“Sounds like he can be a little stinker.”
“That’s putting it mildly.”
Clyde held the biscuit in a tight grip, his one nimble little hand against the tiny stump of his right, as he gnawed away, crumbs cascading to the floor. His eyes flitted about, looking for other monkeys I assumed. Crunch, crunch, crunch and it was gone. He bounced up and down, flailing his little arms and chittering.
“Clean up your crumbs,” Noah told him. “He wants another one.” He pointed at the pile of crumbs on the floor. “Clean ‘em up.”
Clyde chittered away, whining like a toddler.
“Not until you clean up that mess,” Noah said, shaking his head.
Clyde slunk to the floor, swept up the crumbs with his hand, licked them off his fingers, then sprang back up to the edge of the hammock and squealed for another biscuit.
“All right, one more,” Noah said and went to the bathroom. Clyde spun around, jumping up and down with excitement. Noah lobbed the biscuit into the air and Clyde scrambled up the hammock line, up the support post, grabbed a ceiling truss, and flung himself into the air, catching the biscuit in mid air before he landed on the coffee table.
“He’s too cute,” I said. After he finished his second biscuit, he crawled onto my lap and curled up into a ball. “Wow, I can’t get over how he’s a completely different monkey than the one I met at the bar.”
“Yeah, drunk people can be unpredictable and cruel. He knows he’s safe here.”
I gently petted him and he cooed.
“He’s been a good bar monkey, though. He’s never bit anyone.”
I held him in my arms, enjoying him cuddling with me, and thought of the newlyweds at the bar. How was I any different? It was a cruel catch twenty-two. People who love animals are the ones who drive the industry. They simply don’t understand that for their two minutes of enjoyment with the animal, that animal endures a lifetime of subjugation and, often, cruelty. The brutal truth is that breaking a wild animal’s spirit to a point that it will accept interaction with people usually means beating them, or worse. It’s not the natural way of things.
I rubbed Clyde under his muzzle. “I’m so sorry, little buddy,” I whispered. I thought of the monkeys I’d met last night and my pulse quickened. I shook my head. “I won’t let it happen to them,” I said to Clyde. “Your cousins are going to be free.”
I turned to Noah, my mind back on the plan and getting prepared. Yesterday, when I was at the shed, I’d been too focused on my purpose—to choose the monkey. But now, as I recalled the scene and the layout of the shed, I remembered that besides the stacks of cages, there were two large iron contraptions in the shed. They looked like rusty old exploding mines from World War One. “What can you tell me about the layout of the shed? Have you ever been inside?” I asked. “I’d like to know what’s there.”
“We’ve only made the attempt a few times. We have Claudia’s video. And Clyde’s. Both are not very good footage.”
“Can I see them anyway?”
“Sure,” he said. He opened the safe in the wall and pulled out a laptop. (So that’s what was in there.) He fired it up and found the videos right away. They were too dark, difficult to see the animals at all, but the contraptions were visible. “Pause right there,” I said. “What are those?”
“Old ball coffee roasters. The huge iron ball is filled with coffee beans and slowly turned over a hot fire, to roast them evenly, kinda like a rotisserie popcorn popper. See the crank and the turning wheel? Underneath here”—he pointed—“is where they’d build the fire.”
“Looks like a giant version of the little buddy burner I made with my dad when I was a girl.”
Noah got a silly grin on his face. “You were a Girl Scout?”
I ignored him. “Is this some kind of heat shield then?” The second one must have been the same roaster with the shield closed. It looked like a giant oil drum with the turning wheel sticking out the side.
“Yeah. The heat shield surrounds the whole thing like an exoskeleton.”
My turn to grin. “You’re really a bug guy at heart, aren’t you?”
He raised his hands in mock surrender. “Guilty.”
We left the van in the same pull off, which meant we had a two-hour hike up the side of the mountain. Noah carried a GPS unit but seemed to know exactly where he was going. I followed, carrying the dart gun. I wasn’t sure if he’d ever shot anything before, so I convinced him to let me do the shooting.
The jungle was alive with the incessant chitter of countless insects mixed with the occasional low-pitched thrum of nocturnal creatures bounding through the canopy. “Costa Rica is home to more than 500,000 species of critters, about 300,000 of which are insects,” said Noah. “894 birds, around 175 amphibians, approximately 225 reptiles, and nearly 250 mammals, including the elusive jaguar—a nocturnal hunter.”
“Yeah, I’d like to avoid each and every one of them,” I said. “Especially the snakes.” The key was watching our step and making our presence known. Unfortunately, this conflicted with our goal of a surprise attack.
As we approached the compound, we moved silently and cautiously. Then Noah motioned for me to halt. “There’s usually a guard at that corner,” he said. “Something’s up.”
An important rule of the tactical ambush is to know your enemy’s movement and positions. An unaccounted-for guard is a serious problem. He could be in the latrine, changing shifts, or standing behind you with a gun aimed at your head. “Let’s check the other positions, then circle back,” I said.
We moved single file through the jungle, avoiding the bell alarms. Of the usual five guards, we could see only two who paced at the entrance looking bored. “Maybe they’re taking the night off,” Noah said.
I shook my head. “I don’t like it.”
“What do you want to do?”
Maybe they only kept two guards at night. That didn’t seem out of the realm of possibility.
“I say we go for it,” he said. “We’re here now. And all those animals are in there.”
I moved to get a better look. One guard was tipping a bottle to his mouth, then handed it to the other. Perfect. You don’t share your Coca-Cola. Moonshine plus a jaguar-size dose of sedative ought to do the trick for sure.
“At least they’re standing near each other,” Noah said. “You can hit them one right after the other.”
I waited until both were turned and facing the other way, then raised the dart gun, aimed and fired. The first guard reached for his butt cheek and started to crumple. I reloaded and fired again. The second guard slowly slumped forward.
We waited in the shadows for a full five minutes, watching for another guard to come along. I told Noah to wait where he was and circled the entire shed one more time to be sure no one else lurked about, then we crept out into the open, toward the men.
While Noah plucked the darts from their butts, I checked their pulses. Snoozing like babies. We propped them up beside each other with the bottle in the one man’s hand. Not the first time a bad jag on moonshine made for a foggy memory.
The shed was dark, normally a sign that no one was inside, but we needed to be extra cautious. With the dart gun reloaded and at the ready (the only weapon we had), we slipped inside the door. Noah reached for the switch, gave it a flip, and the tubes flickered to life.
I stared in disbelief. The shed was empty. Every animal. Every cage. Gone.
I spun around and shined my flashlight on the ground outside the door. Fresh tire tracks in the dirt. “Dammit! A shipment must have gone out today.”
“No wonder there were only two guards.”
I turned back around and more slowly scanned the shed, my brain not fully accepting the situation. It was empty save for two folding chairs, a large workbench along the wall, and in the back corner, the two large coffee roasters.
“We need to get out of here. Now,” I said.
“Wait,” Noah said. “Check this out.”
Strewn acr
oss the top of the counter where he stood were tiny pieces of rubber or plastic. I picked one up and twirled it between my fingers. A burst balloon maybe or a condom. One side was coated in a white powder.
Crap. This complicates everything.
Then we heard a sound outside. Noah and I looked at each other. It was the sound of hoofbeats.
We were standing in the center of an empty shed, with the lights on. Sitting ducks. I glanced at the coffee roasters. It was our only option. I gestured for Noah to follow.
“¿Qué es esto?” What is this? A woman’s voice outside. “Levántense, hombres perezosos.” Get up you lazy men.
Hiding behind the roaster wouldn’t provide enough cover; a simple walk around and we’d be caught. We gently opened the heat shield on the roaster furthest from the door, squeezed inside, and as we pulled the shield shut the hinge creaked, the rubbing of rusty iron on iron. My heart pounded in my chest.
Footsteps crossed the concrete floor. Then the clickety, clickety, click of tiny dog feet. “¿Qué puñetas está pasando?” What the hell is going on?
Maria? What was she doing up here?
The dogs came straight to the roaster and yipped. I looked at Noah. We’re screwed.
“Ya basta!” she hollered. Knock it off! The dogs retreated. The footsteps circled, then paced back. “Dammit!” Then the beeps of a cell phone being dialed. “¿Qué te he dicho sobre el tráfico de drogas?” What have I told you about running drugs? A pause. “Dammit!” The beeps of her dialing again. “Es un pecado, Carlos. Un pecado contra Dios!” It’s a sin, Carlos. A sin against God! There was a long pause. “Tú no vas a poner en peligro mi operación de nuevo.” You will not jeopardize my operation again. “¿Me entiendes, hermano?”
Hermano. Brother. Carlos was Maria’s brother. But she said my operation. Holy crap! Maria is the kingpin.
The lights switched off and Noah and I were trapped in the roaster in the pitch dark.
CHAPTER 10
I waited a full two minutes before I whispered in his ear, “We have to get out of here before the guards wake up.”
At least Maria had switched off the lights and we had the cover of darkness. We eased the heat shield back, slipped from the roaster, and tiptoed to the door. The guards were still out cold. I took one step and saw the horse, tied to a post. She was still here. But where? I backed up and stepped on Noah’s foot. He stumbled backward but caught me and we regained our balance. I sidestepped away from the door, dragging him with me. “The horse,” I whispered.
“Where could she be?”
I shook my head. There wasn’t much here save for the shed. Then I remembered. The basket on the cable. I leaned out and peered into the darkness. I caught sight of a light beam among the foliage. “She’s gone up the path,” I whispered. “There’s an old cable car up there.”
“Yeah,” Noah said. “To the outhouse. Could we be so lucky?”
“Let’s get the hell out of here while we can.”
“I agree,” he said and darted across the yard into the jungle. I was right on his heels.
I needed to think, to regroup. I made excuses and left Noah as quickly as I could.
When I got to the bungalow, Dalton wasn’t back from the card game yet.
I sat down in the chair and tried to settle my mind. Deep breaths. Ommmmmm.
I jumped up from the chair. That wasn’t going to work. Okay. I paced.
All right. Maria’s the kingpin. She’s running the show. Not George. Why would she ride her horse all the way up to the shed at 11:30 at night? In the pitch dark? She would have known the shed was empty. Wouldn’t she? Was she checking on Carlos? Maybe she had suspected the drugs and wanted to catch him?
That explains why George had all the buyers to dinner at the house. So she could approve us without anyone realizing. It made perfect sense.
How was I going to prove it? I needed to catch her red-handed. But doing what exactly? Dalton had made it very clear he wasn’t interested in catching her offering a sale. He wanted confirmation she was the kingpin. That was it. How would I get that? She’d kept her identity hidden well.
The only thing I knew for sure: I couldn’t tell Dalton any of this. He couldn’t know I’d sneaked up there to that shed. He’d kill me. That also meant I couldn’t get his help. I was going to have to figure it out on my own.
I’d play the wife. Make Dalton happy. See what I could find out. Maybe I could press for the horseback riding, or stop by to visit with no excuse. Women do that all the time, don’t they? But Maria wasn’t the type to tolerate a mousy wife coming around wanting to chitchat. I wouldn’t get many chances.
And I didn’t have much time. I would have to force her to come to me, to show her hand somehow. But how?
She certainly was arrogant, sure of herself. Maybe I could use that to my advantage. She was smart, that was sure. She’d come up with a pretty good arrangement to keep herself hidden. She’d been right under Nash and Dalton’s noses. I needed some way to lure her out, to force her to expose herself. But what? How?
I went into the bathroom and looked in the mirror. “You can do this. You can do anything you set your mind to.”
Then it wasn’t my voice I was hearing, but my dad’s. I was holding a salamander in my five-year-old hands, a smile spread across my face. I raised it proudly, showing off my new pet. Oh Poppy, he said. Sweetheart, you can’t keep him. He needs to stay in the wild. But Daddy, I pleaded, already knowing he wouldn’t be swayed. I’ve made a home for him. Look. I pointed to the shoebox with the mound of sand, the pile of leaves, the butter dish of water. He’ll be happy with me. C’mere, he said and patted the top of his thighs. I sat down on his lap. He poked at my chest. You’ve got a big, beautiful, loving heart. Right now, that’s what you’re thinking with. And that’s okay. That’s how we love. But taking care of Mr. Salamander here takes a lot more than love. You need to use your head, too. You see, he’s not meant to live in a box. He needs the entire eco-system to survive. He can’t survive without it, and it can’t live without him. Do you understand? My dad took me by the hand and we walked together, back to the muddy bank where I’d found the salamander and I set it down and watched it slink behind a moss-covered log, tears spilling down my cheeks. Oh, don’t be sad, Sweetheart, my daddy said. You just made him the happiest salamander alive. He’s safe now, at home, with his family. But I can’t live without him, Daddy. You can, he said. You can do anything you set your mind to.
“You can do this,” I said again to the face in the mirror. This was my way into Special Ops. I had to make it happen. “Find a way.”
But no matter how I did it, Dalton wasn’t going to like it. I crossed my arms. So be it. Sometimes it’s easier to beg forgiveness than to ask permission.
“Tomorrow, Maria, I’m going to take you down.”
“I’m taking the day off to spend with my visiting wife,” Dalton said before taking a gulp of his orange juice.
“What? No. You were right.” Why is this happening now? “I need to get over there and make friends with Maria. I shouldn’t waste any time.”
“Tomorrow,” he said. “My wife came all the way down here from Texas. I need to spend time with her.”
“Seems like a waste of precious time you could be spending with George. What if you miss something important?”
“It’s more important to be true to our cover. We are going to the beach together, snorkeling, surfing, whatever you want to do.” He picked up his fork. “And the best part—” he raised his eyebrows “—is I get to see you in a bikini.”
I frowned. Men. Dammit! I had plans to make, things to do. I had to figure this out. And I was stuck with Dalton, sitting by the pool like a couple of tourists.
I watched the colorful finches and tanagers flit to and fro, devouring the fruit that had been set out on a platform feeder as I finished my yogurt trying to figure out how to thwart his plan.
“Relax,” said Dalton, a greasy chicken thigh in his fingers. “Most of the t
ime this job demands our all. We don’t get to choose. Every minute of our day we’re on, you know what I mean. Let’s go have some fun. It’s what John and Brittany are supposed to be doing today. Might as well enjoy it.”
I nodded, trying to appear agreeable.
I got up to refill my coffee and stopped dead.
“There you are!” My friend Chris was coming across the patio, his arms wide. Oh crap! “Girl, you are hard to track down.” He wrapped his arms around me.
I hugged him back and put my lips to his ear. “Call me Brittany,” was all I could get out before I had to break from the embrace without causing attention. I wasn’t sure if he heard me. I smiled. “What a surprise.” I gestured toward Dalton. “Chris, this is my husband, John.” Chris’s eyes grew large. He looked at Dalton, up and down, then back to me, his mouth hanging open.
“So you ran off and got hitched, huh? Lordy, girl, I never would’ve thunk it. Well, that explains you being my bestie in absentia.”
I glanced at Dalton. He looked so mad I thought his hair might catch on fire. He smiled through clenched teeth as he rose and reached out to shake Chris’s hand. I glanced around the patio and saw Yipes. He seemed to just notice us. “Listen,” I said to Chris. “This isn’t a good time.”
“What? I just got here.” He grabbed the back of a chair and pulled it out to sit down.
Dalton growled, “I’ll be in the bungalow. You’ve got two minutes,” then lumbered away.
“What a grumpy, grump,” Chris said. “I mean, I know I surprised you but—”
“Chris, listen to me—”
“Married? How could you not tell me?” He turned to me and I thought I had his attention, but he kept on. “No wonder you were in a tizzy.” He held up his hands. “I get it. You wanted to tell me in person. Geez, and I thought my news was spectacular.” He ran his hand down his silk shirt. “I got a raise. Check out my new duds. Genuine—”
Poppy McVie Mysteries: Books 1-3 (The Poppy McVie Box Set Series) Page 10
