Haunted

CHAPTER 22

MAX, CULEBRA AND I ARE STANDING IN THE ENTRANCE to a cave. Well, more precisely, a cave-like structure. The walls are stone, but hewn stone, smoothed and beveled into diamond patterns that repeat floor, ceiling and walls. The chamber we’re looking into is at least as big as the ground floor of my cottage, decorated with leather couches and big overstuffed recliners. There are plush rugs underfoot, original artwork on the walls, a bar of polished mahogany in the corner upon which rests crystal decanters filled with liquids that catch and reflect the lights directly overhead. On the opposite side, through an archway, I can see a kitchen and dining area. It’s a big kitchen, with stainless-steel appliances and copper-bottomed pots hung from a rack suspended over a granite island. I look for a chef in a white hat and smock, but it appears that’s the only detail missing in this Architectural Digest’s version of Wilma Flintstone’s kitchen.

It’s very quiet inside. So quiet, I wonder if I’m the only one who hears the distant, steady hum of a generator, so subtle it takes concentrating vampire hearing to detect it. That generator must be what supplies air and power to the place. Like a heart pumping blood and oxygen through a body.

Even Culebra is dumbstruck. His thoughts are as jumbled as mine.

Ramon moves to the bar. Picks up one of the decanters. “Mescal?”

It takes a minute to pull my brain back from the shock of what my eyes are seeing and to engage it again sufficiently to make my mouth work. “Yeah. A drink would be good.” Then my legs get with the program and I’m at the bar.

Culebra and Max follow, both looking as dazed as I feel. Ramon pours from a crystal decanter with the label Scorpion Anejo Seven Star—I realize he’s pouring the Dom Pérignon of mescals when I see the scorpion floating in the bottle and the flicker of eagerness in Culebra’s eyes.

When we all have glasses in our hands, Ramon tips his toward us and says, “Para todo mal, mezcal, y para todo bien también.”

Yeah, I’ve heard that toast before—from Culebra at his bar: for everything bad, mescal, and for everything good, too. Course we weren’t drinking Scorpion Seven Star at the time.

We all clink glasses and the men drink. I’m more interested in taking another look at my surroundings than indulging in the rapturous moans of pleasure that follow the tasting. It’s hard to take it all in.

“How did you do this?” I ask.

Ramon says, “With a lot of money and an army of engineers.” He raises his glass to Max and me. “American engineers.”

“How did you keep it a secret?” Max asks.

“With a lot of money,” Ramon says again, “and a little coercion.”

“You threatened the engineers if they told anyone?” I ask.

He shrugs. “Didn’t take much. Everyone has something to protect. And they were well paid for their discretion.”

“But this must have taken an army to construct,” I say. “No one noticed?”

He smiles. Not warmly. “Silence has a price. Fortunately I could afford to pay it.”

For a narco, business as usual. I get a queasy feeling in the pit of my stomach. I acted on impulse coming here. Ramon, standing in his elegant hideout, looks less like a father frightened for his family and more like the scumbag drug lord he is. Even his English has improved. Was his original bumbling an affect to gain my sympathy?

I lay the glass on the bar without taking a sip. “What now?”

Maria gestures toward the back wall of the cave. “Let me show you where to freshen up. Then we eat.”

So she can speak English, too. And well.

We follow Maria through an archway and into a hall. There are four doors, two on each side. She opens the last one on the left for me. “There are fresh towels. Shower if you like. I think Gabriella has something that will fit you. I’ll leave it on the bed.”

Then she’s ushering Max and Culebra to the opposite door. I watch as they disappear inside and Maria moves off down the hall. I close my own door and look around, checking first to see if there’s an inside lock. There isn’t.

This is a bedroom with the same diamond-patterned rock walls, ceiling and floor as the great room. This room, too, sports a plush rug, a woven mat of cotton this time, but no artwork. The bed is simple, covered with a colorful Mexican blanket, the headboard banked with throw pillows in red and yellow. There is a dresser on one side, a chest at the foot of the bed.

Both are empty.

I take a quick look around for cameras or microphones but don’t find either. There is neither wainscoting nor floorboards to conceal electronics.

I step into the bathroom. Small. Functional. A shower, a vanity, a toilet. This door locks from the inside. I close and lock it before undressing.

After two days, a shower feels good. Maria has stocked the shower with good soap and shampoo. It smells of trees after a rain, like a growing forest with hints of pine. The bathroom is soon fragrant with it. I linger under the hot water before realizing I’ve been in here almost twenty minutes and the hot water is still hot. Ramon must have a hell of a water heater.

The best drug money can buy. Which most likely explains how they keep the place supplied with liquor and good toiletries. I imagine engineers aren’t the only ones who can keep a secret for a price or a threat.

When I finally coax myself out, I towel dry and peek into the vanity. There are various types of remedies, for headaches, for colds. A comb and brush that looks unused. Several toothbrushes still in packages. A tube of toothpaste—Colgate. American. I take advantage of the chance to brush my teeth and use the comb and brush to detangle my hair. Then I steal a look into the bedroom.

Maria has left a long shift of pale green cotton on the bed. I slip it over my head. It falls to my ankles. It moves when I walk; the material is whisper soft and thin. I wonder if I look naked in the light. The thought makes me uncomfortable enough to take it off.

My jeans and T-shirt will have to do—even if they aren’t the cleanest.

I hear the door open across the hall. In two steps, I’m at my door, too.

Max and Culebra are there, smelling of the same fragrant soap, freshly shaven, wet hair combed. They’ve changed into clean jeans (must be Ramon’s—they are all about the same size, though Max’s thighs clearly strain the seams of his pair) and lightweight Mexican guayabera shirts with colorful embroidery and pleating. Culebra’s is light gray, Max’s a blue that makes his eyes intense as the ocean.

Culebra looks past me into the bedroom. “Maria didn’t bring you clean clothes?”

I follow his eyes to the shift on the bed. “I think it’s a nightgown,” I reply.

He grunts.

Max grins, looking around me, too. “Too girly for you?”

I close the door behind me with a decisive click.

Max sniffs the air. “Something smells good.”

He lifts his nose and moves toward the great room, following the odor of meat and beans and grilled vegetables like a bloodhound on the scent of a rabbit. He heads straight for the kitchen, Culebra right on his heels.

Only I lag behind.

The table seats eight and is set with plates and utensils and a steaming stack of tortillas. There are three chairs in the same heavy dark wood as the table on one side, a long bench on the other, and two captain’s chairs on each end. Ramon is already seated in one of the chairs, watching Maria as she moves around the kitchen. He has showered and changed, too, as has Maria. Still, the shower hasn’t completely masked the smell coming off both Ramon and his wife. They’ve been busy in the last hour—and not just in the kitchen. The musk of their sex tickles my nose.

Maria looks up and sees us approaching. She frowns in a concerned way at me. “You didn’t like the dress?”

I grope for a way to answer when Max pipes up, “Anna’s not big on skirts. She’s more the pants type.”

Shit. He says it with a wink and I see clearly on both Ramon’s and Maria’s faces what they’re thinking. I’m gay.

Maria recovers before Ramon. “I see. No problem. After we eat, I’ll get you a pair of Gabriella’s jeans. She may be a little shorter, but I think they’ll fit. Now, sit. The food is almost ready.”

Three words grab my attention: after we eat.

She’s back arranging food in serving dishes and I look at Culebra. What do I do?

He purses his lips ever so slightly. Maybe it’s time to come clean.

What?

Tell them you’re on a strict liquid diet. For health reasons.

Oh, like that makes sense. Did you see the way they looked at me when Max said I wasn’t big on skirts? Now I’m going to insult Maria by refusing to eat her food?

Got a better idea?

Maria is ready to serve and Ramon motions around the table. “Please. Sit. Eat.”

I take the bench, Culebra and Max chairs, and Maria takes her place at the opposite end of the table.

“Where’s Gabriella?” I ask.

“She’s on watch. Outside.” Maria answers. “One of us always takes watch.”

An idea blossoms. “Has she eaten?”

“She will. When we’ve finished, I’ll take her a plate.”

I push myself up from the bench. “No. Let me relieve her. I’m not hungry and I’m sure she wants to be with her father.”

Ramon looks startled but grateful. “Are you sure? You haven’t eaten—”

“I’m sure. Is she just upstairs, in the cabin?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’ll go now. Send her right back to join you.”

I’m at the door when Culebra’s sardonic voice sounds off in my head. Nice save.

Ramon has crossed to open the door, and I step past him, releasing a sigh of relief when the door closes again behind me. Nice save indeed. You’d think I’d be used to dealing with humans forcing food on me, but it never gets any easier.

At the top of the stairs, I find Gabriella seated cross-legged on the floor of the shack, a laptop balanced on her knees. She has an iPod in her hand and earbuds in her ears. I can hear the beat of a rap song. It’s loud enough that a tank could pull up in front of the cabin and fire off a shot before she’d hear it.

That’s the way she’s standing watch?

It’s my first thought until I see that her eyes are on the screen and projected there are four views of the grounds around, and leading to, the cabin.

She looks up in surprise when I appear from the subterranean stairway, and pulls the buds from her ears. “What are you doing here?”

I point to the laptop. “Nice setup. I didn’t see one camera when we arrived, let alone four.”

She smiles. “The best security system money can buy.”

“Your English is as good as your mother’s,” I say.

She shrugs. “I go to school in the U.S. My mom and I spend a lot of time there.” There’s a pause while she seems to reconsider what she’s just said. “At least we used to.”

I point to the laptop. “I’m here to relieve you. I’ll keep watch. You can join your family.”

But she makes no move to get up. Her face is both youthful and mature—her smooth skin and wide eyes speak of her young years but the sadness dimming those eyes and the worry lines already forming around her mouth make her seem older, life-worn. I’ve seen the look before.

“I know about your brother. I’m sorry,” I say.

She frowns. “My father told you?”

“It’s why we’re here.”

She sniffs. “Then you’ve come on a fool’s errand. It’s too late for my brother.”

“But not for you. We’re going to make sure you and your mother are safe. That the men responsible for your brother’s death are punished.”

This time she laughs. “Well, that shouldn’t be hard, should it? Seeing as how the one responsible is the one you came with.”

Her bitterness is scathing. She can’t mean Max; she couldn’t know about him. She thinks Culebra had something to do with her brother’s death? “You are mistaken. Cule—” I stop myself. “Tomás is a friend here to help.”

“Tomás?” Her eyebrows arch in surprise. “I’m not talking about Tomás. I’m talking about my father.”