When they were done, he made the call, surprised to find Vargas still alert. And while he knew the man was lying-could sense it-it did not matter. He had already made up his mind that El Santo was wrong about this. That Vargas needed to go.
So he called the believers outside the reporter’s apartment building and told them to get it done.
Late that morning he got word that Vargas had survived and was nowhere to be found.
Not only that, the Corolla was also missing from the apartment building parking lot, which meant that Vargas had been brave enough to return for it.
He couldn’t help but admire the man for his willingness to take such a risk.
But he knew now that he had underestimated Vargas and should not have left the task to someone else as he wasted time pleasuring his hostess. And all of this was further proof that the entire matter had been handled badly and that he should have killed Vargas back in Texas.
Perhaps El Santo wasn’t merely old but also had taken leave of his senses. Perhaps La Santisima had abandoned him. And when the old man spoke to her, he was no longer in touch with her divine spirit but merely speaking to voices inside his own addled brain.
Cursing himself for thinking such vile thoughts, he sent up a prayer, asking for forgiveness. And because he knew El Santo would soon learn of his disobedience, he called the old man and confessed.
But El Santo was in a merciful mood.
“What’s done is done,” he said. “You must come home, my son. The celebrations are about to begin. We will pray together and ask La Santisima to guide us.”
“Yes, Father. I will leave today.”
But he didn’t leave. Not immediately.
A few hours, he decided, would not make a difference, and if El Santo complained, he would explain that he had taken time to steal another car.
And this was true. He did steal a new car.
But that night, shortly past eight, he thanked the family for their hospitality, blessing them in the name of his father, then drove over to the rehabilitation clinic, parked across from the entrance, and waited.
Then, when he saw the lone security guard step outside for a cigarette, he drove around to the back, vaulted the chain-link fence, and entered the building through the courtyard, marveling at how little attention they paid to securing the place.
This was, after all, a dangerous city.
The clinic was quiet. The patients all seemed to go to bed early, with only the guard and a single nurse on duty. Their charts hung on hooks outside their doors, so it took him no time whatsoever to find her room.
Which was dark inside.
Unlike a traditional hospital, there weren’t bright lights all around, making it impossible to sleep. So he took a penlight from his pocket, flicked it on, then crossed to the bed, anxious to complete his task and leave.
But the bed was empty.
Surprised, he swept the beam around the room, but she wasn’t here.
So where had she gone?
All but the night nurse and the security guard were fast asleep, so it made no sense that she wasn’t in bed.
Crossing the room, he checked the small closet and found her robe hanging on a hook inside, along with several changes of clothing. He moved to a chest of drawers and found fresh pajamas, underwear, T-shirts, jeans. There was a pile of People magazines on top.
So where was she?
Turning, he swept the beam around the room again, coming to a stop on the nightstand, where he saw a small double-hinged picture frame. Both photographs had been removed, and next to it lay a pen and a spiral-bound notebook.
Curious, he crossed to the nightstand, picked up the notebook, and quickly leafed through it: a journal she’d been keeping of her time here.
Flipping to the last page of writing, he stared down at her words, and his bewilderment suddenly turned to anger. A hot, white living thing that grew inside his chest with each new beat of his heart.
She wasn’t just missing from her room. She had left the hospital entirely, abandoning what little she owned. Gone for good.
According to the journal entry she was headed for Playa Azul.
With someone called Nick.
The reporter.
Ignacio Vargas.
67
Before leaving Los Angeles that afternoon, they stopped at a thrift store to buy more clothes and a small suitcase to hold them. Then it was on to a supermarket for food and toiletries. They had no idea how long they’d be in Mexico, but it didn’t hurt to prepare.
On the way to San Diego they encountered a traffic jam. A truck had jackknifed on the freeway, and according to the traffic report, several cars were damaged and three people had been killed.
This was not, Beth thought, a good omen.
After she had told Nick the story of Jen’s disappearance-with as many details as she figured he could stand-they spoke very little as they drove, each consumed by thoughts of their own. But what Beth found surprising was that there didn’t seem to be any of the usual awkwardness between them. That feeling of discomfort when you spend a large amount of time with someone you’ve just met.
Despite their silence, Beth found herself at ease sitting next to him.
Was this because of the man himself? Or the fact that they shared a common goal?
Probably both, she thought.
But she couldn’t be sure.
As they crawled past the accident, Beth saw a young family standing on the side of the road near their mangled car. All seemed to have escaped in one piece, but they looked shaken and slightly shell-shocked: a man and his young wife, who cradled their baby in her arms.
The baby was crying.
The sight of the child once again stirred something in Beth’s mind: those shadowed memories that were trying hard to break though. And for one fleeting moment, she caught a glimpse of a face in the darkness.
But before it could fully register, it was gone-a barely remembered whisper-and she had no idea what to make of it.
“There’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you,” Nick said. “But you may not know the answer.”
“Which is?”
“Who’s Angie?”
She looked at him. “The police told you about that, did they?”
“Not the police,” Nick said. “The boy. Junior. He told me you said it when they found you. He thought it was your name.”
“I’ve wondered about it ever since the police questioned me. But I don’t remember an Angie or an Angela or anything close to that.”
Nick nodded and said nothing more, returning his concentration to the road. The traffic had started to clear and before long they were rolling into San Diego, where they took a bathroom break and picked up a couple of coffees.
Beth noticed Nick quickly survey the area as if he was looking for someone. He continued to move stiffly, favoring his right shoulder, and she wondered if whoever had done that to him was out there somewhere, waiting to do it again.
Or worse.
When they got back in the car, Beth said, “Are you ever going to tell me about your shoulder?”
Nick took a long sip of his coffee, then set it in the cup holder between the seats.
“I warned you, there are people who are after me.”
“Because of me.”
“No,” he said. “Because we’re dealing with some very secretive assholes who are into some very dangerous shit. I happened to stick my nose in where it doesn’t belong, and after a couple of fuckups on their part they’re pretty anxious to cut it off.”
“La Santa Muerte.”
“That’s my guess, yeah.”
“I’ve been thinking about what you said. About Juarez.”
“What about it?”
“All those kidnappings Rojas was under pressure to solve. What if they have something to do with La Santa Muerte, too?”
Nick looked at her. “You think they may have been recruiting women by snatching them off the street?”