Birds of Summer (12 page)

Warning her again to be quiet, Summer boosted Sparrow into the window and then down to Nicky’s waiting arms. Then she climbed down herself. Nicky was moving away, motioning for them to follow. He led the way toward the trees, and she hurried after him, dragging a stumbling, sobbing Sparrow, her ears so full of the memory of the dog’s roaring bark that several times she startled, momentarily convinced that it had begun again.

At the edge of the clearing, Nicky turned to the right, away from the gate. Summer hesitated, wondering what he thought he was doing, until she remembered the spring path. A narrow passageway hacked out of the dense undergrowth, it led first to an artesian spring and then, after many windings, finally connected farther down the hill with the Fisher road. It was one way home, but a much longer, more roundabout way. She caught up with Nicky and grabbed his arm.

“Why can’t we go by the road?” she asked.

“The dog. He’ll be outside now. Tied near the summerhouse. They always leave him there after the last patrol. He’d hear you climb the gate.”

It was reason enough. Summer followed without further argument. A few yards down the narrow pathway, Nicky stopped and asked for the flashlight. Shining the light on the ground ahead of him, he went forward very carefully, a step at a time. “There it is,” he said. “See the wire? Don’t touch it. It sets off an alarm.” A thin wire, almost invisible in the darkness, stretched across the path, an inch or two off the ground.

When Sparrow and Summer had safely crossed the wire, Nicky handed Summer the flashlight and said, “I’m going back now. You’ll be all right from here.”

“Nicky.” Summer was feeling a lot less frightened now and a lot more curious. She shone the light right in his face and said, “I want to know what’s going on. It’s pot, isn’t it?”

Nicky looked warningly at Sparrow. “No. That is … I’ll tell you tomorrow.”

“I’m working tomorrow.”

“At Pardell’s?”

“Yes. At Pardell’s.”

After a moment’s hesitation Nicky seemed to come to a decision. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said and disappeared back down the trail.

It was at least an hour later that Summer and an exhausted, whimpering Sparrow climbed into bed. Only about five hours afterwards, they got up and left for Alvarro Bay. Sometime during those five hours Oriole had come home and gone to bed. Summer didn’t expect that she would get up to see them off—and she didn’t. So there was plenty of time on the trip into Alvarro Bay to impress Sparrow with the necessity of keeping quiet about what had happened. She did a thorough job of it, making sure that the list of people Sparrow was not to tell included everyone she might possibly meet in the course of the day—with Sparrow one had to be explicit. In front of the school she issued a final warning that left Sparrow wide-eyed and sober and then went on to the Pardells’. The rest of the morning was routine until, just before twelve noon, when Nicky showed up at the Pardells’ front door.

Summer was startled. For a lot of reasons, she hadn’t thought he would keep his word. And it had never occurred to her that he might show up at the Pardells’.

“Hi,” he said. “Want to go down to The Pelican for a sandwich?”

Summer looked toward the living room where Meg was conducting her last lesson before lunch. “I have to finish fixing Mrs. Pardell’s lunch, and then—” She stopped. If she hadn’t needed to know so badly, she might have said no, simply from long established habit. “Okay,” she said, instead. “Wait just a minute.”

It was past twelve when she finished putting Meg’s lunch on the table. In the living room the same phrase of mutilated melody was being repeated for the umpteenth time. Summer eased into the room to a spot just inside Meg’s range of vision.

“Yes?” She looked surprised. The passage of time always surprised Meg, particularly when she was teaching or playing. “Time’s up, already? Thank you, Summer. I guess that’s it ’til next week, Bobby.” Bobby, about ten years old and a not particularly enthusiastic musician, promptly disappeared. Meg listened to a brief explanation about an invitation to lunch at The Pelican, approved thoroughly, and a few minutes later Summer was walking down Mill Street with Nicky.

It was a typical summer day. The village was crawling with typical tourists. But there was nothing typical about Nicky’s behavior. Walking quickly with his hands stuffed into his pockets, he kept his eyes firmly on the ground, and for several minutes said nothing at all.

“Marina’s at home, isn’t she,” Summer said finally.

Nicky looked up frowning. “Did you tell Sparrow?” When she shook her head, he sighed with relief. “She’d give it away for sure.”

“I know.”

“Look. It will be hard to talk at The Pelican. I’ll get some sandwiches and meet you down by the old pier. Okay.” It was the kind of suggestion that Nicky had made and Summer had turned down dozens of times in the last couple of years; but this time his motives appeared to be different. And a little later, when he led the way to a secluded spot behind a sand dune, Summer followed. Although she could only guess at what he was going to say, she was quite certain that this time when he said he wanted to talk, talk was what he had in mind.

But what Nicky had to say didn’t come easily. Sitting crosslegged in the sand behind the sloping dune at the foot of the bluff, Summer nibbled on her egg salad sandwich, waiting for him to begin. For a long time he simply sat, hunched over, staring down at his sandwich, not talking or eating—or making any attempt to fool around. Nicky—whose various appetites were usually so up front. Once or twice he looked up briefly and shrugged with an unhappy smile that reminded Summer of the time, years before, when somebody stole his first bicycle. She reached out suddenly and squeezed his hand. His smile wobbled, he squeezed back and started talking.

“You’ve got to swear you won’t tell anybody.”

“Okay. I swear.”

He sighed, shook his head and began. “We’re in a lot of trouble.”

Summer was puzzled. Growing pot in large quantities had gotten lots of people in the county in trouble in the last few years; but the kind of trouble she’d heard about had mostly been fines and confiscation of the crop, with now and then a trial that ended in probations and deferred sentences. Some renters had been put off the land, but apart from some violent encounters between growers and would-be thieves, she hadn’t heard of anything very serious happening to landowners like the Fishers. “Because of the pot?” she asked.

“Well, yes. Because of the pot. But the real trouble is … See the way it happened was Jude told these dealers—I mean real professionals. At least to hear Bart tell it, Angelo’s been in on smuggling runs from Central America and big deals from eastern suppliers and drug wars and assassinations—the whole bit. Anyway, Jude met them, and they were talking about wanting to get in on the Mendocino action; and then the little nerd told them about our place and the greenhouses. They decided it would be a great place to grow a crop—you know, because the narc planes wouldn’t be able to spot it. Nobody would suspect anything because everyone knows about Mom’s winter berries and everything.”

“But Galya always said she’d never get involved with growing pot.”

“Yeah, I know. At first she and Dad both said no. But these guys kept on talking about how easy it would be and how much money we’d all make, and after a while they gave in. Then they all moved in, Jude and Angelo and the hulk.”

“Bart?”

“Yeah, him. The first thing they did was to make my folks take Marina out of school. They said it was just because she couldn’t be trusted to keep her mouth shut about what was going on; but pretty soon it was more like they were holding her hostage. And after my dad tried to back out on the whole deal, they began to keep Marina shut up in the house all the time with one of them watching her. They made my dad build that new gate, and recently they’ve strung tripper wires on all the paths around the clearing, like that one on the way to the spring. Every time my dad starts to object to anything, Angelo starts making threats—about how an accident could happen to Marina if the rest of us don’t cooperate.”

“My God,” Summer said.

“Yeah. I know.”

“Couldn’t you just go to the sheriff?”

“Dad’s afraid to. He says Angelo keeps telling him about how innocent people can get shot by accident in a raid, and how, if our place is raided, he has a feeling that it will be the innocent who will suffer. God, Summer. Jerry’s scared to death. You know how crazy he is about Marina. He’s absolutely paralyzed. All he can think about now is getting the crop harvested and getting rid of those terrorists without any of the family getting hurt. I’ve tried to talk him into letting me tell the narcs, but he won’t listen. I think if we knew just exactly when the raid was going to be, we could all hide or something just before and …”

Nicky was still talking, but Summer had lost track of exactly what he was saying. Her mind had gone blank, and a dark whirlpool of corrosive anxiety was beginning to spin in her stomach. She closed her eyes, fighting an almost overpowering urge to jump up and run.

“Summer?” Nicky was looking at her apprehensively. “What is it? What’s the matter?”

She shook her head, unable to speak, fighting the need to run until she found Oriole.

“Yeah,” Nicky said suddenly. He reached out toward her; and then, as if not knowing what kind of contact he wanted to make, he left his hand in midair. “Look. It’s not her fault. You know how she is about good-looking guys. And she doesn’t really know what’s going on. My mom hasn’t told her about the threats and everything. All she knows is what he’s told her, and he can be Mr. Nice-Guy when he wants to be. He had all of us fooled at first. Even Jerry, and you know how suspicious he is. Oh, she knows about the crop, of course, she helped plant it; but she just doesn’t have any idea about the rest of it. Come on, Summer. Snap out of it.”

She breathed deeply, letting in the fierce anger that could burn the panic away. “There are some things she knows.” The words sounded bitten. “She knows that he shot Cerbe.”

Nicky’s dark eyes narrowed, and something happened to his jawline. He slammed his fist down on his leg, tipping his sandwich into the sand. He stared at it for a moment, and then he picked it up and threw it a long way down the beach: two whole wheat flying saucers trailing a comet’s tail of roast beef particles. A startled sea gull skittered away, cocked its head and followed the trail, gulping greedily. Summer giggled hysterically, and Nicky put both arms around her. She stiffened, waiting for the next move, but it didn’t come.

“Damn him! Damn him to hell!” Nicky’s voice grated with bitter, frustrated anger; and almost of their own volition, Summer’s arms went around him. She shivered, and the shiver turned into a continuing inner commotion that she couldn’t quite identify. There was her own fear and anger, and Nicky’s, and the relief of sharing all of it. And the shock of finding that the relief was almost as fierce as the anger. At last Nicky sighed sharply and turned her loose so suddenly she almost fell over. Grabbing her by the shoulders, he shook her hard, frowning angrily.

“What am I going to do?” he demanded; but when she opened her mouth to answer, he shook her again and said, “Don’t tell me. I’ve got to decide myself. I’ve got to—” He let go of her shoulders and looked at his watch. “We’d better get back to The Pelican” he said urgently and jumped to his feet.

“Why?” Summer said.

“The nerd is picking me up there.” He looked at his watch. “In about fifteen minutes.”

“Did he bring you in to town?” Summer said in amazement.

“Yeah. He thinks people might start getting suspicious if Adam and I quit coming to town. So when he has to go someplace, he usually leaves one of us off here. We’re supposed to see our friends—act normal—talk to people to find out if anyone suspects. He tells us what we’re to talk about and what we’re not to talk about, every time he brings us in.”

They were halfway up the steep path that led up the bluff when Nicky suddenly pulled her to a stop. “Look, Summer. Remember you promised not to tell anyone. Not anyone. Particularly not Oriole. Even if she didn’t tell him, she couldn’t help acting different if she knew about the threats and everything. And he’d get it out of her. If he found out that she knew, he’d be sure that you did, too. So promise again—that you won’t say a word to anyone.”

“But what are you going to do?”

“I don’t know yet. Nothing maybe. But if I do decide to do anything I’ll let you know first.”

“Promise.”

“Well—okay. I promise.”

During the rest of the day, she refused to think about it. Instead she just kept very busy, a technique that, when successful, made it possible to at least postpone the panic. It was still there, the dark, mind-swallowing wave of anxiety, lurking behind the mental barricades, but for the moment at least it was not in control. And this time Meg was there to help—Meg and women’s lib and hand guns.

Meg was always into various political movements—Summer could remember seeing her manning a variety of sign-up tables—and two of her current favorites were women and guns. She was pro women and con guns. It just happened that her piano students for that afternoon were away on vacation and she was at loose ends and in the mood for conversation. So while Summer was working at the sink, Meg wheeled herself and her mending basket into the kitchen and began a debate. Summer took the opposite points of view, not through conviction, but because she was good at taking the opposite point of view and also just to keep Meg going. With Meg holding forth on women and guns, there was no time to think about Oriole.

Oriole was at home when Summer and Sparrow got there that afternoon, but so was he—lounging on the foam rubber like a Roman emperor. The clothing wasn’t Roman—urban cowboy boots and a European-cut shirt open halfway down his hairy chest—but the smile was. The smile was Nero or Caligula.

“Hullo, ladies,” he said. And, as Summer headed for her room, “Well then, hullo, Sparrow, and good-by, Dummy.” Lately “Dummy,” with a hard nasty edge to it, had taken the place of phony amusement and “Garbo” or “Gabby.” She liked Dummy better. At least it was out front.