The Fall Line

by Mark T Sullivan

  “No stomach for the confrontation?” Stern replied. “I figured you to find … that of interest.”

  “Too many bystanders could be hurt.”

  “Your wife will be protected,” Stern said. “I promised you that, Mr. Farrell. I meant it.”

  “Okay.” Farrell paused. “You know I wonder about it all, every night. I can’t come up with an answer for why it happened.”

  Stern pointed a finger at him. “You’d be surprised how many of the con artists I come in contact with are like that. I always tell them … the same thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “That’s why the government has people like Kennerson: to tell the whole world why you did it.”

  Kennerson never had the chance, did he? Farrell thought on the walk back into Jackson. He bought a sandwich and a drink at a store, then went to the motel. He hadn’t been back in his room five minutes when a knock came at the door. Ruby barked. It was Frank Portsteiner dressed in jeans and a khaki fishing jacket. Farrell surprised himself and the old man by hugging him.

  “You been drinking again, son?” Portsteiner asked.

  “No.” Farrell drew his arms away from Portsteiner, embarrassed. “I guess … I was just happy to see a friend.”

  In spite of himself, Portsteiner beamed. He followed Farrell into the room, saw Ruby, and nodded. “A dog, too.”

  Farrell scratched Ruby behind the ears. “I guess I’m trying to change.”

  “A start,” Portsteiner said. “How’s the movie coming?”

  “Getting weirder by the minute,” Farrell said. He related all that had happened in Lake Tahoe as well as Inez’s determination to move into the Tetons as quickly as possible.

  “Was out fishing in the foothills of the Gros Ventre this afternoon,” Portsteiner said. The Gros Ventre was another high mountain range near Jackson. “Heard some slabs give way. You’ve got to give these big hills a chance to consolidate, press down, ice up.”

  “Tried to tell her that, but she’s got this way of twisting words so you can’t think straight. I convinced her to let me climb partway up Buck Mountain tomorrow to dig some pits.”

  “I’ll come along.”

  “Better I do this alone.”

  “LaChapelle’s rule number one: Never solo in the mountains.”

  “That’s rule number two, Frank,” Farrell said. “First is always conduct a march so that only one person at a time is exposed to danger.”

  “Don’t try to outquote me, son,” Portsteiner said. “I’ll just tag behind. Phelps Lake is below Buck. I’ve been meaning to throw a fly into it sometime on this trip.”

  “But …”

  “See you at seven A.M., sharp,” Portsteiner said, closing the door behind him.

  Farrell listened to Portsteiner’s footsteps retreat across the frozen gravel, secretly happy that the old man would accompany him the next day. Portsteiner was someone he could trust. He sighed and repeated the word. Trust. It wasn’t a noun that he had used with any consistency in his life. He turned that over a few times and discovered that trust was not something to accept, only to give. He wondered at what point he had gotten the concept ass-backward. Certainly he believed he could trust Stern and Kennerson in the days leading up to his trip to see Gabriel. The two men had spent most of their time at his house, helping him review the pitch.

  It was simple enough: Wired for sound, Farrell would go over the history of their accomplishments, getting Gabriel to agree and comment. There would follow in detail a discussion of the mechanics of the land purchases and how the cash moved. Farrell would move toward the hook, telling Gabriel that several banks had balked during escrow because they didn’t know the identities of the directors behind his land companies.

  “Good,” Stern said after he’d repeated it for the tenth time. “Then you tell Cortez that a few bankers think your relationship is a conflict and they’re considering going to the FDIC with it. You propose a new recruit to the system, someone outside the bank who can purchase the properties. Of course you tell him that you’ll still be calling the shots. I’m the recruit, posing as an Arizona land developer with contacts in the Virgin Islands.”

  “He’ll check on you, how I met you, what you know, how you know it.”

  “There will be documents on file in Arizona and Tortolla backing Art up,” Kennerson said. “Beyond that you tell him that Stern knows little and wants to know less. To Cortez, he’s a common-enough type.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Greedy.”

  On the day before he was to leave, Stern and Kennerson grilled Farrell on every possible scenario they could devise: Gabriel angered, Gabriel reluctant, Gabriel suspicious.

  For more than an hour, Farrell practiced activating the recording device they’d hidden inside his briefcase. It was triggered by a latch they’d installed next to the locking mechanism. Close the latch, he completed an electronic circuit that powered the tape machine. The microphone, built into one of the brass corner braces, was hemispheric; it would gather sound forty-five degrees to each side of the direction in which the device was pointed.

  “Two extra tapes, ninety minutes each,” Stern said. He showed Farrell how they fit into the recorder itself. The tiny microcassette deck lay underneath a thin panel installed in the base of the case. Velcro held the false bottom in place so tightly Stern had to search for the edge with a nail file.

  “Whatever you do, be calm,” Kennerson said as he watched Farrell fumble with the false bottom. “Do any changes in private. Don’t leave anything open or out.”

  It was only then, in the way the men refused to look at him, that Farrell grasped how perilous his mission was. Cotton grew on the inside of his mouth. He had the urge to curl up and sleep.

  “Here’s the final run for you,” Stern said, and he paced to the window. Beyond the FBI agent’s slender silhouette, Farrell could see Lena’s BMW turning into the gate. Stern stopped to watch her spill out, her hair longer than it had been in years, glowing reddish in the late afternoon sun. Farrell could tell Stern found her attractive. He felt jealous. Turning thirty the previous month had made his wife’s appearance richer, more classic; she seemed taller, more assured, strong. The dogs bounded across the yard to her, throwing their paws on her legs. She shooed them down and walked around the back.

  “She will still leave you … Mr. Farrell?” Stern asked. His face tightened; he realized he’d made a mistake.

  Farrell’s stomach hollowed; they obviously had bugged the house. “We haven’t spoken of it lately,” he said, trying to control his anger.

  Stern snapped his head around as if he was glad Farrell hadn’t pursued the issue. “On the Pan Am flight to Guadalajara, a Drug Enforcement Agent will sit somewhere behind you in tourist class. He will not identify himself unless he senses trouble. In Colima one of our Mexican counterparts will take over.”

  “The Mexicans know?!” Farrell cried, unable to mask the panic.

  “Are you out of your fucking minds? Those bastards would sell me out in a second. Forget it. Put the cuffs on now. I’ll take jail.”

  Farrell fancied himself a very quick man. But Stern crossed the room before he’d taken a step, and the FBI agent’s stubby fingers, suddenly heavy on Farrell’s chest, pressed him back into the chair.

  Stern leaned over Farrell. “They have no idea who you are. We’ve told them we suspect you are involved in a smuggling ring. That’s all. If that gets to Mr. Cordova or Mr. Cortez, you have an alibi … you had no idea you were followed. At worst, they tell you to shut down the operation.”

  Kennerson stood behind Stern. “We’ve had two men renting a villa up the hill from Cortez’s place since late April. They’re posing as homosexual artists and they have a telescope trained down on the house.”

  “Did they see the armed guards?” Farrell demanded.

  “They did,” Kennerson said. “And the woman. They say she is stunning.”

  Farrell grunted. Stunning. He plucked the diary from
his bag.

  June 29

  Being frightened used to be a momentary thing.

  I am what Dad calls lock-joint scared. He saw it in men working the stacks of the big ships. The scaffolding would slip and they had to reach over and reattach the gear. But they wouldn’t move because all they could see below them was the interior of the stack, like some old abandoned well in the woods, staring back up at them. When they’d finally take a step, they’d skip and lurch like arthritic old women leaving church.

  So while Jack packs to go south, I am unable to cross to him, to tell him it will be all right. I can see that black hole between us, scared if he falls, I will be pulled in after him; scared if he doesn’t fall and makes it to the other side, I’ll be left behind.

  We have developed an unspoken understanding. He sleeps in our bedroom, but is not welcome in my bed. He curls in the corner with a blanket. He is there now. He twitches and kicks off the blanket. I listen to the rasps from his throat. At midnight I will cover him again. It is what I can do.

  July 2

  Jack was gone this morning at five A.M. Before he left there was an instant between us of not knowing what to do. He left then. Before I had a chance to say everything I wanted to. Before I had a chance to hold him one more time.

  The winds are out of the desert today, a scorching prelude to the fourth. If I stand near the garden wall and look south, I can see the curve of the coastline toward Mexico. I now hate the beauty of California, the perfect blue sky, the tan cliffs, the flowers.

  When Stern and Kennerson left yesterday evening, the house settled into a quiet that reminded me of the electric stillness before thunderstorms. The sun was low, throwing the shadow of trees on the wall in the bedroom. I tried to imagine how my mother, who has endured for so long, would go on here. No answer except just to be.

  I smelled Jack before I heard him. That’s always been his primary sense. And here I am becoming him because I have to understand.

  Jack stood in the doorway. His head was bowed. He scuffed his socks at the carpet. He choked that these men are capable of everything, then stopped and shook like a leaf.

  At that, the sight of him defeated, alone, I could not help myself. It began by holding out my arms and drawing him into bed. I held him by his shoulders, which seem less broad than when I met him. He asked me to forgive him, but I told him I couldn’t, and don’t know if I ever will. But for that moment I was here. He moved closer to me. I pressed my hand to his face, feeling myself drift off to sleep, the screen behind my eyelids flickering and then fading to orange.

  When I woke up, we were far apart in bed. He put his hand out on the pillow and I reached for it. It took time, but we made crippled love.

  Afterward there were tears and murmurs, but little talk. In the last dark hour before he had to shower and prepare for Stern, Punta and Rabo jumped into bed and we four clung.

  Farrell remembered the comfort he had taken in her touch and how lonely he’d been without it on the flight south. Before he left he had wanted to tell her how much he loved her, but he decided somehow it would ring false. He prayed he’d have the chance to prove it. He’d gone to the car meekly, which now he considered fitting for he had read that this was the way most convicted killers walked to the death chamber—with the resolve of a lamb heading to slaughter.

  Chapter 23

  FARRELL AND PORTSTEINER SIGNED in at the gate to the Teton National Park. They drove to the trailhead, and from there hiked the Stuart Draw through piñon pine and spruce toward the tiny lake below Buck Mountain. By nine-thirty the air had warmed into the low fifties. Around them the snow melted and revealed dark swatches of mud and moss. Before long the men were forced to strip to their T-shirts.

  An hour later, they crested the ridge above the lake, a small, tidy piece of glass amid the heavy conifer. Some of the ice had melted and broken away from the shore. At the center, jigsaw pieces of ice still floated and refracted the sun, so the lake sparkled and flared like fire.

  To the west, perhaps a quarter of a mile, a granite cliff rose and, above it, the peak of Buck Mountain. Farrell pointed to a gap between the northern edge of the cliff and the steep slope that ran parallel to it. “That’s probably the route to the upper mountain Dunphy told me about.”

  “He says it’s the way to go, you do it,” Portsteiner said. “Peter’s kind of raw, but one of the most instinctive climbers I ever saw.”

  “Stellar crystal?” Farrell asked.

  “Nope,” Portsteiner grinned. “Capped column.”

  “Tell you what,” Farrell said. “See if you can get some of these trout to hit. I’ll climb the first pitch beyond the cliff and do my tests.”

  “Don’t ask twice,” Portsteiner said, and he rushed down the trail to the edge of the lake. Ruby bobbed at his heels.

  It took Farrell half an hour to circle to the far side of the lake. The idea was this: He would test the snow at the highest altitude he could reach in two hours of climbing. That would give him a clue to the stability of the snowpack at a corresponding height on the Grand Teton. The snow was thick under the strong sun. Sweat ran down the middle of his back after only one hundred yards of climbing. His boots sucked in water and weighed him down. He broke into an opening near the cliff. The sun caught him full in the eyes and he squinted, remembering how the sun had beat down on the dusty road between Colima and Manzanillo.

  The peasant boys along the road had peddled their bikes with uncomfortable determination, heads down, bare feet angled off the pedals. A donkey tied to a tree next to the ditch did not shiver and quake at the flies that settled about its eyes; the animal only blinked, as if that were the limit of its capacity in the terrible heat. As he drove, Farrell had told himself that if he followed Stern’s instructions, he’d come through unscathed. After all, he’d studied many of the faces on the plane and hadn’t seen one remotely interested in him. Stern’s people knew what they were doing.

  At the gate to Gabriel’s compound, the swarthy guard who had trapped the capon on his first visit greeted him with a toothless grin. “The señor and señora wait for you these past two hours,” he said after a cursory glance at Farrell’s luggage.

  “Are they alone?” Farrell asked.

  The guard slapped his stomach. “No, the one who’s bigger than me, that one with the bulging eyes who treats me like shit. He’s here, too.”

  The guard opened the gate and stepped back to let Farrell pass. Farrell drove through the gate, peering through the shade trees toward the hills, toward the villa of Stern’s agents.

  Gabriel stood from a white wicker love seat and came to the steps of the veranda. In the purple shadows beyond him, Farrell made out the laborious form of Cordova, who sported a white straw hat and drank from a high-ball glass.

  “My friend,” Gabriel said, extending his hand. “How good of you to come.”

  Farrell looked Gabriel right in the eye as Stern had instructed. His stomach fluttered only once, then the potential risk of the situation seized him with loving arms. He became absorbed. “I appreciate the meeting on such short notice,” Farrell said.

  “If it’s as serious as you think, it is nothing,” Gabriel said. “I had Jorge fly in from Tapuchala.”

  Gabriel grabbed the satchel and the briefcase from the Jeep. Farrell swallowed hard, then looked away, hoping the men would not notice the new latch near the lock. Cordova stood, grunting in the stifling air. He wiped his chin with a napkin and extended his hand.

  “Jesus, señor, I don’t know why this couldn’t have been done in a hotel in Mexico City with an air conditioner,” he said, pushing the hat back on the curve of his brow. “You made the change in Guadalajara, yes?”

  “Yes, how did you know?”

  Cordova shrugged. “We have much to discuss this day,” he said.

  Off to Farrell’s left, through the ancient glass panes of the windows, he caught a flicker of green. Maria glided onto the veranda in a lime jumpsuit topped with pale red sunglasses. She reached
out her hand, only the faintest hint of smile on her face. Farrell took it and leaned in to kiss her on the cheek. One of her fingers stroked his palm so lightly he jerked back.

  “So good to see you again, Jack,” she murmured.

  Lingering in the air, competing with the blooming hibiscus and the Pacific, he caught the faint odor of liquor. And he noticed how limp her hand was in his and how she stood, stiff, yet acutely aware of her balance, like an old fence post struggling to stay upright against a winter wind.

  “You, too,” Farrell said, for the first time pitying Maria. “My wife asked about you.”

  “Did she?” Maria said. “What about?”

  “Oh, this and that,” Farrell fumbled. “How your dogs are doing, that sort of thing.”

  The enigmatic smile again. “My dogs,” she said, followed by a silence, broken only by the humming of insects flitting in the vines.

  Gabriel put his hand under her elbow in a manner so gentle and yet so insistent that Farrell recalled Stern’s hand on his chest the previous afternoon. He prayed his own disorientation wasn’t as transparent.

  Cordova shook his head, coughed, and returned to the squat oak chair that someone had moved from the living room to the veranda.

  “Why don’t you see to some lunch for our guest?” Gabriel said to Maria as she left. He slumped into the wicker chair. “She is not herself these days, and to be honest, I don’t know why. Perhaps that clinic in Palm Springs?”

  Farrell almost laughed out loud at the irony. But he composed himself enough to tell Gabriel he’d read about the clinic, that it was praised as one of the best treatment centers. Gabriel looked out at the ocean. Far offshore a dinghy bobbed on the teal water. Farrell could make out two people on the boat. One crouched in the bow with a bucket and threw water into the sea.

  “We all have to make difficult decisions, do we not, my friend?” Gabriel asked.

  Lena’s image suddenly moved into the space between them, Lena in the dark, the Lena who had rained blows on the back of Farrell’s head as he dug his fingers into the carpet, a synthetic odor stinging his nostrils. Anger, deep and purple, drenched Farrell like a summer thunderstorm. You lousy stinking fuck, he thought. You don’t even understand your own viciousness. He wanted to leap to his feet to strike Gabriel down. His posture must have betrayed his agitation, because Cordova shifted forward in his seat and Gabriel tensed. “Something wrong?” Gabriel asked.