The Butterfly Farm

by Diane Noble

  “Good. I’ll send my driver to pick you up.”

  “Adam Hartsfield has been helping me out on this. Is it okay if he comes with us?”

  Silence. I thought the signal had dropped and was about to ask if Jean was still there when he finally spoke. “I’ve been looking into Hartsfield’s background. Found out some pretty disturbing facts you ought to know about him. I’ll fill you in when I see you. Meanwhile, for your own good, you need to stay away from him. He’s a dangerous man.”

  “I know about the charges brought against him, if that’s what you’re referring to.”

  “No. I’m talking about something entirely different. Our Mr. Hartsfield, ex-detective, is about to be picked up by Interpol for murder. Please, Harriet, for your own safety, steer clear of the man.”

  I sat back, trying to make sense of the words. Denial is part of my modus operandi. When hit by sadness, sorrow, or betrayal, I push that emotion to somewhere deep inside my heart, assuming that when it slips out later, it won’t hurt so much. The trouble is, the pain is just as bad—and maybe worse—when it does surface. That doesn’t keep me from trying, though. Like now.

  Unfortunately, my emotional MO didn’t kick in this time. I believed every word, even though I didn’t want to. I felt sick.

  “Gotcha,” I said into the phone.

  Adam appeared on my doorstep several minutes later. I stared at him, taking in his ice blue eyes, his craggy face, the hard set of his jaw. Criminal? He certainly looked the part. Bitterness and hard times were etched into his face.

  He seemed to sense the chill in my demeanor and gave me a quizzical look. A suspicious, knowing look. I willed myself not to shiver visibly.

  “I want to go alone,” I said. “This is my doing, and I really don’t want to get anyone else involved.”

  He stood his ground, adopting a police officer’s stance. Which frightened me even more.

  I cleared my throat. “I have this thing I hum to myself. Sometimes.”

  He waited.

  “I am woman, hear me roar.”

  That twitchy thing happened at the corner of his mouth. If he smiled, it would kill me. I was beginning to enjoy his smile, especially when it was in response to something I said. I couldn’t think of him as dangerous and like his smile at the same time. It made no sense.

  “Helen Reddy,” he said.

  I grinned. I couldn’t help myself.

  “Hey, I’m here if you need me,” he said, backing down the walkway. “You go, girl.”

  I didn’t even have on my ball cap. Unexpected tears stung my eyes as he disappeared around a clump of palms.

  I took a shower, towel-dried my hair, and fluffed it with my fingers. I had stuffed a lightweight gauzy skirt and pullover top into my backpack the day before. Luckily, they were supposed to look wrinkled. After I put them on and slipped my feet into some sparkly, beachy flip-flops, I glanced in the mirror. My hair looked droopy, so I scooped it up with a clip, leaving a few wispy bangs, added some dangly earrings, and hoped I looked presentable enough to be picked up by Jean’s chauffeur.

  As I waited for the car, I tried for the third time in an hour to reach Tangi. Her answering machine clicked on. This time, I said, “Hey, Tange. It’s me. Harriet. Where are you, girlfriend? I’ve been trying to get a hold of you. Call me onboard, ship to shore, later tonight. It’s important.”

  An hour later I was seated in a comfortably air-conditioned car, making the short drive to the airport just two miles west of the compound. It was so well hidden from sight I didn’t spot the landing strip until we were almost on it.

  The Playa Negra airport, if you could call it that, consisted of one large hangar and a scattering of private planes tied down near a grass runway. I’d landed on a grass runway only once. I was at the controls, and Hollis was beside me. We were on a cross-country trip and had stopped to refuel in northern Texas. It was like landing in a cornfield. Bumpy, optically challenging. Frightening.

  And that was years before I slid into a serious clinical phobia. That was before I swore I’d die before crawling into the cockpit of a private plane again. That was before Hollis’s death.

  The closer we came to the airfield, the harder my heart needed to work. I looked down and held my forehead with my hand, unwilling to see the kind of plane I used to fly, the kind Hollis died in.

  If I looked up, I was sure I would see the most common of all Cessna models, a red and white 172 Skyhawk. I would cry and likely wouldn’t stop. After Hollis’s crash I even tried biofeedback training to get over my fears. The therapist said to think of the good times, the joy we took in flying together, instead of the accident. It didn’t work then. It wasn’t working now.

  “Ma’am?” the driver said. “We are here, but Dr. Baptiste has not come in yet.” He spoke with an unidentifiable accent. Northern European perhaps.

  I met his gaze in the rearview mirror.

  “Would you like to wait in the car—or inside?”

  “Inside?” I glanced at the hangar, which was closed.

  “Dr. Baptiste owns the hangar. He has set up a little waiting area for passengers to relax. A kind of lounge. It is quite comfortable. We have refrigerated soft drinks, coffee, snacks.”

  “Yes, please. That sounds lovely.” I smiled into the mirror.

  He drove nearer to the large metal building, got out, and opened my door. We entered a sectioned-off portion of the hangar, air-conditioned and nicely furnished.

  “May I fix anything for you? A ginger ale perhaps? Or Coke?”

  My stomach was still jumpy, and with the faint acrid smells of airplane fuel, oils, and engines drifting from beyond the partition, it could use some soothing. “Ginger ale, please.”

  I settled into an easy chair facing away from the window. As I took my drink from the chauffeur, though, I heard the low hum of an incoming aircraft. Curiosity got the best of me, and I turned to watch Jean enter the landing pattern downwind.

  He was piloting a private luxury jet. White, it gleamed in the morning sun. Judging by the length, I guessed it to be a seven-seater Citation, which made it easier for me to watch without falling to pieces. I stood to move closer to the window as he turned into base, then a few minutes later into his final approach.

  A bright object on the floor near the window caught my attention. I looked down, hesitated, then stooped to pick it up. It was a bracelet.

  I had seen it before.

  It was distinctive, a unique Brighton design. A leather strap that buckled. In its center was a tiny silver-embossed motif made up of three hearts. Tiny engraved letters in each smooth center spelled the words JOY, HOPE, COURAGE. A small chain linked a quarter-inch solid silver heart in place to the buckle. In its center was the word LOVE.

  I closed my fingers around it, held it tightly in my hand, and drew it to my chest, almost afraid to breathe. I had seen the bracelet only twice before: the night my son Joey gave it to Carly—and the day before she disappeared. When she noticed me staring at the bracelet, she’d raised her hand into a fist with a “yes” punch in the air, and winked at me.

  I looked out the window in time to see Jean bring the Citation in for a perfect landing. The reverse jets roared, then quieted as the plane slowed. He swung off the runway to the taxiway and headed toward the hangar.

  I quickly reached for my handbag, tucked the bracelet inside, and snapped it closed.

  Carly had been here. I was sure of it. But why? And how did she get here from Parisima? The canal had been temporarily closed, or so I had been told. Was she brought here against her will? By plane? I watched Jean taxi closer, his face barely visible behind the cockpit glass. Was he a man I could trust? I had thought so. Now I wasn’t so sure.

  I was still mulling over these unanswerable questions when I heard a section of hangar behind me open with a rattle and a bang. Apparently the chauffeur doubled as a ground pilot. After Jean stepped down the ramp, the chauffeur climbed into the cockpit, and a few minutes later, the Citation disappeared i
nside the hangar.

  Jean strode through the doorway, concern etched on his face. I noticed again his elegant good looks, from his silver-streaked goatee to his Armani loafers. “Has there been any word?”

  I shook my head. “Nothing.”

  He walked to the wet bar and took a soft drink from the refrigerator. “Can I get you anything?”

  I held up my ginger ale. “I’m fine, really.”

  He took a long swig, then joined me in the sitting area. “I’m worried,” he said. “There are too many coincidences in all this. I’ve had some suspicions, but I needed to find out more before I mentioned them to anyone.”

  We sat down opposite each other. He leaned forward, his expression troubled.

  “About Adam Hartsfield,” I ventured.

  “Yes. And, please, what I’m about to tell you is confidential. I’ve contacted Interpol, but I haven’t said anything to Captain Richter or to the Shepparton staff. Before I leave today, I’ll need to go out to the ship and let them know to keep Hartsfield from boarding should he try.”

  “Wait a minute. What are you talking about?”

  “You said you know about the charges against him.”

  “Yes, yes, of course. But what does that have to do with any of the rest of this?”

  “Did he tell you he knew Harry Easton?”

  “Adam said he’d never met him, but knew of him—by reputation. A rather unsavory reputation, from what he said.”

  “He did know Easton, and well. It’s true they may never have met formally, but Easton was closely tied to our Adam Hartsfield.”

  My anxiety meter was hovering to the far right of center. “Go on.”

  “Easton was on to him, out to prove that the rumors about excessive violence in the force were true, all of them. The night Hartsfield was caught on film, it was Easton behind the camera. He took the video and the stills.”

  “It could have been a setup,” I said, surprising myself by coming to Adam’s defense.

  “There’s more.”

  I didn’t want to hear it. I was feeling sick enough already. I nodded for him to continue.

  “There was a big fight between Hartsfield and his wife after his arrest. Because of what had happened with the video, every time he wiped his nose it was news. The man I hired to investigate said this was no different. The wife finally leaves, taking the girl with her. Then there’s a knockdown, drag-out custody fight over their teenage daughter.”

  “What does this have to do with your contacting Interpol—other than Hartsfield possibly being a suspect in the Easton death? Which, I remind you, is still officially an accident.”

  Jean studied me for several moments, then said, “Two things connect. First, I have friends in the San José coroner’s office who faxed me the preliminary report. Easton died of a poisonous injection.”

  I stared at him, unable to think of anything except Adam Hartsfield standing near the pool where Easton died the night I returned to the scene. I remembered his chilling demeanor, the look on his haggard face.

  “You said two things.”

  “His daughter.”

  The room suddenly seemed to swell to an enormous size, while at the same time I seemed to be shrinking. Once when I was a little girl, perhaps four or five, I witnessed a puppy being run over by a car. I was standing on the sidewalk, holding my mother’s hand, and was helpless to do anything about it. She pulled me toward her, holding me close, so I wouldn’t see the little dog’s body or hear its last whimpering cries of death.

  But I saw anyway, and I heard. And the whole world swelled to an enormous size as I realized my tiny size, my powerlessness, in comparison. I had nightmares for years, vivid nightmares, of the same sensation.

  The same as now.

  “Don’t tell me she disappeared.”

  He nodded slowly. “Not long after her mother took out a restraining order to keep Hartsfield away from them both.”

  “How long ago did this happen?”

  “Three years.”

  “Was she found?”

  “No. She disappeared without a trace. Though no one could prove it—Hartsfield is too good for that—there are those on the San Francisco police force who are certain he’s responsible.”

  “So Easton was on Hartsfield’s tail here?”

  “I don’t know who was on whose. I suspect Easton was following a lead that tied Hartsfield to the disappearances of other young women. I also suspect Hartsfield followed Easton to get rid of him before he uncovered something that would hammer the final nails in his coffin.”

  “As chilling as it is, I can come closer to understanding a crime of passion that puts a man over the edge—kidnapping and hiding his daughter to get back at his ex-wife. But what would be the motive to go after other young women?”

  “It seems they’re all from the same school.”

  The room was ballooning again. “Let me guess. Shepparton College.”

  “The pattern is clear. Any student who was close to his daughter has disappeared. One by one.”

  “What was her name?”

  Jean’s face softened. I remembered he had once lost a daughter, and, somehow, as terrible as Hartsfield’s actions were, he understood the love of a father for his daughter.

  “Holly,” he said. “Holly Hartsfield.”

  I remembered, then, what Adam had said about his reasons for being at La Vida Pura were more important than life itself. Somewhere within his deranged mind he blamed Easton for the disasters that had rained down on him—lost job, lost family, perhaps even what he’d felt forced to do to cover his tracks after Holly’s abduction—and he had been on a quest to balance the scales of justice. To get rid of Harry Easton.

  I let out a pent-up breath, aware that Jean was watching me with an expression of compassion and understanding. “So where do we go from here?”

  “The most important task at hand is to find your Carly—and Kate, if she is really tangled up in all this.”

  “I think she is.”

  He nodded. “That’s good enough for me.”

  “I don’t have Kate’s note. Adam took it. He said he would give it to the authorities in town.”

  Jean didn’t roll his eyes, but I could see he was thinking the same thing I was. Adam had put the note in his pocket, and it would probably never be seen again. And I had let a solid piece of evidence slip through my fingers. It was gone.

  Jean rose, and I did the same. He took my empty glass and set it, with his, near the wet bar. I supposed the chauffeur and jack-of-all-trades assistant would clean it up later.

  “I also suggest,” he said, opening the hangar door for me, “we get the students back to the ship as quickly as possible. They’ll be safer onboard than traipsing around Playa Negra unprotected—at least until we know that Hartsfield is in custody.”

  “Will he be extradited?” I shuddered to think what might happen to him in a Central American jail—even in a civilized country like Costa Rica.

  “Costa Rica has no extradition treaty with the U.S. Crimes like this get messy. If it can be proved that the Sun Spirit was within Costa Rican territorial waters when he killed Easton, local law enforcement will prosecute. Believe me, he’ll rot in a Central American prison if they have their way. If Interpol gets involved, it’s messier still. Jurisdiction issues again.” He shrugged. “Either way, he’s dead.”

  I swallowed hard. “Dead?”

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  The chauffeur opened the car door, and I slid into the plush leather backseat. Jean went around the vehicle and got in beside me. I focused on his face rather than the airfield as we glided by.

  The shock was wearing off now, and rather than dismay or even sorrow for what Hartsfield had done, the anger that had been hiding in my heart was suddenly making itself known. I felt duped. Betrayed, though I couldn’t say exactly why.

  I only knew that now I was angry.

  “We’ll head down to the harbor first,” Jean said, “to check on
Carly Lowe—just on the off chance she might have come in by canal boat.”

  The voice of reason. I appreciated it.

  Then I remembered the bracelet. “Could she have found a ride some other way? Perhaps gotten someone to fly her here, hired a charter?”

  “It’s possible, I suppose. Especially if she found the canal closed to its usual taxi traffic. Do you know whether she had her money and passport? That’s usually all it takes.”

  I didn’t know, but just at the possibility, I brightened for the first time all morning. I didn’t tell Jean about the bracelet for reasons I didn’t understand. But I prayed Carly would be waiting at the wharf for her ride to the Sun Spirit.

  We wound through rolling hills covered with tall grasses, lush vegetation, and scattered banana groves. Inland lay the rain forests and, on terraced slopes in the distance, coffee plantations. To the east a ribbon of ocean glinted in the sun, and after we rounded another curve, the harbor came into sight. The anchored Sun Spirit, the size of a toy from this distance, was visible through a low-lying haze.

  The car glided smoothly along the main street that led to the harbor. On either side, kiosks were set up to sell flowers, souvenirs, breads, fish, and vegetables. Townspeople, merchants, and tourists wandered among them. As we slowed for traffic, I anxiously searched their faces, looking for Carly or Kate.

  Nothing.

  Soon we arrived at the wharf where we had disembarked just the day before. There were no tenders. No people waiting.

  No Carly.

  My heart plummeted. Again.

  I met Jean’s worried gaze. “We must get to the police station. Quickly.”

  He spoke to the driver in a language that sounded like Dutch. I wondered why he didn’t use English, since the driver spoke it well.

  We climbed out of town along a series of short switchbacks to a fortresslike structure that towered above the harbor on a cliff. A thick stone wall ran along the top of the cliff for a mile or so in both directions before turning inland. The car slid through an arched opening, past a guarded gate, and into deep shadow, as if this massive enclosure had swallowed us up. “Impressive,” I said to Jean.