“I’ll come out.”
Ainsworth’s gaze didn’t waver. “You’re gonna do a helluva lot more than that, Kimo Sabe. You’re gonna lead the way. Take us inside, show Nick here where we found the rest of those bodies.”
Junior solemnly nodded his head. “Yessir.”
Climbing out of the truck, he stared at the house a long moment before moving up to its crumbling doorway. Pausing at the threshold, he shot his father a nervous glance, then gestured for Vargas to follow him inside.
Robert Gregory Browne
Down Among the Dead Men (A Thriller)
8
Vargas didn’t believe in ghosts. His childhood had been full of the usual stories, like the tale of La Llorona, the inconsolable widow who wandered the countryside crying for her dead children. Or the shuffling specter of a murdered husband in search of his golden arm.
But Vargas had always taken such tales for exactly what they were: harmless folklore. Make-believe stories told in hushed tones by his older brother, Manny, who was always trying to get a rise out of little Nick as they huddled in the darkness of their bedroom.
Yet there was something about this place-a sense of foreboding-that brought the memory of those nights flooding back to him, and he knew that if his brother were still alive he’d be milking it for all it was worth.
Vargas followed Junior through the doorway into a small room with a dusty plank floor and faded yellow walls. More graffiti. The word paraiso — or paradise-was spray painted atop it all in bold red letters.
A decades-old sofa sat against one wall, its upholstery ripped to shreds, its stuffing long gone. There were a couple of tattered aluminum patio chairs next to it, probably brought in by squatters long after the house had been abandoned. A few used syringes and crushed cigarette butts were scattered around them.
“This room was empty,” Ainsworth said as he stepped inside behind Vargas. “We found it pretty much like it is now.”
“Through here,” Junior said, then crossed to a doorway on his left. Vargas followed, moving with him down a narrow, litter-strewn hallway to a large room with a sink and overturned icebox. Obviously the kitchen. Beyond it was another short hallway that ended at what seemed to be the only door left in the place, a dilapidated slab of wood with peeling blue paint and a hole where the knob should be.
Junior came to a stop just short of the second hallway.
“In there,” he said, gesturing to the door. “That’s where we found ’em. Me and Big Papa.”
“All four?”
“Five,” Ainsworth said behind him.
Vargas turned. “Four in there and the one outside, right?”
Ainsworth shook his head. “There were six bodies altogether.”
“But the police said-”
“I don’t give a good goddamn what those bastards told you. We found one outside and five in the room. Even Junior can do the math on that one.”
“But I spoke to the investigating officer. He said there were only five bodies.”
“Cops say a lot of things. Don’t mean it’s true. Especially down here.”
“Why would he lie?”
Ainsworth shrugged. “My guess is he doesn’t want anyone to know about the American gal.”
Vargas paused. “The what?”
“You heard me.”
Vargas frowned. He had personally gone over the police file and there was never any mention that one of the victims was an American, female or otherwise. It was true that the lead detective, Rojas, had declined to show him the crime scene photos, but that had merely been a gesture to protect the dignity of the victims.
At least that’s what Rojas had said.
But could the police files have been sanitized before Vargas got hold of them?
If Ainsworth was telling the truth, this put a whole new spin on things. And maybe all the time Vargas had spent on this story so far would turn out not to be a waste. Far from it.
Ainsworth grinned. “You ain’t no Mike Wallace, are you, son?”
“Cut the bullshit,” Vargas said. “Did you really find an American?”
With an impatient gesture, Ainsworth pushed past Junior and moved to the dilapidated blue door.
“Let me show you,” he said, then pushed it open and stepped inside.
9
Vargas followed Ainsworth, with Junior now bringing up the rear. He wasn’t sure why, but he suddenly felt uncomfortable being sandwiched between these two men.
Pushing the thought aside, he stepped into a large room, what must have been the master bedroom. A single paneless window looked out onto the desert landscape, the late-afternoon sun streaming in, falling across a ruined old queen-size mattress.
The mattress was caked with grime and dried blood.
Lots of it.
Soaked in deep.
The floor was also painted with the stuff, the graffiti-laden walls covered with splashes of arterial spray, now darkened with age.
Vargas felt the chill again. Stronger than before. Accompanied by a wave of revulsion.
This was where it had happened. The massacre he’d first heard about on Channel Z, then read about in El Diario de Chihuahua. The house full of butchered nuns. A story that, for reasons he couldn’t explain, had grabbed hold of him and refused to leave him in peace. Looking around the room, he could imagine the screams of horror, the cries of pain, echoing through the desert. Heard by no one.
Except the killers.
Ainsworth pointed to the floor.
“There were three of ’em right here.” He stood in the center of the room, an odd half smile on his face. He looked a lot like his son. “Three women. All Mex. Two of ’em with their throats slit and the third shot straight through the heart.”
“What about the American?”
“On the bed. Pretty little white gal and another local. The Mexican had been gutted, and the American had taken at least two bullets to the chest.” He shook his head. “Whatever happened in here, it musta been one helluva party.”
Vargas nodded. “How do you know the white girl was an American?”
Something shifted in Ainsworth’s eyes. As if he’d been thrown off guard by the question.
“I just know, is all.”
“How?”
“She looked it, for one. Had that well-tended thing going. Never seen a hard day’s work in her life. Plus she was wearing a USC sweatshirt. Go, Trojans.”
“That doesn’t mean much. Did she have any kind of identification on her? Driver’s license?”
Junior, who stood in the doorway, said, “We didn’t touch anything. We didn’t take-”
“Shut your tamale trap,” Ainsworth snapped. Then he turned again to Vargas. “You think we find a bunch of dead bodies, we start checking IDs? You’re just gonna have to take my word for it on the American thing.”
And all at once Vargas understood. These two Texas shit kickers had not only found the bodies, they’d ransacked them, too. Cash, jewelry. Anything they could find. It wasn’t likely they’d gotten much for their effort, but
