•   •   •

ON HIS WAY out of town, opposite the baseball stadium, was a mansion with boarded-up windows that was mossy with age and neglect. The last of the Casanovas lived there, a scary old shrew of a woman whose only grandchild was that mental midget Figuerito. She was a recluse, did nothing, yet lived alone in that huge place, which proved she had political connections. Vernum despised her for it. Staring at the house, he stopped and configured his fingers into devil’s horns, touched the bandage over his eye, then continued on his way.

Hopefully, it was true the fool was dead. One eyewitness down, one to go.

He sometimes saw Marta Esteban in the village but didn’t know exactly where she lived. Somewhere in the country. Twice he had to detour and ask directions. I hear she has some small problem, Vernum, the Santero, explained each time.

Unlike Oleg and a few other old fools, people in the countryside were believers. Women especially. This was how he learned that Marta had sent her daughters on a raft to America. It was a dangerous secret, an insult to the government. Such an act stigmatized family members who stayed behind, but it was safe to confess to a Santero dressed in white, even if his face was swollen with stitches.

“No wonder Marta has been in hiding,” a neighbor said. “She lives alone, you know. Her husband ran off, so it was just her and those girls. Maribel and Sabina . . . Sabina, even as a baby, she had a snake for a tongue. Even so, Marta must be out of her mind with worry.”

“Marta Esteban didn’t satisfy her husband?” Vernum asked. Peasant women enjoyed flirting with a Santero, but he didn’t overdo it. “Perhaps a love obeah, or a dab of salt oil, for this wife who can’t keep a man happy. What do you think?”

Giggle—these scrawny peasants always covered their mouths rather than show their bad teeth. From the pouch, he gifted the neighbor with a cowrie shell, eyes painted on it. “Eleguá,” he promised, “will bring steel to your bed tonight.”

More giggling, more talk, before he said, “I’m confused. In the village, I heard a rumor that the daughters returned this morning. Something about an Americano. Is this true?”

“My husband met the same drunken fisherman. He claimed he saw a fancy boat before sunrise and only Americanos can afford such things. But how can it be? Three, four days ago, perhaps more, those girls left forever. I think it is good that Marta has reached out to the saints for help. There are so many liars and gossips who care nothing for the pain of others.”

It was good for Vernum, too. Why would a mother send her daughters away unless she had reason to hide them? It was a large province with bad roads, and even a Santero couldn’t keep track of every peasant girl under the age of thirteen.

And if the daughters had returned? He would deal with it.

Marta’s house was on a hillside around a curve and beyond a wooden bridge that crossed a river. Almost fifteen kilometers by road from the village with a small school nearby, so no wonder he seldom saw the Esteban family in town. Marta, with her Indio eyes and body, had caught his attention almost two years before, but she’d been frosty, almost threatening, the way she referenced a husband in the military. No different a year later when Vernum followed the woman out of town but lost her on the moonless night. This was before he’d bought a car that was faster than a bicycle, so his hunger had sent him hunting near the school, where cane grew tall along the road. There was a playground there. Luck, or Changó, was with him, and three restless girls had appeared, out for a walk beneath the stars. One girl had escaped through the darkness. The others did not.

Maribel and Sabina, the neighbor had said. It had to be one of them.

Vernum, when he saw the Esteban shack from the road, thought, Got you.

•   •   •

HE HAD PLANNED to knock on the door and use his authority as a Santero to charm Marta when she answered.

Not now.

He took his time, scanned for nosey neighbors, then parked in a shady place that couldn’t be seen from the bridge. The river was dark and deep here, not wide, but walled with vegetation. Where the river turned seaward was a path, a few fishing boats tied up, but no one around on this hot morning, with dragonflies and mosquitoes. When he was opposite the shack, he climbed the embankment. Foliage provided cover until he was so close he could smell beans cooking, and see into a window with curtains that were actually feed sacks but neatly pressed.

He moved to get a better view. Marta kept the yard swept, too. There was a chicken coop with fat white hens; mangoes and sour orange trees; and clothes hanging in sunlight: towels, sheets, a woman’s panties . . . and two flowered dresses that only young girls could wear.

Vernum felt a slow pounding in his chest, and sat back, thinking, It’s true. Somehow, the daughters had been returned—as a good deed by an unknown American, according to Oleg, a CIA agent possibly, but Oleg was an old fool whose brain still lived in the time of the Fidelistas.

How the girls had been returned didn’t matter. Nor did it matter which daughter had escaped the cane field. With Figuerito dead, killing the girls—Marta, too, if he was lucky—would feed his hunger for a month or more, and also eliminate the last living witness.

Vernum circled the shack. Marta’s bicycle was under the rain cistern, but no sounds or signs of movement inside. Those beans smelled good, though, and peasants couldn’t afford to waste a meal. If they weren’t here, they would return soon to eat.

He kept moving while his mind worked. Did the house have a telephone? No . . . there was no phone line, only electric, which, in this region, seldom worked.

The windows beckoned. Even as a teen he’d liked to watch females who didn’t know they were being watched. But was a few minutes of pleasure worth the risk? No . . . it was wiser to come back tonight. After five minutes, though, he lost patience and moved to get a better angle, dodged his way through a jungle of banana leaves, then froze before exiting into the yard.

A girl was there, stood with her back to him, busy feeding a chicken or some kind of animal in a cage. She was tall, shapeless, had ribbons in her hair, and wore coveralls and cheap tennis shoes, which was typical of girls nearing thirteen. And too focused on the cage to hear the bushes rustling, so Vernum crouched and watched, thinking, Thirteen . . . the age is about right.

It wasn’t a chicken, it was a rabbit she was feeding, and humming a song, too, a gringo tune. Clipped to the bib of her coveralls was a tube of bug spray, or something similar, that also suggested contact with an American. So maybe Oleg wasn’t such a fool after all. When Vernum had the girl to himself, she would tell him fast enough, and that would be very soon.

First, though, where were the mother and the other daughter? Better to wait rather than ruin what, so far, had been an afternoon gifted by Changó.

Or was it?

Vernum’s good sense battled the fever building inside his head and argued both sides.

They’re in the house, fool. Grab the girl while you can.

No . . . sweeter tonight when the three are alone. No witnesses left. You can take your time, man, and do it all.

As the battle raged, the door of the shack opened and Marta appeared, calling, “Come eat or I will throw it away!”

The girl replied, “Yes, Mama,” and ran like a deer across the yard and disappeared inside.

“Dumbass.” Vernum retreated, muttering to himself. “Damn Russian is right—I’m a pizda, a weakling pussy, to miss such a chance.”

He stumbled through the banana patch so mad he thought he was hearing things when a child’s voice ordered, “Stop your swearing or you’ll burn in hell. Who are you?”