by Diane Noble
“Who?” Zoë asked, leaning in.
I gave her a withering look that I hoped reminded her she shouldn’t be eavesdropping, then I turned back to Adam. “Who?” she repeated.
With a sigh I turned to her again. “Didn’t you see who just walked by to get into his limo?”
“I guess I wasn’t paying attention.”
“Lorenzo Nolan.”
She stared at me in disbelief. “The Lorenzo Nolan?”
“The same.”
“What’s he doing here?”
If I had a quarter for every time I had to remind my kids not to eavesdrop, I’d have taken ownership of my own yacht long ago. I gave Zoë a hard stare. She got the hint and turned away.
My maternal instincts were starting to bug me. Suddenly I wanted to turn off the mother-of-all-humankind switch, get up, and sit somewhere else. Then I took in Zoë’s profile—the Coke-bottle glasses, the stringy hair, and slump of her shoulders—and I stayed right where I was.
When I turned back to Adam to continue our conversation, he was engrossed in something his seat partner was saying.
With a sigh I leaned back in my seat. At the front of the bus—or coach, as these Mercedes-made vehicles are called—Ricki stood and tested the mike. Beside me, Zoë had slouched into what looked suspiciously like a royal pout. I knew the position well. My Janie could have written the ultimate how- to manual on pouting when she was fifteen. Although I suspected that Zoë was at least twenty, she personified the worst of adolescence ninety percent of the time. Again I thought about changing seats.
Ricki tapped on the mike again and the chatting quieted. “I thought it would be good to give you a refresher course on the Garden of Eden we’re about to enter,” she said, “for it truly is one of the most diverse and spectacular places on the planet. Although Costa Rica lies directly in the tropics, it has twelve distinct ecological zones—from tidal mangroves to dry deciduous forests, from tropical rain forests to subalpine grassland. Cacti grow in the northwest, and in the wetlands, crocodiles bask in the sun.”
She grinned. “Bet you didn’t know that, did you?” I appreciated her mix of humor and science. The laugh lines at the corners of her eyes said she enjoyed it too.
Beside me, Zoë tensed. “Crocodiles?” she whispered.
“This is a veritable hothouse of biodiversity,” Ricki continued. “About five percent of all known species on earth slither, skip, or swoop through the varied habitats, including one-tenth of all birds known to man.”
She paused as the driver pulled away from the wharf, then sat down in the seat behind him still holding the mike. After he had driven a few miles out of town, Ricki went on with her refresher course. “This extraordinary biodiversity stems from the fact that Costa Rica is at the juncture of two continents. And over eons, life forms from both have migrated across the narrow land bridge and adapted to the varied terrain and climates. It’s no wonder travelers flock here like migrating macaws to see jaguars, quetzals, and three-toed sloths.” She laughed and turned off the microphone.
Thankful for the momentary quiet, I closed my eyes, considering God’s amazing handiwork in this place. After a moment my thoughts drifted to what I’d witnessed at the port: Lorenzo Nolan and his entourage, his fiancée, and the child in a wheelchair were interesting enough. But nagging thoughts about Adam that had been simmering on the back burner since I ran into him last night suddenly moved from simmer to stage one boil. What was his interest in all this? What was a man doing alone on an adventure cruise? I didn’t know whether he was married, and frankly, it didn’t matter. Whether he was single or married, this kind of vacation didn’t make sense for a man by himself any more than it made sense for Harry Easton.
Who was Adam, and why was he here? The headlines that had screamed accusations against him were fixed in my memory. He had almost killed a man with his bare hands.
I shivered as my thoughts turned even darker.
What about Carly?
My Janie was a world-class screamer. Still is, if the truth be told. Growing up with two brothers—her twin, Jeremy, and her baby brother, Joey—could try the nerves of the most tomboyish of young women. But Janie never got used to the beetles hidden in her bed, the spiders hanging from a silken-strand of web dangled in front of her, or frogs tossed into her shower over the top of the shower curtain. So when Zoë let out her first warbling squeal not more than three minutes after we entered the rain forest, it didn’t annoy me as much as it might have.
By Zoë’s fifth scream—when Ricki gently placed in her hand the larva of a swallowtail, the Papilio cresphontes, that looked forevermore like the head of a viper attached to a stick body—the other passengers were rolling their eyes and moving cautiously away from the young woman. Everyone, that is, except Kate and Price. I suspected their actions had more to do with entertainment than camaraderie. I shot Price a warning glare, remembering how Jeremy and Joey were egged on by Janie’s squeals.
Price’s expression was one of wide-eyed innocence, which worried me more. He might be a college senior, but I suspected that with his round, freckled baby face and spiked sandy hair, he could get away with murder. Or thought he could.
“And this, ladies and gentlemen,” Ricki said, “is the cream owl butterfly, the Caligo memnon, whose six-inch wings provide superb camouflage.” She gently but firmly held the butterfly in one hand and pulled out one wing with the other, holding it so the underside of the wing faced the group.
I pulled out my miniature field glasses. The passengers, now clustered around Ricki, let out an appreciative sigh. The butterfly suddenly took on the look of an owl. From a distance I wouldn’t have known the difference. The upper wings were a pretty blue gray, but the underwings were mottled brown and gray with spots that resembled yellow eyes, complete with black pupils and white dots that for the life of me seemed to reflect sunlight.
“These little guys are usually pretty quiet by day, but when dusk falls they take to the air and flit about the forest in search of rotting fruit.” She placed the insect on a nearby leaf. “We’re lucky to have seen him.”
Ricki brushed off her hands and continued down the path. When she reached a small rope bridge, she stopped and looked back at the group. “Before we cross, I want to tell you more about the swallowtails we will be seeing once we reach the butterfly farm.
“As you know, Costa Rica has some 1,250 species of butterflies—more than in all of Africa, and is home to one in ten of all known species in the world. Most of these winged insects are magnificently beautiful—from the Riodinidae Calephelis with their metallic gold wings to the majestic electric-blue morpho, the neon Narcissus of the butterfly world. Which, I might add, isn’t really blue. Morphos are brown, but their scales have a complex structure that absorbs all colors of the spectrum except blue, making them appear blue.”
She paused. “Truly, folks, if you’re here at just the right time, the Costa Rican countryside can look like a storm of dancing sweet peas.” She laughed lightly. “You’ll have to pardon me if I wax poetic about these creatures from time to time.” She leaned against the curved trunk of a giant rubber tree. “But it’s the swallowtail I’d like to focus on for a few minutes. Most of us have seen them around the world. Pretty common, right?”
There were nods of agreement. Standing next to me, Kate said something about seeing them in Pacific Grove, near Monterey, California, when she was a child. Price muttered something with a smirk, but before he could go on, Ricki held up a hand to quiet the group.
“One of the most exotic—and uncommon—creatures you’ll see at the farm is the Papilio antimachus,” she said. “That’s its rather musical scientific name. It’s more commonly known as the antimachus swallowtail. Originally from Uganda, they are endangered, so they’re being raised here in captivity as part of a worldwide effort to reintroduce them into their native habitat.
“You may wonder why there’s so much fuss over this butterfly. For one thing—and you’ll see what I’m talking about in a few minutes�
��with a nine-inch wingspan, it’s the world’s largest butterfly. Although certain species of the blue morpho give them a run for their money sizewise.” A few murmurs of appreciation mixed with the chirps and buzzes of the insect and bird life around us.
Zoë swatted at an insect near her head, then reached down to scratch her ankle and peer at the ground near her foot as if looking for whatever had bitten her. I was sure she wished she’d worn anything but flip-flops.
“It’s also the most extremely poisonous butterfly in the world.” Ricki paused, letting the information sink in. Then she grinned. “It’s true. But again, the blue morpho runs a close second. ‘Pretty is’ is not necessarily as ‘pretty does.’ These guys—either one—can cause serious damage to the unsuspecting predator.”
“The blue morpho is like the one that was next to Mr. Easton’s body.” Zoë almost breathed the words.
Adam and I locked gazes for an instant, then he looked away.
The world stood still. I had seen pictures of the beautiful blue morpho in Hollis’s books, but I hadn’t known of its poisonous qualities. Information hit my brain almost too fast to process: Harry Easton, finder of lost children, dead. One of the world’s most poisonous butterflies next to his body. Carly Lowe missing.
All the platitudes I’d been given about her leaving for this reason or that, about her finding her way back to the ship, flitted away like so many swallowtails. Reality settled in full force.
Carly was in danger. I felt it in my bones. The enormity of this realization threatened to suffocate me. I hadn’t experienced claustrophobia in years, but I felt its hot breath lurking.
The jungle seemed to close in on me, the towering mahoganies and strangler figs breathing hot, humid air. The dangers that had been flitting at the edges of my mind wrapped around me, a too-real version of boa shoots on giant fig trees. I struggled to breathe.
“I saw it,” Zoë said and brought her hand to her mouth. “The blue morpho near his body.”
Ricki shook her head. “I know what you’re getting at—and I’m sorry to disappoint you—but it would take several of these butterflies to kill a person. And they’d have to be eaten. As far as I could tell, the butterfly near the body was untouched.”
I stared at Ricki, my what-if questions refusing to die. And still I struggled to breathe.
She turned to the bridge. “Now listen up, all of you. As soon as you cross the gorge, immediately to your right on the far side, you’ll see a secondary footpath. Take it, head to the clearing just a few yards down the path, and wait for the rest of the group. The entrance to the butterfly farm is just beyond the clearing, but we’ll all enter together.”
I gulped and looked around for something to get my mind off the panic attack that lurked just beyond my consciousness. Off to one side, Adele Quilp glowered at a cluster of students who blocked her view of the bridge. Arms crossed, she tapped her foot and murmured, “Hunh.” I pictured a Jurassic Park–sized butterfly swooping down to pick her up and felt immensely better.
“I’ll stay on this side of the bridge,” Ricki said, “until everyone’s crossed. We’ll proceed one at a time. Spacing is important. Wait in line until I indicate that it’s your turn to step onto the bridge. Do not look down—I repeat, do not look down—and hold on to the rope sides with both hands. The bridge is perfectly safe, though it may feel unstable. I’ve been over this particular bridge dozens of times, and it’s quite well made compared to most.”
Zoë sidled into line next to me. She was immediately followed by Price and Kate, who was twisting her dark hair high into a clip. Price’s baby face had paled somewhat, and he wasn’t sporting his usual swagger. Behind them, a cluster of giggling coeds stepped into line, and farther back Adam was sandwiched between the Quilps and the Browns.
I turned back to watch Ricki help the first trekker onto the bridge. The going was tedious, but Ricki was a pro. She knew exactly the mix of banter and serious instruction to put people at ease. Before ten minutes had passed, most of the first group had crossed to the other side.
It was Zoë’s turn. Ricki gestured for her to take her place near the bridge. With a visible gulp, the young woman scurried to stand beside Ricki. I started to move forward, but Price touched my arm. “I’d like to go next if it’s okay.” He was fiddling with his Swiss army knife, a habit I’d noticed over the course of the few days we’d been together. It hadn’t struck me as chilling until now. And there was a look on his baby face I didn’t trust.
I shook my head. “Actually, I’m ready to go.”
But before I could take a step, he’d grabbed Kate’s hand and hurried to the bridge, cutting me off.
By now Zoë was taking one trembling step after another, slowly moving toward the middle of the gorge.
“Don’t look down!” Price shouted, which of course made Zoë look straight down into the frightening depths below her. Her lips moved as if she was about to scream, but no sound came out.
“You’re okay, Zoë,” Ricki said quietly, then narrowed her eyes at Price.
The bridge creaked and groaned beneath Zoë’s weight. White knuckled, she clung to the ropes on either side. Even from this distance I could hear her asthmatic wheezing. With the damp heat of the jungle closing in on me and insects biting at my ankles, I clamped my lips together impatiently. It was as if my skin itched someplace inside itself, someplace I couldn’t reach. It occurred to me that at this nanosecond of time, I could throttle someone just to get to the other side, to get out of this claustrophobic sense of life pressing down on me. As Zoë clung to the rope bridge, Hollis’s betrayal slammed into my heart for the millionth time since his death. That bridge was like my life, and I was desperately hanging on. Afraid to look too closely at the past for fear of what I might find. But scared to death to move forward.
When it was his turn, Price stepped up to the bridge and waited until Ricki said it was time to go. He exchanged a triumphant look with Kate, then took a long wobbly step. And another. On his third step—with Zoë still several feet from the far side—he jerked the ropes. The bridge swayed dangerously. He stomped and jerked again.
Zoë let out a howl that could have been heard back on the Sun Spirit. In the forest around and above us, monkeys screeched, parrots squawked, and birds of every species cried out and fluttered en masse. The explosion of sound startled Price, who tripped over his Nikes and lost his footing. The bridge tipped precariously to one side, bumping and creaking like it had come to life.
As Zoë dropped to her knees and whimpered, every heartache, every betrayal, every selfish human act I’d ever witnessed seemed to fly at me at once.
I straightened my vest and marched toward Price as if he were that poisonous butterfly, as if he were Hollis. It didn’t matter that he was just an overgrown kid picking on a classmate, just like all of them had been doing since the cruise began.
I effectively cut off Ricki’s movement toward the bridge. She saw the wisdom of letting me go first and stepped aside. Maybe it was because of the look in my eye. Maybe it was because the bridge couldn’t stand up under the weight of three people. Though that was a thought I didn’t want to consider.
“Young man, apparently your mama didn’t teach you any manners,” I said to Price’s back. “I’ve seen quite enough of your disrespect for others. You think you’re some rare part of society that can do anything to anyone without consequences. You and your friends set yourselves up as judge and jury. You mentally vote on who’s cool and who’s not, who to talk to and who to ignore, who to invite into your little social circle and who to shut out. Who to ridicule.
“Well, mister, I’ve got news for you. If I see you so much as blink at Zoë in the future …” I halted, realizing I’d painted myself into a corner. I wasn’t his mother; he wasn’t sixteen. I couldn’t ground him or take away the keys to his Mercedes convertible.
But the bridge obviously frightened him more than I did. The tendons in his neck were rippling with fear. He stared into the river and tr
embled. His feet seemed glued to the bridge. I might be as mad as a wet cat over what he’d done to Zoë, but right now I needed him to move. For both our sakes.
I needed him to think about something other than falling into the precipice below. Though it had worked for me, now probably wasn’t the time to mention Jurassic Park–sized butterflies.
Instead, I growled, “If you ever threaten Zoë again, I’ll call the president of Shepparton College, who happens to be a personal friend. You ever pick on anyone again in my hearing, I’ll have you out of that school so fast your mama and daddy won’t know where to mail your allowance.”
Behind me, the other jungle trekkers had fallen silent.
Price still didn’t move.
So I squared my shoulders, lifted my chin, pictured Clint Eastwood in Dirty Harry, and growled, “Now, get! Get off my bridge.”
The boy marched toward Zoë, who had catapulted herself into a crumpled, wheezing lump on a sodden bed of decaying leaves. On the opposite bank, a smattering of applause grew into cheers and louder clapping.
But I took no joy in it. The boy’s shoulders were slumped as he skirted Zoë’s limp form and moved down the path. I had just humiliated him in front of his peers, which probably hurt his psyche in ways he would not soon forget. And though no one knew it, I had lied. I didn’t know the president of Shepparton College from Arnold Schwarzenegger.
I stepped off the far side of the bridge and, kneeling beside Zoë, brushed the girl’s hair back from her damp forehead. “You okay?”
Zoë had been crying. “Why did you do it?” She sounded angry.
Incredulous, I asked, “What do you mean?”
“Price. He was just teasing, that’s all.” Zoë’s eyes were watery behind her thick glasses. “It was like I was … finally one of them. That’s what they do to each other. I’ve seen them. If they like you, they tease and joke and do dumb stuff.” She covered her face and wept.
I couldn’t speak. It was as if the air had been pumped right out of my lungs.