Vernum’s wrists were raw, hands shackled behind him. He rolled to his side and felt around for the satellite phone. Blindly, he thumbed letters on the keypad, then rolled away, looked at the glowing screen, and memorized the control buttons. He wiggled until he felt the phone under his back and pressed Send.

Zoom. A second message of gibberish to the Russian, but it would confirm his location and, hopefully, communicate the shitty situation he was in.

Vernum lay still and listened. Risking those few seconds to grab the phone while the American was wedged in the chimney had been the smartest thing he’d done after a long day of stupid mistakes. Make another mistake, he knew, the gringo would kill him with the indifference of stepping on a bug or snuffing out a candle.

Something is missing inside that man, he thought—and not for the first time. Kostikov at least takes pleasure in his work. The American is Desamorado.

Desamorado—“coldhearted”—Vernum capitalized the word when he thought of the man.

For ten minutes, perhaps longer, the American had been conducting a methodical search. That’s what Vernum’s ears told him. The man moved quietly through the bushes, stopped often and abruptly as if to trick him into running a few more yards. Then he would arc away as if following a grid. That’s when Vernum would put more distance between them, but slowly, choosing every careful step. At first, of course, he had run like hell toward the tree line that marked the river. Now, though, he was circling back toward the chimney and the dirt road three hundred meters beyond it. His old car, the Lada, was there. Vernum didn’t have the keys—they hadn’t been with the gringo’s wallet or the phone—but it wouldn’t matter when the Russian finally appeared in his Mercedes.

Kostikov.

A frightening thought popped into his mind. What if that Russian replied to his text? The phone’s chimes would give away his position.

Changó, damn you.

He flopped onto his stomach and pecked at the power switch with his nose, then tried with his chin. No good. So he wiggled the phone beneath his belly and forced his weight down to muffle it like a hen incubating eggs. As he waited, he listened for footsteps.

Not a sound. Nor did the Russian reply.

After another minute, he was on his feet and struggling to secure the phone in his pocket, but he dropped it. Rather than get to his knees, he squatted to retrieve the thing but lost his balance and fell back on his butt. Only then, seeing the handcuffs so near his ankles, did he realize what was obvious to anyone not scared out of their wits. He lifted his knees to his chin, threaded his feet through his arms, and brought his hands up in front of him. Free—almost. It was easy now to get to his feet and pocket the phone.

Vernum decided to run while he could. He stayed in the trees by the river for fifty meters, then angled out along an old fence where bushes grew tall. To his left, the chimney spired skyward. Ahead were more trees, then the road. Vernum sprinted across an open space into trees, where he stopped in the shadows. No movement behind him, just frogs screaming from the river. No roar of a Mercedes either, but that was understandable. It would happen soon enough. For the first time, he felt confidence returning. All that stood between him and freedom were two hundred meters of open ground and that goddamn American killer—Desamorado.

A text to Kostikov would solve the problem.

As he took out the phone, Vernum’s eyes strayed. On the ground not far away he noticed what might have been the rim of a barrel . . . or, possibly, a coil of wire. To his left, near the ruins of the building, a flicker of movement drew his attention. He hunkered low and watched. For an instant—only an instant—he saw, or imagined he saw, a willowy figure draped in white . . . or a pool of mist about the size of a young girl. Then it was gone.

Jesus Christ. Vernum, staring, reached for his necklace and whispered a welcome message to the dead as required of a Santero: “Bienvenido espíritu santo . . .”

For long seconds, he crouched there, the phone in his hand, yet he saw nothing more. Thank the gods. No matter what his brain told him about Santería, in his heart he believed. This place terrified him. Only the demon that lived in his head was comfortable here and that demon was undependable—unless hungry.

The phone. Vernum braced it against his thigh and typed: Come with gun. Handcuffed by U.S. agent but have escaped. Will wait for you . . .

Nearby, a twig snapped. Before he could turn, a deep voice asked, “Why did you do what you did to those girls, Vernum? What was going through your head at the time?” The words seemed to flow down from trees that created an awning above, only a few stars visible when he peered up, then spun around. Nothing there.

“Jefe . . . where are you? Man, I never said I did it. Just because I happen to know where some crazy peasant hid their bodies? That don’t mean nothing.”

Silence. He did a slow pan, expecting to see one glowing eye but didn’t. “Jefe . . . they were just stupid chicas. What do you care?”

A shadow moved, bushes rustled with a sudden breeze. He strained to isolate details, but all he could hear was his heart pounding and the screaming frogs.

The voice said, “You turned on your phone, I see. When does your buddy Kostikov arrive?”

“He’s not,” Vernum insisted, “but that’s exactly what I was doing. Really. We’re going to kill him, right? I think he suspects something because he didn’t answer me.” Vernum’s chuckle resembled a sob. “But don’t worry. I know where he stays in Havana. Plus, that other thing I told you about—the cemetery. I bet he’s there right now with that crazy fool Figuerito—”

“Drop the phone,” the voice said, “or I’ll shoot you where you stand.”

Click-click. Distinctive—the hammer of a pistol.

Vernum let the phone fall from his hand—but, first, he hit Send. Risky. Blood thumping in his ears made it difficult to speak. “There. See? I’m cooperating. Jefe, I thought the goddamn chimney was gonna fall. It scared me, you know? That’s why I—”

“Shut up and put your hands behind your head. Do it. Now face the river.”

“What?”

“Return to something familiar, or maybe there’s a key hidden in your car. Either way, I knew. Behavioral patterns are predictable. It’s what people like you do to imitate sanity.”

Vernum was thinking: Run, he can’t catch me and he knows it. That’s why he won’t show himself.

“The river, Vernum. Turn around. Or tell the truth about Kostikov. Do you want to go for another boat ride?”

Slowly, Vernum contorted his hands behind his neck and pivoted toward the tree line, brick ruins and the chimney on his right. Where was that goddamn Russian? He had to do something to stall for time. “You’re right,” he said. “There were more than five. Girls. I already explained why.”

“Don’t give me that bullshit about purification. I saw what you did to them.”

“Huh? That wasn’t me. If what you found, if certain bones were missing, what do you expect out here?” With his head, Vernum motioned to the vastness of the sky but was also deciding which way to run. “There are starving dogs. Rats, man, you saw all those rats. Don’t blame me for—”

Distant gunshots stopped him—ker-WHACK . . . ker-WHACK—two, the reports sharper, heavier, than a car backfiring, but still far enough away to echo through the valley.

“What the hell?” The gringo sounded confused at first, but then put it together. “You son of a bitch. That came from the direction of Marta’s house.”

Vernum was just as confused. Why had Kostikov, still kilometers away, fired a gun to acknowledge his text? Then he put it together. “Whoa! You’ve got this wrong, man. I never mentioned Marta Esteban—”