by Diane Noble
I didn’t answer.
The captain leaned forward. “Legally, I must inform you that as of seven o’clock tomorrow morning—our estimated time of departure for the next port—you will be escorted off the ship. You, ma’am, have proven to be a danger to our passengers—and now, of course, even more so.” He glanced at the closed door where my guard waited on the other side. “I don’t believe it is necessary to list your offenses. They will be written up and delivered to your room for your signature. It is a legal document, binding on all parties—Global Sea Adventures, Shepparton College, and, of course, you.”
“You seem to be forgetting that someone is out to kill me, presumably because I got too close to the truth. And neither of you has mentioned any sadness or concern about the man who died or the one who remains in a coma—both passengers on this ship—or about the two young women who were abducted. You’re more concerned about covering your tracks in the event there is an inquiry, likely from those in upper management. Perhaps from an insurance carrier.” I leaned forward, seething, my tone barely civil. “You, gentlemen, are covering your tails. You don’t care about justice.” I stood up and glared at Richter, then moved my hard-eyed gaze to Williams. “You, gentlemen, should be ashamed of yourselves.
“As for leaving this ship? You couldn’t pay me enough to stay onboard. I will have my things ready for departure at six o’clock in the morning. And you’d better believe me, gentlemen. I am a travel writer, and your lack of concern for the safety and well-being of all onboard will be covered in my first article.”
I turned and strode out the door. I had taken only a few steps when I stopped, leaned against the wall, and closed my eyes. The pain in my temple was intense. I needed to rest.
Rodolfo was by my side in an instant. “Señora, you are unwell?” He took my arm and helped me back to my stateroom, then took his position outside my door.
I glanced about for Gus as soon as I entered, more out of habit than expecting to see him. But suddenly I was surprised by fresh grief over his disappearance. Feelings of helpless sadness, combined with fatigue, the wound on my head, and the discouragement of the moment made me want to throw in the towel.
My problem was that I cared too much. What had I said to Ms. Oliverio at the meeting? “You do what you must to do to get at the heart of a problem, no matter the pain, the sorrow, the roadblocks. And you don’t stop until you find the solution.” A lot of good all those “qualifications” had done me. Passion, I’d said. Stick-to-it-iveness. Ha!
I was just getting ready for a grand pity party when I heard a knock at the door.
“Who is it?”
“Monica Oliverio.”
I opened the door. She thrust a little bouquet of flowers at me as if embarrassed. No one had brought me flowers since Hollis died. I felt a sting at the back of my throat and swallowed hard. If Ms. Oliverio was embarrassed to bring me this gift, she’d be downright mortified if I teared up.
“Well, my goodness,” I said cheerily. “This is a surprise.”
“How are you feeling?”
“Better. Really. Would you like to come in?”
She shook her head. “I pulled some strings to get you a place with the team.”
“What team?”
“Our people are on the way to Baptiste’s island. Sometimes we allow press along—for PR purposes, you understand. Not to interfere in the investigation in any sense.”
I wanted to punch the air with my fist and holler “YES!” Instead I gave her a quick, professional nod.
“You have an international press pass, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“A badge?”
“Of course.”
“And you’re feeling up to it?” She glanced at my bandaged head.
I grinned. “We’re going by water?”
She gave me a quizzical look. “Yes, of course. There is an airstrip, but in this case, harbor patrol works best. Too many of us for a conventional private plane.”
I relaxed. “Can you give me a few minutes to freshen up?” And take some extra-strength aspirin.
“We need to speak to one of the students. But that should take only about twenty minutes.”
“I’ll be ready.”
In fifteen minutes flat I had changed into fresh clothes. In another three I arrived at the gangway, Rodolfo at my heels.
I rather liked having my own personal bodyguard. He was twice my height, with shoulders the size of watermelons. His mother must have taught him well; one minute he was looking snarly and dangerous to anyone who approached and the next he was politely opening doors and standing back to let me go first. I daresay he would have fixed me a cup of tea with two lumps had I asked. I was thinking about adopting him.
Rodolfo stepped into the harbor patrol boat first, then took my hand to help me in. There were ten of us all told. I was the only civilian with the others, a mix of Playa Negra police, detectives, and Interpol.
We faced into the sun as the boat glided away from the ship, changed course slightly, then revved the engines and sped across the water. I had replaced the gauzy bandage around my head with a smaller adhesive patch, then covered the whole thing with a ball cap, this one with an Oakland A’s logo. The sun reflected off the water and intensified the headache pain, so I pulled the cap low and closed my eyes.
“You’re here as an observer only,” Ms. Oliverio said at my elbow.
I opened one eye. “I know that.”
“Not everyone is convinced that Baptiste had anything to do with the crimes. Some are convinced not only that we’re pursuing a wrong lead but that the trail of the real perpetrators—people traffickers—is getting colder by the minute. They are also acutely aware that if we’re wrong, a search warrant is the greatest insult that could be dealt a distinguished man like Dr. Baptiste.”
I swallowed hard. What if I had connected the wrong dots?
Ms. Oliverio looked out to sea and said no more.
It took a little over an hour to reach the island. It was large, perhaps the size of Catalina Island off Los Angeles. Dark, rocky cliffs jutted from the black sand beaches on the only side I could see. The pilot had done his homework and announced we were heading for the only natural harbor suitable for mooring the boat. Unfortunately, it was the island’s only harbor—that belonging to Dr. Baptiste. The pilot cut back on the throttle, and we idled slowly toward the dock. Three boats were moored in the half-dozen or so slips. One of the boats was a Glastron GX185, the same speedboat I’d seen Baptiste pilot near the Sun Spirit. As we idled, I read the name on the back: Nicolette.
The pilot pulled close to the dock, but before we could disembark, a golf cart headed down a small incline toward us.
It was Baptiste.
“Well, well.” He gave the group a tight smile as he got out of the cart. “What a surprise.” Without hesitation, he strode over to the captain of the Playa Negra police force and pulled him aside.
They conferred for a few minutes, then the police captain turned back to the waiting group. “Dr. Baptiste has generously granted us permission to visit his facility. He says a search warrant is not necessary. We are welcome to come in and look around. The entire facility is open to us. He has nothing to hide. He will give us a tour, if we like, and then we can put our forensics teams to work independently.”
The team’s relief was palpable. When they started up the short incline, I fell in behind. Though Jean looked toward me several times, he didn’t acknowledge me in any way. I assumed someone had let him know I was his accuser. I wondered who. The thought chilled me.
He was the consummate, professional host. We came to a small rise affording a view of his home and the buildings behind it, which I thought might be labs. Farther still stretched the runway for his private jet with a hangar nearby that matched the one at Playa Negra.
His home was an adobe, Southwest style, one of the few like it in Costa Rica. From here it looked just like an adobe from Santa Fe or any other upscale community in the
American West. But the sun’s deepening shadows gave it a cold, gray look instead of the usual warm salmon or rust hues. It looked dirty, like moldy soil.
I shuddered, even in the warmth of the sun. The uncertainty of what might greet us was as murky as the color of the walls.
With Baptiste leading the way, the team walked down the rise toward the austere house. Now it took on the look of a fortress, with high walls and small windows. Architectural efforts for authentic adobes concentrated on the interior, with the house itself surrounding a central courtyard. In Spain the style was developed centuries ago for security.
I wondered if this house had been built for the same purpose.
Baptiste led the team through his home, pointing out features that had been photographed for Architectural Digest three years earlier. Nowhere inside was there any evidence of a young woman’s bedroom, or any sign that she lived here now or ever had. An oil painting of Nicolette at about sixteen hung above a massive stone fireplace in the library. That was the only sign of her.
We toured his labs, met his two assistants, and heard the pride in their voices as they talked about the great strides Dr. Baptiste had made in his research.
He ended his tour in his prize gardens and butterfly preserve, also highlighted in Architectural Digest. Standing near a large boulder, he invited the team to examine any part of his home or grounds.
He paused. “I know you all are simply doing your jobs, but it saddens me that in today’s world, anyone can dirty the name of another. I suppose that’s the price we sometimes pay for democracy. I don’t know who my accuser is, so I can’t respond directly to that person. But I want you all to know that I have nothing, absolutely nothing, to hide.
“My life is an open book. I know suffering and loss, I know how these emotions can shade rational thinking. I know how misguided people can make mistakes in the throes of such emotional upheaval. They grasp at straws, wanting to see justice done, even if they’re pointing a finger at the wrong person. It happens.
“But I need you to know that I’m on the brink of discovery. After years of working on the Human Genome Project—experimenting with the genetic relationship of the disease to its victim, identifying the gene missing in victims suffering from chronic myelogenous leukemia, introducing that missing gene into a human stem cell—I am literally days away from a cure for this, the deadliest form of leukemia, a disease that kills children and adults in their prime.
“Each interruption sets me back. Each interruption means this cruel disease claims one more victim.” He looked at his watch. “Even as we stand here, one more victim has died, thousands more are dying.
“I believe in freedom of speech. I believe in the freedom to act when one is on a quest for truth. When one is passionate to see that justice is done.
“But I beg of you, all of you, please do not interrupt this important work. I will be most happy to arrange for your investigative visits. As many as you like. Whenever you like. But even as I say that, I know what these investigations can mean—the disordering of files by well-meaning people who don’t know research techniques, ripping apart files and taking computer programs that contain data that if contaminated or destroyed would set back the discovery of this cure by decades.”
There wasn’t a sound in the garden except for a single bird calling mournfully in the distance.
“Please,” Dr. Baptiste continued, his voice choking, “please, search if you must. But I beg you to remember the lives that are at stake if you disturb or interrupt my work in any way.” He smiled again sadly and gestured, his palms outstretched. “Please, help yourself. Do what you must. I leave you to it.”
Without another word he turned on his heel and strode down the path toward his house. The investigators spoke among themselves and decided their next course of action.
I knew before they did what it would be.
We headed back to the harbor patrol boat just as the sun was dying to the west. No one spoke to me as we headed back to the Sun Spirit.
It didn’t take long for the word to spread: Dr. Baptiste was back on his gold-plated pedestal, and Mrs. MacIver was relegated to the Winnie-the-Pooh status of a bear with very little brain. Not only that, but she was to be escorted off the ship like a criminal. She had endangered a student, led him down a path of crime, and made libelous accusations against one of the finest, brightest, most upstanding citizens of the United States. A man who would someday give hope to those dying of chronic myelogenous leukemia and be awarded the Nobel Prize.
No one said anything openly, but from what I read in the other passengers’ expressions, I imagined all sorts of disparaging remarks being passed behind my back: The old girl’s gone barmy. Daft as a dervish. Even Adele Quilp’s “hunh” as she looked me up and down seemed to contain an unpleasant assessment of my very little brain.
Then again, maybe it was just my own insecurities filling me with doubt. They had a way of rearing their nasty little heads and attacking my self-confidence with yammering nonsense when I failed at something so colossally important.
Worse than my own worries was the knowledge that Baptiste was guilty of heinous crimes and was getting away with it. Law enforcement saw him as some sort of savior of humankind. Untouchable.
The trail was cold. Dead.
I should have been hightailing it back to my stateroom to lick my wounds. Instead, I was angry. Livid. Spitting-barbed-wire livid. This monster would not get away with what he’d done, not as long as I was on the right side of the grass, as Hollis was prone to say. People might be looking at me as having gone round the bend, but I was far from turning that corner.
I needed a new plan. And fast. I wasn’t going to let this arrogant criminal continue to masquerade as some Jonas Salk or David Livingstone. No siree. Not on my watch.
I stomped toward my stateroom filled with new resolve.
Then my stomach growled. Some things can’t wait. I ducked into the dining buffet to pick up a cold sandwich to eat in my room. Too much planning to do, no time to waste chitchatting.
I was about to push through the door to the outside corridor when something caught my eye—a flash of dark hair, the side of a young acne-scarred face, shoulders that seemed permanently hunched. They were the shoulders of someone who spent too much time in front of a computer. This student was strangely familiar.
Curious, I made a detour toward his table, threading between the clusters of students and passengers. He stood, preparing to leave, and I faded into the background to watch. He picked up his tray and carefully sorted the dishes and flatware from the garbage. He helped his seat partner, whose back was to me, do the same.
As he turned slightly to take his tray to the trash receptacle, I got a better look—and identified him. Chatting, sharing snickers, and seeming thick as thieves, Zoë and the young man—the same young man who’d delivered the note that almost got me killed—continued along the corridor.
Even more surprising, Price Alexander stepped out from the shadows and joined them. The three spoke, then disappeared around a corner, heads bent in earnest conversation.
I had seen enough and let them go.
Rodolfo was waiting for me outside the dining room. Above the din of conversation and clinking china and glassware, I told him I no longer needed his services. Having a bodyguard, much as I liked him, would only slow me down. Plus, I guessed he reported my every move to headquarters.
My plans had to be mine and mine alone.
It took three tries in my broken Spanish to get him to understand. His replacement was due to arrive for the night shift within minutes, and I insisted they both return to port by harbor patrol boat. I gave him my most brilliant smile, hoping I reminded him of a beloved grandmother, and thanked him for his help, assuring him I was perfectly safe now. Then I turned on my heel and hurried to my room before he put up a fuss.
I closed my stateroom door and leaned against it, listening for Rodolfo’s footsteps. I had bluffed my way through sending him away, and so
far he was buying it. I hoped. In reality, either the Costa Rican authorities or Interpol could send him back—this time with handcuffs—to haul me into police headquarters.
After a few minutes passed with no sign of Rodolfo’s return, I sat down to eat my sandwich, which had an odd, overly spiced ham taste and was a bit gristly to chew. Gus’s feeders were in my line of vision, which spoiled my appetite even further. I put the sandwich aside after only a few bites. I missed him and wondered if I would ever find out what had happened—if one of the students had played a cruel joke, taken him just out of sheer orneriness. Maybe it was better if I never learned the truth.
I hadn’t yet received the captain’s letter listing my “grievous offenses,” but I would be off the ship by early morning. So I pulled together my clothing, my duffle, my typewriter case, and finally Gus’s carrier.
After tonight there would be no chance of ever seeing him again.
I held the carrier in my arms and, sinking to the sofa, rested my forehead on the plastic top. “Well, bud,” I whispered, “I guess this really is it. I should have left you home. A cat-sitter wouldn’t have been all that bad. But I thought I needed you. Well, I didn’t just think so. I really did, bud. And truth is I still do.”
I put the carrier down, reached for my duffle, and got on with my packing.
A rap at the door interrupted me.
I pulled the door open, and Max stood there grinning at me. “Where’s the big guy?”
“I fired him.”
“And the reason being …?”
“Don’t need him.”
He stepped inside and zeroed in on the partially eaten sandwich. “Hey, can I have some of that?”
“Help yourself.”
He sat down and took a monster bite. “And that would be because …?”
I sat down opposite Max. “Number one, the captain has ordered me off the ship. Number two, I like to travel light—no excess baggage or bodyguards.”
