Wrecked (Josie Gray Mysteries #3)(69)
*
Driving home from Otto’s, Josie remained quiet, the anger inside her over the cartel’s manipulation still too hot to touch. When they arrived at her house Nick excused himself to the spare bedroom. Josie listened to the bedroom door shut and opened the kitchen cabinet for the bottle of bourbon. She unscrewed the cap and smelled the musky sweetness. The anticipation of escape made her hands tremble and relief welled up inside her chest. She poured a glass of the warm amber liquid and drank, shuddering at the first gulp. She felt nauseous almost instantly, and with the second gulp she had to push past her gag reflex. Standing at the kitchen sink, she forced half a glass, shutting her eyes to hold back the tears. When she opened them again Nick was standing in the doorway, watching her.
“That shit’s not the answer. I guess you know that,” he said.
“What’s the answer then? Somebody needs to start giving me some answers pretty damn quick.”
“I need you alert.”
She drained the glass and slammed it onto the counter. “Alert? What good does alert do when you’re a pawn?” She laughed, her voice filled with hate. “You called it. I’ll give you that.”
“I want to sit down tonight and start on a plan, especially given Hec’s information.”
“Christina is dead. An innocent bystander. Dillon is enduring god only knows what.”
His cautious observation of her made her even angrier. She wanted him to agree with her, to support her fury.
“You know what this means? The message I thought Dillon was sending me? Wrecked? He was forced to say that. Those sadistic bastards planted that information on the tape so that I would hear it, so I would start digging into Wally Follet’s business.”
“That’s typically the way it goes, Josie. The hostage doesn’t always get to make up his own plea. He reads from a script.”
She shrugged, ignoring him. “It’s not like the Medranos could file a police report to get their money back from Follet, right? The cartel can’t come barging into the U.S. hunting down a U.S. citizen. So, they set up a foolproof plan. A life in exchange for their cash. And they used a cop to accomplish it. Someone who would investigate, find that bastard Follet and bring him in.” She stared at Nick without really seeing him. “Unbelievable.” She threw her hands in the air.
He walked over to the counter, picked up the liter of bourbon and twisted on its cap, then slid it across the counter, away from her. “So, what? You shut down? You drink yourself into a corner? Here’s what people like you don’t get. You’re nothing special. This shit happens every day. You think a five-hundred-dollar ransom is any easier for some poverty-stricken wife to handle than a nine-million-dollar ransom is for you? Her husband or son or father is still gone. I’ve stood in kitchens just like yours, all over Mexico. And in every one of those kitchens the anger and the grief and the pain is so strong I can reach out and touch it. It’s thick. You don’t drink yourself into a corner, you prepare and you fight back.”
He moved to the dining room, taking a seat at the table as he waited for his laptop to power up.
Josie went to her bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the floor, still reeling from Nick’s words. She finally stood and locked herself into the bathroom. She turned the water on as hot as it would go and let the tub fill up. She peeled off her jeans and threw her sweatshirt into the corner. She stepped closer to the long mirror hanging on the back of the door, staring at her face, at her bloodshot eyes. The black circles under her eyes had darkened since she’d last examined them. She ran her fingers over the thin skin and pressed away the tears in the corners of her eyes.
As she sank into the bathwater, her skin burned from the heat. Closing her eyes, she allowed her thoughts to roam, but they quickly turned to images of Dillon slashed, lying in a pool of blood, not able to comprehend the evil that had been forced on him. She thought about Nick’s words: prepare and fight back. It’s what she’d been trying to do, but it wasn’t enough. What could Dillon do to help himself now? He was an orderly, competent, kind man. But now he would need hatred to sustain himself. Hope was too thin an emotion, too easily lost. She inhaled the steam from the hot water and forced the images of Dillon to fade, imagining herself sinking into black water surrounded by nothing.
*
Located across the street from the courthouse square in downtown Artemis, Manny’s Motel was a six-room establishment with the doors to each room facing the street. The office was located in the center, where a neon green ROOMS FOR RENT sign hung crooked in the front window.
Otto parked his truck in front and Hec grabbed the small suitcase Delores had packed him. She had wanted to come, but Otto had refused. She was already more involved than he was comfortable with.
“Sorry about the slippers. I didn’t think you fellas would mind,” Manny said as he met Otto and Hec at the front office.
“Slippers are a given. We appreciate you taking us in,” Otto said.
Manny pointed toward the door. “To your left. I put you in room six, right next to my apartment.”
Manny followed them down the walkway, unlocked door number six, and ushered them inside. He handed Hec the room key, which bore a yellow smiley face sticker on one side.
“You bang on the wall and I’ll come straight over. If you need anything? A trip to the grocery or the drug store? All you do is ask and I’ll make a run for you. I’m a bored old man with too much time on my hands. Let me do some good for a change.”