The second night was calm and quiet. The waters of the lake hushed against the smooth stones of the beach; the jungle was full of the far-off cry of birds and the deep chatter of insects. The Iwo made a few small clicking sounds that Colonel Saba did not care to translate. Wilson tried to keep his mind off the coming ordeal, but this was impossible. How would they do it? He thought he would never sleep again; then he closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, it was almost noon and Cricket stood in the hot sun just beyond the bars of the cage.
“Wake up, Wilson,” she said in a hard voice.
Wilson stirred. When he saw it was Cricket, he tried to stand and clunked his head against the low roof. He hobbled over to the bars, rubbing his scalp, and squinted out into the brightness. He could not see her eyes, which were hidden behind Jackie O—type sunglasses with big black lenses, but her mouth was set and her gun hand rested on the butt of her dead father’s 9 mm Beretta, stuck in her belt.
“I’m leaving in an hour,” she said. “Taking the Dread back to Quatre Sables.”
“What about me?” Wilson said, half serious.
She ignored him. “The operation here’s been a bust. It’ll take a whole year to round up those Iwos you set free, you fuck.”
“Good,” Wilson said, then he didn’t know what to say. There followed an awkward beat in which he saw a black-winged shrike flap into the green fringe of jungle. Was it the same one that had followed them up the Mwtutsi in augury of troubles to come?
“Anything else?” he said at last.
“Yeah,” Cricket said, and her lip trembled. “We buried Dad last night.”
“I’m sorry,” Wilson said. “He was your father. But he was also a murderous asshole, and he was going to shoot me.”
“You needed shooting after what you did,” Cricket said. “I’m sorry I won’t be around to see them finish you off.”
“So that’s it,” Wilson said, struggling to keep the panic out of his voice. “You’re not going to help me get out of here.”
“I couldn’t do anything for you if I tried,” Cricket said. “You violated a sacred taboo in this part of the world. You cut into their profit margin. And you tried to kill Major Mpongu. That man’s a big shit around here. I don’t have to say I hope you suffer. You will. If they do it right, you can live up to three days without skin. I’ve seen it happen, these people are artists. You’re not really human anymore, just a quivering pink mass hanging on a pole.”
“I guess you don’t love me after all,” Wilson said.
“You’re a bastard,” Cricket said between her teeth.
“I won you from the Portugee, Cricket. Remember? You needed a good gambler, and you risked my neck because of it. So I’m holding a bad hand right now. Aces and eights, you know? Dead Man’s Hand. So you’re my wife, we belong to each other now. I need some help here.”
“I don’t belong to anyone but myself,” she said, her voice dull, without expression. “It’s been like that from the beginning. There’s just myself. The rest of the world is full of stupid assholes.”
“This the sort of thing that happened to old Webster?”
“Fuck you,” Cricket said. Then she bit her lip and looked away, and Wilson caught a glimpse of her eyes behind the dark glasses and saw the tears on her cheeks.
“I thought we were going to make it work,” Cricket said, her bottom lip trembling. “I really did. I know you don’t believe me, but I really haven’t felt as strongly for anyone in my life as I have for you. I guess I’ve got to stop holding on. I’ve got to get through my head that it’s not going to work out for us. We’re just too different—”
“This is ridiculous,” Wilson said, and he gripped the wooden bars so hard he felt a splinter go into his hand. “We’re not breaking up over a cup of espresso at Bazzano’s. These bastards are going to skin me alive. You’ve got to get me out of here.”
Cricket hesitated and looked down. “Impossible,” she said. “I tried.”
“You did?” Wilson said. Despite himself, his heart made a flip-flop.
“Oh, Wilson …” Cricket came close and pushed her sunglasses up into her hair and put her hands over his on the bars. Her eyes were a wet, fathomless blue-green this morning, like the color of Lake Tsuwanga in the long hours of dusk. A single blue-green tear fell across his scraped knuckles. “Why couldn’t you wait? In two years, in three years, we could have had enough money to live in Paris in high style for the rest of our lives.”
“I couldn’t wait,” Wilson said. “I couldn’t swallow the death you wanted to feed me. I couldn’t build my happiness on the proceeds of piracy, on the labor of slaves, on a mound of dead bodies!”
Cricket sighed and stepped back. She brought her sunglasses down over her eyes, and her mouth hardened. Wilson saw his battered face reflected in the black lenses.
“You’re an idiot,” she said. “An asshole like all the other assholes. I shouldn’t have come.”
“Why did you come?” Wilson said. Squinting out at her, he had the sensation that she was already far away, that he was looking at her through the wrong end of a telescope.
“I shouldn’t have come,” Cricket repeated, and began to back away.
“Will I be seeing you again?” Wilson said, desperate.
“No,” Cricket said.
“Will you miss me?” Wilson said, but Cricket did not answer. She spun around on her heels and headed off into the stark and unforgiving brightness of noon.