Jesus Bernal seemed not to notice the cloud of mosquitoes swarming around his head. Garcia thought: perhaps they don’t sting him—his blood is poisoned and the insects know it.
Fevered with excitement, Bernal’s face glistened in the water’s reflection. His eyes darted ratlike and his head jerked at each muffled animal noise from the woods behind them. In one hand Bernal clutched the sawed-off shotgun, and with the other waved a heavy police flashlight, lacing amber ribbons in the blackness.
Jesus was already contemplating the journey back to the car, alone. The shotgun probably would be empty by then, useless. He grew terrified just thinking about the ordeal—what good was a flashlight against panthers! He imagined himself imprisoned all night by the impenetrable hammock; at first disoriented, then panicked. Then lost! The sounds alone might drive him insane.
For Jesus Bernal was scared of the dark.
“What’s the matter?” Garcia asked.
“Nothing.” Bernal ground his dentures and made the fear go away. “This is where we say adios.”
“Yeah?” Garcia thought it seemed an odd place for an execution. The jetty provided no concealment and the echo of gunfire would carry for miles across the water. He hoped a boat might pass soon.
Jesus Bernal fumbled in his khaki trousers and came out with a brown letter-sized envelope, folded in half.
“Open it,” he wheezed. “Read it aloud.” He aimed the flashlight so Garcia could make out the document, which had been typed neatly. It appeared much longer than any of the communiques from the Nights of December.
“What is this, you writing a book?” the detective grumbled.
“Read!” Bernal said.
Garcia took his eyeglasses from a shirt pocket.
There were two identical sections, one in English and one in Spanish:
“I, Alberto Garcia Delgado, hereby confess myself as a traitor to my native country of Cuba. I admit to the gravest of crimes: persecuting and harassing those brave revolutionaries who would destroy the dictator Castro, and who would liberate our suffering nation so that all Cuban peoples may return. With my despicable crimes I have dishonored these patriots and shamed my own heritage, and that of my father. I deeply regret my seditious behavior. I realize that I can never be forgiven for using my police authority to obstruct what was good and just. For this reason, I have agreed to accept whatever punishment is deemed fitting by my judge, the honorable Jesus Bernal Rivera—a man who has courageously dedicated his life to the most noble of revolutionary callings.”
Garcia thrust the document back at Jesus Bernal and said, “I’m not signing it, chico.” He knew time was short.
“Oh, I think you’ll reconsider.”
“No way.”
Garcia lunged forward, his arms reaching out for the shotgun. Jesus pulled the trigger and an orange fireball tore the detective off his feet and slammed him to the ground.
He lay on his back, staring numbly at the tropical stars. His head throbbed, and his left side felt steamy and drenched.
Jesus Bernal was a little wobbly himself. He had never before fired a shotgun, and discovered that he had not been holding the weapon properly. The recoil had hammered him squarely in the gut, knocking the wind out. A full minute passed before he could speak.
“Get up!” he told Garcia. “Get up and sign your confession. It will be read on all the important radio stations tomorrow.”
“I can’t.” Garcia had no feeling on his left side. He probed gingerly with his right hand and found his shirt shredded and soaked with fresh blood. Jagged yellow bone protruded from the pulp of his shoulder. He felt dizzy and breathless, and knew he would soon be in shock.
“Get up, traidor!” Jesus Bernal stood over the detective and waved the gun like a sword.
Garcia thought that if he could only get to his feet he might be able to run to the woods. But when he tried to raise himself from the gravel, his legs convulsed impotently. “I can’t move,” he said weakly.
Jesus Bernal angrily stuffed the document into his pocket. “We’ll see,” he said. “We’ll see about this. Are you prepared to receive your sentence?”
“Yeah,” Garcia groaned. “What the hell.”