Tío Miguel and Tío Pedro and their wives—both sisters of Michael’s mother—had preceded Michael to Miami when Fidel Castro overthrew Batista in Cuba. They had left behind homes, family, and once-thriving careers in the hope of regaining freedom. It was to them, via one of the famed Pedro Pan airlifts, that Michael’s mother had sent him, alone at the age of five.
Though Molly had known other exiles, none had touched her quite the way Tío Miguel had. When he talked of his native land, there had been such sadness in his eyes and something more, an anger perhaps, that his homeland was out of reach to him now. Unlike his brother, who owned a flourishing Cuban restaurant, Tío Miguel had never fully adapted to his new land.
Like so many other Cuban exiles who had come to Miami in the sixties, Tío Miguel had struggled with English. Fortunately, he lived in a community where shopkeepers spoke Spanish, where parish priests and government officials spoke his language. He had settled for taking menial jobs to support his family, always with the fragile hope that he would return home to a free Cuba someday. As time passed, hope had faded.
Molly glanced at Michael and saw that his attention was still avidly focused on Biscayne Bay and the Atlantic beyond.
“You’re worried, aren’t you?” she said.
“He’s never been this late before.”
“Does he have a radio on the boat?”
Michael nodded.
“Then he can call the Coast Guard if he’s in trouble. I’m sure he’s okay. He probably found a hot spot where the fish were really biting and didn’t want to come in yet.”
“Maybe,” he said tersely. He stood up. “I’m going inside to make a call. Keep an eye out for him, will you?”
“Of course.”
Though Tío Miguel had invited Michael, Molly, and her son, Brian, to come fishing with him some Sunday, they had never taken him up on it. Brian had brought it up once or twice, but Molly had discouraged him from pressing Michael about it. Now as she watched the endless rows of sailboats, yachts, and fishing boats dotting the water, she realized she had no idea what his boat was named, much less what it looked like. Except for those with billowing sails, they all looked pretty much alike to her, especially from this distance.
When Michael finally returned, if anything he looked more tense.
“What did you find out?”
“Nothing. Tía Pilar said she was expecting him home by now. There was something else in her voice, though, that convinced me I am right to be worried. I called the Coast Guard. They haven’t had any distress calls, but they’re going out to take a look.” He didn’t have to say that he’d called in a favor to accomplish that. He drummed his fingers nervously on the table and took another sip of beer. “Damn, I can’t stand this. Come on.”
“Where?”
“I’ll run you home, then rent a boat. I’m going out myself. I’ve been out with him enough. I probably know better than the Coast Guard does where to start looking.” He threw some money on the table, then slipped between the tightly packed tables along the edge of the marina.
They were nearly to the car, when Molly touched his arm. “Michael, I want to go with you,” she said, unable to ignore his anxiety. She’d learned long ago that Michael was incapable of asking for help, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t use a little support from a friend once in a while. Predictably, though, he was already shaking his stubborn Cuban-Irish head.
“No. If there’s trouble, I don’t want you involved.”
“What sort of trouble?” she said.
He just shook his head again, his expression more tight-lipped and obstinate than usual. “You’re going home.”
Molly made up in determination what she lacked in stature. She planted herself in front of him. “Dammit, Michael O’Hara, don’t you pull any of this Latin machismo stuff with me. Two pairs of eyes will be better than one out there. If your uncle is hurt, I might be able to help. You won’t be able to manage him and the boat at the same time.”
Apparently he decided that arguing would simply waste more precious time. That was the only explanation she could think of for his quick, grudging nod. He changed directions.
Halfway down the marina, a middle-aged fisherman was just unloading his catch. He greeted Michael with a nod. “Hola.”
Michael began talking to him in Spanish. The only thing Molly understand for certain was Tío Miguel’s name, but the man’s head bobbed in agreement.
“He’ll take us out,” Michael told her, already following the man onto the boat. He held out his hand to help Molly aboard. “He and my uncle are friends. He saw him just this morning. He went out as usual about dawn.”
“Does Tío Miguel usually fish in the same place?” Molly asked.
“More or less. We might have to do some cruising around though. I assume you don’t get seasick. The water looks a little choppy today.”
“Let’s just say it’s probably best if we don’t put the idea into my head,” she said just as the powerful engine started throbbing beneath them. Her stomach lurched, then settled a bit as they eased out of the dock and into open water. Fresh air replaced gas fumes as they chugged out of the harbor. She tried to ignore the thick, dark clouds gathering in the west and the threat they represented.
“You okay?” Michael asked. “You looked a little green there for a minute.”
“I’m fine now.”
“I want to get up front to help Raul watch for the boat. You’ll be okay back here?”
Molly nodded. “What the name of the boat? I’ll watch from here.”
“The Niña Pilar.”
She reached out then and touched his hand. “We’ll find him, Michael.”
“I hope so,” he said and turned abruptly, but not before she’d noted the tense set of his jaw and the deepening worry in his eyes in that instant before he’d slipped his sunglasses back into place.
Not only was he Tío Miguel’s namesake, but the two shared a special bond because of Michael’s young age when his mother had sent him to America to live with his aunt and uncle. That, combined with the fact that Michael had never known his own Irish-American father, had cemented their relationship. The closeness was not something Michael ever spoke of, but she had learned over the last months to read the emotions in his eyes, even when his words revealed nothing. If something had happened to Tío Miguel, Michael would be devastated, as would the rest of the close-knit family.
Under the glare of the midafternoon sun, a fine mist of salty water dried on Molly’s skin almost as soon as it landed. As the boat chugged into deeper seas, the water turned from a glistening silver to a murky green, then purple, darkened from above by the bank of nearly black clouds rolling in, dumping sheets of rain in the distance and hiding the land from sight.
Whether it was due to the afternoon storm itself or Michael’s anxiety, Molly grew increasingly uneasy as the boat rocked over the choppy waves. All the other boats were making for land, while they continued to head out to sea.
No longer able to stand being left alone, she made her way forward on the slippery deck, clinging to the metal railing as she climbed up to join Michael and Raul. While the middle-aged Cuban man steered against the powerful northerly currents, a huge cigar clamped between his teeth, Michael kept a pair of borrowed binoculars trained on the horizon.
Molly clung to a railing as the wind ripped at her clothes and tangled her hair. “Any sign of him?”
“Nothing. Raul’s heading south.”
Molly’s uneasiness mounted. “South? Toward Cuba?”
Michael nodded.
Suddenly dozens of stories about ill-fated missions against Castro by fanatical exiles flashed through her mind. “Michael?”
He slowly lowered the binoculars and turned toward her, his expression grim.
“You don’t believe he went fishing today, do you?”
“I hope to God I’m wrong, but no.”
“But surely he wouldn’t …”
“He would,” Michael said tersely
. “The goddamned fool would. He’s been involved with some underground group for years. I looked into them once for Tía Pilar. I decided they were harmless enough. I thought that eventually he’d see that there are better ways to end Castro’s dictatorship, especially with the fall of communism in the rest of the world.”
“But why now, after all this time?” Molly said, unable to imagine the sheer folly of what Michael was suggesting. “You must be wrong. I’m sure he just got caught in a squall or something. He wouldn’t try to invade Cuba on his own, for heaven’s sake.”
“You don’t understand what it’s been like for him. You can’t. Cuba—the Cuba he remembers anyway—is in his soul.”
The sadness, Molly thought. That explained the sorrow that perpetually shadowed Tío Miguel’s eyes. And Michael was right. It was something she had no way of fully understanding.
“Would he have gone alone, though?” she asked. “Wouldn’t there have been others?”
“More than likely, though Raul says he has heard nothing of such plans. Such men operate in secret, but there is almost always gossip.”
As the boat churned through the choppy waters, they emerged beneath bluer skies. The wind settled into little more than a breeze that barely stirred the humid tropical air. But even with the improved weather, the tension didn’t lessen.
The one question Molly didn’t dare to ask was whether Raul would risk carrying them all the way into Cuban waters. Nor was she sure she wanted to know whether Michael would allow him to do any less. Fortunately, with nothing but open water in all directions, Molly had no real sense of how close she might be to having both questions answered.
For all she knew there was little purpose to the zigzagging course they seemed to be on as the sun slipped below the horizon in a blaze of orange.
“There!” Michael said, gesturing to Raul as he kept his binoculars pinned on some tiny speck in the dimming light.
To Molly the boat in the distance was indistinguishable from dozens of others they had seen since leaving the marina. Only as they drew closer did she realize the boat’s engine was still, that its movement was propelled by no more than the drifting currents.
“Tío! Tío Miguel!”
Michael’s shouts carried across the water as they pulled alongside the boat. Niña Pilar had been painted on the boat’s bow in neat bright blue letters.
“Can you get any closer?” he asked Raul.
“Sí,” he said, maneuvering until the boats were touching.
Michael threw a rope across, then looped it through the railing of his uncle’s boat until the two were pontooned together. Only then did he leap from Raul’s boat to the deck of his uncle’s.
Molly’s breath caught in her throat as he made his way carefully from bow to stern. She nearly panicked when he disappeared inside the cabin and failed to return. She had one hand on the railing and was preparing to leap herself, when he reappeared.
“Michael?” she said softly, her heart hammering as she tried to read the expression on his face.
He swallowed hard before he finally lifted his gaze to meet hers.
“He’s gone,” he said bleakly. “The inflatable raft is missing, too.”
“You’re sure he’s gone back to Cuba, though? Maybe the boat ran out of gas and he took the dinghy to get help,” she said, searching desperately for another explanation.
Raul greeted Michael’s announcement with a barrage of Spanish. He hurriedly sketched a cross over his chest, his gaze flashing toward heaven. Though she could understand only about one word in ten, something in the fisherman’s voice told Molly he disagreed with Michael’s interpretation.
Michael questioned him in impatient, rapid-fire Spanish.
“What?” Molly said. “Michael, what is he saying?”
“Muy loco,” Michael said derisively to the other man. “No es posible.”
“Sí,” Raul said just as adamantly.
“What, dammit?” Molly said, shouting over the pair of them.
Michael finally looked at her. “Raul seems to think it is not possible that my uncle went back to Cuba.”
“Then what does he think happened?”
“He thinks he was murdered,” he said in a clipped tone.
“Murdered?”
“You see why I say he is crazy. Who would want to murder an old man who has never done anything to hurt anyone in his life?”
“Can you dismiss what he is saying so easily?” Molly asked, though she didn’t want to believe Raul’s theory any more than Michael did. “You’re a homicide detective, Michael. You of all people know how important it is to look beyond the obvious.”
He glared at her. “Maybe just this once I don’t want to,” he snapped. “Maybe just thisonce I don’t want to know anything about someone who might be sick enough to hurt an old man.”
“But I know you, Michael. You won’t rest until you know the truth. Not about something as important as this.”
A sigh shuddered through him. He slid his sunglasses back into place though it was long past any need for them. Without another word, he secured Tío Miguel’s boat to be towed back to Miami, then gestured to Raul.
The fishing boat turned to the north and began chugging through the choppy Atlantic. Molly could no longer read Michael’s expression in the darkness closing in around them, but he was facing south—toward his homeland. Toward Cuba.
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