Blue Twilight (9 page)

He opened the remaining drawers and I felt slightly ill staring at what must have been thousands of impaled butterflies, each with a pin thrust through its thorax. I chose instead to focus my attention on the four tiny tags that were attached to each individual bug’s leg. Trepler noticed my interest and seemed to be pleased.

“Those are labels. Would you like to get a closer look at them?”

I nodded and he lifted the glass.

“Just don’t touch the wings. They’re very fragile.”

No problem there. I was much more interested in gathering incriminating data.

Leaning down, I discovered that every butterfly had its own story to tell. Trepler’s neatly printed handwriting revealed not only the name of its collector, but also the exact date and precise location from which each had been gathered. Still other tags indicated those butterflies that had been
bred and reared by hand. Their labels meticulously noted the date that chrysalis was formed as well as when the adult emerged and how it was nurtured.

I was beginning to realize how maniacal butterfly collectors actually could be. More than a hobby, it was a full-blown obsession.

Trepler replaced the glass and gently closed the drawers. Then he led me toward a large safe.

“It’s not that I don’t trust you, but I’d appreciate if you’d look away for a moment.”

I did as instructed, listening while Trepler spun the safe’s lock like the wheel of fortune.

Click, click, click!
The tumbler giddily sang out.

The safe emitted a deep groan as its door slowly swung open.

Turning back around, I watched Trepler remove a small display case and reverently place it in the middle of the oak table.

“That’s it right there,” he revealed in a hushed tone, gesturing toward the one and only specimen it held. “The Lotis blue.”

Maybe it was because I’d heard so much about the mysterious bug that I heard myself gasp, the sharp intake of breath making me momentarily woozy. My heart sped up as I gazed at what amounted to near perfection. How could something so small, so insignificant, carry this much impact? I felt myself pulled into the deep violet blue of its incredibly delicate wings, their margin outlined in a seam of black before ending in a feathery burst of luminescent white fringe.

“It’s probably difficult for you to see, but a wavy band of orange spots borders the subtermen of the hindwings in between two rows of sinuous black lines.”

I had no idea what he was talking about, and I didn’t care.
Instead I concentrated on scrupulously examining the specimen, hoping to imprint the butterfly forever in my brain.

“The Lotis blue seems to have a somewhat mystical effect upon many people,” Trepler observed with an understanding smile. “Perhaps it’s viewing an object so beautiful and knowing that only a privileged few will ever be granted such an opportunity. The butterfly looks almost alive, don’t you think? To my mind, preserving specimens like this makes them seem somehow immortal. Possibly that’s the allure. It’s as if there’s no such thing as death, but rather the subject is simply asleep, having been suspended in time and space.”

All I knew was that I’d become totally captivated by a winged creature as insubstantial as a piece of tissue paper.

“Remember, what you’re looking at is exceedingly rare. There are only fifty specimens of its kind in existence, and almost all of those are in museums.”

How odd. I noticed that the Lotis blue had only one tag attached to it rather than the usual four. It listed the date of capture and nothing else.
JUNE
19, 1975
. What a stroke of luck. Had it been gathered one year later, the butterfly already would have been placed on the endangered species list, making it illegal to own. Of course, there was always the chance that the actual date of capture had been tampered with for that very reason. If so, Trepler would have been in contempt of the law. Unfortunately, no one would ever know.

“Needless to say, this is the crown jewel of my collection. The Lotis blue is the butterfly that every collector yearns to possess.”

“All right, you’ve succeeded in making me curious. How did
you
manage to end up with one?” I asked, deliberately trying to keep the inquiry lighthearted.

A flurry of goose bumps ran up my arms as Trepler turned his head and pointedly stared at me.

“I’m sure you’ve heard of what curiosity did to the cat. Perhaps it’s best if you don’t ask, but simply appreciate the beauty of this specimen that I’ve so generously shared with you.”

Trepler was totally oblivious to the fact that he’d just waved a red flag in front of my face.

“If it’s so valuable, then you must worry that someone might try to steal it,” I said, having noticed the house lacked a security system.

“Anyone who knows anything about me is fully aware that I’d track them down and blow their fucking head off.”

Not a pleasant fellow—but with a reputation that, I imagine, was highly effective. Perhaps it was time to get back to the original reason as to why I was here.

“I hate to sound skittish, but do you know if that Fish and Wildlife consultant has checked many spots in the area?”

Trepler looked at me oddly, and I was afraid that I might have somehow tipped my hand.

“Don’t misunderstand. I realize you’re exceptional at what you do. It’s just that I’d like to know what we’re up against.”

“I’m telling you not to worry, Miss Porter. That should be enough. I know for a fact the fellow hasn’t done diddly-squat.”

“And why is that?” I asked, wondering how Trepler could be so certain.

“Because nearly all the sites where the Lotis blue were once seen are on private land, and nobody’s going to grant a government lackey access. Without that, he doesn’t stand a chance. Now you really ought to stop stressing about the nickel-and-dime stuff. Trust me. You’ll live longer.”

“Then would you mind answering just one question? Can you tell me where the Lotis blue was last spotted?”

“Sure. That would have been on Old Man Baker’s property, a place he called the Sanctuary. The Lotis blue’s terri
tory was a four-acre plot of land. However, they tended to congregate around a bog about the size of this living room.

My pulse began to race and my skin felt flushed. I only hoped that Trepler didn’t notice. I knew it wasn’t wise to ask any more questions, but I simply couldn’t stop myself.

“So then, it’s possible that the Lotis blue is still around?”

I could sense Trepler begin to clam up, even as he shrugged.

“I guess. After all, they went for fifty years without being seen, only to reappear one day. Such a small, obscure species is easy to miss. Or, who knows? Could be they never disappeared at all. Maybe they just don’t want to be found.”

Give me a challenge, tell me something can’t be done, and get out of the way. By now, I was completely hooked.

“Do you know how I can get in touch with Mr. Baker?”

“Why? You thinking of trying to catch some of those suckers for yourself? Maybe sell them to make a few extra bucks?” Trepler sarcastically questioned.

“Of course not. I just thought I might take a look at his land, is all. I want to see everything that’s in the Mendocino vicinity. So, will you tell me where I can find him?”

“That’s three questions so far, but sure. Have you got yourself a shovel?”

“Excuse me? I’m afraid I don’t understand,” I responded, feeling slightly perturbed. Trepler and his games were becoming annoying.

“You’re gonna have to dig him up. Old Man Baker is dead,” Trepler revealed, with a sharp bark of a laugh. “Funny thing about that. He had this old house with a dynamite view of the ocean. A great place perched right on top of a cliff. It’s a helluva spot, where the waves gather together just for the fun of crashing. Anyway, seems Old Man Baker must have lost his balance and fell off the porch one day, because they found him with his neck broken, lying at the bot
tom of the cliff. Strange when you think he’d been living there all of his life. I guess he should have paid more attention to that last step, considering his deck had no railing. But the guy was a crackpot, anyway.”

Trepler was one to talk. He seemed to gain perverse pleasure from telling the story. Otherwise, why else would he be grinning at me like a loon?

“Who owns the land now?”

“Another oddball nut. Only this one lives in San Francisco. Kind of fitting, huh? The fact is, I’ve never met the man. Don’t even know his name. Word has it he rarely comes up to Mendocino. Just lets the land sit with a No Trespassing sign posted on the front gate. What a waste. I’m talking twenty acres. That place is begging to be developed.”

“Sounds intriguing. I’d like to drive by and take a peek. Is the place easy to locate?”

“Sure, as long as you know what it is you’re looking for. There’s no marker or mailbox or anything like that. Just drive north out of town along Highway 1, heading up toward Russian Gulch. You’ll see a group of eucalyptus trees on the right-hand side. The entrance to the Baker property lies not far beyond there. Just be sure to turn left onto the first gravel road you come to after the trees.”

I caught one last glimpse of the Lotis blue as Trepler placed the specimen back in the safe, and checked to make sure it was locked. Then he ushered me into the front hallway.

“Thanks for the information. I’ll be in touch,” I said and began to walk out the door.

“Hold on a minute. You never did give me the name of your employer.”

It was now my turn to smile. “Oh, sorry about that. It must have slipped my mind. I’m with the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service. I’m one of those eco-Nazi special agents that you spoke so highly of.”

Trepler stared in disbelief as his complexion darkened and his features became tightly compressed.

“Why, you miserable bitch,” he said, with both fists clenched. “You have one helluva lot of nerve coming into my home and passing yourself off as an employee for a development concern.”

“I did no such thing,” I reminded him. “All I said was that I was looking around the area, which is absolutely true. It’s not my fault if you didn’t ask who my employer was before now. As a matter of fact, I’m playing by your own set of rules. Don’t you remember? You said it plain as day when I asked how you’d obtained your Lotis blue. Your response amounted to Don’t ask, don’t tell.”

Let him mull that over,
I thought, while heading down the walkway.
It should give him some agita wondering what I’m up to.

“And the government is surprised when their toadies sometimes turn up missing. As far as I’m concerned, your consultant got exactly what he deserved,” Trepler responded, his voice slithering from behind to come up and bite me.

I froze in my tracks and slowly turned around. “What do you mean by that?”

“Haven’t you heard?” He exuberantly slapped his thigh, nearly crowing in delight. “Your friend’s car was found in a ditch along a remote stretch of road early this morning. Must be he ran into someone who didn’t care all that much for Fish and Wildlife, either. Come to think of it, I’d be careful on that ride up to Old Man Baker’s place, if I were you.”

Trepler broke into a grin that split his face in two, while mocking me by flapping his arms as if they were a pair of wings. I flashed back to the spreading board, and all those drawers filled with dead butterflies lying impaled for eternity. I couldn’t rid myself of the image even as Trepler stepped back inside and slammed the door.

I
waited until I was out of town before placing a call on my car phone to the County Sheriff’s office up in Fort Bragg.

“This is Rachel Porter. I’m a special agent with the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service. I understand you found a car belonging to a Dr. John Harmon this morning. He’s working as a consultant for us and has been missing for the past two weeks. I’d appreciate if you would share whatever information you’ve discovered up to this point.”

“Let’s see. A 1998 green Jeep Wrangler was spotted off road early
A.M
. today. Is that the vehicle to which you’re referring?” responded a male voice, clearly reticent when it came to handing out any pertinent information.

I bit my lip in exasperation. “I’m not referring to a vehicle, but to a person. I have no idea what type of Jeep, SUV, or car he drove. Was the Wrangler registered to a Dr. John Harmon?”

“Who are you again?” the voice asked suspiciously.

“Special Agent Rachel Porter. And who am I speaking to?”

“Sheriff John Wiley.”

“As I was saying, Sheriff Wiley, I’d appreciate anything you can disclose pertaining to the incident. Dr. Harmon’s family and colleagues are all very concerned.”

“Yes, ma’am. I already know that. They’ve been calling here nonstop. So I’ll tell you exactly the same thing I told
them. There is no ‘incident.’ We found an abandoned Jeep, is all.”

“But that obviously suggests something unusual must have taken place. Come on, the man hasn’t been heard from in two weeks,” I insisted.

“Maybe to you, but not to me. Abandoned vehicles aren’t all that uncommon around these parts. And I can honestly say there was no sign of foul play. Maybe you should consider contacting the man’s insurance company. To tell you the truth, it appears to me that this Dr. Harmon decided he no longer wanted his Jeep and simply dumped it in a ditch. But here’s what I’ll do. Leave me a contact number and I’ll give a holler if anything comes up that suggests differently.”

By the time I was through, I’d supplied him with everything except my social security number, giving him the means to contact me twenty-four hours a day, either at work, home, in my car, or on my cell phone.

Hanging up, I ran through various scenarios of what might have happened as I drove toward Old Man Baker’s property.

Santou had speculated last night that Harmon was either having an affair or possibly contending with money problems. What neither of us had considered was that he might be divorced. Perhaps Harmon was trying to dodge child support payments. Only that would have meant walking away from his well-paying job. The man was up for tenure at Stanford University, so that didn’t make sense. Besides, a gut feeling told me that he wasn’t that type of guy.

Damn! I’d forgotten to ask Sheriff Wiley if Harmon’s vehicle had a flat tire when it was found. If so, he might have been walking back to town and possibly was attacked by a bear.

Good thinking, Porter. And what would a black bear have been doing out on the road? Hitchhiking?

Okay, so there were any number of reasons why someone might choose to disappear. But what kept eating at me was Trepler’s reaction. It was almost as if he’d expected something bad to happen. The problem was that I had no proof.

I put all musings of Harmon’s fate temporarily aside as a eucalyptus grove came into view. A half mile later, I caught sight of the gravel road that Trepler had told me about and swiftly made a left-hand turn.

Pebbles popped under my tires like sheets of plastic bubble wrap, each mini-explosion ricocheting in the air. Though I listened closely, there was no other sound. It would have been the perfect spot for Trepler to try and ambush me if he so chose. Then I spotted the steel gate with its No Trespassing sign tacked on the front. I parked my Ford and got out.

Redwoods soared all around, looking like husky titans with their thick, gnarly bark. Grand firs shaded the ground with umbrellas of white-striped needles. But my attention was drawn somewhere beyond, to an open meadow containing a bog, for I knew that’s where the Lotis blue might be dancing through the grass this very minute. I closed my eyes and visualized the tiny phantoms for whom extinction was just a wingbeat away.

I glanced at my watch to discover it was almost three o’clock. I’d been standing at the gate daydreaming for way too long. Terri would be waiting. I jumped in my Ford and took off. Fortunately, the town center wasn’t very far.

I found a space on Main Street and parked, then hurried to the store where we’d agreed to meet. Wouldn’t you know? Terri hadn’t even arrived yet. I hate dashing some place only to discover that I’ve rushed for nothing. At least there was plenty of artwork to view in the gallery.

I took my time examining all the expensive handmade furniture, glassware, and jewelry. It’s depressing to see such
lovely things and know there’s nothing you can afford to buy. Maybe the less expensive items were on the second floor. I decided to go up and nose around.

What I found took my breath away. Enormous charcoal portraits hung on the walls, unlike any I’d ever before seen. Each was an incredibly stunning work of art. However, it was the subject matter that proved to be unsettling.

A collection of teenage girls stared back at me so intimately that I felt as if I must have surely known them. Then I realized exactly what bothered me. Each conveyed a bruised vulnerability, along with cold, calculating hardness.

Maybe it had to do with the way their lips curled seductively, or the wariness in their eyes, but the portraits were both haunting and disturbing at the same time—so much so that a chill crept through me as I studied them. I was gripped by the sensation that they looked at me accusingly, as though I were somehow responsible for their plight. More than anything, they reminded me of a group of sullen young Eves disillusioned with the world after biting into the apple and realizing that life wasn’t quite what they’d thought.

Welcome to the club
, I mused.
I believe it’s what’s known as growing up.

I was relieved when the bell on the front door jingled, announcing the entrance of another customer. Terri walked in and I rushed downstairs to meet him, happy to escape each girl’s stare.

“Hi, Rach. I certainly had a good time. It’s true what they say about shopping. It
does
make you feel better. So how’d you make out?”

“Let’s put it this way. The assessment that waitress made of Trepler’s character? It couldn’t have been more on the mark.”

“A real bastard, huh?”

“He isn’t my number-one choice of companion to be stuck with on a desert island.”

“He damn well better not be. That would be me.”

Terri put an arm around my shoulder and gave me a kiss on the cheek. “Cheer up. I got you a present.”

“Ooh! Can I see it now?” I asked, my fingers eagerly inching toward the shopping bags.

“Hey, where are your manners?” Terri jokingly reprimanded. “For goodness sake, someone would think you’d been a poor kid who never received any gifts on Christmas.”

“Technically I didn’t. We celebrated Hanukkah.”

Terri raised a knowing eyebrow.

“Okay, so we had a tree and opened all our presents on Christmas Day,” I admitted, wondering what he had bought me.

Terri pulled a box from one of the bags. “Here. You might as well open it now. Otherwise, you’ll just nudge me the rest of the day.”

“A present? For me?” I teased, wasting no time in tearing off the ribbon and removing the lid.

Inside was a gorgeous silk blouse with a wonderfully seductive neckline.

“
That
ought to make Santou sit up and take notice,” Terri mused, holding the shirt up against my frame. “I knew apricot would be the perfect color with your hair.”

“Terri, it’s stunning, but you can’t afford this. It must have been outrageously expensive.”

Terri brushed back one of my curls. “Don’t worry, sweetie. What good is money unless you spend it? Besides, I came to a decision while buying the most decadent lingerie for myself. All those queens who refused to hire me last night? They can go to hell. I’m fully determined to land a class-act job that will have them kicking themselves in the ass for ever having rejected me. This shopping spree is my
way of declaring my unmitigated success as a top-notch performer.”

I loved Terri for lots of reasons. One being that he always remained true to himself, and never allowed anything to fully destroy his self-confidence.

We walked outside, got in the Ford, and were on our way out of town when Terri nearly jumped out of his seat.

“STOP THE CAR!”

I slammed on my brakes, my heart sliding into overdrive, wondering what could possibly be wrong.

“Okay, now back up and turn onto that street we just passed,” Terri instructed.

“What’s the matter?” I asked in alarm.

“You’re not going to believe what I just saw.”

“Are you kidding? This is all for something you spotted? For chrissakes, Terri! You just scared the living daylights out of me.”

“Sorry, but wait until I show you this thing.”

I bit my tongue to keep from calling him a drama queen, as I threw the Ford into reverse and turned left.

“This is it. Stop here,” Terri commanded and quickly scrambled out of the Explorer.

I was still muttering to myself as I turned off the engine and grudgingly followed him to an old clapboard building. Then I gazed up at where Terri’s finger pointed.

Positioned on the roof was a life-sized statue of a bearded, winged figure gripping a scythe. Before him was a weeping maiden. Holding an acacia branch in one hand and an urn in the other, she stood behind a pedestal on which rested an open book. Next to her was an hourglass, though it was impossible to tell how much sand was left inside. A broken column leaned up against the front of the pedestal. The maiden looked down in sorrow, as if passively accepting her fate,
while the man’s hands were tightly clasped around her long, flowing hair.

Terri was right. This had definitely been worth stopping and turning around for. The statue was both macabre and fascinating. It toyed with our imagination as we continued to stand there, spellbound.

“Creepy, isn’t it?” Terri remarked, as if reading my mind. “What do you think it’s supposed to represent?”

“I don’t know. There are so many elements involved that it’s hard to tell. I suppose it could be Father Time, what with the hourglass.”

“Except the woman is crying, and that winged dude certainly doesn’t appear to be very benign. He looks more like the Angel of Death to me.”

“Maybe so,” I agreed, growing increasingly aware that Mendocino wasn’t exactly the laid-back little town that I had thought it would be.

We got back in the car and had just started off when something drew my attention once more to the headlands. There on a windblown bluff was the itinerant man that I’d seen earlier in the day. He stood tall and straight, looking like a vagabond version of Moses, gripping his walking stick and staring transfixedly out to sea.

I wondered what he was looking at, and if it had anything to do with winged messengers and crying maidens. Or if he was simply waiting for the water to part while watching butterflies flit on the breeze.