by Diane Noble
Two harbor patrol black and whites, flying Costa Rican flags, circled the ship, then disappeared around the stern, to enter amidships, starboard, I guessed. I assumed Captain Richter would conveniently forget to mention my attendance, so I hurried to meet the entourage, pencil and pad in hand and Adam’s note in my pocket. I trotted down two flights of stairs, then headed to the gangway.
Captain Richter, in full dress uniform, stood to one side. The first officer stood beside him, the dean from Shepparton, Guy Williams, directly opposite in crisp khakis and a polo shirt. I looked down at my rather worn jeans skirt and tie-dyed T-shirt, adjusted my “You Go, Girl!” cap and ponytail that jutted through the back opening, and wondered if I should have dressed up for the occasion.
I had pounded the old adage into my kids’ heads: You never get a second chance to make a first impression. I might have remembered it myself if I’d not had so much on my mind. Now it was too late. I grimaced, wondering if I was the only one thinking Granny Clampett-does-the-Gap.
The entourage—four men and a woman—stepped onto the deck. Introductions were made in English and Spanish, then Richter glanced my direction and, scowling, introduced me. He added that I had asked to sit in on the initial debriefing. A few curious looks were exchanged, a few words in Spanish tossed about, then approval given with lukewarm nods.
Ten minutes later we were seated at a large rectangular table in the rear of the bridge. I sat across from the woman, Monica Oliverio, the liaison from Interpol and an expert in human trafficking. Dean Williams was on my right, and Carlos Xavier, lead detective from Playa Negra, was on my left. Captain Richter convened the meeting from the head of the table, then turned it over to Monica Oliverio.
The no-nonsense, dark-haired woman leaned forward, making eye contact with the detectives from Playa Negra. Five minutes into her speech about the cooperation of Interpol with local agencies, I wondered why anyone else needed to be there. Then she got to the point.
“The urgency of this matter is acute,” she said. “Let’s review the facts: First, a body, a passenger on this ship, was discovered here seventy-two hours ago. Second, another victim, also a passenger on this ship, was discovered just last night, though he was not onboard when he was attacked. Third, both victims were found to have been injected with a substance derived from the deadly blue morpho butterfly.
“The second victim was former law enforcement; the other a private investigator. From what we have ascertained, both were looking for young women who had disappeared sometime previously. Harry Easton, victim number one, had been hired by a young woman’s parents in the U.S. Adam Hartsfield, victim number two, was searching for his daughter who disappeared three years ago.”
Something she said about the victims had been nagging at me. When she said Adam’s name, I knew what it was.
“Excuse me?” I leaned forward, ignoring the scowls around the table. She gave me a hard stare, and I hurried on. “You referred to the first body found, which we know is Easton. When you mentioned the second victim, you didn’t say ‘body.’ You just said ‘victim.’ Was it a matter of word choice or …?” My voice trailed off as I realized how foolish I sounded.
“You did not know?” Her eyes bored in on me.
“That he died,” I said lamely. “Yes, actually I did know. But just now, when you didn’t mention his body, I just hoped I was—”
“I won’t ask you why you thought he was dead,” she said, “when no one on this ship is privy to last night’s grim discovery. We will get to that later.”
“Please, go on,” I said. “I’m sorry I interrupted.”
“I’m not finished,” she said. “To answer your question, Mr. Hartsfield is not dead. At least not yet. His condition is serious, and he may not recover. I spoke to his doctor before coming here. The toxin caused him to be hypotensive”—she noticed my quizzical look and gave me a tight smile—“an extreme drop in blood pressure. Apparently, following the injection, he suffered a number of seizures, after which he was postictal—a condition that can mimic death.” Her tone softened. “He is clinging to life right now.”
I fell back into my chair, stunned.
“Now, if you don’t mind, I would like to continue.”
I nodded mutely, my mind trying to grasp what she had said.
Monica leaned forward intently. “Information about the missing girls has been in our forensics database since shortly after the disappearance of each girl. It is updated from time to time and used by such people as Easton and Hartsfield. We, of course, keep files on inquiries made, by whom, and for what purpose.
“The trafficking of people along the Pacific and Caribbean corridors is rampant, ladies and gentlemen, right up there with the drug trade and money laundering. When people disappear—particularly young women—we are alerted by local agencies in the countries from which they disappear. The young woman in Aruba some time back is just one such example. Our officers provided tireless assistance in the search. We do no less for other missing persons.
“For obvious reasons, it is usually young women who are abducted and sold to crime lords for trafficking in Asia, Russia, Indonesia, the Middle East … the list goes on. These girls disappear without a trace.
“But back to the two recent victims. Though we received information about the ties between the two men, it seems pointless to assume that Hartsfield killed Easton. They were both on this cruise for the same reason. They had both contacted us, asking for any new information about the victims they were searching for.
“Instead, Interpol—rather, our investigators and forensics experts—believes that these two men had come close to finding the source of the crimes committed against these young women. Which leads me to some points worth noting.
“Two young women disappeared while on this cruise. Carly Lowe and Kate Rivers were also both from Shepparton College in Tampa, Florida. So were the two young women Easton and Hartsfield were trying to find.
“From Interpol’s perspective, human trafficking was the obvious intent of the abductors. But questions remain. Who, of course, is the most obvious. Why, we know, at least in part.” She leaned forward again. “We need to discuss the other side of that question: Why Shepparton students?”
Ms. Oliverio looked around the table, finally resting her gaze on Dean Williams.
He stroked his beard and frowned. “I couldn’t begin to answer the question,” he said. “The other girls disappeared a few years ago. They were considered runaways. Both came from troubled homes. Not rich by any means. Both girls worked in the cafeteria to make ends meet. It was rumored that they were on their way out.” He sat back, shaking his head. “Honestly, until now I never made any connection between those girls and the disappearances of Carly Lowe and Kate Rivers.”
I cleared my throat and leaned forward. The captain scowled, but to his credit remained silent as I began to speak.
“I didn’t introduce myself earlier,” I said. “My name is Harriet MacIver—” I saw the locals raise their eyebrows, so I amended, “some people refer to me as Ms. M.” Their brows shot even higher. “With all due respect, Ms. Oliverio, I would like to propose a different scenario.”
“And your area of expertise, Ms.—What did you say your name was?” Monica Oliverio gave me a hard stare. Unblinking. I could see that she didn’t like having her opinions questioned. And this was my second time to interrupt her.
“Ms. MacIver,” I said primly. “Harriet, if you’d like. Yes, well, you see … I don’t have any particular area of expertise, except, of course, that which comes from raising three rather rascally children, two of them twins, and propelling a husband up the corporate ladder. And, of course, household management. Volunteering for everything from making potluck soups to selling Brownie nuts. Helping with homework, looking things up in the Encyclopedia Britannica—which dates me, I’m afraid. I raised my kids before the Internet explosion.”
“Ms. MacIver,” the captain said rather sternly. “Please, if you don’t mind …”
“Yes, yes, of course,” I said. “What I was getting to is this. Raising a family teaches you a lot about life, things like passion for what matters and stick-to-it-iveness to see a project through. You do what you must to get at the heart of a problem, no matter the pain, the sorrow, the roadblocks. And you don’t stop until you find the solution.” I paused. “Just call me the Energizer Bunny.”
“Ms. MacIver?” the captain said again, this time with one of his noisy sighs.
“Yes, well, as I was saying, I do believe my expertise qualifies me to speak to the problem at hand. You see, I got pulled into this because of Joey, my youngest, and Carly Lowe. She’s an old friend of the family, and I love her like another daughter. When she went missing, I thought my heart would break …”
“Ma’am,” Monica Oliverio said, though this time her tone was gentler. “Please, our time here is limited. You were going to tell us about, how did you call it, another scenario?”
“Yes,” I said. “I do have something to add.” I pulled Adam’s note from my pocket, opened it, and smoothed it on the table in front of me. “The man we need to take a close look at is Dr. Jean Baptiste.”
There were audible gasps around the table.
“You see, I left the ship last night and made my way to the clinic at La Vida Pura.” I told them what I overheard. The words had barely left my mouth when the mild-mannered dean next to me exploded.
“How dare you make such an accusation!”
I turned to watch him pound the table, one hard hit with his fist. Then he seemed to shudder with revulsion. “Do you know who you’re talking about? Dr. Baptiste is being considered for the Nobel Prize. He was one of the pioneers of the Human Genome Project. His work with genetics and hematology is legendary.”
The dean’s eyes seemed to almost bug out with irritation, his lips clamped with disgust as he stared at me. “How dare you even hint that he could be involved with this … this human trafficking?”
I held up a hand. “I don’t deny his brilliance. That isn’t in dispute. But please consider why he might be abducting these young women. Consider that his daughter also attended Shepparton at the same time the first two young women disappeared. Consider that he might think the sacrifice of others justifiable not only to save his daughter but to eventually save millions of other lives.” I paused. “Is that so far-fetched for this brilliant scientist, who also loves his daughter?”
“Whoa! You’ve gone on quite long enough, Mrs. MacIver,” Captain Richter said. “What kind of proof do you have?”
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t implicate Max or Price. Neither could I say what I had picked up from my conversation with Zoë. “I only have this.”
I picked up Adam’s note and read aloud the words he had scrawled across the paper: “It’s Baptiste.” I looked up. “Adam Hartsfield left this for me to find. My name is written on the front. I found it after I discovered what I thought was Adam Hartsfield’s body—on a coffee plantation near La Vida Pura.”
“Ms. M., you were a busy lady last night,” one of the local detectives said.
“Yes sir, I was.”
“You know how to change a tire?”
It was true, I did. I just hadn’t needed to for years. “Yes, I do.”
“And repair a carburetor?”
He had me there. I fluttered the fingers on one hand and laughed. “My father was a great believer in teaching his daughters everything they would ever need to know about fixing cars.”
The two officers across from me didn’t smile.
Neither did I when I spoke to the rest of the group. “I can’t stress how important it is to question Dr. Baptiste, perhaps visit his island.” I paused, moving my gaze around the table. “What if I’m right? What if the untouchable, brilliant Dr. Jean Baptiste thinks he’s above the law?”
“We can sit here and ask what-ifs all day, Ms. MacIver,” Monica Oliverio said. “But, in reality, Adam Hartsfield could have meant anything by the note. What if he meant for you to ask Baptiste to help you?”
It wouldn’t help to argue, so I didn’t answer.
She continued as if she didn’t expect me to. “We really do need to follow conventional wisdom here. But we thank you for coming forward with this information. We do appreciate citizens who are watchful and want to help.”
It was a dismissal. With a heavy sigh I stood and left the room.
I wound through the huddles of passengers, some standing in public areas looking out at the approaching storm; others seated in small conversational groups, bent close, speaking in low, worried tones. I imagined they had seen the harbor patrol boats moored near the ship and naturally were concerned about the criminal investigation that was just now getting under way.
The Shepparton classes had apparently been dismissed. Students lolled in the dining area near the soft-drink machine. Notebooks and textbooks had been haphazardly tossed on nearby tables. Their usual animated conversation had quieted, and worried glances on grim faces had taken its place.
I passed through the dining area and picked up a stale roll left over from breakfast, a couple of packets of jam, and a plastic cup of thin, over-processed orange juice. Then I sat down at a table as far away from the crowds as I could get. My stomach had been complaining all morning from its lack of food, but I didn’t realize until I bit into the hard roll exactly how hungry I was.
I had just taken my second bite when a student I hadn’t met before approached and stood by my elbow. Mildly annoyed, I put down the roll, dabbed at my mouth with my napkin, and looked up.
“Someone asked me to give this to you.” He stared at me for a moment, then thrust a legal-size envelope toward me. I took in his dark hair and acne-pocked face, his unkempt appearance, then focused my attention on the envelope.
It was blank on the outside and sealed. Frowning, I set it down beside the roll while I wiped a smudge of marmalade off one hand. Before I ran my finger underneath the sealed flap, I looked up to ask the student who had given it to him.
He had disappeared into the throng. I stood and looked around, but too many people had now gathered in the dining room, waiting for lunch to be served.
I sat again and opened the envelope.
Dear Mrs. MacIver,
It’s urgent that I speak with you. I know the whereabouts of Carly Lowe. I will meet you today at 2:30 p.m. at the Playa Negra wharf to escort you there. You must come alone, and you must not tell the authorities.
Lives will be lost if you do.
The message was typed on a manual typewriter and was unsigned. I couldn’t be certain, but I had to wonder if someone had used my old Underwood. Who else onboard would have such a machine?
I stared at the note. I’d made no bones about the fact that I cared for Carly like a daughter and that I was ready to risk my life to save her. Someone knew this about me and was either using it to get me off the ship or was truly concerned and wanted to help.
I stood and rapidly moved through the groups of passengers, wildly searching for the student who had brought me the note. All I could remember was that he wore glasses, had dark hair and a bad complexion, and dressed like most of the others in shorts and a worn, wrinkled T-shirt. He was nowhere to be found.
I returned to the table to finish my roll, though now it tasted like wallpaper paste. Dried wallpaper paste.
“Yo, Ms. M.,” Max said as he approached. “Mind if I join you?”
“No, not at all. Please sit down.”
He sat across from me, lunch tray piled high with something that vaguely resembled spaghetti. Three pieces of bread sat atop the ubiquitous iceberg-lettuce-and-grated-carrot salad. This wasn’t the time for such a thing to hit, but I couldn’t help thinking about the humdinger of a travel article this trip was going to make. Especially the gourmet cuisine. I almost laughed.
“Please don’t tell me it’s canned spaghetti,” I said to Max as he took his first bite.
“What’s wrong with canned spaghetti?” He stuffed in a
nother bite, chewed, wiped his mouth with his napkin, then said, “I grew up on SpaghettiOs. Nothing better.”
“Unless it’s Pop-Tarts,” I said.
“Mmm, love those too. And that little blue box of macaroni-and-cheese fixin’s. Great stuff.”
“And Twinkies?”
He took a gulp of milk. “Nah, can’t stand ’em. Not after that guy said they made him go on that killing spree. Never touched them after that.”
He put down his fork and squinted across the table. “Hey, Ms. M., you look a little pale. Are you okay? I mean, especially after what you went through last night.” I pulled the note out of the envelope and handed it to him. He scanned it, then said, “You gonna go?”
“If I can get transportation.”
He didn’t hesitate. “Count me in.”
I leaned forward. “If you let me off a distance from the wharf, I can walk there and talk to whoever it is while you wait. The note says I must be alone.”
“Only if we’re close enough to hear you holler if you need us.”
“You think Price can make it?”
“Not sure. I saw him earlier. He said he’s gotta talk to the investigators this afternoon.”
My heart stopped for a half beat. “I’ve kept your names from the authorities. I hope it doesn’t have anything to do with last night.”
“And I hope we didn’t miss any fingerprints when we wiped the car. But not to worry, Ms. M., we can do it without him.” He checked his watch. “I’ll have the kayak waiting at 1:30. It’ll take some doing to make sure we’re not seen and stopped, but I’ll figure out something. Maybe Price can help with that part.”
“Hey, Max?” I said as I stood. He was winding another forkful of spaghetti but looked up. “You’re the best.”
He grinned and gave his corn-silk hair a small embarrassed toss.
Lost in thought about the task ahead, the glimmer of hope about Carly, and the worry over worsening weather conditions, I almost didn’t see the entourage heading toward me. I had just stepped into the corridor outside the dining room, when they turned a corner and I was directly in their path.