Off the Rails Page 4

  “Thank you,” he said, sliding off the exam table. His complexion was ashen. Slapping a bandage on a gunshot wound was no miracle cure. He looked weak and nauseated. He wouldn’t get far on foot, maybe half a block before he dropped.

  She crossed her arms over her chest. Giving him first aid had calmed her down a little. She’d been able to focus on the injury instead of this terrifying predicament. But now, staring him right in the face, an awful thought occurred to her. She was no longer useful to him. And he had to know that she’d call 911 as soon as he left the clinic.

  “You have a car?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said, her voice quaking. “Take it.”

  “Get the keys.”

  She whirled around and opened the drawer where her purse was located.

  “Go slow,” he barked. Then he wilted against the exam table, as if the effort had wrecked him. “Slow,” he repeated.

  She lifted her purse from the drawer and fumbled for the keys. “It’s the white Volvo.”

  “Get the door for me.”

  Hitching her purse on her shoulder, she skirted around him and opened the back door. As soon as he shuffled through it, he gestured to her vehicle.

  “Help me walk.”

  Anything to get rid of him. She put an arm around him gingerly and continued forward. His motions were stiff, as if blood loss had seized his muscles. Cramping was common after a traumatic injury. His body was shutting down.

  They crossed the short distance with some difficulty. The sun beat down on the crown of her head and traffic sounds roared in her ears. Cars darted through the nearby midsection. People living their everyday lives, oblivious to her plight.

  “Get down,” he growled suddenly.

  She ducked behind her car with him as two police cruisers drove by. She watched them through the dusty back window of her Volvo. When the coast was clear, he straightened and directed her toward the passenger side. His eyes were dull from pain, forehead dotted with sweat. She didn’t guess his intentions until it was too late. As soon as she opened the door for him, he pushed her in.

  Tears of shock and dismay filled her eyes. “No,” she cried. “Please, no.”

  He pointed the gun at her. “Scoot over and drive.”

  She shook her head. No, no, no. This was not okay. She’d read somewhere that abductions were rarely survivable. The best option was to fight before you got shoved into a car. But she was already inside, staring down the barrel of a gun.

  “Please,” she said again.

  He just looked at her. Waiting for her to comply. There was no hint of compassion in his eyes, just impatience. He was going to take her hostage because it was his only option. It was this or the police, and he’d rather die than get arrested.

  He’d rather kill.

  She scrambled across the cab and climbed behind the wheel. He eased into the passenger seat. She found her keys clutched in her hand. She wanted to open the driver’s side door and run. He aimed the barrel at her right thigh, as if he wouldn’t hesitate to hobble her. She wasn’t brave enough to test his resolve. Fingers trembling, she started the engine.

  “To the border,” he said. “Then you can go.”

  She didn’t believe him. Fuck you, she wanted to scream. Fuck you and your drug war or mass murder or whatever you’re into. She thought of her parents, who hadn’t wanted her to move to Chula Vista or work in a questionable neighborhood.

  “It’s perfectly safe,” she’d assured them.

  Perfectly safe.

  The phone in her purse chimed with a text-message notification as she merged onto the freeway. Probably the receptionist from the clinic. Maybe her mother, who called once a week, or the guy she’d just met on that dating website. They were supposed to get together for a drink tomorrow night. Would she be alive tomorrow night?

  Oh God. Tears spilled down her cheeks.

  Her kidnapper grabbed the phone from her purse, read the message, and chucked it out the window.

  All of her contacts, music, notes, apps. Everything. Gone.

  She wanted to protest, but she was too afraid to speak. She was trapped. Frozen with fear, jaw clenched tight.

  Just get through this, she said to herself. Just get through it.

  She didn’t know why she kept repeating that mantra. She expected him to kill her as soon as they crossed the border into Mexico, so she shouldn’t be so eager to get there. If she tried to wreck the car or flag down a cop, her kidnapper might shoot her on the spot. She clenched her hands around the wheel and drove south at a moderate speed, unable to think of a way to escape.

  He didn’t seem anxious. He settled into the seat and rested his gun on his abdomen, pointed at her casually. His eyes were half-lidded. She hoped he’d slip into a coma, or just fucking die, but she wasn’t counting on it. He had a coarse, indestructible look to him.

  When she was about twelve, her parents had hired a gardener to tear out a thorny bush in their front yard. He’d killed a rattlesnake with his shovel and showed it to her. Even after he’d removed the head, the snake’s body continued to writhe.

  This man reminded her of that snake.

  She didn’t get stopped at the border. There was no customs inspection, no questions, just an impatient wave-through. She’d never been to Tijuana before and it was total chaos. The traffic rules were beyond her comprehension. She slowed down out of caution and heard about twelve angry honks. Smothering a cry of distress, she continued forward.

  Her passenger shifted in his seat and directed her through a series of turns. His words were slurred, his grip on lucidity slipping. Some of his instructions were in Spanish, incomprehensible. He led her into the bowels of the city, down dirt roads and narrow streets, past industrial zones and bustling shantytown neighborhoods. Then they reached the Pacific Ocean, with its fish-salt smell and stucco-facade hotels. He seemed to fade in and out, but never quite gave up the ghost.

  “Turn left,” he mumbled, pointing at a road that curved alongside the coastal bluffs. They entered a secluded area that reminded her of Chula Vista’s Telegraph Canyon. Wind-carved hills and sagebrush mixed with sandy earth.

  “Aquí,” he said finally. “The black gate.”

  A tall cast-iron gate stood in front of a long driveway. She pulled into the space next to a security console. He fumbled in his pocket for a black, rectangle-shaped object. After a few clumsy tries, he shoved it into the chamber of the gun.

  She stared at him in horror. This whole time, his gun hadn’t even been loaded.

  And now it was.

  “Are you going to kill someone?” she asked.

  “Not you, mariposa.”

  A wave of dismay coursed through her. She’d misunderstood his intentions. He hadn’t come here to lick his wounds and lay low. He’d come to wreak more havoc and destruction. He’d used her to aid his escape. She’d expedited his next murder.

  “Thanks for the ride,” he said politely, as if she’d done it by choice. Then he opened the door, struggled to a standing position…and went down like a ton of bricks.

  She gasped as he crumpled to the asphalt. His gun skittered across the driveway and his left foot got hung up on the floorboard. He wasn’t all the way out of the vehicle. He stayed in that position, unmoving. Unconscious. She didn’t know what to do. If she reversed, she’d run him over, maybe drag his broken body along the road.

  She stared at his slack form in horror. Maybe she could reach out and free his foot, but his legs would still be in the way of her tires. She wasn’t cold-blooded enough to back over him. She’d taken the same oath as every doctor: Do no harm.

  After a minute of mental scrambling, she put the car in park and engaged the parking brake. Then she got out and walked around to the passenger side. He was facedown on the pavement, his left leg bent at an odd angle. She yanked on his ankle to pull him loose. His boot hit the ground with a thump. Unfortunately, he was still in the way of her tires. She could try dragging him backward by the arms, but it would be d
ifficult. Putting extra stress on his torso might exacerbate his injury from serious to critical too.

  Shit.

  She was going to have to leave her car and walk into the city. She didn’t want to wander around a foreign country alone, without her cellphone, but what choice did she have? They had taxis in Mexico. She could find a pay phone.

  Her kidnapper moaned, still alive.

  Bastard.

  “Get up,” she said, nudging his shoulder with her toe. “Get up or I’ll run you over!”

  He didn’t budge.

  She thought about kicking him while he was down. Instead she made a sound of frustration and went to retrieve her purse from the front seat. As her fingers closed around the leather strap, something very bad happened.

  A black SUV pulled in behind her car, blocking her escape.

  Chapter 5

  Her scent haunted him all the way to Taxco.

  Ian had expected the same punch-in-the-gut feeling he always got when he saw Maria. He wasn’t disappointed. Her beauty was stupefying, but he’d braced himself for it. He’d been ready to meet her pretty brown eyes. He’d watched her lips part in surprise, even delight.

  He tried not to read too much into her reaction. She hadn’t known he was here to find Armando, not to pick up where they’d left off in the hotel room the other night. It wasn’t appropriate to leer at her while her mother was standing right there, so he’d schooled his expression. He’d kept his thoughts pure.

  Then she’d said his name.

  She didn’t pronounce it EE-un, short and flat, the way most Americans did. She said Ee-AHN, softening the vowels and placing emphasis on the second syllable. And just like that, he’d flashed back to the moment she’d cried out his name in pleasure. He’d smothered that memory and stayed focused—until they stepped outside together and he caught a whiff of her hair. Cool and wet, like polished river rocks and clean earth. Like a secret waterfall. Jesus. His infatuation with her had become ridiculous. He was as silly as a teenage boy writing poetry. Worse, he had no self-control. He’d actually told her that she smelled like earth.

  Smooth move, Foster. Way to establish authority.

  His senses continued to riot as he drove from Mezcala to Taxco. He’d always been this way with her. The world came alive in her presence. Colors were brighter, sounds sharper. He wanted to kiss her, touch her, connect with her.

  But he couldn’t, because he had to do this job by the book. It was his last chance to prove he could follow the rules and keep his hands to himself.

  Maria didn’t belong to him, anyway. She belonged here. He could see it in her braided hair and plain clothes. He could smell it on her skin, the elixir of a simpler life. She hadn’t left this place because she was bored, or looking for adventure. She’d come to the United States for the same reason most Mexicans did: Her family needed money.

  The road to Taxco was long and full of potholes, with intermittent traffic that demanded his attention. Maria looked out the window, quietly watching familiar landmarks pass by. He considered her evasive answers to his questions and felt a twinge of pique. She was no saint, despite her demure style and fresh-faced beauty.

  Was she covering for Armando Villarreal?

  Ian had dismissed LaGuardia’s suggestion that Maria was involved with Villarreal, romantically or otherwise. But he could tell she was hiding something. Maybe he’d underestimated how far she would go to help her family. She shared a connection with Villarreal. She had feelings for him.

  Ian suspected that Villarreal had feelings for her in return. Below-the-belt feelings. Villarreal was twenty years her senior, but hardly too old to want a piece of her. Maria turned heads everywhere she went. Everyone liked her, especially men. The thought of her with Armando set Ian’s nerves on edge. He flexed his hands on the steering wheel and took a deep breath.

  “What is this?” she asked in English, touching her upper lip. “You are growing a mustache, yes?”

  He made a noncommittal sound. He’d meant to impress her with the new look, but now he felt self-conscious about it, like an outsider trying to fit in. He wasn’t Mexican, no matter how much he’d wished to be as a kid. Why did he think he could pull off a mustache?

  “It is handsome on you.”

  He glanced at her in surprise. She was staring at his mouth intently. Maybe she was wondering how his stubble would feel against her skin. He cranked up the radio so she wouldn’t talk anymore. Because her open admiration was like a balm for old wounds, and he couldn’t afford to get distracted again.

  They reached Taxco around noon. Maria directed him toward La Escuela de Nuestra Fe. He parked outside and studied the scene before exiting the vehicle. He insisted on going to the front gate with her. After a long wait, a nun appeared.

  “Can we visit Sarai Tomás?” Maria asked.

  “She’s not here.”

  “Where is she?” Ian asked.

  “I don’t know,” the woman said. “We found her bed empty this morning.”

  Ian exchanged a glance with Maria, who didn’t appear shocked. “Have you contacted anyone about her disappearance?”

  “No, señor. We were hoping she’d return today.”

  “Do you mind if we search her room? Maybe there’s a clue to her whereabouts.”

  The nun started to shake her head. “I’m sorry—”

  Maria stepped between them. “With respect, my sister’s family would want me to check her belongings. We hope to find Sarai quickly, without involving the police.”

  “Solamente tú,” the nun said, and let Maria in.

  Only you.

  “Get a recent photograph,” Ian called after her.

  She nodded her agreement.

  Then Ian was left outside, where he could guard the front entrance. He stood under the shade of a tree he couldn’t identify and listened to the buzz of insects. It was hot and humid, so the lush leaves overhead made little difference to his physical comfort. Clouds gathered in the distance, threatening a summer storm.

  Maria emerged from the gate fifteen minutes later. Her eyes danced with excitement as she walked toward him. She was so vibrant, so eager to help others, so willing to take risks. It made her beautiful. It made him ache for her.

  It made him crazy.

  He took a deep breath, trying to control his emotions. When he stepped out from under the tree, she handed him a folded piece of paper, warm from her palm. He couldn’t smell the river on her skin anymore. Her hair was dry now, like black corn silk.

  The paper was a torn-out page from a yearbook. Sarai Tomás was in the bottom row, between two other girls. Her head was turned to the side, and a cascade of dark curls obscured part of her face. It wasn’t the best photo for identification purposes, but ICE might be able to enhance it. He tucked it into his pocket as they approached his rental car.

  “That’s the only photo I could find,” she said.

  He opened the passenger door for her and then climbed behind the wheel. “Were there any clues in her room?”

  “I didn’t see anything, so I went to the cafeteria to talk to the other girls. They said she doesn’t have a boyfriend or relatives who visit. She didn’t mention leaving, but she’d been very secretive lately.” Maria touched a fingertip to her cheek. “Oh, and she has a cellphone. She always kept it hidden from the nuns, and she didn’t give out the number.”

  He regarded her with appreciation. She’d managed to gain entrance, get a photo, and interview the other students. “Nice work, Detective.”

  Maria beamed with pride. “You can give me a…¿cómo se dice?” She held her hand against her chest. “A star.”

  He’d rather give her something else. “A badge.”

  “A badge. Eso.”

  “Why don’t I buy you lunch instead?”

  She pointed him toward a small café that served sandwiches and fruit drinks. It was modern, air-conditioned, and crowded with patrons. Better yet, it had wireless service. He sent a text to LaGuardia and requested furthe
r orders. Maria tackled her torta with gusto and watched him closely. She seemed to be waiting for him to speak.

  “I’ll take you home,” he said.

  Her eyes widened. “But we have not found her.”

  He shrugged, wiping his mouth with a paper napkin. If he had been calling the shots, he wouldn’t have given up after such a perfunctory search. Then again, he wouldn’t be on this chickenshit assignment so far away from the real action, either. He’d be combing the streets in TJ, because that was surely where Armando Villarreal was dying like a smashed cockroach.

  “I think we should check La Bestia,” she said.

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s the freight train. People ride it when they don’t have money or papers.”

  He’d seen video footage of the train, loaded with passengers. “You don’t think she has ID?”

  “All secondary students have ID,” she said, finishing her sandwich. “She might be reluctant to use hers if she thinks someone is looking for her.”

  Ian knew the basics of traveling in Mexico. He’d spent two months here on a backpacking trip when he was nineteen. You couldn’t buy a long-distance bus ticket without ID. There were no passenger trains, and soldiers patrolled the bus routes.

  It was more likely that Sarai had taken the bus and left the city hours ago. Even so, Ian’s cop instincts were triggered by the idea of this alternative route. He wanted to find Sarai, and impress LaGuardia by thinking outside of the box.

  “Where are the tracks?”

  Maria smiled at him, revealing a crooked incisor on the left side of her mouth. This slight imperfection gave her a foxy, mischievous look that had always appealed to him. “There is a camp near the tracks on the outskirts of town. Passengers gather there to jump on board.”

  “How do you know that?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “You rode it?”

  “No,” she said, sipping her melon juice. “It is too dangerous for a girl alone.”

  “Sarai is a girl alone.”