“What happened?” she asked.
“First things first.”
Miguel motioned for his men to take care of the corpses. After the bodies were lowered into the ground, Miguel said a few words over them. Then his men picked up shovels and began filling in the graves.
“Hit men raided the village last night,” Miguel said. “They knew exactly what they were looking for because they were in and out before my men and I arrived.”
“That kind of damage takes time to inflict. Were there any witnesses?”
“Plenty. But—”
Luisa finished his sentence for him.
“They’re too scared to talk.” She glanced at the tiny village inhabited by frightened people forced to turn a blind eye to the atrocities they had observed in order to save their own lives. Then she turned back to Miguel. “Do you think the hit men were working for the Jaguars, the Sinaloa cartel, or the Zs?”
Miguel spat out another stream of tobacco.
“Pardon my language, but the fucking Jaguars, of course. Who else could go into and out of a crowded village without leaving a trace?”
“No one.” Ruben wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “And whoever did this didn’t either. Not with all this mud around.” He pointed to the road leading to the heart of Agua Dulce. “I’ll bet not much traffic goes through here. We need to take impressions of the freshest tire tracks. The ones that don’t match our car or your truck have to belong to the vehicle or vehicles the hit men drove last night. Once Officer Moreno and I get back to headquarters, we can scan the images to try to match the tires to the ones used by the make and model of a car that might have been seen in the area.”
Luisa slapped him on the shoulder.
“I knew there was a reason I brought you along. Miguel, where’s the nearest place we can find the supplies we need to make the molds?”
“I’ve got chicken wire, wood, and a bag of concrete mix in my truck. My farm’s not too far from here. I was planning to repair the fence surrounding my cow pasture after I finished up here, but the supplies are yours if you can use them.”
“You’re a lifesaver.”
“No,” he said, casting a forlorn look at the six new graves in the small cemetery. “I’m just a man.”
Luisa felt unpardonable guilt.
“Did this happen because of me? Did that family die because I asked the wrong questions?”
“No, young lady.” Miguel placed a callused hand on her arm. “They died because you asked the right ones.”
One day, Luisa hoped, she would get the right answers.
She, Ruben, Miguel, and his men walked back to the village so their vehicles wouldn’t obscure the tire tracks any more than they had already.
“Who knew we were coming?” Ruben asked as two of Miguel’s men stirred water from the river into a pot filled with concrete mix.
Luisa carefully considered the question before answering.
“No one except you, me, and Director Chavez.”
“I doubt the director would betray his own people. Perhaps someone saw you talking to Salvador Perez at the jail and assumed—correctly, as it turns out—you would head here next.”
“You’re probably right, but dozens of people saw me enter the jail and meet with Salvador. Any of them could be the potential snitch. Anyone from the inmates to the guards to the warden.”
Her frustration was mounting by the minute. Every time she thought she was taking a step forward, she ended up getting pushed back two.
Ruben poured concrete into the first set of tracks and waited for it to set. When it was dry, he carefully placed it into a makeshift mold.
“Exhibit number one.”
Luisa placed a numbered tag in front of the mold and photographed it from several angles. Then she and Ruben repeated the process on the rest of the tracks.
“We can’t stay here tonight,” Ruben said when they were done. “It isn’t safe.”
“I know.”
Luisa had planned to rent a hotel room somewhere between here and home and drive back to Mexico City in the morning, but those plans had changed. The hit men were probably long gone, but if they were still in the area, they could ambush her and Ruben on the road, or follow them to the hotel and attack them in their sleep as they’d done with the Perez family here in Agua Dulce. She looked around, wondering if she and Ruben were being watched right now.
“How do I tell Salvador Perez his entire family’s been killed?”
“Word travels fast in the prison system,” Ruben said. “I have a feeling he already knows. He might even be next on the chopping block.”
Luisa checked her phone but, as expected, she didn’t have a signal. She and Ruben were on their own.
“I’ll call the warden at Santa Martha during the drive back and ask for Perez to be placed in protective custody until I can interview him again,” she said. “If this doesn’t convince him to tell me what he knows, nothing will.”
“Sounds good to me. Now let’s get the hell out of here.”
As Ruben buckled himself into the passenger’s seat of the rental car, Luisa tossed her jacket in the backseat, slid behind the wheel, and began the long drive back to Mexico City.
Ruben tuned the radio to a station playing a
narcocorrido
, a mournful ode to a former drug lord whose violent life and gruesome death had made him a macabre folk hero in some circles. The subject of the song wasn’t the only narco whose exploits had been set to music. Joaquín “El Chapo” Guzman’s second escape from federal prison had practically inspired an entire cottage industry. Luisa flipped to something less depressing.
It was days like today that made her question her chosen profession. She felt like a dog chasing its tail. Were the danger, loneliness, and self-imposed isolation worth the hours of wasted effort? Today it certainly didn’t feel like it.
She could be making love to Finn in Cancún right now instead of driving across the countryside with one eye on the road and the other in her rearview mirror as she tried to make sure she and Ruben weren’t being followed by someone who had been ordered to track them down and kill them.
Perhaps her parents were right. Perhaps she should find something else to do for a living and leave this seemingly impossible mission to someone else.
No, she told herself as she left Agua Dulce and its unspeakable carnage behind. She had joined the army because she wanted to fight for her country. She had become a member of the Federal Police for the same reason. She couldn’t give up now just because she had run into a few roadblocks. She had to keep fighting. For herself, for her people, and for Finn.
She felt herself falling for Finn a little more each day, but she refused to put Finn’s life at risk by drawing her deeper into hers. She couldn’t—wouldn’t—allow herself to even consider the possibility of being with Finn until she had done her part to make Mexico the idyllic place the tourist offices advertised instead of the war zone it could occasionally turn out to be.
Despite today’s setback, she needed to complete her quest. Her life—and her future—depended on it.
Finn shoved her camera, a bottle of sunscreen, a baseball cap, her e-reader, and a bottle of water into her backpack. The literature Veronique, the clerk in the excursions office, had given her suggested she should bring a light jacket for the return trip, but she expected to be so hot and sweaty from spending two hours walking in the heat and humidity of the Mexican jungle she would welcome the chill of the air-conditioning on the tour company’s chartered bus.
She slipped her cell phone into the pocket of her cargo shorts, looked around her room for anything she might have forgotten, and headed to the main restaurant for breakfast.
The trepidation she had felt yesterday had evaporated after she read the text Luisa sent her at nearly four a.m.
Finally home. Exhausted. Have fun in Chichén Itzá. I’ll call you tonight so you can tell me all about it. I can’t wait to hear about your latest adventure.
And Finn couldn’t wait to live it. Now that she knew Luisa had made it home safe and sound, she could relax and enjoy whatever the day had in store.
She walked—okay, floated—down the two flights of stairs and headed for the flower-lined walkway next to the sea. She hadn’t seen the grounds this deserted in days. It was so early even the iguanas weren’t up yet. The white-clad security guards were already at their posts, however. She nodded good morning to one speaking rapid Spanish into a walkie-talkie. His spiked hair and tattooed arms gave him a rough edge that contrasted with the more sedate appearance of the clean-cut guards she had seen stationed near the beach over the past week. Those guys looked like they could double as Secret Service agents. This guy looked more like a bouncer in a biker bar.
As she neared the heart of the resort, she passed a trio of maids in coral-colored uniforms reporting to work. Their
holas
were more subdued than normal, but she attributed that to running into them before they’d had their morning coffee. And vice versa. She normally didn’t start feeling human on most mornings until she’d had her second cup of joe. Today she was still waiting to have her first. When she reached the restaurant, nearly thirty women were gathered at the foot of the winding stairs, and more were on the way.
“Grab a seat,” Ryan said, straddling one of the stone benches outside the gift shop. “They’re not open yet.”
Finn checked her watch. Six forty. The restaurant’s doors were supposed to be open ten minutes ago to give everyone plenty of time to have a hearty breakfast before they left for their respective excursions. So much for two cups of coffee. Today she would have to settle for one. If that.
“What’s the holdup?” she asked. The bus was leaving in less than an hour, and she needed to fuel up before she boarded. The granola bar, apple, and banana in her backpack were supposed to be a snack. They weren’t supposed to last all day. “The resort employees aren’t on strike again, are they?”
If so, that could explain the new security guard she had seen, along with the maids’ dour mood.
“That would be perfect, wouldn’t it? Maybe the chef forgot to set his alarm clock.” Ryan laid her head on her folded arms to catch twenty winks while she waited, but she perked up as soon as a pretty blonde wearing an Indie necklace sat next to her. “Are you headed to Chichén Itzá, too?”
“No, I’m going ziplining in Tulum.”
“That sounds fun.” Ryan winked in Finn’s direction. “I wonder if it’s too late for me to change my reservation.”
“After the hard time you gave Jill about backing out to watch wrestling, yeah, I think it is.”
“You’re probably right. She’d never let me live it down if I did.”
Finn sat across from her. “How long have you two been friends?”
“Practically since we came out of the womb. My earliest and best memories all have her in them.”
“Then why aren’t you together?”
Ryan shrugged. “I’ve thought about it. She’s the coolest woman I’ve ever met. And she must have the patience of Job if she puts up with my shit and keeps coming back for more.”
“But?”
“I’m horrible at relationships, and I don’t want to risk losing my best friend if I screw things up.”
Finn hadn’t known Luisa as long as Ryan and Jill had known each other, but she could apply the same reasoning to their relationship. What she had with Luisa was exciting and fun. It gave her something to look forward to at the end of each day. But what would happen if they tried to take their relationship to the next level? Would their feelings deepen like the flavors in a long-simmering stew or crumble under the weight of expectation like a flattened soufflé? Finn had always preferred to keep things light, but she was starting to develop a taste for something heartier.
A cheer went up when the restaurant’s doors finally opened. As the harried-looking wait staff tried to deal with the influx of hungry diners, Finn filled her plate with plenty of protein and grabbed more fruit from the salad bar in case her current stash ran out before they returned to the resort in time for a late lunch. She and Ryan shared a table with a couple of retired history teachers from Ohio. Finn assumed the teachers were going to Chichén Itzá, too, but they said they were planning to catch a cab and head into town on their own for a day of retail therapy.
“I’m starting to think Jill wasn’t the only one who bailed on us today,” Ryan said after breakfast as she and Finn walked to the front of the hotel to check in with their tour bus.
“You might want to retract that statement.” Finn took a long look at the eager faces peering out the bus’s tinted windows. “It appears we still have a full crew.”
“Cool. I didn’t want us to be the only ones getting a liberal dose of culture today.”
Ryan was easy on the eyes and effortlessly charming. Finn could see why Jill had fallen for her, but she preferred a certain Federal Police officer currently residing in Mexico City. Luisa was easy on the eyes, too. And her adorable peach pit dimples were absolutely to die for.
Poor choice of words.
She found a seat near the back of the bus and claimed the spot by the window so she could watch the scenery roll by. The driver closed the doors promptly at seven thirty and pulled out of the parking lot.
“Wake me when this part is over.”
Ryan scrunched down in her seat, folded her arms across her chest, and closed her eyes as the guide, Richard Haarhuis, introduced himself and began a lecture on the ancient Mayans’ many contributions to the modern world.
Finn felt her own eyelids grow heavy during Richard’s discourse on the Mayans’ counting system, a precursor of the binary code used by computer programmers. She perked up when the driver left the highly commercialized areas of Cancún behind and headed toward the parts of the city the jungle seemed intent on reclaiming.
Ramshackle houses and huts dotted the landscape, some structures not much more than tarp-covered lean-tos constructed to protect their occupants from the blazing sun. Elaborate ads for soft drinks and high-end electronics adorned commercial buildings, while crude hand-painted signs for various political candidates had been affixed to houses or staked in tiny front yards.
Finn snapped pictures of Mr. Carnitas, a downscale-looking restaurant with an upscale-sounding name. Then she captured a field of towering agave plants that would one day provide the essence of hundreds of bottles of tequila. Finally, she found herself gazing upon a well-tended cemetery next to what could only be called a shantytown.