“Why don’t you tell me how you got here, and we’ll try to figure that out.”
So Natalie told him about the SPJ convention and how armed men had stormed the tour bus in downtown Juárez, killing the Mexican journalists—and Joaquin.
“He was a good friend, always watching out for the rest of us, especially the women. And he was the best photojournalist I’ve known. He kept shooting . . . While they were killing people, he kept shooting . . .” And for the first time since this whole nightmare began, Natalie found herself fighting tears, the all-too-familiar ache of grief in her chest. Why did the people she cared about always die? “I tried to stop them. I blocked the aisle. I told them he was American over and over again, but . . .”
Oh, Joaquin!
“I’m sorry, Natalie.” He sounded like he truly meant it. “You did more than most people would have. Give yourself credit for that much.”
“That’s kind of you to say, but it doesn’t change the fact that he’s gone.”
“I know.”
And for a time neither of them spoke.
“So you were researching the cartels for an article and joined this tour?”
She wiped tears off her cheeks with her hands. “N-no. I just wanted to get away from the office for a while. I’ve never written about drug smuggling or cartels.”
“Never?” He sounded surprised.
“Never.” Something tickled her cheek. She gasped, brushed at it, her fingertips knocking what might have been a small spider off her face. She shrank against the bars, looking up to see what else might be about to drop down on her, but it was too dark.
“How about any big drug busts? Cartels growing dope on national forest land in Colorado? Mexican politics? Anything related to Juárez or the state of Chihuahua?”
“No. Not at all. I cover mostly local issues. Before I left, I started looking into the sheriff’s handling of some sexual assaults that happened at a local boarding school. I don’t imagine these Zetas care one whit about that.”
“No, I don’t imagine they do.”
“Maybe I just caught their attention by trying to stop them from killing Joaquin.”
“Maybe.” He didn’t sound convinced.
“Why are you here? Are you a journalist, too?”
Silence filled the darkness.
Then at last he answered. “The less you know about me, the better. Let’s just say I made a bad decision and leave it at that.”
So he’d done something to cross the Zetas. That meant he was probably a criminal, maybe even involved in the drug trade. “That’s all you’re going to tell me?”
“The Zetas have been . . .interrogatingme for six days now. If they thought I’d spilled my guts to you, they’d start interrogating you, too, and believe me, that’s not something either of us wants to see happen.”
And Natalie understood. They weren’t just asking Zach questions. They were torturing him. Then she noticed something she hadn’t before. The way he spoke his words slowly, the strain in his voice, its rough timbre—he was in pain. “You’re hurt.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“I . . . I’m sorry. I wish I could help—”
“You can’t.” The tone of his voice was starkly final.
Something brushed her arm, making her gasp and jump—and she realized it was a lock of her own hair.Good grief, Benoit!“You . . . You’ve been here for six days? I don’t know how you’ve been able to stand it.”
“Don’t tell me you don’t like the accommodations.” He chuckled, then groaned, as if it hurt to laugh. “I know it’s not five-star, and room service leaves a lot to be desired, but what this place lacks in comfort it more than makes up for in scorpions.”
Natalie didn’t find that funny. “I hate those things!”
“Yeah, I figured. I can hear you gasping and jumping around over there. I’m guessing you’re afraid of the dark, too.”