Without that role, what was I doing here?
I looked around for Harve, as if he could offer me guidance. But he was gone. He’d scooped up the massive pile of discovery documents and hustled to the next courtroom, the next case.
I walked slowly out of the massive marble building onto the busy downtown street. There was a formal garden, filled with yellow and bronze chrysanthemums, surrounding a statue of William McKinley, one of Ohio’s contributions to the presidency. A maple tree with half green and half rusty-orange leaves waved in the brisk breeze. The sky was a bright postcard blue, with little white cloud masses scudding along.
Nature. I was actually noticing nature for the first time since I’d stepped off the plane. The hard knot of fear in my stomach was beginning to melt. Ron was not going to jail. Ron was safe.
But Jan wasn’t. Jan wasn’t safe from Luke Stoddard, and she wasn’t safe from whoever had tried to batter her to death.
And now she was conscious. Now she was aware. And the closer she came to regaining her memory, the greater would be her danger.
I wasn’t going anywhere. Not until I knew who had attacked Jan and who had killed Kenny and what really happened to Dale Krepke out on that lonely road.
I got into the little red rental car and drove toward the hospital. As I waited for a light to change on Monroe Street, I realized why I’d been so insistent on making Luke Stoddard explain his sudden dismissal of the charges against Ron.
I wanted him to tell me, in no uncertain terms, that it wasn’t because Ron had made a deal with the feds back in the summer of 1969.
The light changed. I surged forward in the jackrabbit style favored by those who have driven the streets of New York City.
Ron hadn’t wanted to get involved with the parathion demo. Not really. He’d done it because I was going to do it come hell or high water, and he wasn’t the kind of older brother who’d let me do it alone.
Had he arranged for us to be arrested before any real damage could be done? Had he called the cops on us?
For our own good, of course. More to the point, for my own good.
I didn’t believe it. I didn’t want to believe it. But it wasn’t as completely impossible as I’d insisted to Ted.
What was impossible was that Ron would have handed a poisoned joint to a sixteen-year-old kid.
I parked the car and took the familiar path through the lobby to the elevator leading to the ICU.
Jan was awake, propped up in bed by pillows, her head still held in place by a brace. Ron’s chair sat as close as possible to the bed and his hand rested on her bare arm. The expression on her face was meant to be a smile, but one side of her mouth drooped and saliva drooled down her chin.
“How is she?” I supposed I was talking to Ron, but Jan herself said, “O-ay.”
Since she couldn’t turn her head, I conveyed my skepticism to Ron with a facial expression. His almost imperceptible nod reassured me.
I mouthed the words What year is it?
Now Ron frowned slightly. So it was still 1982.
Which might not be all bad. Maybe Jan couldn’t tell us who’d hit her on the head two nights ago, but she ought to be able to fill in a blank or two regarding the death of Dale Krepke.
I pulled a chair over to Ron’s side of the bed and placed it in what I took to be Jan’s line of sight.
Some of the swelling in her face had gone down, but there were railroad-track stitches along her shaved scalp and the bruises had turned yellow and purple. I swallowed hard and worked at treating her like an intelligent adult in spite of her obvious limitations.
“You were taking Joaquín Baltasar to—”
She tried to shake her head. Since she couldn’t move, her neck muscles bulged. She flailed her arms and moaned, “Noooooo.”
“No, you weren’t? But Harve said—”
“Nnnnn-aaaaaakeeeen. Caaaaaaa-daaaaaa-saaay.” Jan’s face wore an intent expression that begged me to understand.
“Yeah, you wanted to get Joaquín to Canada,” I said. “We know that part.”
More frantic hand-shaking. Ron lifted his hand and caught one of hers. “Relax, Jan. Please.”
“Maaaaaa. Naaaaaaa. Waaaakeeee.” Now her tone was purely annoyed, as though she couldn’t believe she was talking to people who were this dense.
“Does Waaa-keee mean Joaquín?” Ron asked.
Jan’s face relaxed into a relieved smile. “Eeeeess.”
At this rate, it would take us three weeks to figure out what Jan was trying to say. I opened my mouth to try another question when my beeper vibrated.
“Back in a minute,” I said. In truth, I hoped that Ron would have more luck than I and that I’d come back to find him in full possession of Jan’s message.
“Law offices of Harvey Sobel,” a deep female voice said after three rings.
“Dana?”
“Who is—oh, Cassie. Harve’s right here.”
“Wait, I—” But the clank of receiver on desk top told me to save my breath.
Harve’s rich, phlegmy baritone greeted me. “Cassie. Two things I thought you should know. One: Koeppler had a wiretap warrant in ’82. Planted a bug at Our Lady of Guadalupe. Two: Stoddard dropped the case against Ron after he got a call from bigwigs in Washington.”
“FBI?”
“I don’t know. All I do know is that he was told to make this whole thing go away. He called to offer me a very sweet deal for Jan. As soon as she’s able to talk, I’ll tell her about it.”
“Actually, she’s doing pretty well for somebody who thinks Ronald Reagan is still president.”
The old lawyer rumbled a laugh. “Poor kid,” he said. “I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy.”
When I got back to Jan’s room, Father Jerry had joined the team. He sat in the chair I’d vacated, asking Jan more or less the same questions I had. With, it seemed, little better luck. Jan’s face was screwed into an expression of frustrated urgency. Whatever she was trying to say, it was of vital importance in her battered mind.
“Caaaaaa,” she said and paused. Then she opened her mouth again. “Neeeeyaaaa.” Another pause. “Daaaaaa.” She fixed Father Jerry with pleading eyes. “Saaaaaay.”
He repeated her sounds, one by one. “Ca. Neeya. Da. Say.”
“Essss. Naaaa. Waaakeeeen.”
“You were taking Joaquín—”
“Naaaaaattt. Keeeen.” She struck at her hips with her flailing fists, willing us to understand.
“Sounds like she’s saying ‘not Joaquín,’” Ron pointed out.
Jan’s face melted into delighted agreement. “Essss. Essss. Yeeee-essss.”
“Now all we need is the other part,” I said.
“I’m not sure,” the priest began, “but maybe—” He leaned closer to Jan. “I think she’s saying ‘Caña Dulce.’”
Tears started in the blue eyes and spilled unheeded down her cheeks. “Essss. Esssss. Caaaa Daaaa Saay.”
“Sugar cane?” I turned to the priest. “But why would she be talking about—”
“It’s a name.” Father Jerry looked at Ron. “Remember?”
Ron nodded. His face was grim.
“Will somebody tell me what’s going on?”
“Caña Dulce was listed with Amnesty International as one of the worst torturers in Guatemala,” the priest said. His face wore a troubled expression. “He killed three Jesuit priests. The sad thing,” he continued, shaking his head, “is that our own CIA trained him.”
“So Jan’s saying—”
Ron finished my thought. “That the man we thought was Joaquín Baltasar was really Caña Dulce.”
I flashed back to Dana’s account of the extra refugees, the ones who carried guns. She’d said Rap made night trips; what if he was ferrying the death squad torturers to Canada?
And what if the federal agency that pressured Stoddard into settling Jan’s case wasn’t the FBI but the CIA?
Which raised another, very pressing, question: Assuming any of
this was true, who could we tell? Who could we trust?
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Who could we trust? If Harve was right, this conspiracy went all the way to Washington. So it was unlikely that Ohio state troopers or lower court federal judges or the county sheriff was going to be able to help. Assuming, that is, that they’d even listen to wild talk about CIA operatives spiriting a Central American priest killer across the border.
When I returned to Jan’s room, she was asleep. Worn out from the ordeal of making us understand.
I wheeled Ron’s chair into the hall and told him what I’d learned. “We might try Wes,” I said tentatively. “He’d know the right people.”
The look on Ron’s face convinced me that I was grasping at straws. He pursed his lips and said, “Well, there’s always the press.”
I nodded. Memories of Watergate flooded my mind. When all else fails, there’s Woodward and Bernstein. “I’ll try to get Ted on the phone.”
Ron raised a single eyebrow. “You think the Plain Dealer has enough clout to—”
“I don’t know,” I called over my shoulder as I made for the phones, “but he’s the only reporter we know.”
I called the number Ted had given me. From the background noise, I deduced he was talking from his car phone. I explained what I’d learned and concluded, “It’s got to be Rap, doesn’t it? He probably got caught running drugs back in ’68 or ’69 and cut a deal with the feds.” I felt oddly disappointed. For all his dangerous ruthlessness, Rap had been tender with me the night I got drunk and maudlin.
“Listen,” Ted said when I finished, “there’s a guy I consider the best political editor in the Midwest. He’s got contacts in Washington. Let’s lay this whole thing on him and see if he has any suggestions.”
“I don’t know,” I replied. Now that I had Ted’s attention, I wasn’t sure this was the best way to handle things. I was beginning to feel like one of those people in science fiction movies trying to warn everyone about the pods.
“Where are you?”
“At the hospital.”
“I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
He made it in seven. Ron and I were in the hall outside Jan’s room. Father Jerry was on another floor, visiting a parishioner who’d suffered a stroke.
Ted strode up to us. “I called my friend on the car phone. He’s at the Bayview Yacht Club. I thought we could meet there. It’s as good a place as any to talk.”
I picked my bag up and prepared to leave. Ron said, “I’ll go with you.”
I wanted to object. I wanted to protect my brother from whatever was going on. But I saw the stubborn set of his jaw, the glint in his eye. He wasn’t going to listen. “Okay,” I said. “Let’s get Zack and—”
Ron shook his head. “We don’t need Zack. I gave him the afternoon off, since I expected to be here with Jan. But since she’s sleeping, she doesn’t need me.”
“But how will we get you in the van?” And what if there’s something else you need, something I don’t know how to do?
“Cass, the van has electric controls. You push a button and I’m inside. No big deal. I’ll walk you through it.”
The van Ron called the Quadmobile was parked in the nearest handicap spot. I noted that Zack had affixed the Star Trek bumper sticker next to the one from the Disabled American Vets.
“The keys are in my pouch,” Ron said. I reached into the fanny pack strapped around his waist, took them out and opened the door. I slid into the driver’s seat and pulled the lever that opened the rear doors. Then I hit the red button that lowered the platform.
It whirred as it stretched from the back of the van, then slid down to the pavement. I wheeled the chair onto the platform and locked Ron in place with the oversized seat belt, following Ron’s instructions. Then I went back and raised the platform.
I gave the keys to Ted. “Since you know where we’re going, you might as well drive.” I walked around to the passenger’s side and hoisted myself up onto the seat.
The yacht club was located on Maumee Bay, which connected the Maumee River with Lake Erie. As we approached, a breeze blew off the water, carrying the musky smell I associated with Lake Erie. Ron and I had grown up on the other side of the lake, but it was the same smell.
Across the bay stood the gasworks, their flames flickering like St. Elmo’s fire in the overcast gray day. It was an odd contrast: the golf green, the yacht harbor, the accoutrements of wealth and privilege, and in the distance a reminder of the industrial base that made it all possible.
We passed green and white signs marked Bayview. “Hey, shouldn’t we turn here?” The park was green and inviting; I glimpsed masts and a big white building on the shoreline.
“Rap lives near here,” Ted replied. “I thought we might go to his place and check out a few things.”
“Are you crazy?” I inclined my head toward Ron, strapped into the back of the van. “You want to take Ron and me out to a killer’s house just so you can get a story?”
“He’s not there,” Ted replied. “Dana said he went to Michigan last night.”
“Ted, turn this damn van around and take us to the yacht club. This is too dangerous.” I pounded on the dashboard like a kid demanding an ice cream cone.
“We’ll just drive past his house,” Ted said. “If his car’s there, I’ll come back. I promise.”
I glanced back at Ron. His face wore a worried look that matched my mood exactly.
“Ted,” Ron said, “turn around.”
“We’re almost there,” Ted replied. We turned onto a street lined with white clapboard houses and headed north. “He lives on the Lost Peninsula.”
Ted’s conversational tone relaxed me a little, although I was angry at him for not obeying Ron. “That’s an odd name,” I said.
“It’s called that because the state line between Ohio and Michigan runs through it. So whenever a tornado hits,” Ted said, “each state claims it belongs to the other, so it takes forever for anything to get fixed.”
I was beginning to picture Rap’s house as a smuggler’s cave, but the houses stayed normal-looking, except that the backyards ended at water’s edge and boats were as common as cars. And it was the last house on its street, a good quarter mile from its next door neighbor. But then, I reasoned, Rap was Coyote, and he could blend in when it suited him. Even to the point of having a white picket fence around his lair.
There was no car in the driveway, which reassured me slightly. Maybe Rap really was in Michigan.
Something Harve had said on the phone was trying to break through to me. Something that changed everything.
We passed the last house.
“Ted, there aren’t any more houses,” I said, my voice quavering.
“He lives just up the road,” Ted replied.
Wiretaps. Walt Koeppler had wiretapped the church. He’d bugged the sanctuary movement.
Which meant he hadn’t needed an inside informer to find out what was going on.
And if he’d had an inside informer already, why would he have made a deal with Dana?
More than that, if he’d had someone inside the movement, he’d have known that Dana was setting him up when she told him when they’d be moving the man they’d known as Joaquín Baltasar.
There was no informer in 1982.
I’d narrowed my suspects to those members of our 1969 group who’d been in northwest Ohio in 1982 on the theory that the same informer who’d betrayed us and killed Kenny was active in the sanctuary movement, but that no longer had to be the case.
Which left the one member of the group I’d never really considered.
And, I realized, stealing a sidelong glance at Ted, that person was also the last American journalist to interview Joaquín Baltasar.
His article in Newsweek established Caña Dulce as Joaquín. From there, the sanctuary movement simply did what it would have done for the real Joaquín.
I leaned my head back on the car seat, trying to remain still, trying not
to alert Ted to the fact that tumblers were falling into place in my brain.
Kenny’s notebook had named Ron as the 1969 informer, a charge I’d rejected out of hand. But looking back, I realized Ted had orchestrated the entire search for the notebook and the translation of Kenny’s code.
There was one more house. A neat little white clapboard Cape Cod with bushes and flowers and lawn. Ted pointed and said, “There it is.”
Kenny had trusted his killer. I’d considered Wes in that role, since Kenny had idolized the Golden Boy, but the hemostat had gone a long way toward convincing me that someone other than Wes had left it on the scene. But who else would he have trusted so naively?
Not Rap. If Mercury had appeared under the weeping beech, offering him the magic twanger, Kenny would have run the other way. Tarky, too, would have put the kid on alert.
But Ted, the man who’d given him the steno pad in the first place, was eminently trustable.
After all, hadn’t I trusted him? Weren’t Ron and I in this situation because Ted was the guy next door?
Cold sweat prickled my skin. I’d been worried about Ted taking Ron and me to Rap’s, afraid that he was taking us into Coyote’s lair. But the reality was even worse. We were in the hands of a killer, and he’d driven us to Rap’s empty house because it was a nice, lonely place far away from help.
Maybe I could keep up a pretense of ignorance. After all, I’d been doing a great imitation of a person who had no idea what was going on. Of course, it was easier to do that when you were completely in the dark.
“Well, it looks like Rap isn’t here,” I said, trying to sound as if I still believed Ted’s cover story. “I guess we can go see your friend at the yacht club now.”
“Get out of the van, Cassie,” Ted said. A hard metal thing prodded me. If it wasn’t a gun, it felt enough like one that I opened the door and slid out.
I glanced at Ron. The white plastic medallion was around his neck. I hoped he’d been able to push it. But his hand was moving toward it with agonizing slowness. Could he reach it before Ted saw what he was—
Ted reached in through the rear doors of the van, which he’d opened from the driver’s seat. “You won’t be needing this,” he said. He pulled a Swiss army knife out of his pants pocket. I caught a glimpse of metal in his waistband. He did have a gun.
Troubled Waters Page 24
