on her side, a pillow between her legs, two under her head, one hugged against her chest. She looked uncomfortable and a little pale.
"Too much excitement," she said. "That's all."
"She is having mild contractions," Imelda said. "Pre-labor."
I tried to keep my panic from showing. "Are you sure, Imelda?"
"I've had children, senor," she said, like it was a subject she preferred not to talk about. "The senora needs to rest and be very still."
"Or?"
"She might deliver."
Be calm, I told myself. Keep it upbeat.
"You can't deliver on Rebel Island," I told Maia. "I want our child to have U.S. citizenship."
Imelda looked confused. "But, senor, this is - "
"He's teasing, Imelda," Maia said. "Tres, the baby is fine. I'll be fine."
"We're all fine," I agreed. "Sure."
Maia sighed. "Imelda, could you find some more pillows for my husband? I think he's going into labor."
Imelda looked more confused. "But - "
"She's teasing," I said.
"Ay, too much teasing," Imelda scolded. "You should rest, senora. Perhaps some red-raspberry-leaf tea?"
"That sounds wonderful. Can you do that?"
"We have some in the kitchen, senora. And a portable heater for the water." She fussed with Maia's pillows a little more, then trudged off to get the tea.
"Don't go anywhere," I told Maia.
I followed Imelda and stopped her in the hallway.
"Hey," I said, keeping my voice down, "if it came down to...you know - "
"Delivering the child, senor?"
"Yeah. Could you help?"
She tugged nervously on her wedding ring, which I didn't figure was a good sign. "I would try, senor. But this is the senora's first child. She is older. There could be complications."
"How many children do you have?"
"I...two."
"Grown?"
"...No."
"Oh."
Imelda twisted the cords of her apron. She had brown hair streaked with gold and white, like marbled fudge. If her husband's face was fashioned for smiling, Imelda's was made for stoic suffering. She had the pinched expression and weathered skin of someone who might have spent her life toiling in the fields, squinting against a hot sun.
"I will help if I can," she told me. "I have done it before back in...back in Mexico. I think I could. I remember."
"Thank you."
"I will get the tea." And she shuffled off like the hot fields were waiting, just at the bottom of the stairs.
I sat on the bed and massaged Maia's feet. Her ankles looked swollen. I tried to remember what that meant. A normal thing? A danger sign? Maia and I had agreed on one thing about the childbirth process: the standard "how-to" advice and facts about what happened when stayed with us about as well as Japanese VCR instructions.
Early on, Maia had decided to listen to her body and just go with that. What the doctors had to say was too scary, anyway. She'd refused amniocentesis. Too risky. There was nothing it would tell her that she really wanted to hear.
The baby was at high risk for muscular dystrophy. We both knew that. Maia carried the genes. Fifty-fifty chance our child would have it. The possibility of MD was like the loaded gun Maia kept in her underwear drawer, or the blackmail file she kept on her enemies. We both knew it was there. We knew it might come into play someday. But there was no use talking or worrying about it, so we didn't.
At least that was the theory.
"Take my mind off the cramps," Maia said. "Tell me what's happening."
A murderer running loose in the hotel was the last thing I wanted to talk to Maia about, but I could tell she needed distraction. Her conversational tone was forced. I'd never seen her look quite so worried, or rather try so hard not to look worried.
I kept massaging her feet as I told her about my trip to the boathouse, the bag of money, then finding Chris's diary and the email to the U.S. Marshals Service. I told her about my conversations with Jose and Benjamin Lindy.
Maia focused on my words the way she did in Lamaze class, as if this were another breathing exercise. "You really think Chris is the killer?"
"I don't know what to think. You met Chris. Does he strike you as a bomber?"
"Bombed, perhaps. Not a bomber."
"Exactly."
Maia pressed her toes against my hand. "But it certainly looks like Chris was talking with the marshals. And the money makes it look like he was planning an escape if things went wrong."
"If Chris brought Longoria here, why would he kill him?"
"Perhaps Longoria reneged on the deal."
"Doesn't make sense," I said. "I know this other marshal, Berry. If I were him, trying