Free Heaven Is High by Kate Wilhelm Page A

qualify as a total lie? She didn’t want to answer her own question. She thought a moment, then said, “I called Martin and told him to sit tight until he hears from me. No problem there. I guess that’s it for now. I have a ton of stuff to Xerox, and I have to pack, then drive to Portland.”
    â€œOkay,” he said. “You have any idea where to start when you get down there? I could give you some pointers.”
    â€œGood,” she said. “As much as you can in five minutes. Shoot.”
    â€œSchools, high school and college for old friends. Santos employees, current and retired. That convent school where they were sent. Priest. Library.”
    He went on with several others, and each one felt like another weight tied to her neck when she was already thrashing around in deep water. Too much for such a short time. But she listened and added the possible information sources to those she had thought of herself.
    â€œHow about a private investigator?” she asked, interrupting him.
    He shook his head. “If you knew the score, maybe. But you don’t. For all you know the guy could already be in someone else’s pocket, ready to blow you out of the water. You go in there, start asking questions, hire a PI, bingo, you’re a target.”
    â€œOkay, I get the picture. Now beat it. I have a lot to do before I take off.”
    His gloomy expression did not lighten as he pulled on a windbreaker that had been designed for someone a size or two bigger than he was. He picked up his duffel bag and slouched to the door where he paused to shake his head at her before leaving.
    â€œAll I need,” she muttered, locking the door. “Mr. Doom and Gloom to wish me a bon voyage.”

8
    On Thursday evening, after Barbara had showered and changed her clothes, she eyed her bed longingly but resisted. The dining room opened at eight thirty, the desk clerk had told her. And she could not wait until eight thirty or later for something to eat. She went down to the lobby, looked in on the pool area, and bypassed it. Too many people, too much music, too many loud children. The bar was dim with fewer people, but she wanted air and went on to the terrace adjoining the bar.
    She had been cooped up all day, had breathed in the air others breathed out in airplane cabins, or had been assaulted by an incessant din of voices and music, and too many odors of hot oil and fast food in terminals. She sat down and took a deep breath, gazed at the waterfront where boats gently rocked, then closed her eyes, savoring fresh ocean air, unfamiliar plant and flower fragrances, air different from any at home. The air felt good, not too warm, not too windy. It smelled good, clean, not recycled through countless lungs.
    â€œMiss, would you like to order?” A voice roused her. A waiter stood at her table. He was very dark and had a friendly smile.
    Skin color seemed to range from light Mediterranean or Spanish warm tones to the deepest black, and so far everyone had spoken English.
    Barbara picked up the menu on the table, but after a moment, she put it down again. “What would you recommend in a dry white wine? Most of the wines on the menu are unfamiliar to me.”
    She saw a man rise from a nearby table and approach hers. “Henry, hold on a second,” he said. Then he smiled genially at Barbara. “He’ll push the most expensive French wine on you and it will be near the bottom of what’s actually best. May I recommend one? It’s an excellent white from Argentina, somewhere between a fume blanc and pinot gris, the best of both. And less than half as expensive as the one Henry would have you choose. You are a weary traveler, having had the most atrocious food possible all day, and you should not be faced with a difficult decision on your arrival.”
    Barbara grinned at him. That was exactly right. He was six feet tall, trim, well tanned with sun-bleached hair and a charming