“You’re right. But he’s right too. The only thing is, when he says ‘men like it’ he’s generalizing too much. Not all men like it. I don’t like it. I’ve been in Costa Rica nearly seven years and I’ve been in the Blue Marlin a couple of dozen times, like I said, just for the show. I’ve never paid for sex and never will. I wouldn’t dream of it.” He gave her a look. “Unless of course you’d like to earn a fast hundred bucks, Lucy. Ha, just kidding,” he said, raising his hands in defense as she threw a mock-punch at him.
“Dude, there’s no way I’d do you for less than three hundred,” Lucy laughed, “And that’s with a couple beers thrown in.”
“I’m sure you’d be worth every penny, Lucy,” he said, a little playful lust in his eyes. “But seriously, where are you going to stay tonight?” he said. “I have an extra room at my house but it’s pretty grungy.”
“No, that’s OK, Krish. I have a room booked at the Vulcan View Lodge,” she said. “I set it up weeks ago. And it’s free.”
“Cool. That’s about the nicest place in town. So you want to do a river trip tomorrow?”
“No, I don’t think so. I mean I’d love to but—Hey, listen Krish—I know this is a lot to ask but I wonder if you might be willing to take—maybe after you drop those people at Boca Tapada or whatever, since its kind of in the same direction, maybe we could go by the Rancho de la Luna and—I don’t know, have a look around. I’m kind of curious about the place.”
“You just won’t give it a rest, will you?” he said.
“No, I guess not. I’m just—I want—I need—to know what’s going on.”
“OK, but we have to go really early. I need to get these people to Boca Tapada at sunrise for their birdwatching fix, and then I think we can work the back roads down to Sardinal on the river. If they’re even driveable. You never know up in there. It’s a serious swamp. But I think the place is just downstream from there.”
“Cool. Should I come to your office?”
“Yeah, if you can wake up. Otherwise I’ll come get you.”
“I’ll be there. Six OK?
“Five forty-five. And bring your bug juice. The mosquitoes are insane.”
“Gotcha.”
Lucy wandered around town on foot for a while, taking notes on Fortuna’s myriad tour companies, restaurants, hot springs, and hotels, all the while watching the volcano as it appeared around corners, between buildings, over treetops, rumbling and snarling.
By seven she was holed up on the verandah of her room at the Vulcan View, viewing the volcano with phone in hand, working the international operator for a New York connection. Soon she had it. Harry answered on the first ring. “Lucy, that you?”
“Yup. So you got my message.”
“Oh yeah. And once again you seem to have found some, shall we say, questionable characters.”
“What do you mean?”
“Mostly what I mean is money. Adoption from the Americas apparently has a pipeline to your friends the Four Señors, or someone with some cash, because the company’s directors were arrested two years ago and charged with illegally smuggling children from Mexico into the US for adoption. Supposedly they were stealing these kids from the poorer parts of Chiapas and the south, where that guy Marcos has organized so much resistance to the central government. So these adoption hustlers probably had help from the usual corrupt colonels. Anyways when the scam was exposed it got a lot of play in the papers and then before anything could happen it seems that some congressman from New Jersey intervened—at least that’s the way I heard it—and the next thing anyone knew there was no case, no charges, no nothing. It just went away. And now it looks like they just moved the operation south. AFTA continues to do what it does legally, organizing Central American adoptions through the Rancho de la Luna, and, one has to assume—or at least I would assume, being the cynic that I am—that they are still up to whatever illegal adoption stuff they can get away with.”
“You happen to get the name of that politico from Jersey who quashed the investigation?”
“Guy named Rico Cantarelli, according to my sources. I don’t know what kind of threats he used but the problem definitely went away.”
Lucy perused her photographs, loop in hand. “Interesting,” she said. “I’ve got this list of people who seemingly are involved either financially or some way or other with the Four Señors’ backdoor projects, and there’s an RC with a 201 number.”
“Sounds like Cantarelli, doesn’t it?”
“No shit, Sherlock.”
“So now what, Luce. I mean this is interesting and there’s evidently some bad behavior ongoing but what’s the point of all this? We don’t want to give them our money, but otherwise—well, if I were you I would stay away from these guys.”
She was quiet for a moment. “You know, Harry, I don’t really know what I’m going to do. You and the gang got me into this thing with the money, and now that I’ve started looking into the Four Señors I just can’t seem to walk away from it. I want to, I don’t know, do something.”
“Well, be careful, Luce. The money doesn’t really matter, you know? Listen, I’m not done yet. Supposedly this one guy I used to know knows a guy who knows everything there is to know about the illegal kid smuggling biz. Call me tomorrow around the same time, I’ll probably have more.”
CHAPTER TEN
EL RANCHO
Lucy got up at five-fifteen, pulled on her road uniform—shorts, tank top, and flip-flops—grabbed her pack and headed out. The pack held notebook, camera, binoculars, bug juice, hat, water bottle, and sunglasses. Missing was the .45 caliber handgun she now and then dreamed that she carried. Not that she’d ever owned a gun. But she’d had a loaded one pointed at her in threat just once and ever since she had dreamed intermittently of having one in her purse that she finds, shockingly, while looking for a lipstick.
Nothing stirred as she walked three blocks across Fortuna from her hotel to Desafio’s compound. There she found Krish and his employee Renaldo Garcia loading up a muddy green four-wheel drive van with gear, while six groggy-looking tourists stood around slurping coffee. Seven plastic kayaks were stacked on the trailer behind the van. “Hey Lucy,” said Krish quietly. “Coffee’s in the office. Help yourself.”
“Thanks,” she said, then went for a cup and came back out. “How’s it going?”
“Good,” he said. “Just trying to get on the road. The prime birding hour is fast approaching.”
They were off ten minutes later. Lucy sat between the Desafio boys up front. The others packed into the two back seats.
They drove east in darkness to Pital, then due north on a series of funky little roads that crossed through a random mix of swamps, farmlands, and jungles. Eventually they arrived at the San Carlos River at Boca Tapada, where they pulled up by the nature lodge as dawn broke to the east. There are probably a hundred thousand birds out there, Krish explained as he and Garcia unloaded the gear and the kayaks. Best birding in the western hemisphere is right here, he claimed, in this whole stretch between Cano Negro to the west and and Barra del Colorado to the east. Get out your binoculars and go for it. Also plenty of crocodiles and gators, so stay in the boats. Don’t spare your jungle juice, the mosquitoes are killer. Renaldo’s your guide, he grew up a few miles from here so he knows his way around. Knows his birds too. Krish got them set up, told Garcia they were booked for breakfast and lunch at the lodge and that he’d be back in the afternoon to pick them up. He unhooked the trailer from the truck, then he and Lucy took off, working their way southeast on increasingly sketchy little mud roads, attempting to reach the banks of the Sarapiqui somewhere in the neighborhood of a hamlet called Sardinal.
Though it was clear and bright in the early morning, hard rain had fallen three days back. They slipped and slithered for thirty miles, grinding along in four wheel drive, dodging the occasional crocodile as they drove west in what often seemed more canal than roadway. But Krish’s van rode high, and eventually they found Sardinal, a c
ouple of dozen rough little houses clustered on the riverbank. Several canoes and a single motorboat were tied to a small dock. “Now unless I’m mistaken,” Krish said, “This Rancho is a few miles downstream. We can approach by road—there’s a little mud highway about as wide as my truck that follows the river—or we can rent a boat and approach by water.”
“What do you think?” Now that she was here, Lucy wasn’t quite sure what to do next.
“Well, I would say that we drive down there, check it out, and explain that you are a journalist from the US researching adoption and orphanage facilities for a story you’re writing on overseas adoption, and that you would like a tour and interview.”
“Sounds good. But wouldn’t I have called to make an appointment?”
“Not really. Not if you’re a, you know, investigative-type journalist. Or you can say you tried, the phones around here are marginal at best. Besides, it’s an orphanage. Why would they have anything to hide? But if they are balky maybe we can come in by boat, under cover of darkness. You know, make a more surreptitious approach.”
“My oh my, aren’t we slipping in to cloak-and-dagger mode!”
“Well, it’s fun having a different job now and then. So let’s do it.” They headed down the muddy little road, dense jungle pushing in from both sides, the river occasionally visible through brief openings on their left as they worked their way south. After a ten minute crawl, Krish pulled to a stop. He pointed. “There’s the gate.” Rancho de la Luna was scripted across the arch in black letters on a white background; below it, the swinging metal gate was closed, and chain-locked with a large padlock. There was no bell or intercom system evident. Behind the gate a rutted road disappeared into the bush.
They climbed out of the van. The jungle was relatively quiet but for a light rustle of breeze. He looked at his watch. 7:45 am. “What the hell,” he said, and stood on his horn for ten seconds. The honking blast send dozens of birds screaming into the sky.
Shortly after he stopped they heard a truck coming their way. It pulled to a halt about fifty feet shy of the gate. They sat in the van, facing it. After a brief automotive stare-down, Krish jumped out and walked to the gate. He grabbed hold and gave it a shake. At that the truck door swung open and a beefy guy in jeans and cowboy shirt and boots and hat got out. He also wore a holstered pistol on his hip. He ambled over to the gate, where he and Krish engaged in a brief discussion in animated, colloquial Spanish. Krish pointed at Lucy and made scribbling motions.
The guy got on a walkie-talkie for a minute, then produced a fat ring of keys, selected one, undid the lock, and walked the gate open as Krish scrambled back into the van. “You’re a gringo journalist, like we said. Interested in the orphanage.”
“Nice work, Krish.”
“Work? I guess you didn’t see me hand him 20 bucks, eh? He wasn’t gonna make the call otherwise, I’ll tell you that. And who am I to argue with a man with a gun?”
“The situation kinda stinks, huh?” She laughed nervously. “But not to worry, you’ll get your 20 bucks back, kid,” she said.
“Damn right I will,” he said. “There are days twenty bucks is my whole take.”
“I’ll throw in beer interest.”
“Let’s check it out, Lucy.” They pulled inside the gate. The man closed and re-locked it. “I guess we won’t be making a high speed getaway,” Krish said.
The man got back in the truck and turned it around. They followed him back down the road, cut through dense jungle and barely wide enough to accommodate the van. Soon the road curved left and the jungle opened up to present the scene Lucy had viewed on the web, of the orphanage in all its pastoral riverbank glory. Only everything looked much shabbier and less glorious, here in reality. On the right, across a scruffy lawn marred with muddy patches, they observed a big rambling wooden house ringed with covered porches; to the left stood a collection of barns and outbuildings. The house badly needed a paint job. Scattered chickens pecked aimlessly. The picket fence that had so tidily contained a little front-of-house play area and sand box, in the web image, was falling down, and the climbing structure that had stood in the sand box, now a mudhole behind the fence, had disappeared. Between the buildings, beyond some small pastures dotted with stumps and a few cows, they could see the river through trees along the bank. What looked like a fairly new dock jutted out into the river, and a sleek-looking boat bobbed alongside it. All around the property a high cyclone fence topped with barbed wire had been erected; the jungle pushed right up against it.
They parked next to the truck in a muddy parking area. The gun-slinging driver turned off his car, then slumped back in his seat and tugged the front brim of his hat down. A million bugs buzzed, providing audio ambience for the slightly ominous scene.
They waited for a few seconds, unsure what to do, then Lucy shrugged. “Well, I guess we’re supposed to go over there.” She looked at the house.
“Sounds good,” Krish said. They got out. As they slammed the van doors the front door of the house opened, and two adults emerged, each flanked by a pair of small children held tightly by the hands. The adults were gray-haired, and as they got closer Lucy quickly judged them to be gringos in their fifties. The four children were all Hispanic girls under five years old.
They stopped a dozen yards away. “Well,” the man said, voice clipped, no-nonsense, more warning than greeting. He wore blue jeans and a short-sleeved plaid shirt and well-polished boots. A tightly-wound, wiry little guy, maybe five-five or five-six, with short, bristly hair and a bantam rooster kind of vibe. Ruddy, weathered skin, like he’d done a few extended tours in tropical climes. He looked like a Mormon missionary or an ex-military man. “Griffin Douglas, Lieutenant Colonel Griffin Douglas, retired,” he announced. “This here’s my place. Rancho de la Luna. But I guess you know that since you’re here. For some reason. Oh, and this is my wife. Maryanne.” She wore a low-rent housedress and a humble mien. He stopped. Lucy waited. “So what you are you here for? What is it you want?”
Lucy stepped forward. “Sorry to bother you but—Hi.” She held out a hand to shake. He ignored it. “Hello cuties,” she said to the kids in general, all of whom stared up at her with their dark angelic eyes. “My name is Lucy Ripken, I’m from the US, from New York, and I’m doing some research for a book on overseas adoption. I happened to be in the area and since I saw your website and—well, I thought I might drop by and see how you all were doing. See how the program is going. Boy, you really are in the middle of nowhere out here, aren’t you?” She smiled.
He didn’t smile back. “Well, there’s a reason for that. I could go into it except that I don’t have time. Your unannounced arrival is a problem. You see, in addition to our orphanage you no doubt know, since you claim to be a journalist, that Rancho de la Luna operates a limited enrollment boarding school for troubled youths from up north—from the US. Now these kids have been deemed incorrigible, or have had repeated run-ins with their parents and/or the authorities, and so they are at risk. We’ve got some difficult kids here. We have to minimize contact with the outside world while they’re trying to figure out how to get along. So we have rules against uninvited visitors.” With a sudden move he scooped up two little ones. “Now the orphan kids like Anna and Maria here are wonderful and I’d love to sit here and brag about how great that program is doing, and it is, we’ve placed 27 kids this past year, but the children are having breakfast right now and then they have chores—” he stopped as Lucy’s eyes shifted from his face to a ghostly figure behind a screen door. He glanced back. So did his wife.
“Sarah,” the wife called out softly but sharply. “Please go back to the kitchen. You know the rules.” The girl hesitated for a split second—Lucy could almost feel her eagerness to burst out through the door—then disappeared.
“Our teen program pays the bills and does some desperate kids a world of good but taking care of a dozen hard-case adolescents from the states is hard work, non-stop, and so,” he glanced at his watch, �
��I’m afraid we don’t really have time to—”
“That’s fine, but surely—maybe a short tour, we’ll stay out of the way,” Lucy pleaded. “I’ve come a long way, and you know, my book—and I’m sure there will be an article as well, in a reputable publication—can only generate publicity which could help you with fundraising, or—”
“I said you have to go.” A school-style bell rang in the distance, oddly jarring in the strange setting, ostensibly tranquil but seething, Lucy thought, with paranoia. Or was it her? It was just so damn quiet for a place with a bunch of kids around. “Now.”
“Perhaps you could make an appointment for another day, Lucy?” Krish said judiciously. “Or we could come back later today if it’s more convenient.”
“I said we don’t have time. Now or later,” the man said. One of the girls he held started to cry. “Sssshhh!” he hissed, shutting her up. One of the other kids began crying. He whipped around and shushed her too. “Maryanne, why don’t you take the girls inside,” he said, putting the two little ones down. She did so, the four of them following her quietly; only once did one of the little girls glance back at Lucy plaintively.
Whatever restraining influence his wife had on him was suddenly gone. He glowered at Lucy, and then started in, quietly, but snarling, “Now you listen to me, Miss what was it, Ripley? I know what you journalist types are up to—what you’re looking for—and I can tell you right now you’re not going to find it here. I don’t know what made you think you should come out here, and I don’t give a god damn what book you’re writing, but I can tell you this: Rancho de la Luna will not be part of your story. Do you hear me? We have worked hard to make these programs succeed, and no trash-talking, scandal-mongering writer is going to take my work apart for the sake of a story. Is that clear?” he spat the last words, his face gone bright red.
“Hey, take it easy,” Lucy said, backing off. “Yo Krish,” she said. “Let’s get out of here.” They backed towards the car, climbed in and regrouped, staring at him.
Lucy's Money: A Lucy Ripken Mystery (The Lucy Ripken Mysteries Book 4) Page 14
