On the way to the house, the girl looked up. “What did you do to him? The zombie man, he would have murdered Mama and Maribel, then you came. He would have killed me, too, but I fought like hell. Did you see me kick him? I did. Kicked him and tried to bite him.”

“A zombie?” Ford replied. It took a second to connect that with the stitches in the Cuban’s face. He asked Marta, “What’s she talking about?”

“You know who I mean,” the girl said, then began to second-guess herself as she looked him up and down. “What happened to the thing on your”—she touched her forehead—“and the holster you wore here?” Sabina’s hand moved to her side. Puzzled over that, then turned to her mother. “I swear it was true. I told the truth about what happened. A man, a giant with a green eye, he came out of the trees, but maybe it wasn’t—”

“Stop pestering our guest,” Marta interrupted and focused on Ford while she waved the girl into the house. “Your name is Marion? I’m glad you’re here, but I’m so upset, it’s hard to think. Something happened tonight.”

“Serious?”

“Do you have a car? You’ve already done so much for us, I hate to ask, but, if you have a car, I think it’s dangerous here. We’d like to leave.”

Ford, who had the keys to Vernum’s old Lada, replied, “That can be arranged. Why don’t you tell me about it.”

•   •   •

HE DIDN’T SMOKE, but sat at a table with coffee and a cigar he had accepted because the woman was so eager to please. Unlit, it wasn’t bad. Tasted of moist leaves with a leather tang. He bit the tip off but refused politely when she lit a match and extended her arm—pretty, her face, the way her hair glistened behind the flame. She blew the match out and turned for an ashtray. A contrail of smoke framed her profile: Aztec nose, chin, and elevated cheeks; an estuary for her eyes, which were volcanic brown, isolated, and private unless she granted contact.

Marta granted eye contact now. She stood, the table and kerosene lamp separating them. “Coffee keeps some men awake. Are you sure?”

Ford handed her the cup. “A little sugar, if you have it.” It would be hours before he’d have a chance to sleep.

“There’s bread I baked yesterday, maybe a bit of honey, I’ll look. I wish I had more to offer.” The lamp, which provided backlight when she walked to the kitchen, verified that Marta Esteban had a great deal more to offer: a sturdy body, lean-waisted, with breasts that moved beneath the robe.

Mr. Esteban, Ford decided, wherever he was, had either died happy or was a fool.

She made herself busy in the kitchen. “I used to work at the cigar factory in Plobacho. I was a girl. They started me with cheroots—sort of like cigarettes. By the time I was fifteen, they trusted me to do Cohibas—only the best leaves, the best fillers, and each layer had to be cut and wrapped perfectly. Very, very tight.” Marta did sort of a rolling, chopping ceremony with her hands. “I’m sorry you don’t like the cigar.”

“You made this?”

“No, but I could.” For the first time, she smiled. The haunted eyes softened. “You don’t smoke? If you like something milder, I could make that, too. Whatever you wanted.”

Ford nodded his thanks. “Tell me about the cigar factory.”

“They had a man read to us—twenty women in a room on benches with a fan but no radio. He would read for an hour, take a ten-minute break, then come back and read some more. There was a microphone at the front of the room on a tall desk that wasn’t really a desk. He read José Martí and Ernest Hemingway, anything that was approved by . . . well, I don’t know who approves these things. That’s how I fell in love with books.”

They had been discussing Sabina. She and Maribel were pretending to be asleep in the big bed in the next room, door closed, which is why the adults kept their voices down and, so far, the subject matter light. Earlier, when Marta had started to describe the attack, it was out of fear for Vernum Quick—yes, she’d recognized him—and a sense of urgency, so Ford had taken her aside and said, “He’s not coming back.”

The woman had almost broken down when she heard that but battled through to spare her daughters. She had yet to ask the obvious question.

Later, on the porch, with the lamp turned low, she did. “Sabina was right, wasn’t she? She saw you do something to that . . . I won’t say his name. Then you both disappeared.”

“I don’t know what she saw, and I’ve learned not to argue with her. On the raft, when I found your daughters, she not only threatened to swim to Cuba, she actually tried. That girl’s a fire-breather, Mrs. Esteban.”

“Marta,” she corrected. “I shouldn’t have asked, it was rude. You must be tired. I didn’t see car lights. Did you come by boat?”

Ford confirmed that with a look.

“The girls said fantastic things about your boat. How fast it is, with lights that blink like a spaceship. Funny . . . I believed very little of what they told me about you. But tonight, I would believe anything.” She reached for the lamp and inspected his face as a nurse might. “You’re tired . . . or worried. I’d like you to sleep here . . . in the girls’ room, of course. Or there’s a hammock—”

“I have to meet someone,” Ford said. “But I need to ask a few things before I go.”

“Questions about the—”

“No, not about that. About the village, things only a local would know.” Ford turned east toward Plobacho, not far as the crow flies, but so small there were no lights above a tree line dominated by stars. “You grew up here?”

“My grandparents, too, but I don’t understand. You told me we’re safe and I want to believe you, but the girls will be afraid. It’s so dark out there on the water, and you could rest and have a good breakfast. Are you in trouble?”

“A friend of mine might be. That’s who I have to meet.”

Marta broke eye contact. She placed the lamp on the railing near the ashtray and picked up the cigar because that’s what her fingers had been trained to do. “I had no right to ask that. What would you like to know?”

“My friend, he’s looking for . . . well, looking for something and I want to be there when he finds it. I’ll explain when we have more time. I have the location narrowed down, but I don’t know the area. Here, have a look.” He opened his bag and handed her a page from his notebook—a map he’d sketched while interrogating Vernum.

“It’s soaking wet,” she said.

“I slipped coming up the riverbank. Didn’t the girls mention I’m clumsy? I’m not much of an artist either.” The smile in his tone was intentional. He scooted his chair close enough to touch the map. “Here’s the village square. And this is an old baseball stadium, I was told. And the X—I circled it. Do you know the house?”

“A large green house with . . . I don’t know the word . . . towers on each side . . . or gables?”

“Maybe.”

“If it’s the same, a wealthy man built it years ago. Very, very rich, before the Revolution, and his only daughter still lives there. Hector Casanova was the man’s name. His daughter is old now. Imelda Casanova. La Viuda—the Dowager—is what she’s called. She’s a recluse. My grandmother was a maid in her house, but only for a few years.”

This was an unexpected bit of luck. Ford had questions about the Dowager but wanted to orient himself first. Marta had watched games at the baseball stadium but didn’t know much about the place. She confirmed the location of a few other landmarks but was puzzled when he asked, “Why does a village as small as Plobacho have such a large cemetery?”

“What do you mean? The nearest cemetery is twenty kilometers from here in Artemisa. Or, if the family has a little money, they choose the Cementerio de Caimito. These are simple places, not large.”

Vernum had been caught in his first lie—or the shortstop Figueroa Casanova had lied to Vernum.