I pinch the neck of my T-shirt, pull it up to my nose. I take in a large gulp of air and run into the smoke.
For the first couple feet the smoke is thick and dense. But as I move deeper, cautiously leading with my right foot so I don’t run into anything, the smoke starts to clear.
The building itself is all but deserted. No forgotten chairs or tables. Nothing.
Which makes it easy to spot the bodies.
They lie in the corner. The woman in the middle. The children flanking her on each side.
I don’t bother rushing forward. I know it won’t make any difference. The bodies are no longer on fire. Their clothes and flesh have become charred. Now all that keeps going is the smoke. There’s nothing at all for me to do, so I duck back outside.
Stumbling several paces away from the building, I take in the fresh air, drawing in large gulps. My heart is pounding. Blood screams in my ears. It’s almost enough that I don’t hear the approaching vehicle at first. It’s only after a couple seconds I realize there’s something wrong and turn to see the police car heading my way.
My hand automatically reaches for the gun pressing against the small of my back.
But no, I can’t have a shootout with the police. Killing Ernesto Diaz and his men was one thing, but killing police is a whole different thing.
The car is almost here. I step toward the building, enough so that my view of the car is blocked, and I pull the gun out and raise it above my head and throw it as hard as I can toward the bluff. There isn’t much of a beach, so hopefully it drops into the water. And hopefully, fingers crossed, the surf doesn’t push the gun back toward shore. Because once the cops get here and see what’s happened, they’re going to search the area, and the last thing I want them to find is a gun with my fingerprints on it.
On the other side of the building the car has come to a halt. I hear doors opening and slamming shut.
I stick my finger back deep in my throat. I’ve only ever done this once before, and even then it didn’t really work right, and I realize there isn’t much in my stomach but that shouldn’t matter.
I start gagging, picturing vomit, forcing myself to remember what it smells like, and it’s enough to do the trick.
I fall to my knees right as I throw up.
Right as the policemen hurry around the building and shout at me in Spanish to put my hands on top of my head.
Part Two
The Beacon
Eleven
By the time they arrived at the scene, the smoke had cleared and there were now five police cars parked around the brick building, as well as a dark blue Honda Civic.
Ramon parked the pickup truck, killed the engine, and then reached for his mask. He only paused when he noticed Carlos grinning at him.
Ramon said, “What?”
Carlos adjusted his sunglasses.
“Nothing. I think it’s cute.”
Ramon held the mask for a beat, suddenly embarrassed.
Carlos said, “I’m just busting your balls. You have a young wife and baby at home. I would wear a mask too. But I’m an old man whose wife is gone and whose children have moved out. I have nobody to protect.”
Without another word Carlos stepped out and met up with one of the officers coming their way. That officer also wore a mask. The fact was, over half the officers at the scene had masks covering their faces. Ramon had always thought it silly, though he understood the reasoning behind it. At the time he hadn’t had a wife and daughter. Now he did, and the last thing he wanted to do was put them in danger.
He hurriedly secured the mask over his nose and lower half of his face and stepped out of the pickup truck. He met up with Carlos and the other officer as the officer pointed at the brick building.
“Three bodies inside, what look to be two children and one adult.”
Carlos said, “Where’s the woman?”
The officer stepped a few paces past them to point again toward the building. Ramon and Carlos shuffled closer to the officer to see a young woman sitting on a rock by the bluff. Two other officers stood near her.
“She was throwing up when we arrived.”
Carlos said, “She have identification?”
The officer nodded eagerly, pinching a notepad from his shirt pocket and paging through.
“Samantha Lu. Twenty-seven years old. A graduate student from California.”
“What is she doing here?”
“Vacation.”
“Is she with friends?”
“No.”
Ramon and Carlos traded glances.
Ramon said, “Did she say what made her decide to travel through Sinaloa by herself?”
“She said she needed to get away for a while. There’s bruising on her face.”
Carlos said, “What do you mean, bruising?”
“Bruising. Like somebody beat her up.”
“Does the bruising look recent?”
“I don’t know. Maybe a week or so.”
“Did you ask her about it?”
“No. At the time I didn’t think it was relevant.”
Ramon and Carlos traded another glance.
The officer said, “It didn’t happen here, if that’s what you’re thinking. I asked her if she’d been mugged or attacked since being in the country. She said no.”
Ramon said, “Even if she had been, there’s a chance she may not have told you the truth.”
Carlos said, “Where is she staying?”
The officer named a hotel in Culiacán.
“We contacted the manager and he confirmed she has a room there for the next two days.”
Ramon said, “What brought her this way?”
“She said she was driving south and noticed the smoke. She said she was worried so she pulled in to make sure nobody was hurt.”
Carlos said, “You arrived not too long after she did?”
“Yes.
