Thunder in the Night (Crimson Romance) (15 page)

I didn’t get lost on the short path back to the lodge since it was a straight shot and we were lined up like grade-schoolers on the playground. After a brief stop to retrieve our gear and change into dry clothes we all ended up in the parking lot clustered around the bus we’d come in.

According to our itinerary, we were in for another scenic ride north to the resort where we would spend the last two nights of our trip. Storm clouds were gathering on the horizon as I snagged a window seat. Chucking my tote bag onto the floor between my feet, I unfolded the promotional brochure I’d picked up on my way out of the lodge.

Color pictures touting the thrills and views of the river journey filled the front of the flyer. On the back, a simple map of the river was labeled with landmarks. One of the landmarks was the dry cave we’d been able to explore, the cave with the turning which led us to the signs of recent habitation.

I circled the spot with my pen and sketched in the darkened branch we’d gone down. Then I passed it over to Mart, looking for approval. He motioned for the pen, added an arbitrary line or two and nodded.

“That should do it,” he said, folding the brochure and handing it back. “I’ll get this to the authorities as soon as I can.”

In less time than I would have imagined we were driving along the coastline, pulling into our new home away from home. As with our hotel, this was not a rustic old place steeped in national tradition. Instead, it was newer construction catering to the all-inclusive crowd.

From their seats at the rear of the bus, I heard the career girls crowing with pleasure at the sight of the fabulous and elaborate pools where they could swim straight up to the bar.

I gave a sigh of my own when I saw the cabanas we’d be staying in, sprouting on the shore like mushrooms on a forest floor. Up on stilts with thatched roofs and screened porches on the side facing the water, they looked cozy and exotic at the same time.

“What a sunrise view!” I said, anticipating a few great pictures for the blog.

Some of them were capable of sleeping two, while others held four. Those of us on our own got the smaller huts at the end of the row, which suited me just fine. The group splintered as we each headed to our assigned hut, bags in tow.

As I walked, I saw lumpy gray clouds off to the west, making quite a contrast to the calm blue of the water. It looked like more rain was in store, but not anytime soon.

Stepping inside my hut, I dropped my suitcase and tote then took a look around. A big squashy chair filled one corner and one of those hanging basket chairs filled another. The smooth wooden floor was cool beneath my feet as I headed over to the big double bed. Separating the netting that hung over the bed from a ring in the ceiling, I stretched out to full length and sighed. Not for the first time I thanked my employer for giving me this little vacation — I mean, assignment. I pointed my toes, stretching my legs, and reached my arms over my head.

“Anyone home?” A few sharp raps on the doorframe accompanied the question.

I sat up, my heart giving a leap. Had I locked the door? “Yes?”

Mart strode in as if he belonged there. He took a long look at me, sitting in the middle of the bed, and raised his eyebrows.

“Why wasn’t your door locked?” he said, jerking his thumb at the object in question. “With all that’s going on, you’ve got to be more careful.”

I pulled the netting apart and emerged from my cocoon.

“I was just going to,” I said. “I wasn’t expecting company quite so soon.” Then I asked a question. “Are you unpacked already?”

“Unpacked?” he repeated. “We’re only here for two days.” He flopped into the squashy chair.

“Of course. Just let everything wrinkle,” I said, smiling.

“And the rest of today is a free day to lie around or shop or whatever. I have ‘whatever’ on my list,” he said, “and I wanted to invite you along.”

I crossed my arms, tipping my head to one side. “Can you define whatever?” I made finger quotes.

Sitting forward, clasped hands between his knees, Mart said, “A long time ago, when I knew I’d be on this trip, I made arrangements to meet this guy. He’s working with a conservation group here in Central America and has been instrumental in developing guidelines for what zoos can do.”

The reporter in me came to life at his words. What a great interview that could be, dovetailing perfectly with my proposed series.

“I’ve e-mailed him and we’ve had a few telephone conversations, but I’ve never met him before. I’m really looking forward to picking his brain.”

“And you’re inviting me along to pick it with you?”

“Indeed I am,” he said. He gave one of those big smiles, the kind that gave me an idea what he must have looked like as a boy. “You game?”

Did he expect me to beg off in favor of more swimming or shopping?

“Oh, yes! When?”

“Tonight, after dinner. I’m driving over to meet him about eight o’clock. So, let’s leave at seven-thirty. Bring your notebook and at least two pencils,” he teased, “because he’s got a lot to share with us and I’m hoping he won’t leave out a single word.”

“Sounds great!”

He rose to leave, giving me a hug and a peck on the cheek.

“But not a word to anyone,” he cautioned. “I don’t want Clark to get wind. He’d only try to come along or ruin it somehow.”

“Who would I tell?”

“I don’t know. Jen, or maybe those giggly girls.”

“As if they’d care!” I scoffed.

“Just — ” he made the zip-your-lip motion, “okay?”

I didn’t reply. I just made the zip-your-lip motion back.

Chapter Eighteen

Hours later, I had my arms around Mart, holding on tight. He felt firm and warm under my palms and I rested my cheek against the plane of his back. We were roaring along some bumpy road on a rented minibike just big enough to hold us both. Mart tried to steer around the potholes, I think, but there were so many he could only be so successful.

I was very glad I’d worn capris and not a skirt on this jaunt. Glad, too, that I’d brought a small notebook which fit in a pocket. My other pocket held only one pencil — and a lipstick.

“How much farther?” I shouted into my driver’s ear.

“Not much!” he shouted over his shoulder. “We should be there in — ”

I saw him take his eyes off the road to check his watch and gave him a pinch.

“Never mind. Just be — ” a jounce from another rough patch interrupted my sentence, “careful,” I finished.

At least our path was straight, not requiring many twists or turns. After my travel through the forest above the river I didn’t want to see any forks in the road.

I’d been busy in the time Mart and I had been apart. The resort had a terrific internet connection, so I’d spent a good hour or more searching the archives of local newspapers for any coverage of Tommy Mendoza’s “accidental” death. Only a few papers had noted the bit of news and even those were the briefest of entries. In the days and weeks immediately afterward, there were no follow-up stories.

Jen had said earlier, on one of our bus rides, that her friend had been along on that tragic trek. Shocked by the way Tommy Mendoza’s absence went unacknowledged by Clark, she’d heard news of the zoo employee’s death from their bus driver on the way to the airport.

What a buzz that must have caused
, I’d thought, clicking from the newspaper sites to my magazine’s blog.

Clark had shifted attention away from Tommy and I had had to do the same. It was time for another blog entry. Time to post a few more snapshots. Time to do my real job. As usual, once I’d begun I became immersed in the challenge of finding the right words. The next time I’d looked up, I’d been amazed to see hours had passed.

As I’d hurried to shower and change, my heart skipped a beat faster at the thought of the evening to come.

And now, on the beach road, Mart shifted down, turning away from the coast, heading inland. We hadn’t gone more than a mile or so when he pulled the bike onto a patch of gravel behind a two-story house surrounded by scrubby grass.

“Here we are,” he announced into the sudden silence.

The house looked like a lot of houses I’d seen this week and the neighborhood did, too. The door opened before we had a chance to knock. A tiny little girl dressed in a pair of bright blue pajamas looked up at us with wide eyes.

“Umm,” Mart faltered.

And then from just out of sight came a deep, booming laugh. “Teresa, I told you to wait for Papa.”

The man who appeared swept the toddler into his arms and smiled at us. Just past thirty by my guess, he had very dark, very wavy hair. The tee shirt and shorts he wore showed off the impressive results of his workouts.

Shifting her so he could hold out a hand, he said, “Mart? Allison?”

So he knew to expect me
, I thought, pleased.

“I’m Ricardo,” he said as he shook my hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Mart’s told me of the series you’re doing for your magazine. It sounds wonderful. The animals need all the help we can give them.”

He gestured us into the little house, saying he’d just tuck Teresa into bed and we should make ourselves comfortable.

Mart settled right down on the sofa along one wall, one hand instantly reaching into the bowl of cashews on the coffee table, but I wanted to look at all the pictures displayed opposite.

Family groups, a formal wedding portrait, and plenty of snaps of little Teresa filled nearly the entire space. There were black and white shots, circa the 1940s and 1950s, side by side with colorful panoramic views, making the wall a genuine collage.

“Ah, I see you’re intrigued by people,” Ricardo said, re-entering the room. “As I’d expect from a reporter.”

“Can’t resist a photo wall,” I confessed, crossing the small space to sit beside Mart.

“My wife’s handiwork,” he said. “I’ll pass along your approval when she returns. She would have enjoyed meeting you, I’m sure, but it is her night at school. She teaches reading through our church.” Then, as he turned to Mart, the smile dropped off his face. “Let’s get down to the brass tacks. Tell me how I can help you.”

For the next ten minutes, Mart explained his desire to turn the Rochester zoo into a sanctuary, a haven for abused or endangered animals of every species. With his hands, he sketched in natural habitats, with people kept out of the way, as Ricardo nodded and murmured in agreement.

“An excellent plan,” Ricardo said. “You present it well and that’s important because you’ll need to present it again and again.”

“To benefactors?” I guessed. “To secure funding?”

“Yes. Have you looked into grants? Made any moves in that direction?”

Mart heaved a big sigh, glancing at me. “I’ve made a few forays but our director is definitely not on board with the concept and he’s capable of making things difficult.”

“Webster, correct?” Ricardo waited for Mart to nod. “I’m familiar with your boss. He’s quite a force in the field.”

“That’s putting it mildly,” Mart said, pushing his hand through his hair. “There are days — ” he broke off and smiled.

“Ah, but public support is much more important.” Ricardo turned to me. “That’s where you could be essential.”

“But I’m not an opinion journalist,” I told him. “I just present the facts and people can reach their own conclusions.”

“An informed and educated populace can change the world, Allison,” he said. “Your facts, your articles, can do both — inform and educate — without leading readers by their noses.”

I nodded. Information is power, I knew.

“And you are acting at the right time, Mart,” Ricardo said. “Never have animals been as endangered. Not by the mere destruction of their homes and the pollution of our planet, but also by a growing criminal element, I’m afraid.”

“Poachers?” I asked. “Trophy hunters?” I’d seen a few programs about that on public television.

“Yes, to both those. Plus, our animals are killed for their body parts. Fur. Organs. And then there are the smugglers, who treat rare species like bootleg liquor.”

He made a soft but menacing growling sound, which was echoed almost immediately by a rumble of thunder from outside. Glancing out the window, I could see the dark clouds that had been on the horizon were now on the doorstep.

“There are more tigers in private homes than there are in the wild,” Mart said.

“An excellent illustration. Every year hundreds of smuggled animals are confiscated by authorities. Some may still be alive, but many are not. And how many are killed to obtain the few who survive? It’s devastating the already endangered populations of many, many species all around the world.”

I’d pulled out my notebook and was scribbling now. “These crimes are on the increase?”

“Definitely. There is money to be made and no shortage of consumers.”

“Just like the drug trade,” I said.

“Just like,” Ricardo agreed. “And of course some of the players of these dangerous games overlap.”

Beside me, Mart straightened up. I could feel the electric charge of his attention like a crackle in the air. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped.

“Criminal corporations,” he said. “I’d wondered about that.”

I hadn’t. I scratched another note.

“Are you talking globally or locally?” I asked.

“Think globally and locally, my dear,” our host said with a humorless smile. “There is no animal without a price on his — or her — head.”

I let my breath come out on a whoosh. Not a sigh of despair, but an overwhelmed exhale. Turning to Mart, I lifted my eyebrows. How could one little zoo make an impact on a global problem? I asked as much.

“Oh, it isn’t just Mart’s zoo taking action,” Ricardo assured me. “While there is a bad trend toward animal trafficking, there’s a good trend toward greater awareness and responsiveness to animals’ needs. Why, just a few years back, no one blinked at the idea of elephants in zoo settings. Thirty or forty years standing in small concrete enclosures. Sometimes all alone! For decades! The physical and mental deprivation were never considered.” He gave his head a brisk shake. “But, now, facilities around the world are closing or reconsidering elephant exhibits. And that’s just one example.”