James Swain: The Program

The fourth book in the Jack Carpenter series, 2010

On a beautiful spring day in 1981, Maria Devine had packed her belongings in a cheap cardboard suitcase, taken her life-savings out of her mattress, and gone to visit her baby brother Renaldo at the madhouse in Havana where he was a ward of the state.

The madhouse was called Mazorra, and was filled with Cuba’s criminally insane, the majority of whom spent every waking hour locked up in their rooms, banging their heads against the walls and screaming at the top of their lungs. Mazorra was an evil place, and Maria could not come here without welling up with emotion.

But today was different. Today, she would not cry, nor would she leave by herself, tortured with guilt. Emancipation had come for her and her brother.

“I have wonderful news,” she’d announced upon entering his room.

Renaldo Devine had sat in a wooden chair in the corner, staring dully into space. His handsome face was marred by his hair, which stuck out at odd angles from his head. He wore a canvas straightjacket, his present for having bitten one of the nurses.

“Go away,” he’d snarled.

“We’ve been approved to leave the country.”

“You are crazier than me!”

Maria had produced two passports, which she’d stuck in front of his face. One was in his name, the other in hers.

“It is true,” she said. “Look.”

He’d stared at the passports in disbelief. Another patient had told him that Castro was throwing thousands of undesirables out of the country, but he’d never dreamed that he would become a part of the exodus.

“When?” he’d asked.

“Our boat leaves this afternoon,” Maria had said. “Isn’t it exciting? I will help you pack.”

Renaldo had cried as Maria freed him. Never in a thousand years would he have imagined himself leaving this place. An hour later, he’d skipped down Mazorra’s front steps with his sister, his clothes tied in a neat bundle beneath his arm.

They’d taken a crowded bus to the port city of Mariel. Renaldo had sat backwards and watched Havana slowly disappear. Right about now, the psychologist at Mazarro would have begun their session. Each day, she’d asked Renaldo the same questions. Where did the human skull buried in his backyard come from? What had happened to the three prostitutes who’d disappeared in his neighborhood? Why did he keep a collection of hunting knives in his room? Every day, the same questions.

Why, indeed. Because he’d wanted to kill those filthy women; because it made him feel good; because he could. Those were the answers to her stupid questions. Simple as that.

Only Renaldo had known better than to answer the psychologist. Instead, he’d swayed his head back and forth, and pretended to be insane. He knew what would happen if she found out about the demon trapped inside his body. She would tell the other doctors, and they’d fill him with drugs, and give him electroshock treatments.

They’d departed the bus at the Mariel docks. There, a mob of people clutching suitcases were waiting to board the fishing boats that were taking people off the island. Renaldo had recognized other inmates from Mazarro standing in line. One was a serial rapist, another had butchered his family. Monsters, just like him.

Maria had steered him to a boat with a smiling captain on the gangplank.

“Hello, Maria. You look very beautiful today,” the captain had exclaimed. “Is this your brother? What a handsome young man.”

Maria had blushed, tongue-tied. Renaldo had stared at the bulge in the captain’s crotch. It had explained everything. His sister had bought their passage with her pussy.

When the captain had tousled his hair, Renaldo had tried to bite him.

They headed to the back of the boat. Maria made him put on a life preserver and told him she was going to the front to buy him a cold drink.

What a nice sister Maria was. She had cared for Renaldo since their mother had died. She knew her brother was broken, but still loved him. Surprisingly, he had no feelings for her. When the psychologist at Mazarro had asked him to describe their relationship, he’d declared simply, “I don’t hate her.”

Soon they were on open water. Renaldo had sat with Maria on an upturned crate, eating sandwiches she had packed for the trip. Other refugees were singing and dancing in celebration of their newfound freedom. Renaldo had felt like he was in a dream.

By nightfall they’d reached an island south of Key West. They were allowed to dock in the marina, but were told there was a backlog of boats, and that they could not be processed until morning. Food was brought on board by the Coast Guard, and the party that had started in Cuba had turned into a bigger party that lasted well into the night.

It was a night that had changed Renaldo’s life. The marina was illuminated by underwater lights that lit up the water like an aquarium. Sitting on the edge of the boat, he’d watched schools of brightly colored fish swim past. Soon a shark appeared in the marina. It had gray, sandpapery skin, a blunt head, and a mouth filled with vicious teeth. The shark appeared to be in a daze, it’s movements lethargic. Suddenly, it snatched a smaller fish that had gotten too close, and swallowed it hole. The carnage happened so quickly, the other fish in the school didn’t notice, and did not try to escape.

The shark had killed the other fish all night long. In front of his eyes, he’d seen an animal kill without being caught. The trick was knowing how to fit into your surroundings, and not draw attention to yourself.

It had been a revelation for Renaldo. Right then, he’d decided to become a shark. He’d learn to blend in, and develop a killing style that was swift, and sure. He would not make the same mistakes he’d made in Havana, and get caught.

At dawn, he’d walked up to the front of the boat where Maria was dancing with the captain. They were sipping from a bottle of wine and pawing each other. They’d forgotten all about him, a fact that had infuriated Renaldo. He’d fought the urge to break the wine bottle on the side of the boat, and cut their heads off.

Instead, he’d started to clap his hands and shuffle his feet. When the dance was over, everyone on the boat had applauded. Maria had hugged him and kissed the top of his head, thinking somehow he’d been healed.

“What a wonderful boy,” the captain had said.

Renaldo had bottled up his rage toward the captain and his sister, and kept it inside for a month. During that time, he and his sister had moved to Fort Lauderdale and found an apartment. His sister had gotten a job as a waitress, and made a home for them. She had bought him new clothes and a motorbike, yet still his rage had remained.

One night over dinner, she had shown her brother a gold tennis bracelet hanging on her wrist. It was a present from her new boyfriend, she’d said. Renaldo had come around the table to have a look.

“How many times did you fuck him for that?” he’d asked.

“You ungrateful little bastard,” she’d said.

Picking up the knife from her plate, he’d grabbed his sister by the hair, and jerked her head back. Looking into her eyes, he’d kissed her forehead before slitting her throat. His new life in America had begun.