MUELLER SAT beside Liz in the rear of the Land Rover. The backseat had been lowered flat to accommodate the wood crate, and Mueller and Liz sat on it, making it as comfortable as they could. The Land Rover bounced on the rough road and Mueller found Liz thrown into his lap when the vehicle swerved to avoid a rut.
Mueller saw Graham hunched forward on the steering wheel, eyes trying to make out the perils. Headlights tunneled the darkness and narrowed their world to the arc of the headlamps.
He found himself wanting to tell Graham to slow down, but each time the Land Rover swerved and the impulse to caution Graham rose in him, the Land Rover slowed, and Mueller thought it unnecessary to speak. Mueller didn’t want to challenge Graham. There was an ominous mood in the car that stilled them, quieted them. A declaration had been made. A line crossed. It weighed heavily. No one spoke. Mueller succumbed to fatigue. He didn’t have the will, or desire, to ask Graham to be cautious. Mueller felt Liz beside him and he tried to imagine her devastation.
• • •
Mueller was asleep when the accident happened. He got the details of the death later from Katie, who had been awake at the moment the Land Rover took the sharp curve by the river and struck the woman.
Graham had been going fast when he entered the curve. Headlights illuminated the road, but beyond the light it was hard to discern the shapes that appeared and receded with hypnotic rhythm. Coming through the sharp turn the road divided. One fork led to the airport and the other went over the bridge, and it was there that the woman leapt from the culvert. She put herself in the path of the Land Rover, Katie said. She had waved her arm and run into the road like a ghost, her face paled by the bright headlights. She seemed to want the car to stop. “She waved her arms at us. Waved and waved.” But Katie admitted this conclusion only came to her afterward. In the moment her appearance on the road was unexpected, sudden, frightening, and her first thought was of rebels.
“I felt the brakes lock. There was a skid and then I heard a terrible cry that was cut short when we struck her. It was a horrible scream,” Katie said. “A terrible cry.”
• • •
Mueller stood over the body. The young woman lay by the roadside culvert where she’d been thrown. One leg was twisted under her back, her arms were flung to either side, frozen in death. Her face was ashen, eyes wide and unfocused, and there was a scarlet stream on her neck flowing from a wet spot in her dark hair. Her head scarf was bloodied. Her broken parasol lay at her side.
Mueller recognized her, but it took a moment for him to remember her name—and not think of her, as he always had, as Jack’s girl. That shorthand didn’t adequately describe the young woman. It felt wrong to see her whole being through the narrow lens of her scandalous association.
“Ofelia,” he said. “That’s her name.”
“I will come back for her,” Graham said. “I’ll drop everyone at the house and I’ll return for her.”
No one objected to his suggestion. He made it confidently and the paralysis of shock made it easy to acquiesce in his decision.
Later, when they were at Hacienda Madrigal, Mueller wondered about the suggestion. Mueller had accompanied Liz and Katie inside, and when he was confident they were settled, he returned to the driveway. The Land Rover pulled up, Graham at the wheel, and Mueller knew he’d driven back to the scene of the accident, as he said he would.
Mueller opened the rear door to retrieve Liz’s shawl, and it was then that he saw the wood crate was gone. Mueller stared at Graham, trying not to judge the man—for certainly the death was an accident—but Graham had had the presence of mind and calculating intelligence to hide the thing that would compromise him.
The two men faced each other. Graham brushed dust from his dirtied hands and wiped clotted mud from his boot. When he spoke his voice had no distress, no regret, no hint of the evening’s catastrophe. He had the calm bearing of a man accustomed to turning unexpected jeopardy to a manageable outcome.
“There was a suitcase roadside. She’d packed her things for a long trip.” He paused. “She came out of nowhere. There was no way to stop.”
“Where is she?”
“I told the police there was a body by the side of the road. Hit-and-run. Filed a report. They wanted the details. No, I didn’t say it was us. I didn’t want to get Jack in trouble. He doesn’t need to answer questions about this. It was an accident. She’s dead. We don’t need to complicate things.” His irritation showed.
One hour later, Mueller sat on the verandah after the household settled for the evening. When Jack arrived he was given the news, but no one gave him the name—he seemed to guess. Everyone left unsaid most of what they knew, and they went about their evening in stunned, shocked quiet.
Mueller pondered the easy way Graham sloughed responsibility for the accident and dressed himself in the suit of a righteous protector. Graham’s odd summary and misleading comments were the product of a mind schooled by years of self-preservation. How’s Liz taking it? Graham had asked. Mueller remembered the question because it seemed to come from a genuine place. Mueller thought about the question as he sat on the verandah, and he began to make connections. He came to understand Graham a little better. He came to see how Toby Graham carried the terrible burden of a man at war with himself.
Shortly before midnight Mueller rose and made his way inside, but passing the living room he saw a light on and he entered thinking that Graham was up. He saw no one at first. Sleeplessness and stress distorted and magnified the room. The marble fireplace had a cold monumental whiteness and the grand piano’s gleaming black surface mirrored the chandelier. Tall windows were obsidian columns looking out to the night. His most vivid memory of the room was looking about and not seeing Graham at the fireplace—so still he was invisible.
Thinking he was alone, Mueller moved to the window and in the distance he saw the headlights of a far-off vehicle headed to the hacienda. He gazed at the speeding vehicle illuminated by moonlight, which laid a false peace on the landscape. It was long past curfew.
“Police, I suspect.”
Startled, Mueller turned around. He saw Graham had pulled away from the wall like a painting come to life.
“You suspect?”
“They’ll probably want to talk with me.”
“You gave a report.”
Graham grunted. “A clerk. They might have more questions. I suspect they will.” Graham raised an eyebrow. “There’s too much to risk. I have to leave.”
Mueller stepped up to Graham, jaw set, eyes narrow. The two men stood close. Mueller embraced Graham, startling him, but then Graham too raised his arms and the two men felt the bond of their long, troubled acquaintance. Two old schoolmates found in the affectionate moment a measure of calm. They held each other, but were separated by a peril. Silence clamored. Graham pulled away.
“Stay in my hotel room. They won’t look there.”
Graham almost laughed. “They’ll look there, of course. And I suppose I shouldn’t be suspicious that you would suggest an unsafe place thinking it would be safe. Best you not know what’s next. I only need one thing from you, George. One small favor. When I’m ready to go I need you to bring Liz to me. Will you do that?”
A chastened Mueller looked at Graham. “Of course.”
“I will be gone for a few days.”
Mueller didn’t believe that Graham would leave Cuba for good on his own. Graham’s eyes were fiery, the eyes of an idealist. He wouldn’t give up. He might leave, but he’d be back. The front door of life had burst open and Graham’s fortune had blown in. Mueller stood on the hacienda’s porch and watched Graham disappear into the night, ahead of the approaching vehicle. His jeep stirred dust as it sped off and the moving cloud stained the empty plain. Everything began to end that night.