Randy White - North of Havana

"Farther than that." He was taking his time; didn't seem to be in any rush. I said, "You mind hurrying a little bit?"

"Then we're probably off La Mulata-this shitty little village up ahead. Dogs and snot-nosed kids; I've been through there. Yeah, there's not a river, but there's like a creek that comes out, kind of winds its way back in."

"To where? The village?"

Geis held the map out toward me. "What the hell you mean where? It's a fucking creek. It leads to nowhere!"

"Does it dead-end?"

"Someplace it does."

I could see the mouth of the creek now: coconut palms throwing shadows on white sand and a conduit of dark water that vanished into the trees. The Whaler was blowing its rooster-tail wake once again, a mile or so away. I tried to estimate how close they'd be behind us if we beat them to the creek-a hundred yards, maybe less.

"We're going to try the creek," I said. "Maybe we can lose them in the creek."

"Goddamn it, that boat's too fast. Let's stop-find a place up on that hill. Three of them, two of us. Then we take their boat, stop flying around in this little rubber piece of shit."

I didn't reply. I swung out just enough to avoid the sandbar, then turned hard into the opening through the trees.

At first, it was too deep and wide to be called a creek, then was immediately too narrow to be called a river. One of those black-water tidal streams that creates its own cavern through shadows and overhanging trees. Probably thirty feet wide, with rocks sticking out of the mud banks; higher banks set back in, overgrown, showing that the course of the creek sometimes flooded and changed, winding its way out of the headlands.

I never slowed down. I kept the Avon doing at least forty until I came to the first turn. Cut the inside bank a little too close, a little too fast, and the boat nearly walked into trees on the other side.

I paid no attention to Geis when he yelled, "You want to fucking die, stop and let them do it! Hell, I'll help."

I kept pushing the limits of the boat, knowing that I had to put more distance between us and the Whaler. I'd assembled the scaffolding of the plan when I noticed the creek; now I was trying to put it together in my head. I needed to be a couple of hundred yards ahead of them for it to have a chance of working. It was a very narrow creek with lots of twists and turns… and an outgoing tidal current.

Maybe… it might…

Geis was nearly on his belly, fighting to stay in the boat. Limbs were swinging past overhead… white birds exploding out of the tree canopy… cormorants, with gargoyle wings and cobra eyes, flushing ahead in panic.

Because I hesitated, I did not stop after a series of turns that would have been ideal. What I needed was a place in the creek that had a stretch of fast straightaway, then a ninety-degree bend… and I needed it before the creek narrowed much more.

I went through a series of S-turns, the wall of trees squeezing so close that I had to duck low to keep from getting knocked backwards out of the boat. For a terrible half-minute, the creek continued to narrow; I thought we had reached a dead end and were trapped. But then the partition of trees veered away, the waterway reflected a broadening expanse of sunlight, and we were into another long stretch-the straightaway I'd been waiting for.

I got the Avon up to full speed before I kicked at one of the big khaki jerry cans and yelled, "Get that thing open. Get ready to dump it."

Geis looked at me blankly for a moment, then his expression changed. Now he was nodding, smiling-I like it; I like it.

At the next bend, I banked wide, made the turn-a sharp right turn-ran upstream twenty yards or so, then immediately throttled down off-plane. Got the boat under control and steered toward the northern bank, the side invisible from the straightaway, and ran the boat under some trees. Geis had already wrestled the jerry can onto the downstream gunwale and was about to begin pouring, but I held my hand up. Said, "Wait."

Sat there listening for a moment. I could hear the Whaler's outboard screaming, echoing through the forest; could hear indistinct words in loud Spanish-three men with guns, excited by the chase. They were closer than I thought they would be.

Geis said, "I'm not waiting."

I told him, "Pour it."

I watched him dump the gas, nearly ten gallons, into the creek. I felt an odd regret for the fish larvae we were killing; all the microspecies. Watched the gasoline pool and bead on the surface, a gelatinous slick of petroleum purple and green; watched the slick drift with the current toward the sharp bend in the creek.

Geis had his lighter out. Had a book of matches, too; had already twisted the open flap into a kind of fuse.

"Not yet," I said. "When I tell you."

I reached and grabbed a limb above us and swung the Avon around so that our bow was facing downstream, the direction from which we'd come.

Geis eyed me nervously. "You're not going to run us back through this shit. Not until it's out."

I held up a warning finger. "Listen."

The Whaler was very close now; it sounded like a fast Japanese dirt bike coming at us on a collision course through the trees. They were on the straightaway, gaining speed after the S-turns, yet I couldn't spring the trap too soon. I'd risk giving them time to react.

I kept saying, "Wait… wait… wait…" until, through the trees, I saw a flash of gray-the Whaler passing and banking into the turn-and then I yelled, "Now!"

Geis didn't rush it; he gave it a professional air as he used his lighter to light the matchbook, then lobbed the little torch downstream.

The creek flamed… petered… flamed again… then the bend in the creek whoofed and exploded just as the bow of the Whaler came swooping into view. I saw the face of the driver briefly-his eyes hugely wide-as he gunned the boat in a panic, driving the boat into the flames, then clear of the flames undamaged, but much too fast… and I watched the three men throw their arms up as the Whaler missed the turn and careened up the bank into thin trees and bushes, tilting sideways, threatening to flip… and watched the men go tumbling over the bow as the boat impacted and settled on its side, the engine's lower unit ripped away… everything at high speed, like a video being fast-forwarded.

I had pushed the Avon out into the creek; already had the outboard started. Geis was on his feet. Had his rifle. He was studying the men: one lay somewhere in the bushes-I could hear him groaning-but the other two were already up, working their way groggily toward the injured man.

"Hang on to something," I said.

"I'm thinking about what I should do. Maybe talk to these guys, see why they were chasing us."

I knew how Geis talked. He valued silence so much in others.

I said, "We're going," as I twisted the throttle enough to make Geis sit… then I got the inflatable up to full speed before we scattered the remainder of the flames and turned down the creek seaward.

"We should have at least checked to see if they had a radio. If they called in a description of us, every military vessel in the area's going to be looking for this boat."

I said, "How far's that little village you told me about?"

"La Mulata? La Mulata's not on the water. I never said that."

"Then what's the next village on the water?"

"Probably Cayo Parafso. It's where the islands begin on this coast. It's not too far-but shit, anyone sees us…"

"When we get to Cayo Parafso, we'll find another boat."

Geis told me, "Fidel has a thing about Taino-Jesus, the guy's real name is Ramon Estevez; such a dipshit I guess he asked the Santeria gods to find him another name. You know, give him something jazzy. Make himself feel important."