The Butterfly Farm

by Diane Noble

  “That’s understood,” Lorenzo said.

  “Absolutely,” Elsa agreed. “You said a moment ago you know firsthand this treatment will keep my son alive while you complete your work on the cure. Is it because of your daughter? Did you have success with this treatment? I mean, until the end.”

  Once more, I noticed the sorrow in her voice.

  Then Jean spoke again. And with his words, the room began to spin.

  “Nicolette found complete success,” he said. “And is still finding it.”

  “She is alive?” Lorenzo sounded incredulous.

  I drew in a quick breath, my heart pounding. Is it possible? Jean’s daughter … alive? My brain refused to process the information.

  “She is.” For a moment Jean didn’t speak, and when he did, his voice was gruff with emotion. “I guard the secret carefully because of the, shall we say, experimental and rather unorthodox treatment that has brought about her cure. But you can trust that I tell you the truth. My daughter lives.”

  I leaned against the wall, unbelieving, my heart still beating double time, robbing me of oxygen. I struggled to breathe. Why would he let the world believe his daughter was dead if she wasn’t?

  The boys exchanged glances, then stared at me. I noticed a strange look on Price’s face, an expression meant to hide something deeper. Something dark. He let his gaze drift away from my scrutiny.

  My heart was out of rhythm, and again I wished I’d brought a pill to pop. Second best was a polite little cough to jump it back into normal rhythm. If I didn’t cough soon, I might faint. Or worse.

  Jean said, “Now we get to the unorthodox treatment I’m going to prescribe for Erik …”

  I waited as long as I could, then I turned to the wall, put my hands over my mouth, and let out the quietest cough I could.

  Down the hall, Jean fell silent for a moment, then he said, “Did you hear something?”

  The others didn’t speak, but I heard a chair scrape the floor. I motioned for Max and Price to follow me. We stepped around a corner and, hugging the wall, tried to disappear into the shadows.

  “Nothing,” Jean said to the others after a moment. The door closed.

  “Let’s get out of here,” I said.

  As we walked back to the SUV, Max and Price discussed Jean’s revelation about his daughter.

  “Why would someone do that, dude?” Max said. “I mean, I went to her funeral. Felt bad because of the way we all treated her. Her dad was there, crying and talking about her like she was some kind of saint or something.”

  While they focused on the deception, I focused on how this latest revelation fit into the increasingly frustrating list of known facts. I came up with zero. It was an oddity. Bizarre even. But Jean was a well-known researcher. Perhaps it wasn’t so strange to use his daughter as a human guinea pig. He chose Costa Rica so he wouldn’t be bothered by U.S. medical regulatory boards. I’d seen in his eyes how much he loved his daughter. I wondered if he’d let everyone believe she was dead, first to keep medical-ethics watchdogs off his back, and second to make a dramatic splash when his cure for leukemia was announced.

  “Nicolette is still alive,” Price said. “I can’t get my head around it, dude.”

  I knew the feeling.

  It took us far less time to make our return trip over the fence than it had to figure out the system first time around, or so I told the boys, gently ribbing them about my felt-and-tape method. We found the car and began the drive back to the harbor. As we neared the first hairpin curve, I told Max, who was driving, to slow down.

  Adam had said not to tell anyone his whereabouts, but I’d already decided I had to see him tonight. Besides, if I didn’t get to him now, it might not be possible later. I wanted to find out what he knew and tell him the bizarre news about Nicolette Baptiste.

  Adrenaline had kicked in earlier, but now I was beginning to feel weary. Both Max and Price were yawning. Now Price was trying to figure out how the flashing lights and siren worked.

  “Guys, one more thing before we return. There’s a friend I want to visit, and there’s no time like the present.”

  Max craned around to face me. “What?”

  “First hairpin, look for a two-tracker. It will take us to a coffee plantation. Get that far, then I’ll give you the rest.”

  With a heavy sigh, Max pressed on the gas. “What’s gonna happen when it gets light?” he wanted to know. “We’re in a black and white that says Republic of Costa Rica on the side.”

  “Keep driving, Sherlock,” I said.

  “Sherlock?” Max said.

  “Some dude who lived a long time ago,” Price said. “Fictional dude,” I said to both of them.

  “Huh?” It was almost in unison.

  “Never mind.” I was too weary to give them an English literature lesson.

  We drove through the coffee plantation, but it was so dark I couldn’t make anything out. No farmhouse, no barn, nothing.

  “Find a wide spot and swing around,” I said to Max. “Do a three-sixty so the headlights give us some idea of what’s around us.”

  “It’s after 2:30,” Price said with a noisy yawn.

  “And it’s raining,” Max announced. “That’s great. Just great.”

  He stopped, shifted into reverse, then did a perfect three-point turn. His driving instructor would have been proud. The headlights splayed across the landscape, but all we could see were row upon row of coffee trees. Dark and shiny in the rain.

  “Head up the road a short distance. If we don’t come to the barn, we’ll go back toward the main road.” I imagined getting lost in this maze of coffee plants and shivered. I loved coffee, but not this much.

  Max said, “We won’t have the cover of darkness much longer.”

  The rain was falling in big fat drops now, pattering the roof of the SUV. Standing water on the muddy road glistened in the headlights. Max flipped on the wipers. Mud streaks resulted.

  “Does this thing have four-wheel drive?” I asked.

  “I hope so,” came the curt reply from Max. He clutched the steering wheel and leaned forward, squinting into the rainy night. “Hey, I see something,” he said. “Right up ahead. You can barely make it out.”

  I strained to see through the streaked windshield. A shadowy form emerged in front of us. “That’s the farmhouse,” I said. “Keep going.”

  He pressed on, SUV sliding through the mud, wheels spinning, then catching and moving forward again.

  “There. Just to the other side of the house. Off to the left.”

  Max steered the vehicle gingerly toward where I pointed. We neared the barn. It was dark except for a faint light deep inside.

  “Who’s this friend of yours anyway?” Price wanted to know.

  I didn’t answer.

  Max stopped the SUV just short of a small door leading into what appeared to be the living quarters.

  “You two stay here. I’ll be back in just a few minutes.”

  They both yawned, and I figured they would be asleep before I got back. I knew college kids. Once asleep, they were impossible to wake. I didn’t want to think about adding that to my list of worries, which included matters like getting back across the harbor in the rain. The responsibility of the boys’ physical well-being was weighing heavy on my shoulders. Along with everything else.

  I took a deep breath and got out of the SUV. The rain was falling in sheets. I sprinted for the small front porch, knocked, and called out,

  “Adam?”

  I waited a few minutes, then called out again, “Adam Hartsfield?” Suddenly I couldn’t wait to talk with him, hear the comforting timbre of his voice, pool our thoughts, and decide on the next course of action.

  This latest development had my mind spinning. Even as I stood there, rain pouring down around me, all that was at stake—the lives of Kate and Carly and Holly and the others—washed over me in flood-like torrent.

  I rapped on the door again. Harder. “Adam, please! It’s Harriet!”<
br />
  I tried the doorknob and found it unlocked.

  The utter darkness, the odor of mud, the almost living, otherworldly splat of the rain on the metal roof all attacked my senses. It was as if the very spores—the atoms—I was breathing had an evil intent. Something evil lurked here. Something was wrong. I felt it all the way to my bones.

  My hand shook as I pushed the door open and called out again, “Adam, are you there?”

  Girding up every ounce of courage I had, I stepped across the threshold. “Adam?”

  A faint light shone from down a short hallway and around a door. The room where I now stood, similar to a studio apartment in the States, seemed undisturbed. A rumpled bed, though empty, was shoved against the far wall. A small kitchenette stood closer to me, just to my right. A round, rough-hewn table near the door held a stack of books with a worn paperback Bible on the top, a small devotional on the prayers of Saint Francis of Assisi to one side, and a wire-bound book that appeared to be a journal of some kind.

  “Adam?” I called again, stepping into the hallway. “Adam?”

  The door at the end was open a crack.

  Fear that had been flitting at the edges of my mind attacked me with a vengeance. Almost quicker than I could process the thoughts, they flew at me. Someone tried to frame Adam, get him out of the way, because he was getting too close to the truth.

  He had gone into hiding because of the frame. He had played right into the killers’ hands.

  This wasn’t a game. It was serious. Deadly serious.

  The hairs on the back of my neck stood straight as I moved toward the door and pushed it open.

  At first I thought Adam had fainted. He was wearing striped pajamas. A toothbrush had dropped to the floor beside him. A partially squeezed tube of toothpaste was in the sink, lid off.

  He was curled to one side, in repose, almost as if he had simply gone to sleep.

  I ran to his side, knelt, and lifted his limp, still warm hand.

  Then I saw the butterfly.

  Still kneeling beside the body, I stared at Adam, unbelieving.

  Emotions threatened to explode from inside out. Shock. Dismay. Panic. Fear.

  “Oh, Lord,” I whispered, “he’s one of the good guys. Don’t take him yet. Please, don’t take him.” Even as I breathed the words, I knew it was too late. He was ashen gray. Saliva and blood had trickled from his mouth and pooled on the floor beneath his head. He looked like he’d taken a beating before his attacker went in for the kill.

  I moved my hand to his wrist, held my breath, and prayed for a pulse. There was none. I stared at the blood near the corner of his mouth.

  My brain pulled a similar image from the files. Easton. He’d gotten too close to some dangerous truth. So had Adam. They had both paid dearly.

  I bowed my head as I released his hand. And for a moment I sat in stunned silence, too overcome with shock and sorrow to run.

  Then I heard a door open. And footsteps, sodden footsteps, crossing the room behind me.

  Fear shot through me. How stupid to forget that the killer, or killers, might still be here. In a closet, in some deep shadow. I backed away from Adam’s body, half-crawling across the floor to a shallow alcove in the short hallway. I pulled myself against the alcove and waited.

  “Yo, Ms. M. You in here?” one of the boys called out.

  Letting out a pent-up breath, I unfolded my legs and stood to block either one from entering the bathroom. “I’m here.”

  “We were getting worried,” Max said. He peered at me as he came closer. “You okay?”

  I nodded.

  He glanced over my shoulder into the bathroom. The body was visible, and even in the dim light that spilled from the small room, I saw Max turn white.

  “Hey,” he whispered. “What’s that?”

  “My friend,” I said, “didn’t make it.”

  He started for the bathroom, but I touched his arm. “Don’t.” I wanted to spare him the up-close sight of Adam’s body.

  Price came through the door just then, shaking the rain off his clothes. “What’s going on? Did you see your friend, Ms. M.?”

  “Yeah, dude,” Max answered for me. “She did. But you don’t want to.”

  Price peered down the hall, then the boys looked at each other, fear clearly etched on their faces.

  “Who was this friend?” Price said, his voice shaking.

  “Adam Hartsfield,” I said. “He must have gotten too close to the truth. Someone poisoned him.” Still shaking, I crossed the room and sank into a chair by the table.

  “How do you know he was poisoned?” Max asked, dropping into the chair next to me. Price stood behind him.

  “It’s the same butterfly,” I said. “The same species that was next to Harry Easton’s body. The blue morpho.”

  “Order Lepidoptera, family Nymphalidae, genus Morpho, species menelaus,” Price recited. At my quizzical look, he added, “What can I say? I like science. Stuff like this sticks. I saw it at the butterfly farm. One of the most deadly butterflies in the world.”

  “A single butterfly can’t even kill a frog,” I said wearily. “This was left as a calling card by the killer.”

  “Or a warning,” Price said.

  I dropped my forehead into my palm and drew in a deep breath. Fatigue was once again setting in, but the night was far from over. Fright and grief had carved a deep pit in my stomach, and I felt sick. When I looked up, I said, “We’ve got to contact the police. There’s that farmhouse down the road. One of you needs to drive there, wake the occupants, and let them know what’s happened. Tell them to call the local authorities.”

  Max stood, jingling the keys. “I guess that would be me.”

  Price nodded. “Yeah, dude.”

  “And I think the best thing is for us to wait for the police,” I said. “We need to tell them what’s happened.”

  “Who’s gonna believe us?” Price asked as Max went out the door. “How do we explain the black and white and why we’re out here at three in the morning?”

  “Not to mention why we left a locked-down ship,” I added.

  I reached across the table and almost absently picked up the Bible I’d seen earlier. As I touched the worn cover, the injustice of what had happened to Adam Hartsfield hit me like a fist in the stomach. A man dies alone in a foreign country, chasing after his daughter’s abductors, and he comes to this end. It wasn’t right. I was still numb, sick, but right alongside the other emotions, anger—deep anger—was taking root.

  I opened the cover of the Bible, and a folded piece of paper fluttered out, landing on the floor.

  Price picked it up, turned it over, and frowned. “It’s for you.” I took it from him. “Harriet MacIver” was scrawled across the top fold. I opened it and read the two almost illegible words. One was a name.

  My breath caught in my throat.

  It couldn’t be. No, he had to be wrong. Or maybe I was connecting the wrong dots.

  I examined the paper again. There was no mistaking Adam’s intent. He was pointing me to the next dot in my quest.

  I stared at the paper.

  “What’s it say?” Price said.

  “Go get Max. We’ve got to get out of here,” I said. “And fast. I’ll explain on the way.”

  But Max was already on his way back. No one was home at the farmhouse, a good thing as it turned out. My plan was to drive to the police department, drop off the car, and get back to the ship as quickly as possible.

  As the SUV skidded along the muddy roads, I fought off sleep. I didn’t want to think how little time I’d spent head-on-pillow during the past forty-eight hours.

  I am woman …

  Yeah, right. A very tired, very human, very sad, and very distressed woman. I didn’t have a roar left.

  Now for the note to the gendarmes. I flipped on the overhead light, pulled out my notepad, and began to write.

  Buenos Días, señores y señoras:

  We borrowed this vehicle for police busin
ess. In exchange minor repairs were made to your engine, and your flat tire was exchanged for the spare at no charge. We hope you are happy with the condition of the vehicle when you find it.

  However, in the process of our investigation into crimes we believe are being committed within your jurisdiction, we discovered the body of a man in the rear house of the coffee plantation near La Vida Pura. The man’s name is Adam Hartsfield. You will find papers near the body confirming his identity.

  Mr. Hartsfield is wanted by Interpol for crimes he did not commit. This I will explain to you when we meet. I will be contacting you within twenty-four hours.

  Sincerely

  Ms. M.

  We would leave the note on the driver’s seat of the SUV, which would be parked in front of the police station. I prayed for two things: (1) for the car and note to be discovered right away, (2) but not before we hightailed it out of there.

  Max came up with a brilliant idea.

  The boys let me out near where we had hidden the kayaks, then they headed up the steep incline to the fortresslike police headquarters. It was still dark when they passed through the open gate and into the front lot. It was also between shifts, apparently, because (as I learned later) the parking lot and guardhouse were both deserted.

  In one quick movement they turned on the siren and flashing bar lights, locked all the doors, and ran like the wind toward a back wall. They waited long enough to see several officers fly out the front door toward the car, only to stand around it scratching their heads when they couldn’t get in.

  Their flight down the hairpin turns must have caused an adrenaline surge, because when the boys found me by the kayaks—where, I confess, I’d fallen asleep in my life vest and splash skirt—they were as lively as two monkeys in a barrel. I watched mutely as they went through a series of high-fives, knuckle bumping, and “nice goin’, dude’s.” You’d have thought they’d just made an NFL touchdown, but I took no joy in it. Then they pulled the kayaks into the water, helped me in, and started to paddle back to the ship.