Cuba Straits

“Those are the only bullet wounds,” Tomlinson said. “His burns . . . I don’t see anything that bad. But his head—such a weird angle. And at least one arm broken. Gad”—he moved the lantern a little—“a compound fracture. And that hand . . . his fingers aren’t much better.” He turned to Figuerito. “You didn’t kill him.”

“Are you sure?” He motioned with the machine gun. “I’ll do better now that I know how this works. Don’t you think you should move?”

The strange gringo tried to yank the gun from his hands, but Figgy was too strong. “Go get your own—but I’m only loaning you the other gun. When you come back, maybe our problems with the Russian will be done. After that, we have work to do, so bring the briefcase. Oh, and the movie film. The film will help the gasoline.”

“Listen to me!” Tomlinson put his hands on Figuerito’s shoulders. “He’s already dead. You didn’t kill him. That crashing sound we heard? Someone else was here. Someone beat the hell out of this guy, then broke his neck.”

Figuerito raised the machine gun and turned a slow circle. “Who?”

“That’s not the point. You didn’t kill the guy, and you didn’t kill that poor bastard out there by the tree. Dude, it’s like freedom. See? We’re not guilty of anything. You’re still a Cuban citizen, and I’ve got a visa, so—”

Figgy didn’t want to hear any more. “We’ve got to find this violent person. He couldn’t have gotten far.”

That was true. They both waited, ears alert, but heard nothing. Finally, Tomlinson said, “Let me think for a second. I want to be sure before we do anything crazier.” He squatted by the body. Got on his knees and crawled around, using the lantern to see. He found a pistol but didn’t touch it. “A Glock,” he said. “I didn’t hear any shots.”

Figgy thought, You were smart to put your fingers in your ears. Bells in his head were still ringing. He left the strange gringo and checked the bathing area, grimaced at what he saw in the commode. Then crossed the hall, stepped over the Russian, and entered his grandmother’s Santería shrine.

The stainless fillet knife was gone.

Tomlinson continued his search. In the breast pocket of the Russian’s shirt was a folded piece of paper; the paper was old and resembled the pages in the radio logbook. Tempting, but he didn’t touch that either. Bundled against the wall was a woman’s robe. Nearby, he found a ribbed collar torn from a child’s shirt, or pajamas, the material pink with white checks, the checks spattered with blood.

“Don’t touch a damn thing,” he said. “This is a crime scene. A setup. Very, very orderly.” Orderly—he mouthed the word again. “Gotta be. That devious bastard. Maybe he didn’t realize we were in here.”

Peculiar, the gringo’s tone. It was as if he were puzzled but already knew the answer to the puzzle.

Figuerito stepped into the hall, where Tomlinson was cleaning his hands on his shorts. “I need to check on something outside. Won’t be a minute.”

“Not without me,” Figgy told him. “Whoever it is took my abuela’s knife from her shrine. The man who could do this”—he indicated the Russian’s contorted arm, his broken neck—“that man is dangerous.”

“Sure, if you want. The knife—probably seeding more evidence or destroying it. Who knows? There’s always a reason with him.” Tomlinson looked back. “Leave the gun. Mostly, Doc’s a nice guy.”

•   •   •

FIGUERITO WASN’T GOING to part with the beautiful Thompson submachine gun even for his close friend and shipmate, the strange hippie who, once again, was mostly wrong but a little bit right.

There was no dangerous man waiting outside. There was no dangerous man waiting in the trees near the body of Vernum Quick, the dead Santero. Someone had visited recently, though. The fillet knife lay atop a pile of clothing at Vernum’s feet.

Tomlinson, holding the lantern, said, “Here they are, the Russian’s pants. You could make a circus tent out of—what?—probably size fifties. And look—”

In the sand was a pistol, its handle brassy-colored like a cigarette case. Strange in appearance when compared with pistols seen on TV.

“Planting evidence,” Tomlinson said, “didn’t I tell you? With him, there’s always a reason.” He did a slow circle, his head swiveling as if expecting to see a familiar face.

It didn’t happen.

“I have things I must do,” Figuerito said.

“Go ahead. I want to do another lap.” The hippie stopped. “In the bomb shelter, you mean? We haven’t broken any laws. Remember that. There’s no need to get rid of anything, especially off a cliff. ¿Comprendo?”

Tell that to the old woman, Figuerito thought.

Twenty minutes later, he was in the shelter, filling the tires of the red Harley-Davidson, when Tomlinson returned, saying, “We need to talk.”

Figgy watched him enter. “I’ll loan you the blue motorcycle, but this red one is mine. We can’t both ride tonight anyway. Olena, the chicken woman, will want her chickens back, so one of us has to drive the Buick. I like that Buick, but I was never allowed to drive the motorcycles. Just start them, you know? I’d sit on the seat and twist the handles. Do you know how the gearshift works?”

Tomlinson squatted so they were face-to-face. “Listen to me. We’ve got a decision to make. If you want to go back to the United States, you’ve got to leave tonight.”

“Huh?”

“I found my friend, Doc. Well . . . he found me. I don’t know what hellbroth he’s stirred up, but that’s the deal. You leave now or risk another week while my sailboat’s repaired. I guess I could go, too, and fly back to Havana in a few days.” Before Figuerito could respond, he continued, “I know, I know . . . they’ve got no reason to arrest us. On the other hand, there’s no predicting what Cuban cops will do if they check, and you don’t even have a birth certificate. And the American immigration cops—gad, don’t get me started. It’s up to you . . . brother. He’s waiting for us at the river.”

Figuerito put the tire pump aside. “Doc? Who is this friend of yours, ‘Doc’? And why is he in the river?”

Tomlinson sighed, picked up the tire pump, and moved to the blue Harley. “Okay. Let’s go over this one more time.”

Marion Ford—lights out, engines burbling—waited at the mouth of the river until his electronics showed that both Cuban patrol boats had returned to base in Mariel Harbor.

It was three forty-five a.m.

He went over the checklist a last time: radar-absorbent bow shield in place; chaff buoys behind the seat; fuel, water temp, oil pressure okay; items on the bow trimmed, blanketed, and secured; night vision monocular within easy reach. If the worst happened, his P226 semi-auto was beneath the wheel. In an ankle holster, the mini Sig Sauer he’d loaned Marta—and had recovered from the Santero’s body—was loaded, wiped clean of blood, and ready if needed.

He popped the boat onto plane, exited the river, and hugged the westerly shoreline for two miles, then turned north and punched the throttles.

Ru

No trouble until he neared the twelve-mile limit. An aircraft appeared on radar. Cuban, out of Mariel Harbor. He watched the flashing red icon until he was sure it was a helicopter. He killed all electronics, pulled the inflation cord on a chaff buoy and dumped it.