Shell Game (16 page)

The small decrepit homes lining the street thinned out and eventually disappeared. The road became a twisting thread of asphalt, cutting through the rugged Baja scrubland. The pavement was newer but without any shoulders, the road was dangerous at high speeds. There was no room for error. Cacti and large boulders flew past as they navigated the serpentine stretch of highway at close to breakneck speeds. Still, the Explorer stayed well ahead of them. Only on occasion did the landscape open enough for them to see the vehicle they were following, and Alan edged his speed up even more, trying to close the gap between the two vehicles.

They crested yet another ridge and rounded a corner. Alan hit the brakes and the car slid to a stop. In front of them was a T-intersection. To the right was an incline down to a waterless valley, or arroyo, and across the far side was a small village. A sign indicated it was La Laguna. To the left was a dirt road, heading north along the coast of the East Cape. A small dust plume was just settling at the base of the hill leading to La Laguna. Alan inched forward until he could see into the arroyo. The Explorer was parked in front of a building rimmed by an old wood fence. A sign hung over the entrance. The picture was a cartoon drawing of a vulture carrying a surfboard. The printing was barely visible from where they were parked. Buzzards Bar & Grill.

Alan looked over at Taylor. “What now?”

She thought for a minute, then said, “Pull down the hill. Just try to keep out of sight as best you can. Maybe we can spot him and watch what he's up to.”

“Okay.” Alan eased the rental down the stretch of road leading to the bottom of the dry riverbed. The road mutated from pavement to sand and dry clay as he reached the low point in the small valley. To the left of the car, toward the ocean, they could see an outdoor restaurant, the plastic tables covered by bright orange and pink tablecloths. It was protected from the late afternoon sun by a thatched roof, and was surprisingly busy. Sitting in one of the chairs with his back to them was Edward Brand.

Alan was livid, staring at the man who had stolen their money. “Why don't we sneak up behind him and smack him over the head. Knock him out and tie him up. When he comes to we'll beat the shit out of him until he tells us where our money is.”

Taylor shook her head. “Look at the place. It's too crowded. Nobody is going to let you just whack him over the head and carry him out. We have to wait until he's alone somewhere.”

“What if he's got a gun? Then what?”

She shrugged. “I don't know. I just know that now is not the time.”

“I'm losing my patience with this game,” Alan said testily.

They waited while Brand ate dinner. He had two beers with his meal, then made a phone call on the house phone, paid the tab and headed back to the Explorer. Taylor and Alan ducked below the dash until he had pulled out and retreated back up the access road. Alan gunned the engine and followed.

Brand didn't turn back onto the paved road, but continued up the dirt road that ran parallel to the coastline. It was a rough track, gutted with ruts, and white dust churned up behind the vehicles, coating everything with a fine grit. The Explorer kicked up a dust trail as it bumped along the road, which allowed Alan to back off to a few hundred yards with no risk of losing Brand. Inland, the earth was arid, punctuated with cacti and prickly shrubs, and useless for anything productive. To the right was the beach, light brown sand commingled with white rocks that thrust from the sand like outstretched fingers. Waves slammed against the craggy formations. To the west, the sun approached the distant horizon.

“A couple of hours until it gets dark,” Taylor said as they bounced over the uneven roadway.

“I know,” Alan said.

The approaching darkness was not a good thing. Right now they could keep Brand in sight, but once the sun dipped below the mountains, it would be impossible to track him. After about two miles, the road turned inland. The going was slow, Brand averaging about fifteen to twenty miles an hour, and Alan matching that pace. The ocean was out of sight for a mile. Then the road twisted about and angled back to the east. A massive tangle of rocks rose a couple of hundred feet and jutted out to the coast. In the dwindling sunlight they could see the road snaking around the formation, about halfway up. Brand's vehicle climbed up the narrow road and disappeared around the corner. Alan hit the bottom of the hill and gave the car some gas. As they drove, the ocean quickly dropped away. The road was barely wide enough for two cars, and there was no guard rail. Beneath them was a sheer drop to the ocean, where the waves were at high tide and crashing into the base of the rocks. They rounded the corner and before they could stop they were face to face with Edward Brand. He had parked the Explorer at the edge of the cliff and was standing next to the driver's door looking out over the ocean.

“What the fuck?” Brand yelled as they almost hit him. All three stared at each other for a second, then Brand grabbed the door handle and pulled. He jumped into the vehicle, which was parked in a small section of the road where it was wide enough for two cars to pass and one to park. It was sitting precariously close to the edge.

“Hold on,” Alan screamed and floored the car. It shot forward and smashed into the side of the Explorer, pushing it toward the cliff. The rear passenger's tire hung on the edge. Brand started the truck and hit the gas. The differential rear axle sent power to the wheel with the least resistance and the one hanging over the edge began to spin. Brand slammed on the brakes, stopping the tire from spinning and reached for the button to kick in the four wheel drive.

Alan slammed the rental into reverse and backed up a few feet. He saw what Brand was doing and knew he had a few seconds before the Explorer would be back on the road. He grabbed the clasp on Taylor's seat belt and unhooked it, reached across and pulled on her door handle.

“Out,” he yelled. “Get out.”

“No, Alan.”

She tried to shut the door but he pushed her and she tumbled from the passenger's seat onto the dusty road. She stumbled to her feet just in time to see him ram the car into drive. He gave her a quick look as he hit the gas.

“He's dead, Taylor,” he said loud enough for her to hear over the two motors. A split second later the car shot ahead.

Edward Brand floored the SUV at precisely the same time. The all-wheel drive sent power to the front tires as well as the rear and the vehicle leapt ahead. Alan couldn't react fast enough. He pulled his foot off the gas and hit the brake but it was too late. The car missed the Explorer and careened off the cliff, floating, suspended in midair for a few seconds, then smashing into the sea. A huge spray shot up and a large wave hit the car, sending it tumbling on its side before it dropped below the surface and disappeared.

Brand spun the Explorer about and shot past Taylor, heading north on the dirt road. He was laughing. She rushed over to the edge of the cliff and looked down. The ocean was over a hundred feet below, waves relentlessly crashing into the rocks. There was no sign of the car—or of Alan. She fell to the ground, her lungs heaving but her breath barely coming. She stared at the sheer rock wall rising above the road, at her hands covered with the fine white dust, then at the darkening sky. But her mind could only process one image.

The look of horror in Alan's eyes as he plunged over the cliff.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-FIVE

Taylor sat in the hard wooden chair, oblivious to the chaos about her. She was in the San José del Cabo
policia
station, a drab and depressing building near the center of town. The police had driven her to their precinct from the accident scene after determining she was involved in the crash. The interior of the precinct was rather decrepit, the painted stucco walls peeling and most desks and chairs in disrepair. She had decided very quickly that telling the Mexican police that Alan was trying to kill someone when he drove over the cliff was a bad idea to the nth degree, and had instead woven a story that included both truth and conjecture. So far they seemed to be buying it. One of the more senior officers, who spoke passable English, returned to where she sat and positioned himself beside her. His name was Manuel Ortega.

“Ms. Simons, you are sure your husband drove farther up the road after he dropped you at the viewpoint?” Ortega asked.

“Yes, I'm sure,” she replied in a soft voice. She was a mess, her eyes black from the mascara running and red from crying. She sat with her shoulders hunched over, staring at the floor.

Ortega's eyes were steady on her. “There are houses just up the road, and no one living in those houses saw your husband drive by. One of the women was outside in her yard hanging her laundry to dry. I think she would remember seeing a tourist in a rental car. There is not much traffic on this road.” His tone was interesting, almost inviting her to tell the truth.

“My husband wanted to see what was ahead on the road. I wished to stay at the lookout and enjoy the view. When he returned he was traveling too fast and went over the cliff.” She looked up and stared straight into his eyes, unblinking. “My husband is dead, Senor Ortega. Please try to respect that fact.”

He nodded, barely and very slowly. “I just find it a little strange that no one saw him drive up the road, and that the tracks from his car appear to go straight off the cliff, not on an angle, like they would if the car was coming around the corner at a high speed.”

Taylor was quiet. It was very obvious this man was not a Mexican police officer who didn't care what happened to the
gringos
except to take their bribes. He knew something was askew, now it was a question of whether he wanted to pursue it.

“When will you be returning to the United States?” he asked.

“Soon. I have no reason to stay in Mexico.”

He nodded again. This time with a little more conviction. He looked down at the file on his lap and opened it. “I see,” he said, flipping through a few pages. He was quiet, scanning the contents of each page. Finally he closed the file. “The divers are searching for your husband's body, but it will be difficult. The tides and the waves in that area of the coastline are very dangerous.”

“I can imagine,” Taylor said.

“Yes, I'm sure you can.” He tapped the file against his knee a few times, then said, “Is there anything else you want to tell me, Ms. Simons? Anything at all?” Ortega's eyes told her that he knew there was more to this than what she was telling.

Her eyes teared up again and she dabbed at them with a tissue. It came away stained with mascara. “I loved my husband, Senor Ortega. And sometimes things happen that are beyond your own control.”

“Do you wish to discuss these things?”

She shook her head. “They're private. My husband and I had a very good marriage. We loved each other, and neither of us would cause harm to the other. For that to happen, it would take outside influences.”

“These outside influences, they would be private.”

“Yes.”

He scratched his cheek lightly, then rubbed his clean-shaven chin. His dark eyes were thoughtful. He rose from his chair and said, “I'm sorry about your husband, Ms. Simons. It was a tragic accident. Please accept my condolences. You are free to go.”

“Thank you,” she said, rising and shaking his hand.

“Would you like a ride back to your hotel?”

She shook her head. “No, I'll find a cab. I need some time alone right now.”

“I understand,” Ortega said.

Taylor left the police station. The streets outside were almost deserted, the hour late. She walked slowly along the uneven cement, oblivious to the shopkeepers trying to lure in the last tourist of the day. She was alone in Mexico, alone in the world. Her parents were gone, she had no brothers or sisters, and now her husband was dead. G-cubed was gone—in the hands of a competitor, and although the loss of the business seemed trite in comparison to what had just happened on the rugged cliffs of the East Baja Cape, it was still a loss. She had suffered enough loss for one lifetime. She leaned against the rough concrete walls of a small silver store and closed her eyes. The night breeze was chilly. She tugged her thin coat about her waist and pulled up the zipper. The street was quiet, save for an occasional car or moped driving by.

Things could be worse. She could be in a Mexican prison cell waiting for Manuel Ortega to decide what to do with her. Alan had tried to kill Edward Brand by pushing the Ford Explorer over the cliff. It had backfired, and Alan had died instead. But if the police were to find out what his intentions were, she could be held as an accessory. Then a disturbing thought occurred to her. Edward Brand seemed quite at home in Mexico. First Mexico City, now the Baja peninsula. If he were as well connected as he appeared to be, what were the chances he might go to the police himself and tell them what happened? Perhaps he knew the local police well enough. Perhaps.

She looked up and down the street. Dim streetlights lit the roadway at uneven intervals and an old mangy dog lay on the sidewalk a few feet from her, disinterested now that he was sure she had no food. A set of headlights appeared, and a car pulled up to the curb. It was a cab. The driver leaned over and rolled down the passenger window.

“Taxi?” he said. He was a young man with an eager dark-skinned face. His eyes were hopeful. Perhaps he had a fare.

Taylor stared at his eyes, seeing the hope. That was the key. Hope. She had to keep hope alive in her spirit. Hope and belief. Belief that there was a reason for what happens, and that the world was not just a giant ball of random events all jumbled together to form the lives of those who got up every day and went about their various routines. She needed to believe there was a purpose to what happened. She broke off the eye contact and took a deep breath. The taxi was an older car, but well maintained. And it was the start of her new life without Alan. The moment she slipped into the backseat of that car, she was starting the long and arduous process of rebuilding her life. It was one step closer to whatever normalcy she could find.