The Butterfly Farm

by Diane Noble

  “Not a good enough reason,” he said around another bite. “Hey, you got anything to drink?”

  “I can make you a cup of herbal tea.”

  He rolled his eyes. “How about water?”

  I gave him a bottle from the minifridge. “Didn’t you go to dinner tonight?”

  “Too busy talking to the captain.”

  “One of my favorite people.”

  “You may like him better now.”

  “Since this morning? I don’t think so.”

  He took another bite and chewed thoughtfully before washing it down with half a bottle of water.

  “He’s about ready to come down here with an invitation to stay onboard the ship.”

  This time I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, right.”

  “No, I’m serious. I’ve been on the bridge talking to him. Heard him making the decision while he was on that fancy satellite phone of his.”

  “Who was he talking to?”

  Max took another bite, chewed, wiped his mouth, and grinned. “My dad.”

  “Wha—?”

  “My dad was explaining some of the finer points of litigation law. Heard him say something about age discrimination, how suit can be brought against companies for the minutest details. Such as not allowing an elderly passenger to complete her cruise, especially after said passenger has been injured while on said cruise.”

  “Elderly?” I sputtered.

  “Hey, my dad can speak legalese with the best of them. You should have heard him. It was great. The dude didn’t know whether to whistle or to wind his watch.”

  “Whistle or wind his watch?”

  “Or he didn’t know whether he was on foot or on horseback, if you prefer.” He leaned forward, looking serious. “There’s something else.”

  “I’m almost afraid to ask.”

  “I heard what happened at the island today, and we can’t let Baptiste get away with this.”

  “Max, don’t go there. This guy is dangerous, chillingly dangerous, yet he masquerades as a medical miracle worker. I saw how the authorities reacted to his talk of the cancer cure. They turned tail and ran. And think about it; we almost died out there because of him. The closer we get to unmasking him, the more determined he is to see that we don’t. No matter the cost. And the cost is clear—our lives. Next time he may not miss.”

  “When I talked to my dad today, he said the abductions are all over the news in the States. Constant coverage. Cable news, all the major networks, are in Playa Negra. Reporters broadcasting live from all over the place. Dad said it’s a feeding frenzy. The media is running on the assumption that it’s people trafficking.”

  “A wild-goose chase.”

  “I asked Dad about just going to the networks and putting the word out there about our suspicions.”

  “Can’t,” I said. “I’m sure he told you about libel laws.”

  “Yeah.”

  “So where are you going with this?”

  “Me and you are the only ones who heard Dr. Baptiste tell those people about his daughter.”

  “And Price,” I said, suddenly wondering why he seemed to have disappeared from the ship.

  “Yeah, Price. But I was thinking about me and you talking to that guy, what’s his name?”

  “Lorenzo Nolan. And it’s you and me.”

  “Huh?”

  “Never put yourself first in conversation. Ungrammatical, plus impolite. It’s always you and I or you and me.”

  “Yeah, well. Okay.”

  “Max, I appreciate the thought, but I can’t expose you to any more danger. Plus, Nolan may not know anything that would nail Baptiste, or if he did, he might not be willing to tell, especially if by telling he’d incriminate himself.”

  “He’s got to know what the ‘unorthodox’ procedures are that they were talking about the other night. It’s his girlfriend’s kid who’s sick. If you were her, wouldn’t you want to know everything they’re going to do? I mean, every little detail?”

  Bingo.

  “You’re brilliant, Max!”

  “Huh?”

  “You’ve just given me an idea, but it’s something I’ve got to do alone.”

  His face fell. “I can’t come?”

  “Sorry. Plus the ship is sailing tomorrow, and you’d miss the rest of the cruise.”

  “That’s the other thing I had to tell you. We’re not sailing tomorrow. My dad says every law-enforcement agency on the planet that thinks they’ve got jurisdiction has ordered the captain to stay put. Even the FBI is getting involved. So it looks like we’re stuck here for a while. I heard some of the parents are flying in, and there’s talk that the rest of the passengers are already demanding a refund.”

  “Captain Richter has his hands full.”

  Max grinned. “That’s why the hint about discriminating against the el—”

  “Don’t say it.”

  He laughed as he stood. “Hey, Ms. M., send up a holler if you need a lift to shore. I have some ideas.”

  “I’ve got it covered.”

  The next morning, clothes back in the closet and duffle tucked away, I headed down to the kitchen before breakfast was to be served. The chef was standing over the stove, stirring a pot of oatmeal. I was surprised it wasn’t instant but didn’t say so.

  He looked up with a scowl as I entered.

  “I never did get my tour of the galley.”

  He grunted and kept stirring.

  “Bet it’s hard to get supplies when the schedule is bollixed up this way.” I looked around the stainless countertops, openly admiring the mixer and copper-bottomed pans. I could see him softening.

  “Yes,” he finally said with a noisy sigh. “This cruise is the hardest I’ve worked. We haven’t made a single port where I’d preordered supplies. I’ve had to resort to cold cuts and SPAM. I had hoped to shop here in the open market, then the storm ruined everything.”

  “SPAM?” Ah, last night’s sandwich.

  “You didn’t recognize it?” When I shook my head, he went on to tell the variety of ways he had camouflaged the canned delight since the cruise’s inception. “I bet you thought yesterday’s breakfast was chipped beef on toast.”

  “It wasn’t? Really? I wouldn’t have known!” Luckily I was still in the hospital for yesterday’s repast. But I couldn’t wait to write this up in the travel article. “How would you like me to shop for you in town?”

  He put down the two-foot-long spoon and gave me an incredulous look.

  “I’m serious. I need to get into town, and it may be difficult to get past the harbor patrol boats swarming the ship. If I’m with a crew member—you, perhaps, or an assistant—I could help.”

  I could see he wasn’t going for it. “Well, I just thought I’d ask,” I said lamely and started for the door.

  “Wait,” he said. “Could you pick out some local fruits? Citrus? Especially lemons. Maybe find some lettuces? Sweet red peppers?” He kissed his fingertips, already salivating.

  “Of course,” I said with a broad smile. “And the biggest, reddest, juiciest tomatoes I can find.”

  “I’d kill for a rutabaga.”

  Somehow that didn’t surprise me. “How many should I get?”

  He was literally dancing around the kitchen, a regular Emeril Lagasse, as he opened and shut cupboard doors. He flitted into the pantry and out again, scribbling on a notepad all the while. I prayed he wouldn’t open the Sub-Zero. I really didn’t want to imagine Harry once being inside.

  “You will send someone with me to oversee the transport of all this back to the ship?”

  “Yes, yes,” he called to me from the pantry again. “Don’t want you gob-smacked by the ordeal.” He poked his head out. “And believe me, shopping for this boatload of passengers is an ordeal, maybe delightful, but still an ordeal. I’ll take care of everything. Just be at the gangway in two hours.”

  I returned to my room, wondering what I’d gotten myself into.

  Two hours later I stepped into the
tender. I was back in my jeans, ball cap, Tevas, and travel vest, which was looking no sorrier than usual for its dip in the ocean. Its pockets were, in my usual style, crammed with pencils and pads, camera and film, money clip, nail file, small hairbrush, and other odds and ends.

  The vest weighed heavy on my shoulders as I settled into a seat on the starboard side. Only two others were onboard—the pilot and the crew member the chef promised. Only he wasn’t crew. And I wasn’t happy to see him.

  “I thought I told you I had this covered.”

  Max ran his fingers through his corn-silk hair, then gave it a flip. “I heard the cook needed someone to help get supplies. I volunteered. What can I say?”

  “You must have bugged the kitchen.”

  He grinned. “I have my ways.”

  “Seriously, how did you know?”

  “We’ve got some real geeks onboard. You pay ’em enough, they’ll run wires anywhere. In fact, most of what they do is wireless. That’s the beauty of it.”

  The pilot started up the engines, and we circled around, then headed to the wharf.

  “A little different than paddling a kayak,” Max said.

  “Why would you want to bug the kitchen?”

  “Isn’t it obvious? Midnight raids to the pantry.” He was quiet for a moment as we glided across the water. “Truth was, the geek came to us after it was done.”

  “Came to whom?”

  “Me and Price.” He cleared his throat. “Price and me. Seems he was bugging something else and picked up the kitchen by mistake.”

  “What’s this kid look like?”

  He told me. Before he finished the description, I knew it was the boy who’d brought me the note. “What’s his name?”

  “I don’t know his real name. Everybody calls him Chip.”

  “Let me guess—as in microchip?”

  “You’re good, Ms. M.”

  I sat back in my seat and closed my eyes, thinking about Chip. He’d cropped up twice, and now a third time. He was a kid who was into computers. A gofer for someone who wanted to get rid of me. A kid who spent time with Zoë, who happens to work in administration at Shepparton. And he’d obviously had something important to say to Price Alexander.

  Why was the kid involved? Hacking? But for what purpose?

  I started to ask Max if he knew anything about a relationship between Zoë and Chip. Or the two of them and Price, then decided to keep my suspicions to myself. For now.

  The sunlight glistened off the water, but as we neared the wharf, I felt a sudden chill. And a distinct sense that someone was watching us. There were more people milling about now than I’d seen here before. I assumed some were media related, though no camera crews or reporters were in sight.

  I scanned faces as we moored, then lifted my gaze to the hillside and its scattering of small, tile-roofed homes. No telltale glint of field glasses.

  A few fishing boats were moored at the wharf, and farther out, the same yachts I had seen previously. I fixed my gaze on the largest of the yachts anchored apart from the others—Lorenzo Nolan’s Sea Wolf.

  The disquieting feeling of being under surveillance chilled me again as we disembarked, and my own sense of hypervigilance grew more intense with each step. Beside me, Max chatted, seeming oblivious.

  Playa Negra’s main street was alive with vendors and shoppers. I recognized the upscale dress of La Vida Pura guests, Americans more obvious than the Europeans. The shoppers were mostly locals, all business, as they bargained for the best prices on breads, cheeses, fruits, and vegetables. Flies buzzed around the fish counters, and the odor wafted throughout the rest of the street market, threatening to bend me double. The sun pressed its suffocating heat down on us, increasing the smells and discomfort.

  I gave Max the list, and we hurried from vendor to vendor.

  I was standing at the tomato counter when I saw her.

  I had guessed that the storm might keep boaters aboard their crafts, and today’s first open-market day would be a draw. I was right.

  She wore dark glasses and a shoulder-wide lavender raffia hat. Her blond hair was tied back in a low chignon, and large gold hoops hung from her ears. She carried a straw bag, already laden with fruit. Stately and tall, she moved with the grace of a gazelle, even while performing the ordinary task of shopping for her family.

  She was speaking to a vegetable vendor in fluent Spanish when I approached. She sensed my presence and turned.

  “I need to talk with you,” I said.

  She frowned as if she didn’t understand me and turned away.

  “About your son,” I called after her. She halted, and for an instant she stood with her back to me.

  “It’s about life and death,” I said gently, walking closer. “And it’s about a mother’s love.”

  What do you want?” Elsa Johannsen spoke English fluently with little hint of a Swedish accent.

  “I know you are in Playa Negra for your son’s treatment.”

  “How would you know this? Our doings here are confidential.” She leaned toward me suspiciously. “Do you work at the clinic? Is this how you know?”

  “Please,” I said gently, “there are others involved in your son’s treatment.”

  “Of course there are others—doctors, nurses, lab techs. There are many people involved in saving his life.”

  A chill shuddered up my back, and I looked around, certain we were being watched, perhaps being listened to as well. When I saw no one turned in our direction, I looked back to Elsa. “Please listen. I may not have much time, but you need to know that young women have been abducted. I believe they’re somehow connected to keeping Nicolette Baptiste alive.”

  “You know Nicolette is alive?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  She stared at me without speaking for a moment, then she said, “You are a crazy woman, and I do not need to listen to you.” She turned to go.

  I fell into step beside her. “The mother of one of the missing girls is here in Playa Negra. We are both convinced that her daughter was taken by someone working with Dr. Baptiste. She loves her daughter, Carly, as much as you love your son. But not to know where she is or whether she is alive is breaking her heart.

  “Just think how precious your son’s early years are to you. She also remembers rocking her baby daughter to sleep, watching her first wobbly steps, hearing her cry out ‘mama’ when she was hurt. My friend would agree there is no greater pain than to know your child is suffering. She would gladly trade places with her daughter if she could. If she knew where Carly was.”

  Elsa remained utterly silent as I spoke, then she fluttered her fingers. “Ludicrous. You have made this up. You are probably a reporter trying to get a story. Do you know who you are talking about? Dr. Baptiste is known throughout the world for his advances in cancer research. He is so close to a—”

  “Cure,” I finished for her. “Yes, I know.”

  Around us the babble of the vendors continued, mixed with the hubbub of shoppers, the cries of the gulls overhead, the roar of motorbikes speeding through the streets. One sped close, slowed when it came near us, then revved its loud engine and took off again.

  “I have one question,” I said.

  She stared at me, and I got the distinct impression she was desperate to escape. Not from my physical presence; she could walk away at any moment. But from the truth of what I had told her.

  “I really must be going,” she said.

  “One question, please.”

  “I’m sorry. I can’t help you.” She adjusted her hat, pulling the brim low.

  “How is Baptiste going to keep your son alive while he works on the cure?”

  “Bone-marrow transplants—the stem cells in the marrow.”

  “The match has to be precise. Genetics and blood type are only two of the factors for long-term success. Are you a donor?” Her mouth quivered slightly. “No, I’m not a match.”

  “Then who are the donors?”

  “I didn’t ask.�
�

  She started moving away from me, and I called out, “What is your son’s blood type?”

  She turned, looking at me quizzically, and said, “Type O.”

  “Fairly common,” I said, “but still necessary for a match. What if Carly Lowe is type O? And Kate Rivers? Holly Hartsfield and all the rest? Will you believe me then?”

  She gave me a hard stare, and then she was gone.

  Max arrived with a cartload of vegetable and fruit boxes.

  “Move them to the tender,” I said, “then wait for me. I’ll be back as soon as I see Adam, then find Tangi.”

  Playa Negra’s main street ran parallel to the Canal de Tortuguero and formed the center of the small fishing village. The regional hospital stood on a sloping hillside opposite the fortresslike police headquarters, a fish processing plant, and a Spanish church that was centuries old. Three small hostels—Casa del Azur, Hotel el Sueño, and Casa del Pescador—were lined up like flowerpots on the bank of the canal.

  I headed to the hospital first and gave my name to the receptionist. She recognized me from the previous day and waved me past ICU and Adam’s guard.

  Today I didn’t hesitate and walked over to Adam’s bed. His eyes were closed, and the beeps and whirs kept up their rhythm, just as before. His color was better, and for that I was thankful, even though all signs said he was still comatose.

  I pulled up a chair and sat down by the bed, opposite his shoulder. “Adam,” I said softly, “it’s Harriet. I told you I’d be back, and here I am.”

  I waited for a response, but there was none.

  “I’ve got a plan now, and I sure wish you’d wake up and give me your thoughts. Believe me, I could use them.

  “Truth is, I’m scared. This is the hardest thing I’ve ever done. But too much is at stake not to do it, if that makes any sense. I know I’m heading into dangerous territory, by the most frightening means possible—at least for me.

  “I know you’re a praying man. I wish you’d open your eyes and let me know you’ll pray for me, pray for the lost girls, pray that justice will be done.”

  I waited, hoping to see his eyelids flicker. They remained as still as carved stone. So with a sigh I stood. “You better believe I’m praying for you, Clint.” I laughed softly. “Someday I’ll tell you about this Clint business, but hey, you gotta wake up for that part.”