“I pictured something more elaborate. Nothing closer? With mausoleums, sepulchres, a lot of them, I was told.”

Marta glanced inside, where her daughters pretended to be asleep. “West of Havana, there is the magnificent Cementerio de ColÓn.”

Ford thought, Maybe Lázaro is right, while the woman continued. “Members of the elite can be buried there, but not people like us. Sabina thinks it more beautiful than photographs of Disney World.” A wistful smile faded while she thought it through. “Although . . . there was once a burial field near the river. Not far from here”—she nodded in the direction of the village—“unless you go by car. It was called the Pauper Cólera, but bulldozers came many years ago and covered it. Most of it. There are still some ruins of buildings. That was after Fidel and the Revolution but before I was born.”

“There was a cholera epidemic?”

“I suppose so. Or because it was a swampy area that flooded. Cholera, malaria, black bowel fever. In those days they were called pauper diseases because peasants were considered unclean. Some say the bodies were dumped and covered with cement. Others say they were burned. It was to protect our water supply, so no one argued, but you know how old people are. They still believe diseases come out of the ground there.”

Marta, the cigar in her hand, reconsidered the map, which consisted of stick drawings and cryptic abbreviations. “This is the public garbage dump, not a cemetery.”

“Is it close to the place you’re talking about?”

She noted his interest and looked beyond the river, northeast. “No. As I said, the Pauper Cólera is beyond those trees. Not far on foot, much longer by road. I’ve never been. Why would I?” She put the map aside. “Is it rude to ask what your friend is looking for? Perhaps I can help.”

“My source of information has mixed in lies with the truth. I think it has something to do with Imelda Casanova. I’m not certain yet. Or her grandson. Something he knows, or something he did.”

“You are speaking of Figueroa.”

“Yes.”

“There’s not much I can tell you.”

Ford took a stab. “Is he really her grandson?”

Marta fidgeted while her fingers graded the quality of the cigar, then placed it in the ashtray. Nervous, Ford decided, reluctant to discuss the secrets of a family that had once been powerful, then fell from grace—or so Vernum had claimed.

That wasn’t it. She turned to him. “Figuerito has the brain of a child, that’s true. But if he was guilty of murdering children, explain why the same murderer attacked us tonight? Other girls from the countryside have been attacked or just disappeared, poof”—she illustrated with her hands—“even though Figuerito was locked away. Now you tell me my daughters are safe, but the fear I’ve lived with for two years—more than two years—praying every night, worried all day that . . .” Marta cleared her throat, too emotional to put it into words because words provoked mental images. “To allow my babies to fall into the hands of that monster . . . I couldn’t. So I made a decision that broke my heart, to send them away. That’s why I’m asking you . . . why I must know if . . .”

Ford waited for her to finish, a little impatient—he had to get moving—but soon realized she was crying. He hesitated, then placed a hand on her arm. Just as he’d feared, she jumped as if startled but felt better when she leaned against him and sobbed. It didn’t last. A moment later, she pulled away, saying, “Don’t . . . I haven’t bathed. This is like a terrible dream. Please understand something: when I said I wanted you to sleep here tonight, I didn’t mean—”

“Of course you didn’t. In the girls’ room or the hammock, you made that clear.”

“I know, but before the words were out of my mouth I realized it sounded so cheap. A man like you, a man of character, would never . . .”

Never? Ford was easily undone by tears. He wanted to tell her that recent one-night stands within twenty-four hours with a stranger didn’t constitute a man of character. Instead, he spoke in soothing tones as he searched the porch, hoping to see a handkerchief or a towel. “Calm down . . . try to breathe . . . I’ll be back with something so you can blow your nose.”

She was still crying when he returned empty-handed. “Marta?” he said. Then more firmly: “Marta.”

It was a while before she could look at him. “Don’t you understand? I’m disgusted with myself. You gave us money for a hotel. Sabina begged and begged and I should have listened. But I swear, what you think happened tonight didn’t happen. It’s my daughters I’m worried about.”

Heartbreaking. Why did good women, no matter how smart, how solid, blame themselves for the cruelty of predators who viewed victims as faceless objects? Ford chose his words with care. “No matter what happened, you and the girls aren’t at fault. You are not at fault, Marta. So if you’re worried I think you’re somehow tarnished, trust me, that’s not why I have to go. Anyone who blames you is a damn idiot. Do you understand?” While she sniffed and nodded, he took her hands and helped her stand so they were facing. “Sabina will be okay. I can tell. What, Maribel?”

She didn’t speak until he tilted her chin with a finger. “That . . . person didn’t touch her. Well, he tied her hands and feet, but he wanted me first, I think. Then he heard Sabina and ran outside.”

The relief Ford felt didn’t rival the anger that had been building all evening.

“Marion”—she spoke his name for the first time, but in a whisper—“did you kill him? I hope you did. I wouldn’t tell anyone ever. If you killed him, then I’ll know we’re safe.”

Ford couldn’t risk the truth—Vernum Quick was bound, gagged, and cabled to a tree, still alive—so he pulled Marta into his arms and held her because what the hell else could he do but pretend to be kind and caring and worthy of this woman’s misplaced respect? “You’ll never see him again,” he said. “That’s all I can say. Do you believe me?”

Her head bobbed up and down against his chest.

“But you’re still afraid.”

Another nod but more emphatic.

“Okay . . . let me ask you something.” He was thinking of the little palm-sized 9mm Sig Sauer that was now in his briefcase. “Have you ever fired a pistol before?”

Vernum, trussed in the trunk of his own car, said to Ford, “Jefe . . . why don’t you talk? I hate it when you do this. That’s why, huh? Mind games. I’ve had training, man. My KGB handler, the one we want to kill, he does educational videos. That we want to neutralize, I mean. I’m more valuable than you think, Jefe. Give me a chance, you’ll see.”

Jefe, pronounced “HEF-fay.” Eager to please, the Santero was addressing him as “Chief” because he was scared shitless.

Ford didn’t bother with Super Glue and a tongue depressor. If he needed an answer fast, applying solvent took too much time. “I’m going to make two stops,” he said. “If you lied to me, I’ll set your car on fire and walk away. Think before answering. Vernum . . . is there anything you left out?”

Yes . . . several minor details that weren’t minor, but he had an excuse. “How many times have you shut off the blood to my brain, man? Jefe, please, if you don’t think that affects my . . .”