Her Facebook status gave him a chilling update. It said “on vacation,” which was their code for “in trouble.” Although her page was set to private, like his, he didn’t know if their communications here were secure.
He clicked on his instant messages and found a series of short texts, all recent. It was the first time she’d initiated contact with him since he’d left.
Where are u? I can’t reach your cell.
Tía Mariposa visited today. She brought the letter. If you’re dead, fuck you.
He barked out a short laugh, raking a hand through his hair. She’d never been one to spare his feelings.
I can’t stay here. Going to SJ to see AF.
This message made his gut clench with unease. Why would she leave her school? His sister-in-law’s place in San Juan wasn’t safe. She must have gone there to get false documents, and maybe a plane ticket to the United States. That meant she was coming north, to find him.
“No,” he breathed, horrified by the thought. He’d assumed that she would be angry with him, because she was always angry with him. He’d counted on it! The idea that she might be worried—so worried that she’d risk her life to search for him—was unfathomable.
I had to leave AF’s. Some bad men came and she told me to run. I think they killed her.
He stared at the words on the screen, his pulse pounding with fear and fury. The men had to be from Los Rojos. They’d probably been watching Anita’s place to see if he’d show up there. He slammed his fist against the desk, startling another café patron.
You’re dead, aren’t you? I’m alone on thetren de la muerte. I’m so scared. Papá, if you’re reading this…I’m sorry.
Moisture flooded his eyes. The sensation was so unexpected, and so foreign to the person he’d become that he almost didn’t recognize it for what it was. He hadn’t cried since the day Alma had died in his arms. He’d broken down and wept for hours. He’d shed a lifetime of tears. Then a cold rage had swept over him, numbing everything in its wake.
Papá, please. I need help.
The next text, a moment later:
Never mind. I still hate you.
He laughed again, wiping the tears from his eyes. Let her hate him, as long as she stayed alive. As long as she kept fighting. The last message read:
On the train near Gja. I think Tía M is here. Did you send her after me?
He searched for more clues, more words, more context. But there was nothing else on Facebook or anywhere online. He found an article about Anita, who had been murdered in her apartment. She was forty-four years old. First Alma, now Anita. Both taken too soon. Both taken because of him.
There were no mentions of his name in the media, which was odd. No one seemed to be looking for him. If the U.S. authorities didn’t know by now that he’d kidnapped an American woman—a doctor, no less—they were slipping.
They had to know. They just weren’t advertising it.
He couldn’t imagine why Maria would be riding La Bestia. The train was no place for females. A woman who looked like her couldn’t escape notice in a crowd of rowdy young men. With a start, it occurred to him that Sarai would be equally vulnerable. She was seventeen now. He saw her as a child, but the other passengers wouldn’t.
He closed his eyes for a moment, tortured by the realization. Then he began to type.
Sarai, I’m alive. Sorry about that.
With a frown, he deleted the second sentence. Too dark.
I was unconscious for a few days, but I’m okay now. I’m glad you’re okay. I understand why you got on the train, but it’s too dangerous for a girl. It’s not worth the risk. Get off at the next stop and stay where you are. I’ll come to you.
He studied those words, uncertain. His message might make her angry. Everything he did seemed to make her angry. After a short pause, he added another few sentences.
I asked Tía M to deliver the letter, not to follow you. Is she alone? If you see a man with her, describe him to me.
Maria was kind and brave, but she wasn’t stupid. She wouldn’t ride La Bestia alone. Perhaps she’d reunited with that DEA agent she was so fond of. Armando knew all about their affair. It was his business to know everything that went down at the Hotel del Oro, and he’d paid special attention to her. She was nice to look at, but that wasn’t the only reason.
When he’d first laid eyes on her—and hands, because he was trying to subdue her—he’d been struck by her beauty. Then he’d been struck by her teeth. She’d bitten him and drawn blood. She was a headstrong woman, full of fire. Like Alma.
Everyone seemed to want a piece of her, including Chuy Peña and the undercover agent who’d been buying product at the hotel. Armando had watched her from afar. She made him miss female company, and soft skin, and home.
