The water in the bay was black, with the lights from the town sparkling over its calm surface, and her pale limbs swishing beneath her looked ghostly. She removed her flip-flops and slid them onto her hands, both to keep them from floating away and to assist in her mobility. She started with breaststroke to get clear of the boat, praying that nobody noticed her absence, her ears listening for the sound of worried voices calling to her, or for some kind of alarm. Then, sure she hadn’t been noticed, Cassidy switched to freestyle, pausing now and then to check her progress. The lights from shore didn’t seem to be getting any closer, and Cassidy was beginning to wonder if indeed she was caught in some kind of strange current, when the details of the restaurants and people strolling the beach began to focus.
Finally, dripping wet, she emerged from the water, and looked both ways. Thankfully, no one seemed to notice her. She squeezed out her hair and wiped her face, still watching for the shadows to jump out at her. With a quick pause to slide her feet into her soaked sandals, she set off towards the streets.
Fourteen
Cassidy waited in the shadow of a restaurant, watching the busy thoroughfare along the street for signs of the tan car or anyone who might be watching her. She imagined a stocky man in a dark suit picking his teeth with a switchblade, his steely eyes glued to the water’s edge, instead she saw only regular-looking tourists and locals going about their business.
Linking shadows, she made her way back toward the Uno. Once she was on the same street, she moved purposely, pausing every now and then to make sure she wasn’t being followed. She felt ridiculous, but her heart pounded with the firm belief that she was in danger.
She chose to wait on an opposite corner, with a good vantage of the Uno. Across the road, a faded orange awning hung over the window of a small mercado. Next to it stood the synagogue with its faded star of David, and wedged between it and a bland-colored building was a closed fruit stand with a colorful storefront. On Cassidy’s side of the street, a rising bank of weeds and spindly, flowering trees covered the ground.
Cassidy shifted her feet on the shady, cracked sidewalk. She checked her watch—her hour was up. She scanned the activity at the Uno but nothing caught her eye.
She knew the Uno might not be the meeting place, but with no other leads, there was nothing else to do but wait.
What would she do if someone actually did show up?
Cassidy realized the stupidity of her plan. She remembered Benita’s comment: you packing?
A steady stream of people strolled the streets: a mix of tourists in bright vacation wear and flip-flops, sunburned and in various states of inebriation; and locals, the women in tight jeans and tops, wearing worn flats or heels, and the men in soccer-style sweatpants or faded chinos and T-shirts. The locals seemed to be in no hurry, stopping to chat, while the tourists rushed here and there, as if their vacation was a checklist with an endless column of boxes.
Groups of young, backpacker types entered the Chabad House. Cassidy wondered if it was a hostel, or some kind of community center. Could there be that many Jewish tourists in Nicaragua?
Across the street, the mercado’s television blared some kind of telenovella. Cassidy could just make out the flashes of color, which looked grainy even from her vantage point. She checked her watch again and realized with dismay that the time for the meeting had passed with no suspicious activity. The cars and trucks at the Uno came in; drivers filled their tanks, then drove off. After another half hour of waiting, the setting sun chilling her still damp skin, Cassidy admitted defeat.
She turned to go, keeping to the shadows. She realized that it had been a long shot, coming back, but deep down inside her lived a tiny sliver of hope.
Ahead of her on the sidewalk, three men stood talking. A car with the hood up rested against the curb, and two of the men were talking loudly, gesturing to the vehicle. One of the men looked more and more angry. Cassidy decided to cross the street, and then fell in behind a large group of teens and a set of adults she assumed were chaperones. Cassidy stole a look over her shoulder. Had one of the arguing men looked at her strangely? Should she have returned to the shore via a different route?
The group of youngsters in front of her disappeared through an open doorway, and Cassidy, feeling exposed, followed them. Inside, a small entryway led to a large open room set up with long tables, where some kind of banquette-style meal was taking place. A few of the guests wore yarmulkes; servers wore a kind of white sleeveless tunic and black pants. A tall man with a frizzy white beard and dressed in a long, black outfit moved about the tables, greeting and nodding to the diners. Even though Cassidy had never actually seen a Rabbi in person, this man had to be one. The vibe was friendly, with a steady hum of conversation and laughter filling the room.
“Welcome to Chabad House,” a young man with dark hair, large glasses, and a wiry beard said to her at the entryway. The people that had been ahead
