Cuba Straits

by Randy Wayne White

  Vernum felt a boot nudge his thigh while he recalled the old war hero, Oleg, jabbering about a CIA operative who had rescued the girls.

  “Former air force, but discharged after only nine months, huh? I’m surprised you’re not in jail.” Another pause. “You were going to murder those girls and their mother . . . but only after you assaulted them, right? Don’t pretend you don’t know what I mean by ‘assaulted.’” The boot again, harder. “Answer me. A nod means yes, a grunt means you’re lying. My rules, and you’re running out of time.”

  Vernum controlled his breathing. If the man lost his temper, he might say something to provide a bit of leverage or do something stupid.

  The latch on the bag opened, then closed. “There are a couple of easy field tests I can do to prove you’re conscious. You won’t like it. This isn’t the movies—jab a prisoner with a pin or use a match. A motivated subject wouldn’t even flinch, but there is one fail-safe way to find out. I’ll take this hypodermic needle, heat it up, then stick it through your eardrum. The freaky types suggest a couple cc’s of cold water, but I don’t happen to think torture is funny.” The man knelt and touched a finger to Vernum’s nose—his only source of air—a warning. “Now, open your goddamn eyes.”

  Vernum did and was surprised to see the LED screen of his own satellite phone, not a needle, only inches from his face. There was a recent text in broken Spanish. The name of the sender, thank god, was not included.

  The pizda hippie and defector both alive. Will intercept or follow. Contact soonest.

  The time stamp was five minutes ago, nine-nineteen p.m.

  “This is from Anatol Kostikov, isn’t it? Grunt twice if I’m right.”

  Vernum attempted to shrug while shaking his head. Weird to look into his abductor’s face and see only one dim green eye.

  “You’re lying, but that’s okay. The Russian wouldn’t have hired you unless you have something to offer. Usually, it’s a special talent, but there’s nothing special about a pederasta who should have been euthanized long ago. Isn’t that true?”

  Pederasta. A pedophile. Disgusting. Vernum had never been called that before but nodded anyway, frightened by the tone—detached—a man who asked questions as a test because he already knew the answers.

  “That tells me you have something they want. That’s good enough for starters. The important thing is, I’m not to going to kill you”—the man touched Vernum’s neck with the delicacy of a surgeon and found his jugular—“because you’re working for me now. Keep that in mind when you wake up.”

  An hour later, Ford was hiking up the hill to Marta Esteban’s home when the Santero’s phone buzzed with a second message: Why you no contact? They in car red Buick that is with gallineros seated driving west. Police do not know. Watch soon with eyes ready.

  Ford puzzled over that, unsure if Kostikov was writing code or if his Spanish was as bad as Vernum had claimed. Tomlinson and the shortstop were in a car somewhere between here and Cojimar, but the Russian didn’t want Cuban authorities involved. That much fit with what Ford already knew and confirmed that Tomlinson was in danger but not immediate danger. But what the hell did gallineros seated mean? Gallinero was Spanish for “chicken coop.”

  Gibberish, Ford decided. The Santero had become an eager, earnest informant after forty minutes of questioning. The key to breaking a hostile interrogant was plying his ego or tapping into his innermost fears. The man didn’t swim well. He was terrified of sharks. Blindfolded, Vernum had believed he was adrift in the Gulf Stream when, in fact, they hadn’t left the river.

  Ford had a lot of information to sort through. Juan Rivera would have killed for what he had learned tonight. Instead, Juan had fallen victim to something he didn’t know.

  The pressing issue was Vernum’s claim that he hadn’t hurt Marta or the girls. It was late; Ford had changed into fishing shorts, a blue chambray shirt, and a ball cap—better to look like a tourist and less like a ninja. But Kostikov’s message took precedence. If the Russian had found his phone in the stadium trash, that meant Vernum’s phone also contained a GPS chip. He’d assumed as much and was still unsure what to do with the damn thing. Using one finger, he texted a response: Dropped phone in water. Messages garbled cannot call. Meet you where? After adding a string of random letters, he hit Send.

  That would give him some time. Somehow, though, he had to silence the phone’s tracking signal. Even if he shut it off, the thing would still transmit. A possible solution was in the systems menu. He found location services and disengaged all links.

  Ford crossed through the trees to the drive and jogged the rest of the way. Every window in the Esteban house was alight with candles and lamps. He stopped near the tamarind tree, switched on a flashlight, and called a friendly warning: “Marta . . . it’s me, the guy from the United States. Your daughter calls me the gringo fascist.”

  Lighten the mood on this traumatic evening, is what he wanted to do, the whole time hoping more trauma didn’t await.

  But it was okay. The porch door flew open and the younger girl, Sabina, came flying out wearing baggy pink-and-white pajamas. “I told them, Marion, I told them both! They didn’t believe me—so typical . . .” Then she became shy as she drew nearer and stopped. Behind her, the mother appeared, carrying an oil lamp, a diffident woman with Polynesian hair that hung to the waist of her bathrobe.

  Ford moved the flashlight so she could see his face. “Sorry, Mrs. Esteban. I didn’t know how to find the place by car, so I waited at the hotel, hoping you’d check in.” He squatted to be at eye level with Sabina. “How’re you doing, tiburónita? Where’s Maribel?”

  “Little shark”—a nickname—and Maribel was on the porch, one hand clinging to her mother’s robe.

  Sabina backed a few steps. “You look different.”

  Ford was counting on it. “I cleaned up at the hotel. Is that so bad?”

  “You’re not as big . . . and your legs are bare. Why are you dressed like a tourist from Canada? Don’t lie to me. Everyone thinks I’m stupid, but I’m not.”

  Smiling, Ford stood and spoke to Marta. “If it’s too late, I can come back tomorrow.”

  “No . . . stay. Please stay, come inside. Maribel, where are your manners? Bring the patrón a glass of cold water. Or coffee. Would you like coffee?” The woman’s eagerness signaled the shock of what the Santero had done. Ford had heard only one side of the story but had decided not to press for details. If Marta wanted to talk, he would listen. The complexities of emotional trauma were outside his field, but he had a bedrock respect for personal privacy.

  On the way to the house, the girl looked up. “What did you do to him? The zombie man, he would have murdered Mama and Maribel, then you came. He would have killed me, too, but I fought like hell. Did you see me kick him? I did. Kicked him and tried to bite him.”

  “A zombie?” Ford replied. It took a second to connect that with the stitches in the Cuban’s face. He asked Marta, “What’s she talking about?”

  “You know who I mean,” the girl said, then began to second-guess herself as she looked him up and down. “What happened to the thing on your”—she touched her forehead—“and the holster you wore here?” Sabina’s hand moved to her side. Puzzled over that, then turned to her mother. “I swear it was true. I told the truth about what happened. A man, a giant with a green eye, he came out of the trees, but maybe it wasn’t—”

  “Stop pestering our guest,” Marta interrupted and focused on Ford while she waved the girl into the house. “Your name is Marion? I’m glad you’re here, but I’m so upset, it’s hard to think. Something happened tonight.”

  “Serious?”

  “Do you have a car? You’ve already done so much for us, I hate to ask, but, if you have a car, I think it’s dangerous here. We’d like to leave.”

  Ford, who had the keys to Vernum’s old Lada, replied, “That can be arranged. Why do
n’t you tell me about it.”

  • • •

  HE DIDN’T SMOKE, but sat at a table with coffee and a cigar he had accepted because the woman was so eager to please. Unlit, it wasn’t bad. Tasted of moist leaves with a leather tang. He bit the tip off but refused politely when she lit a match and extended her arm—pretty, her face, the way her hair glistened behind the flame. She blew the match out and turned for an ashtray. A contrail of smoke framed her profile: Aztec nose, chin, and elevated cheeks; an estuary for her eyes, which were volcanic brown, isolated, and private unless she granted contact.

  Marta granted eye contact now. She stood, the table and kerosene lamp separating them. “Coffee keeps some men awake. Are you sure?”

  Ford handed her the cup. “A little sugar, if you have it.” It would be hours before he’d have a chance to sleep.

  “There’s bread I baked yesterday, maybe a bit of honey, I’ll look. I wish I had more to offer.” The lamp, which provided backlight when she walked to the kitchen, verified that Marta Esteban had a great deal more to offer: a sturdy body, lean-waisted, with breasts that moved beneath the robe.

  Mr. Esteban, Ford decided, wherever he was, had either died happy or was a fool.

  She made herself busy in the kitchen. “I used to work at the cigar factory in Plobacho. I was a girl. They started me with cheroots—sort of like cigarettes. By the time I was fifteen, they trusted me to do Cohibas—only the best leaves, the best fillers, and each layer had to be cut and wrapped perfectly. Very, very tight.” Marta did sort of a rolling, chopping ceremony with her hands. “I’m sorry you don’t like the cigar.”

  “You made this?”

  “No, but I could.” For the first time, she smiled. The haunted eyes softened. “You don’t smoke? If you like something milder, I could make that, too. Whatever you wanted.”

  Ford nodded his thanks. “Tell me about the cigar factory.”

  “They had a man read to us—twenty women in a room on benches with a fan but no radio. He would read for an hour, take a ten-minute break, then come back and read some more. There was a microphone at the front of the room on a tall desk that wasn’t really a desk. He read José Martí and Ernest Hemingway, anything that was approved by . . . well, I don’t know who approves these things. That’s how I fell in love with books.”

  They had been discussing Sabina. She and Maribel were pretending to be asleep in the big bed in the next room, door closed, which is why the adults kept their voices down and, so far, the subject matter light. Earlier, when Marta had started to describe the attack, it was out of fear for Vernum Quick—yes, she’d recognized him—and a sense of urgency, so Ford had taken her aside and said, “He’s not coming back.”

  The woman had almost broken down when she heard that but battled through to spare her daughters. She had yet to ask the obvious question.

  Later, on the porch, with the lamp turned low, she did. “Sabina was right, wasn’t she? She saw you do something to that . . . I won’t say his name. Then you both disappeared.”

  “I don’t know what she saw, and I’ve learned not to argue with her. On the raft, when I found your daughters, she not only threatened to swim to Cuba, she actually tried. That girl’s a fire-breather, Mrs. Esteban.”

  “Marta,” she corrected. “I shouldn’t have asked, it was rude. You must be tired. I didn’t see car lights. Did you come by boat?”

  Ford confirmed that with a look.

  “The girls said fantastic things about your boat. How fast it is, with lights that blink like a spaceship. Funny . . . I believed very little of what they told me about you. But tonight, I would believe anything.” She reached for the lamp and inspected his face as a nurse might. “You’re tired . . . or worried. I’d like you to sleep here . . . in the girls’ room, of course. Or there’s a hammock—”

  “I have to meet someone,” Ford said. “But I need to ask a few things before I go.”

  “Questions about the—”

  “No, not about that. About the village, things only a local would know.” Ford turned east toward Plobacho, not far as the crow flies, but so small there were no lights above a tree line dominated by stars. “You grew up here?”

  “My grandparents, too, but I don’t understand. You told me we’re safe and I want to believe you, but the girls will be afraid. It’s so dark out there on the water, and you could rest and have a good breakfast. Are you in trouble?”

  “A friend of mine might be. That’s who I have to meet.”

  Marta broke eye contact. She placed the lamp on the railing near the ashtray and picked up the cigar because that’s what her fingers had been trained to do. “I had no right to ask that. What would you like to know?”

  “My friend, he’s looking for . . . well, looking for something and I want to be there when he finds it. I’ll explain when we have more time. I have the location narrowed down, but I don’t know the area. Here, have a look.” He opened his bag and handed her a page from his notebook—a map he’d sketched while interrogating Vernum.

  “It’s soaking wet,” she said.

  “I slipped coming up the riverbank. Didn’t the girls mention I’m clumsy? I’m not much of an artist either.” The smile in his tone was intentional. He scooted his chair close enough to touch the map. “Here’s the village square. And this is an old baseball stadium, I was told. And the X—I circled it. Do you know the house?”

  “A large green house with . . . I don’t know the word . . . towers on each side . . . or gables?”

  “Maybe.”

  “If it’s the same, a wealthy man built it years ago. Very, very rich, before the Revolution, and his only daughter still lives there. Hector Casanova was the man’s name. His daughter is old now. Imelda Casanova. La Viuda—the Dowager—is what she’s called. She’s a recluse. My grandmother was a maid in her house, but only for a few years.”

  This was an unexpected bit of luck. Ford had questions about the Dowager but wanted to orient himself first. Marta had watched games at the baseball stadium but didn’t know much about the place. She confirmed the location of a few other landmarks but was puzzled when he asked, “Why does a village as small as Plobacho have such a large cemetery?”

  “What do you mean? The nearest cemetery is twenty kilometers from here in Artemisa. Or, if the family has a little money, they choose the Cementerio de Caimito. These are simple places, not large.”

  Vernum had been caught in his first lie—or the shortstop Figueroa Casanova had lied to Vernum.

  “I pictured something more elaborate. Nothing closer? With mausoleums, sepulchres, a lot of them, I was told.”

  Marta glanced inside, where her daughters pretended to be asleep. “West of Havana, there is the magnificent Cementerio de ColÓn.”

  Ford thought, Maybe Lázaro is right, while the woman continued. “Members of the elite can be buried there, but not people like us. Sabina thinks it more beautiful than photographs of Disney World.” A wistful smile faded while she thought it through. “Although . . . there was once a burial field near the river. Not far from here”—she nodded in the direction of the village—“unless you go by car. It was called the Pauper Cólera, but bulldozers came many years ago and covered it. Most of it. There are still some ruins of buildings. That was after Fidel and the Revolution but before I was born.”

  “There was a cholera epidemic?”

  “I suppose so. Or because it was a swampy area that flooded. Cholera, malaria, black bowel fever. In those days they were called pauper diseases because peasants were considered unclean. Some say the bodies were dumped and covered with cement. Others say they were burned. It was to protect our water supply, so no one argued, but you know how old people are. They still believe diseases come out of the ground there.”

  Marta, the cigar in her hand, reconsidered the map, which consisted of stick drawings and cryptic abbreviations. “This is the public ga
rbage dump, not a cemetery.”

  “Is it close to the place you’re talking about?”

  She noted his interest and looked beyond the river, northeast. “No. As I said, the Pauper Cólera is beyond those trees. Not far on foot, much longer by road. I’ve never been. Why would I?” She put the map aside. “Is it rude to ask what your friend is looking for? Perhaps I can help.”

  “My source of information has mixed in lies with the truth. I think it has something to do with Imelda Casanova. I’m not certain yet. Or her grandson. Something he knows, or something he did.”

  “You are speaking of Figueroa.”

  “Yes.”

  “There’s not much I can tell you.”

  Ford took a stab. “Is he really her grandson?”

  Marta fidgeted while her fingers graded the quality of the cigar, then placed it in the ashtray. Nervous, Ford decided, reluctant to discuss the secrets of a family that had once been powerful, then fell from grace—or so Vernum had claimed.

  That wasn’t it. She turned to him. “Figuerito has the brain of a child, that’s true. But if he was guilty of murdering children, explain why the same murderer attacked us tonight? Other girls from the countryside have been attacked or just disappeared, poof”—she illustrated with her hands—“even though Figuerito was locked away. Now you tell me my daughters are safe, but the fear I’ve lived with for two years—more than two years—praying every night, worried all day that . . .” Marta cleared her throat, too emotional to put it into words because words provoked mental images. “To allow my babies to fall into the hands of that monster . . . I couldn’t. So I made a decision that broke my heart, to send them away. That’s why I’m asking you . . . why I must know if . . .”

  Ford waited for her to finish, a little impatient—he had to get moving—but soon realized she was crying. He hesitated, then placed a hand on her arm. Just as he’d feared, she jumped as if startled but felt better when she leaned against him and sobbed. It didn’t last. A moment later, she pulled away, saying, “Don’t . . . I haven’t bathed. This is like a terrible dream. Please understand something: when I said I wanted you to sleep here tonight, I didn’t mean—”