by Diane Noble
He laughed. “It’s an ancient fortress built by the Spanish in the 1700s. Of course it’s been refurbished inside, but the walls remain. Several governmental offices are housed here, including the local police department and the regional prison.”
The barred windows on the bottom level looked like dungeons from the Spanish Inquisition. I shivered and turned away.
The car pulled into a parking slot near some rather faded black-and-white SUVs with ornate REPÚBLICA DE COSTA RICA shields on their front doors. Above a double doorway leading into the stone building dead ahead, letters had been chiseled into an archway: POLICÍA PLAYA NEGRA.
“Were you able to get photos of the girls?”
I shook my head. “So far I haven’t been able to reach Carly’s mother. When we get back to the ship, we’ll get copies of their passports. One of the students—you probably know her, Zoë Shire—works in personnel and is along to take care of the paperwork, health insurance, that sort of thing. I’ll have her copy the photos.”
“Good plan.” He exited the car at the same time the chauffeur opened my door.
We entered the building together, and I stood back as he spoke to the uniformed officer at the counter. The office was dirty, messy, and crowded with tourists filling out what I assumed were forms having to do with crimes committed against them: picked pockets, petty theft, assault, stolen passports. We’d been warned onboard what to expect in these little seaside towns, so I wasn’t surprised. But I was disheartened.
I couldn’t help thinking again about the travel article. If I told the truth, no one would set foot in Playa Negra.
It got worse. I was soon part of the clipboard-filling-out-forms brigade, standing in endless lines to have the forms stamped by officials, explaining again why I was here, only to be given other forms and told to start the whole process over again. The room grew stuffier, so humid the air almost dripped, as the day grew warmer and more people flocked inside. I heard snatches of disgruntled English, Spanish, Dutch, German, and French. I didn’t think anything could be worse than the DMV at home. I was wrong. I’d found the place.
Jean tried to cut through the red tape, and to his credit, he patiently spoke to each official on my behalf. He disappeared into one of the offices about halfway through the process, then returned a half hour later, apologetic for the time and effort it was taking me. He also said he’d asked if Adam Hartsfield had come in—or been apprehended.
He hadn’t.
I finally met with a detective who seemed, at best, bored with the report, at worst, hostile toward another American tourist in trouble. It was obvious the red tape was not going to be cut through, no matter what local clout Jean might have. Although the detective promised to look into the matter, he said he needed more documentation from the college authorities and from the girls’ parents. And, of course, photos. In the end, I wondered if my visit had moved the investigation along at all.
By the time we left from the dark, dank station, all I could think of was returning to the resort, packing up my things, and heading back to the ship. The cozy comfort of my stateroom, my typewriter, and Gus called to me. My heart needed soothing after all I had learned about Adam. There was nothing like the rumble of Gus’s purr to bring me some calm. Or the mundane clicking of old-fashioned typewriter keys and the ding of the platen return.
More than anything, I longed to hear some good news about Carly.
Jean wanted to immediately return to the ship to speak to Captain Richter about Adam Hartsfield, so we parted at the wharf, he to board his private speedboat, me to return to La Vida Pura with the chauffeur. I was perfectly content to be alone again. Though I appreciated his take-charge attitude, the urgency of finding the missing girls lay heavy on my heart.
When I arrived at the pagoda, the sun was high, bringing with it an almost unbearable heat and a light so intense it was colorless. Zoë had obviously been out all morning and not bothered to turn on the air conditioning. I flipped the switch and, ignoring the chaotic mess that greeted me, quickly moved into the bedroom to pack my things.
The suite seemed to almost breathe danger, and I quickened my pace to be rid of it. Every creak of the wood structure, every muffled voice carrying from outdoors, caused me to start. I quickly stuffed my toiletries and hiking clothes in my backpack, ran a brush through my hair, and clipped it high off my neck because of the heat.
I reentered the living room, dropped my backpack, then stepped into the girls’ room. It was just as we’d left it when Adam and I found Kate’s note. I glanced around at Kate’s and Zoë’s belongings, wondering whether the police would actually show up and treat it like a crime scene or whether I should gather Kate’s belongings and return them to the ship for safekeeping. I wondered why Zoë hadn’t returned to pack up her things.
I had just finished changing into my trekking uniform, as I was beginning to affectionately call my bermudas and journalist’s vest, when a shuffling of feet and a snatch of conversation came from the direction of the front door. At first I thought the cleaning crew had shown up, for it was past checkout time. Then I heard a snatch of English. I recognized the voices—Max Pribble and Price Alexander—and the sounds of a jimmied lock. Without thinking, I ducked into the closet and closed the mirrored sliding door.
Immediately I regretted it. Not only did my claustrophobia rear its ugly head, but I felt more foolish than I had in years. Before I could step outside the closet and demand an explanation for breaking into the suite, they were entering the living room. So I stayed put and waited, straining to hear.
Price and Max came closer to where I huddled, and I could clearly hear their voices.
“Yeah, dude,” one of them said. “The guy said to get it back. Didn’t matter how we did it, just get it. That’s all he said.”
I frowned. Get what?
“You sure he said it was in here? This place looks rolled.”
The boys’ words softened to a muffle, and I imagined they were going through some of the girls’ belongings. I heard a zipper open, then close, a soft grunt, probably caused by one of them squatting to look under a bed or beneath a table or dresser.
“Don’t see it, dude.”
“Gotta be here somewhere.”
“The ol’ lady probably got it.”
The hairs on the back of my neck bristled.
Old lady? Moi?
I stopped myself from flying out of the closet and giving the kid what for. Old lady indeed. I didn’t look a day over forty-five. At least that’s what I told myself. It didn’t matter that most days I felt twice my age. Today was one of those days.
“Hey, I’ve got an idea. Let’s write another one. The dude won’t know the difference. He never saw the first one.”
My breath caught. Write another what? Were they talking about the note?
Silence fell while they were obviously mulling it over.
“Nah,” one finally said. “There was something about the dude’s voice on the phone. Not what he said but how he said it. I don’t think we ought to double-cross him. Let’s just tell him we couldn’t find it.”
I ruled out Adam as the “dude” they were talking about. As far as I knew, he still had the note.
Who wanted the note? Why did he want it back? And how did the boys get involved?
My head hurt from the whirl of unanswered questions—not to mention lack of food and caffeine. I squeezed my eyes shut, pinching the bridge of my nose, willing my brain to kick into gear.
If I confronted the boys, would they tell me what they knew? I took a deep breath, ready to burst out of my hiding place and demand an explanation.
Then one of the boys said something that chilled me to the bone. And I knew it was Price Alexander.
“You know that cat on the ship?”
“Yeah, the one the old lady had in the carrier the day we boarded?”
“Yeah, that one.”
Gus! My heart twisted.
“I got plans for it, man.”
“G
et-even kind of plans?”
“Yeah, dude. Exactly.”
The voices receded, and I willed my heart to stop its erratic beating. As soon as I heard the front door open, then close with a soft thud, I emerged from my hiding place, hurried to the living room, grabbed my backpack, and slipped through the door behind the boys.
I needed to get back to the ship before they did. But how?
They sauntered along the path several yards ahead of me, so I took an offshoot that I knew led to the reception area. I broke into a trot, not an easy thing for a woman of a certain age in the oppressive heat, but I kept thinking of Gus. My heels sprouted wings. Hunger, fatigue, and Starbucks cravings sank like rocks to the bottom of my list of concerns.
The path wound through a meditation garden with fountains and Eastern sculptures. I began to worry this wasn’t a shortcut after all, and I picked up speed. I rounded another corner and slowed. Then I halted, midstep, my heart racing.
A figure stood behind a dark tangle of fern and vines. I glanced around, looking for a means of escape. There was none.
He stepped onto the path.
“I was hoping you would come this way.”
Adam.” The word came out benign enough as I tried to collect my thoughts, decide on my actions—fight or flight? Psychology 101 came back to me. Nonverbal signs of the fight-or-flight response: dilated pupils, bristling hair, and increased breathing rate, with either a torso squared for battle or an angling away for flight. I felt my bristling hair and shallow, rapid breathing, and I imagined that my pupils were as black as obsidian and the size of coffee coasters.
I looked down at my torso. My sympathetic nervous system had already kicked into action. It said fight. I wasn’t going to argue.
I squared my shoulders to match my torso and marched myself toward Adam. Stopped dead in front of him and stared up into his face. “You’ve got things to tell me.”
When his mouth twitched at the corner, I tried not to think of him as a murderer; it wasn’t too late for flight to kick in. After all this bravado, I didn’t want to look foolish. Or feel foolish.
Around us buzzed purplish black bees the size of golf balls. I shuddered as one flew too near my right ear. Another grazed my left ear, and I waved it away.
“I was about to say the same thing to you.”
“What do you mean?”
Instead of answering, he turned to lead me away from the flowering bush that attracted the bees. We moved down the path a short ways. A small, three-sided redwood enclosure had been built to one side of the path. A strange sculpture rose from a platform in one corner; a trickling fountain graced the opposite corner. A wooden bench bordered the latticework walls. Adam gestured toward the middle section, and we sat.
I perched on the seat edge, ready for flight. I wanted some answers from this man, but I hadn’t gotten past fearing for my life.
Adam studied my face for a few seconds before speaking. “What’s going on?”
I stared at him. “What do you mean, ‘What’s going on?’ You tell me.”
He frowned.
“Why didn’t you tell me about Harry Easton?”
“I did.”
“You conveniently left out some important details.”
Adam dropped his head into his hands and let it hang there. He didn’t look up when he started to speak. “You’ve obviously found out he’s the guy who took the photos.”
“Yeah, I did. I also found out some other very interesting information.”
He was looking up now, but toward the path, not me. The muscles in his jaw were working overtime, his lips were white. “Such as?”
“It seems Easton died of unnatural causes after all.”
“How do you know that?”
I didn’t answer.
“You seem to be a veritable treasure trove of information. What else?”
“Your marital problems, your daughter Holly’s disappearance.”
As soon as I said his daughter’s name, he whirled. His eyes narrowed and his breathing came out heavy and rapid. “Who have you been talking to? Where did you get this?”
I stood. “It doesn’t matter.”
He rose and reached for my arm. He held me by the wrist. His grasp wasn’t tight. Just firm. No nonsense. “You’ve got to tell me. It fits with everything else.”
“Now you’re talking in riddles.”
He stared hard at me, then let my arm go. Shaking his head, he said, “I went to the police station this morning.”
“And?”
“I ran into so much red tape, forms, that sort of thing, I decided to take the forms with me, fill them out in a café across from the station. While I was there, I overheard a couple of officers talking about an Interpol matter.”
I knew what was coming, but said, “What matter?”
“I think you know.”
I looked at him, unblinking, then said, “The little matter of being wanted for murder.”
“Yeah, that little matter. I don’t know a whole lot of Spanish, but I knew enough to pick up my own name and description and why they’re looking for me.”
“Why did you come back here then?”
“I need your help. You’re the only one I can trust right now.”
I flew to my feet. “Me? You’ve got to be kidding. As far as I’m concerned, you’re a criminal wanted for murder. Why should I believe otherwise? I have a mind to blow my whistle—” I patted my vest trying to remember which pocket I’d left it in.
The transparent, honest look in his eyes made me stop before I’d ripped open a single Velcro strap. He continued in utter seriousness, speaking rapidly as if he didn’t have much time to tell me all I needed to know. He gave me his side of the tragic breakup of his marriage, without glossing over his role. He was brutally honest about how he’d sunk into deep depression after the videotaped beating was broadcast throughout the country—worse, in his hometown—and his life seemed over. His wife and daughter suffered, especially after his wife gave him an ultimatum to get help or else she would take Holly and leave him.
Even then, he seemed paralyzed to get help. Instead, he sank into deeper and deeper despair.
“What about Holly’s disappearance?”
“That’s the worst tragedy in all of this. I shut her out of my life, thinking she was better off without me. She headed off to college in Florida—the same school these kids are from—”
“Shepparton,” I offered.
He nodded. “And I never said good-bye.”
I didn’t tell him I knew about the restraining order to keep him away from both Holly and her mother.
“Holly was with a group of her friends on a cruise when she disappeared. It was spring break of her sophomore year; fast-track science classes were being offered. She wanted to be a teacher—high-school biology. I was so proud of her.” His voice caught, and he looked away from me. “She was in the eastern Caribbean. Disappeared without a trace. She was with a dozen friends, and none of them remembered seeing her go. Her mother and I were devastated. But it woke us both up. We did what Holly wanted us to do all along.”
“You got back together.”
“It wasn’t easy. I had to humble myself first before God, then before my wife. I had been a nominal believer before but had turned my back on God when the troubles began.”
He met my gaze, and this time I saw something in his eyes I hadn’t noticed before. A peace that went beyond all that had happened to him, all the bad things, the betrayals, the fall into the gutter. There was only one source for such peace. I understood it and touched his hand.
“I promised Jo I wouldn’t rest until I found our daughter—or found out what happened to her.” He paused. “Jo died not long after.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I didn’t tell you all this to gain your sympathy. It’s background for what I need to tell you next.
“They’re connected, all the girls who’ve disappeared—Holly, Carly, and now Kate. And there may be others�
��from all around the U.S. and Canada. Not many, but they’re there if you look.”
“What do you mean, ‘there’?”
“In the missing persons reports. They’re college-age females—mostly nineteen to twenty-one. All northern European heritage, a certain physique, maybe one hundred fifteen to one hundred twenty pounds. No one over five foot six. All pretty and popular with their peers. Not necessarily stellar students, but mostly serious in their studies.”
“Serial killer?” I almost whispered the words, not wanting to think the unthinkable. I pictured Carly and Kate. I thought about Holly and the anguish of not knowing what had happened to her. “Do you have a picture of her … of Holly?”
He pulled out his wallet and removed a worn and wrinkled photo. “It’s old,” he said needlessly. “She was only ten when this was taken.”
A pigtailed girl grinned at the camera. Long bangs almost hid her large, intelligent eyes. A smattering of freckles dusted a perfectly formed nose. Two dimples added spark to her personality, even in a still photo—one in the middle of her chin, another in her left cheek.
“Here’s the only recent one I’ve got.” He handed me another. I could see his eyes in her gaze, the strong set of her jaw, just like his. Her smile was faint, but she looked happy, content.
He took the photos back from me and returned them to his wallet. “Jo and I tried for years to have kids. We’d just about given up when she got pregnant with Holly. We were both in our forties when she was born. She was a handful, but we loved our new roles, late-night feedings and all.”
The lines in his face softened as he talked about his child, then hardened again as he turned the topic back to the missing girls. “I’ve been on the abductors’ tails for two years, and I’m getting close. That’s why I’m on this cruise. These are some of Holly’s classmates. Some were with her when she disappeared, others were on the periphery. They were all questioned but strangely didn’t remember—or admit to remembering—anything.”
I wanted to believe him, wanted to trust him. I reached for my handbag, rummaged around inside, and grasped the bracelet. “I found this in the hangar at the airport this morning.” I gave it to him, and as he examined it, I told him the story of Carly and Joey.