Where in hell was she? He glanced at an overhead signpost for Playa del Carmen hoping they were heading in the right direction. Clay looked over at Danny. He was sound asleep.

* * *

Clay pressed a button on the radio and almost immediately the lively rhythm of a guitar solo filled the vehicle. He looked across at his brother as he began to stir.

“How long was I out?” asked Danny, stretching within the confines of his seat.

Clay glanced at his watch. “Long enough to miss half of Quintana Roo.”

“How’s the driving?”

Clay shrugged. “Easy going now that we’ve left the tour buses behind. There were quite a few of the road-blockers back up near Tulum, but after that it’s been pretty clear.”

Danny woke up his phone. “We’re about sixty clicks from Chacchoben.”

“I better put my foot down then. Daylight’s a-burnin’.”

The traffic was sparse as they continued south. Dump trucks and cement wagons seemed to be the vehicles of choice as they reached a collection of streets and ragged-looking cinder-block houses that pretended it was a town called Limones.

“This is where we turn off,” said Danny, as he consulted the map on his phone.

They turned onto a dust-encrusted strip of asphalt. The track stretched off into the distance, long and straight. Occasional unfinished buildings, low rectangular frames without roofs or doors, dotted the approach to Chacchoben. The town itself was little more than a dozen or so streets arranged in neat square blocks. Pedestrians strolled along the streets and gave the Jeep and its occupants looks of mild curiosity as they passed. Several children pedalled by on ramshackle bicycles, laughing and chattering as they passed.

“Stop here,” said Danny, pointing to a low building. A series of six columns formed a shaded portico. “The shopkeeper might know something about Celine and her friends.”

Clay let the Jeep roll to a stop.

“Maybe you should wait out here,” said Danny. “Don’t want to scare the locals.”

“Don’t forget your Spanish phrase book,” said Clay.

“Hey, my Spanish is better than yours and you live in friggin’ Texas!”

Clay rubbed the back of his hand against his chin. “I know, I know. I really should make the effort to learn some more.”

“Especially with Salma and Sebastian living with you.”

Clay nodded. Danny was right. It had always been easier not to learn. Conversations with the Chavez family fluctuated rhythmically between Spanish and English without a pause; they had only ever spoken to Clay in English.

“I’ll go and see if they know anything about missing kids,” said Danny.

When Danny returned some fifteen minutes later, Clay was still leaning his bulk against the steering wheel, arms crossed with his chin resting on his forearms. Only his eyes moved as Danny climbed back into the Jeep. Danny dropped a grocery bag behind his seat.

“Anything?” asked Clay. Dark thoughts swirled in his mind.

“Yeah, the folks in the shop were a little cagey at first, but once I convinced them I wasn’t a cop they opened up a bit. It turns out there’s two Chacchobens.”

“What do you mean, two Chacchobens?” A nerve twitched in Clay’s left eye.

“This is the town, and there’s also the Mayan ruins of the same name quite a few miles further into the jungle.”

“They know anything about the kids? Did they remember seeing Celine?” asked Clay. The heat in his face was not all due to the Mexican humidity.

“Yes and no.”

Clay sat upright in his seat. A single bead of sweat rolled slowly down the side of his jaw. He forced himself to breathe slow and easy.

“Yes, they’ve heard rumours about people going missing down here and especially closer to the Belize border, but no, they don’t remember seeing Celine or her friends.