Suspicion of Rage (48 page)

The general stared at her. "Marta, what are you saying?"

"It's true," she sobbed. "Cobo confessed to me. I saw the blood on his clothes. I couldn't tell you. You'd have gone to the police. It would've ruined us. A murder in our family. No, I couldn't." Tears dripped off Señora de Vega's face. "Mario, please. My husband didn't do it. Cobo was in love with her, and she wouldn't have him. He committed suicide. Go look if you don't believe me." She pointed. "Go look. My brother found him today. He hanged himself in his apartment in the garage!"

"Be quiet!" Mario thought he would go crazy, as crazy as this woman. "I don't want to hear any more.
Walk,
you son of a bitch."

The general's laugh was more of a moan. He clapped his hands. "I know who sent you. Yes. I know, I know. What a joke. What a joke on me. Abdel Garcia. Yes, yes, yes. Marta, what do you think of that? Abdel Garcia. Mario, do you know who General Garcia is? He's my commanding officer. He's been trying to get rid of me. Finally he has a weapon. A credulous boy. He sent you, didn't he?"

"Keep walking."

They were halfway through the living room. Mario could see through the stairs to the front windows, the dark street. The four women and the boy trailed behind the general as if they were being pulled by cords tied to his belt.

"Mario? Don't you know you're being used? There isn't a counterrevolutionary movement in Cuba that hasn't been infiltrated. Not one. Think! If you have gotten this far, it's because someone wants me dead, and he's using you to accomplish it. If State Security doesn't know, it's because he doesn't want them to know. Mario, think."

They were nearly to the corridor.

"Why did he send
you,
Mario? José Leiva wrote articles about Abdel Garcia. Is this Garcia's way of evening the score? Call CNN. See if they received your communique. I will stake my life they haven't received a damned thing. Nothing."

"Shut up."

"What a naive bunch you must be. I'll tell you where your friends are right now. Being rounded up, as you will be too. You can live, Mario. Don't do this. You were tricked. There's no shame in that. You can live."

"Don't make me kill you in front of your wife and children. I don't want to do that, but
I
will if you don't shut up!"
Mario fired into the ceiling, then pressed the gun barrel into Vega's neck.

The general winced. "That's hot. I'm walking. I'm going. Mario, your father writes against violence. Doesn't he? What would he say about this?"

"My father is already dead. He will never get out of prison."

"I didn't put him there, Mario."

"You and the regime. It's no different. Walk left. We're going to your study."

His daughter started sobbing again.

Angela said in a soft voice, "Mario. Mario, please don't. Just put the gun down and leave here. Please. My father will help you."

"Angela, be quiet!"

Vega put his hands over his face. "Oh, God. Is this what we have created? Young men with such hatred and passion? Are we to blame for this?" The general turned his eyes toward Mario. Sweat ran along the lines in his forehead. He whispered, "I need to sit down." He grasped the stair railing and pulled. Mario's shoes skidded.

"Keep walking!"

"No, I need to sit here. You have frightened me, Mario." The general sat heavily on the second step and leaned on the railing. "I can't walk anymore."

"Get up!"

"I'm a coward. I have betrayed my wife, and I'm deserting my country. Are you my punishment? Are you justice, coming for me in this way?"

"Get up! I don't want to kill you in front of your family."

"You don't want my family to see me die. Good. You have a kind heart. It would be kinder if you didn't do it at all."

The general's wife was crawling across the floor, weeping. "Ramiro. Ramiro."
 

"Get away from him!"

"No. He's my husband. Kill me too. I will die with him."

The others gathered in a mindless group by the stairs. The girl was sobbing for him not to kill her father. Danny was hiding his face against the red-haired lady, who was saying a prayer.

The world was insane. Nothing was real, all a lie, a trick. He could see it now: He had been used. Olga had tried to warn him. Who was it? Raúl? Tomás? There was no way out. Ever.

He backed away and put the barrel under his chin.

Angela screamed, "Mario, no!" She ran straight at him. Eyes growing larger. He saw her pink shirt, the crucifix on her breast, her hands reaching out. "Don't! I love you! Stop!"

He turned and fired at the photographs on the wall. Glass splintered and exploded off the stone.

He ran for the front door and out onto the porch—

Then he was flying ... the world spinning ... earth over sky...

His face in the dirt, the grass. He couldn't breathe. He pushed up slowly. When his eyes focused, he was looking into the face of a small
mulato.
A pair of plastic glasses and curly gray hair. Then a fist came toward him.

 

 

 

 

42

 

 

Standing in the junk-strewn garage, Anthony watched his brother-in-law go out the side door and look up the stairs. He heard the thud of shoes on wood, then the squeak of hinges. Nothing for a second or two. Then more footsteps, Ramiro walking around Cobo's apartment, thinking what in hell to do next.

Hector Mesa sat on his heels on the concrete floor studying the young man stretched out between a stack of paint cans and a folded pool table. Mario lay on his side, hands behind him, the cord running to his feet, which were also bound. He had been out cold for nearly an hour, ever since Hector had slammed him in the back of the neck.

Hector said, "The Twenty-Eighth of January Movement. What is that?"
 

"José Martfs birthday."

"Yes, so it is. Fools. What are you going to do with him?"

"How soon can you have a boat ready?"
 

"As soon as I make a phone call," Hector said.
 

"Make it," Anthony said, "before Ramiro comes back."

It had taken a while to sort out exactly what had happened. An hour ago, walking across the front yard, they'd heard gunshots from the house. Hector had gone to see what it was, and a few seconds later, Mario had come running through the door with a pistol in his hand. If Hector's Beretta had not been left in Chinatown, Mario would have several bullet holes in him. They carried him inside, limp, and the explanations began.

Leaving that job to Anthony, Gail went upstairs with Karen, who had begun to come out of her stupor. Anthony made sure his kids were all right after the shock of nearly seeing their uncle shot to death. Then Giovany came home, saw the shattered glass on the floor, and had to be held back from calling the police. A neighbor called asking about the noise. Ramiro grabbed the phone from Maria and explained that the kids had set off some firecrackers. As soon as the house was quiet, Anthony took Ramiro into the study and told him about Garcia. Ramiro's first question: "Is Karen all right?" Anthony told him yes, she was. Second question: "Did anyone see you?" Ramiro was concerned about his own neck, a useful thing to know. Anthony said that if anyone had seen them, the police would have arrived by now.

It was strange, how distant the events seemed as they were happening. Reality came with recollection. Firing the pistol at Ruiz, the bodyguard, Anthony hadn't felt the recoil or heard the shots, and he couldn't remember how many he had fired, but the image of the man's shattered arm was still hot in his memory. Garcia's face was still with him, too, stripped to one bare emotion: fear. Anthony's own gut-quivering shakes hadn't started then, but he'd felt them in his legs coming down the four flights of stairs, then again driving back to Miramar, his hands jittering on the steering wheel. It helped to know that the shit-sucking bastard had deserved it. But it didn't help much.

Hector closed his cell phone and slid it back into his pocket. "They need about three hours' notice. You let me know."

Anthony didn't ask who or what. The boat would be fast, and the people on it reliable. He leaned over and felt the knot under Mario's left ear. "I hope you didn't do any permanent damage."
 

"He's okay," Hector said.

Anthony tossed him the car keys. "Bring the car as close as you can to the portico. You have a place to take him tonight?"

Hector replied with a quick nod as he headed for the side door of the garage.

For a while Anthony looked down at the young man on the floor. He reached into his trousers pocket for the envelope that he'd promised Mario to deliver to his mother on Sunday. It had been written before José's arrest. Anthony had an idea what the letter might say, and he didn't want Yolanda to see it. He tore off the end and withdrew a single sheet of paper. The handwriting was small and neat, no cross-outs, as if copied from a final draft. Translating the flowery Spanish typical of such correspondence, Anthony read:

 

Dear parents of my soul, this letter arrives to your gentle hands to comfort you in this heavy hour and to beg that you will try to understand the reasons for what I have done. You have taught me that liberty is of greater value to a man than his own life. Without doubt some will say that what I did was evil, but what is evil? Malefactors like General Ramiro Vega laugh as they condemn the hopes of a people to the cold dungeons of despair. Do not weep for me, my dear parents, for I perished in the sure knowledge that my blood will bring forth flowers in the soil of our beloved Cuba.

 

Anthony groaned softly. "Oh, Mario."

 

My dear sweet mami, I will set sail into eternity on the great ocean of your love. You must not forget to smile, for I will be watching from heaven. José, the father of my heart, you have given me courage. Do not cry for my passing, for we shall meet again. Until then, may God protect and keep you. With embraces, your faithful son, Mario Cabrera.

 

Elbows on his knees, Anthony looked at the boy on the garage floor. "Now what will you do, eh? When will your life ever again be this certain, this pure?" He leaned over and stroked the boy's curly black hair. "May I confess something to you, Mario? I admire this dangerous passion. I used to be as reckless as you are. Yes, I know what it's like, this feeling. You're going to miss it"

The door at the top of the stairs closed. Hollow thuds grew louder. Folding the letter, Anthony stood up and returned it to his pocket. Ramiro appeared. He flexed his hands, cleared his throat. "Whose blood is that on the towels? Olga's?"

"I believe so. Cobo removed his footprints and wiped off the weapon."

"What was it?"

"A carved wooden statue."

"And you say she died quickly." Ramiro passed his hand over his eyes, then straightened the front of his uniform shirt. "I told Marta, when the police come, she doesn't know anything about it. I will tell them I found Cobo like that. And now. What to do about this young man." Ramiro moved his eyes to Mario Cabrera. "Abdel Garcia sent a boy to kill me. Clever. What is your saying? A wolf in sheep's clothing?"

"Not much of a wolf. He couldn't pull the trigger."

"Even so."

"Ramiro, you'll have to be careful about the police. Don't let them talk to the family, especially Marta. She's close to the edge. You're leaving tomorrow, and she could inadvertently say something to jeopardize that."

"I'm not leaving," he said.

Anthony had to replay the words in his head to believe Ramiro had spoken them. "Why not? Because Garcia is no longer a threat?"

"That's part of it. Thank you for solving my problem for me. I often considered doing it myself, but then I would sober up and forget about it. I will stay in Cuba because I ought to stay in Cuba. Give Mr. Bookhouser my regrets. I'm not going."

"What about the disk?"

"What disk?"

"The disk with your notes on the radioactive materials that Garda stole. You brought it home with you, I hope."

"The disk stays here. The files contain other sensitive information that your government doesn't need to see. I was never going to give them the disk. I would have destroyed it and relied on my memory."

A switch had flipped somewhere in Ramiro's head, possibly from the electrical surge that accompanied the terror of imagining his own brains splattered on the wall.

"Ramiro. If we don't have you, we need the files. Otherwise, what's to stop Navarro and his gang from believing Omar Céspedes's story? They will say, because they want to believe it, that Fidel Castro himself is peddling radioactive materials to Al-Qaeda. You and I know this is a plate of shit, but since when does the truth count in politics? They might want to start sending Tomahawk missiles through Fidel's bathroom window."

The electrical surge had apparently vaporized Ramiro's sense of humor too. He said, "You tell them. You know it went no higher than Garcia."

"No, I do not know that, and frankly, my credibility with Bill Navarro isn't something you should count on."

Ramiro shrugged. "You're an intelligent man. You'll think of something." Hands on his hips, he walked over to the prone figure on the floor. “I am sorry for Mario.
I
am sorry that you are friends of his family. Sorry he became involved with that group."

"Don't tell me you're planning to turn him in."

"What should I do, dust him off and send him home?"

"Ramiro, if you turn him over to the police, he will be lucky to get off with a life sentence."

"He tried to kill me!"

"He was being manipulated by Abdel Garcia. I'll get him out of Cuba. That should satisfy you. He and his father can both be gone within twenty-four hours. You'll need to talk to MININT to arrange Leiva's release."

"I told you, I do not work for the Ministry of the Interior!"

Anthony could feel the heat building in his neck. He took a breath and said, "Then call the police. You have Olga's killer. Ask for Detective Sánchez. Tell him about Cobo. Show him the towels. The blood can be matched to Olga Saavedra. Say Cobo killed her because he couldn't have her. Say an injustice has been done, and you want Leiva released. They're investigating him for political crimes as well, but I think they'll put him under house arrest if you ask them to. Do that, and I will have the family on a boat out of here."