Thunder in the Night (Crimson Romance) (9 page)

The interior of the little shop was dim and cool, its stone exterior keeping out the worst of the heat. Rickety tables and chairs were scattered around the floor and a low counter ran against the far wall. The decor was definitely understated. Colorful banners in the Mayan style hung from the walls and shelves held row after row of carved figurines.

Mart pulled out a chair for me and I sank gratefully into it as he went to the counter.

Using the brim of my hat, I fanned my face. It felt so good to be out of the sun. Out of the glare. Slumping a little, I gave a sigh and let my eyes close.

Thump! Thump!

I opened them again as the table jiggled under my hands. Mart was just sitting down across from me and on the table stood two tall, sweating glasses of apricot-colored juice.

Mart ran a hand over his head from front to back. Then, with a smile he reached for one glass and raised it in a toast. “Bottoms up!” He gulped deeply and I watched his Adam’s apple bob up and down. His skin glistened from the heat. The crisp hair at the open throat of his shirt sparkled when the light touched it and I realized — not for the first time — how utterly alluring the hollow of the throat can be.

I sat up straighter and reached for my own drink. It was hard to keep a grip on the wet glass, but my efforts were rewarded. The cool, tangy juice made my taste buds wiggle with delight and I felt instantly relieved from the oppressive warmth.

I swallowed. “Mmm. That’s wonderful,” I told him. “What is it?” The mild, slightly citrusy flavor was unfamiliar.

“It’s papaya. One of my favorites.” He took another long drink and I followed suit.

Earlier, I’d told him a bit about my ambitions in life. Now, I wanted to hear his. “Tell me about you, Mart,” I suggested. “How did you get into this field of work? Is it what you want?”

His tongue darted out to circle his lips. “Is this for your article?”

I wasn’t quite sure how to answer. Some of it could be used in my story, but part of my motivation was personal. I shrugged. “You never know. I like to collect a lot of information. More than I need. Then I pick and choose what to include.”

This seemed to satisfy him. “As I told you, I had been working on rhino relocation in Africa before coming here. Before that, I did other jobs in the field for various conservation groups.”

“So, you’ve always worked with animals?”

“Oh, yes. I’ve wanted to for as long as I can remember. In high school, I volunteered after school with the local humane society and learned to rehabilitate wild animals.”

“Rehabilitate?”

“Yes. Fix broken wings and injured eyes. That sort of thing. A hundred little tragedies every day.” He sounded sad as he spoke. “After college,” he went on, “I got involved with the groups in Africa. I’ve been at it ever since.”

“This is your first zoo job, then?” I took another sip of the quenching juice.

“Yes. I don’t know if all my experience in the wild is good or bad for this job, though. It’s a whole ’nother world!”

“How so?”

“To tell the truth, Allison, I don’t honestly approve of zoos. At least, not in practice. I understand the theory — to save and protect wild animals, so they don’t become extinct, so humans can look at them and, hopefully, learn something. But all too often, zoos don’t fulfill these lofty goals. In fact,” his face scrunched into a look of obvious dismay, “it seems to me that some zoos are just holding tanks, warehouses. Stick the animals inside, give them food and water and that’s it.”

“And that isn’t enough?” My statement came out as a question.

“Of course not!” Mart said. “Would it be enough for you?”

Uh oh
, I thought.
Wrong question
. “No,” I said.

“Allison, you saw the monkeys in the jungle, right? You saw the birds?” When I nodded, he continued. “Do you think those monkeys, who are used to living in a complex and complete ecosystem, are content with a pile of rocks, a tree, and a tire swing?”

I’d made only one trip to the Rochester Zoo since my arrival in town, but I recognized his accurate description of the monkey exhibit.

“And some animals don’t even get that! No rocks, no trees, no outdoors! Allison, some animals are forced to live year-round in tiny, glassed-in enclosures. The stalls are easy to keep clean, but they’re monotonous and boring for the animals.”

I nodded. I remembered that, too. Remembered walking through a concrete building and trading gazes with a gorilla who sat listlessly in a cage. I’d left feeling blue without analyzing why. Maybe Mart had given me a clue.

“That’s how the Rochester Zoo is,” I said. “What about other zoos?”

Mart drained the last drop from his glass before answering. “More and more are beginning to recognize the needs of animals and respond to them. These zoos create natural surroundings. Acre after acre of unfenced land where many species live together, as they would in nature, like their wild counterparts.” He paused. “Although it’s my opinion that any time you take an animal from its natural environment, you significantly alter its behavior.”

“You mean because they can’t roam and hunt and interact?” I thought I was beginning to pick up on his philosophy.

“Exactly. That’s what makes me continually question whether a zoo can ever truly save an endangered species.”

“Like the rhinos, you mean? The ones killed for their horns?” I’d read plenty about the plight of rhinos and elephants, poached for their ivory horns and tusks. In the wild, they were in danger of dying off. Zoos were seen as a way to save the species.

“Right. A rhino in captivity doesn’t behave like a rhino in the wild. I think putting them in a zoo mutates them, if that’s not too strong a word.”

I shifted in my chair and it bobbed to the left where one leg was shorter than the others.

“So, a black rhino in a zoo isn’t a black rhino in the wild. Therefore, the true black rhino no longer exists,” he concluded.

I let a silence fall between us while I pondered his comments. “If you’re so critical of zoos, how can you be part of one? Doesn’t it go against everything you believe in?”

His head tipped to one side. Heavy creases marked his brow and his inner struggle was quite obvious. “Because it’s so wrong, I have to be part of it. I have to try and bring about change.”

He rubbed a finger over a very old chip in the surface of the table, as if debating with himself. I stayed quiet, waiting. At last, he went on.

“To that end, I’m hoping to implement a plan at our zoo to make it more of a sanctuary and less of a showcase. I’ve applied for some grant money. Talked with some folks.”

I lifted my eyebrows. “That sounds great. Like progress.”

“Yeah, as long as Clark doesn’t put an oar in and screw things up. He’s already agitating about it. Taking it personally. It’s got nothing to do with him.”

Recalling their shouting match in the parking lot, I asked, “Could he derail the whole thing?”

“He’s Clark Webster, zoo director extraordinaire. He definitely could. But I’m appealing to his higher instincts and crossing my fingers.” He smiled and met my eyes. “And to appeal to his baser ones I’m also pitching the idea as a money maker. One of the two might work. All I know for sure is reforms are not instituted by those content with the status quo.”

This man made sense, I decided, and my admiration for him increased. I may not agree with all his ideas, and I may not fully understand others, but clearly he was a thoughtful person. It couldn’t be easy to spend each day in an environment you didn’t approve of and found hard to tolerate. That took stamina. And determination. And a heavy dose of courage, to boot.

Leaning back in my chair, I crossed my arms over my chest. “You’re a very complex guy,” I stated, watching with secret delight as a faint blush stained his cheeks.

He fidgeted in his chair and cleared his throat. “If we continue this tour you may be forced to listen to more of my ramblings and ravings,” he teased.

I pushed my chair back and rose, smoothing the creases from my navy blue shorts. “I’ll just think of it as research,” I said and he laughed.

Chapter Eleven

Several hours later, and several quetzales lighter, we straggled back to our hotel. It had been a pleasant afternoon of gentle adventure. No tumbles down stone steps, no lurking in jungles. Just good old sightseeing.

The day had been a carefree one, with only a single moment of intrigue when we’d spotted Clark’s wife meandering further down the narrow little street we were on. Sylvia was alone and moving slowly but assuredly over the sandy road, as if she knew where she was headed.

Mart had stopped, clutching my hand to stop me, too. “I’d rather not run into her just now,” he said, watching her movements carefully.

He turned around, leading the way back a few yards to a cross-street. Just before we turned down it I looked back over my shoulder. Sylvia was with someone now, stopped in the middle of the road, her hand on his arm. Clark? I squinted and couldn’t tell. Mart was talking, so I turned my attention back to him. Soon I’d all but forgotten the incident.

Another ten minutes and we were back at our hotel. The lobby was cool and dim, a welcome haven from the hot and humid outdoors. Mart and I stood side by side at the elevator, clutching my various parcels and talking about the next day’s schedule.

“Mart?” A breathy low voice spoke over our shoulders and we both pivoted.

The beautiful lounge singer I’d seen him with that first night at the hotel stood hesitantly before us. She wore a tropical patterned sundress of some gauzy material that floated around her body as if gently fanned. Her shoulders were bare and her long glossy hair cascaded around her.

“Ishani!” Mart greeted her with a grin just like the ones he’d been aiming at me all day and something in my stomach squirmed.

Ishani turned her big eyes from him to me rather pointedly and I took a step backward. As if on cue, the elevator doors opened with a whoosh.

“I’ll … I’ll see you later,” I told Mart and he nodded without looking at me. I stepped into the elevator as he walked toward her and didn’t mind when the doors came together, blocking them from view.

Leaning against the polished wood paneling, I let out a sigh that caught a bit at the end. We’d only spent the day together. There had been no tender words or gestures. Well, nothing blatant, anyway. Certainly there had been no promises of future outings. I had no right to feel disappointed, but I did. As I walked down the corridor to my room, my parcels weighed heavily in my hands.

In my room, I checked my text messages, returned one from my editor, and made a quick decision.

Pulling on my swimsuit, I grabbed a towel and headed for the pool. When in doubt, work it out, I always say. After a fun day in the sun with Mart, when it was difficult to ignore his attractiveness, when I liked him and it seemed he liked me, and yet there was this beautiful girl with the exotic name — well, it was time for some exercise.

Tables occupied by tourists ringed the perimeter of the pool. Some little kids were splashing in the shallow end of the water.

There was a diving board and a slide at the deep end and a few more laughing guests. I deliberately didn’t look around me. Eye contact led to conversation and just then all I wanted was the feel of cool water flowing over my hot skin.

I tossed my towel to one side and stepped to the edge. A pause to gather myself and then I was off. The jolt of the cold was a tonic, fueling each stroke, each kick, each turn at the end. Letting the rhythm guide me, I swam until I felt both tired and revived.

Heading off to the edge, where the water came just to my shoulder, I hovered contentedly, drinking in my surroundings.

The career girls were here now, I noticed, stretched out side by side on the lounge chairs. Last night they’d worn variations on the maxi dress. Today they were in variations on the bikini. My own suit was a more modest one-piece, but was just as brightly colored.

The lounge chairs furthest off in one corner were occupied, too. Clark and Sylvia? No, it couldn’t be. I’d seen Sylvia just a short time ago, heading away from the hotel. And apparently the man she’d met had not been Clark, because here he was, swimsuit clad, deep in conversation with some other woman. When she turned to get her drink from the table beside her, I recognized Jen. Sylvia was off with another man and now Clark was chatting up another woman. A very modern marriage, I thought.

Plunging under the surface again, I bobbed up and then out. There was another lounge chair by the career girls and it seemed to have my name on it.

• • •

After spending a bit too much time lying in the sun, I reminded myself I was on this trip as part of my employment with the magazine and meandered off to my room to write my next blog entry. Later, I’d expand the entry a bit, into a full article for the magazine.

I had a few false starts, but then I always do. Soon I was writing quickly about what we had seen and what we had eaten and what the weather had been like. I wanted to put a lot of description into my blog, so people could actually imagine what it was like here in this beautiful country. But one of my other goals with the magazine series was to include facts like the ones on Mart’s information sheet, or like the ones Professor Ramsey had rattled off on our first day.

I bit my lip. Mart was already mentioned plenty of times, since he was a zoo employee, so I’d mention the professor. It was easy to remember his last name, but even after sitting for several minutes staring off into space I couldn’t remember his first name. Admitting defeat, and not wanting to waste any more time, I opened the university’s website and clicked on the faculty link.

“Science, science. He said he teaches science,” I muttered, searching and clicking once more.

Then, I sat back. There was no Professor Ramsey teaching science at the university. Okay, maybe it wasn’t science. Maybe it was some specific form of science. Returning to the home page, I put “Ramsey” in as a keyword search. That ought to find him.

But it did not. At first, I was just irritated at my own ineptitude. If I were better with names, I wouldn’t be having this problem. My eureka moment came when I remembered I had a passenger list as part of the paperwork in my suitcase. It took a bit of digging, but at last I held it in my hand.