What was it called again?
She had to strain to remember. It was there on the periphery of her mind, but not quite fully formed.
Then, finally, the effort paid off and it came. Another small victory for the lady with the bullet in her brain.
Whoever was out there, watching her, was driving a Town Car.
A Lincoln Town Car.
57
He drove eleven hours straight, taking Highway 40 from Albuquerque, which, somewhere along the line, had turned into the 15. He stopped only to pee and for coffee, the only thing keeping him awake.
Around 1:00 A.M. he hit Los Angeles-or the outskirts of Burbank, to be more precise-where he lived in a tiny studio apartment that could best be described as shabby. One room, one bath. A bed, a desk, and a sliding glass door that led to a minuscule balcony overlooking a pockmarked street.
Despite this, it felt good to be home.
After taking a shower to wash off the day and shampooing his hair for the first time since he’d been attacked, he checked his wounds and saw that they were healing nicely.
He knew he should sleep, but there was something he wanted to do before hitting the sack. Taking the SD card from his wallet, he went to transfer the data and crime scene photos to his desktop PC, only to discover that it was turned off.
Not unusual in most households, he supposed, but Vargas always kept his computer on, even when he was away from home. A techie at the Tribune had once told him that the circuits lasted longer that way.
So why was it off?
He glanced at the clock next to his bed and saw that it was still keeping time, no flashing digits that would indicate a power loss.
It was possible that the PC could have died, but as he looked around the room he started to get a funny feeling in his gut.
Something not quite right, here.
Not that he could see it. Everything was in its usual place.
But somehow it just didn’t feel right. As if his space had been invaded by a foreign presence.
The building manager, maybe?
No.
The guy was useless. Wouldn’t even change the lightbulbs in the stairwell unless the day ended with something other than a y.
So it wasn’t the manager.
And no one else had the key.
Vargas stared at his computer a moment, trying to fight the sudden chill in his bones, then leaned down and turned it on.
A couple of beeps later, it came to life, booting up Windows, and he was starting to second-guess himself, wondering if maybe he had turned it off, that maybe this feeling was just a touch of paranoia rearing its ugly His landline rang.
Vargas snatched the receiver from his desk, checked the screen, and saw an UNKNOWN CALLER message.
But he didn’t need caller ID to tell him who it was.
And while he’d made his decision to move forward with this story-damn the consequences-that didn’t keep a wave of dread from washing through him.
He clicked the receiver button. “Yes?”
“Imagine my surprise,” Mr. Blister said, “when I drove so far to see you and you were not at home.”
The dread deepened. Did they know what he’d been up to? Confronting Rojas had been a risk, yes, but since he was still alive, he figured he’d gotten away with it.
“I stopped off in Vegas to see an old friend,” he said. “Wanted to try my luck at blackjack.”
“There is no luck, Mr. Vargas. Only destiny. And at the moment, yours does not look promising.”
“Wait, now. I did what you asked and got the hell out of Texas. I didn’t think it would matter if I took a detour.”
“Then you were mistaken. Were we mistaken as well?”
Vargas said nothing.
There was silence on the line and he tucked the phone under his chin, quickly grabbed his pants from the floor, and started pulling them on, just in case he had to move fast.
“As difficult as it may be for someone on the outside to understand,” Mr. Blister said, “it is counter to our beliefs to do harm to those who do not deserve it. As I told you, Mr. Vargas, we have no desire to punish the innocent. But perhaps we misjudged you. Perhaps you are not quite so innocent after all.”
“I’ve never claimed to be.”
“I do hope you realize that you are benefiting from our strong sense of benevolence.”
“So you keep telling me.”
“But we are not fools, either. So consider this call a reminder. Stay out of our business and we will stay out of yours.”
“You’ve made that pretty clear, too.”
“I do hope so. Because if you hear from us again, Mr. Vargas, it will not be over the telephone. Understood?”
An image skittered through Vargas’s mind. Mr. Blister shooting Junior point-blank, then peering suspiciously into the darkness of the warehouse.
Staring straight at him.
“Understood,” Vargas said.
58
The moment the line clicked, Vargas moved.
He didn’t give a damn what he’d been promised; he wasn’t about to hang around hoping they’d leave him alone.
No matter how you sliced it, these were not benevolent people. He’d seen that firsthand. And despite his instinct to ask Mr. Blister about La Santa Muerte, he had resisted. If you don’t want a hornet to sting you, don’t start poking at its nest.
But then that was exactly what he’d been doing, wasn’t it?
And Mr. Blister hadn’t come all this way to sit in Vargas’s hot tub.
Throwing on the rest of his clothes, Vargas grabbed his keys, the SD card, and the backpack in his closet that held his spare laptop, then doused the light, and went to his door.
Stopping short of opening it, he waited a moment, listening. The hallway outside had a cement floor and tended to echo, so he strained to hear any sound of movement.
Nothing.
Maybe a little too quiet.
Sucking in a breath, he opened the door a crack and peeked out, saw that the hallway was clear.
But just as he pulled the door wide and stepped past the threshold, a voice said:
“Mr. Vargas?”
