Day of the Dead by Lisa Brackman Page A

voice. ‘I’m still in Puerto Vallarta. It’s been—’
    â€˜Jesus, Michelle! I mean, you could at least
think
about—’
    â€˜I’m sorry,’ she repeated. ‘But it’s been complicated. Look … I’m in a weird situation. There’s this guy named Gary, and …’
    â€˜Oh, you
met
someone?’ Maggie’s tone suddenly lightened. A new man – the big Get Out of Jail Free card.
    â€˜I wish. No, that’s not it at all. This guy, Gary. Gary Wallace. Write that down. But maybe that’s not even his real name. I …’
    She took in a deep breath.
    â€˜Michelle? What … ? What’s going on?’
    She almost laughed. ‘I wish I knew. They planted drugs in my purse and—’
    â€˜Are you in
jail
?’
    â€˜No. No. I mean, I was, but not anymore.’
    â€˜Jesus, what happened?’
    Maybe I should write it all down, Michelle thought. Send Maggie an e-mail. But was that safe? Wasn’t somebody, some government agency, reading everyone’s e-mails?
    If Gary was even part of the government.
    â€˜I don’t know where to start. But write down Gary Wallace. And Daniel. Daniel …’
    Christ, was it possible? Did she still not know Daniel’s last name?
    â€˜Fuck,’ she muttered. ‘I … I have their cell-phone numbers. And some other information. I’ll get it to you.’
    â€˜Michelle, can’t you just … can’t you just tell me—’
    â€˜No. I mean …’
    If Daniel was involved with drugs … or if Gary was …
    Could they do something to Maggie? To Ben?
    She couldn’t think right now.
    â€˜I’m fine,’ she finally said. ‘I’m probably here for another two weeks. I’ll let you know what’s happening. I …’
    She didn’t know what to say. She watched an older Mexican woman walk her Chihuahua down the street, stopping to scoop the dog into her arms before she stepped down off the tall curb.
    â€˜I’ll let you know when I book the flight.’
    I’ll write a letter, she thought. A real letter, and I’ll send it through the mail. Maybe to Maggie’s office. Just in case …
    She couldn’t finish that thought. She stood there, hot and sweaty and unable to think at all.
    Internet.
    There were things she should look up. Things she should know. How the legal system worked here. What kind of trouble she might be in.
    The chairs in the café were plastic and uncomfortable, the computers old and set to Spanish-language keyboards, but it still felt like a refuge, a place where she could sit and think and try to understand what had happened to her.
    From what she could find out online in an hour, Gary had told her the truth. At least about how the legal system worked. And the prisons – not that the prisons in the United States were much better, but someone in her position could probably avoid prison there. Here not so likely. Not while the case dragged on and on, waiting for trial.
    The Mexican president had proposed decriminalizing small amounts of street drugs, but she didn’t even know how much she was accused of possessing.
    Before, she’d heard of a crackdown on drug smugglers by the Mexican federal government; she’d read stories about border massacres, headless bodies, corruption at every level of society, stories that had formed part of the fuzzy background to what little she’d known about Mexico. But she’d never associated any of that with resorts like Puerto Vallarta. Things like that didn’t happen here, or so she’d thought.
    Not often anyway.
    Sinaloa cowboys.
Narcos.
Assassinations. Street battles with grenade launchers.
    The cartels had infiltrated everything here. Police forces, judicial offices, even American embassies. There were former presidents whose relatives were awash in drug money from one cartel. A current president whose top officials