The Music Trilogy

by Kahn, Denise

  Davina looked at the picture again before she closed the cover over the keys. Tears silently slid down her cheeks. She laid her head down on the piano and fell asleep.

  ♫

  CHAPTER 43

  The Varig flight from Brazil landed ten minutes early at Miami International. As planned, Johnny Thornton was there waiting. Zeferino and his father, Mario and two other men, “old friends of the family,” Zeferino said, climbed into Johnny’s car and drove to Collins Avenue. Everything had been planned, although Johnny thought he was picking up only Zeferino from the airport, and Zeferino did not know that Johnny had planned a rendezvous with Jean.

  A few weeks ago, Johnny Thornton was a boy, but he had grown in ways that he could not have imagined. Perhaps the shock of losing his sister had aged him. He felt distinctly mature and much wiser and, for the first time in his life, bitter. He was his own man. He knew exactly what he wanted. He would keep his promise to Gina to finish his studies, but not until after he did what he had to do. He had promised Zeferino when he left for Brazil that he would not do anything until he returned and they would do what they had to do together.

  When Zeferino was in Brazil, Johnny began to search for Jean. Sergeant Ernesto Martinez told him she was working in a restaurant in Miami Beach, which is where he found her, and he managed to convince her that it was time to get on with life—that is, life without Simon Grady. He had already taken too much from them.

  Jean had a deep mistrust of police. The police had arrested her because they took Grady’s word. They had believed him. It didn’t matter to the police that she had been beaten senseless. The cops would never find him. Jean wanted desperately to get on with her life. She promised Johnny that she would work with him and not try to get to Simon on her own. She would search her memory, try to remember a person, a place, something that would be the connection to Grady’s whereabouts. Then they could get to him together.

  As Johnny parked behind Los Pollos, Zeferino wondered aloud what they were doing here.

  “Jean works here,” Johnny said. “She’s got an idea.”

  The men piled into a booth, and rather uncomfortably. Mario and his friends Diogo and Rafael, were hefty men. They wore dark pin-stripe suits and hats, the kind that had long been out of fashion in the States.

  When Jean saw them, she almost tripped and spilled the glasses of water she was carrying on a tray. Johnny smiled her way and she nodded to him.

  “Uncle Mario, Diogo and Rafael are here to help us,” Zeferino began, speaking directly to Johnny. “They are, well… professionals.”

  Jean returned with coffee.

  “Can you sit down?” Johnny asked her.

  “Just for a minute.”

  Zeferino thought she looked tired. Of course, the baby. He had forgotten. “How are you?” he asked her.

  “Okay I guess.”

  “Please sit,” Carlos da Cunha said to her.

  “Thank you,” she said and looked at the dark somber faces of the Brazilians. She felt a shiver go up her spine. She lowered her voice. “The police are watching me. There’s always a guard somewhere watching me. Well, he’s guarding me. From Simon.”

  Mario nodded to Diogo and Rafael. They had noticed the cop out front. They could smell him.

  “She thinks she knows where Simon is,” Johnny whispered.

  Jean shrugged. “Maybe. Simon lived with some Seminole Indians for a few months when he was a boy. It’s not easy to find the place. It’s in the Everglades. There’s nothing out there but swamp.”

  “Jean, you’ve got to tell us how to get there,” Johnny said. “We can’t take you along with us. It’s too dangerous.”

  Zeferino and Carlos da Cunha were translating for the other Brazilians, who agreed with Johnny. It was much too dangerous to risk taking Jean.

  She knew, how well she knew what Simon Grady was capable of. She had no argument with them. But she could not give directions to that shack in the swamps. It had been too many years since she had been there. As it was, she would have to figure out the way as she went along, using whatever landmarks were still there to guide her.

  “We don’t want anything to happen to you, Jean,” Zeferino said.

  “It’s alright,” Mario said in Portuguese. “We won’t let anything happen to her.” He understood that Jean too needed this revenge, she needed closure, perhaps more than any of them. “Now,” he said, cracking a knuckle. “There is the matter of the policeman who guards her. Tomorrow she comes to work. Thirty minutes before the end of her shift, she takes off her apron and she leaves in different clothes.”

  Zeferino translated this for Jean and Johnny.

  “You,” Mario said, pointing to Johnny. “She leaves with you.”

  And one more thing, Mario said, they wanted coffee not tea.

  “This is coffee, Uncle Mario, American coffee. Try the Cuban coffee.”

  ♫

  CHAPTER 44

  At the request of the Spanish Ambassador, Sergeant Ernesto Martinez met with a Mr. Cortez, the envoy from the embassy whose mission was to debrief Alejandro del Valle, as he lay, his limbs suspended, face down.

  Martinez was already weary from his participation in this affair and he grew increasingly irritated at the questions the envoy put to him, questions about Alejandro’s physical condition, for instance, that were more appropriate for the man’s physicians.

  “What about his mental condition?” the envoy asked. “What can you tell me about this?”

  Martinez nearly lost his patience. “From what I have heard, Mr. Cortez, he’s fine in that area.”

  “Who told you this?”

  Martinez bit his lip. “I remind you, sir, that I am not a doctor.”

  The envoy sniffed at what he took to be impertinence and got on with his duty: to interrogate Alejandro and, if necessary, his physicians.

  The consul to Cuba had almost nothing to say. He remembered the night the plane went down, but he did not know why, perhaps something wrong with the aircraft’s hydraulics. And he did not know if sabotage was involved. And no, there was nothing else he could think of to tell the envoy.

  The debriefing was quick, no more than ten minutes. The envoy told Alejandro he hoped he would feel better soon, and he said good day to Sergeant Martinez.

  Asshole, Martinez thought. Nothing here was worthy of a secret.

  On leaving Alejandro’s room, Martinez and the envoy passed Jacques in the hallway. He was wearing a smock.

  Martinez went to greet him. “There are no more secrets,” he said quietly. “He’s been debriefed.”

  “Yes,” Jacques said. “But there is another matter. Alejandro does not want anyone to know.”

  “But why?”

  “Something about he has his reasons.”

  “Good luck,” Martinez said, as he grabbed his beeping phone. “Yeah, Martinez here... He what?”

  Jacques watched him run out down the corridor for the front doors. Good luck yourself, Sergeant, he thought.

  But it wasn’t really luck that Jacques needed. He needed courage now. Monique convinced him that Alejandro had to be told about the Orange Bowl tragedy. And then, perhaps in another day or two, he needed to be told about his brother. And Jacques alone had to be the one to get Alejandro to say why he did not want to see the love of his life. Monique thought that this was a matter between men, and her presence had kept Alejandro from discussing it, whatever it was.

  Alejandro seemed stronger, more alive. He could speak more easily. It gave Jacques the courage to tell him about the Orange Bowl fiasco, although he left the part about Rodrigo out.

  “Alejandro, why don’t you tell me what your damn reasons are for not telling Davina?”

  “I’m afraid.”

  “Afraid of what? She adores you!”

  “I don’t want her to see me… like this.”

  “Oh, my friend, is this the real reason?”

  “Yes.”

  “Come on, Alejandro, it’s me, Jacques, remember? We
go back a long way.”

  “She can’t see me like this.”

  “What’s wrong with you? A few bandages here and there? Is that what’s really bothering you? Don’t tell me that you won’t allow her to know that you’re alive because of this. Merde. Your face is still handsome and the rest of you will soon heal. Come on, you old goat. Talk to me!”

  “I don’t know if I can ever be… make love.”

  “Ah, Alejandro! You surprise me. I thought you were a man of intelligence, but let me see if I understand correctly. You are afraid to tell Davina that you are alive because you might never be able to make love to her again?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have the doctors confirmed this?”

  “They have said…that possibly…”

  “Let me tell you something, Mr. Macho, I presumed that your heart governed your mind, and not any other part of your anatomy! Davina is a beautiful woman and you are one hell of a good-looking guy. Either one of you could have had anyone you wanted, and if I am not mistaken, you two fell in love with each other’s hearts. Of course you enjoyed each other’s bodies as well, but that was not the main attraction, and you know it! Damn it, man, she loves you, the person and the heart that goes with it.” Jacques looked at his friend and slowly touched his shoulder. “Even if you had become an invalid or if you had been disfigured, she would still love you and want you, for such is her heart’s obsession for you, my friend. Give her a chance, Alejandro, it is only fair to her. You owe her that much. She is like a silkworm enclosed in her cocoon and you are not permitting her to become the stunning butterfly we all remember.”

  “She is…very depressed?”

  “Oh, God, yes! She thinks of nothing but you. Do you remember how I was with Monique all last year, so depressed and lonely? Out of my mind.”

  “I remember.”

  “Well, it’s even worse for Davina. I at least had hope. I knew where Monique was. Ah, I waited and longed for her for so long, and believe me, by then, the last thing on my mind was sex. The only thing that mattered was that she was alive and well. And I kept thinking about how she was raped and I imagined that she might never again even want me, or even want to be touched.” Jacques paused. “In your case, we all thought you were dead, everyone but Davina. For some uncanny reason, she still believes that you’re alive. For the love of God, let us tell her.”

  Alejandro knew that Jacques was right. There was no one in this world he wanted to see more, no one he loved more than Davina. She would still love him, wouldn’t she? Yes, yes, of course she would.

  ♫

  CHAPTER 45

  At precisely 8:30 pm, Jean, in a jacket and hat borrowed from Zeferino, left Los Pollos and got into Johnny Thornton’s car. They headed for the swamps of southern Florida. The sky was black and dark clouds hid the quarter moon. Their instructions from Mario were to stay in the car. Put another way, Mario said, they were to never get out of the car. He wanted to make sure this was very clear.

  The second car, driven by Zeferino, picked up Johnny’s car on Collins Avenue, as planned. Zeferino was thinking, not of the night that lay so ominously ahead, but of Jean. He could not get Jean out of his mind. Seeing her again made him relive their time together that fateful night. Only a few weeks ago, he was the happiest he had ever been in his life. He was engaged to Gina, the woman who would be his wife. And now, somehow, he couldn’t stop thinking about Jean.

  His father was perceptive enough to almost read his thoughts. And he had seen the way Zeferino looked at Jean. He told his son: Most people wait a lifetime for a second chance. Maybe fate brought you together this soon after the tragedy. Maybe she is the right girl for you. Maybe Gina had something to do with it from where she is now. Who knows? God works in strange ways.

  Mario interrupted Zeferino’s thoughts.

  “When we get to the house, the four of us will go in and get that bastardo. Zeferino, I want you behind us.”

  It took them more than an hour to get where they were going. It wasn’t until they had driven in a circle that Jean realized the clearing that she remembered was now overgrown. The shack was not accessible by car. They would have to walk in.

  “Are you sure this is it?” Johnny asked, turning the car lights off.

  “I think so. But it’s so dark.”

  The second car, lights off, stopped as well. No one moved. Zeferino was the first to see a faint light in the distance.

  The Brazilians quietly got out of the car and headed toward the light. Mario stopped at Johnny’s window. “Remember your instructions,” he said.

  In a moment the darkness swallowed the Brazilians.

  Mario and Diogo reached the shack first. They burst into the front door, brandishing pistols. Rafael climbed in through a back window.

  Simon Grady, sprawled on the floor, had just injected himself but he was aware of what was happening and pulled his own gun. He shot at the first thing he saw moving—Mario. Then at Zeferino. Grady never felt the bullet enter him. His body was too numb from the heroin. He fired until he emptied his gun, and then he collapsed. Blood soaked his shirt.

  Johnny and Jean heard the gunfire. It was long moments before they saw the Brazilians. Rafael and Diogo carried Mario. Zeferino was limping, leaning on his father.

  “Go, go, go!” Zeferino shouted to Johnny. “Move!”

  They could hear sirens now.

  Johnny turned the car around and pushed the gas pedal as much as he dared. “Where the hell did they come from? What do we do now?”

  Jean was shaken herself but not as nervous as Johnny. “We do exactly what they said to do,” she said. “We get away as fast as possible. Do you want me to drive?”

  “No, that’s one thing I can do in my sleep.”

  “Yeah, you’re really good, Johnny.”

  “Thanks. Not quite as good as Simon. He was one hell of a driver. What a waste, but then if you don’t have the brains, nothing goes right.”

  Rafael drove the second car. He kept on Johnny’s tail until he saw a fork in the dirt road and turned onto it.

  Mario was barely breathing. “We are even now, my brother,” he whispered to Carlos da Cunha.

  “Thank you, my brother,” Carlos said. He held Mario’s hand and he felt the life drain from his body. He said a silent prayer.

  Sergeant Ernesto Martinez’s cruiser was the first on the scene. As he approached the shack, he thought he could almost smell Simon Grady. The door of the shack swung out on the only hinge that held it up. Martinez entered slowly with two other policemen. No one appeared in the beacon of their flashlights. But clearly someone had paid a visit. There were bullet holes in the walls and a back window was shattered.

  “Sergeant, over here.”

  “What is it?” he asked, shining his light to where the officer pointed. It was a pool of blood, fresh blood.

  “Get the lab boys in here,” Martinez ordered. “Surround the area. If anyone is still out there, I want them found!”

  In less than an hour, the area looked like a movie set in some remote corner of the Everglades. Police vehicles with overhead flashers and huge spotlights flooded the area. Teams with K-9 dogs searched the undergrowth. And much to the irritation of Sergeant Martinez, the press arrived and they were hungry.

  “Is this Simon Grady’s hangout?” a reporter from the Miami Herald wanted to know.

  Martinez was taken aback. How did he know this had anything to do with Grady? The reporter repeated his question.

  “No comment!” Martinez shouted. “Get the hell out of here. This area is under investigation. It is off limits. All of you, out of here. Now!”

  Again Ernesto Martinez was asking himself the same question: Where was Grady? Had he been shot? Was he alive? Who did Grady shoot?

  “Check with the hospitals,” Martinez ordered an officer. “And get those damn reporters out of here!”

  According to the lab tests, the blood that was found in the shack belonged to three people, and one of them was Simon G
rady. It wasn’t difficult to find the other two. Martinez cursed on his way to Jackson Memorial Hospital. He had all he could do to keep from yelling when he saw Zeferino in a hospital bed.

  “How’s your leg, Zeferino?” Martinez asked, trying to control his anger. “That was one hell of a stupid stunt you pulled. You’re lucky you weren’t killed. Didn’t I tell you to leave police work to the police, damn it,” he said through clenched teeth. “Do you know that I could throw you in jail? Where did all this get you? Nowhere, and you got a man killed in the process!”

  “Yes, Sergeant, we are finally rid of that bastard Grady!”

  “Wrong, Zeferino! Simon Grady escaped!”

  “But that can’t be. I saw…”

  “What you saw was a wounded man. Grady used to live in those swamps when he was a kid. He probably knows every inch of that terrain. Damn it, we were five minutes behind you. We would have finally caught him, but no, we had Amateur Night.”

  “Oh, God, no,” Zeferino moaned.

  Martinez suddenly realized there was another man in the room. Carlos da Cunha introduced himself.

  Martinez managed to be civil to him. He was exasperated. “What can I say? I’m not going to bring you in. You seem to be in enough pain already. Your father can stay, but those two other beauties will have to leave. I don’t think they’ll need a police escort, do you?”

  “No, Sergeant,” Carlos said. “They are scheduled to leave today.”

  “Good. Make sure they get on their flight.”

  “Of course.”

  Martinez rose to leave. “By the way, you’d better tell Jean Conrad and Johnny Thornton the news. Grady is alive. And tell them to be careful. Very careful.” Martinez turned toward Carlos. “Take care of your son, Señor da Cunha, and please, no more playing vigilante.”

  “I will. Rest assured. Thank you, Sergeant.”