The Butterfly Farm

by Diane Noble

  I sat down beside him and for a moment I was silent. Then he surprised me by letting out a weak laugh. “I actually liked it better when you were holding my hand,” he said.

  “You knew?”

  He nodded. “I also liked hearing you talk. Tell me what happened.”

  And I did. At the end of it all, he seemed exhausted, but I knew one question remained unanswered. Holly.

  I took his hand and squeezed it. “We still don’t know the answers, Adam. She wasn’t there; neither were the other missing girls. Only Carly and Kate, his most recent victims.” He turned away from me but didn’t let go of my hand. “The authorities are searching the compound for medical records, for anything that might lead them to the others.”

  I stood and leaned closer. “It’s not over, Adam. There’s still hope.” But in my heart I doubted my own words.

  His voice was thick with weariness and emotion when he spoke again. “My search isn’t finished. If I have to keep looking till my dying day to find my daughter, I’ll do it.”

  “I know,” I said softly.

  He fell silent. His back was still to me, but after a moment I could tell by his breathing that he had fallen asleep again.

  On a whim I rounded the bed, stooped, and kissed his forehead. This time I was sure I saw that tiny quiver at the corner of his lips.

  I stopped at the nurses’ desk and asked to use the phone for a local call. Ten minutes later I settled into the backseat of the taxi, Gus and Max at my side. The driver cut across to a side street on the inland side of the canal. The traffic thinned, and as we headed to the outskirts along the same route Max, Price, and I had taken in the police SUV, we were alone on the road.

  Behind us, though, mixing with the sounds of the cab’s muffler and engine noise, something else caught my attention. The hair at the back of my neck stood on end.

  The whine of a lone motorcycle.

  Max and I glanced at each other, then looked back as it came closer. The colors of the bike were the same. The rider’s helmet, green and black with a dark visor, matched that of the biker who’d run me down. He probably had a dead butterfly in his pocket.

  The bike pulled dangerously close to our bumper, and our driver cursed and swerved.

  Anger, hot and quick, shot into me. “Pull over,” I said to the cabby.

  “You loca, Señora?”

  “Please, do as I say.”

  He found a wide spot and pulled to the side of the road, gravel crunching beneath the tires. The motorbike skidded to a stop behind us. I reached for the door handle.

  “What are you doing?” Max had turned pale. “That guy almost killed you.”

  “He wanted to scare me.”

  “But now? Why’s he coming after you now?”

  “I don’t know, but I’ve had about enough of all this.”

  The kid on the bike was waving a gun. I didn’t know this one from a muzzleloader. I only knew it was smaller than the gun Zoë had been waving around last night.

  “Game’s over,” I said to the biker. “You can take off your helmet. I know who you are.”

  He didn’t make a move to put down the gun or take off his helmet.

  “Okay, play it your way,” I said. “Let me tell you what I know, and if I’m right, then you can do the dramatic unveiling. If I’m wrong, then you can put away the gun and head on up the road on your bike, and no one will be the wiser. The mystery will go unsolved.”

  In my peripheral vision, I could see Max’s very pale face.

  “Now I don’t know what you’re doing out here—you could be heading to the airport or to La Vida Pura. This road leads to both places. But I would assume that you were hired to give me a final scare, try to run us off the road, shoot at the car if all else failed, perhaps toss a dead butterfly at me as a parting shot to ensure I never visit this lovely part of Costa Rica again. Or look any further into the crimes in Playa Negra.”

  “Who’d hire him?” Max muttered. “Baptiste is dead.”

  “Ah, who indeed?” I said. “You see, we still have one unsolved murder. And Baptiste, in spite of his murderous heart, had his own agenda. Murdering Harry Easton wasn’t part of that agenda. Baptiste was focused on his research. Oh, he took his share of lives, but they were to serve a sacrificial purpose. He used them for one thing alone—to keep his daughter alive.”

  “There’s someone else,” Max said.

  “You’re good, Watson.”

  “Who’s Watson?”

  “I’ll tell you later.”

  I looked again at the still-helmeted biker. “You’re not a killer. But you’ve got a connection to the real killer. Let me guess. He’s your uncle? Or maybe your dad’s fraternity brother? Your godfather?”

  No response.

  “No matter,” I said. “The important thing is that you’ve known the desperate measures needed for Lorenzo Nolan to rebuild his empire. His losses have been enormous, in the billions of dollars, I’ve heard. I suspect that you, maybe your family, stand to gain from these riches someday. So Daddy sent you down here to help Uncle Lorenzo in any way you could. Maybe as a gofer? Maybe just to spy so you could report back to Daddy how the family finances might be enhanced?

  “And Uncle Lorenzo, bless his eighteen-karat gold buttons, was more than delighted when you showed up. He needed someone onboard the disastrous cruise of the Sun Spirit to feed him information. He likely suspected that Easton and Hartsfield were on to him, had connected him to Baptiste. He had to get rid of them. Too much was at stake.”

  “How is he connected to Baptiste,” Max wanted to know, “and what’s the crumbling empire got to do with it?”

  “Do you want to tell him? Or shall I? Or maybe he guessed, just as I did the night we broke into the clinic. You were the only one of the three of us who didn’t seem surprised by the conversation we overheard. Oh, surprised about Nicolette, I’m sure. But you knew about the connection between Nolan and Baptiste, didn’t you, Price?”

  “Price? You’re kidding!”

  Price removed his helmet and shrugged. He still held the gun, but he didn’t look serious about using it. “Embryonic stem cells for fighting disease. Lorenzo poured a ton of money into Baptiste for the development of offshore clinics. The plan was to harvest eggs and offer medical solutions to people who can’t get the same help in the States. Cloning. Transplantation.”

  “Let me guess,” I said. “The eggs would be harvested from more kidnapping victims, only this time, I suppose, the women would be pulled out of the ghettos of Central America.” Max frowned at me, and I shrugged. “Hey, I read about this stuff in the Economist.”

  Price’s expression told me I’d hit the target.

  I explained to Max. “Their families don’t have enough money to search for them. They would simply disappear. No media frenzy, no tearful parents’ images being beamed across the world. Just lost and forgotten girls.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Price said. “The advances are already astounding. If Baptiste could have lived—”

  “Does the end justify the means? What about the ethics? The moral values Baptiste and others like him have discarded? What about the intrinsic value of a human life, whether it’s a girl from the jungles of Guatemala or an unborn fetus?”

  “Fetuses are unnecessary in Baptiste’s work. Only the unfertilized egg from the donor.”

  “And so that ‘donor’ becomes a machine, for this much I know: tens of thousands of eggs must be harvested in order to have one successful cloned cell.” I paused, feeling my anger ready to erupt. “Then what? You create a ‘butterfly farm’ to keep these young women available, producing for the purposes of the rich who can afford the innovative medical treatment?”

  He shrugged. “So what are you going to do? There will be more Baptistes in the future. You can’t stop medical advances.”

  “But Lorenzo Nolan will be stopped from looking for the next Baptiste.”

  Price waved the gun my direction. “Nobody kn
ows. If I take care of you, then no one will ever know.”

  The hand that held the gun was shaking, and for a moment I felt sorry for him. “Too late, bud. I called Interpol from the hospital a few minutes ago. They’re on to Nolan.” I checked my watch. “They may already have arrested him for the murder of Easton and the attempted murder of Hartsfield.”

  Price turned white and dropped the gun. “Did you tell them about me? About the motorcycle incident?”

  “No. I don’t think you’re in so deep that you can’t get out. My advice is to hightail it back home and steer clear of Uncle Lorenzo till your dying day.” He stared at me. “If you don’t steer clear, and I hear of it,” I added, “I’ll always have the option of making that phone call to Interpol.”

  “I got a phone, dude,” Max said, patting his pocket.

  Price shoved the gun in his pocket, climbed back on the motorbike, skidded into a U-turn, and raced off toward town. We listened until the whine of the bike faded to silence. A macaw squawked in the distance. Birds chirped, bugs buzzed, and the air was heavy with building thunder-heads. I was ready to go home.

  Max and I got back in the taxi. I patted the carrier, and Gus gave me a growling meow to again protest his confinement.

  “To the airport,” I said. “And hurry. We don’t want to be grounded because of the storm.”

  “Somehow, Ms. M., I think it might take a lot to ground you,” Max said with a grin.

  An hour later I was circling Playa Negra, looking down at the little town, its harbor, the coffee plantations, and the jungles beyond. The Sun Spirit, looking like a toy boat in a sparkling, azure sea, disappeared as I turned northeast and climbed to a cruising altitude of five thousand feet before crossing a low range of mountains.

  The rental plane, one of the few that didn’t belong to the Baptiste Corporation, was another Skyhawk. The engine purred along at about 145 miles an hour, 4,500 rpms. The winds were from the southwest, which gave me a bit of a tailwind—and a smoother ride. I looked down at the charts and recalculated the time to reach San José, factoring in the tailwind. I had recaptured my love for flying, but I wasn’t hankering to fly this baby all the way to California. Give me an airbus any day for a long international trip.

  No, this short flight was a gift I was giving myself to say, “I’m alive!” To say that I may be scared sometimes, I may be confused or angry or overwhelmed by the injustices in the world. I may be all these things mixed together. But when it comes right down to it, “I am woman … hear me roar!”

  Grinning, I picked up a small package that Max had given me just before I climbed into the Skyhawk. Holding the yoke with my knees, I tore off the paper … and laughed.

  It was a black ball cap with “You Go, Girl!” embroidered in silver letters across the front.

  I put it on, flipped my ponytail out the back, and adjusted the brim to keep the western sun out of my eyes.

  Dear friends,

  I hope you’ve enjoyed accompanying Harriet on the first adventure in her new mystery series. She is one of my favorite characters of the many I’ve written. She literally jumped into my mind full blown, capturing my heart with her gutsy, quirky, and fun-but-flawed nature. She soon became so real it almost seemed as though she sat by my side as I wrote, telling me her story—a rare and delightful thing for an author! Also a bit barmy, as Harriet would say.

  I’m already at work on book two, Those Sacred Bones, which will take Harriet, Adam Hartsfield, and Max Pribble on a new adventure, this time to the Mediterranean on a luxury cruise with ports of call that include Barcelona, Spain; the French Riviera; and Rome, Italy. The story opens when a monk is murdered at a rugged mountaintop abbey in Montserrat, Spain. Max is the only witness, and fearing for his life, he comes to Harriet for help. She is quickly drawn into a web of international deceit, ancient cover-ups done in the name of religion, and dangers aboard ship that are more chilling than she could ever imagine. The stakes are high, the clock is ticking, and Harriet’s feet itch to run away from the danger. But her heart won’t let her. Watch for Those Sacred Bones in May 2007.

  Thank you to those readers who have followed my writing journey over the years, from the days I wrote under the pen name Amanda MacLean to the present with my newest adventures with Harriet. And a heartfelt “Welcome to my world” to those of you who have just discovered my books. If you have difficulty finding any of my earlier books (listed at the beginning of this volume), please contact me at the following address:

  diane@dianenoble.com

  or

  PO Box 10674

  Palm Desert, CA 92255-0674

  Blessings and God’s peace to all!

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Heartfelt gratitude to all those who’ve been instrumental in the development of the Harriet MacIver mystery series: First of all, Don Pape—dear friend and agent—who came to me a few years ago with some what-if questions about placing a mystery series aboard cruise ships. The e-mails flew back and forth, a few phone chats ensued, and the idea for the series began to take form. It wasn’t long until I sat down at the computer, and Harriet came to life. I also want to thank my brother, Dr. Dennis Hill, who—as he’s done so often—explored with me more of those what-if questions, this time having to do with stem cell research, bone marrow transplants, and difficult issues involving medical ethics. A very special thanks, too, to my husband, Tom. I couldn’t do any of this without him. Besides being both resident historian and chef extraordinaire, he’s an early reader who critiques the manuscript through every stage, giving me invaluable input. I must also mention two beloved members of our family—two felines named Kokopelli and Merlin—who provided endless ideas and inspiration for Gus.

  Writing is by nature a lonely life. What would I do without my online friendships and support network of other authors? We pray for one another, weep and rejoice together, run book ideas and titles and characters by each other. Mostly, though, there’s comfort in knowing these buddies are there to listen, console, and support. At the top of the list are three very special authors: Annie Jones, Lynn Bulock, and Sharon Gillenwater. As always, a special thanks to my dear friend Liz Higgs, whose prayers, friendship, and support never waver—even in the midst of the tightest deadlines.

  I’m happily in debt to all!

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  DIANE NOBLE is the award-winning author of nearly two dozen books, including historical and contemporary women’s fiction, romantic suspense, novellas, and nonfiction books for women. The Butterfly Farm is the first book in her new Harriet MacIver mystery series. Diane is a three-time recipient of the Silver Angel Award for Media Excellence, has been double finalist for RWA’s prestigious RITA, and has been a Romantic Times Lifetime Achievement Award nominee. Diane makes her home with her husband, Tom, and their two cats-who-think-they’re-people in Southern California. You can visit Diane’s Web site at www.dianenoble.com, where you can catch up on her latest releases and works in progress and hear about Harriet’s upcoming research trips. You may also write to Diane at:

  PO Box 10674

  Palm Desert, CA 92255–0674