Day of the Dead

She shrieked, batting away the flies, one of them hitting her lip, another, her eyelid, her ear. She thought she might have inhaled them, and she swatted at them and retched a little, then finally stood still. She looked again.

It was a pig’s head. A pig’s head, sitting on the coffee table. On top of a Time magazine, next to an empty beer bottle. Covered with flies. Maggots, too, little white filaments that pulsed and contracted as they burrowed into the rotting flesh.

For a moment she could only stand there. She felt nothing at first. How was one supposed to regard this? It didn’t make sense.

Something prickled the skin of her forearm. She looked down.

A fly, rubbing its legs together.

Get out, she thought. Just get out.

She took a few steps back, toward the door, toward air and light, stumbling a bit, the back of her hand striking the doorknob. She clutched at it to steady herself. Leaned there against the wall, hand on doorknob, until her heart slowed and she could think again.

What did it mean? Why would someone do this?

Maybe she should call the police. She wondered how you did that here. Was it 911? Or something else?

But what would she tell them? That she’d found a pig’s head in an empty apartment?

There was no one in the apartment. She was certain. How could you stand to be in there with a rotting carcass on the table? There was no movement, no sound other than the flies.

Then she thought maybe there was someone, unconscious or dead.

Don’t be stupid, she told herself, but the idea burrowed itself into her head, and she had to be sure.

The apartment had a kitchenette, separated from the living room by a bar counter, and a short hall with three doors opening off it. A bathroom – blue tiles, plastic shower curtain. A toothbrush, some toothpaste, and a few sundries. Nothing much. Some curly dark hair in the sink.

The door next to that opened onto an odd little room – a bonus room, she supposed you’d call it – with a small barred window high up a whitewashed wall. You could put a daybed in here if you had guests, Michelle thought, but there was no furniture, just a workout bench, some barbells, a bag of golf clubs, and what looked like snorkeling equipment in a couple of crates beneath the window.

On the other side of the hall was the main bedroom.

No body on the bed. Michelle almost laughed. Of course there wouldn’t be. The bed was big, a king. Well, Daniel probably had his share of overnight guests, judging from her encounter with him – though anyone who didn’t know her well could say the same of her based on that night, and that wasn’t how she was, not how she’d been for a long time, anyway.

Don’t be so quick to judge, she told herself.

But it was hard not to wonder. The apartment – the condominium – was modest. Anonymous, almost. No paintings on the walls. Hardly any books. Nothing personal at all. Not much different from her room at the hotel.

This must just be a vacation home for Daniel, Michelle thought. Not the place where he actually lived.

Back in the living room, the flies had regrouped on the pig head.

Just leave, she told herself. It’s not your problem, and you have a plane to catch tomorrow.

But if it was something criminal … People knew she planned to come here. Gary knew, and Vicky and Charlie. If she just left, would that implicate her somehow?

She felt the camera tucked against her side as the thought occurred to her.

I should take pictures.

Just to document it. She could decide later whether she needed to show the photos to anyone. But at least she’d have proof of what she saw. Just in case there were any questions.

She hadn’t intended to get artsy, only snap off a few clear shots, but as she focused on the pig’s snout, a part of her noted that it was a compelling image, with the flies around its eye sockets, the beer bottle next to it, the television in the background. As bland as the room was, the pig’s head was the only thing that really drew your eye.

Still Life with Pig Head and Beer Bottle, Michelle thought, adjusting the depth of field, taking another shot, then the angle, shooting again. She almost laughed. All this time in Puerto Vallarta, and she’d finally found a good picture.

‘What … ?’

She dropped the camera against her chest.

‘What the fuck?’

Daniel stood there in the doorway.

‘I …’

In two strides he’d crossed to the coffee table. ‘What the fuck is this?’

His fingers dug into her arm, just beneath her bicep. ‘You … Who told you to do this?’

‘What are you talking about?’

She stared at his face: rigid and white with anger.

‘I have some of your things,’ she said. ‘I just came here and saw this. I thought …’

‘Who told you where I live?’

‘Gary,’ she said. ‘Please let go of me.’

‘Gary?’ He released her arm with a jerk. ‘How do you know Gary?’

‘I met him at the Tiburón,’ Michelle said. ‘I didn’t know how to get a hold of you. Gary gave me your address.’

‘Why didn’t you just call?’ The anger had not diminished, only retreated.

‘I have your phone.’ She started to reach into her purse, and instantly he tensed again, not with anger this time but something cold and predatory.

She froze. God, did he think she had a gun?

‘Check yours,’ she said. ‘I think it’s mine.’

He reached into the pocket of his cargo shorts and pulled out an iPhone. Black. He powered it up. ‘Shit,’ he said after a moment. ‘It … it was off. I just left it that way.’

‘For two days?’

‘I wanted to get some rest and not have people fucking calling me.’

‘So can we trade phones now?’ She felt a rush of anger. ‘You’re not going to … to attack me?’