Chapter Six

Four more days crawled slowly by as Javier settled into his new routine in the Mariposa galley, but at last, shortly after midday local time five days after he regained consciousness, the ship began its ponderous transit of the straits and islands leading to Singapore's commercial docks. As docking and then beginning the offloading of those containers bound for this port generally was an "all hands on deck" experience, Javier simply set out a cold buffet of items that would keep with minimum attention in lieu of the usual hot dinner, so the crew could grab what they wished when they had a minute.

Finally, very late that evening, the ship's clerk announced over the loudspeaker that nonessential, off-duty personnel could begin their shore leave. Javier grabbed a light jacket from Miguel's locker and slung it over one shoulder as he made his way to the gangway. Captain Frontera was there generally keeping an eye on things; he pulled Javier aside for a moment. "We'll be tied up for just twenty-four hours. Let me know by noon tomorrow whether or not you'll be coming back, so I'll have time to hire a new cook from the union if I need to." Javier nodded agreement.

First order of business was communications. He knew he didn't need to worry about store closing times; at a busy port like this, all businesses were twenty-four-hour operations. And sure enough, only a couple of blocks from the docks he found a telephone and electronics store doing a booming trade. He had found Miguel's phone charger a few days before in a drawer; by this time the piled-up coincidences meant only a raised eyebrow that they apparently had the same make (but it was an iPhone, after all). And sure enough, just fifty dollars bought him twenty-four hours prepaid access to the local network, unlimited voice and data. Yeah, it was steep, comparatively, but such was the price paid for traveling.

The next setback, though, came at checkout: his credit card was declined with the message "Account Closed". Same with his debit card. Stunned, he poked through his wallet, although he knew he had no other cards to try, then finally, with a weak smile, pulled out the cash.

Connected at last, Javier stepped outside and found a quiet spot in the mouth of an alley, leaned against a wall, and made the call he'd been dying for. Checking the time difference first, he found it was just eight in the morning in LA – a little early for Letty, but he thought she'd get over it. So he pulled up her number, added the international access code and country code for the USA, and clicked Call.

It took almost thirty seconds for the call to connect halfway around the world, but it finally went through – and he got the shock of his life as the dreaded triple tone pierced his hopes. "We're sorry, the number you have dialed has been disconnected, and there is no new number."

Javier's jaw dropped, mirroring his heart. He checked that he had the number right at least twice, before sending it again, to the same result. Letty's cell phone, never more than a few inches from her hand, had been disconnected. What the hell had happened?

He tried going through directory assistance of the service they'd been using, but the infuriating computer wouldn't admit to having anyone named Letty Pereira – or Letty Raines, for that matter – in its database. Or Letitia. Or even Javier. Nothing.

OK, Pereira. Deep breath. Don't panic. He next tried a national directory assistance line, also to no avail; but then, that one wasn't always very reliable. So he dug out of memory the name, city and street of the hotel they'd been staying at. The national line did have that, and connected him to the front desk. When he asked for their old room number, though, the hotel desk clerk hesitated.

"I'm sorry, sir, but there's no one registered in that room right now."

"I'm trying to reach Letty Pereira, who was staying there."

"Hold please." He could hear her tapping on the computer keyboard. "I'm sorry, Mrs Pereira checked out without notice about a week ago."

"What does that mean?"

"It means she just walked out, didn't pay the last two nights, and left a bunch of stuff behind." He could hear the aggravation in the clerk's voice, telling a stranger (for all she knew) things she probably shouldn't. When he pressed, she elaborated that the "stuff" was mostly clothes, which had been held for a few days against their owner's return, then given to Goodwill.

"And you haven't heard from her? No forwarding address?"

"If we had, we'd have gotten payment! I don't suppose you would be willing to pay for those last two nights?" At that, he hung up.

Now he was really starting to get worried. He'd held it at bay on board the ship, never having been one to stress about things beyond his control, but all the fears for her sanity, safety, and security were tumbling out now. Where IS she?

Looking at the time again, he realized it was nearing noon on the US east coast. He had one more ace up his sleeve, and used it now, pulling up and dialing a number he hadn't used in two years. Again, it took a bit longer than normal to go through, but this time he was rewarded by a familiar male voice answering.

"Mike? It's Javier! How are you?"

"Hey, man, good to hear from you! How you been?"

Javier managed to get through the pleasantries, then asked his old contact for his assistance in locating someone once more. Mike had access to a great many official databases and communications systems; Javier had never been stupid enough to ask how or why; but simply paid the requested search fees without complaint.

"Letitia Pereira? Relative of yours?" Mike asked as he typed the name.

"Yeah," he admitted, but only added, "Long story."

Mike grunted. "Okay, here we go," he began, and Javier felt his spirits rise. "Something out of LA... wait a second... What?" Mike was reading something that was giving him conniptions. "What the fuck?"

"What? What's going on?"

"You're Javier Pereira, right? This says you're dead. The police in Long Beach have your body identified, and … "

"Mike?"

Suddenly Mike was hissing, spitting fury. "You son of a bitch! What the fuck? You're a fucking hitman?" Javier didn't know what to say, but Mike wasn't listening anyway. "All those people I helped you find all those years, you were fucking killing them?" Someone else must have been nearby, as Mike was nearly screaming in a whisper.

"Mike... no... All right. I used to do that, yes, but I've quit! I don't do it any more, I swear! I'm just trying to find my wife!"

"Your wife?"

"Yeah. We got separated by that thing in LA, and now I can't find her – "

"Good! She got away from you in time!" Javier felt like he'd been slapped. Suddenly Mike's voice changed, from shocked and horrified to furiously resolute. "No. No, no, no! I'm fucking done. I am out. I am never helping you, ever again, with anything. I can't believe what you've dragged me into! Don't you ever call me again, you son of a bitch, for any reason, or I swear to God I'll turn you in to the police!" And with that, the line went dead.

"Mike? Mike!" Javier felt sick. He pulled the phone away from his ear, checking the display to make sure the call had been cut off. It had. He almost redialed, but stopped himself. He didn't doubt Mike's threat for a second.

Shocked, breathing in ragged gasps, Javier looked wildly around him, coming mentally back to the street. People were staring at him as they walked past, quickening their pace just a hair. He needed to sit down and think.

After a false start, he managed to get his numb feet moving, and there, a block away, was an always-open cafe advertising western food. He went in, ordered a sandwich and a coffee at the counter, and found a quiet table. Then he did what he should have done earlier: went online and looked up news reports from Long Beach, California.

It began with what he had guessed at: he and the other two men had apparently been caught up in the crossfire of an armed confrontation between rival street gangs. It had started with a grudge, of course, two members of one gang looking for revenge on a couple of members of the other, but had quickly escalated to the kind of shootout not seen outside of movies in years.

He then found the lists of names: arrested, wounded, dead. And there he was: Javier Pereira. A final body, with several gunshot wounds, had been fished out of the water two days after the shootout, and identified as himself – how or by whom was not included. Perez? He scrolled back up and checked the lists again; nobody named Miguel Perez. The body had to have been him. But what about his wallet, his phone? He definitely had one, he realized, remembering the pictures.

There were two possibilities, he thought. Either they had fallen out of his pockets in the water and not recovered, or someone had "recovered" them before he went in the drink. Scrolling back through the lists one more time, he found no mention of anyone named Marco, the third man who had arranged the meeting, either. Javier sat back and thought hard for a moment. They had been at least thirty yards away from the edge of the docks when the shooting started. There were only two ways for Miguel to have ended up wet: either he had stumbled to the water after he was shot and fell in, or somebody put him there. Marco himself was a likely suspect, which would account for the missing items. Since nobody else had ended up in the ocean, a gang member was unlikely.

At any rate, the result was the same: Miguel had taken his place, just as he had taken Miguel's. He shuddered.

Picking his phone back up, Javier clicked on his linkified name – and felt his world come crumbling down. Someone in the FBI or Long Beach Police Department, or both, had leaked to the press about ongoing investigations: Javier Pereira had been linked to several mysterious deaths or disappearances in recent years, and departments all over the country were reviewing old cases for more links. He was suspected of possibly being a serial killer, or even a murderer-for-hire in some instances. The report did not mention any victims' names or cities, so he couldn't verify if they had any right, but it really didn't make any difference.

His past had at last caught up with him. And more, he realized with a leaden heart that he could never safely return to the States. He had lost his adopted home of the past two decades on top of everything else.

Taking several deep breaths, Javier forced himself to return to the most pressing issue: Letty. Scrolling through that report and every other he could find, he found no mention of his wife anywhere. After several minutes he conceded: either she had gone underground, or the police were keeping her under tight wraps. Either way, it was most likely that she believed that her husband was dead.

He pushed the phone away and concentrated on his sandwich, even though it tasted like ashes, chewing and swallowing mechanically for several minutes. Thus minimally fortified, he picked the phone back up and pulled out his final aces, finding his way onto his old online haunts on the dark web. Years before, he had purchased stolen access to several official databases and other sources of info, although nowhere near as connected or complete as Mike had at his fingertips.

Time after time, though, he came up short. Either his stolen passwords had been deleted and blocked since he last used them, or there was no recent info on Letty. He knew there were people on the dark web who could likely help – in fact, two of them noticed his searching and broke in to offer their services, but he knew fully well that, especially with the loss of his credit card, he simply did not have the tens of thousands of dollars for their fees, so he politely declined and continued on his own, until he ran completely out of ideas.

Logging out of the dark web again, Javier sat sipping the last of his coffee, racking his brains to find any overlooked avenue. One did finally occur to him: Danville. Would she, could she, have contacted her mother, or even returned to her childhood home? Could he find out anything if he called – Rob, perhaps? His "father-in-law" would be more likely to talk to him than anyone else there, that was certain.

But no. Javier just didn't believe she would have gone there. Her decision, represented by the letters she had mailed from Las Vegas, to cut all ties and disappear from Jacob's life for good had been too punishing, too momentous, and too damn final; he didn't believe she would ever back down from it. Leave that alone, pendejo, he told himself.

Which left him with nowhere else to turn.

Half an hour before noon the following day, Javier slowly trudged up the gangway to the Mariposa's deck, a paper shopping bag hanging from one hand. He stopped at the top, before stepping onto the ship proper, facing Captain Frontera.

They gazed solemnly at each other for a moment, then Javier asked tiredly, and a little sourly, "Permission to come aboard, Capitán? I'd like that job back, if it's still available."

"What happened?" Frontera managed to pour an unreasonable amount of compassion into two words.

Javier shrugged, tears unexpectedly stinging his eyes. "I can't find her. She's disappeared. I've tried everything I know – and I know a lot." He shook his head. "Maybe I could find her if I was back there, but I can't afford the plane fare." He gestured vaguely towards the ship with his free hand. "I was hoping I could earn it."

"What's in the bag?"

He held it out, saying, "Clothes that fit." As Frontera took it and poked through the clothes he'd purchased that morning with the remainder of his cash, Javier added, "No contraband."

"Okay," the Captain said simply as he handed back the bag. "You know where your quarters are. Come see me tomorrow after breakfast – the office behind the bridge – and we'll get you entered into the computer as a new employee." As Javier nodded and finally stepped onto the deck, Frontera added ironically, "Welcome aboard."

Javier paused, shooting him a look to verify the sentiment, then transferred the bag to his left hand, and gave Frontera an equally ironic two-fingered salute.

As the Mariposa reached each new port, Javier repeated his quest: first connecting his phone to the local system with a short prepaid contract, then cycling through every avenue he could think of to search for Letty. But he continued to come up dry each time. She had simply, utterly disappeared. And finally, after several weeks; thwarted, heartbroken, and bewildered, he stopped trying.

But he never managed to make himself take off his wedding ring.