The Butterfly Farm

by Diane Noble

  The trip was a blur. I paddled by rote in rhythm with Max, barely noticing the blisters. The shock of finding Adam, my deep sadness, and my growing sense of futility threatened to overwhelm me. This thing was rapidly growing bigger than I was. I closed my eyes to pray, but all I could see was Adam’s face … and the image of his daughter in the photos. Tears threatened, but I blinked them away.

  The anger that had started creeping in earlier surged like floodwaters breaching a levee. This was no time for tears. It was time for guts and savvy. I prayed that I was up to the task. I would see this thing through. For Adam. For Holly. For all the lost girls.

  The rain turned to a drizzle, then to a mist, and as the horizon began to pale in the east, the day took on a dreary, deep green gray.

  “Hope no one closed the gangway door,” Price said as we neared the ship.

  We approached the Sun Spirit from behind to avoid being seen, but the ship was barely visible in the low-hanging fog. The running lights, still

  dimmed, cast a pale, unearthly glow across the inky water. The early morning chill, my damp clothing, and the ghostly appearance of the ship gave me the shivers.

  I felt as if I’d lived a lifetime since we paddled to shore just a few hours earlier, and in a way I had. Someone I thought was dead apparently lived, and someone else, whose life I was just beginning to cherish, was dead.

  We reached the gangway. The rope ladder dangled where we’d left it.

  “Way to go, dude,” Max said to Price as they glided the kayaks closer to the ship.

  “Mission accomplished,” Price said with a tired grin.

  “Remember, guys,” I said once my feet were planted firmly on the deck, “not a word to anyone about any of this. There will be serious consequences if it gets out.”

  “Like you’re going to call your buddy, the president of Shepparton?” Price looked up at me from the kayak. I was beginning to like that baby-faced look of his. He probably had his mother wrapped around his little finger, no matter what hooligan antics he got into.

  I smiled. “Just the dean, dear boy.”

  I left Max and Price to finish their mission, tying the kayaks to the stern of the Sun Spirit. We had discussed lifting them by crane to deck two where they had found them. Turned out nothing seemed workable—not without alerting the whole ship. Besides, the boys were too tired to think straight and quite content with my plan to let their discovery remain a mystery to the crew.

  Fifteen minutes later I fell into bed, hoping for at least a few hours of sleep before being awakened. As I drifted to sleep, I imagined the Playa Negra police figuring out the identity of Ms. M. and calling Captain Richter. I imagined the officers spotting the boys as they ran away from the police station, following, and with binoculars trained on us, watching us paddle toward the Sun Spirit. I imagined detectives dusting the SUV for fingerprints … At that scenario, my eyes flew open. I imagined them showing up at my door to arrest me for the murder of Adam Hartsfield.

  Finally, I fell into a troubled, restless sleep. Real images of what I had seen, what I had experienced this night replaced the fantasies whirling through my mind. Frightening, sorrowful, confusing images. Adam’s face was at the heart of them.

  A knock at my door woke me. Disoriented, I reached for my clock. It was 10:13 a.m. I rubbed my eyes and sat up. My head pounded, and I felt sick. The worst of it was that Interpol and the police detectives had been scheduled to board at 8:00 this morning. I hoped that the storm—and perhaps the confusion over the SUV and the note inside—had delayed them.

  “Mrs. MacIver,” called the voice, “are you all right?”

  Zoë.

  I padded to the door, opened it a crack, and peered out. “Hi, luv,” I said sleepily.

  “Are you all right? You weren’t at breakfast, and I was worried.”

  I stifled a yawn. “I’m just being a sleepyhead this morning.”

  She hesitated, looking at the floor. “I have something to tell you. Can we talk?”

  I had to get to the bridge and fast, but I stared at Zoë’s troubled face and remembered my unspoken commitment to her. “Give me a few minutes to get dressed.”

  A shadow of anxiety crossed her face as she nodded. “Okay.”

  I closed the door and hurried to the dressing room, passing by the window. The day had turned an ugly gray. Anvil-shaped clouds towered farther offshore, and the chop of the waves had clearly increased. The wind snapped the canvas in that annoying way I often heard, only this time each snap sounded like a gunshot.

  Zoë returned fifteen minutes later. I had just finished my shower and, with clean clothes and freshly shampooed hair, I felt human again. Almost.

  The coffee was brewed, and I served us each a cup.

  Zoë looked solemn. She didn’t touch her coffee. Instead, she twisted her long, nail-bitten fingers into a knot and left them on her lap, white-knuckled.

  “What is it?” I prompted. I was jumpy, wanting to get to the heart of the problem, so I could move on to the other dragons I had to slay. I was at once ashamed and tried to relax and listen. Whatever was troubling her was weighing heavy.

  She looked away from me. “I’ve done some things I’m not proud of. I wanted to talk to you about them.”

  “We’ve all done things we’re not proud of, Zoë. We’re human.”

  She turned sharply, studied my face, then said, “None as bad as me.” Her expression darkened. Her eyes filled, and angrily she swiped at her tears. “Even the thought, the memory of what I’ve done, is too much to bear.” Her voice was filled with anguish.

  I leaned forward, took her hands in mine. “Zoë, whatever it is, you can tell me. I’m a good listener.”

  “You’re the first one in a long time who seems to care, which makes it worse. There’s Gramps, of course, but he doesn’t have long to live. It feels good to be with someone who isn’t out to tell me how bad I am and doesn’t ignore me because I don’t belong.” She pulled her hands away.

  “Whatever you’ve done, maybe just telling another person will help you see it’s not so bad.”

  “It’s bad.” She hesitated, letting her gaze drift again. This time she looked over at Gus’s feeders, seemed to study them. She blinked rapidly. “It hurts to lose someone you love, doesn’t it?”

  My heart constricted. “Oh, Zoë,” I whispered, “was it you?”

  She whirled around, frowning. “What?”

  “Gus? Is that what you’re trying to tell me? You did something to Gus?”

  She sat silently for a moment, seeming to be fighting tears. Then, shoulders stiff, she stood and glared down at me. “It hurts, doesn’t it? Losing someone feels like somebody twisted a knife into your gut. Now you know what it feels like.” Without another word, she stomped to the door, yanked it open, then slammed it behind her.

  I stared at the closed door, unable to move. It was Zoë all along? Fresh grief rose to the surface as I thought about Gus.

  I dropped my head into my hands.

  And my day had only begun.

  I wasted no time heading to the bridge to see if Interpol had arrived. Adam’s note was in my pocket.

  The name he’d written was all the proof I needed. And, if Adam was right, it was the road map that would lead me to Kate and Carly and, I hoped, to Holly.

  But first I had to convince the authorities.

  I bent into the wind as I climbed the metal stairs leading to the bridge and looked out over the gray horizon. The storm was closer now, whipping the whitecaps into a frenzy. The door to the bridge was closed, and I had to put my shoulder into it to get it to budge.

  “Captain Richter?”

  He looked up from the desk behind the operating panel. “Yes?”

  “Have the investigators been here?”

  “Interpol?”

  “And the others. Local authorities, I assume.”

  “I expected them by eight this morning, but with the storm brewing, they’ve been delayed. Why do you ask?”

 
“I want to be in on the meeting. I need to talk with them, with the school officials, and with you.”

  He frowned. “You know, Mrs. MacIver, I once told you to leave the investigation to the professionals.” The same condescending tone was back in spades. I had to do something to shake him off his pedestal.

  “I have information about the missing girls,” I said.

  He didn’t react, but I could see the skepticism in his expression. I didn’t care. It was urgent that he believe me. Now that Adam was dead, I had no allies. I desperately needed Richter to understand, to help. I urged him with my eyes to put aside whatever prejudices he had against me and listen. Just listen.

  “Look,” I said. “I went into town last night. I’ve suspected the abductions are related to the clinic at La Vida Pura—”

  I stopped in midsentence; Richter’s face had turned purple. He stepped close to me. I could smell the liquor on his breath. “You did what?” he shouted.

  I leaned back, resisting an urge to fan the air in front of my nose. “I paddled a kayak to shore.”

  “You disobeyed a direct order to stay onboard?” The clenched muscles in his jaw were working overtime.

  “It wasn’t a direct order. You said the ship was being quarantined. You didn’t say anything about the people on it.”

  The shade of purple deepened to eggplant. “You paddled to shore all alone.”

  “You doubt that I can do it?” I wasn’t about to implicate Max and Price.

  He didn’t answer, but the vein on his temple was throbbing visibly.

  “Listen,” I said. “I can’t say why, but I have evidence that Interpol is after the wrong man.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They shouldn’t be investigating Adam Hartsfield.”

  “How would you know this?”

  “Someone else is involved.”

  “You’re making no sense,” he said and started to turn away from me.

  I thought of Adam’s note, the handwriting scrawled in childlike printing, barely legible. Written as if he knew the end was coming.

  I spoke the name he’d written. “Dr. Jean Baptiste.”

  I waited to see him stunned into silence. He wasn’t. Again, I wondered whether Captain Richter was caught up in this.

  “What’s he got to do with it?”

  “He’s involved.”

  “You have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said. “Dr. Baptiste?” He shook his head. “Not only are you skating close to defamation of character, but you’ll be made a laughingstock. We’re talking about a murder investigation, a poisoning. Linking someone like Baptiste to this crime is ludicrous.”

  “I’m talking about this and other crimes, including the poisoning death of Adam Hartsfield.”

  He winced. “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  “Okay, I heard you, but I don’t believe it.”

  “Just let me be part of the meeting,” I said, “and I’ll explain.”

  “I’m sure they’ll be willing to talk with you one on one after—”

  I was sure they would, especially after they realized that Ms. M. equaled Ms. MacIver.

  “It must be everyone,” I said, “law enforcement, school officials, you, your first officer. It’s important, Captain. Lives are at stake.” I paused, then added, “Please.”

  He let out a noisy, irritated sigh. “I’ll check with the authorities,” he finally said. “But I’m not promising anything.”

  It was a begrudging concession, but a concession nonetheless. And he hadn’t made me grovel. I was in his debt.

  The ship was teeming with passengers, and most were disgruntled. Stuck onboard, they milled about the coffee shop, the dining room, and the Clipper Lounge. It had begun to rain again, and the sea looked angry and dark. A pall seemed to have dropped over the ship. The students were conspicuously absent—in classes, I assumed.

  I wanted—no, needed—to talk with Zoë. For whatever reason, she had been brought into my life. The cruel rejection she had felt from her mother and her classmates made me ache for her. But I was also struggling with what she had all but confessed to me about Gus.

  It didn’t matter that she was obviously emotionally disturbed. Could I forgive her? I couldn’t. Which made me ashamed because forgiveness is at the core of my faith.

  Gus. One of the most innocent of God’s creatures. Harmed intentionally. I couldn’t even begin to consider forgiveness right now. Maybe I never could. But I did need to talk with Zoë and find out what she knew, what she had done. Then maybe I could stop looking for Gus with every corner I turned, at the end of every hallway, in every easy chair I passed.

  I found Zoë in a small room set aside as a library. It was little more than an alcove off one of the open areas above deck one.

  She looked up as I approached, her face pale, an unwelcome curl to her lips. I sat down across from her. “You’re not in class.”

  She shrugged. “Didn’t feel like going.”

  I glanced at the textbook that lay open on her lap. Chemistry.

  “Zoë, what you told me earlier … about Gus, can we talk about it?”

  “You’re no different than the others.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You jumped to a horrid conclusion—about your cat. You assumed the worst about me. Poor little Zoë Shire, lonely, ugly, meanspirited, cruel—”

  I held up my hand to stop the tirade. “Who has ever said these things about you?”

  Her eyes brimmed with tears, and I leaned forward. “Your mother?”

  She didn’t answer. She didn’t have to. I saw it in her eyes.

  “Zoë,” I said, “you came to me to confess something you felt terrible about. You were staring at Gus’s feeders. You said how terrible it is to lose someone you care about … I thought you were talking about Gus and how much I cared for him.”

  “I was talking about me. About how I’m about to lose someone I care about.”

  “Your grandfather?”

  She was weeping now, openly. I wanted to take her in my arms, but I didn’t want to embarrass her. My maternal instincts understood the fine line between comfort and mortification when trying to soothe the feelings of a hurting young woman. And Zoë’s hurting was soul deep, deeper than anything my children had dealt with at her age.

  “My best friend. If I stop, she’ll die.”

  “Stop what?”

  She took off her glasses and stared at me without speaking.

  “Zoë, you can tell me.”

  But something in her eyes, maybe a horror too deep to express, made me wonder if I could bear hearing it. Hope seemed to drain from her, leaving her pale and devoid of emotion.

  “Zoë!”

  “If you knew,” she whispered, “you would hold an unbearable secret. It would be impossible to keep to yourself. Too much would be lost. Lives would be lost.”

  “What are you involved in? Is it tied up with Carly and Kate? Do you know where they are?”

  “It’s better you don’t know,” she said.

  “Is someone threatening you? Are people saying that something bad will happen if you tell?” My whisper was hoarse, urgent. “The girls’ lives may be in danger. We’ve got to get to them. Tell me what you know.”

  “I didn’t say I know where they are.”

  I felt whatever emotional connection I had with her slipping away. I leaned forward intently. “I care about you, Zoë. You’ve had a burden, too heavy a burden, pressing down on you since childhood. You may have made choices based on that pain. Whatever it is, whatever you came to talk to me about earlier, I’m here to listen. No trouble is too great—”

  “Stop it. Please. You don’t live in my skin. You don’t know the sacrifices I’m making to save another’s life. You don’t know what it’s like to have one true friend when there are no others. Or what it’s like to think this one true friend might be taken away from you forever. When you think of her as the sister you never had. When you woul
d give anything to be part of her flesh-and-blood family.”

  “Nicolette,” I said, staring at her. “She is your one true friend. As close as a sister.”

  “Nicolette is dead.” She looked away from me.

  “No, she isn’t.” I paused, watching her expression change. “I don’t know how, but I think I know why you’re involved in keeping her alive.”

  She whirled then, her eyes dark with anger. “How did you come to that conclusion?”

  Quickly I considered the consequences of telling Zoë the truth. This minute I had a chance to convince her to help me, to help Carly and Kate, if they were still alive. But if her allegiance remained with Nicolette, she would let Jean know I had tied him to the disappearances. He was behind two murders; I didn’t doubt that he wouldn’t hesitate to kill again.

  I looked into Zoë’s empty eyes, desperately searching for a flicker of hope. “It doesn’t matter how I know,” I finally said. “But I know it’s true. Nicolette is alive.”

  I waited for her reaction, then said, “You are helping her stay alive, aren’t you?”

  “Thousands will be helped in the end,” she said. “Soon a child will live because of the sacrifices of many. A child who’s never been out of a wheelchair. Soon he’ll walk. He has chronic myelogenous leukemia and isn’t expected to live another six months. But soon he’ll be cured. Completely cured because of the sacrifices.”

  I leaned forward. “What sacrifices, Zoë? You can tell me.”

  She reached for her glasses, put them on, then closed her chemistry textbook. “There’s no other way,” she said, standing.

  “I’m going there,” I said and rose from my seat.

  “Where?”

  I knew by her expression I didn’t need to answer. “Come with me.”

  She gave me a small smile. “Don’t,” she said, sadly. “Please, promise you won’t go.”

  Before I could answer, she walked away.

  The storm seemed to have stalled a few miles offshore. Clouds billowed high to the west, but overhead, patches of lighter gray appeared within the murky hues of the deep gray green. At the sound of speedboats heading toward the Sun Spirit, I looked through my stateroom window.