Santa Clara, Cuba
It was after 5:00 by the time they got around to her.
They’d kept her waiting over two hours, and she’d actually started to nod off when the rattling of the lock snapped her back awake. Two men entered: one of those who’d approached her in the café and another, older man she hadn’t seen before. The second was short and round, but carried himself with authority. He also had her camera.
“It’s about time,” Erin said. “What is going on? Why are you keeping me here?”
Ignoring her questions, the older man took the chair behind the desk. Then he nodded to his obvious subordinate, who reached down and took Erin’s bag from her.
“Hey . . .” She made a grab for it but stopped at the man’s glare. Even the most outraged American would back down after being held by a foreign police force for over two hours.
He handed her bag to the older man, who said, “I am Captain Garcia. And I will ask the questions.”
He dumped the contents of her bag on the desk. Wallet. Passport. The items from the dollar store. Her Pocket PC. And the wrapped box of jewelry she’d bought from Padilla.
Garcia picked up the passport first and flipped it open, glancing from the picture to Erin several times. Then he checked the customs stamps. “Is this you, Señorita Baker?”
“Of course.”
He nodded, swapping the passport for her wallet.
She bit her lip as he rifled through its contents, looking closely at her University of Miami faculty ID and her Florida driver’s license. Then he opened the box and took out the locket, turning and holding it up to the light.
“Where did you get this?” he asked.
A tendril of real fear curled in her stomach. Not for herself, but for Juan Padilla. “In a little shop near the Plaza de la Revolucion.” It was the farthest landmark she could think of from the Parque Vidal and Padilla’s shop.
“What is the name of this shop?”
Erin shrugged. “I don’t remember. I’m not even sure it had a name.”
He eyed her for a moment, unbelieving, and then picked up the PC. “What is this?”
Again, Erin had to resist the urge to snatch it from him. Though she knew the communication’s mode could be accessed only with her thumbprint, she didn’t like having the device in someone else’s hands. It was her only link to the backup team in Santa Rosa. “An electronic translator.” She reached across the table. “Here, let me show you.”
“Just tell me what it does.”
“Well,” Erin sat back reluctantly, “you key in a word, phrase, or sentence in English, and it translates it into Spanish for you.” She shrugged. “It’s an electronic version of an English-to-Spanish dictionary.”
He pressed the “on” button, then typed a word. Waited. Typed again. “Humph. Interesting. You Americans and your gadgets.” He shut it off and turned his attention back to her. “Why are you here, Señorita Baker?”
For a second she watched his hands, still holding her communication device. Then she met his gaze head on. “Because your men brought me here.” She tried to put some bravado in her voice, the last hurrah of a frightened but outraged foreigner.
“I mean,” he clarified, surprisingly patient, “why have you come to Cuba?”
“Oh.” She gave him a shaky smile, as if she hadn’t understood him the first time. “I’m a volunteer at a medical aid organization called Doctors For Life.” She settled into the chair, forcing herself to relax, crossing and uncrossing her legs as if unsure what to do with her own appendages. It wasn’t all for show. “It’s near Santa Rosa.”
He nodded. “I know of this place. What do you do there? Are you a doctor?”
“Oh no.” She laughed, a little nervously. “Well, not a medical doctor anyway. I do have a PhD, but I don’t suppose that matters. I’m teaching the village children English. I’m a substitute teacher really, the regular—”
He interrupted, obviously irritated with her rambling. “Why are you in Santa Clara?”
“I came with a group from the camp, from DFL, all volunteers.” This time she let a bit of impatience show in her voice. She couldn’t allow him to think she was too cowed. “We came to spend the day and see your city.” She glanced at her watch. “They were expecting me over two hours ago. Now I have no idea how I’m going to get back to Santa Rosa.”
“Where were you supposed to meet them?”
She hesitated, not wanting to lead him anywhere near Juan Padilla’s shop. But she couldn’t lie about information he could easily check, either. “At the Hotel Santa Clara Libre on Parque Vidal.”
“You are a long way from there.” He folded his hands on the desk in front of him. “Can you explain this?”
“Well, I was—”
He lifted her camera. “Taking pictures?”
“Yes.” She crossed her arms. “I like the colonial architecture.”
“It is forbidden to take pictures of official buildings.”
“Really?” She acted surprised. “Well, I didn’t know that. I just thought . . .” She glanced around at the ceiling. “This old garrison is fascinating. I just wanted my friends at home to see it.”
He kept his eyes on her, a suspicious and intelligent man. A dangerous combination. She wondered how much of her act he was buying. If any of it. Then he stood abruptly. “We will check your story. You must wait.”
“But I need to get back. They’ll be—”
He was out the door with her passport and his uniformed subordinate before she could finish her sentence.
“—worried.”
She sank into the chair once again.
The next two hours passed in slow motion. She was hungry and tired and way beyond guessing how long they were going to keep her. She figured they’d let her go eventually. If they’d planned to put her in jail, they would have done so already. That didn’t help with the tedium.
First she paced the small room, counting the steps from one end to the other. Fifteen. Then back again. She stretched and worked her cramped muscles, determined to be ready for anything. Once, she pounded on the door, demanding something to eat. It was as pointless as a child’s temper tantrum. No one on the other side of the solid chunk of wood even acknowledged her.
So by the time Captain Garcia returned, she was beyond acting like an angry American and ready to fight her way out of the room if necessary.
“How much longer are you going to keep me here?” she demanded. “For taking a few stupid pictures?”
Her anger rolled right off him. “We were able to confirm your story, Señorita Baker.”
“I’m happy for you,” she snapped. “Can I go now?”
“Certainly.” He handed over her passport. “One of my men will drive you back to Santa Rosa.”
“Thank you, but I’ll find my own way. I’ve had just about enough of your hospitality.” She grabbed her bag, very conscious that he’d never returned the Pocket PC, and hiked it over her shoulder. “I’ll rent a car, or call DFL. I’m sure they’ll send someone for me.”
“I’m afraid that would not be wise. A woman alone on the streets of Santa Clara is not safe after dark.” He motioned to the uniformed officer behind her. “Drive Señorita Baker to the DFL facility near Santa Rosa.”
“That’s not—”
“I insist.”
Something told her he wasn’t offering out of the goodness of his heart, but he wasn’t taking no for an answer, either.
Ten minutes later she was in the passenger seat of a four-wheel-drive Jeep. Evidently the embargo applied only to citizens who needed drugs or medical supplies, not to the officials in uniform who wanted to drive the newest in American cross-country vehicles.
She didn’t say anything as they headed out of the city, going south into the mountains. The driver didn’t seem inclined to speak, either. It was for the better, she decided. She hadn’t quite gotten over her anger at being held for over four hours, and she needed this time to settle down before getting back to the camp.
The drive took on an air of surrealism as the darkness deepened, and they began their climb into the Sierra del Escambray. The sliver of road seemed foreign and intimidating, the giant trees crowding in on both sides. Overhead, the moon had not yet risen, and a wash of stars painted the sky. Too far off to add any light and too foreign for a city dweller, they only added to the aura of otherworldliness.
It only got worse when they turned off the main highway onto a smaller road, heading for the mountain village of Santa Rosa. With the dense vegetation even closer now, the headlights swept the brush, illuminating small sections before returning it to the night.
Erin shivered, wondering when she’d grown such an aversion to darkness.
Suddenly the driver slammed on the brakes, bringing the Jeep to a screeching halt. In front of them, angled across the road, sat a rusted-out truck. Two men stood in front of it, arms crossed.
For a moment no one moved, or even seemed to breathe.
“What is this?” the driver said, evidently angry.
One of the men stepped forward, coming toward them, a hand raised in greeting. As he crossed the headlights, however, Erin tensed and reached for the door handle.
She knew his face: cruel and unyielding in the glare of harsh lights. He was the same man who’d shoved a gun to Armando’s head. The same one she’d seen earlier in Santa Clara.
“Something’s wrong,” she whispered to the driver in perfect Spanish. “Be careful.”
He glanced at her, surprised, the scent of fear replacing his earlier bravado. He made a grab for his weapon. Too late. A single shot blasted through the open window, ripping into flesh and bone, rocking him sideways in his seat.
Erin tasted blood, acrid and bitter, her own and his, as she flung herself out the door. Another blast sounded behind her, and she dove for the ground, the stench of death heavy and close in her nostrils. Regaining her feet, she saw the second man, hand reaching for his gun, coming toward her.
Too slow. Too damn cocky.
Anger, lethal and blinding, blurred her reason. She rushed him, relishing his startled expression. She kicked the gun from his hand with enough force to break his fingers, then swung around and planted a second strike to his face. His scream and the crunch of bone beneath her foot sent a thrill of satisfaction through her system.
Behind her, a roar. And it brought her back.
“You fucking bitch.” It came from the man who’d shot the driver. “I’m going to kill you.”
She sprinted for the woods, the darkness beyond suddenly a safe haven. Beckoning. But so far. Another howl of anger from behind her, and the spit of gunfire shredded the leaves of nearby bushes.
Faster. If she could reach the trees, she might make it.
Then, pain ripped through her side, shocking, debilitating. She stumbled. Fought for balance. She pressed a hand against the sudden burning. Then pulled it away, sticky with her own blood.