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  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “Just needed some fresh towels,” Trufante answered and opened the door.

  “Don’t!” It was too late. Trufante turned, his arms filled with fresh towels. Mac thought for a second before jumping out of bed and pulling his pants on. “Hurry up. We’ve got to move.”

  “What up? They got good service, might as well take advantage of it,” Trufante said and headed to the shower. “You used all the other ones. Got some umbrella drinks on the way too.”

  “The ship’s security might be rent-a cops, but they’re smart enough to know there’s only one way off the boat, and we are still here. By now they are sure to have checked the roster of the cruisers who went ashore,” he said. Mac reached down and picked up Trufante’s clothes, tossed them to him, and finished dressing. “Hurry up. They could be here any second.”

  Mac waited with his ear to the door, listening for any sound in the hall while Trufante dressed. When the Cajun was ready, he turned the handle, eased the door open and peered into the corridor. Two uniformed men with radios lingered by the elevator. He closed the door and went to the desk where the brochure lay open, checked the deck plans confirming that deck four, where they had come aboard, was the only labelled exit point. He looked towards the window. There was no egress from the porthole, but he could see the open decks of the lifeboats below.

  “Get on the phone and call something in on deck nine,” he said and went back to the brochure. Trufante picked up the phone and cleared his throat. Mac gave him a hard look that said, don’t screw this up, and went back to the brochure. He needed to find another way off the boat besides the excursion access. There was an unmarked opening on deck two that he guessed was for the baggage. Trufante was on the phone, playing the enraged tourist, yelling that someone was trying to break into his room. Mac went back to the door, cracked it open and watched the hallway, signaling Trufante to his side. Even though he was ready for it, the sound of the walkie-talkie startled him. One of the men put the radio to his ear and responded, then said something to the other and they headed towards them.

  Mac’s heart beat fast as he closed the door and waited. Of all the bad spots he had been in, being cornered was not a good place for him. A few seconds later, he re-opened the door, relieved the ruse had worked.

  “We gotta go,” he whispered and stepped into the hallway. Trufante followed and they walked past the elevator towards the sweeping stairway. The boat was crowded, the tourists returning from their shore activities, and he bumped into a crowd carrying bags with the name of the stores on Duval Street on their sides, more than several red-faced and stumbling. The kids were excited, talking about their snorkelling and para-sailing adventures.

  They fought the tide of tourists going upstairs, passed deck four and descended to deck two. Mac had seen two unmarked access points on the plan and hoped one would lead off the ship. The hall was narrow and he tried to be patient, dodging more tourists entering and exiting their cabins. He reached the center of the deck and found the gap he was looking for, a sealed hatch door with a sign that an alarm would sound if it was opened. Raising an alarm would draw immediate attention and with that choice removed, he moved back through the deck, checking to make sure Trufante was still behind him, and climbed the stairs back to deck four. The horn blast startled him and he realized they were out of time. Not sure if it was just a warning or the signal to depart, he ran past the excursion desk, bumping into a woman in a cruise uniform.

  “I left something on the launch! My kid is screaming,” he pleaded. “Please let me have a look.”

  “Sir, the launch is gone.”

  Mac ignored her and pushed past to the opening where they had boarded earlier. There were several men working to close the gate and prepare the ship for departure. He saw the bow lines being released and felt the deck move underneath him as the engines increased RPMs. He knew he had to make his move now. He pushed past one of the men and jumped the gap to the pier.

  “Go!” he called to Trufante.

  ***

  Davies stepped out of the car, handed the driver his fare, plus another twenty to wait, and walked into the lobby of the hospital. He struggled to put his game face on as he approached a man in a sheriff’s uniform flirting with the nurses behind the admissions desk.

  “Sheriff DeLong?” he asked and waited for the man to turn his attention away from the blonde he was talking to. The man didn’t respond. He called the name again.

  This time he turned. “You Davies?” he asked. “Good to see you.” He looked around the lobby. “Where’s the Marshall?”

  Davies had an answer ready, knowing the question was going to come. “They released me on my own recognizance,” he answered. “Said I was to turn myself in to you when I got here.”

  “Hmm,” the man murmured and put his hands on his hips. “Well, welcome to Marathon. You want to go up and see the girl?”

  Davies bowed his head as if he was in mourning. “Yes, please. And I’d like to talk to the doctors as soon as it can be arranged.”

  The sheriff turned to the nurse. “Sweetheart, can you let them know we’re heading up, and see if you can round up the doctor.”

  Davies followed him towards a bank of elevators. The doors opened and they waited while an attendant pushed an empty wheelchair into the lobby. The sheriff put his hand on the door and allowed Davies to enter first, then released it and they were alone in the cab.

  The sheriff hesitated before pushing a button. “Seems you’re the one to make the decision here,” he said. “Girl’s not in good shape, you know, and likely facing charges. They say her boyfriend, that Travis fellow, is dead.”

  Davies caught his drift and realized their goals were aligned. “I’ve been in this position before, and regrettable as it was, I can make hard decisions.” He hoped the sheriff caught his drift.

  “Yeah, hard as all hell, but sometimes it’s for the best,” the sheriff responded and pushed the button for Mel’s floor.

  The elevator rose and they were silent, both understanding they had the support of the other. Davies breathed in and out, regulating his breath like he used to do before entering a courtroom. The doors opened and he was ready. The two men walked past the nurses’ station and several glass-fronted rooms before the sheriff stopped in front of one.

  “She’s in here. You want to go in, you can, but she hasn’t regained consciousness.”

  “I’d like a minute, if I can,” Davies answered and entered the room. Mel lay propped up in the bed, almost unrecognizable behind the bruises. Her head had been shaved to treat the numerous cuts on her scalp. A breathing tube was inserted in her mouth and a suction tube taped to her nose. He looked over at the monitor, beeping quietly in the background, and watched the graph showing her heart rate and vital signs. How easy it would be to just trip over the plug and end this, he thought, but he was close enough to doing it legally. One more look at his old apprentice, turned nemesis, and he left the room, not surprised there were no flowers.

  “Darn shame,” he told the sheriff. “Girl’s got no kin and you say that boyfriend of hers is dead?”

  He listened patiently as the sheriff recapped what he knew of the wreck and search. “Shut down the search last night.”

  Davies pursed his lips and shook his head. “Any chance of talking to the doctor? I hate to see her suffer like this.”

  “I told them you were coming, but they said you needed to talk to the ethics committee. Something about procedure. The best I could do was to get a meeting at eight tomorrow morning.”

  Davies shook his head again and looked through the glass window, then looked away as if he couldn’t bear the pain of watching her suffer. What he was really thinking was how this was slowing down his personal timeline. The longer he stayed in the country the better the chance someone would start asking questions as to why he was living large in Marathon.

  ***

  Another blast from the horn covered the screams from the
staff on the cruise ship. Mac landed on the pier and rolled forward. Trufante landed on his feet next to him. A second blast sounded and he looked back to see the gate closed. They ran across the large landing area, but found it funneled into a narrow sidewalk with a closed security gate at the end. Two guards were gathering their belongings, about to leave, their shifts finished after verifying all the cruisers had come back. He looked around for another exit. The ground vibrated below them as the cruise ship moved away from the pier. The water was the only way off the pier and he was about to jump when he saw the jet skis tied up on the other side by a Fury Watersports sign. He glanced over the rail and saw a wooden dock below the concrete pier. The guards at the gate were talking to each other, not paying attention, their shifts over. Before they were noticed, he scaled the low fence and jumped the gap, landing feet first on the dock. He almost lost his balance when the floating structure rocked with his impact. He recovered and he fell to his knees watching Trufante land like a cat next to him.

  They appeared to have been unobserved. The attention of anyone nearby was focused on the departure of the cruise ship. He started walking down the dock, trying to look casual, but his heart beat hard inside his chest. Just as he reached the concrete sidewalk leading to Front Street, the phone in his pocket rang.

  He stopped under a palm tree and looked around to see if anyone had any interest in them. He withdrew the phone and opened the cover.

  “Yes,” he answered and listened to the voice on the other end. “I know the place.” He listened for a minute. “I need more time,” he stuttered in response and ended the call. He looked around to see if anyone was watching them and started walking towards the cover of the street. The man had asked for them to meet at a gas station on Stock Island. He fished around in his pocket and had a moment of panic before he realized Trufante had driven the car last.

  “You still got the car keys?” he asked.

  Trufante stuck his hand in his pocket and nodded. Mac picked up the pace as they followed Front Street and turned right onto Eaton. They had to push through the throngs of tourists milling around Duval, but the crowd thinned and they were able to pick up their pace. Mac guessed a half hour had elapsed when Eaton turned into Palm and they could see the marina. They reached Annie’s car a few minutes later and he nodded for Trufante to drive. He looked at the clock on the dashboard as Trufante pulled into traffic. They were almost ten minutes late already and all he could see were brake lights ahead of him.

  TWELVE

  Mac paced back and forth, unsure if they had blown it by being late or the other man had yet to arrive. He was about to go to the hobos camped in the back corner of the lot when he remembered the phone in his pocket, took it out and hit the button to pull up the call history. The only entry on the screen showed a restricted number. He closed the cover and started pacing again. The two hobos must have sensed his mood, started gathering their gear and quickly moved out. Trufante sat on the curb by the back door eating a candy bar he had bought, a sixteen ounce can in a brown paper bag besides him. Mac had no appetite. He wanted this meeting over and was worried about Mel. The last words from the CIA man still echoed in his head, but to help Mel, or even see her, he had no choice but to follow his orders and clear his name.

  A rental car pulled in and parked in a back corner by the air and water station. He heard his name called and turned to the car.

  Norm leaned on the trunk. “Travis,” he called again.

  Mac walked toward him, glancing behind to make sure Trufante had remained where he was. He had decided it would be better to meet alone and if things went badly, Trufante would be far enough away to get help. What kind of help, or how badly things could go wrong, he didn’t know.

  The man crossed his arms. “Glad you had the sense to meet me,” he said.

  Mac crossed his arms in the same position and waited.

  “Like I said, you need me. I am in the unique position to make your problems go away. I can set this all up to look like you were working for me on a CIA sting all along, and it all disappears. You can have your sorry old life back.”

  “Go on,” Mac said.

  “The baseball player is in the Krome Processing Center. I’m sure he has declared his intention to seek political asylum, either in his own words or the ones the authorities prepped him with. Either way, his government wants him back.”

  “What’s that got to do with me? Put him on a plane and send him back,” Mac said.

  “If it was only so easy.” He shook his head back and forth as if looking for sympathy. “The Cuban government is divided. Castro is frustrated that the United States is just giving enough in the new trade agreement to stop him from dealing with China. But, as beneficial as trade and China’s money would be, they are scared of them as a partner. Like the Russians, they could pull out at any time, leaving them where they were when the USSR collapsed and stopped aid in the late ’80’s. At least with the US they know what they are going to get. Once trade opens, it will never close. The greedy corporations are already gearing up.”

  Travis was confused. International politics held little interest for him, but if he only needed to get Armando back to Cuba and he was done, he didn’t really care. “What assurance do I have that you will follow through with this?”

  Norm paused. “My word.”

  Mac laughed. “That’s not going to do it and you know it.”

  “An act of good faith then?”

  Mac knew he was being manipulated, but also knew he had no other options. “I’m listening.”

  “I’ll get you into the hospital to see her.” He stopped. “Tonight.”

  Mac tried not to show his excitement. “You do that, get my boat released, and you have a deal. There are a couple of things we need.” He started to put a list together in his head. “The car is not ours.” He pointed to the yellow jeep. “We’ll need something less conspicuous for transportation, and some cash.”

  “Get Armando out of Krome and I’ll see what I can do about the boat,” Norm said. “The rest of it will be waiting in Marathon.” He looked at his watch. “Ten o’clock at your friend’s apartment.” He looked over to Trufante.

  Mac thought before answering. He reconciled both sides and came to the conclusion that until he actually tried to get Armando back into Cuba, there was no harm in taking the next step - and he would get to see Mel.

  “I’m in. But no boat, no Cuba.”

  ***

  Norm waited in the air-conditioning of the rental car outside the small house. It was almost eight pm, but the tropical sun still baked the island. Thunderheads had been building over the day; the relief they contained remained within. He had tried the door. No one answered. He was getting impatient. You weren’t going to turn a stripper into a clandestine agent overnight, but at least she should be punctual for a paying gig, even though it wasn’t what she was expecting. Over the years he had recruited dancers, bartenders, waitresses and cab-drivers to do his bidding. They were usually grateful for the cash and were, more often than not, willing to walk the line at the edge of the law. It had been loud in the bar and he hoped he had heard her accent correctly. Russian and Eastern Europeans placed a different value on life than many Americans and were willing to do things: things he needed done. They were here for a better life and knew that working in clubs was a step on the road to the American Dream, not the end of the road, like their white trash American counterparts. She was likely in the country illegally and with his promise of a green card for her help, he expected she would buy into his plan. For what he considered a small fee, he wanted her to keep an eye on Travis for him - no matter what it took. If she had the skills, he thought, this would be no problem. He checked his watch again.

  Impatient, he went back to the house, stopping at a piece-of-crap Honda in the carport. He instinctively placed his hand on the hood to see how long it had been there. The hood was warm, almost hot, even sitting in the shade of the overhang. He walked around it, noticing the owner woul
d have been better served to put the money spent on wide wheels, tinted windows and pin-striping into something else. A quick look at the house and he headed back to the rental car on the street, becoming more aware of his surroundings, expecting something was wrong. He opened the door and paused when a cab pulled up and the girl got out. He took one look and smiled. She would be worth some risk.

  He closed the door, followed her into the house and reached behind his back for the grip of the nine-millimeter gun. Slowly he drew it and before she turned around he had it levelled at her head. She started to scream, but a man emerged from the kitchen with a shotgun. His suspicion had been accurate; she had set him up. He grabbed her around the neck and held the gun at her head.

  “You need to leave,” he said. The man looked like he was going to say something, but Norm pressed the gun into the girl’s temple. “We understand each other?”

  The shotgun hit the floor and the man went for the door.

  “Wait.” Norm released the girl and pulled a hundred dollar bill from his pocket. “You never saw me.”

  The man nodded, took the bill and went out. Norm heard the engine start and the tires squeal when the transmission was jammed in reverse. Through the window, he watched the car back into the street and jerk forward. A hundred yards down the street, he heard the boom of the radio. Shaking his head and wondering about the judgement of the girl for bringing someone to their rendezvous, he went to the door and turned the lock.

  “He was not supposed to be here,” she said, confirming the Russian accent. “I’m going to change.”

  “Before you go, can I ask you a question?” He dangled the carrot and she nodded. “What would you do for a green card?”