Down Among the Dead Men (A Thriller) Read Free Page B

are the talk of the ship right now. And I can almost guarantee we’ll be getting a phone call from the purser tomorrow morning.”
    Jen slumped against the wall. “I am such an idiot. Why do I always do this?”
    “Let’s save the pity party for later, okay?”
    “I promised myself I wouldn’t drink so much, and what’s the first thing I do?”
    “It’s a little tough to say no when you’re surrounded by the stuff.”
    Jen shook her head. “I am so fucking predictable. And I’ve ruined your vacation. I ruin everything for everybody.”
    “Quit being dramatic,” Beth said, then tried a smile. “If they don’t throw us off the ship tomorrow, you’ve still got three days to make it up to—”
    Jen clutched her stomach. “Uhhhhh. Tell it to stop. Make it freaking…ohhhh, shit.”
    Then it came. Jen’s appetizer, dinner salad, three beers, and two Bahama Mamas, all over the standard-issue cruise ship blue and green carpet—
    —and Beth’s brand-new Kenneth Cole sandals.
    Her smile abruptly disappeared.
    “Oh…my…fucking…Lord…,” she said, and nearly threw up herself.

7
    Vargas
     
    H E NEVER THOUGHT he could be so easily creeped out in daylight, yet the moment Vargas climbed out of the truck and stood in front of the house something cold and dry crawled up his spine.
    A sense of anticipation. And dread.
    The place was fairly typical for this part of the country. A large crumbling rectangle of sun-dried clay that had undoubtedly once housed the family who ran the gas station near the highway.
    Its walls were adorned with more graffiti. One of the newer additions read: CASA DE LA MUERTE.
    House of Death.
    Despite the missing chunks of tile roof that let in swathes of mottled sunlight, there was a darkness of spirit here. A malevolence. The entrance was a doorless hole that reminded Vargas of an open maw. And to step past its threshold was to risk being swallowed alive.
    Apparently he wasn’t the only one who felt this way.
    “I’m not goin’ in there again,” Junior said. He was still in the F-150, uncertainty in his eyes.
    Ainsworth spat into the dirt, then squinted at him through the open driver’s door.
    “What did I just tell you, boy?”
    “I don’t like this place.”
    “It’s a goddamn house. It’s not gonna bite you.” Ainsworth lowered his voice, but there was no softness or warmth this time. “Now you can sit in there like a friggin’ faggot, or you can paint that sorry butt white and start runnin’ with the antelope. Which is it gonna be?”
    Junior was quiet for a moment, then finally wilted under the heat of his father’s gaze.
    “Okay,” he said quietly.
    “Okay what ?”
    “I’ll come out.”
    Ainsworth’s gaze didn’t waver. “You’re gonna do a helluva lot more than that, Kimo Sabe. You’re gonna lead the way. Take us inside, show Nick here where we found the rest of those bodies.”
    Junior solemnly nodded his head. “Yessir.”
    Climbing out of the truck, he stared at the house a long moment before moving up to its crumbling doorway. Pausing at the threshold, he shot his father a nervous glance, then gestured for Vargas to follow him inside.

8
     
    V ARGAS DIDN’T BELIEVE in ghosts. His childhood had been full of the usual stories, like the tale of La Llorona, the inconsolable widow who wandered the countryside crying for her dead children. Or the shuffling specter of a murdered husband in search of his golden arm.
    But Vargas had always taken such tales for exactly what they were: harmless folklore. Make-believe stories told in hushed tones by his older brother, Manny, who was always trying to get a rise out of little Nick as they huddled in the darkness of their bedroom.
    Yet there was something about this place—a sense of foreboding—that brought the memory of those nights flooding back to him, and he knew that if his brother were still alive he’d be milking it for all it was worth.
    Vargas followed Junior through the doorway into a small room