there…”
“What’s that?”
“La Santa Muerte? You don’t fuck around.”
“You know about them?”
“I know enough to keep my distance. And Little Fina’s right. You got those locos on your ass, you’re lucky to be alive.”
“So why aren’t you afraid to be seen with me?”
Ortiz took his cell phone out of his pocket and turned it on. “If I had to worry about all the people I hang out with, I wouldn’t have any friends. Besides, they start coming after me, I’ll just sic Yolanda on ’em.”
Vargas smiled, and Ortiz started the engine, checking his phone as he put the car in gear.
“What’s this?” he said, looking surprised. “I’ve got three calls. From you. ”
Vargas turned. “Those are from Beth. Let me see that.”
“What-I’m your answering machine now?”
“Just give me the phone.”
Ortiz gave it to him. “Careful, pocho. You’re stretching this whole customer service thing a little thin.”
Vargas checked the screen, saw one of the calls was a voice mail. He was about to ask Ortiz for his access code when the phone rang.
“If that’s Yolanda, tell her I’m busy.”
Vargas checked the screen, saw his name flashing, and clicked it on.
“Beth, what’s wrong? Are you-”
“He made me call you, Nick. I didn’t want to call you.”
“What are you talking about? Are you getting another headache?”
“No,” Beth said. There was panic in her voice. “This is real. It’s Rafael. He’s-”
The was a sudden loud rustling noise, a yelp of pain, then another voice came on the line:
“You’ve made this very personal, Mr. Vargas.”
Vargas felt something thud in his stomach, then spread upward into his chest, paralyzing him.
Mr. Blister.
“You motherfucker. If you touch her…”
“Oh, it is much too late for that, I’m afraid. I’ve touched her in ways you have only begun to understand. Many times, for many months.”
“What do you want from me?”
“I think you know,” Mr. Blister said. “And this is not a negotiation.”
The line clicked and Vargas snapped his head toward Ortiz. “Drive.”
“What’s going on? Is something-”
“ Drive, ” Vargas shouted.
Without another word, Ortiz jammed his foot against the pedal and took off, retracing their route at twice the speed they’d come here, reaching the hotel in half the time.
Before they came to a complete stop in the hotel parking lot, Vargas had his door open and was out of the car, bounding the outside steps two at a time to the second floor.
But as he reached Beth’s room, he slowed down, tried to catch his breath.
Her door was hanging open.
And he knew that Mr. Blister was in there.
Waiting for him.
81
Bringing the Tomcat out, Vargas approached the room cautiously, pushed his way inside.
It was dim, lit only by a single incandescent bulb, and Beth was on the bed, naked, staring up at him with terrified eyes. Her hands were tied behind her, her mouth covered with duct tape.
Mr. Blister sat in a chair in the corner, his ruined face hidden by shadows, his gun pointed at her head.
“Your taxi driver deserves a generous tip, Mr. Vargas. He got you here much sooner than I expected.”
Vargas leveled the Tomcat. “Get away from her.”
Mr. Blister smiled. “Please, Nick, put the weapon down. The math is simple. You shoot me, I shoot her. You wouldn’t want to have her blood on your hands, would you?”
“You still die in that equation.”
“Too true. But then so does she. And I have a very strong feeling you do not want that. So, please, put the weapon down.”
Vargas hesitated. If he followed Mr. Blister’s request, he’d be dead as soon as the Tomcat touched the floor.
But if he didn’t do as he was told, he had no doubt that Beth would take the bullet instead.
And that wasn’t acceptable.
Mr. Blister waited patiently. Seemed to be working through some thoughts of his own.
“Tell me something,” he said.
“What?”
“It was you, wasn’t it? In the warehouse.”
Vargas said nothing, but his eyes must have given him away.
Mr. Blister smiled. “Yes, I thought so. It is a shame I had to kill the younger one, but it couldn’t be helped. And it seems I am to blame for this situation as well. If I had merely trusted my instincts that night, you would not be here right now.”
“Since we’re sharing our deep dark secrets,” Vargas said, “tell me about La Santa Muerte.”
“Ahhh. You know about us, do you? I am not surprised. But I’m afraid your stalling tactics will not change anything. So for the third and last time, please, carefully put your weapon on the floor.”
Again Vargas hesitated. Beth’s eyes were burning him now, and she moaned against the duct tape, shaking her head, telling him not to do it. Then her gaze shifted almost imperceptibly, looking past Vargas’s shoulder.
She’d seen something in the doorway behind him, out of Mr. Blister’s line of sight.
Ortiz?
Please let it be Ortiz.
“Shall I count to three?” Mr. Blister asked.
“No,” Vargas told him. “I’m putting it down. Just don’t hurt her.”
“That’s entirely up to you.”
“I get it, I get it,” Vargas said. “You made your point.”
Then he lowered the Tomcat and started moving into a crouch to place it on the floor.
Mr. Blister smiled again, then swung his weapon around, pointing it at Vargas as Ortiz shouted from the doorway, “Down, pocho!”
— and Vargas dove, the sound of gunfire erupting around him. As he turned, he saw Ortiz fall back, bullets splintering the door frame — and Mr. Blister was on his feet now, leaking blood from his wrist, his gun on the carpet.
Grabbing Beth by the forearm, he yanked her off the bed, pulling her close, locking his arm around her neck.
Vargas brought the Tomcat up, but before he could fire, Mr. Blister kicked it out of his hand and produced a small, nasty-looking knife, holding it against Beth’s abdomen.
“Keep moving,” he said, “and I spill her intestines all over this beautiful carpet.”
Vargas froze.
“Very good, Nick. It’s nice to see a man who values human life. Especially one so precious.”
Then suddenly Ortiz was in the doorway again, holding his Glock with both hands, pointed directly at Mr. Blister’s head.
“I’ve got a clear shot, puta. So let the lady go.”
