Heaven Is High (32 page)

28

Bailey drove to a steak house in Springfield. “He's in there,” he said. “You want a burger? I'll get takeout. We can eat in the car.”

“God, yes! And coffee.” The restaurant had not yet opened that morning when she left the motel, and the piece of cold pizza left from the night before had proved to be inedible. She was ravenous.

Minutes later, with Martin in the backseat, Bailey began the long drive to Turner's Point. After reassuring Martin that Binnie had already been taken there, Barbara ate her hamburger before she got into the morning's events.

She twisted around enough to see Martin and Bailey both, and said, “Nicholson and Linfield are one and the same man. In the immigration office he's known as Linfield, but he still had that fake Nicholson ID, and it was still in his pocket. Sokolosky and I went to a conference room, leaving a marshal to watch Nicholson. He faked a heart attack and got a gun from a drawer in his desk and used it to slug the marshal. So he's on the loose. We don't know how many of the others the FBI or the marshals managed to grab. Meanwhile, Sokolosky and I came to a deal and the file for Binnie has been closed. That's over.”

“We don't have to go back?” Martin asked, almost disbelieving.

“Never. You have nothing to do with immigration and they have nothing to do with you. Done. Over. Finished.”

“How—? But—”

“She's a citizen, Martin. That's all there is to it. Both Bailey and I will poke around to try to find out if those other guys have been caught, or if Nicholson has been. But while there's still any uncertainty about that, it's best if Binnie doesn't surface yet. Can you both live with that for the time being?”

“Yes. Sure. But, Barbara, if they can't deport her, what else do you think they might try? Are you saying they might kill her? Or try to? Why would they if Santos can't get the farm? What's in it for them?”

He was leaning forward with both hands gripping the back of her seat as if he might rip it out from under her.

“Easy, Martin,” she said. “The problem is that we don't know yet if Santos has been booted out, if their orders have been rescinded. They could still be operating as if it's all still on, but we just don't know. I'll call someone I met in Belize to try to find out about Santos, but he might not know much yet, either.” Who that someone would be eluded her. No number for Gabe, and he was off-limits anyway. Not David. Not Anaia. No telling where she was. She could be in the jungle somewhere, in Belmopan, even at the finca. Not Papa Pat. No number for him, not even sure he had a telephone. She hadn't seen one. She let it go until later.

“Binnie's safe where she is,” she said, “that's what matters now. A question is how much do you want to tell her? That all but one of those goons might still be running around? Or that it's safe to get back to a normal life?”

“I can't say that, can I?”

“I don't think you can. I couldn't make that statement.”

“Yeah. We'll stay put for now. Tawna and James have been terrific and I know they won't object. And Binnie has to be told the truth. I don't lie to her.” He settled back in his seat. “You know what's funny? She was more afraid of being deported than of hired gunmen.”

Funny, Barbara thought, was hardly the word for it. She said, “For what it's worth, I don't think this will last very long. Those guys will be caught, or they'll pack their bags and take off fairly soon, I'm sure. As you said, what's in it for them to hang around if the game's over?”

Ronstadt, she thought then. She could call Ronstadt. He would know if his beloved orchids were in safe hands, in Anaia's hands.

*   *   *

When they arrived at the big house, Alan opened the door, saw who it was, and called over his shoulder, “It's okay. You can come out.” He grinned at Barbara, looked at Martin with a bit of awe, as if he wanted to ask for an autograph, and nodded to Bailey. In jeans, an oversized U of O sweatshirt, and sneakers, he looked as if he belonged in a classroom. “No problems,” he said. “She's been teaching me ASL.”

Binnie had emerged from a back room. When she saw Martin she raced to him and was swept up in his arms.

Barbara knew that brief separation of several hours was not the first time they had been apart since Binnie found him in Miami, but they acted as if it were.

“We won't stay very long,” she said to Binnie when her feet were on the floor again, her hand in his. “Martin can fill in the details, but I want to tell you that officially you no longer have anything to fear from the immigration people. That part is completely over and done with. In a few weeks you should apply for a Social Security card and a driver's license. You'll need to take your birth certificate with you. And when that's done, get a passport. You never know when you might want a passport on hand, a sudden yen to go traveling to Paris or something like that.”

Binnie's smile was radiant, her eyes luminous. She looked hesitant, but then seemed unable to restrain herself and almost threw herself at Barbara to hug her fiercely and kiss her cheek.

When she drew away she began to sign furiously to Martin and, laughing, he said, “Barbara, she wants to know what she can give you, do for you. Work for you, do anything. Keep your house clean, cut your grass…” He was laughing too much to continue and he took Binnie's flying hands in his and held them. “She gets the point,” he said to her.

Bailey made a grunting noise, cleared his throat, and said, “Barbara, your car keys for Alan. Remember? Do you know the license plate number?” She shook her head. He gave her a disapproving look and said to Alan, “It's a black Honda Civic, late model, rental car.” He looked at her again. “Do you know about where it's parked?”

“Almost dead center of the lot,” she said. “How many black rentals do you think might be in the lot?”

He scowled at her and drew Alan aside to give him further directions, after which Alan waved to them all and left with his jacket over his head.

Binnie signed to Martin. He nodded and said to Bailey, “She said he's sweet, and thank you for sending him to help out.”

Bailey had an expression of incredulity at the word “sweet” applied to his best operative, one he claimed was the best shot on the West Coast and as mean as a snake. “I'll tell him,” he said.

“We'll take off, too,” Barbara said. “You both have some plans to make about the future, I imagine. I'll be in touch just as soon as I find out anything at all, but it may not be until Monday. Weekends can be a problem. Even the crooks seem to prefer fishing or hiking or something instead of attending to business.”

*   *   *

In the car a little later, Bailey muttered, “Sweet! Jeez.”

“When this is really all over,” Barbara said, “if she tells me that you were sweet to help out, do you want me to pass it on to you?”

He floored the accelerator and the car shot forward. She laughed. “I get the point,” she said. “What are the chances of finding out anything from the feds?”

“Low,” he said, easing up on the gas. “I know a guy or two who might know something, might not. Depends on how much they want to keep everything quiet.”

“That's what I'm afraid of,” she said. “There's going to be pressure to keep things under the table for a long time. Two federal agencies involved means a hell of a lot of pressure. On the other hand, I have to know when it's safe to stick our heads aboveground again.”

It had occurred to her that even if Ronstadt knew what was happening in Belize, word might not get to the Eugene connection very fast. She frowned at the rain-obscured windshield. “You need new wipers.”

“Tell me about it,” he snapped.

When they were nearing Franklin Boulevard and her motel, she said, “As soon as Alan brings my car around, I think I'll check out and go to the coast. I'll go bonkers if I have to stay in that motel another night, a whole weekend. I'll leave my phone number on your answering machine when I get a room. Give me a call if and when you hear anything worth reporting.”

“You realize what the weather's like out there this weekend?” he asked.

She was looking at the rain running crazily down the windshield and she laughed. “I know exactly what it's like.”

*   *   *

On Sunday night Barbara sat wrapped in a blanket watching lights up and down the coast go out one by one. No boats had been at sea that stormy weekend, no lights out there, but luminous waves rose and crashed, rose and crashed high on the shore. She was tired, a good kind of tired, the kind that left her relaxed and at ease. That evening, coming down from a hike behind the campground at Strawberry Lookout, she had met two couples standing under a cover at the beginning of the trailhead. One of the young women had looked at her curiously and asked, “Did you go up there alone? Aren't you afraid alone like that?”

“There's nothing to be afraid of,” she had said. Wrong, of course. A fall, a predatory human being, a once-in-a-lifetime chance of coming across a bear, but no, she had not been afraid. It hadn't even been a real hike, since she had no boots or proper gear for a real hike with her on this trip. Her one concession to an impromptu coast trip had been to buy a rainproof hooded poncho that reached her ankles. She had walked miles on the beach, and twice up into the woods. Today's walk had been just a walk in the woods, her kind of woods, without snakes or jaguars, and certainly without alligators. She smiled to herself realizing that young woman had been the mirror image of how she had regarded the jungle in Belize. Yet Lavinia Santos had taken her two young daughters out there looking for orchids, and they called it a forest, not a jungle. That was their kind of forest, one in which they felt comfortable, a forest they loved.

If Binnie went down there to meet Anaia, would she be taken out into the forest to look for orchids? Feel the same kind of trepidation Barbara had felt?

She yawned. It was ten thirty and she was more than ready for bed. She pulled the drapes closed, remade the bed, replacing the blanket she had pulled off, and lay down, listening to the wind and rain, listening to the crashing waves. All the sounds became fainter and faded away within minutes.

She was already half awake when her phone rang the next morning at eight o'clock. She groped around for it, and muttered, “Hello.”

“You awake?” Bailey asked.

“Enough. What's going on?”

“All hell's broken loose. Double shooting overnight. Emerson and Linfield both got it in the head.”

“Jesus,” she muttered. “I'm leaving as soon as I can get my stuff together. Meet me at our favorite restaurant. I'll give you a call when I get into town. And bring everything you've got about the shootings, anything you can find out about it.”

Half an hour later she turned from the coast road inland to start the drive over the Coast Range and to Eugene. The rain had stopped overnight, leaving pockets of fog that had not yet burned off. The Siuslaw River was high with spring runoff, and there were stretches of roadway covered with water, making driving slow and treacherous. Logging trucks were already out. She cursed under her breath. Her sneakers had not dried out overnight and her feet were cold. The car heater seemed reluctant to release anything except cold air. She searched the radio dial for a signal and got static, or a Florence station, nothing from Eugene.

It was a slow drive all the way until she was close enough to town to call Bailey and leave a message that she would be there in another half hour or so. Linfield-Nicholson and Emerson, she kept thinking. Both of them just tools to be used, and when no longer needed, discarded? Finally she had a local station on her radio, but there was not a word about the killings. Disco music, fast-talking morning talk show hosts mouthing nonsense, national news …

She drove straight to the restaurant where they had met before, and as before Bailey was already in a rear booth with the remains of breakfast and a carafe of coffee still in place.

“Took you long enough,” he said in way of greeting.

“Tell all,” she said, and waved the waitress over.

“It was on TV this morning, and on the radio. Nothing in the newspaper yet. They were both in Marcos's house, shot in the back of the head, both of them sometime last night. Not a word about Marcos, if he was there, taken by the cops, nothing. And that's just about all I have.”

“Executions,” she said in a low voice.

He nodded. The waitress came and Barbara ordered coffee and toast.

“Anything about the rest of that gang?”

“Nada. Not a peep. They're playing it as close as I've ever seen. FBI case, up to now. But this was local, so our own boys in blue will be on the job and I might be able to get a scrap later on today.”

They became silent as the waitress appeared with Barbara's toast and coffee. Barbara found the card the FBI agent had given her. As soon as the waitress had asked the mandatory question, if everything was all right, and left almost before she was reassured that it was, Barbara said, “I have to make an appointment with the FBI. With any luck I can get in today and maybe they'll tell me something.” Bailey snorted and took a piece of her toast. She stood and went to a phone near the restroom doors, and placed the call.

“Today at two,” she said when she returned to the booth. “Good. I doubt that Martin and Binnie have heard a thing about all this yet. They don't seem the type to be listening to early morning radio, and TV out there is lousy. No newspaper until late in the day if then, unless Tawna or James picks up one. Let's leave it like that, not a word until we have something real to tell them.”

“What are you going to tell the FBI is more to the point, don't you think?” Bailey said.

“Whatever they want to know about Nicholson and my client. Nope, never heard of Emerson or Marcos, except what my private investigator told me on my return to Eugene this morning. And that was what he heard on the newscast. Period.”