by Diane Noble
The glint was back in his reptilian eyes. “Indeed I am, Ms. M. That has never changed, but you see, my methods are, shall we say, unconventional. Pedestrian minds, even the most brilliant scientific minds, don’t understand the sacrifices that must be made. There are secrets that must stay on this island. No one finds out my methods. No one.”
“You will be found out,” I said, “no matter how you try to cover your tracks today. I left proof. It’s already in the hands of Interpol—”
He laughed, interrupting. “Oh that? That little shred of evidence you picked up out of my file? I’m afraid, dear Ms. M., that it is gone. Poof. A little puff of smoke is all that remains. I had it set afire.”
I almost forgot to breathe. “What do you mean? How?”
“The young man you’ve taken under your wing?”
Max!
“I had his taxi run off the road. It was a terrible accident. I’m afraid the cabby didn’t live through it. Max, you’ll be happy to know, was uninjured. He is being held by my associates.”
“What good can he do for you?”
“Ah, my dear. His worth is great. For, you see, he holds the key to a very important decision you must soon make—just as you hold the key to whether he lives or dies.”
Icy fear skittered up my spine.
He seemed to enjoy my reaction. “You might have wondered how I was going to get you to, of your own accord, take off in the Cessna with our little Zoë at your side? It’s a beautiful plan, really. Max Pribble is at the airport in Playa Negra. A Cessna Skyhawk, identical to this one—the irony of which I thought you would appreciate—is awaiting takeoff. Your friend, hands and ankles bound, is about to go for a ride. We won’t blindfold him, however, for we want him to have the full sensory experience of his ride … and his free fall into the ocean.
“Unfortunately, it will be dark by the time his plane takes off, so he won’t have the full visual effect. Perhaps some coastal lights in the distance, a few stars—because fog is forecast to linger just off the coast. All in all, it will be the experience of a lifetime.” He laughed at his own joke. “Now, let’s continue with our tour, shall we? Your plane is being prepped and should be ready in just a few minutes. You will find it adequate for your journey. You will have enough fuel to get airborne.”
“And if I don’t, Max dies.”
He escorted me through the double doors, then halted. A hallway stretched before us, flanked by four closed doors on either side.
“A quick study,” he said, laughing. “He’ll also go for this ride if you attempt a crash landing, say on a beach somewhere, or even glide to another island. Your fuel will take you only as far as I can keep you in sight with my field glasses. The deal is, you are exchanging your life for his. You go into the water, and disappear without a trace.”
I fought the rising panic that threatened to overwhelm me and nodded mutely.
“And should you think the approaching fog will shield you,” he laughed quietly, “you’re wrong. It will only work in my favor. Sound travels extremely well in these conditions.” He paused. “So have we struck a bargain?”
“With one exception. Let me take the Cessna out alone. Please let Zoë live. If you have no regard for her, think of your daughter. What would she do without Zoë? They’re as close as sisters.”
His face softened for an instant, and I thought he might agree, then he said, “My daughter has slipped into a coma.”
“You said she was responding to treatment.”
“She is. This is a temporary setback. She will revive.”
I bargained for Zoë’s life, desperate to save her from such a cruel death. “Wouldn’t hearing Zoë’s voice make a difference for Nicolette? Maybe bring about a response?”
“There can be no witnesses. She betrayed me, betrayed Nicolette, by bringing you here.”
This wasn’t what I had planned. Suddenly the weight of the nightmare I’d brought about—for Zoë, for Max—pressed on my heart. I had to convince this madman to let Zoë live. I touched his arm. “I tricked Zoë to get her into the plane. I sent Max to pick her up without telling her why.”
He seemed to consider my words, then he shook his head. “My life’s work is built on sacrifice. One life given for the greater good. It’s time for Zoë to sacrifice hers so she won’t be tempted when the next opportunity comes along to betray my work—to betray the thousands of men, women, and children who will benefit from my research. It’s simpler that way. Less messy.”
“Aren’t you playing God? You’ve already made great strides in finding a cure for CML. Your research is known throughout the world. Isn’t that enough? You are dedicated to saving lives, yet you are equally willing to snuff out the lives of others. Why?”
“You know why. They are keeping my daughter alive.”
“But why these particular girls?”
We walked a short distance down the hallway, and he paused in front of the first door. He rested his hand on the stainless-steel handle. “You haven’t figured it out, have you? I’m surprised.”
“I know about the genetic markers, the blood type needed. I also know these young women all are from Shepparton. I know how it was discovered that they had the precise qualifications to be donors. What I don’t know is why Kate and Carly and Holly were chosen over other girls. What was it about them?”
He stared at me, almost thoughtfully. “I suppose one could call it ‘revenge of the nerds.’ My daughter wasn’t well liked, you see. Many weekends when she flew home from school that first year, she spent hours in her room crying. The things said to her were disgusting. The tricks played on her, cruel. She went through months trying to ignore the hurtful, venomous, and unforgettable barbs and taunts. They imitated her stutter, injuring her to the core. They damaged her psyche, sent her into a deep clinical depression. Some victims of harassment act out in anger. You remember Columbine?”
I nodded.
“But, you see, my Nicolette didn’t have a mean bone in her body. She took the insults, the ribbing about her looks and dress, her stutter, and eventually convinced everyone she didn’t care. I am certain, though, that what happened at Shepparton, the vitriol she internalized, caused her immune system to shut down. Weakened her. Left her susceptible to disease. Genetically, she was predisposed to CML, but the depression, her sense of worthlessness, triggered something that couldn’t be stopped.”
“So you kept a list.”
“Yes, I’m not ashamed to say I did. And there is a system—yet another system—in place at Shepparton.” He smiled at his own cleverness. “Zoë handled much of the targeting. She knows what it feels like—and Nicolette was her best friend.”
“I suppose there will be others,” I said. “And you’ll have to develop a separate list having nothing to do with Nicolette. But the profile will be the same: the beautiful, the popular, the in crowd, the clever—your sick retribution for what you think the in crown did to you daughter. And let me guess how you will bring this about. Computer geniuses, moles in the admissions department, files tampered with, admission offered to people whose health records are a match. Blood type. Genetic markers.”
He started to speak, but I held up my hand. “You can’t stop. You have a seven-year-old boy to keep alive while you work on your cure. So you need fresh blood that’s a better match; bone marrow that’s closer to the victim’s genetic makeup.
“And I suppose that because the donors aren’t blood relatives of your patients, the bone marrow is rejected after a few weeks, making more transfusions necessary, requiring more bone marrow.”
Baptiste’s smile was condescending. “A simplified version of something more complex than you can imagine. I do admire your courage, Ms. M., your tenacity, your cleverness. But I’m afraid it’s time to say good-bye. You and Zoë are due to take off in less than ten minutes.” He opened the door and stood back so I could enter. “You may also want a few last words with the young women you came to save.”
The stark room held a single b
ed, a table with a lamp, and a stainless-steel-and-faux-leather chair. The drapes were drawn against the falling darkness, and the lamplight cast deep shadows across the room. The décor was stark, without a television, radio, stereo, or even a stack of magazines or books in sight.
The only relief in the gray and white room was a colorful print in a shadow box that had been hung directly across from the bed. As I drew closer, I realized it wasn’t a print. It was the real thing—a collection of vividly colored butterflies. Each pinned through, each with bright wings frozen in flight.
It was positioned so that Carly had nothing else to look at.
I turned to Carly and reached for her hand. Her eyes fluttered open. For a moment I didn’t think she recognized me, then she gave me a weak smile.
“Hey there,” I said.
“You here to spring me?” Her voice was hoarse.
“I’m going to try my best, sweetheart.” I smoothed her forehead. “Your mother is here—still in town, though.”
“I’ve got a lot of questions …”
“I know. We all do, and I hope we’ll have the answers soon.”
She closed her eyes. “I’m thirsty.”
I reached for a water pitcher that sat on a small wheeled table positioned near the head of the metal-frame bed. I poured a glass, then supported her head while she sipped. She lay back, exhausted from the effort. “Tell Mama I need her … to hurry …” After a moment her breathing slowed, and I could tell she slept, probably sedated.
I squeezed her hand before letting it go. “Good-bye, dear one.” Then I stooped and kissed her cheek.
Shaking with anger, I turned back to the doorway where Baptiste waited. His look was scornful, as if he’d enjoyed witnessing the scene between Carly and me. He gestured to the next room down the hall, and without a word I brushed past him to enter.
I recognized Kate, who slept soundly, her skin the color of parchment. Her room was furnished the same way—gray and white. Stark. Designed to draw the eye to the one bright spot in the room—the butterfly collection on the wall.
I wondered if in their drugged states, Kate and Carly dreamed of the pinned butterflies, dreamed of flying again. Dreamed of freedom—only to wake and realize they couldn’t move.
I whispered a prayer for Kate and bent to kiss her cheek.
“Satisfied?” Baptiste said from the doorway.
“Let them go,” I said as I approached him. “You have no right to play God. Let them all go, including your daughter.” I paused. “I’ll bet she has begged you to release her from this sick form of bondage.”
The corner of his eye twitched, but he said nothing.
“I want to see her,” I said.
“It’s time for you to go.”
“Let me see her.”
He inclined his head toward a room at the end of the hallway. His face was expressionless as he escorted me to the door, opened it, and stood back for me to enter.
The room was large and luxuriously furnished in a French Country style of multicolored pastels. Roses and violets and baby’s-breath adorned the wallpaper, and at the far end of the room, ceiling-to-floor windows were covered with matching drapes, swagged on both sides, with gathered pastel sheers underneath. It was a room designed by someone who assumed this was what a young woman might want, when, in actuality, it was a little girl’s room, complete with a teddy-bear collection, elegant porcelain dolls, and Mickey Mouse knickknacks on glass shelves.
A queen-size, canopied bed was positioned close to the window, where, I assumed, Nicolette could see the ocean. A stereo system was in place with high-tech speakers in each corner, and a flat-screen plasma television was attached to one wall. There were no butterflies in this room.
Beside Nicolette’s bed, Zoë kept vigilance. I could see she had been crying.
I walked quietly to the bed. Zoë looked up, but it wasn’t my eyes she sought; it was Baptiste’s, who stood behind me.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Her words, spoken slowly, deliberately, reflected as much rage as I felt toward the man, the same rage I imagined she had stored up through the years. “She’s not responding. She’s comatose, isn’t she?” When Baptiste didn’t answer, she stood and repeated, “Isn’t she?”
She circled Nicolette’s bed to stand in front of him and said, “You lied. All this—all I did to help—was to keep Niki alive, to help her get better, restore her to full health. Now”—she gestured helplessly toward Nicolette—“you’ve done this. You’ve turned her into a vegetable. How long now, huh? How long will you keep her like this while you work on your miracle cure? She was already begging you to let her go. Now she can’t even speak.”
Zoë was crying openly now, tears running down her cheeks. She swiped angrily at them. “How long will you let this go on?”
Baptiste took a step toward her, and she backed away. “Let Niki go,” she whispered. “Have compassion on your daughter. Please, just let her die.”
Baptiste turned to me. “It is time for your return flight.” Then he said to Zoë, “I will consider your words, but for now, you must return to the mainland with Ms. M.”
A shadow crossed her face, and she looked at me, frowning. “Is this true?”
It made me sick, but I nodded. “Yes,” I whispered. “A crew is preparing the plane now.”
“Carly and Kate? Are we taking them with us?”
“They are needed here, my little one,” Baptiste said. “Ms. M. and I have reached an understanding about all involved. She will tell you about our agreement during your flight.”
Again, Zoë looked to me, and I confirmed his words with a nod.
“You must be on your way. Let’s go.” He gestured to the door in a gentlemanly manner and stood back to let us exit the room.
When Zoë reached the doorway, she stopped, then ran back and hugged Nicolette. I watched, tears in my eyes as she kissed her friend’s forehead. “Good-bye,” she whispered, then joined Baptiste and me in the hallway. His stride was long and rapid as he led us to the exit.
The Cessna was where I had left it next to the Citation. No crew was in sight, and I hoped, for a brief moment, that Baptiste had been bluffing.
Heavy-hearted, I started toward the little aircraft, Zoë trailing behind me. The runway lights had been turned on, casting a surrealistic, eerie glow on the airfield.
Zoë looked at Baptiste when we reached the plane, her face almost white in the garish light. “I wish you would change your mind.” Her voice was unnaturally calm, and the worshipful, affectionate expression was lighting her face again.
Only this time I saw through the facade. I wondered if the earlier glimpse of the same emotion had been false as well.
“I do wish you’d change your mind about Niki …” Still smiling, she stepped toward him. “I feel like I’ve awakened after a long, horrid nightmare. I thought you loved your daughter, but now I see it wasn’t love at all. It was self-indulgence, self-love. You didn’t want to save her life as much as you wanted the glory for pulling it off. You didn’t want to save the victims of leukemia as much as you wanted the glory for the discovery.
“For some time I’ve suspected you didn’t care for anyone but yourself, but I didn’t know for sure.” Her eyes were dry and clear as she stared at him. “Not just Niki, but me. All I wanted was a family. A sister. A dad.” She laughed bitterly. “Look who I chose.”
“Get into the plane,” Baptiste said, his voice low and threatening. “Get into the plane before I call the guards.”
“Like I’m real scared,” she said, mocking him.
I wanted to cheer her on, but I stood dumbfounded, my mouth hanging open. This was a side of Zoë I hadn’t seen.
For a moment Baptiste seemed as shocked as I was. I wondered if anyone had ever defied him so openly. “Get in the plane,” he repeated finally. “I promise you, this plane will take off,” she said, smiling. “But I won’t be in it.”
My heart beat erratically. She meant for me to take off alone. Any
change in Baptiste’s plans meant we would all die. He would never let Zoë defy him. He would probably kill her here and stuff her body in the plane with me. She would die anyway, even if she refused to board the plane.
I was powerless to warn her; it would do no good anyway.
Zoë was sneering at him now. “I think you should be the one to take this lovely evening flight,” she said. She looked up at the sky. “The stars will be beautiful tonight.”
He stared at her, hard. “What are you talking about?” He took two steps toward her.
“That’s far enough,” she said.
She pulled out a gun.
I don’t know anything about guns. They make me nervous. Some people keep them in a bedside table for protection, something I don’t agree with. I was always worried I’d shoot Gus by mistake.
I could tell that this gun was an automatic, not a revolver, but that was about all I knew. I could also tell that it was big, though in the shaking hand of a slight young woman, it probably looked bigger than it really was. I imagined Baptiste thought so too.
“Get in the plane,” Zoë growled at Baptiste, “or I’ll blow your head off.”
Surely you can’t mean this.” Baptiste’s face had turned a ghoulish gray in the ambient glow of the runway lights.
“With all my heart.” She waved the gun around awkwardly, which made me catch my breath.
I tried to see if the safety was on or off, but I couldn’t tell. Mostly because I wasn’t sure what to look for.
“Go!” She waved the gun at Baptiste. “Get in the plane.”
Frowning as if he didn’t understand, he started for the Citation, his private jet.
“Wrong move,” she said. “Wrong plane.” The gun was trembling in her hand. “Get in the Cessna. You’ve got a short little flight to take tonight … in the starlight.”