The Lion's Den(108)

I quote the man in the café, pointing east. “Nel prossimo paese?”

“You want, I take you,” he says amiably. “You want watch the town, I wait.”

“Is there a train station there?” I ask.

“Sí, signorina. Ten euro, good price.”

“Is five okay?” I plead. “I’m really low on cash.”

He shrugs. “For you, okay.”

“Grazie.” I give him a five-euro note, and he hops into the boat. The dinghy rocks under his weight as he hands me down and helps me to sit on the bench. I see him register the scratches on my arms and dirt clinging to my torn dress as he releases me, but before he can comment, I give him my best smile. “Beautiful day,” I say, sweeping my arm at the coastline.

“Sí.” My cheer must convince him I’m fine because he fires up the engine, and we’re off. I gaze at the picturesque town as we bump across the surf, the sea spray cool on my burned skin. I feel like I can breathe for the first time since I slipped out of the jewelry shop. I’ve been in survival mode, able to think only of the next steps, but now Amythest’s face comes back to me, and I’m racked with grief for the girl I’d just begun to know…and guilt. I should never have told her the truth about Summer, should never have given her my watch. Her words just yesterday about not wanting to be buried near the sea haunt me, an eerie foreshadowing of her watery death. Somewhere beneath the waves, her lifeless body undulates with the tide. She’ll wash up on shore swollen with seawater in a few days or weeks, only to be discovered by some unsuspecting passerby, who will be forever scarred by the sight of her unrecognizable corpse. I stifle tears.

Around an outcropping of rocks, another village comes into view, probably twice the size of Terralione. This one is full of life. A narrow strip of sandy shore speckled with blue umbrellas is ringed by yellow and terra-cotta buildings that climb up the green hills. At the far end of the harbor, a small port curls into the azure water like a fishhook.

Sunbathers have spread towels on the biggest boulders, and the water is so clear that I can see little fish flitting in and out of the shadows cast by the rocks on the seafloor. We dock next to a row of boats no bigger than ours, and the driver hands me up to the cobblestone promenade.





(twenty days ago)

Mexico



It was late afternoon by the time we reached the border. I fingered my passport, nervous. I’d never driven into Mexico before and didn’t know what to expect, but Eric had assured me there was very little likelihood of anyone stopping us. Of course, if they did, they’d find a very beat-up guy with a fake passport and a bag of a hundred thousand dollars in cash.

I glanced at him as he finished off the In-N-Out burger he’d insisted we pick up when I’d revealed I’d never had one. He was looking better than he had this morning, but I was glad we’d finally be seeing a doctor tomorrow. I couldn’t imagine how he’d made it through the past few days with all those injuries. “What?” he asked when he caught me staring at him. “Is my face covered in mustard?”

I laughed. “No. I was just wondering how you got to my house.”

“Bus, mostly. And some very slow walking. I didn’t have a lot of cash and didn’t want to use cards.” He held up the burger. “I ate a lot of these.”

“But it was days. Where did you sleep?”

“I hid out in a cheap motel near the park until I felt strong enough to walk into town to catch the bus.” He ran a hand over his shorn hair. “Did this so I’d look different.”

I eyed his bruises. “I don’t think you needed to worry about that.”

Traffic slowed to a crawl, and high concrete walls sprang up along the sides of the freeway as we inched toward the border. Eric put on a Dodgers baseball cap and a pair of orange, mirrored Wayfarer sunglasses we’d picked up at the gas station. I sucked the dregs of my iced tea, nervous.

“We’re in a Prius. We’re gonna be fine,” he said.

Up ahead a sign flashed ENTERING MEXICO, BE PREPARED TO STOP. I saw the weigh station and a number of booths with border agents, police SUVs with dogs searching cars, lights flashing.

We rolled up to the green-uniformed officer guarding our lane, his hand on the butt of his gun. He motioned for me to roll down the window, and I did, smiling. I handed him our passports and he stooped and looked me up and down, then glanced around me at Eric, who waved.

“Any fruits or vegetables?” the officer asked.

I did my best impression of nonchalance. “No.”

He returned our passports without so much as glancing at them, and waved us on. “Welcome to Mexico.”

I rolled up the window and pulled away, exhaling a sigh of relief.

Eric took a crumpled piece of notebook paper from his pocket and unfolded it. “Can I see your phone?”

I handed him the phone and he punched in an address scribbled on the paper. “Where are we going?” I asked.

“Rosarito. It’s a beach town just south of Tijuana.”

“Is it safe?”

“It’s fine,” he replied.

“That’s where the doctor is?”

“Yes. I’ll see him tomorrow. I’m feeling better, though. You did a good job patching me up.”

I glanced at him. “That’s the painkillers talking,” I said. “You’re still going to the doctor.”