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NATE SCANNED THE AREA. Leslie and Ana had to be close by. They had to be.
Only seconds had passed since he'd seen them.
His heart still raced after seeing that man grab Marisa. What had his endgame been? If his plan had been to kidnap her, it had been flawed, considering that without going down the many stairs to the street, he wasn't going to get far with her. Maybe he'd planned to drag her into a dark room. Nate didn't want to think about what might have happened next.
He glanced at Marisa, whose gaze was still darting around. "Where are they?" The pitch of her voice rose to near-panic mode.
He stepped closer and placed a hand on her shoulder, trying to calm her down. "They have to be here somewhere. Maybe they..." He tried to come up with a plausible explanation. But beyond the street was just the sand, and beyond the sand was just the water. He studied the beach in the fading light, but none of the silhouettes looked like them.
"What?" Marisa stepped away and turned to him. "Maybe they what? Where could they be?"
"Maybe they forgot something on the beach."
She started walking down the steps. "We should go over there."
He took her elbow. "We have a great vantage point right here."
She climbed back to the top of the steps and looked like she was going to walk back down. In the yellow lights of the plaza, he could see her face pale. "The van. Where did it go?"
He looked back to the street. The van was gone.
"Someone took them!"
"Why would somebody—?"
"Oh, my God. We have to call the police. Do you have a phone?" She looked around frantically, as if a cop might materialize.
A phone rang. She looked at him, but the ring wasn't familiar.
"That's not my phone," Nate said. "It must be yours."
"I don't have a phone." She looked around, but there were no people within ten yards of them.
His heart sunk into a deep crevice that felt frighteningly familiar. "Look in your bag."
She shook her head. "I don't have a phone, and we don't have time..."
It rang again. The sound was clearly coming from her new colorful bag.
"Maybe that guy dropped it," she said.
A stone formed in Nate's stomach, twisting and expanding as the seconds passed. "Please answer it, Marisa."
She dug through her bag and pulled out a cheap phone. He looked, saw the number was blocked. She pressed the button. "Sí."
She listened for a moment. "Yes." Her expression confirmed his fear.
He leaned in.
"By now..." The man's voice was marked by a heavy New York accent. "You must realize we have your sister and your daughter."
Marisa crumpled. He wrapped his arm around her and helped her sit on the stairs.
"Marisa," the man said. "You need to answer me. You understand I have them, right?"
"Yes."
"Do you want to see them again?"
"Please, whatever you want me to do. Just... Please, let's do a trade. You can take me and let them go."
"If I wanted to take you, I would have you. You understand?"
She looked at Nate, eyes imploring. He nodded, and she said, "Yes."
"That man who's with you, Nate. Is he listening?
Nate nodded again, and Marisa said, "Yes."
"Okay, good. You two need to get the money that was stolen from Charles Gray's account. Two million. You have one week. We'll make the trade in the States."
"Wait, but—"
"Keep that phone with you, and I'll call with the details."
"But I don't know where the money is."
"I would prefer small bills."
"I'm not lying. Please, I'll do anything to get my daughter back—"
"Get me the money or show me who has it. That's the deal."
"Who are you?"
"Money or proof. Do you understand? Yes or no."
She opened her mouth, but Nate shook his head. He put his hand over hers on the phone and leaned it toward him. "We need to talk to Leslie and Ana, make sure they're all right."
A moment passed, and Nate feared the man had hung up. But then Leslie's voice said, "Marisa?"
"Oh, thank God." Marisa angled the phone toward her. "Are you okay? Is Ana okay?"
"We're fine. Please just do as he says."
"Can I talk to Ana?"
A second passed before Ana said, "Mama?"
"Baby, are you all right?"
She didn't answer into the phone, but they could hear her crying over the man's voice when he spoke again.
"One week. Get me the money or proof, and don't go to the police. You understand?"
"I understand."
The line went dead.
* * *
NATE GUIDED MARISA to rest on the step and sat beside her. He wrapped his arm around her back, whispering words of encouragement that he didn't believe. Because how in the world were they going to come up with two million dollars in seven days?
The phone still gripped in Marisa's hand, she crossed her arms, laid them on her legs, and dropped her head on top. Her shoulders shook from her sobs.
"Shh. It's going to be okay."
"What if they hurt them? What if they...?"
"Don't think about it. It won't help you to think about it. We just have to focus on doing the next thing."
She looked up. "How can you say that? How can I not worry?"
"I know you can't stop, Marisa. But I also know worry and fear aren't going to get your daughter back. We have to go."
"But..." The word floated on the humid air while Nate watched her process the information she had. He knew when she got there by the determination he saw in her eyes. "I have to go back. I have to go back to New York."
"To the States, yes. We can't do this from here."
She pushed herself away from him. "Do what?" she demanded. "What are we supposed to do?"
"We have to figure out who took the money."
"I have no idea. I never knew. Oh, my God, he's going to kill them. He's going to—"
"Marisa, stop."
She blinked and nodded.
"Let's go back to the hotel."
"But how—?"
The words of his therapist fell off his tongue. "We're going to do the next thing. We're not going to worry about what comes three or twenty-three steps down the road. Right now, we're going to go to the hotel. Can we just do that, please?"
She stood. Silently, they went down the steps to the street. She was in no shape to walk, so Nate hailed a taxi.
He held Marisa's hand while his own fear settled on him heavier than the scent of body odor and tobacco in the old car. Could Marisa hear his heart pounding? It was all well and good to tell her to focus on the next thing, but how could she do that? How could he? He couldn't stop thinking about what Leslie and Ana were going through. The memories all came back—the ropes chafing his wrist, the blood dripping from his head. The fear, the overarching, debilitating fear.
And this wasn't one of those false trigger moments, either. Somehow, he'd landed smack dab in the middle of another life-or-death situation. He squeezed his eyes closed, hoped against reason that he'd manage this one better than he had the last.
He just had to get through this minute. The next, he'd handle in sixty seconds. Marisa needed him. Leslie and Ana needed him. He would do this. It might destroy him, but he'd do it.
At the hotel, Nate led the way to her room. "Get all of your sister's things. I'll wait."
"Why?"
"Just do that, okay?"
She walked inside slowly, like she might collapse from the weight on her shoulders. He held the door open and waited while she did as he'd told her. She gathered her own, too, shoving them in the ugly canvas bag. Tears dripped from her eyes as she lifted Ana's clothes and held them to her face. She pushed them in the bag, too, and stepped into the bathroom.
He'd seen Marisa like this before, after Vinnie died. The way she'd shut down sometimes, when the fear overwhelmed her—he'd feared for her safety. Not that she might commit suicide, but that, in her grief, she might do something to expose herself to Gray's men. There was only so much a mind could take.
Didn't he know it.
She emerged from the bathroom carrying the clothes she and Ana had worn the first day, dry now. She stuck them in the bag. "I'm ready. Now what?"
He stepped in the room, lifted the bags, and led her to his room. He got her settled in the desk chair, where she stared, still crying, at the wall.
"You want to turn on the TV?"
She shook her head.
"A drink? Anything?"
She didn't say anything.
He searched Leslie's things. Sure enough, he found a folded piece of paper bearing the confirmation code for their return tickets. Their flight was scheduled to leave at eight o'clock, two mornings later. He dug some more and came up with her passport.
He grabbed the phone, started to dial, and stopped. The pit in his stomach hadn't moved since that phone had rung at the shopping plaza. Right now, it expanded. "Marisa?"
She blinked and looked at him.
"Do you have your passport?"
Her eyes narrowed and she shook her head. "Yes, but no, not here. I have it hidden at home."
"How far do you live from here?"
"The bus is an hour and a half, and then we hitch a ride—"
"If I rent a car, how far is it?"
She shrugged. "I've never... Probably two hours or so."
"Okay." He used the hotel phone to call the airline. It took some finagling, but he managed to switch his flight and make a reservation for Marisa for the next morning. He checked his watch—about twelve hours from now. Well, it wasn't like they'd get any sleep, anyway.
Marisa watched him. When he hung up, she said, "What are we doing?"
"Why don't you use my computer to figure out how to get to your home? We can send the directions to my phone after, okay?"
"Your phone works here?"
"I have an international plan. I used to travel a lot."
"Okay." She crossed the room to his laptop.
He dialed the concierge and asked for a rental car. The concierge apologized profusely but said they were hard to come by. "Maybe tomorrow?"
Nate hung up. No cars. This was a problem.
"What's going on?"
"Nothing." He could hire a taxi or buy a car. Or maybe... He called Luis. After explaining who he was, he said, "I'll give you five hundred dollars if you let me borrow your car overnight."
"I drive you," the taxi driver said. "Where you want to go?"
Nate didn't want to explain the situation to Luis, and he didn't want to tell the man where they were going. No need to expose Marisa's home, in case she was ever able to return there.
"You remember the pretty lady we met at the chapel?"
"Muy hermoso. Very beautiful."
"Well, I sort of have a romantic evening planned, but I can't seem to get a rental car."
More finagling, but Luis finally agreed when Nate promised to have it back to him by seven in the morning. He didn't mention that he'd probably be leaving it at the airport. For five hundred dollars, Luis could manage a little inconvenience.
When he hung up, Marisa said, "Are you going to tell me what the plan is?"
"We're going to get your passport. We're on a flight tomorrow morning." He paused, closed his eyes, and said, "Is your passport still valid?"
"Sí. I renewed it before it expired."
He blew out a long breath. "Thank God."
"You believe in God?"
He went into the bathroom and filled his shaving kit. He returned and threw it in the suitcase.
"Do you?" she asked.
"I don't know. Right now, I..." He looked around. Was he missing anything?
His phone charger. He unplugged it and stared at it. His phone was almost dead, but they didn't have time to charge it. He'd have to buy a car charger in the store in the lobby—if they had one.
"Your phone won't work."
He looked up. "What?"
"Once we get out of Acapulco, it probably won't work. The service is spotty. Maybe we can print these directions."
Seemed he wouldn't need a charger after all.
"Figure out how to print them. Call the concierge if you need to." Not that he couldn't do it in half the time the way she was moving, but he needed to keep her busy.
"Okay." She made the call, and he finished packing. When she hung up, she told him where the printers were located.
Fifteen minutes later, he left Marisa in the hotel room with all their bags—one didn't need luggage for a romantic date—and went to the lobby. He printed the directions to Marisa's village and met Luis in front of the hotel. Nate had withdrawn enough money from his savings account to make up the five hundred. Luis pocketed the money with tears in his eyes. "This will help us. You don't know."
Nate clasped him on the shoulder. "I promise to take good care of your car. I'll call you when it's back, okay?"
"Sí." He winked. "Have a good time."
When Luis was out of sight, Nate ran up the stairs and got Marisa and all their stuff. They left without checking out.
* * *
IT WAS NEARLY ELEVEN and too dark to see much by the time they pulled into Marisa's village. The village seemed to be a couple of streets of one-story, flat-roofed buildings. The main street was gravel, but the rest looked like packed dirt. On the right was an old Spanish mission with an arched facade, an ancient door, and what looked like a belfry on top.
"That's the orphanage," Marisa said.
"It's beautiful."
"It's old. They've remodeled it over the years, but the chapel is still intact. The rest is offices, a cafeteria. They've built dormitories on the back."
He drove slowly past and wished he could see it in the daylight. Wished he were there as a tourist instead of this.
"Make a U-turn. We'll park on the other side."
He did, and she pointed to a house directly across from the mission. "Right there."
"Um, just...on the street?"
"Yeah. That's my house."
He took in the squat, concrete building that shared walls with the houses on either side. There was no driveway, no sidewalk. He pulled over where she directed, and they both stepped out and stretched after the long drive.
"Quiet town," he said.
"People work hard here. They sleep at night."
"Of course. It's...quaint." Well, he thought it might be, anyway.
"The people are wonderful."
She pushed open the door and flipped on the overhead light, which glowed yellow in the dark space.
"It's not locked?"
"It doesn't have a real lock." She stepped inside and showed him a jury-rigged lever that pivoted into a wooden support on the door frame.
"At least you're safe when you're at home."
"Normalmente."
He smiled at her slip into Spanish.
"Sorry. Usually."
"I figured it out."
She squatted on the floor and lifted one of the rotting boards. She dug inside the hole and handed him the items she retrieved. A passport, a wallet that held her expired New York driver's license, and some old credit cards. He checked the passport, just in case. Not expired, thank God.
She stood and brushed off her dress. "I told you."
"Just double-checking. Were you planning to come home?"
"I always hoped... I never imagined this, not in my worst nightmares."
He couldn't tell if she was holding in her emotion or had become numb to the situation. "Why don't you get some clothes and whatever else you need? I can buy you another bag on the way."
She stepped into the bedroom, flipped on another overhead light that bathed the space in gloom, and crossed to a tiny bureau.
He stepped into the doorway. One bed, a double. They must have shared it. Above the bed was a beautiful landscape, a mural of the sun rising over the old mission that stood across the street. It was painted right onto the stucco wall. The rest of the scene appeared different from what he'd made out in the dark. Verdant fields of crops, smiling people, and well-kept houses.
"The village as it should be," Marisa said.
He turned to see her watching him. "It's beautiful. You're so talented."
She pivoted back, opened the middle drawer of the short bureau that looked like a garage sale find, and dug through it.
"Can I help?"
She tossed a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt onto the bed. "I don't think so." She added underwear and bras to the pile. He turned away and surveyed the living room. Well, living, dining, and kitchen. Like a great room, only about the size of a normal dining room. If that. The kitchen consisted of a two-burner stovetop, a tiny sink, and a refrigerator about Ana's height. They ate on a rickety table for two. The living room consisted of a futon that looked like it was about to fall over. From behind, he could see it was supported not by legs, but by concrete blocks. There was no TV, but a small radio stood on top of the bookshelf. The other shelves held books, notebooks, pens, pencils, and paints. Lots of paints.
And he could see why. The walls were nearly papered in paintings, some of local vistas and people, but there were plenty of New York. Manhattan and Queens and what looked like scenes of upstate. And portraits. Leslie with an older woman who looked like her—their mother presumably. A handsome dark-skinned man. Probably Marisa's father—she looked like him. Lots of portraits of Ana and other folks Nate assumed were friends here. There were a few of Vinnie. And on the bookshelves, stacks of canvases. He stepped closer, saw they also held paintings. He lifted the one on top—two little Mexican children arm-in-arm. He flipped through the portraits until he reached one that had him pausing.
It was his own image, staring back at him. His hair was longer, like he'd worn it when he and Marisa had met. He was seated on a bus, his eyes concerned, his mouth turned down at the corners.
It was probably exactly how he'd looked the day they'd met. And she'd remembered every detail.
The way he'd always remembered her.
"It's my therapy," she said.
He set the paintings back on the shelf and turned. "I'm sorry. I was curious."
"I don't mind. How do you think I did?"
He shrugged. "Very good, considering how little you had to work with."
She nearly smiled, but it faded fast. She found a plastic sack in the dingy kitchen and returned to the bedroom.
Was painting how she'd survived here? Not just survived, but from all accounts, she'd thrived. His respect for her grew even more.
He went back to the bedroom door. "Did you get socks and warm shoes?"
"Don't have either. I gave a lot of stuff away. Is it cold there now?" She stuffed her things into the thin plastic bag.
"It's March. Do you have more warm clothes?"
She shook her head.
"We'll figure it out."
"I have no money."
"Don't worry about it, Marisa. Just grab what you need."
From the bottom drawer, she pulled out a small, carved box, which she rested on the bed and opened. She lifted out the engagement ring she'd been wearing when Nate had met her. She closed the lid and shoved the box in her canvas bag. "My valuables."
"Anything else?"
She looked around the space, shook her head. He stepped back into the living room, and she passed him and headed for the kitchen.
"You need a bathroom?" She pointed to a door on the far side of the kitchen. "It works, most of the time."
"That's okay. I'll wait."
She spun slowly, obviously wondering if she'd missed anything.
The door banged open, and a man stepped inside. He wore dark jeans and a T-shirt that stretched across his overly large muscles.
Nate stepped between Marisa and the door, facing the man. His legs itched to run, but he wouldn't leave her unprotected.
A second man stepped in behind the first. Smaller, beady-eyed and mean-faced.
Not exactly how Nate had planned to die.
The first man crossed the room and stopped a foot from Nate. "¿Quién es usted?"
Nate knew enough Spanish to answer. "I'm a friend of Marisa's. Who are you?"
"Marisa." The man sidestepped Nate. "¿Estás bien?"
"I'm fine." She turned to Nate. "It's okay. Ramón is a...friend."
Nate could tell the word friend had been a stretch. He feared Ramón had heard the hesitation, too.
Nate crossed his arms. "You always barge into women's houses in the middle of the night?"
Ramón stepped toward him until they were nose-to-nose. "You no belong, gringo."
"Like I said, she's my friend."
"Ramón," Marisa said, "it's fine."
He turned back to her, eyes narrowed. "You want I take care of him?"
"Please... I'm okay. Nate's doing me a favor."
"¿Necesitas algo?"
"I don't need anything. But thank you."
"¿Dónde está Ana?"
Nate turned and saw tears fill Marisa's eyes. "Ana's been...taken. I have to get—"
"¿Quién se la llevó?"
"I don't know who took her." She sighed, started again. "Por favor, habla Inglés. You're making my friend nervous." At Ramón's scowl, she added, "He's helping me."
"Sí. Okay." He turned to Nate. "You helping?"
Nate's gaze darted from the small man back to Ramón. "I'm trying."
Ramón turned back to her. "I will help. We will have her back by tomorrow. You no need this gringo."
"They've taken her to America."
"Sí. Tengo"—he glanced at Nate—"I have friends. Where you going?"
"It's okay, Ramón." Marisa nodded as if she were confident.
"You think I cannot help? I can help. I know many people. Give me paper."
Nate got the distinct impression that Marisa didn't want his help. Nevertheless, she scooted past Ramón and Nate and took a sketchbook and pen from the bookshelf. She handed them to him.
He wrote something on it and handed it to her. "You call me if you need me. Also, I put Julio, a friend in New York. His phone number is there. You need anything, you tell him Ramón said give you whatever you need. Money or..." He glanced at Nate. "Whatever. Sí?"
She took the paper. "Gracias."
With a nod to Nate, Ramón and the other man left.
"Seems like a nice guy," Nate said after the door closed. "I can see why you lock the door."
"He's my protector, so I don't fear him. Well, I don't only fear him, if that makes sense."
"Can I have that sheet of paper?"
Marisa dropped the sketchbook on the table. "We don't want his help. He's the drug dealer—"
"I gathered," Nate said. "You never know what kind of help we'll need."
"Fine." She grabbed the sketchbook, tore the paper out, and handed it to him. He slipped it in his pocket.
She wrote something in the sketchbook, tore out a second sheet, and stepped outside. He watched her jog across the street. She folded the note and slipped it under the mission door before she jogged back. "A note for Carlita, so she doesn't worry."
"What'd you tell her?"
"That I was going to be gone longer than I'd thought, and that I'd call her soon. And to pray for us." Marisa looked at the bookshelf, then toward her kitchen. "I don't need anything else."
"You sure?"
She shrugged. "I'm not sure about anything. I just want Ana back."