by Diane Noble
“Like to Kate and Carly,” Max said.
“Yeah.”
Price sat forward. “What about Dr. Baptiste’s boat?”
“Wrong again. I think he’d miss it.”
“And probably be p—” Max started.
“Upset,” I finished for him.
Price butted in. “Hey, man, we need something with power. We can’t be working our—”
“Tails off,” I filled in.
“Hey, we owe her, man,” Max said, looking away from us. “And she’s right. Any kind of powerboat would be noticed. We wouldn’t get halfway to shore before the gendarmes would be hot after us.”
“How soon can you two be ready?”
They looked at each other.
“It’s not like we have to pack anything,” Max said.
“How long will we be gone?” Price looked down at his baggy shorts and rumpled tank top.
“Hey, you’re cool,” Max said. “We’re not gonna run into any chicks or anything.”
“There are two I hope we do run into,” I said.
“Yeah,” he said.
“And I don’t think they’ll care what any of us is wearing.”
We arranged to meet near the deck one gangway at midnight. Meanwhile, the boys were going to check out the kayaks and work on the logistics for getting the three of us through the now-closed gangway and into the kayaks. The logistics were making me crazy, so I left them to it. They couldn’t have been happier.
I changed into black jeans, black T-shirt, vest, Tevas, and ball cap. “You Go, Girl!” didn’t remotely match my spirit when I looked in the mirror. I was tired and cranky, and my eyes burned from lack of sleep. I would have given my right arm to simply go to bed and worry about all of this tomorrow.
But a storm was brewing off the coast, and we might not get off the ship—or across the harbor—if we didn’t go now, under cover of darkness. And, more important, the longer the girls were missing, the greater the danger of them not being found alive.
I was ready well before eleven, so I used the extra time to look around the ship for Gus. Not that I hadn’t been watching for him since he’d gone missing. But now I tried to imagine where I would go if I were a cat, and I realized I would make tracks to find water and anything that vaguely resembled Kibbles ’n Bits. So I headed to the ladies’—and men’s—rooms. Faucets were favorite spots for Gus to grab a quick lap. Toilets if all else failed. But no answering mew lifted my heart when I called his name.
I next headed to the darkened kitchen, poked my head inside the food-preparation area and called out. Only silence answered. I did the same thing in the pantry, then checked behind stacks of cereal boxes. I looked carefully on the bread shelf. Gus loved bread, all flavors and colors, but his favorite was sourdough. I examined the loaves, looking for telltale signs that he had chewed through the wrapping.
Every loaf was pristine.
I was just about to return to my stateroom when I heard the roar of a speedboat engine. I hurried through the empty dining room and out to the adjoining deck. It was as I suspected. Jean Baptiste was revving his engine, preparing to leave the ship.
I could easily have hitched a ride with him, but for now I wanted to keep my visit to the spa and clinic to myself. I doubted he would stand aside as I searched for whatever it was my hunch thought was there.
Though I admired Jean and was impressed by his stunning research, I also sensed he had an ego the size of the Queen Mary II. I had no doubt that at the first hint I was investigating a clinic he was involved with, he would throw up a roadblock just so his good name wouldn’t be sullied. Actually, I wouldn’t blame him. His research was too important.
I squinted into the darkness, my focus on the speedboat. Just as it turned away from the Sun Spirit, the ship’s running lights illumined the back of the speedboat. It was named Nicolette after his daughter.
I hoped my hunch about the clinic proved wrong.
Promptly at 11:49, I made my way to the gangway. The running lights had been turned off, and the passageways were nearly dark. The ship was silent except for a few flaps of canvas snapping in the wind and the clanking of metal against metal. Grommets hitting against stanchions, I assumed. Not that I would know one from the other. Until this cruise I thought a grommet was a kind of gerbil and a stanchion was akin to a pelican.
Just before I stepped from the stairs near the gangway, I heard Max and Price talking in low tones. They sounded excited, so I assumed all had gone well with their preparations.
We donned life vests and plastic splash skirts that hung from shoulders to hips and made me look like one of those toaster dolls my mother made for her relatives one Christmas. The three of us then peered over the side into the water where two orange kayaks bobbed close to the ship. It was a vertical distance of about nine feet. Too far to jump.
I swallowed hard. “How does one get from here to there?”
Price jerked his thumb to the edge of the gaping opening. A pair of thin ropes were tied to two metal posts about two feet apart. They dangled over the side, seeming to disappear into the dark abyss below. “Rope ladder,” he said proudly. “Found it next to where they keep the paddles.”
“I have to climb down that thing?”
He nodded, his eyes abnormally bright. At least it seemed to me they were. I remembered how I’d yelled at him on the rope bridge. Talk about payback time. This might be my undoing. I whispered a prayer, then said, “Let’s do it.”
“Don’t worry, Ms. M.,” Max said. “I’ll go first; then I can catch you if you fall.”
“So you lost—picked the short straw?”
He shot me a grin, then scrambled over the side and descended the ladder with ease. I stepped onto the first rung, wobbled precariously, and decided it was the better part of wisdom to look up rather than into the ink black water below. Unfortunately, I was looking into Price’s leering face.
He watched me solemnly. “You’re doin’ good, Ms. M. You’re almost there. That’s right, keep going.”
I figured that once I was halfway, Price probably wasn’t going to let go of the rope. I would have made a bigger splash from the top, something I was sure he would prefer. I gave him a thumbs-up as I stepped into the front opening of the kayak and quickly sat down, stretching my feet out in front of me. Max was already seated in the rear, hanging on to the mooring rope that held the kayak somewhat steady. I remembered to fasten the elasticized splash skirt to the lip around the opening. I wondered how effective it would be at keeping out the waves.
Max handed me a paddle. I dipped each side in the water for a couple of practice strokes. With each movement, the little craft dipped and swayed. I swallowed hard. I’d forgotten how close to the surface of the water you sit in a kayak. I realized too late that I should have grabbed my heart medicine, the little pills that keep my heart in rhythm.
Above us Price silently closed the gangway door just short of latching for easier access when we returned. Then, leaving the rope ladder hanging in place, he zipped down in about thirty seconds and plopped into the opening in his kayak. “I had some practice earlier,” he said with a slight scowl. There was something in his expression I didn’t trust, but I couldn’t pinpoint what it was. I just knew it was there.
The water was relatively calm, and soon we were silently making our way through the swells. The lights onshore twinkled brightly, guiding us to the harbor.
Most of the way we didn’t speak. Sound carries across water too easily, and in the event that some passengers or crew onboard the Spirit were out for a stroll on deck, I didn’t want them getting curious about what they had heard … and launching an investigation.
It took less than an hour to reach the shore. It was a good thing. I’d already worn two blisters on one hand and three on the other. And my upper arms felt as if they were made out of Silly Putty.
“Phase one, successful,” I whispered as I unstrapped my life vest. “Now on to phase two.”
“Got it covered, Ms
. M.,” Max whispered back and tossed another palm branch over the hidden kayaks.
“I hired the right guys,” I said.
“Yeah, well, you better wait until you see what we’ve got planned,” Price said.
“It can’t be illegal,” I said quickly. The ambient light was dim, but I saw them roll their eyes. “Okay, spill.”
Max stepped closer. “I spotted a police car with a flat tire on our way to the wharf this afternoon. It’s right outside town, looks abandoned.”
“I bet.”
“No, really.”
“Why would the local police abandon a car?”
“Actually, it’s an SUV,” Price grinned. “An older one. It’s just sitting in a lot, looking like it needs some work.” I noticed his enthusiasm for our caper seemed to increase when something illegal cropped up.
“Maybe it does need work,” I pointed out. “Which means …” The thought was too obvious to bother spelling out.
“I can fix anything. And I figure it’s fair trade for me to fix the car, drive it to see if it works okay, then drop it by the police station.” Price pulled out his Swiss army knife, opened it, and stared at some of the miniature tools. So that was why he fiddled with the thing. Mr. Fixit.
This time I rolled my eyes. “You plan to steal their SUV, then return it to the station?”
“It’s not stealing,” they both said at once. Max went on, “Call it a test drive.”
I couldn’t argue with their logic, so I followed them to the lot where they had seen the car. It was still there. A sadder law-enforcement vehicle I’d never seen. It slanted off toward the driver’s side with at least one flat tire. With a sigh I sat down on a rock and watched the boys get to work. Luckily, this close to town, I didn’t hear the same wild animals I’d been worried about the night before. I tried to relax but too much was at stake.
The hood was up, and the boys, keeping their voices to little more than a whisper, talked about their options. Then one of them kicked a tire while the other rooted around in the back for the spare. We were losing valuable time. I strained to see my watch but couldn’t make out the time. I’d never been one for fancy timepieces. Now I wished I had one with a light.
I guessed twenty minutes had passed when they stood back with matching grins. A spare tire had replaced the flat, and when cranked, the engine sputtered to a start. I made a mental note to contact their mothers once all of this was settled and tell them what paragons they had raised. I wouldn’t tell them what I’d thought before they showed me what they were really made of.
We bumped along the highway to La Vida Pura, the boys in front. Price drove while Max tried to figure out how to operate the siren and the flashing light bar.
“Got it!” he shouted after about ten minutes.
“Don’t even think about it,” I growled.
“Hey, we’re cool, Ms. M.,” he called over his shoulder. “We’re cool.” But he gave the controls a longing look. Something told me he’d flip on every alarm he could find before the night was over.
We rounded the last bend before the La Vida Pura guard gate. Price drove the SUV off the road and, engine stopped, coasted into some thick undergrowth. We got out and kicked grass over the tracks leading from the main road.
“Looks like we hoof it from here,” Price said, sounding nervous for the first time.
“This place has heavy surveillance equipment,” I said. They glanced at me, surprised. “On the fence. You didn’t notice?”
They shook their heads.
We stopped at the top of a small rise. Below us a smattering of lights from the resort twinkled innocuously. I pointed to the fencing that surrounded the property as far as we could see. Security lights beamed from each fence post, and cameras were in place at the center of each section. I assumed they were equipped with motion sensors.
Max and Price looked at each other thoughtfully.
“You guys into electronics?”
“Not to worry, Ms. M. We’ve got a plan.”
They chose a section of fence hidden on both sides by stands of palms. I stood back while they ducked beneath the camera’s field of view. I could hear them whispering about the wiring, fuses, cutting the main, and everything between. Price had his knife out, studying the various tools.
“Another thought,” I said after a few minutes, “is that we might cover the lens.” I pulled a rectangle of black felt and a small roll of masking tape from two vest pockets.
They gaped at me. I thought I saw a hint of admiration in their slack-jawed expressions.
I swallowed a smile as I handed Max the felt and tape.
We were over the fence in ten minutes. We retrieved the camera cover at the last minute, then, bending low, zigzagged toward the clinic.
I showed Max and Price around to the rear entrance. As luck would have it, the warehouse door was closed. But in one swift movement, Price had his Swiss army knife open again, a variety of tools fanned out. Moments later the warehouse lock sprung open with a resounding thunk.
The image of my open stateroom door flashed into my thoughts. I didn’t want to believe that either of the boys was capable of harming Gus. But Price did have the tools to open locked doors, and the tools were with him.
Strange. That’s how I felt about too many people on this trip. Too many were suspicious around the edges but had something good at heart I wanted to believe in.
The boys worked together to lift the roll-up metal door. I cringed as it creaked and groaned, then slammed into its upper track with a loud clang.
For several seconds we waited in silence to see if security had discovered us. I hoped the officers were as lax as they had been the previous night. So far, no alarms. No blazing lights.
Only the night sounds of the jungle.
One minute more, then we scrambled up the short flight of steps to the warehouse floor.
“Mission accomplished,” Max whispered.
“Not until we find Carly and Kate,” I said.
“Why this place?” Price asked.
We were walking down the same dimly lit hallway Adam and I had trod the night before. “A hunch,” I said. “Two people have led me to believe there’s something suspicious going on here. The first was Harry Easton—only because he signed up for the spa—and I don’t think he was a spa kind of guy. I believe he was onto something and the trail led him here.
“The second was Adam Hartsfield. I came here last night; so did Adam—”
“The guy wanted by Interpol,” Max said.
I gave him The Look and said, “Innocent until proven guilty, dear boy. Always. Don’t ever forget it.”
“Sorry,” he said.
“As I was saying, two investigators—people who know what they’re doing; one a PI and the other an ex-detective—were on the trail of missing girls. Not Carly and Kate. Others. The trail led here, then seemed to go cold. One of the investigators didn’t make it. I want to know why.”
We let ourselves in the door leading to a rear corridor and wound through the maze of clinic offices and examination rooms. It was just as I had found it last night. Sterile and empty.
For a half hour we slipped from room to room as I searched for clues. Anything that would lead us to Kate and Carly. In the offices files were locked, desks empty of everything but computers and mouse pads with La Vida Pura logos. The examination rooms were spotless, without a hint of clutter.
I turned on a computer in one of the larger offices, one that I thought might belong to a clinic doctor. But it was password protected, so I quickly shut it down again. The boys lolled nearby, silently watching me but not offering to help. Price seemed especially watchful as he tossed the Swiss army knife from hand to hand. It was as if he knew something more about all this—but wasn’t about to tell.
I had just completed a sweep of an upstairs operating room and was about to tell the boys it was time to go when I thought I heard a voice drifting from somewhere down a long hallway. A pinprick of fear stabbed at the edges o
f my consciousness. I held my finger to my lips. The boys halted midstep.
For a moment the white-noise hum of fluorescent lights reigned. Then, in the distance, I heard the murmur of barely audible voices. Men’s voices. A woman’s. A child’s.
I hesitated, straining to identify any of the speakers. Nothing came to me. I took a step forward. Max and Price followed, their footfalls as silent as mine. We rounded a corner, then stopped again to listen. Halfway down the hall a door stood open, a wide bar of light spilling out on the gleaming linoleum.
This time I recognized one of the voices.
“The procedure from this point on is more difficult,” Dr. Jean Baptiste said.
The woman spoke next. Her accent was Scandinavian, and her voice sounded vaguely familiar. “My son,” she said, “is so very weak. But we want to do everything we can to save him.” Her voice softened as if she was talking to the child. “Erik …” The rest was in a foreign language I thought might be Swedish. Her tone was tender.
The child answered her. Even from the distance between us, he sounded frail. He loved and trusted his mother; I could hear it in his voice.
“The procedure is controversial,” Jean said. “Some might say unorthodox. But I can tell you from personal experience, the success rate is promising. And the cure is very close. Maybe even days away. Weeks at most.”
“How can we be assured of success?” This from someone who hadn’t spoken before.
My mind was busy connecting the dots: The three people with Jean had to be Lorenzo Nolan; his fiancée, Elsa Johannsen; and her son, Erik. I had seen them at the wharf when they arrived. The child was in a wheelchair.
“There is never a guarantee.” Jean’s voice dropped. “But I am hopeful, so very hopeful, that my work will bring healing—a complete cure—to thousands.”
“As we’ve discussed,” Lorenzo said, “money is no object.”
“You’ve been more than generous through the years,” Jean said, “and it’s you who deserve the thanks. Once I announce my breakthrough cure, your name will be right up there with mine. As to other endeavors near to our hearts, a bright future is ahead. Medical science will move forward by incredible bounds, and you and your support makes this possible.” He paused, lowering his voice. “Because of this, I know that what we’re here to discuss tonight will go no further than this room.”