The Butterfly Farm

by Diane Noble

  I took his hand, nestled it between my palms, and squeezed it gently.

  “I’m not going to do the melodramatic movie thing again and tell you to squeeze my hand if you hear me. But I just want you to know I’m here, and you’ve got a friend. And the other thing is, I’m doing my best—for you—to find your daughter.”

  I whispered a prayer, then laid his hand down and patted it. “I’ll be back tomorrow to let you know how the story ends, my friend. Besides, I’m getting used to these one-way conversations. Love it that you can’t interrupt me.”

  At that I thought I saw the tiniest quiver at the corner of his mouth. I waited, utterly still. “Adam?” I whispered, willing him to do it again.

  He didn’t. Minutes later I strode into the Hotel el Sueño, the hotel Tangi had mentioned, and was greeted by a school of piranha masquerading as journalists, all vying to get to the check-in desk. So much for my plan to quietly find Tangi and ask her about Carly’s blood type. If I so much as whispered Tangerine Lowe’s name to the clerk, the media feeding frenzy would begin.

  To save Tangi’s privacy and sanity, I backed away from the desk and trotted down the steps, glad to be out of the cacophony. In front of the hotel, a dozen or more satellite trucks had thrust their dishes overhead, cameras rolled, strobe lights glared off inverted silver reflectors, and reporters tested microphones. I hurried past, stepped onto the crowded street, and made my way through the curiosity seekers, grips, gaffers, producers and their assistants.

  The crowd thinned out, and after a few minutes, I saw Max standing at the wharf. I waved and started across the street. The azure sea beyond the wharf caught my eye. A glittery light spread across the harbor, looking like a million brilliant diamonds scattered by a giant hand. But it was only my perception, an illusion. Just as Baptiste had shown the world his brilliance, his gift of healing. Perhaps there was substance there. Perhaps it was all sham. Someday I hoped to know.

  I was still watching the changing light of the ocean when I heard a noise behind me.

  A motorbike. It came roaring down the street. I turned as the driver—bent low, helmet covering his head, dark visor hiding his face—swerved the thing toward me.

  I ran to the side of the street, jumped to the walkway.

  The beast kept coming, vaulting to the walkway where I stood. Louder. Snarling. Careening wildly.

  I turned and ran. But the thing seemed alive, seemed to anticipate my every move.

  There was nothing to duck behind, no shelter. People stared as I ran, parting like the Red Sea as I came nearer.

  I heard Max shouting from a distance. Sensed he was running toward me.

  I slipped, lost my footing. Slipped again. Fell.

  The motorbike was only yards away. I rolled to one side. Pulled my knees into a fetal position. Wrapped my arms around my head.

  The motorbike roared closer, swerved again, and skidded to a stop next to me.

  Each breath I took was agony, like a knife slicing into my side. My heart thundered. I couldn’t look up.

  A paper-thin object brushed across my hand. Then the monster roared and was gone.

  Max knelt beside me. “Yo, Ms. M., that was a close one.”

  With a groan I unfolded my arms from around my head and sat up. An insect lay dead on the ground beside me. I stared at it, then looked up at Max.

  He lifted the blue morpho into his hands. “The driver could easily have killed you, but instead he throws this thing.”

  “Obviously to scare me.” I struggled to get up, and Max helped me to my feet. “But I don’t scare. Ever.” Too bad someone hadn’t told my knees. I brushed myself off, and we headed for the tender. Even from this distance, I spotted the fruits of Max’s shopping. It was piled high with cartons of fruits and vegetables. And at least a bushel of lemons.

  We arrived at the wharf, and I stopped Max before we boarded the tender. I’d been finalizing a plan in my head, and now that one more card had been laid down, I had another of my own. One that would end this treacherous game. Or my life.

  “Hey, bud?”

  He was standing by the tender admiring the produce. Inside, the pilot had started the engine and was letting it idle while he waited for us to board.

  “I’ve got a big favor to ask you.”

  “If it has anything to do with kayaking, the answer is no.”

  I laughed. “I’m not going back with you.”

  “Hey, Ms. M., it’s not safe for you to be here alone. That’s why I came along. And even so, look what happened.”

  I held up a hand. “I know, I know. And I’m grateful to you.” I moved closer and dropped my voice. “But this is extremely important. I need you to get Zoë and bring her back here.”

  He ran his hand down his face. “Zoë Shire?”

  “Is there another?”

  He let out a heavy sigh. “It’s just that Zoë is stubborn. Zoë doesn’t do anything Zoë doesn’t want to do. Plus, she doesn’t trust any of us. Always thinks we’re out to get her.”

  “For good reason, from what I’ve observed.”

  He looked embarrassed. “You need her here?”

  “I need to talk with her, and it’s got to be away from the ship and anyone she might be in contact with. Tell her I need her. You can mention the motorbike accident, but don’t give her any details. And whatever you do, don’t let her bring anyone with her—especially that kid Chip.” I didn’t know how, but I suspected he was involved. Maybe he was Baptiste’s computer hacker extraordinaire. Tampering with blood banks. Students’ health records. But he was a piece of the puzzle I would deal with later. For now I just needed Zoë.

  I hoped that whatever emotional connection we’d made would bring her to me. Maybe if she thought I needed her, she would come—no matter how close her connection with Baptiste’s daughter.

  Max nodded reluctantly and asked where we would meet. I scanned the street, noting the gaggle of taxis and hired cars. Media related, no doubt.

  “Taxi,” I said to Max. “When you get here, look for a taxi that will be waiting specifically for you. I’ll leave instructions with the driver where to take you. I need to get away from the town center—I hope, without being seen. I’ll be waiting for you in a safe place.”

  Max rubbed his face again, frowning. “Can you at least tell me where you’ll be—well, in the event something goes wrong?”

  I shook my head. “It’s better you don’t know yet.” I paused, resisting the urge to reach up and pat his cheek the way his mother would. “And Max?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You’re pretty good at getting people across the harbor. I have no doubt you can do it again.”

  He grinned. “I’ve already got some ideas.”

  “Don’t take any chances … or lift any kayak paddles to get her here.”

  “You got it, Ms. M.” He grinned, then turned and clambered into the boat. “Price Alexander,” he called as the tender backed away from the wharf. “I’ll get him to help me.”

  “No! Not Price,” I called to him.

  But he didn’t hear me.

  I hailed three taxis before I found a driver who spoke English. The cabby I settled on was taking fares only until sundown when he needed to start back to his home base in San José. We negotiated the fare, and after a few minutes of required haggling, I hired him for the rest of the day.

  I settled into the backseat and told him to take a route that would take us by Hotel el Sueño first. We slowed as we passed the hotel. The media frenzy continued, but this time—behind a bank of microphones toward the entrance—I saw a flash of spiked flame hair.

  “Wait!” I said, and the driver stopped. “Stay here. Park if you must. But wait for me.”

  He nodded and pulled to the side of the road, and I got out.

  Tangi, flanked by an FBI agent and Monica Oliverio from Interpol, was just finishing her statement. When the FBI agent began his report, she fought her way through the reporters and headed my direction.

  �
�You look terrible,” she said.

  I gave her a weary smile. “Thanks.” I gave her a hug. “How about you? How are you faring?”

  My gaze followed her gesture to the crowd. “This is awful. I can’t get out of the hotel without getting hounded. It’s bad enough being frightened to death over Carly, but this just makes it worse.”

  “I’ve got a taxi. Do you want to drive somewhere? Maybe find a place far from the madding crowd?”

  “I can’t, Harriet. I need to stay near the FBI. They’ve become lifesavers in all this.”

  “You heard what happened yesterday? About the warrant to search Baptiste’s island?”

  “I was fully briefed. The feeling is that Baptiste isn’t behind it, can’t be behind it.”

  “And they’re looking at people trafficking.”

  Her eyes filled, and she shrugged. “That’s the latest assumption.”

  “What do you think, Tange?”

  Her eyes met mine, and I could see a spark of fierce stubbornness in them. The same spark that flashed in Carly’s eyes. “Everything you’ve told me fits,” she said. “I still believe you’re right. He’s as guilty as sin.”

  I smiled. “Good, because I’m not ready to give up.”

  “What do you have planned?’

  “You’ll be the first to know—if I’m successful.” I laughed lightly. “If I’m not, well, then you can send out a search party.” I was sorry not to tell her my plan, but if the FBI got wind of it, they would make sure I was on the next flight to San Francisco. I couldn’t have that; I was afraid to fly.

  “I’ll be the first to volunteer.”

  “I’ll be in touch,” I said. “And you’ll be in my prayers. And Carly. Always Carly.”

  “I know,” she said. “I’ve always loved that about you.”

  Hard-as-nails Tangerine Lowe loved something about me? “Prayer?”

  She nodded. “Pray without fanfare. It’s never meant so much to me as right now.”

  “He’s a good friend, and he’s always there, always listening. And there’s no limit to who gets his ear, if you know what I mean.” I gave her a gentle smile. “It’s not like you’ve got to get up earlier than everyone else to get his attention. You can tell him all that’s on your heart anytime, anywhere.”

  She nodded and blinked rapidly. I wrapped my arm around her shoulders and whispered a quiet prayer for us both, gave her another hug, and hurried to my taxi.

  She stood watching me as I opened the door and climbed in. I rolled down the window and leaned out. “By the way, what is Carly’s blood type?”

  “Type O,” she said. “Why?”

  “I’ll explain later.” Then I called up to the cabby, “To the airport. And make sure we’re not being followed.”

  I didn’t want to consider what I was about to do, couldn’t consider it. First of all, my heart felt like it was ready to flutter right out of my chest. Second, my legs were inclined to run the other way as soon as we pulled into the Playa Negra airport. And third, just looking at a plane, any plane, made me want to upchuck.

  “Let me out over there.” I pointed to the hangar.

  The driver guided the car to the smaller of the two doors.

  I gave him half the money we had agreed on, then I said, “You need to pick up two people at the wharf within the next hour or so.” He took the money, nodding as I described Max and Zoë. “Bring them here.” I glanced at the sky, gauging the hours until sundown. “Please hurry.”

  He drove off, leaving me standing alone. Swallowing a knot of apprehension, I glanced around, again feeling the eerie sense that someone was watching me. I had checked a dozen times through the taxi window and had seen no one, at least no one close enough to be concerned about. Now I double-checked, scrutinizing each private plane, each corporate jet.

  Nothing.

  More planes were tied down on the field than before. For my plan to work, I needed charts, a flight book listing radio frequencies for the area, and, of course, a plane. I had flown a Cherokee, but I was most comfortable in a Cessna. Not wanting to take any more chances than I already was, I needed to stick to the Skyhawk.

  Though the Cessna was the most familiar, it was also the most frightening to go near. Still standing by the hangar, I scanned the field. There were two Skyhawks, one toward the end of the field, the other just two planes down from where I stood. Both red and white.

  First things first. I dug around in my vest for a metal nail file and stuck the cuticle end into the lock on the hangar door. I quickly stepped inside, closed the door, and leaned against it.

  I looked around the dimly lit room. Stacks of pigeonholes lined one wall, and I hurried toward them. I moved from one to the next, thumbing through files, charts, and maps. I knew from my harbor-patrol trip to Baptiste’s island yesterday that it lay in a southeasterly direction. But it was one of a half-dozen or more islands in the same area. Once I was at cruising altitude, finding the island would be like trying to find a needle in a haystack.

  Conscious of the time and acutely aware that someone could walk in on me any minute, I dug and discarded, rapidly moving along the wall. Four large pigeonholes high and at least a dozen long meant a total of forty-eight, each with a half dozen files or so, some having to do with the airplanes that were owned by Baptiste’s corporation, others having to do with privately owned planes apparently tightly controlled by the corporation.

  I was nearing the end of the row when I pulled out a file stamped Cessna 172 Skyhawk on the tab. I flipped it open, held it to the light from the window, and smiled. Everything I needed to know about the Cessna tied down nearest the hangar, including maintenance records. It hadn’t been serviced for several months, but beggars can’t be choosers. In an envelope was the key that unlocked the cowling. I pocketed it.

  Whoever flew the Cessna last had flown it to Baptiste’s island, because the charts and radio frequencies, usually in a binder, had been pulled and left in the folder. At least that would save me time looking for the binder.

  At the end of the room stood a row of metal filing cabinets. Curiosity got the best of me. Because of Carly’s bracelet, I suspected that the abducted girls were flown here before being taken to the island. The charter fleet in Playa Negra would be the most logical to use for the abductions. They provided an easy cover since they were chartered often by the guests for trips in and out of the spa. It also kept Baptiste’s name off the paperwork.

  I wanted to get my hands on those records. It didn’t make sense that Baptiste, or whoever was assisting him, would keep them in plain sight. But I also knew that the brighter the person, sometimes the more arrogant, and the more arrogant, the more prone to slip up. Power does that sort of thing to people. It can corrupt, it can also make one feel indestructible.

  I pulled out my Swiss army knife. Price wasn’t the only one who had experience picking locks with this handy tool. I worked the lock on the cabinet closest to me. It opened on the third try, and I pulled the drawer out. Judging from the yellowed folders and faded handwritten labels, they were simply dusty, obsolete files. I pulled one out toward the end of the section. It was at least three years old and listed the flight records for Baptiste’s planes going back even further in time.

  Adam had said that his daughter disappeared three years ago—right after Nicolette Baptiste’s supposed death. I checked the date, and with my index finger, traced the meticulous list of takeoffs and landings and reasons for the flights.

  One flight caught my eye. A specially equipped Cherokee had flown from an unnamed island in the Caribbean near the time Holly Hartsfield disappeared and had arrived in Playa Negra four days later, following a route that took the pilot partially over land, partially over water. A note to one side—the letters HH circled—made my breath catch in my throat.

  I put the file aside and thumbed through the folders, desperate to find one nearer to today’s date. To find more initials matching the latest disappearances.

  A prickling at the back of my
neck stopped me cold. Someone was aware of my presence in this room, watching my every move.

  A small whirring sound, a click, a barely audible buzz, made me turn. In the corner of the room, a minute camera stood guard. Either it had been on since my arrival and I hadn’t noticed, or it was trained on the file cabinets and triggered by motion. In this case, my motion. I only hoped it was film and not live.

  If it was live feed, I had no chance of getting away from the airport. Heart racing, I tucked the flight records into my vest and, holding the Cessna file in one hand, quickly exited the hangar.

  The Skyhawk stood in the distance. Without warning the sorrow hit, rolling over my heart in waves. The memory, as acute as if it were happening this moment, came back to me. I remembered the slant of the late afternoon sun that day, the painful clarity of the sky, the long shadows cast by the men who walked solemnly to my door.

  I remembered watching their faces for a flicker of something that said they understood my shock, my profound grief. But there was no such emotion. Later I imagined that they had made such calls before and needed to protect their hearts. Or perhaps they were afraid I might break down and they wouldn’t know how to comfort me.

  Such a pity that too often we all do the same. Hold back our comforting arms, afraid of our own vulnerabilities, afraid we won’t know what to say, when maybe all someone needs is a look of compassion, the touch of a hand.

  I stared up at the little plane. It looked airworthy enough, and in spite of the maintenance records I hoped it would serve me well. I thought of the times I had circled our Skyhawk, testing fluid levels, hoses beneath the engine cowling, movement of the ailerons. It really didn’t matter today. I was throwing caution to the wind anyway. But old habits don’t easily die, so around the plane I went, testing and prodding.

  I had just finished letting the condensation drip from the fuel tanks when I heard a vehicle approaching. I hid in the shadow of the plane until I saw a taxi moving slowly toward the hangar. I stepped away from the plane and waved it over. As soon as the cab stopped, Max and Zoë got out of opposite back doors, Zoë scowling. I paid the driver, gave him a generous tip, and asked him to wait a few more minutes. He shrugged and drove off the field to wait by the hangar.