by gang members on the streets of East Los Angeles. Had gone up against striking Teamsters who wanted to beat him senseless. Had even been shot by a psycho ex-cop whose career he had managed to destroy with a series of articles on police corruption.
But he’d never before backed down.
Never.
He knew it was a miracle that he was still alive. Whoever was behind this thing, this House of Death massacre, could easily have killed him and been done with it. He wasn’t sure why he had been spared but thought that it might have something to do with his profession, no matter how tarnished his reputation might be.
A dead or missing reporter-especially one as notorious as Vargas-was like a dead or missing whistle-blower. It might raise more questions than these people could afford. So why not scare the ever-loving crap out of the guy and send him on his way?
And it had worked.
He was about as spooked as a man could get.
Despite all those past brushes with injury and death, despite all his thoughts of an itch needing to be scratched, Vargas had caved. And caved big-time.
The sight of that severed head-which he’d left in the alleyway Dumpster-had done exactly what it was intended to do.
And he felt ashamed.
Ashamed for letting them terrorize him. For letting them scare him away from a story that was looking to be much bigger than he had ever imagined. A story he had hoped would be the first step in salvaging a ruined career.
And he needed that career. Needed it desperately.
But he also liked breathing.
A waitress came over. She didn’t look much older than a high school kid, but she sounded like an old truck stop pro.
“What can I get you, hon?”
A backbone, Vargas almost told her, but he wasn’t in the mood for conversation. “Just coffee.”
“You look like you could use something stronger. Bad night?”
Vargas glanced at his reflection in the window. Was it that obvious?
“Bad enough,” he said.
She nodded. “I know how that goes. How about a piece of cherry pie to cheer you up a bit?”
Vargas shook his head, feeling his stomach flip-flop. “Just the coffee.”
She nodded again and went away and he returned his attention to the parking lot as another big rig pulled in. A beefy trucker wearing a cowboy hat climbed down from the driver’s seat, eyeballing Vargas as he crossed toward the cafe entrance.
Vargas averted his gaze, then immediately regretted it, feeling like a spineless fool. Not that he gave a shit about macho stare-downs, but Jesus, what the hell was the matter with him?
When had he lost his edge?
He sat there, waiting for his coffee, sinking deeper and deeper into the quicksand of depression, wondering where the old Nick Vargas had gone.
He thought about the men who had brutalized him, about the bodies in that desert house. About the American woman, who was probably long dead but certainly deserved better than she’d gotten.
Deserved to have her story told.
Sure, he could forget about her and go back to California, maybe get a job writing technical manuals or working up travel brochures, and he might lead a safe, carefree life-maybe even a comfortable one.
But he’d never get another book deal, and he’d never again work for a major newspaper, would never feel the pride he’d once felt when he saw his byline above the fold.
And he would always be remembered as the Hillbilly Heroin Addict who almost faked his way to a Pulitzer.
All because he had turned tail and run. Had let himself be intimidated by three border rats and a thug with a half-burnt face.
Mr. Blister.
A voice on the phone.
And as the waitress brought Vargas’s coffee, smiling warmly as she set it in front of him, he knew he was about to do something stupid again, if for no other reason than to rid himself of this feeling of shame.
He may have lost his edge, but he could get it back. He may well lose his life in the process, but what good was it if he lived it as a coward?
He had every right in the world to be afraid, but even the darkest of fears could be overcome.
He was, after all-as old-fashioned and corny as it might sound-a muckraker.
A truth seeker.
And maybe some of that truth was waiting for him on an egg ranch in El Paso.
33
Beth
The first thing she did was go back to their stateroom, hoping that Jen was either inside sulking or getting some much-needed sleep.
But it was empty.
As dark and uninviting as ever.
Not that she’d expected anything else.
Trying to convince herself that Jen’s abrupt disappearance was just her way of saying, Fuck you, Beth took
