Getaway Page 4

  Did she want to see him? She wasn’t sure.

  Stupid, she told herself. You need your phone. You’ve come all this way. Say hello, how are you, and good-bye.

  She shifted the tote bag on her shoulder and approached the building.

  An external staircase with a wrought-iron banister led up to Daniel’s unit, crossing the side of the building and leading to a balcony facing the ocean, wide enough to accommodate two chairs and a small glass table.

  When she reached the balcony, she could see only a sliver of water above the roof of the building below. Still a nice view, she supposed.

  There was no name on the door, no number, no mailbox. She’d have to take Gary’s word that this was the right unit. If it wasn’t … well, this was a small building. Someone would have to know where Daniel lived.

  If no one answers, she thought, I’ll leave the bag by the door with a note. Take his phone back to the hotel, and he can pick it up there.

  Heart pounding, she knocked on the door.

  Which swung open. About six inches before the rusting hinges slowed it to a halt.

  Michelle hesitated at the threshold.

  “Daniel?” she called out.

  She heard something from within. Not a person. She couldn’t make it out at first. A sort of hum.

  A fly flew out the door, bumping into her shoulder.

  I have to look, she told herself. I have to look.

  She pushed the door further open.

  It was dim inside, the curtains drawn, and hot. The smell, the flies—for that was the hum she’d heard, the buzzing of flies—hit her at once, and she couldn’t entirely sort out one thing from the other—the darkness, the closed heat, the smell: a sweetish rot. She fumbled for a light switch, thinking there must be one, but there wasn’t, not by the door at least.

  Her eyes adjusted. It wasn’t really dark. There was enough light seeping through the curtains, from the open door.

  The living room. This was the living room. It was simple, hardly anything in it. A couch. A chair. A television. A coffee table.

  On the coffee table was something dark, an oval shape with protrusions she couldn’t make out. The thing almost seemed to shimmer, as though its lines were mutable, fluid, shifting ever so slightly.

  She approached the table, and a cloud of flies rose from the object.

  A head.

  She shrieked, batting away the flies, one of them hitting her lip, another, her eyelid, her ear. She thought she might have inhaled them, and she swatted at them and retched a little, then finally stood still. She looked again.

  It was a pig’s head. A pig’s head, sitting on the coffee table. On top of a Time magazine, next to an empty beer bottle. Covered with flies. Maggots, too, little white filaments that pulsed and contracted as they burrowed into the rotting flesh.

  For a moment she could only stand there. She felt nothing at first. How was one supposed to regard this? It didn’t make sense.

  Something prickled the skin of her forearm. She looked down.

  A fly, rubbing its legs together.

  Get out, she thought. Just get out.

  She took a few steps back, toward the door, toward air and light, stumbling a bit, the back of her hand striking the doorknob. She clutched at it to steady herself. Leaned there against the wall, hand on doorknob, until her heart slowed and she could think again.

  What did it mean? Why would someone do this?

  Maybe she should call the police. She wondered how you did that here. Was it 911? Or something else?

  But what would she tell them? That she’d found a pig’s head in an empty apartment?

  There was no one in the apartment. She was certain. How could you stand to be in there with a rotting carcass on the table? There was no movement, no sound other than the flies.

  Then she thought maybe there was someone, unconscious or dead.

  Don’t be stupid, she told herself, but the idea burrowed itself into her head, and she had to be sure.

  The apartment had a kitchenette, separated from the living room by a bar counter, and a short hall with three doors opening off it. A bathroom—blue tiles, plastic shower curtain. A toothbrush, some toothpaste, and a few sundries. Nothing much. Some curly dark hair in the sink.

  The door next to that opened onto an odd little room—a bonus room, she supposed you’d call it—with a small barred window high up a whitewashed wall. You could put a daybed in here if you had guests, Michelle thought, but there was no furniture, just a workout bench, some barbells, a bag of golf clubs, and what looked like snorkeling equipment in a couple of crates beneath the window.

  On the other side of the hall was the main bedroom.

  No body on the bed. Michelle almost laughed. Of course there wouldn’t be. The bed was big, a king. Well, Daniel probably had his share of overnight guests, judging from her encounter with him—though anyone who didn’t know her well could say the same of her based on that night, and that wasn’t how she was, not how she’d been for a long time, anyway.

  Don’t be so quick to judge, she told herself.

  But it was hard not to wonder. The apartment—the condominium—was modest. Anonymous, almost. No paintings on the walls. Hardly any books. Nothing personal at all. Not much different from her room at the hotel.

  This must just be a vacation home for Daniel, Michelle thought. Not the place where he actually lived.

  Back in the living room, the flies had regrouped on the pig head.

  Just leave, she told herself. It’s not your problem, and you have a plane to catch tomorrow.

  But if it was something criminal … People knew she planned to come here. Gary knew, and Vicky and Charlie. If she just left, would that implicate her somehow?

  She felt the camera tucked against her side as the thought occurred to her.

  I should take pictures.

  Just to document it. She could decide later whether she needed to show the photos to anyone. But at least she’d have proof of what she saw. Just in case there were any questions.

  She hadn’t intended to get artsy, only snap off a few clear shots, but as she focused on the pig’s snout, a part of her noted that it was a compelling image, with the flies around its eye sockets, the beer bottle next to it, the television in the background. As bland as the room was, the pig’s head was the only thing that really drew your eye.

  Still Life with Pig Head and Beer Bottle, Michelle thought, adjusting the depth of field, taking another shot, then the angle, shooting again. She almost laughed. All this time in Puerto Vallarta, and she’d finally found a good picture.

  “What …?”

  She dropped the camera against her chest.

  “What the fuck?”

  Daniel stood there in the doorway.

  “I …”

  In two strides he’d crossed to the coffee table. “What the fuck is this?”

  His fingers dug into her arm, just beneath her bicep. “You … Who told you to do this?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  She stared at his face: rigid and white with anger.

  “I have some of your things,” she said. “I just came here and saw this. I thought …”

  “Who told you where I live?”

  “Gary,” she said. “Please let go of me.”

  “Gary?” He released her arm with a jerk. “How do you know Gary?”

  “I met him at the Tiburón,” Michelle said. “I didn’t know how to get a hold of you. Gary gave me your address.”

  “Why didn’t you just call?” The anger had not diminished, only retreated.

  “I have your phone.” She started to reach into her purse, and instantly he tensed again, not with anger this time but something cold and predatory.

  She froze. God, did he think she had a gun?

  “Check yours,” she said. “I think it’s mine.”

  He reached into the pocket of his cargo shorts and pulled out an iPhone. Black. He powered it up. “Shit,” he said after a m
oment. “It … it was off. I just left it that way.”

  “For two days?”

  “I wanted to get some rest and not have people fucking calling me.”

  “So can we trade phones now?” She felt a rush of anger. “You’re not going to … to attack me?”

  “Sorry. I’m …” He lifted his hand to his forehead, winced. His head was shaved where he’d been cut, a patch between crown and temple covered with a square of gauze. “Fucking Gary.” He attempted a smile. “This is probably his idea of a joke.”

  “A joke?” The buzzing of the flies, the smell of rot, the close, shut-in heat of the apartment made her suddenly dizzy. “I need some air.”

  She pushed past Daniel and sat down on one of the chairs on the balcony, let her head fall into her hands.

  “You okay?”

  “Fine.” She raised her head. “What kind of joke is that?”

  “A stupid one.” Daniel sat down in the chair next to her. “He knew I checked into a hotel for a few days. Air conditioner’s busted here, and I felt pretty lousy. Figured I’d let somebody bring me food and make my bed.”

  There was something he wasn’t saying, something that didn’t fit, but Michelle couldn’t think of what it was.

  “You want a beer? I think there’s a couple cold ones in the fridge.”

  He sounded friendly enough, but the way he looked at her, studying her face—was that concern or something else?

  “That’s okay. I think I’d better go.”

  “No, listen, stay a minute. You had a shock. Let me get you a beer.”

  He got up before she could object.

  By the time Daniel had returned with the beers, bottles already sweating in the heat, she’d figured it out. “Why me?”

  “Huh?” Daniel handed her a bottle. Bohemia. She’d had that a few times in Los Angeles.

  “If he was playing a joke on you, why did he send me up here to find it?”

  “He’s an asshole.”

  “He doesn’t even know me.”

  “Guess he thought it would be funny,” Daniel muttered.

  The sun was striking the balcony now, the light glaring. He squinted for a moment and put on his sunglasses, which had been propped up on his head. Serengetis, she thought.

  Michelle rested the beer on her cheek for a moment. The chill felt even better than drinking it.

  “So the pictures,” Daniel said. He was smiling, trying to keep his voice friendly. “Why were you taking pictures of that thing?”

  “I thought there should be a record of it. In case someone threw it away.”

  “Are you a photographer or something?”

  She shook her head. “It’s just a hobby.”

  They sat in silence for a while. What else was there to say?

  “I should go,” Michelle said. She reached into her purse and got out his phone. He retrieved hers from his pocket.

  “Let me get you a cab.”

  “You don’t need to.”

  “I want to.” He smiled again. Maybe it was genuine this time. “Look, I’m really sorry about how I acted just now. It was just … kind of a shock, finding you and that in my place, and … I’m still a little jumpy over everything. You know?”

  She supposed she did. “Don’t worry about it.”

  He walked her through the apartment, past the pig’s head.

  “Let me buy you dinner,” he said suddenly. “You went to a lot of trouble, and I didn’t exactly thank you for it.”

  “Thanks, but … I’m leaving tomorrow, and I need some time to pack.”

  It was a lame excuse, and he had to know it, but he couldn’t really want to have dinner with her after everything that had happened, could he? It was probably just a belated courtesy on his part, and she wasn’t interested.

  He was a nice-looking man, and maybe none of this was his fault, but she’d had enough. Enough of him, enough of his creepy friends and their sick jokes. Enough of this place.

  It was time to go home.

  “Well, if you change your mind …” He stared at her, eyes hidden by his sunglasses.

  “I have your number,” she said.

  She didn’t, but he didn’t need to know that.

  He still looked pale, she thought. Behind him the pig’s head pulsed with flies. “Do you … need some help with that?” she asked reluctantly.

  “Thanks. That’s … Thanks.” He smiled again, a real one. “If you could, maybe just hold the bag?”

  Daniel put on a pair of rubber gloves he had stashed under the kitchen sink, and Michelle held the garbage bag. He picked up the pig’s head, holding it as far away from his body as possible. Michelle did the same with the garbage bag.

  Even after they twisted the bag shut, she could hear the buzzing of trapped flies.

  [CHAPTER FIVE]

  “I’m all packed,” she told the woman behind the front desk the next morning. “If I could leave my bags in the room, I’d like to go down to the beach for a while.”

  “Certainly. Please, enjoy the rest of your time here.”

  Though it was already 11:00 A.M., there were still plenty of empty palapas. The tourist season was over. “This time of year, no business,” the waiter said, the nut-brown man who had served her before. “Very hard on the family.” He shrugged. “Maybe I take the job down the beach at this new restaurant. Make Caesar salads. The money is a little better.”

  “I’m sorry you’re having a tough time,” she said, and she was. Maybe she wasn’t a Mexican waiter hustling for tips on the beach, but the idea that she might not have enough, might not be able to make enough to support herself, seemed all too relatable.

  She’d gotten an e-mail from her lawyer saying that things weren’t looking good, that Tom had been behind in the life insurance payments and he hadn’t been able to get it reinstated. She’d been counting on the life insurance. The house was gone, foreclosed, and she’d had no clue until Tom wasn’t around anymore to intercept the communications. His kids laid claim to everything else that was left. Whatever that might be.

  She had nothing.

  I have to accept it, she told herself.

  “Something to drink?” the waiter asked. “Something special? Since this is your last day here.”

  She’d had far too much to drink on this trip already. But it was her last day. Quite possibly the last time she’d ever be here, on this beach.

  “Just a margarita, I think.”

  He brought her a double, and later he came by and topped it off.

  I’ll have to get a job, Michelle thought. But it had been years since she’d worked. She’d stopped shortly after marrying Tom, not that the photo gallery had paid much in any case. “Look, I’m making plenty for both of us,” he’d said. “Why don’t you spend your time doing things you enjoy?”

  Funny, that.

  He’d meant it kindly, for the most part. But not working meant she ran the house. Chose the furniture, the appliances. Hung the right paintings on the walls. Made sure the gifts Tom sent were personalized and appropriate. Picked their charities and arranged for their attendance at the banquets.

  And she’d kept herself in shape for all that. Yoga, Pilates, spin classes. She looked good, and not like one of those Brentwood plastic-surgery victims either.

  “Michelle, you’re so creative! Love the way you dress! Love your house!”

  That was what everyone said about her.

  How much had she actually enjoyed it?

  She’d almost reached the end of the book about the woman who found redemption through baked goods. She thumbed through to the last pages. Sure enough, the heroine ended up with the cultured, overeducated woodworker. Why did people even read things like this, she wondered, where you know how it will end almost as soon as it starts?

  Maybe they liked the certainty. The reassurance that things worked out all right in the end.

  At three-fifteen she went upstairs, showered, changed, and finished her packing. At four she retrieved her valuables fr
om the hotel safe and said good-bye to the woman behind the front counter.

  “Alejandra,” the woman said, extending a slender hand. “I hope you come back to see us again. It isn’t right, what happened to you and your friend. We hope we can make it up to you.”

  The cab arrived a few minutes later; the driver took her wheeled bag and put it in the trunk. Michelle climbed into the back, and as the cab pulled away, Alejandra and one of the hotel workers waved good-bye. Michelle returned the wave. She supposed it was simply good business, that after the attack the hotel workers wanted to do whatever they could to mitigate the bad publicity by being extra attentive.

  Still, they were nice people.

  The taxi chugged up the hill, heading in the opposite direction of the airport at first, then around a tight curve that straightened into a road heading north, condos at the crest of the hill, morphing into colonias as they descended. The road widened, dirt shoulders on either side, concrete shoring up the hillsides, covered with graffiti and political posters, mostly for PRI and PAN. Michelle couldn’t remember what the parties stood for here, though she thought that pan might be Spanish for “bread.”

  She leaned against the backseat, eyes half closed. She had the beginnings of a headache. I shouldn’t have had those drinks, she thought. Soon as I get home, it’s back to the regimen: the workout routine, the yoga, the raw food and greens. Definitely no margaritas. The calories in one were staggering.

  The taxi driver muttered something under his breath that sounded like a curse, put his foot on the brake, and pulled over onto the dirt shoulder.

  “What’s wrong?”

  The driver jerked his thumb behind them. “Policía.”

  She turned and looked out the rear window. A squad car, black and white, compact, a little battered, light bar flashing blue and red.

  Great, Michelle thought. Had the driver been speeding? Was a taillight out? She’d tried to leave plenty of time to get to the airport, but she’d heard that things with the police could turn complicated here.

  Well, there was no point in panicking.

  The policeman approached the driver’s-side door. Best not to get involved, Michelle decided. She stared out the passenger window.

  They’d parked at the edge of a lot that looked like an ad hoc body shop, with cars in various states of assembly, stacked sidepanels, bumpers, and doors. A tin roof propped up on poles was the only indication of any permanency. Odd, she thought. What would stop someone from coming in at night and stealing parts? Maybe the workers slept here. Maybe the whole operation was somehow magically packed up at dusk and reassembled the next day.