Blue Twilight (18 page)

I’d already flipped through half the specimens when I forced myself to slow down.

What are you doing? It’s not as if you’re a butterfly expert and have any idea what you’re looking at,
a little voice chided.

Mini-me was right. I needed to remain focused on my work. With that in mind, I started at the front again, and this time carefully checked the labels.

Holy mother of Joseph, Abraham, and Moses. I studied sticker after sticker, wondering if I was actually reading them right. If so, I’d hit the mother lode. Hidden inside were Lange’s metalmarks, Myrtle’s silverspots, El Segundo blues, and San Bruno elfins, among a slew of others—each and every one of them endangered. Aikens had clearly been a much larger dealer than I’d realized. It made me all the more skeptical regarding his so-called accident.

I quickly locked the safe back up and carried it out, closing the door behind me. Could Aikens possibly have been murdered for the very specimens that I held in my hands?
And if so, why hadn’t his killer been here by now to get them?

Snowball mewed, and I gave the cat a distracted pat before starting down the hallway. Two steps later, I stopped dead in my tracks. What, had I completely lost my mind? I’d just nonchalantly strolled right past Mitch’s computer.

I darted back in and turned it on, after which I moved Snowball and his mutilated chair out of the way. Then I listened for Ma Aikens as the PC hummed to life. She was busy yacking up a storm on the phone. However, it wouldn’t take long before she’d once again grow curious as to what I was doing. I needed to examine the info on his hard drive and leave as soon as possible.

My fingers nervously tapped the desktop, waiting for the screen to light up. The next instant, it turned black and a small box appeared in the upper left hand corner. Damn. Wouldn’t you know? Aikens had a lock on his computer that required a password.

No way in hell are you giving up now,
Mini-me commanded, verbally kicking my ass.

Okay. I’d done this before. It wasn’t impossible. After all, what were codes for if not to be broken? I became more determined than ever to discover what Mitch had been hiding.

I promptly began to type in catchwords that I thought he might have used, such as
Snowball
,
Red Elf
, and
Sally
. But each time I received the same response.

PASSWORD DENIED. PASSWORD DENIED. PASSWORD DENIED.

Damn it!

Come on. Stop and think!
Mini-me reprimanded.

Perhaps Aikens had been more esoteric than I’d realized. I placed my bet and took a long shot by entering the scientific names for different varieties of butterflies.

Papilio.

PASSWORD DENIED.

Lycaenids.

PASSWORD DENIED.

Euphilotes.

Bingo and glory hallelujah! Aikens’s screen lit up as bright as a Christmas tree, and I immediately set to work unlocking its secrets.

I’d have been in luck if I’d wanted to know what was being bought and sold on eBay. However, not a sliver of information was to be found concerning the butterfly trade. I shut down the computer, feeling totally defeated. I’d come so close to finding another piece of the puzzle only to have it all snatched away. It was enough to make me kick a pile of Mitch’s dirty clothes in frustration. That’s when I realized there was still one last place left to look: the beat-up desk on which the computer sat.

Pulling out drawers, I began to rummage around. There was no question but that Aikens had had a knack for collecting junk. I slogged through even more of it now. But it wasn’t until I’d emptied the very bottom drawer that I found something worthwhile. A pile of letters lay hidden beneath a pile of crap. I removed them, opened the first envelope and began to read the contents.

Goosebumps instantly broke out on my arms.

A smiley face was drawn at the end of this sentence.

A sad face followed that line.

I caught sight of the closing and my heart began to pound.

Your friend,
Horus

That lying son of a bitch. Mitch had known how to get in touch with him all along.

I quickly moved on to the next letter, which likewise proved to be from the mysterious dealer. Enclosed was a price list as well as an inventory of specimens for sale. Horus made certain to note that protected and rare butterflies were also available. Individual prices would be given upon specific request.

I collect, sell, and accept only the most perfect material,
he noted with pride.

The only thing missing was a clue as to Horus’s real identity. Still, I was struck by the absolute meticulousness of his handwriting. It made my own penmanship look like a childish scribble. Of equal interest was that he’d chosen to correspond in longhand rather than by e-mail. Why hadn’t he at least typed his letters on a computer? It made me all the more curious about the man.

The rest of the mail contained inquiries from foreign collectors interested in obtaining highly prized and endangered California butterflies. That is, until I came to the very last letter. Every sentence had been boldly underlined. But it was the apparent rage with which pen slashed through paper that made my blood run cold. The lines cut so deep, I would have sworn its author had used a knife as his writing instrument.

Aikens had clearly made a very big boo-boo. Even I knew the importance of not divulging a rare species’ location—
not when they’re as highly prized as De Beers diamonds. The smart dealer keeps his mouth shut and sells only a few at a time, that way maintaining a high market price.

The diatribe continued, reminding me of the letters that the Unabomber had sent to the
New York Times
. I flipped to the final page and again caught sight of Horus’s signature. Stuffing all the letters in my purse, I pulled out my cell phone and placed a call to Dr. Mark Davis.

“Do you have news about John Harmon?” he immediately inquired.

“Not yet,” I admitted. “I’m handling another situation at the moment. Remember the collector on San Bruno Mountain you originally called me about?”

“You mean the idiot that was running around catching protected butterflies?”

“Yeah, that guy. His name was Mitch Aikens. Anyway, he died yesterday. The problem is he was hand-raising an enormous number of eggs, larvae, and caterpillars at his home. There are also some butterflies that have just hatched. I was wondering if you’d be willing to take them.”

I held my breath, unsure what I’d do if he said no.

“You’re really in a bind?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Are there any rare ones among the lot?” Davis asked.

I could hear the eagerness in his voice, although it was carefully modulated to sound noncommittal. Apparently, even this guy had been bitten by the collecting bug.

“There very well could be. I just don’t know for certain.”

“All right,” Davis agreed with pretended reluctance. “I suppose I could help you out and make room for them.”

I gave him the address.

“You can tell Mrs. Aikens that I’ll be by later on today,” he said.

“Wait, I have one more question before you go. Have you ever heard of a dealer by the name of Horus?”

The moment of prickly silence that followed provided a sufficient answer.

“I’ve heard the name before,” Davis reluctantly admitted in a guarded tone. “However, I don’t know of anyone who’s ever met the man, or if he actually even exists. Why do you ask?”

I wasn’t about to reveal that I had correspondence from the guy in my hot little hand.

“I’ve been told that Horus is a big-league dealer specializing in rare and endangered butterflies. I’m trying to track him down.”

“Good luck,” Davis responded with a cynical snort. “Do you know his real name, by any chance?”

“No,” I admitted.

“Okay then. How about where he lives?”

I bit my lip to keep from sniping back with a snappy retort.

“I thought not. You probably don’t even have the slightest clue as to the type of person for whom you should be looking.”

Davis, himself, was beginning to remind me a bit of Horus. Both men were egotistical and clearly liked to feel superior. That was fine, as long as it worked in my favor. I decided to pump Davis for all the information I could get.

“I have an idea. Why don’t you fill me in, since you’re such an authority on the subject,” I goaded.

“All right,” Davis agreed, sounding genuinely pleased. “Your compulsive collector tends to be a white male that’s unmarried, has a need for control, and loves to possess things. Butterflies are the perfect choice because they’re small and easy to dominate. What makes it all the more titillating is the additional power of life and death that he holds over them.”

I was fascinated, having never heard it put this way before.

“In fact, it’s a lot like big-game hunting in that respect. Your obsessed collector isn’t so much interested in purchasing butterflies as he is in the ritual of the hunt, itself. The excitement comes with the capture of an elusive species, then the long drive home, and finally the spreading and pinning of their wings. After that, the object is his to possess forever, rather like a trophy head.”

The description was enough to give me the creeps. This was a different kind of poacher than I’d ever hunted before.

“Thanks for your help,” I acknowledged. Now all I had to do was to find the guy.

I hung up, prepared to leave, when a rusty old garbage can caught my eye. Inside were a few crumpled pieces of rubbish.

I’ve learned never to walk away without examining every possible item as a potential clue. With that in mind, I turned the can upside down, adding its contents to the rest of the trash on Aikens’s floor. Then I began to poke through it.

There were the usual bills, mostly final notices demanding payment. I wondered if Ma Aikens knew that her electricity was about to be turned off. Nothing else proved to be of much interest—except for an empty envelope. It bore no return address, so I checked the postmark. Mendocino.

Bzzzzz!

It felt as if I’d just been zapped with a cattle prod. Mendocino was rapidly turning into my ground zero. First, Harmon had disappeared from the area. Then I’d learned it was the only spot on earth in which the Lotis blue could be found. Now came the discovery that Aikens had been corresponding with someone from the town. It was as if a guardian angel weren’t hovering over my shoulder, but shouting directly into my ear.

Then a second thought hit me. Was it possible that Trepler
might actually be Horus? There was only one way to find out. I grabbed the fireproof box, scooted down the hall, and out the front door, hurrying toward my vehicle. I was already in the Ford by the time Ma Aikens caught up.

“Hold on there one minute, missy! Just where do you think you’re going?” she demanded.

Damn! She must have somehow discovered I’d absconded with the butterflies. I tucked the fireproof box further beneath the seat with my heel.

“I’m late for an appointment, and have to rush. But Dr. Mark Davis will stop by to collect the butterflies this afternoon. He’s a professor at Stanford University, so you know they’ll receive good care.”

Ma Aikens seemed to forget what she’d been about to say, the news apparently taking her by surprise.

“I swear, if that doesn’t beat all,” she proclaimed, her face beginning to beam with pride. “Mitch always claimed he knew enough about butterflies to teach in one of those big fancy schools. It looks like he was right. I guess, in a sense, he’s kinda going there now.”

I took off after promising to see her again soon and drove north, heading across the Golden Gate Bridge.

I
didn’t bother to check my speedometer. Instead I careened past every car on the road, blatantly breaking the speed limit before sharply turning onto Route 128. I had no choice but to slam on my brakes and slow down after that. Boughs of gnarled oaks formed an arbor overhead as the road abruptly rose and then dropped beneath my tires. It threw me from side-to-side like a roller-coaster ride on a set of spine-tingling, hairpin curves. Both my stomach and the Explorer chug, chug, chugged back uphill, accompanied by a flock of birds screeching in glee while catching updrafts like feathered mini-gliders.

Soon I entered the dark passage of redwoods with its menacing sense of gloom. It was as if I were Gretel, and the woods, the Wicked Witch. I hurried through the ominous corridor as fast as I could, nearly flying until the coastal road appeared. The next five miles were spent navigating a harrowing ribbon of cliffhanging switchbacks. I could have used a hefty martini by the time I reached Mendocino, but instead made tracks directly to Trepler’s house.

His shiny kick-ass Lexus announced that he was home. I paid no heed to the chickens who once again warned me to leave him alone. Instead, I took a deep breath, prepared myself for a hostile reception, and knocked on the door. I wasn’t disappointed, as Trepler hurled it open and stared at
me as though I were a large piece of dirt that needed to be swept onto the road.

“You’re one helluva brazen bitch, aren’t you?” he observed, spitting out each word as though it left a bad taste in his mouth. “Otherwise, you’d never have the nerve to show your face here again.”

Trepler paused, and his eyes slowly brightened like two gas flames springing to life. “Oh, wait a minute. I get it now. The government toady must want some more information.”

He broke into a malicious grin, his teeth as uneven as misaligned kernels of corn.

“Of course, that’s it. Why else would you come back to see some evil, perverse lepidopterist who sticks pins into insects for fun, and probably rips the wings off grasshoppers just for the hell of it? I’ll let you in on a little secret. I also like to club baby seals in my spare time.”

I calmly looked at the man, waiting until he’d finished his rant.

“So, what is it that you need to know now, huh? How to tell the difference between a butterfly and a moth? Because that’s how bright a bulb each and every one of you special agents seems to be. Face it. You don’t know your ass from your elbow, never mind being able to distinguish one butterfly from another. What a piss-ass lot of pathetic, puny losers you all are.”

“All right! Enough already,” I retorted, beginning to lose my patience. “You know damn well I wouldn’t be here unless it were important.”

Trepler stared at me from under a pair of drooping eyelids. “You’ve got guts. I’ll give you that much. But I’ve got nothing to tell you.”

I placed my foot against the door, in case he tried to close it on me. Trepler took note, and shook his head in exasperation.

“So exactly what is it that you want?” he asked curtly.

“A butterfly dealer died yesterday on San Bruno Mountain, near Daly City.”

“Big loss,” Trepler sniped. Is that something I’m supposed to care about? Most dealers are a bunch of slime bags, anyway.”

“You mean, unlike collectors?” I asked, curious to hear his response.

“You damn well better believe it. We’re talking two completely different animals. Butterflies are nothing more than dollar signs to most dealers.”

“As opposed to you, for whom they equate into a fancy new Lexus,” I couldn’t help but jab. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t you say that car was a bonus? I believe it was for helping to clear the way on a project that will essentially destroy a vulnerable butterfly’s habitat.”

Trepler glared at me in annoyance. “Why don’t you just get to the point and tell me why it is that you’re here?”

“The butterfly dealer I told you about? His death was deemed an accident. However, I suspect that actually he was murdered. The same goes for Harmon, the Fish and Wildlife consultant, whose car was found on a remote road up here. The police don’t seem to think that amounts to much either, but I’m convinced his disappearance also involved foul play.”

“Well, hip hip hooray. Aren’t you quite the little detective,” Trepler dryly commented. “But you still haven’t answered my question. What is it you want from me?”

“There’s another butterfly dealer whose name keeps popping up. I’d like to talk to him. I have reason to believe that he lives in the area.”

I paused, hoping Trepler would respond. But his face maintained an expression of pained irritability.

“Perhaps you can tell me where I can find him. The man goes by the name of Horus.”

It was as if I’d just said the word
Beelzebub
, causing Trepler to twitch involuntarily.

“Then you
do
know him.” I pounced, as if having already received my answer.

But Trepler shook his head. “You don’t know what it is that you’re talking about. No such person exists. You’re chasing after a ghost.”

However, his face was now drawn and his complexion had turned unnaturally pale.

“What do you mean?” I asked, not believing a word.

Trepler’s eyes darted from side to side, as if checking for something that wasn’t there. My heart began to sink, realizing that he probably wasn’t Horus.

“Go ask around town. You’ll eventually figure it out for yourself.”

Trepler ended our conversation by once again slamming the door in my face.

I walked down the driveway, past the chickens, who this time clucked
We told you so, we told you so.

Getting in my Ford, I left Portuguese Flats and headed back into the heart of Mendocino. I drove past bed-and-breakfast places and little knickknack stores, all seemingly possessed by Laura Ashley, with their pretty pastel paint jobs and wooden filigree flouncing around windows, porches, and doorways.

I parked my vehicle on Main Street and followed Trepler’s advice, going in and out of shops to ask if anyone knew of a resident by the name of Horus. The reaction was always the same. People looked at me as though I’d lost my freakin’ mind.

I finally gave up, bought a sandwich, and decided to eat along the bluffs. I followed a path that continued to wind
for miles around the cliffs, feeling as if I’d walked into a painting.

The wind rippled through long grass that tickled my legs, each of the blades glistening with dew. I tried to carefully tiptoe through bright yellow daffodils and baby blue flowers, their colors as luscious as a Monet painting, but there was no way not to squish a few. Even the sky appeared dreamlike, having been kissed by the passing mist. A steel gray fog bank rolled off in the distance, making the scene all the more intense.

It’s in these waters that gray whales trek to Baja, California, each February. They migrate back to the Bering Sea with their newborn calves in the spring, traveling a distance of twelve thousand miles round trip. I scanned the horizon now, hoping to spy a whale spout, but none was in sight. Sidling closer to the edge of the cliff, I glanced down at the small strip of beach below.

Coarse sand was strewn with long strands of kelp and littered with pieces of driftwood. Logs the size of mastodon bones were buffeted about in the turbulent waves. Powerful swells had carved blowholes and grottoes into lichen-streaked cliffs as easily as if they’d been made of Play Doh. A batch of scummy foam bobbed about in a tide pool, where it was held captive, unable to escape.

Mendocino had the appearance of a prim and proper New England town. Yet I had no doubt that a layer of violence simmered beneath the surface, just waiting to erupt. As if on cue, a wave crashed against the headland with such force that a fine cloud of spindrift shot into the air. It rained down upon me, leaving a salty taste in my mouth.

Glancing up, I caught sight of a gull frantically flapping its wings, unable to make any headway against the breeze. The hoarse bark of a seal out at sea caught my ear. The creature sounded in distress and I leaned forward a bit more, wanting to see if I could spot it.

“That’s where it was wrecked.”

A voice like the rumbling of rocks caught me by surprise and I jerked in reaction. The next thing I knew, I lost my balance on the slippery edge. The situation quickly worsened as stones and soil began to crumble and give way beneath me. My heart lurched into my throat, knowing that I’d never survive such a fall. But there was nothing I could do to steady myself. Instead, I flung my arms out wide, as if hoping to fly, while mentally preparing to tumble. I knew I’d most likely land on the rocks below and drown, as my legs started to slide out from under me.

I cried out, angry as hell at the turn of events and scared to death all at once. Rather than fall, however, I was plucked from the jaws of death by what could only have been an angel. A pair of strong hands grabbed onto my outstretched arm and pulled me back in the nick of time.

I was so shaken to the core that my breath came in jagged spurts. I turned to thank my rescuer, only to be further surprised. Standing before me was the homeless man whom I’d seen striding along the cliffs just a few days ago.

“You need to be more careful, miss. Didn’t you read the signs back there?” he asked, looking concerned.

His voice churned and reverberated in the air as he bent down to pick up his walking stick.

“No. I guess I must have missed them,” I replied, taking a giant step back from the edge, still afraid that my quivering legs might buckle beneath me.

“Well these cliffs are pretty hazardous. You saw that for yourself. Lots of the rims are unstable. We’ve also got what are called sleeper waves around here. They crash real high onto the rocks, much more than normal waves do. People tend to get in trouble when they turn their backs while standing too close to the edge. You never know what can happen.
The ocean might just reach up and grab hold of you,” he advised with a straight face.

“I’ll remember that,” I said, and meant it. “Thanks for saving my life back there.”

The man nodded, and I noticed that strips of gaffers’ tape covered threadbare spots on his pants and jacket, though his dreadlocks appeared to have been freshly shampooed. They glistened sleek as strings of licorice in contrast to his skin, which looked to be permanently chapped and reddened by the weather.

“I could really use some company after such a close call. Would you mind sitting with me for a while?” I asked, and motioned to a nearby bench.

The man remained standing for a moment, as if unsure what to do. Then he finally sat down. I joined him, remembering the sandwich that I’d shoved into my purse. Pulling it out, I offered him half. He accepted and we chewed together in what seemed like perfect syncopation.

“I’m Rachel Porter,” I volunteered, hoping to break the silence.

“People call me Big Sam.”

I furtively glanced at the man, wondering if he was an old white hippie from the sixties who’d once visited Jamaica, smoked too much ganja weed, grown an awesome set of dreadlocks, and never mentally returned. However, that didn’t seem like an appropriate question, so I decided to follow up on something he’d said before my near fall.

“You mentioned a wreck of some kind. What were you talking about?”

“The
Frolic
, of course.”

I shot him a questioning look, still not understanding what he meant.

“That’s how the town came to be back in 1850. The
Frolic
was a schooner loaded with cargo from China. It crashed on the rocks and shifting sandbars in that water. A salvage crew was sent to retrieve whatever bolts of silk and chinaware they could,” Big Sam explained. “Instead they discovered something far more valuable—a huge redwood forest. This was during the Gold Rush, when San Francisco needed lots of building material. J. B. Ford, the schooner’s owner, also happened to be a lumberman. When he heard about the redwoods, old J. B. rushed out here from Maine as fast as a train would carry him and established Mendocino as a logging town.”

“So that’s why the place looks like a New England village,” I replied, realizing it now made sense.

Big Sam nodded. “Ford set up a sawmill on these headlands. Only it was quite a trick trying to get the lumber onto those boats and transport it out, what with all the dog holes around here.” He chuckled, as if having witnessed the scene himself.

“What are dog holes?” I asked, never having heard the term before.

“They’re the rocky inlets and shallow harbors all along this coastline. They earned the name because schooners couldn’t dock safely. The inlets are only large enough for a dog to come in, turn around, and go back out. That’s why they had to design chutes and slides that extended out to sea from the cliffs. Those wooden pilings that you see lying all over the beach? They’re the remains of an old cargo loading system. Mendocino was quite the place back then. In fact, it was known as the original skid row.”

I took another look at Big Sam, and wondered if he was putting me on. “What do you mean? That there were a lot of down-and-out folks living here then?”

Big Sam finished the sandwich, pulled a tissue from his pocket, and fastidiously wiped each finger.

“What I mean is that the poor came to Mendocino looking for work. They ended up sleeping alongside the skids that were used to haul big tree trunks down to the sawmill. That’s how Skid Row first got its name.”

I was beginning to wonder if Big Sam might have been a history professor at one time. How else could he have known so much about the town? I was toying with that idea when a brainstorm hit me. This was the perfect person to ask about Horus.

“I’m trying to find a man who lives around here. Maybe you can help me.”

Big Sam shrugged. “Could be. I know lots of people in the area. What’s his name?”

“Horus,” I said, hoping he wouldn’t let me down.

Big Sam looked at me with eyes as tempestuous as the sea. Then he turned and pointed toward town. My eyes skipped from building to building as I tried to follow the direction of his finger, unsure of where it led.