They were trembling.
He shifted his gaze to the scar on her scalp, the tufts of hair growing around it, and had the sudden urge to reach out and place his palm against it, wishing he could somehow heal her wounded psyche with his touch. Make her whole again.
In his imaginary movie, her face would light up and all of the pieces of the puzzle that were missing would come to her in quick, dramatic flashes and he would pull her into his arms and kiss her, celebrating the miraculous breakthrough.
But, once again, reality intruded. The conveniences of Hollywood wouldn’t play here.
She looked up at him now, and there were tears in her eyes.
“Thank you,” she said softly. She wiped her tears with her sleeve. “At least now I know how it happened. How I got this way. And that’s something, isn’t it?”
He nodded. “But maybe you’re better off not remembering.”
“I wouldn’t go that far. I’d be happy to suffer a little emotional distress if it meant a fully functioning brain.”
“Point taken,” Vargas said. “So let’s try one last thing.”
She looked at him quizzically as he reached into his pocket and pulled out the string that held the hooded skull ring. La Santisima.
“The boy I told you about. Junior? He took this from you when they found you in the house.”
He placed it in her hands.
Beth stared at it, her brow furrowing.
Then suddenly she was crying again, a flood of uncontrolled tears rolling down her cheeks.
“Oh my God,” she said. “Oh my God.”
64
Vargas felt helpless, wanting to console her but not quite sure how to go about it.
“What is it? Do you remember something?”
“Yes…,” she said. “I–I mean, no, not in the way you think. This is the ring my sister Jen picked out for me in Playa Azul. She had one just like it. We bought them from a street vendor, right before she disappeared.”
Beth clutched the ring tightly in her hand and closed her eyes, getting lost in the moment. Then she looked at him, wiped her tears again.
“Sorry about that.”
“Nothing to be sorry about,” he said, then nodded to the ring. “Do you know what that symbolizes?”
She looked at it, shrugged. “I figure it’s some kind of spooky, goth thing. I’m sure the kids love them.”
“It’s no goth thing,” Vargas said. “I’m pretty much convinced that what happened to you in that house may be related to a religious cult.”
“What?”
“That hooded skull is the symbol of La Santisima. Holy Death.”
Beth said nothing, but her face suddenly went pale, and Vargas knew he’d struck a nerve.
“What is it?”
“La Santisima. I’ve heard that before.”
“Where?”
“From Rafael.”
Vargas was at a loss. “Rafael?”
“Rafael Santiago. We met him and his sister Marta on the cruise the night before Jen went missing. They took her back to their cabin. And I’m pretty sure they had something to do with her disappearance.”
“Are these the two the police checked into?”
She nodded. “But they don’t believe me. No one believes me. My own doctor thinks the Santiagos are a figment of my imagination.”
Vargas, who had his own share of credibility problems, could sympathize.
“What was it this Rafael guy said about La Santisima?”
“I ran into him on the street in Playa Azul. Although I’m not sure it was an accident. And he started talking about spirituality and some other bs to try and justify the fact that he was boffing his own sister.”
“What?”
“It’s too disgusting to even get into. But he told me that they were blessed by La Santisima. That we all are.”
The words sounded chillingly familiar to Vargas. Unfortunately, it didn’t really mean all that much.
“Let’s not get too excited,” he said. “Worship of La Santisima is pretty common in Mexico. This might just be a coincidence. Did he mention anything about La Santa Muerte or a guy called El Santo?”
She thought about it, then shook her head.
“But Jen said that Marta Santiago was a bruja and claimed that she could speak to the dead.”
“I’m afraid that’s pretty common, too,” Vargas said. “My own aunt liked to tell us she was a bruja. Scared the hell out of me. But the only dead person she ever spoke to was her husband, and usually to curse him out.”
He could see the disappointment in Beth’s eyes. He felt it, too.
Her shoulders slumped and she said, “So what happens now?”
“What do you mean?”
“Now that I’m a big fat bust, your story’s at a dead end-no pun intended. Where do you go from here?”
Vargas thought about this. There was really only one place left to go.
“Back to Mexico,” he told her. “Down to Ciudad de Almas.”
“Why there?”
“That’s where the nuns were from. A small church down there-the Church of the Sacred Heart. The priest was interviewed by the Chihuahua state police, but he wasn’t much help. Maybe I’ll have more luck with…” He paused. The look in Beth’s eyes had changed. “What is it?”
“Ciudad de Almas. That’s where Rafael said he was from.”
“Probably just another coincidence,” Vargas said.
She shook her head. “No. That’s too many now. I’ve worked a lot of cases, and when the coincidences start piling up it means they aren’t coincidences at all.” She paused, weighing a thought, then looked directly at him. “Take me with you.”
“What?”
“To Mexico. This is all connected somehow. I know it is. I can feel it in my gut.”
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”
“Maybe all I need to jar the memories is to get out of this godforsaken place. Feel like I’m doing something, rather than sitting here like a warmed-over piece of meat.”
“You’re not well,” Vargas said. “The clinic would never release you.”
“I’m here of my own free will. I can leave whenever I want to.”
Vargas hesitated. “You don’t even know me. A few minutes ago you were ready to throw me out.”
She took hold of his hands, squeezed them.
“Please, Nick. Take me with you. We’ll start in Playa Azul and work our way to Ciudad de Almas.”
“There are people trying to hurt me,” he told her. “I can’t get you mixed up in that.”
“Bullshit. I’m already mixed up in it. Why else would you be here?” She paused. “You have to help me, Nick. Help me fill in this gap and find out what happened to Jen. I’m begging you.”
Vargas stared at her, at the desperation in her eyes. Despite her progress, she still looked fragile and not particularly roadworthy.
But she needed to know the truth even more than he did. And when he thought about it, her quest could well be the central theme of his book. He could build the story around her. Through her. Her presence would give it the emotion it needed.
Besides, there was something about this woman that compelled him to want to help her-that instant,
