Dead Man's Land Jack Patterson (classic novels txt) 📖

came a voice from behind Cal, accompanied by a firm slap on the back.

Cal turned around to see Jorge Campos, the official press liaison for Cuban baseball. Campos had corresponded with Cal briefly and welcomed the publicity.

“Buenos días,” Cal said.

“Buenos días, indeed,” Campos said, pointing toward the scoreboard.

Cal pointed at the field. “You know this isn’t fair, right?”

Campos laughed. “A baseball field is the only place in the world where everything is fair for everyone. The ball is round, the field is flat. And everything is the same no matter who you are.”

“Are you suggesting that baseball is a communist sport?” Cal asked with a wink.

A wry grin spread across Campos’ face. “It’s a sport that isn’t a respecter of nations. Anyone can win on a given day.”

“As long as you have good pitching,” Cal interjected.

“Or a lineup that hits the ball.” Campos smiled and nodded at the field.

Cal glanced at the scoreboard. The Grapefruit Cutters’ developmental team led 14-0 in the sixth inning. They had good hitting and pitching.

“So, can we talk?” Cal asked.

Campos nodded. “Sure. What questions do you have for me?”

Cal pulled out his notepad and digital recorder. “Can you describe for me the process by which you develop players here?”

Fifteen minutes—and two more runs—later, Cal got around to the point of his interview.

“So, what happened with Vicente Prado?”

Campos cocked his head to the side. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, why did two men seize him and bring him back to Cuba?”

Campos leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “He asked for our help. He wanted to come home.”

“He wanted to come home? Are you serious?” Cal didn’t wait for an answer. “I was with him when two armed men stormed a bus and chased us through the woods until they finally beat up a few FBI guys to take him. I’d hardly consider that just ‘wanting to come home.’ ”

Campos took a deep breath. “Perhaps you can ask him yourself in a few minutes.”

“Prado is here? Today?” Cal asked.

Campos nodded. “And he’s about to make a statement.” He gestured toward home plate, where Prado ambled toward a single microphone stand. “Watch.”

The mic squealed as Prado neared it. He backed away for a moment until the high-pitched sound died off.

“Many things have been said about me recently and I wanted to share with you the truth,” Prado began. His hands shook as he stared at the sheet of paper in front of him.

Cal glanced over at Kelly. He nodded at her, hoping she understood his desire for her to take a few pictures of the former Seafarers’ player. She nodded in return and aimed her lens at Prado.

Prado glanced up and continued reading his statement. “Against all wise counsel, I recently left Cuba to pursue an opportunity to play professional baseball in the United States of America. However, after arriving there, I discovered that it was not what I expected. The Cuban National Series is a far more competitive league—and Cuba is my home. I regret that I even entertained the idea of leaving. I humbly apologize to you, the fans of Isla de la Juventud, and hope that you can forgive me.”

The fans in the park stood up and applauded. Prado kept his head down as he walked back to the dugout, only looking up and waving to acknowledge the crowd.

Once Prado walked down the dugout steps and disappeared from sight, Cal turned to Campos. “Is there any way I can interview him for my story?”

Campos shrugged. “Perhaps I can arrange something before you leave. How long do you intend to stay here?”

“We’ll be on the island through Friday evening. Then we take a ferry back to the mainland.”

“Very well, then. I’ll make arrangements. I have your contact information and I’ll let you know if I can make that happen. We definitely want Prado’s side of the story to get out, not the lies being spread by the American media.”

Cal clenched his fists and kept his mouth shut.

No need to waste my breath arguing with a man who toes the party line.

Campos stood up. “Let me know if you need anything else while you’re here, Mr. Murphy.”

Cal stood up and thanked him before Campos walked away.

After the game ended, Kelly joined Cal in the stands before heading for the exit. He glanced back at the scoreboard. It was a Cuban rout, 22-1.

“At least Seattle Prep scored,” he said.

“On an error in the ninth,” Kelly snapped.

He leaned in close to Kelly. “And those Cuban kids are probably getting torn a new one for giving up that run as we speak.”

As they reached the street, a man came up behind them. “Don’t turn around. Just keep walking,” he said. “We don’t need to draw any suspicion since you’re being watched.”

Kelly instinctively started to turn before Cal grabbed her arm. “Keep your eyes straight ahead, honey, and don’t look back.”

They joined a mass of other fans at a nearby bus stop. That’s when the man pressed in closer.

Cal glanced at the man out of the corner of his eye. “Who are you?”

The man tugged on his fedora, pulling it lower over his face. “I’m going to follow you to your hotel. We need to talk.”

CHAPTER 30

PRADO STARED AT THE HANDCUFFS hanging from his wrists. Just a day earlier he seemed to be back in good graces with government officials. He read the lies they forced him to say. He played the part of the prodigal son, returned home from his foolish wanderings. He danced when they said dance. But his shackles belied that story on this Thursday morning. The truth was he was a prisoner and wondered if he’d ever really be free again.

He watched the steam rise from the cup of coffee in front of him. He didn’t know who put it there, but he needed it—though he would’ve preferred something much stronger, even if it was only ten o’clock. Before he could pick it up, another hand swooped in and