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I worry that I won't get all this down, that before I'm able to do so I'll run out of either paper or life. In my current state of mind, I view the former with as much tragedy as I do the latter, since there would then be no way of telling the why of what happened, what it was that led Nicola and me to this. You see, we were pushed by separate demons.
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The first thing you see is the bloody fingerprints, a cover smeared with them. Flip to any page and chances are you'll see them again-blood must have been in this guy's face all the time he was writing the diary. Blood mixed with ocean salt then baked by a tropical sun. There was artistry in how it melted into the light tan of the cover.
Alex brushed his fingers over the diary's surface as if in appreciation of the delicacy with which its contents, gruesome to say the least, must be handled. In time he moved to massage his unshaven face, a face that mirrored a private anguish that the diary's young author, Carl McCormic, would never know.
If the contents of the diary were to become known, even to others within the Company, the shit would hit more fans then he could count. Alex was sure his younger partner knew this as well. Like himself, Noel would want the thing squelched, and if that meant squelching the author at the same time, then that's the way it would have to be.
Who would know? Only three people in the world were aware of the diary's existence: himself, Noel, and the Cuban who found it, a Company man who was smart enough to pocket the damn thing before anyone saw it. That diary was trouble, big trouble, and if, God forbid, the public got wind of it, tons of fingers would point to the Company and scream bloody murder-dammit, it always worked out that way! And the irony is, the United States wasn't even involved.
Damn!
Thinking of the father-who still had to be dealt with-Alex gave a quick shrug of dismissal. Like his errant son, Pat McCormic had brought it on himself. An ex-cop, he should have known better. He's lucky others were willing to hush it up. With a scowl that made no attempt to hide his contempt, Alex stared at the closed door beyond which sat a tired and defeated old man. Captain Pat, they called him in Philadelphia, the Pat a clumsy play on pat-ience, something the guy was supposed to know nothing about. McCormic would have to be told something, but what? How could blame be hurled at him unless he was also told what his son had done?
There was no confirmation from Cuba as yet, nothing to indicate how its aging government was reacting to all this, whether they were still in shock or planning revenge-it was this last possibility that bothered Alex most of all: The possibility of a reaction from Cuba was good argument for passing the diary along. The Company did not like to be blindsided.
Alex turned to the beginning and began to read, as if in doing so again he could change what was there. As before, he chuckled at the writing, tiny with each page being used twice. Short on paper, McCormic had turned the diary ninety degrees and had patiently written over what he recorded earlier. Smart! He used a pen in one direction and a pencil in the other, thus making each stand out, easier to read. Only thing he didn't figure on was the seawater.
And, of course, the blood, some of which had to be hers.
Still not ready to bring in the older McCormic, Alex continued to scan the pages, seeing but not seeing, or at least not wanting to see. His brow paled with the pressure he exerted upon it as his eyes touched on the first mention of Nicola. Beautiful Nicola. Beautiful, troubled and deadly as hell.