by Tony Abbott
“Dog Cove. Listen, Darrell . . .”
“There can’t be much fuel left,” he said. “It’ll have to be soon. Over there somewhere.”
“Darrell—”
“Lily!” He turned to her, reaching out and wanting to shake her but not doing it. “My gosh, Lily, we’re good. We’re okay. I probably would have done the same thing and called my mom.” Then the floodgates opened. “I have done the same thing. Wade did it, too, in Africa, remember? Or Budapest. Or London. Or somewhere. I don’t know. Anyway, the point is, we love our people. We love our people, and we need to talk to them. So, yeah, I get it. You saw a phone, and you called your people. I get it. We’re good.”
She jammed her eyes shut, and she was shaking.
“No, really, we’re good,” he repeated. “We really are. Lily . . .” He breathed out, feeling so much relief after being so quiet for days. “And . . . we’re here. Look. The cove. It looks way more like a dog than a cat. . . .”
Lily nodded quickly, ran the back of her hand across her wet eyes, then cut the engine. It sputtered for a few moments, then died in a cloud of burned oil.
They drifted for a while in the quiet and let the tide pull them in. Dawn would be on them in less than an hour. The warm sea lapped at the hull. Finally, Darrell felt the lump in his throat break up. They were talking again. Good. He swallowed.
“We need to get ashore now,” he said.
“How do we skittle it?” Lily asked.
He laughed. “Scuttle it. Maybe just by tipping it over? But it can’t be in shallow water, which is another reason to do it here and swim in. Daylight will come soon.”
The sky was already blueing in the east, and the contrast of the orange city lights of Havana to the darkness of the sky was fading. He could make out clusters of buildings and individual streetlights now. There were no real skyscrapers, but the shoreline was jammed with small structures, and palm trees, and areas of thick greenery. A bank of dark clouds lay hovering in the west.
Lily hitched her thick, waterproof backpack over her shoulders and slipped into the water. So did he. They floated next to each other and tried to tip water inside the boat, but the vessel proved too buoyant, and it was next to impossible. Darrell finally climbed back in and poked the not-paddle end of an oar into the bottom. It was surprisingly loud, but after a few tries, he broke through the hull. Water spouted up, and the boat filled quickly.
Darrell sank with it and pushed off as the boat slid under the waves. It vanished with a few sad bubbles.
Lily paddled with her arms and legs to keep afloat. “Good-bye, escape route.”
“One thing at a time. First we find Señora Vélaz. Then we find Corvus.”
“All while staying alive.”
“That’s the plan.”
The cove was protected against the westerly morning breezes, the narrow beach deserted, and the water deep and blue and calm. Swimming with a buoyant backpack turned out to be easier than Darrell expected, though he guessed it might be the last thing that was. Lily was naturally faster than he was and hit the sand first. Once out of the water, they changed into the clothes kept dry in their packs. They checked their new false passports and the Cuban pesos Dean had grudgingly given Lily. Between them both, they’d memorized the address of the hundred-year-old Guardian and the route of streets to get there. Stashing their wet things under some rocks, they hid among the crags of the cove until evening, eating sandwiches they had packed. It had rained off and on all day. When it was dark, they threaded their way up from the water to the road.
Darrell would have preferred commando outfits for them, combat boots and all. But they were dressed in shorts and T-shirts like tourists in midsummer.
“In case we’re stopped,” Lily said, “we’re a couple of cool middle-schoolers on an American tour of the island.”
“No, Canadian. And we’re hurrying to catch up with our teacher,” he added.
“Our Canadian teacher. Who’s out shopping.”
“For souvenirs.”
She grinned. “Perfect.”
It was good to be friends again, Darrell thought. Novizhny, with a job to do, yes, but mostly friends.
After a slow hour of cautious zigzagging, during which they saw many cars cruising the streets, including old American models from the 1950s and 1960s, as well as modern black cars and military transports, with no one stopping them or asking them anything, they approached a neighborhood of marine warehouses and garages that reminded Lily a little of Nice’s waterfront but that were far less rich. It was Havana’s old harbor.
“Clouds are coming in,” she said. “It looks like more rain on the way.”
“There’s also that bad news,” said Darrell. “Papa Dean was right. The Brotherhood’s here.”
Sharp white spotlights glinted off the gray and white hulls of a fleet of Russian tankers and military vessels in the harbor. Two large cruise ships and a freighter were docked, as well. All had Russian names.
Принимая Крым
Наша Украина
Король Владимир Второй
“Becca could tell us what those names mean,” Lily said. “Probably nothing good. Man, I wish we were all here.”
“Yeah. Me, too. But . . . come on.”
Their memorized directions took them into a series of narrow backstreets and alleyways of flat-fronted stucco buildings punctuated every now and then by an elaborate church or an open plaza. They finally entered a passage wide enough for only a single person, traveled to the end, and came out into a small piazza. It was the address of Señora Vélaz, the hundred-year-old Guardian. But it was neither a Ponce de León museum nor a house.
It was a movie theater, a shabby building with a tilted marquee held up by crisscrossed planks. Most of the bulbs on the sign were out, but the front doors were open.
“I guess we go in?” Lily said.
Darrell scanned the piazza around them as the first hot raindrops fell into the street. There might have been a car hovering in the shadows. He tried to peer into the dark, but the rain was already coming steadily, and if there was a car, it seemed to be gone now.
“I guess we do,” he said.
They went inside.
Other than the sullen counter attendant, who mostly just pointed to the price card and tapped the counter, the lobby was empty.
The film being shown was naturally in Spanish and blared with yelling and explosions. Lily couldn’t see the screen from the lobby, so she didn’t pay attention. She knew she wouldn’t understand what the characters were saying anyway, despite how many Spanish words she’d learned from Becca in Tampa. When Becca’s face appeared in her mind, she felt empty and suddenly sad, but that wasn’t helping.
Just be here now, she thought. Focus on the task. So many people have died for the relics. We’re the Novizhny. We owe it to them to find the relics.
“Excuse me,” Lily said. “Señora Vélaz esta . . . here?”
The attendant raised her head. “Señorita Vélaz? Sí. Arriba, en la sala.”
Darrell said, “Upstairs?” pointing to the ceiling.
“Sí. La cabina de proyección,” the girl said, which likely meant “projection room.”
“Gracias,” Lily said.
“Muchas,” Darrell added.
The staircase creaked under their footsteps. The landing at the top opened into a hallway as dark and narrow as the stairs. They had to walk in single file. Lily took the lead. There were muffled gasps, shouts, laughter coming from the crammed mezzanine behind the wall on their left. She still didn’t care about the film.
The door to the booth was open a crack. A young woman, a little older than they were, sat bent over a desk, reading a book under a low lamp as an antique film projector churned noisily on a nearby table.
Darrell stepped into the small room “Uh, excusez-moi. We’re looking for Señora Vélaz—”
The girl flicked a gun up at them from behind her book.
“H
ands high or you die like dogs,” she said, in nearly perfect movie English.
Her eyes were pools of black water, her face a creamy brown marked with a thin white scar that ran down her right cheek from the outside edge of her eye to her chin. To Darrell, it seemed to divide her features like a face in a modern painting. The pistol, an old one, was steady. She held it low and pointed it directly at his forehead.
“Please,” he said. “Don’t. We’ve come a long way.”
“To kill me?” she asked. “Who are you?”
Lily edged out from behind him. “We were told to find Señora Vélaz.” Her words were clear and firm.
The girl glared back and forth from Lily to him, the pistol still aimed at his head.
“Why?”
Lily took another half step. “Have you ever heard the word Novizhny?”
At that, the girl’s large black eyes narrowed suddenly, then grew. She lowered the gun, then burst up from the desk. “Novizhny! Yes! Yes! You have come to save the world!”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Without exactly saying that they would probably not save the world, Darrell explained their mission to the projectionist, whose name was Quirita.
She listened intently, then told them her story.
“My great-grandmother was the last Guardian in Cuba. She died two years ago at the hands of a vicious agent of the Order. Now I am alone here. I have been waiting for someone to come.”
“We’re alone, too,” Lily said.
“Only a couple of people know we’re here,” Darrell added. “I hope only a couple. I saw a car before. I think I did, anyway.”
Quirita nodded. “The Red Brotherhood spies on everyone. They are everywhere. But that is not the worst part. The man who killed my great-grandmother is suddenly back in Cuba. I saw him just this morning with my own eyes. She called him Gafas de Sol before he killed her. He is a beast.”
“De sol,” Lily said. “Of the sun? Something from the sun? What does gafas mean?”
Quirita swallowed hard. “Glasses. This man always wears sunglasses.”
“What? Sunglasses is here?!” gasped Darrell, sharing a worried look with Lily. “His name is Bartolo Cassa. He kidnapped my mother and put her in a coffin. I hate him!”
Quirita nodded slowly. “If such a killer is here, it means the Brotherhood knows you are on the island. They know a relic is about to be transferred. You must be careful.”
“And fast,” Lily said. “So Corvus . . . is it here?”
Quirita stood and pointed through the projector opening into the theater. “When the Ponce de León museum closed some years ago, my great-grandmother took pains to protect the relic that had been stored there. It has been hidden in that upper-balcony box ever since she placed it there. She guarded it her whole life. I have done the same since she died.”
Darrell peeked out the opening.
The balcony appeared held up with wires, chains, and metal rods, and was taped over with yellow CAUTION tape. There was a plastic net slung beneath it to catch falling debris. Plaster from the ornamentation below the box had already chipped away. Wallpaper surrounding it had peeled and hung curling over the seats.
“Clever,” said Darrell. “It looks like the box will collapse the moment you set foot in it.”
Quirita nodded. “Oh, it will! It really is unsafe. But that’s where the relic is.”
“Oh.”
“How will Darrell get up there?” Lily asked.
He turned to her. “Me? You’re the gymnast.”
“And you’re the tough guy.”
“I am, but still . . .”
“While you two decide, come with me.” Quirita led them out of the booth to the end of the hall, then up two floors to the upper boxes. She removed the strip of yellow tape from across the entrance to the uppermost box and unlocked the door.
They looked inside. The box was a mess. Most of the floorboards were missing, and those that remained sagged. Darrell could see the audience below through the gaps.
Quirita told them that the relic was hidden in a secret niche under the balcony railing at the front of the box. “There is a lever there, and it must be flipped once for each year of the Magister’s life. No more. No fewer. Or a small bomb will detonate.”
Lily’s jaw dropped. “Seventy times? What if you lose count?”
Quirita smiled. “You see? My great-grandmother’s idea. It’s the perfect way to hide something precious. No one wants to risk his life to get to it!”
Darrell could practically watch the movie through the open floor. “I so get that. . . .”
“I knew it,” said Lily. “Stand aside, please.”
Lily took off her shoes and crawled on all fours from one floorboard to the next, slithering across the open parts to the gallery railing. The box was so near the ceiling of the theater, she heard heavy rain battering the roof like it was the top of her head.
Running her fingers beneath the railing she found the lever Quirita had told them about. Holding her breath, she slid the lever slowly from left to right, then back again, counting out loud as she did. The movie, full of crazy gunfire and explosions and roaring trucks, was distracting. Finally, she stopped.
“I hope that’s seventy—”
“If it’s not,” Quirita whispered, “say good-bye. . . .”
A length of railing split open suddenly like a narrow door hanging upside down. A heavy object slid into Lily’s waiting hands. It was a finely crafted little machine made of black iron. “Darrell, oh my gosh, you have to see this—”
All at once, the floorboards squealed and began to crack.
“Lily!”
Darrell rushed to her, his arms outstretched, while the few remaining floorboards simply crumbled under his weight. He dragged most of the theater box down with him as he reached out. He’d got hold of her arm when his foot snagged on a supporting rod. Lily flew through the floor, then jerked to a stop, hanging upside down, while Darrell’s foot unhooked, and he dropped past her into the empty box below. Its balcony collapsed, and he landed in a heap on the aisle floor like a dead puppet.
The audience shouted at him. “Hey! Silencio!”
“Darrell!” Lily cried. Untangling herself, she jumped to the empty box, then to the floor. “Darrell! Are you dead?”
“Yes!”
All at once, the back doors of the theater burst open. In the light from the screen Lily saw a large man wearing sunglasses race down the aisle toward them.
“Cassa!” Lily shouted.
“Gafas!” Quirita hissed. “Behind the screen. I will meet you!”
Grabbing Darrell’s wrist, Lily tugged him up from the floor and rushed onto the stage. They slid behind the screen as a shot tore through the fabric and pinged off the rear wall. The audience started to scream. Quirita ran down a hall to the kids, urging them through a door, locking it behind them.
“There’s only one way out of here,” she said, hurrying down a short corridor. “You’ll be in the piazza behind the theater. Go left, and there is a market open all hours. It is small, but you can go through to the next street and lose yourselves there. If you need to lie low, go to the Floridita, a club in the old city. Say you know me.”
The hallway behind them thudded with gunshots.
“This way!” Quirita threw open one last door. Rain splashed in from the street. “Before you go, listen. Four years ago a boy came here. He was alone, filthy. He had come to see my great-grandmother. Maybe he knew she might not live much longer. He told me never to tell until I knew it was time. You are the Novizhny, so now it’s time.”
“What did he say?” asked Darrell.
“‘Go to Paris,’ he said. ‘Find the clock of Floréal Muguet.’ He said that. ‘Floréal Muguet.’ I don’t know who it is, but I have never forgotten the name. Remember it.”
The theater’s back door splintered, and Cassa was outside, sprinting across the stones to them. He tossed Quirita aside like a doll and ripped Corvus roughly from Lily’s finger
s before pushing her down.
Quirita’s pistol glinted in her hand. “Killer!” she cried. She fired.
Cassa hurtled backward and fell. Before they could do anything, he was up, scrambling for his weapon and Corvus and stumbling away into the hammering rain.
“After him!” said Lily.
“Take this!” Quirita thrust her pistol into Darrell’s hand. “Go. I am fine.”
“No,” he said. “I—”
“Darrell!” said Lily, dragging him. “Before he gets to a car. He has Corvus!”
Darrell had the gun in his hand and rain was pounding his face. He saw Cassa limp quickly from the shadows at the far side of the piazza. He remembered Papa Dean’s words—as swift and ruthless as Galina—but he couldn’t become like her. He had a gun but didn’t know the first thing about firing it, and he wasn’t a killer. He turned back. Lily was twenty feet behind him, staring at him.
No, Darrell couldn’t hurt anyone, but surely he could wrestle the relic away from a wounded guy. Maybe it was possible. All right. Be tough.
“Lily, hide. I’ll find you—” The sky thundered, and he didn’t hear if she said anything. “I’ll find you!” he yelled. “Meet me at . . . that place!”
Stuffing the gun into his pocket, he raced after Cassa through the drenched streets into the depths of the old city. The gun was heavy, uncomfortable. It scraped his thigh. It was evil. He thought for an instant about the path that had brought them here. From Nice to Gibraltar by ship, then a flight to Florida, then a motorboat to a movie theater in Cuba.
And now he was armed and chasing the evil man who’d tortured his mother.
He stopped short.
Thirty feet away, across the rain-blasted avenue, Cassa paused against a column in a series of arches, clutching his calf where Quirita had shot him. The wound had slowed him just enough for Darrell to keep up at a distance. Cassa pushed away from the column and stumbled down the flooding street but soon stopped again, this time outside a mostly dark hotel. Darrell watched Cassa glance up through the rain at the flickering neon sign, then slip under the arch into the lobby.
Waiting three long seconds, Darrell crossed the street, completely soaked now, and entered the hotel. The lobby was little more than three walls, a desk, and a staircase.
