Escape From Fear (11 page)

As Jack fought back, the beam of the flashlight bounced crazily through the trees where a half dozen dark forms were running straight up the rocky hillside toward North Shore Road. In that wildly swinging beam of light, Jack saw one face that he recognized before Forrest knocked the light out of his hand. Cimmaron!

Suddenly everything was happening at once—the poachers calling down more curses as they frantically splashed toward the boat; Steven firing off one camera shot after another at the poachers' retreating figures; Forrest rolling onto his back, panting, the fight over; a siren sounding in the bay with a teeth-grinding wail. When another boat chugged toward shore, shining a huge spotlight that caught the men full in its beam, the two men dropped the turtle. People jumped out of this boat, too, churning up the water as they made their way toward the poachers, who slowly raised their hands in surrender. Every one of the people from the second boat was in uniform.

“Hands up!” blared a voice from a bullhorn. “Do
not
reach for a weapon! Keep your hands in the air!”

“Thank heavens,” Olivia cried. “They must be from the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service. They've come to catch the poachers. Jack! Where's Jack?” she suddenly cried, looking wildly around. “Forrest?”

“We're here,” Jack called out. She couldn't see them under the trees, but hearing Jack's voice must have been enough. Once again she ran forward with Steven right behind her, reaching the soaked, angry poachers just as the officers snapped handcuffs on them.

So that's what the list was all about! Jack realized. Cimmaron was involved with men who poached turtles! It was despicable. No wonder Forrest had wanted to keep anyone from recognizing Cimmaron—she was part of the worst kind of crime. Forrest lay on his back, panting, his knees wet with sand; Jack was next to him, too spent to move. The flashlight lay between them, its beam lighting the gnarled roots of a tamarind tree.

“You saw, didn't you?” Forrest rasped.

“Yeah, I saw,” Jack said, rubbing a spot on his cheek that burned.

“Jack…I'm sorry….”

“Yeah. Whatever.” Rolling to his feet, he brushed himself off and smoothed his hair, then made his way to where his parents were standing.

“…relieved you caught them!” Olivia was exclaiming to the officers. “We were here watching the hawksbill nest and then these men came and tried to steal it.”

“Whoa, slow down, lady. Who are you?” the officer asked. “And who's this guy with you, and what are kids doing out here?”

It took a good four or five minutes for Olivia and Steven to explain why they were on Jumbie Beach. Luckily, Olivia had identification in her wallet that proved who she was and why she happened to be in St. John as a guest of the Park Service. Again, Jack had the feeling that all this drama was taking place on stage, maybe because the huge, unrelenting spotlight from the officers' boat was shining right at all of them.

“I got plenty of shots of those two turtle poachers,” Steven told the officers. “I caught them in the act with my camera. You'll have the pictures as evidence when you prosecute them.”

“That'll help put them away, but it's not what we're arresting them for,” one of the officers told Steven.

Steven's frown was accentuated by the bright light from the boat. “You're not? But we saw them trying to steal the hawksbill. Who are you people with? Aren't you from U.S. Fish and Wildlife?”

“No, sir. We're immigration officials,” the man answered. Turning to two of the uniformed officers—one of them a woman—who'd come ashore with him, he said, “Take these smugglers onto the boat and secure them while we search for the cargo before they get too far away. Radio the other unit to cover everything in the area of the 3-mile marker on North Shore Road. We'll have to move fast before the aliens escape.”

“Aliens?” Ashley cried. “You mean like aliens from outer space?”

The officer gave a short bark of laughter. “No, honey. Illegal aliens. From Haiti. These two men have been smuggling illegal aliens to St. John for quite a while now. Didn't you see all those people running to shore? They weren't here for the turtle. No, this is the first stop for a lot of illegals on their route to the U.S. mainland.”

Moving silently, Forrest had crept up behind Jack. He tugged on Jack's arm as though he hadn't attacked him just moments before. “Please,” he whispered, “Jack, please, I have to talk to you.”

Jack pulled away because he knew what Forrest was going to say. Both of them had seen Cimmaron there in the trees. Jack was the only one of the Landons who'd seen her help the illegals escape. Clearly Cimmaron was part of a team that not only smuggled turtles, but smuggled humans as well. It was his duty to report her to the immigration officers.

“Jack!” Forrest was pleading now. “Please let me just say what I have to say. I'm…I'm sorry about what I did back there, but there's a reason. Let me at least tell you.”

“Forget it,” Jack growled. Forrest might be a smooth talker, but it wouldn't make any difference. Right was right, honest was honest, legal was legal. Besides, his arms were beginning to throb from where Forrest had pounded them into the ground. No way did he feel like talking to Forrest.

“Just hear me out. If you don't change your mind, I'll do whatever you say. Come on, Jack.”

He looked so desperate that Jack found himself saying, “OK. Make it quick!”

As the two of them moved to the rocky part of the beach, they noticed that the female hawksbill had somehow found her way back to shore. She began once again to cover her nest with sand, trying desperately to finish the job she'd come to do. Jack glanced behind him. His parents were busy answering the questions of a female immigration officer while Ashley watched, wide-eyed, taking in every word. No one realized that Jack and Forrest had left the rest of the group.

“OK,” Jack demanded, turning his anger full force onto Forrest. “Say what you're going to say. It won't change a thing.”

“I know you saw Cimmaron, but no one else did.”

“So?”

“That means unless they catch her tonight, no one will be able to prove she's part of the smuggling operation. The men she was working with have already been arrested, so they won't be doing any more smuggling or poaching. I want you to let Cimmaron go.” Forrest was shivering, even though the night felt warm.

“You want me to ignore the fact that Cimmaron is a smuggler.”

“Yes.”

“What if those immigration officers start asking me questions?”

“Lie.”

“I can't.” Jack shook his head decisively. “Not anymore. I kept your secret and look what happened. It almost got a hawksbill killed—”

“Cimmaron didn't know anything about the turtle poaching.”

“You don't know that!”
Jack punched Forrest's chest with his fist and declared, “You don't know anything, Forrest. No, I'm through lying for you. Cimmaron's on her own. And so are you.”

Forrest put his hands over his eyes and pulled his fingers slowly down his face so hard that it distorted his features. Jack almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

“OK,” Forrest said at last. “Will you at least keep your distance from the immigration officers? Don't volunteer anything. Don't say anything to your parents.”

“I have to do what's right—”

“Look, I'm asking you, Jack. No, I'm begging you! Please don't tell.” In a broken voice, Forrest said, “She's my mother.”

T
he room was about a hundred times nicer than the ones the Landons were staying in. It was a suite of rooms, actually, in the finest hotel on St. John. Large French windows offered a full view of Cruz Bay, dotted as always with the white sails of yachts. In a corner next to the windows stood a palm tree, small but real, its fronds swaying slightly in the breeze from the air conditioner. In the center of the room, a low table held pitchers of fruit juice, a bowl of tropical fruit, and a plate of delicate pastries.

Six cushioned chairs formed a semicircle, all of them facing a tapestried sofa where two people sat. The man, who had thinning gray hair, wore a dress shirt, open at the neck, and pleated tan slacks. The woman was dressed more elegantly and wore several gold bracelets on each arm.

Forrest had been surprised, to put it mildly, when he entered the suite with the Landons and found his father sitting there along with his mother. “I thought this was important enough that I should come,” Forrest Winthrop III told Forrest Winthrop IV, even before he said hello. “I had to rearrange some meetings, but here I am, son.”

Mrs. Winthrop hugged Forrest and kissed his cheek. Although Mr. Winthrop seemed a lot older than Jack had expected—his face was lined and his shoulders stooped a bit—Mrs. Winthrop looked a lot younger than she probably was. Her blond hair hung in a sweep that ended just below her chin, the skin on her face stretched taut over high cheekbones, and her brows were perfectly shaped. Jack had never before seen a woman quite as elegant as Mrs. Winthrop.

During the silence that hung in the room after all of them were seated, Mr. Winthrop took a cigar from a silver case. With some sort of tool, he cut the end from the cigar, then lit it with a flame that shot up from a matching silver lighter, rotating the unlit end of the cigar around and around in his lips as he puffed until it was smoldering satisfactorily. Jack watched the procedure, rather fascinated by the whole thing. Only after it was finished did Mr. Winthrop glance up and say, “You're looking well, Cimmaron.”

Cimmaron's chair stood directly across from the Winthrops. If she was about to face a grilling, she was in the right position for it. “Both of you are looking good also,” she answered. “Mrs. Winthrop, you haven't changed one bit in 13 years.”

Smiling slightly, Mrs. Winthrop brushed her own cheek delicately with the tip of her manicured fingers. “I have to work at it, Cimmaron,” she said, with a trace of humor directed at herself.

“So let's get down to business,” Mr. Winthrop said. “I believe I have been filled in on all the particulars by Mr. and Mrs.—uh, Landon.” He hesitated over the name as though he weren't too sure of it.

“Dr. Landon,” Olivia said sweetly. “I'm Dr. Landon.”

Jack and Ashley exchanged surprised glances. Their mother never pulled rank like that.

“So!” Mr. Winthrop continued, “In the interest of saving time, I'm going to ask you point-blank, Cimmaron. Are you in the business of smuggling illegal aliens?”

“No,” she answered abruptly.

“Hmm.” Mr. Winthrop tapped ashes from his cigar into a round ashtray on a stand next to the sofa. “My acquaintance in the immigration division informed me that last night a boatload of illegal aliens landed at Jumbie Bay. Were you in any way involved in that operation, Cimmaron?”

“Yes,” she answered. “I was at Jumbie Bay last night.”

Jack let out such a big sigh that his father turned to stare at him. What a relief! In all the hours since Forrest had begged him not to squeal on Cimmaron, Jack had wrestled with his conscience, wondering what to do. To tell, or not to tell? And now he no longer had to make a decision, because Cimmaron herself had just admitted to being there last night. Through narrowed eyes, Forrest gave a slight nod to Jack that must have meant “you're off the hook.”

“You say you are not in the business of smuggling illegal aliens,” Mr. Winthrop continued, pointing the cigar at Cimmaron, “and yet you admit that you were involved in what happened last night.”

“What about the turtles?” Olivia asked.

“Turtles!” Cimmaron exclaimed almost scornfully. “I have nothing to do with turtles.” Her gaze intense, she leaned forward in her chair. “My only care is for the people—as your Statue of Liberty says, ‘the wretched refuse.' Never have I ever taken a single penny for helping the illegals.”

“Well, those men who got arrested last night—Arlen Smith and Bené Phillipe—were making a pretty profit,” Mr. Winthrop told her. “They charge the Haitians thousands of dollars to smuggle them here.”

“If the Haitians arrive because smugglers bring them, that is not any of my affair,” Cimmaron declared. “All I try to do is help them when they reach St. John.”

“Do you take these people into your home?” Mr. Winthrop asked.

“I do what is needed. Sometimes I shelter them, more often I bring them to a very special person who lives high in the hills, in a remote area where the immigration officials never think to look. She hides them and feeds them and teaches them how to stay alive on St. John.”

Miss Amelia! Jack was sure it had to be Miss Amelia, with her ramshackle house perched on the top of a hill, with her knowledge of herbs and medicines and her experience of life lived by passing through hardship.

 

He could tell that Ashley made the same connection—she grinned at Jack, then silently mouthed the word “Miss,” but he shook his head before she got to “Amelia.” Did Denise know about this? Jack wondered. No, Denise wouldn't want to know, even if she suspected. Denise was an employee of the U.S. government. If she became aware that Miss Amelia was sheltering illegal immigrants, she'd have to report it.

“So you transport these illegals around the island, Cimmaron?” Mr. Winthrop persisted.

“Yes.”

“Hand me my briefcase, dear,” Mr. Winthrop told his wife. When she did, he snapped open the clasps and took out several papers. After slipping on a pair of eyeglasses that rested near the bottom of his nose, he began to read, “A person commits a federal felony when he or she assists an alien by transporting, sheltering, or helping him to obtain employment. Any vehicle used to transport illegal aliens may be seized by an immigration officer and is subject to forfeiture.”

At that, Forrest burst out laughing. “You mean the Feds are going to take away Cimmaron's car? You should see the car, Dad. It's held together with duct tape and paper clips.”

“This is hardly the time for levity, son. This is very serious business.”

For the first time, Mrs. Winthrop spoke up. “Cimmaron, dear, why do you involve yourself with illegal aliens? You say you're not being paid to do it, and you might end up in jail.”

Cimmaron answered in a voice that started out calm, but rose in volume as she went on. “I'm a poor black woman from St. John, but compared to the people of Haiti, I live like a queen. Daily life in Haiti is a terrible struggle. Three-quarters of the people have no jobs.

No income. Less than half the children go to school. Life expectancy is age 45. Political violence—”

“But that's none of your concern, is it?” Mrs. Winthrop interrupted.

Now Cimmaron's dark eyes began to blaze. “Not my concern! These people live in the worst kind of poverty and in constant fear that they won't be able to feed their children. I help them because I know what it feels like.

I was there! I was one of them. To escape from fear, I too had to sign a paper that I would somehow pay the smugglers thousands of dollars. And when I was slow paying, they threatened my child. Why do you think I let you adopt Forrest?”

Forrest half rose from his chair, then sank back into it.

Raising her head defiantly, Cimmaron continued, “I wanted my baby to have a decent chance, and now I'm helping desperate Haitians find their own decent chance. Here on St. John they work hard and live on next to nothing so they can send money home to their families.

If they're very lucky, the United States government might let them apply for a green card, and then they can become legal.”

Mr. Winthrop murmured, “Section 245(i) of the Legal Immigration Family Equity Act has expired. And since the terrorist attacks in 2001, security is much tighter at all points of entry. Many more illegals are getting caught and turned back.”

This time Forrest stood all the way up. “Wait a minute, Dad. Businesses still hire illegal workers, and the Immigration Service looks the other way. You know why? Because factories and service companies need people who will work at cheap jobs that American citizens don't want. If all the illegals in the U.S. were deported, it would cripple American business and hurt growth. Our whole economy would collapse. So…!” He raised a finger to emphasize his point. “If factory owners aren't punished for hiring illegals, why should Cimmaron be punished for helping poor people find food and shelter?”

His eyes narrowing, Mr. Winthrop asked, “Where did you hear all that?”

“In economics class,” Forrest answered.

Economics! Forrest was the same age as Jack, and he was studying economics? What kind of school did he go to? In Jack's junior high, the most advanced class for eighth graders was pre-algebra.

Mr. Winthrop frowned as he stated, “Much of what you've said is an exaggeration, Forrest, although there's…some truth to it.”

“And so?” Forrest asked expectantly.

Turning to Cimmaron, Mr. Winthrop answered, “And so…this one time, I'll help you escape the consequences of your actions, as long as you promise me that you won't be involved again with any illegal immigrants.”

“And if I don't promise?” Cimmaron asked softly.

“Then you may…possibly…face jail time.”

Striding toward his father, Forrest stated, “If they put her in jail, then I'll be here to help the illegals. I want to come and live with Cimmaron. She needs me.”

A small cry escaped Mrs. Winthrop, who looked stricken. Mr. Winthrop, however, stated flatly, “You can forget that, Forrest. You're our son. I gave you my name. Three generations of Winthrops have been called Forrest, and you are the fourth.”

“Yes, but before that, I had another name,” Forrest declared. “Cimmaron told me what she named me when I was born. Aquashi, for the prince of the Aquambo tribe. I am his descendant.”

To Jack, it no longer seemed that he was in a theater watching a drama—he now felt like the worst kind of intruder, hearing raw emotion he had no right to hear. Ashley, sitting next to him, had begun to choke up with tears. Olivia clutched the arms of her chair while Steven looked at the floor, his jaw working. Only Forrest seemed in full command of himself.

“I cannot accept that,” Mr. Winthrop said. “You are my son, Forrest, and you will stay with me.”

“Then,” Forrest told his father, “you and I will have to negotiate. I will attend all the prominent prep schools and universities you choose to send me to, but I will spend my summers here on St. John. With Cimmaron.”

When Mr. Winthrop rose to answer his son, Jack was struck by how alike they seemed. Forrest might be the son of Cimmaron and a young American idealist, but his mannerisms were exact copies of his adoptive father's. They stood with the same self-assurance, holding the same pose—chins high, eyes locked on each other's, rocking forward slightly on their toes.

“Two weeks,” Mr. Winthrop declared. “Two weeks each summer you may come to St. John. That is, if that is agreeable with you,” he said, with a slight, formal nod toward Cimmaron.

“No, it is not.” Cimmaron hesitated, then murmured, “I would prefer….”

Jack held his breath. If Cimmaron was about to say that she would prefer never to see Forrest again, Forrest would be devastated, and the whole thing would be too painful for Jack to watch. He wanted to run away, the way he used to run into his bedroom to hide in the middle of a scary movie on TV. But there was no place to go. Besides, he couldn't leave now. Every eye in the room was focused on Cimmaron.

“I would prefer,” she said, “that he come for
three
weeks each summer. I also prefer that he work hard at school, so that he will be able to fight in the courts to change the immigration laws. You said you could help me, Forrest. That is how you could do the most good.”

“I'll do that, Cimmaron,” Forrest told her. “I promise.”

“As for me,” Cimmaron said, “here's my promise. I will no longer help any illegal immigrants smuggled into St. John by Arlen Smith and Bené Phillipe.”

At that Ashley stifled a little giggle, and everyone else had to smile. Arlen Smith and Bené Phillipe had been arrested at Jumbie Bay the night before. Since they'd be going to prison for a long time, they wouldn't be smuggling any more illegal immigrants into St. John.

The tension was broken. Mrs. Winthrop rushed to Forrest to tell him how much he meant to her, how she'd loved him from the moment she first saw him. Mr. Winthrop stood there smiling slightly, a little glint in his eye, perhaps secretly proud that his son had pulled this off. Forrest had attitude, as well as smarts, a combination that spelled success.

At a signal from Steven, the four Landons quietly slipped out of the room, leaving Forrest with his two mothers and his father, the diplomat.

 

Jack laughed when Ashley came up sputtering—as much as he could laugh with the mouthpiece of a snorkel between his teeth. Spitting it out, he told her, “Don't stand on the coral! Tread water. Swim over here, and I'll tighten the strap on your mask so you won't get such a snoot full.”

“Ow! Ow!” she cried as a few strands of her hair got caught in the strap Jack was adjusting. “You're doing that on purpose.”

“No I'm not. That ought to work now. Did you see the underwater markers?”

Alone at last, Steven, Olivia, Jack, and Ashley were exploring the underwater park, where a dozen varieties of coral and other reef creatures had been identified by plaques sunk into the bottom of Trunk Bay. Red, white, and blue buoys marked the route of the underwater trail. With Ashley paddling right after him, Jack followed the trail, pointing down to draw Ashley's attention to the staghorn and elkhorn coral, the sea fans, and the tiny, delicate, purple anemones.