Getaway (23 page)

Funny. What had Oscar said?

You’re safe with me
.

She thought about it. There were no good choices here, but that had been the situation ever since she’d met him.

“I guess I’ll go with you,” she said.

“It’s a
casual place,” he said. “You don’t need anything fancy. Definitely bring your bathing suit.” He grinned as he said that, a mock leer, and for a moment it felt like they were going off on a romantic getaway somewhere. But the look on his face as he watched her gather up her suit, sarong, a pair of shorts, a few blouses and stuff them in her tote, there was nothing romantic about that.

She went into the bathroom to retrieve her small toiletry kit, then thought maybe she should bring her good camera, just because she didn’t want to leave it behind.

And remembered: the watch. Sitting in the bottom of her hobo, where she’d put it the night she’d gone over to Daniel’s.

She felt a wash of cold sweat. She’d left the purse on her bed. Could she get it out without his noticing, leave it here? Was that even smart?

If Gary found the watch here and her gone, what would he do?

She stood in the bathroom and thought, This is a mistake.

She’d told herself that going with Daniel was safer than staying behind, that Oscar was a killer and asking Gary for protection was absurd—he didn’t give a shit about her, and she knew that. But she didn’t know who Daniel was.

He was attractive, and he seemed kind at times, and he knew how to make her come. None of that meant she was safer with him.

“We should get going,” Daniel said from the other room.

For a moment she stayed where she was, thinking, there must be a way out of this. There must be something I can do.

But there was nothing else to do except to face him.

He sat on the chair next to the bed, legs stretched out, arms crossed over his lean belly, expression tense and watchful.

Tell him you changed your mind, she thought. That you decided to try to get a flight home. Just lie and figure out something later.

“You ready?” he asked.

She dropped the toiletry bag into her tote, grabbed the purse from the bed and slung it over her shoulder.

“Yeah,” she said.

[CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO]

They picked up the water taxi
on the cement pier at Los Muertos Beach—a flat, fiberglass boat with benches and a canvas canopy to shield the passengers from the sun. The wide, square bow was piled high with boxes and bags: cases of beer, suitcases, crates of fruit, a packaged television.

“It’s the easiest way to get stuff down there,” Daniel said. “They ship a lot of the garbage back this way, too. The stuff that doesn’t get burned or dumped.”

“They can’t use trucks?”

“No real roads in town. No cars. There’s a road through the mountains that gets you close, but it takes hours. Water taxi’s the quickest way.”

They sat near the stern. Michelle could smell the gas fumes from the outboard engines. As the
panga
pulled out from the pier and picked up speed, the wind blew the fumes away. Then she caught the salt tang of the ocean, mixed with an occasional waft of rotting kelp.

The passengers were a mix of tourists, other foreigners Michelle guessed were long-term residents, just from the depth
of their tans and the wear of their clothing, and locals, mostly workers at the beach resorts.

They passed several resorts along the way, a couple that looked like actual villages, another that seemed to be nothing but the resort: wooden docks with Jet Skis, thatched huts, and open-air bars, tourists swimming in a protected inlet.

The wind off the ocean made it cooler here than on the shore, the salt spray hitting her face, refreshing, the thump of waves against the boat’s hull almost hypnotic.

“Pretty great, huh?” Daniel said, raising his voice over the noise of the engines.

Like they were on vacation.

She felt the pressure of his thigh against hers.

“Beautiful,” she said.

About forty
minutes after they’d left the Los Muertos dock, the jagged coast opened up into a wide, deep bay surrounded by mountains, with a beach on the left and what looked like a little town on the right that staggered up into the hills.

“Used to be if you were going to the hotel, they’d get as close as they could and you’d have to wade through the surf up onto the beach,” Daniel said. “Or get off at the dock in town and wade across the river. Some times of year, that’s pretty tough.”

Now there was a new dock on the left side of the horseshoe-shaped bay, flanked by a few cement-walled, thatched roofed cottages and a flagstone path that led past them to the beach. “That’s our hotel,” Daniel said.

The boat went to the dock in town first.

“Hey!” Daniel shouted. “Hey, Rick!”

The man on the dock was older, maybe in his late sixties, but wiry trim, holding a fishing rod that he’d just cast sideways into the water. He wore cargo shorts, a vest with many pockets, and a floppy khaki hat.

Daniel’s fishing buddy, Michelle presumed. American, she guessed.

“Rick!” Daniel shouted again. And then, “Punch!”

That got his attention. Rick lifted his hand and grinned as the water taxi reached the pier and the crewman on the bow jumped onto the dock and looped a rope around a pitted iron cleat.

“You dog, what do you think you’re gonna catch here?” Daniel said.

“Saw a whale yesterday. Breached right out there.” Rick waved vaguely at the bay.

“You had lunch?”

“Don’t think so.”

“Let’s get off here,” Daniel said to Michelle. “We can hire somebody to sail us across if you don’t feel like walking with your stuff.”

They climbed onto the dock, the crewman giving Michelle a hand up. Rick, meanwhile, rested his fishing pole on his shoulder as if it were a rifle and ambled over. Slapped Daniel on the shoulder.

“You look good, Jink,” he said. “Life treating you okay?”

Yeah,” Daniel said with a neutral grin. “Rick, this is Michelle.”

“A pleasure.” Rick bowed a little and brushed his lips against the back of her hand.

“Likewise.”

He had hooks and fishing flies stuck in his floppy hat, a pleasant, unfocused expression, like he might be farsighted. She could feel some of the tension she’d been carrying drain away—the hard edge of fear at least.

You can’t relax, she told herself, just because he looks like a cartoon fisherman.

“You ready for some lunch?” Daniel asked.

Rick nodded. “This place here is pretty good.” He gestured at a patio to the right of the dock with canvas umbrellas emblazoned with the logo for Pacífico beer. “I think Marissa might be there already.”

As they approached the restaurant, a woman sitting at one of the tables rose.

“Hey, Marissa!”

She and Daniel hugged. She was younger than Rick by twenty years, Michelle figured, a tall blonde with a tanned, lined face, impressively muscled arms, and tight beach braids.

So someone actually does get braids, Michelle thought.

“This is Danny’s friend,” Rick said. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name. It takes me a few times.”

The restaurant
was run by a couple of Australians and featured mostly sandwiches and pastas. “And the margaritas here are really good,” Marissa said.

Daniel lifted his hand to call the waiter. “Round’s on me.” He turned to Rick. “So how’s the fishing been?”

“Haven’t done too much yet. Waiting for you. And Bagger said he might be coming. Right, Marissa?”

“Right. On the late boat.” She smiled at him. “In a few hours.”

“Bagger? Oh. Wasn’t expecting him.”

Michelle knew Daniel well enough by now to read between the lines. The friendly tone, the smile—they didn’t mean he was happy to hear this.

“Bagger?” she asked.

“Nicknames,” Marissa said. She gave Rick a hug. “He’s ‘Punch’ because he had to eject once.”

Rick stretched out his left arm. A thick white scar ran down it, from wrist to elbow. “Bolts didn’t fire right. Blasted clear through the edge of the canopy.”

“You were a pilot?” Michelle asked.

“Back when dinosaurs walked the earth,” Daniel intoned, like the narrator of a nature documentary.

“I still taught you a few things, though,” Rick said.

“That you did.”

“So have you known Danny long?” Marissa asked Michelle.

Obviously not, Michelle thought, and obviously Marissa knew that.

“Just a few weeks.”

“Wow.” Marissa leaned back in her chair, studying her, her
smile pasted on. “It’s not like Danny, bringing someone new to meet Rick. You two must have something pretty special.”

“Well, it’s been a pretty exciting couple of weeks,” Michelle said.

Daniel draped his arm around her shoulders and gave her a little hug. “Yeah. Michelle’s a trouper.”

“You’re going to have to tell me more about that, Danny,” Rick said, and suddenly there was nothing vague about him.

Daniel nodded. “There’s a few things we need to talk about.”

“Okay,” Rick said. “Tonight.” He smiled and sipped his margarita, adjusted his fishing hat, and turned his gaze back out over the bay.

Looking for whales, maybe.

“How long are you staying?” Daniel asked.

“A week. We’re comfortable here.” Marissa gave Rick’s arm a squeeze. “Right, sweetie?”

“Yep. I know where the ocean is. Big target.” Rick grinned, and for a moment he reminded Michelle of Daniel.

“You and
Rick, you worked together?”

“Air force. My IP, my instructor. He trained me.”

She and Daniel walked through town, what there was of it, on their way to the path that led down to the town’s tiny beach so they could cross the river to their hotel. The air felt thick, an almost physical barrier. The town was quiet, save for the buzzing of flies and an occasional hammering up the hillside. No cars. It took her a while to absorb the quiet, to realize what was missing here.

They passed a few businesses along the road: a little market, a coffee shop and Internet bar. Signs tacked to trees and posts advertised a woman who would do your laundry, apartments to rent, restaurants farther up the path, by the waterfall, near the bridge. The few people she saw moved slowly as well. The burro tied up at a telephone pole barely flicked its tail at the flies.

“You were in the air force,” she said. Hoping that would prompt him to say more.

He nodded, mouth tight.

They passed a giant black barrel up on stilts—a water barrel? Michelle wondered. An arrow-shaped sign on one of its legs said,
TO THE BEACH—A LA PLAYA
.

“Here we go,” Daniel said. The narrow path plunged and wound around a cement-covered bank and a skinny concrete house topped by palm fronds, the steps cracked and slick with mold. Dark, like some Disneyland ride.

“Operation Noble Anvil,” he said suddenly, pronouncing the words like a punchline to some joke. “You heard of it?”

“I don’t think so.”

They emerged into the light, into the open patio of a crumbling restaurant, abandoned by the look of it.

“Kosovo,” Daniel said, taking her arm. “Watch your step.”

The concrete deck had rotted in places, exposing twisted, rusting iron rebar, the sand and kelp and water beneath.

“I think it’s shallow enough for us to cross,” he said. Michelle looked to the right. There was the river that bisected the town and fed into the bay, a narrow channel that spread on the exposed sand of the low tide. Farther up, the river was broad and shallow; she could see riders on horseback crossing it, the water not reaching the horses’ knees. Beyond that the river narrowed again, disappearing into the mountains and the browning jungle that waited for the summer rains.

She wanted him to talk, to say something that might explain who he really was, but he didn’t. They climbed off the deck and onto the sand.

“When did you leave the air force?” she finally asked.

“In 2000.” He shrugged. “Private-sector opportunity came up. I took it. Figured I’d get more flying time that way.” Now he snorted. “Sometimes I’m kind of a dumbfuck. Who knew there’d be all these wars?”

Michelle wasn’t sure what to say to that.

Sandals in one hand, bag slung over her shoulder, she followed him through the river water and onto the sands of the big beach on the other side.

“And you’re Jink?” she asked.

He laughed. “Yeah.”

“What’s that mean?”

“Maybe I’ll tell you later,” he said.

The hotel
was a series of cabanas, with thatched-palm roofs like the
palapas
back on the beach in Vallarta, its reception counter in an open bungalow that looked like one of the guest rooms.

“Make sure you put on shoes if you get up in the middle of the night,” the woman at the counter told them. “And check inside your shoes for scorpions before you put them on.”

They went to their cabin, past the saltwater pool, by the stone walkway above the sea, just below the pier.

“It’s a little rustic,” Daniel said.

There was a gap between the palm fronds of the roof and the walls, mosquito netting surrounding the beds like a loose cocoon. The floors were cracked cement, patched and painted a reddish brown. There was no air conditioner, only a floor fan and shuttered windows across the front of the bungalow that could be opened up to let in whatever breeze there might be.

“So,” Daniel said. “You wanna unpack, maybe hit the beach for a while before dinner?”

“I don’t really have much to unpack.”

“Change into your bathing suit, then? It’s too hot to stay in here.”

He laid his duffel bag on the luggage cart, unzipped it, and started taking out his things. Swim trunks. Shaving kit. T-shirts.

“I …” She sat down on the edge of the bed. “Are we going to talk about any of this?”

He put his T-shirts and extra shorts in the dresser drawer, carried his shaving kit into the bathroom.

“There’s nothing much I can tell you,” he said when he returned.

“Why are we here? Can you tell me that?”

“I already did. It’s not a good time for either of us to be in PV.”