Wolf in the Shadows - Marcia Muller [81]
“Where does Fontes live now, Ensenada?”
“No, in a village on the coast, where the local authorities will protect him from protests. The Mexican environmentalists are thoroughly sick of his business practices, too. As you probably know, Mexico was signatory to last year’s international accord to reduce the dolphin kill by eighty percent, but that hasn’t stopped Fontes.”
“Fontes has a brother who’s an environmentalist, right?”
“Yes. The two don’t speak, and the brother, Emanuel, bought out Gilbert’s share of the family business—some sort of manufacturing concern—many years ago. Still, Emanuel has never dared use his connections to mount a protest against Gilbert.” The professor’s smile was pained. “Freedom of speech and assembly are not held in high regard by the Mexican Federal Police.”
“Where in Baja is this village?”
“South of Ensenada. It’s called El Sueño—‘the dream,’ it translates. Many wealthy people, both Mexican and American, have homes there.”
“And the house on Point Loma?”
“On Sunset Cliffs Boulevard.” Professor Haslett glanced curiously at me. “You seem very much interested in Gilbert Fontes. Is he part of the business that brings you here?”
“He may be. Since you’re knowledgeable about environmental organizations, what do you know of a group called Terramarine?”
He made a disgusted sound with his lips. “They’re extremists and fools who put the movement to shame. They remind me of small children huddling in a cardboard-box clubhouse in a vacant lot, making their war plans. They light matches and talk of how they’ll set the world on fire, but in the end all that gets burned is the box, with them inside. Unfortunately, innocent bystanders often get hurt as well.”
“Let me ask you this: Can you imagine them pulling off a successful act of terrorism? Say, a kidnapping where they collected a large ransom?”
He considered. “They would bungle it—deplorably. And I would pity their victim, because he or she would not survive.”
Now his gaze became assessing, concerned. I avoided his eyes by looking at the harbor. The air had grown hot and turgid; my forehead and scalp were damp.
“Sharon,” the professor said after a moment, “I feel I should stress that even though the Terramarine people are fools, their very foolishness makes them dangerous.”
I nodded.
“I’m beginning to believe that your mother is right to worry about you. Are you in some sort of trouble? Is there any way I can help?”
I pressed my lips together, oddly reminded of my last visit to the confessional: Father Halloran’s kind, concerned voice offering the solace of faith; my refusal to accept it because deep down I didn’t believe anymore—and that made my sins unpardonable, my soul irredeemable in his eyes. I hadn’t been Catholic for many years, but now I felt an inbred urge to make a confession of sorts. For a long time I hadn’t believed anyone else could shoulder my burdens, but now I wanted to lay them at this old man’s feet.
But the old man was practically a stranger, and I couldn’t involve him, anyway. I said, “No, I’m not in trouble. And I thank you for the information. May I ask you not to mention you’ve seen me to either Melvin or my mother?”
He nodded with obvious reluctance, brow furrowed, eyes still concerned.
I got up, said an awkward good-bye, and moved quickly along the waterfront to the parking lot where I’d left the car. Once, I looked back; Professor Haslett was watching me, and he raised his hand in farewell.
Twenty
When I arrived at Sunset Cliffs Boulevard on Point Loma, I stopped a man who was walking his beagle along the sidewalk and asked him if he knew where the Fontes house was. He gave me a suspicious once-over, then apparently decided I looked okay and motioned