Outside, he kept close to the side of the house and edged around to the back. He should make his way back to Regla. But he still didn’t know what had happened to Carla. Did his contact kidnap her? Take her hostage? Or was she lying somewhere bleeding her life away? He tried to remember what she said she’d be doing today. He thought she would be standing in yet another endless line for rations. But maybe he was making it up. Either way, how could he leave until he knew?
He couldn’t. She was going to be the mother of his child. He would find cover and wait. He crept away from Luis’s home. Lawton was one step up from a shanty town, and the houses were as crowded together as people on a Havana bus at rush hour. But the street was strangely silent. The neighbors were probably glued to their windows, hidden behind their shutters.
He looked for a place to hole up. He remembered where he, his father, and Carla had watched the fireworks. It was farther up the hill. A couple of palm trees blocked the view, but if you pushed aside the fronds, you could see the front of Luis’s house.
Michael jogged up to a tiny plaza now broken into chunks of concrete with weeds growing through the cracks. In the center was a small stone monument, its markings covered with so much graffiti that Michael couldn’t tell why or for whom it had been erected. He crossed the plaza and crouched down beside one of the palm trees. He was almost hidden from view, and a telephone pole in front of him provided more cover. No one could spot him unless they were looking.
He stared at his hands. They were still shaking. He refused to consider the possibility that he was making the biggest mistake of his life. All his training and common sense said to flee. Instead Michael settled in to wait. And grieve the death of what might have been.
• • •
Angry storm clouds painted the late afternoon sky with shades of gray and white and purple. Carla had not shown up. Michael was close to despair. It would be dark in an hour. He debated whether to check her apartment on his way to Regla. No, that wasn’t a good idea. The local CDR was looking for her. Carla knew that. She wouldn’t have gone home. He pushed aside the fronds of the palm tree. People were starting to come home for supper. They would find his father.
Walters was reputed to be an excellent cleaner, but he had left Luis’s body, knowing Michael would find it. It was a message: “Look what I can do.” Still, it pained Michael not to bury his father. He hoped his father’s soul would forgive him.
At the same time, though, Walters hadn’t taken the map. Why not? He should have discovered it: a loose floorboard was a flimsy hiding place. Had Walters been interrupted? Had Carla suddenly come home and surprised him? And if so, did Walters kill her too? Or take her hostage? Or did he flee, thinking it might have been the police?
No matter what the situation, Michael knew he couldn’t stay in Lawton any longer. He gathered his backpack and stood up. The irony was he’d sworn to Carla he’d never do to their child what his mother did to him. Their child deserved to know his father. And that it had been conceived in love. But now, like Luis, he would never know his child. With a heavy heart he started to trudge down the hill.
Which was when he saw Carla hiking up. She was carrying a string bag with packages wrapped in brown paper. Relief flooded through him and for the first time that day he smiled. He hurried down to meet her, so grateful she was alive that he almost failed to check whether he was being tailed. Then he remembered and whipped around. He saw the woman pushing a baby stroller, and the black man with a bicycle tire around his neck.
But he didn’t see Walters, who eased out of the shadows after Michael had turned back to Carla.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
By nightfall the weather cleared and only a few clouds remained. They scudded across the dark sky, their undersides lit by the moon, throwing hazy shadows over everything. The breeze picked up, and it was chilly enough that Carla was glad she’d picked up a sweater.
On the ferry to Regla, Michael told her what happened to Luis. She cried out and covered her mouth with her hand. She had only known Luis for a few days, but she’d taken a liking to his gentle nature. She wasn’t prepared for this.
“But why?”
He stared out over the water. Despite his grief, she knew he was trying to decide how much to tell her. A cold fear gripped her.
“No,” she said. “I do not want to know.” She hesitated. “We are in danger, aren’t we?”
He tightened his lips. It was answer enough.
Another chill spread over her. What had she fallen into? This man, this strange but familiar man, had brought her passion and intimacy, but he had also put her life in jeopardy. Because of him she was about to abandon the only place she’d ever known. She had been taught America was the source of Cuba’s problems. Now she was about to enter the maw of the enemy. The irony threatened to overwhelm her.
Once they got off the ferry, Carla made Michael stop at the church with the black Madonna, where she lit two candles: one for her own father and one for Luis. Outside a Santería priestess perched on a concrete wall beckoning them over, but Michael steered them in the opposite direction. They kept to the warren of back streets, so as not to attract attention. They didn’t talk much; Michael’s anguish radiated out; Carla nursed her own sorrow.
When they reached the field behind the wharf, a fishy smell wormed itself into her nostrils. They crossed the field and walked around to a ramshackle building across from the pier. An overhead light on one of the walls was broken, but illumination from the moon and clouds cast a dim pool of light. Michael rapped on the door. A moment later a man came out. Thick around the middle, bald, a mustache. He nodded at Michael, then glanced at Carla. In the dim light she saw his brows knit together.
“You said there would be three.”
Carla heard a hitch in Michael’s voice. “There—there has been a change of plans.”
“Ahh…” the man nodded solemnly. “With me as well.”
Michael jerked his head up. “What do you mean?”
“It is a minor change. In fact, it will be better for you. The boat is here. But it cannot enter the bay. I will take you to meet it. It is waiting as we speak.”
“What happened? You couldn’t deliver the rum?”
Diaz laughed. “That has been taken care of.” His smile faded. “But Havana security guards are patrolling the bay tonight. I did not expect that. So I want to be cautious. This is the best solution. As I said, I will take you myself.”
Michael shifted. Worry and fear warred on his face. Carla’s pulse sped up. She was hungry, cold, and tired. And, despite Diaz’s assurances, this was obviously a problem. The beginnings of a full-bore panic edged up her spine.
“How will you get us to the boat?” Michael asked.
Diaz motioned toward the pier. Floating on the water below was a contraption that included three inner tubes lashed together with rope, covered by a wooden plank. A neumático. “It is what the fishermen who have no boats use,” Diaz explained. “I borrowed it from a friend. He built it himself.” He tried to paste on a reassuring smile.
Carla grabbed Michael’s arm. “No!” she cried sharply. “I will not go on that. It is not safe. We will drown.”
“Señorita, keep your voice down,” Diaz said. He cleared his throat. “I told you I will take you myself. I would not go if it was not safe. It is only a short trip. A few minutes. And the bay is calm. The boat will pick you up past Regla.” He pointed out across the bay. “You see? Hardly any distance.”
Carla gazed at Diaz, then at Michael. She knew there was no choice. Still, her stomach clenched. She started to mutter prayers.
Michael slipped his arm around her. “Carla, do not be afraid.” His voice was soothing. “I can handle a raft, and if I need to, I will jump in the water and push us to the boat. I am a strong swimmer.”
But Carla kept shaking her head as if by doing so, she might wipe out the entire situation. This wasn’t how she expected her life to unfold. Perhaps sensing her unease, Michael stroked her han
d, which was still clutching his arm.
Diaz headed over to the pier, pulled out a short wooden ladder, and hung it over the edge. He grabbed a couple of oars and lowered himself onto the raft.
“Venimos, ahora,” he called in a dramatic whisper.
Michael gently edged Carla forward, but she refused to budge. “Carla, there is no other way.”
“I know.”
“Please.”
“I—I do not know how to swim,” she said.
Michael stroked her neck. “You will not have to.”
“How do you know?”
He studied her for a moment, then slid his backpack off his shoulders. “I almost forgot. I need you to do something for me.”
She eyed him suspiciously. “What?”
“I am so sure you will be fine that I want you to keep some important—documents—for me.”
“What documents?”
He fished in his backpack. “One is a photo of my mother and father in Santa Clara. I want my mother to have it. The other is the map.”
She felt herself scowl. “The map? After everything that’s happened, you’re taking the map?”
“You do not want to know, remember? Don’t worry. You can give it back to me when we are ashore. In America.” He handed over the papers.
“You are trying to distract me.”
“Maybe.” He leaned over and kissed her cheek.
What was he not telling her? “Why must I take them? Where will you be?”
“Right beside you. But they may not search you when we get to the States. I know they’ll search me.”
“A search?” Her voice rose. “Miguel, what is this? Why do we have to go to America tonight? I do not—”
“Shhh!” Diaz cut her off and raised a finger to his lips. “It is time.”
Reluctantly Carla took the papers and stuffed them in her bag. She took a step forward. Michael went to the ladder. She followed. Michael stepped back so she could go down the ladder first. He stood above her, Diaz below on the raft. She descended the ladder gingerly, took Diaz’s hand, and stepped onto the plank. It listed to one side. Carla let out a shriek.
“Señora!” Diaz’s whisper was tense. “Please! You must be quiet. This is perfectly natural. The tires—they do that. Do not be alarmed.”
The panic she’d been trying to hold at bay rolled over her. Diaz helped her find a spot in the center. She wrapped her arms across her chest. Diaz looked up at Michael.
“Señor. Now you.”
• • •
Michael dropped his backpack into the neumático, flashed Carla a smile, and started down the ladder. He was on the first rung when a voice yelled out of the darkness.
“Halt! Do not move!”
Carla gasped. Michael drew his gun and called out. “Quien es usted?”
The sound of a weapon being racked echoed across the pier. “La guardia de Frontera!” The Cuban Border Guard. “Drop your weapon! Ahora! Immediatamente!”
“Shit!” Michael spat out. Diaz was right. The police were patrolling the bay.
Why, he wondered. Who had informed on them?
Diaz lifted the rope that tied the neumático to the pier and whispered to Michael. “Hurry… get in! I will catch you.”
“No. Take her. I will swim to you.”
Carla started to scramble out of the raft. “No, Miguel! I will not go without you!”
But Diaz had already grabbed an oar and was using it to push away from the dock. “After we pass the freighters, there will be a boat. He has a light. He will flash it three times,” he hissed. “We will wait.”
“Miguel!” Carla reached out to Michael. “Señor, please. Go back!”
“Take care of her,” Michael called.
Diaz’s gaze slipped from Carla to Michael. “Do not worry.”
Michael clung to the ladder with one hand until the raft was out of range. Then he raised his pistol.
“Put your weapon down,” the same disembodied voice barked. “Or I will shoot.”
He must have a night scope, Michael thought. He aimed into the dark and fired. A second later, a rifle blast exploded out of the dark. Michael dropped his gun and fell off the ladder. He never heard his body splash into the water.
• • •
Walters watched as Michael’s corpse slowly turned onto its back like a jellyfish. The guard was already at the edge of the pier. Walters patted the revolver in his holster and emerged from the shadows. He stalked over and barked in perfect Spanish. “What is this? What happened?”
“Señor, two people were trying to escape on a raft. This one tried too, but he had a gun. I told him to put down his weapon. He wouldn’t listen.”
“The raft,” Walters said. “Who was on it?”
“A man. And a woman,” the guard said.
Walter pointed to Michael’s body. “I know this man. He is a conspirator against the State. You did the right thing. But we must go after the woman.”
The guard cocked his head, as if he’d just realized the contact was not a security officer. “And who are you, Señor?”
Walters pretended he didn’t hear. “But first we need to search his body.”
The guard gazed at him, clearly puzzled.
“Help me get him back up on the dock.” When the guard didn’t move, Walters peeled off a wad of cash and held it out.
The guard hesitated, then slipped it into his pocket.
Walters took off his jacket and the holster and climbed down the ladder into the water. He grabbed Michael by his shirt and pulled him over to the ladder. Together they managed to lift him back onto the pier. Walters promptly searched Michael’s body. No map. He picked up his jacket and holster, making sure the revolver was in easy reach, and stood up.
“Who are you?” the guard repeated.
Walters pulled out his gun. “You never saw me. ¿Comprende?”
The guard raised his rifle, aiming it at Walters. “Put your weapon down, Señor, and identify yourself.”
Walters fired, but his shot went wild. The guard returned fire, point blank. Walters’ last thought was one of surprise. He never thought it would end like this.
• • •
Perhaps sobs could be heard, but whether it was the cries of a woman or simply a night animal was unclear. The waves lapping against the pier made the other sounds extraneous, and whatever the noise was, it faded away. Silence reclaimed the bay.
A man in a uniform jogged toward the pier. “I heard shots. What happened?”
The young guard explained. He couldn’t stop shaking. This was the first time he’d fired his rifle. And he’d fired twice. The CDR official who’d got him the job a year earlier said it would be easy. You walked around and wore a uniform. But he’d be first in line at the rations store. He’d have other perks, too. That’s what he’d signed up for. Not this.
“What do I do now, Capitan? It was self-defense. I know there needs to be an investigation. Reports. Inquests.” He hesitated. “I am—I am—”
The captain raised his palm to stop the guard’s babbling. He gazed at the two bodies, then back at the guard. The guard was a young man, well under thirty. A baby. And this was the first shoot-out they’d encountered in Regla. Usually escapees were meek, not gutsy. They surrendered quickly. This would put a blemish on the guard’s career. His, too. Especially since the raft got away.
He squinted out over the dark waves, as if trying to see where the raft had gone. Then he turned back to the guard.
“This didn’t happen. Understand? This was just another routine patrol.”
The young guard motioned to the two corpses. “But—but, what do I do with them?” He looked panicked.
The captain didn’t answer for a moment. Then he said, “Throw them into the bay. And make sure they never come to the surface.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Chicago — May
Four months later
Frankie would always remember the day she realized Michael was dead. It was
the beginning of March, and the jonquils were already forcing their way through the snow. There had been no word from him in two months, which was a month longer than they’d ever been out of touch, even when he was in the Middle East. She begged her father to make inquiries, but when he came to the house one night, his face ashen, and told her he couldn’t locate Michael or the contact who’d arranged the mission in the first place, she knew.
At first she raged against her father. “You taught me never to trust the government. How could you?” she yelled.
“My contact wasn’t with the government,” her father said.
“But his contact was, and you always said ‘the apple don’t fall far from the tree.’”
For one of the only times in his life, Tony Pacelli’s silver tongue was silent. There was nothing he could say. Frankie shouted, cried, threw things, then sank into a despair so wide and deep she wanted to drown in it. Her father wasn’t much better. The loss of his grandson, the successor he’d always hoped and expected Michael would become, crushed him. He took the blame, apologized profusely, and told Frankie he had nothing more to live for.
He didn’t. A month later Tony Pacelli died of a massive coronary. Although Frankie was grateful he hadn’t suffered, she was furious. Why was God punishing her? She’d loved only three men in her life, and two of them were dead. As for the third, Luis—well, who knew what had happened to him? Pain gnawed at her like a rat feeding on a carcass, so fierce and raw it threatened to eat her alive. At times she wanted it to.
But Frankie had to put aside her grief temporarily. With her father gone, she was the de facto head of the Family, and if she wanted to keep her position, she would have to fight for it. She wanted it. Why had she suffered so much, if not to assume the mantle of power? Perhaps God was rewarding her by making her the captain of her own ship. It was time. She’d learned from her father, and she knew she could steer it well. But there had never been a female head of any Cosa Nostra Family, and there would be threats to her succession.
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