“Rides good for a station wagon, don’t it, brother?” Figgy had to yell over the roar of a broken muffler and six squabbling chickens caged in back. Already the car was doing fifty and they weren’t on the paved road yet.

“Gad . . . how many joints does it take to numb that metabolism of yours? Olena warned us about shifting to third. You didn’t hear?”

“No problem. That’s why I’m still in second. See?”

Tomlinson didn’t look. He kept his hands on the dash, eyes front, because what he saw was a car with its lights off, partially screened by trees. Too late he yelled, “Speed trap, slow down.”

No . . . it was the Mercedes.

Figgy, watching the rearview mirror, told him, “Grab my machete from under the seat,” and then he did it: shifted into third gear.

The Mercedes held back but at any time could pass with guns blazing or ram them off the road.

The girl, Sabina, tried to scream when she saw Vernum step out from the shadows of the tree but only made a chirping noise, she was so scared. Then fumbled the mace canister, dropped the candle, too, which had gone out, and began bawling. Just stood there, a tiny, trembling creature wearing pink-and-white pajamas, and waited for Vernum to take her.

A demon doesn’t live inside this brat, he realized. She’ll wet her pants and go limp, just like all the others.

After that, well . . . pure pleasure, the euphoria of total control.

When he grabbed the girl, though, she fought back. Somehow found the candle and speared him in the face—hot wax that burned like hell—then bolted downhill into the woods.

This little chica could run. But he was quick, Vernum Quick, and he caught her from behind. She tripped; he stumbled but was still on his feet, until he went over a ledge that wasn’t high but angled sharply toward the river. A thicket of bayonet plants grew on the rocks below, each blade an elongated thorn. They stopped his fall, but his hands and legs were bleeding by the time he got back to the top of the hill.

The girl was gone.

He swore at himself—pendejo—then ran toward the house. He checked the yard, listened for voices and slamming doors. Nothing. No lights on inside, no cries of concern from Marta. He searched the banana grove, circled the property, then returned to where he’d last seen the devil brat. “I know you can hear me,” he said, but not loudly. “I won’t hurt you . . . but I’ll by god hurt your mother and sister if you don’t come out.”

He zigzagged through the woods, repeating that warning. Behind him, bushes rustled. He reversed course and soon heard a mewing sound from somewhere near the ledge, but it stopped the instant he stopped. An animal, perhaps . . . or a whimpering child. He said it again, louder: “I’ll torture your mother. Where are you?”

Vernum didn’t have a flashlight, but he had dry matches from the car. At the top of the ledge, he lit a match. “Would you rather hear what I do to her? Or your sister scream? What a sick little brat you are not to care.” He waited until the match went out. He lit another, then another, and flicked each dying flame toward the bayonet plants. Finally, he’d had enough. “Selfish little puta, God will punish you for this.” He threw the matchbook. “I’m warning you: I’ll kill you if you ever tell a soul.”

Near the tamarind tree, Vernum found the girl’s machete; picked it up, liked the feel, and decided to use it instead of the knife. On the porch, he tested the door. Unlocked. He opened it just enough to get a whiff of perfumed soap and kerosene, and to confirm all was quiet inside. That silence, the silence of sleeping females, registered in his belly. In his brain, the demon sniffed for warmth.

Vernum turned, looked into the darkness of trees, stars, lightning bugs. The little brat was still out there somewhere. Probably on the road or the path along the river, running to a neighbor for help. Vernum considered his options and weighed the risks. Within a kilometer were fishermen who lived in shacks and fools who cut sugarcane because they weren’t smart enough to do anything else.

Peasants, nobodies, the demon in his brain promised. Do it now. Feed while we can.

But what if the fishermen had a radio? Or even a car? Vernum cupped his ears, strained to filter a distant silence from the buzz of insects and frogs. Beyond the trees were cattle; a heron squawked . . . and something he hoped not to hear: an engine—motorcycles, possibly—on the road that followed the river to the sea. High-pitched, powerful twin engines, Hondas or Yamahas that were too expensive for Cubans to own. And driving too fast on a single lane of sand that curved with every bend of the river.

A pair of drunken tourists, the demon insisted. What are you waiting for?

The hunger in Vernum was taking control. He knew it, recognized the throbbing pressure behind his eyes, so he had to think clearly while he could. He pictured the motorcycles stopping for the girl. Pictured the riders using a cell phone to call police. He pictured . . .

Who cares! The word of a child against a respected Santero? Besides . . . there are no motorcycles, you idiot. Do those damn bugs really sound like motorcycles to you?

Could he have imagined it?

Yes . . . maybe. The powerful engines—if he’d actually heard an engine—were suddenly gone, displaced by screaming insects.

With his thumb, Vernum tested the machete’s edge. Sharp. But what about the devil brat? Should he hide and hope she came sneaking back? Or go ahead, rush what awaited him in the bedroom, before neighbors could alert police?

He cracked the door again and sniffed: two females inside, breathing, fragile, alone. Their scent severed a last cognitive thread.

The demon moved from Vernum’s head into his eyes.

•   •   •

BENEATH THE LEDGE where the zombie man had stood was a hole that opened into a space with a straw mat and a floor neatly swept. It was cramped, but Sabina thought of it as a cave, or sometimes a burrow when she brought rabbits along for tea. She hadn’t done that in months, though. Tea parties were for children, not a girl who would soon be eleven. Also, it had been upsetting to kill and clean her furry guests when her mother wanted fried conejo for dinner or rabbit fricassee. Some Sunday mornings—the traditional time for butchering—this was where she came after washing off blood, a secret escape where she could rage against life’s unfairness and cry her misery dry.

Sabina was crying now but used her hands to silence her mouth while the zombie rained sparks down from the sky. After that, no doubt he was a devil, not human. Then a final warning before he left: God will punish you for this . . . I’ll kill you if you ever tell a soul.

Chastened by the truth, Sabina’s mind had censored the devil’s profanities. It was true. She was selfish, she knew it. Only a terrible person would refuse to save her own mother . . . or, at least, run home and call out a warning. Trouble was, fear had done something to her legs and she was dizzy from hyperventilating. What if the zombie man hadn’t left? He would grab her, then attack Maribel and her mother anyway.

I hate you, I hate you, I hate that damn devil . . .