Heaven Is High (18 page)

“You believe the price of what happened today will be high,” Barbara said.

“Papa Pat will pay dearly.”

Barbara turned her gaze to the black jungle they were speeding past. “I believe that Binnie's life might have been saved today,” she said in a low voice.

He might not have heard. “My father spent the rest of his life working on the finca of a wealthy landowner, no longer free to roam the forests searching for a particular tree. He died a bitter man.”

A long silence followed his comments. There were few other cars on the road, which was not surprising, Barbara thought. Where was there to go to at night? Once or twice she heard the howler monkeys over the engine noise. She started to make her own plans for the coming days. Fly back to Los Angeles, and from there call Bailey, first order of business. Tuesday would be too early to expect an answer from the immigration people, but have him check with Patsy.

She was startled suddenly by the monkeys' howling that was close enough to drown out the engine noise.

When they left the howling behind, Robert said, “If they do that in the daylight, it could mean a lot of things. Two males competing for a female. Warning encroaching baboons to get out. They're territorial, claim possession of their own fifteen acres or so, and try to keep others away. There could be a poacher. They kidnap the babies and sell them on the black market. Or they could do it for the hell of it, just because they can. But at night it invariably means a predator is on the prowl and the warning often spreads far and wide. Jaguars hunt them, and keep their numbers under control.”

“No one here seems to hear them most of the time,” Barbara said. “How long does it take to get used to it?”

Robert laughed. “How long does it take to get used to jets flying overhead? Or train whistles? Or traffic noise on a freeway?”

“Touché,” she said.

“Barbara, just to let you know. I saw you react to what Anaia told us today. You were as surprised as I was, as Papa Pat was. I don't know what you two talked about and may never know, but it wasn't what she announced when she joined us.”

She was surprised now at how much relief she felt with his words. She had hated to think that Robert and Papa Pat would assume she had come here in order to concoct a lie, to collude with Anaia to lie for the benefit of her client.

“Thanks,” she said in a low voice. “I've been thinking about school,” she said. “Some teachers graded on the curve. You know? If the highest score is eighty-five, the lowest forty, then take the average and make it passing, and so on. Sometimes, often, in fact, a very high score had to be thrown out or the results would have been skewed in such a way that most in the class would have been marked as failing. It's like adding a millionaire to a group of average-salaried people and deciding the average wage is much higher than it really is. The law is like that in a strange way. It serves the majority very well, but there are always a few who don't fit the pattern. What to do about those few can present a dilemma. Laws can't be written for the oddball individuals, yet to apply standard law to them is to do a great injustice.”

After a moment Robert said, “Two more rivers come together to create a great turbulence.”

“Your grandfather was a very wise man,” she said. And afterward, she thought, accept the struggle with turbulence, the long hours of inner debate without ever arriving at a definitive answer. Neither spoke again until there was the glow of lights ahead. They were nearing Belize City.

“Late next week,” Robert said, “we'll give you a call. After Anaia's attorney presses her claim on the property, after we know how Julius will react.”

“I'll want to hear,” she said. “And I'll keep Binnie informed. Robert, will Anaia be safe after the court proceedings? Julius won't have the pressing urgency to eliminate her, but is that enough? I'm very concerned about Binnie's safety, of course, but will Anaia be able to come out of hiding, assume ownership?”

He took his time in answering. Finally he said, “I think it depends a lot on Julius. And it depends on whether Binnie is kept safe. I don't know.”

“Then keep her in hiding,” Barbara said.

The diffuse lights ahead began to take on shapes and more cars were appearing on the highway, lights in the blackness of the jungle. Then they were in town. Robert drove to a hotel not far from the shopping mall Philip had pointed out as one she should visit.

“You can get a taxi there,” Robert said. “I'll go down the block a bit and let you out, and I'll wait to see that you get in a taxi. Take care, Barbara. Be very careful. And get out of Belize as fast as you can.”

When he pulled in at the curb he leaned over and kissed her cheek. “Godspeed,” he said.

*   *   *

At her hotel, as she got out of the taxi, she saw Gabe Newhouse talking to a man on the sidewalk. Gabe waved to her, then came to her side. “Barbara, the broncos have invited us to a feast of lobsters they caught on the reef today. The kitchen agreed to prepare them for nine o'clock. Please join us.”

“Thanks,” she said. “It sounds wonderful.”

He grinned. “See you later.”

She entered the hotel and he returned to the conversation he had been having. She went to her room, scanned the room service menu, then ordered coffee and a scone. She was incredibly tired, she realized, eyeing the bed. It was twenty minutes before seven and a nap was out of the question. She would sleep just long enough to stay awake half the night. What she really needed was a shower, a cup of coffee, and to deal with an airline reservation person, who was bound to turn a simple transaction into a hassle.

She put that part off until the coffee was delivered. The airline business became as complicated as she had feared it would. There would be a charge for the change, she would have to check in an hour before boarding began to complete the purchase, and on and on, she thought with irritation. Finally she repeated her credit card number, which they already had, and it was finished. There would be a two-hour wait in Mexico City, followed by a five-hour wait in Los Angeles for her two connecting flights. Another hellish day was shaping up on Tuesday.

Scowling, she bit into the scone and found it dry and tasteless. She ate it anyway. It had been a long time since lunch, and would be a long time before real food. She had little faith in dinner at nine o'clock.

*   *   *

At eight that night Barbara stood at the entrance to the terrace, scanning the patrons. If the broncos were there already, she had decided, she'd skip it and have a glass of wine in the bar. She was in no mood to put up with their chatter. She had already decided to skip the lobster feast and have dinner in her room later, probably out on her balcony, where she could see the lights on the water.

David Grinwald came to her side and paused. “I don't think Gabe or the boys are here yet. Are you up for sharing a table for two? I won't talk if you don't.”

“You too? Looking for a quiet time?”

“Yep. Let's get that one over by the potted whatever it is.”

The table he pointed to was on the far side of the terrace, was dimly lighted and too small for a group of five. “That looks just right,” she said.

A waiter who was not Henry came to the table almost as soon as they were seated. David ordered beer, chips, and guacamole, and Barbara the Argentinean wine Gabe had provided before. To her relief, David evidently meant it about quiet time. Neither talked while they waited for the drinks. The strolling guitarists singing about lost love wandered around, and she was grateful for David's presence. She suspected that the troubadours would have serenaded her endlessly if she had been alone.

They were served. The chips were unlike any she had ever had, and David said they sliced real potatoes and deep-fried them in palm oil. She said, “Yum,” and silence returned.

Then, to her regret, Gabe came to the table. “Mind?” he asked.

“Not at all,” Barbara said.

“I've been arguing with Fitz,” Gabe said. “He wants to shove off and I want to wait a few more days. You don't want to argue with the skipper of your boat if you can avoid it. He can spot high seas miles away, and he'll sail into them in retaliation.”

Their waiter came with a bottle of wine and a platter of steaming pastries.

“I caught him at the door,” Gabe said. “Savories. Good stuff.” He bit into one, then said, “Fitz thinks I'm planning on making a new picture, and he's dead wrong. Done with all that. I'm just curious about how that little Shakespearean drama I mentioned before will play out on Wednesday. Will the evil uncle hold off the sheriff of Nottingham with an arsenal and gallant fighters at his side, Alamo-style?” He laughed and shook his head. “Mixing stories. A director's prerogative. Do they have a SWAT team here? I wonder. Storm the barricades if he won't come out with his hands up? Lob in tear gas? Is the beautiful heiress still hiding out in the trackless jungle? Living in a tree house, à la Jane? Befriended by black howler monkeys? I guess that's too kitschy even for me. Skip that part.”

David looked at Barbara and smiled apologetically, as if to say so much for quiet time.

“Maybe the beautiful heiress should confront the evil uncle herself,” Gabe said. “Beat him to the draw and shoot him dead, crying, ‘Take that! You're guilty of fratricide!' ” He looked thoughtful, then laughed. “Guess not. Sounds ghoulish, doesn't it? Making a story for entertainment when there's real pain and suffering. But that's the grist for the mill for directors. And writers. Also defense attorneys,” he added. “How many people would be out of jobs if they didn't use the pain and suffering of others one way or another?”

“Some people use others for little more than profit,” Barbara said, “and some see the pain and suffering and try to ease it. Like doctors and nurses. And some defense attorneys.”

She looked at David and asked, “Were you out diving again today?”

“Not me. I was shooting birds. At the sanctuary. Shorebirds mostly, but cockatiels and parrots, birds of paradise. Quite a few that someone else will have to identify for me. The hummingbirds are getting ready to head out, migrate back north. That's a miracle, far as I'm concerned. An eighth of an ounce of feathers, two, three thousand miles to go, and they grit their little teeth and just do it.”

She laughed. “Giving them teeth is the real miracle.” Glancing at her watch then, she said, “I'm off. Enjoy your dinner.”

“You're not staying?” Gabe asked in consternation. “Barbara, I offended you. I'm sorry, truly sorry. Not my intention at all.”

“No offense,” she said. “I'm tired. I guess the heat is taking a toll. I didn't plan to stay any longer than it took to enjoy a glass of wine. Good night, Gabe, David.”

In her room a few minutes later, she turned off the lights and went out to her balcony to sit and wait until it was late enough to order dinner from room service.

Gabe had baited her, she thought. But why? What was he after? And more important, whose side was he on? She watched lights that appeared uneasy on the water, never still, bobbing up, down, to one side, then the other. She frowned at a knock on her door, reentered her room, and turned the light on, then at the door she hesitated before opening it. A waiter holding a tray with a bucket of ice, a bottle of wine, and a wineglass was there. A card was propped up by the glass.

“Mr. Newhouse's compliments,” he said. “May I open it for you?” At her nod, he put the tray on the table, opened the wine, and returned the bottle to the ice. He ducked his head in a bow, and left.

She read the card: “Barbara, my most sincere apologies.”

She poured a glass of wine, turned the light off again, and went back to the balcony. “What the hell is he up to?” she muttered, and sipped the excellent wine.

17

Barbara nodded at her reflection in the mirror that Sunday. Wide-brimmed hat, sunglasses, sandals, big bag with water and a book, and to hold little things she might buy along the way, the perfect image of an American tourist. Today she was just that and nothing else, American tourist out sightseeing, starting with the botanical gardens. She might even buy a blouse, she thought, if the stores were open. At the rate she was going through the lightweight clothes she had brought with her, she would run out or have to find a Laundromat. Just until Tuesday morning, she told herself. One blouse for one more full day, then fly north like the hummingbirds.

She got a taxi outside the hotel, a real automobile, not a Jeep. On the way to the gardens, they passed a scene of mild chaos, with music, a lot of people, booths, awnings, children running around.

“What's going on there?” she asked.

“An open-air market. All day Sunday. Good music, food, art, all kinds of things. You want to stop?”

“No,” she said. “What time does it close?”

The driver laughed. “No one knows. Eight, nine, when they get tired or no one comes. No rules.”

Later, she thought. She would go there after a few hours at the gardens, where she planned to stroll about for a time, then find a place to sit in the shade and read. It was too hot to walk the way she did at home.

She had to admit that the gardens were beautiful, laid out in intriguing ways, with plants she never had seen before as well as familiar ones. The orchid display did not excite her. It was disappointingly meager compared to the abundance of orchids at the Santos finca. Paths wound about, with rock formations, water features, lotus blossoms with heady perfume, regimented plantings of colorful flowers, followed by a wild profusion of blooms whose order could be discerned with careful study but was not immediately seen. As lovely as it all was, what she really wanted was a bench in the shade.

She spotted such a bench near a small waterfall, and sat down gratefully. Enough sightseeing, she told herself, and opened
Four Quartets
by T. S. Eliot. It was a slim book, a reliable travel book, one she usually could open anywhere and get caught up in the language and the complexity. That day her mind kept straying from the page before her. She should have given Anaia a few more suggestions about the will. God only knew what she would come up with, how valid it would be. What if she had been spotted sneaking into her own house in Belmopan? If anything happened to her, would Barbara even know about it until days later, after she was back in Eugene?