Wolfe’s smile broadened as he stepped forward and shook Luther’s hand. “Welcome aboard,” he said. “I’m glad you’re here.”
“Thanks for inviting me,” Luther said. He stole a quick glance at Wolfe’s right leg, which had been bitten off by a Mokélé-mbembé in the Congo when Grace was two years old. In its place Wolfe wore a high-tech prosthesis invented by the mysterious Ted Bronson.
“We’ve had a little change of plans,” Wolfe said. “We’ll be sailing tonight.”
“Tonight?” Grace and Marty said. They often spoke in unison like twins do, even though they were no longer twins.
Wolfe nodded. “You’re going to need to get your gear down to the ship as soon as possible.”
“What about Grace’s birthday?” Marty asked. “I was going to bake a cake.”
“You’ll have to bake it aboard ship,” Wolfe said. “We’ll have the birthday party after we’re underway.”
“And there’s another problem,” Al said, glaring at Marty. “Did you leave the keys in your four-wheeler?”
Marty checked his pockets. The keys weren’t there. One of Al’s security measures was that the keys to all vehicles on Cryptos were to be taken out of the ignitions. Marty had no idea why this was important. Where could a car thief go on the tiny island?
“Sorry,” Marty said. “I’ll run out and get them.”
Al shook his head. “It’s too late. The four-wheeler has been stolen.”
“By who?” Marty asked.
“Not by who,” Al answered. “By it.”
Marty glanced at Wolfe, who was doing his best to stop himself from laughing.
It was what Al called Bo. He hated the chimpanzee, and the feeling was mutual. Bo delighted in tweaking Al and his men whenever and wherever she could.
“And she has that little dog with her,” Al added.
The little dog was PD — short for Pocket Dog — a three-pound teacup poodle who jumped into pockets when she heard the word snake because she was terrified of the reptiles. Bo and PD were best friends, and Bo was always carrying the tiny poodle around on her adventures.
“I didn’t know Bo knew how to drive a four-wheeler,” Marty said.
“From the reports we’ve gotten, she doesn’t drive it very well,” Wolfe said. “You and Luther better go out and try to catch her before she kills herself or someone else. Luther’s gear is already on the ship. While you’re out chasing the renegade chimp, Grace can pack your stuff. When you catch up with Bo, take her and PD down to the Coelacanth. But I’m warning you ahead of time … Bo is terrified of ships, especially the Coelacanth.”
Marty didn’t blame her. He and Bo were the only ones on the island who had any sense about the haunted ship.
“Is her tracking tag active?” he asked.
“I’m afraid not,” Wolfe answered. “I haven’t had time to put in another subcutaneous tag compatible with the new Gizmos.”
“Subcutaneous?” Luther asked.
“Under the skin,” Marty answered. “If she had to wear one around her neck like we do, she’d just tear it off.” Marty looked back at his uncle. “So, how am I supposed to find and catch her?”
Wolfe grinned. “She’s the only chimp on the island riding a four-wheeler. I’m sure you’ll figure something out.”
Al looked at his watch. “If we’re going to ship out tonight, I have things to attend to.”
“Nice to meet you, Albert,” Luther said.
Al glared at him and hurried out of the library.
“I wonder if he’s going to wear three-piece suits on board the Coelacanth,” Marty said.
“What do you want me to pack?” Grace asked.
“I haven’t even unpacked since we got back from the Congo. Just put the loose stuff into my bags.” He looked at Luther. “We’d better go.”
“There’s another four-wheeler parked outside,” Wolfe said. “And don’t forget to wear your helmets.”
Marty doubted Bo and PD had helmets, but he and Luther slipped theirs on and ran out of the library.
Wolfe watched them go, shaking his head, then turned his attention to the high wire stretched across the balcony.
“That makes me very nervous,” he said.
“Don’t worry,” Grace said. “I’m very careful when I’m up there.”
“Maybe when we get back we can set up something in the hangar with a net below it … just in case.”
“Good idea,” Grace said, then changed the subject. “How’s Congo?”
Congo was the African gray parrot they had brought back with them from the continent. He had belonged to Grace’s mother, Rose. Noah Blackwood’s henchman, Butch McCall, had broken Congo’s wing when the parrot tried to stop him from kidnapping Grace. Her father, Travis Wolfe, was not only a biologist, oceanographer, and cryptozoologist … he was also a veterinarian.
“His bones mended well,” Wolfe replied. “I took the bandages off and sent him down to the Coelacanth along with the Mokélé-mbembé eggs. Secretly, of course. We still don’t want anyone to know about the eggs. It will be a while before Congo can use his wing, but he’ll be flying around soon.”
“I thought you wanted to wait for the eggs to hatch before we left for New Zealand,” Grace said.
“I did. It would be a lot better to have them hatch on the island than on the open sea, but a little problem has come up.” An uncharacteristic look of worry flashed across Wolfe’s rugged but handsome face. “Your grandfather, Noah Blackwood, got back to Seattle last night,” he said.
* * *
Dr. Noah Blackwood was holding a press conference in front of the giant panda exhibit at his Seattle Ark. Three black-and-white cubs rollicked behind him on a field of green grass, but the irresistibly cute cubs were all but ignored by the reporters in attendance. Very few people on earth — perhaps no one else on earth — could command that kind of attention against such a tantalizing background.
Dr. Blackwood’s mesmerizing blue eyes were offset by a bronze tan and a lion’s mane of snow-white hair. He was smiling at the reporters with his perfectly white teeth, hiding the raging anger burning inside his famously cheerful exterior. Standing next to Noah was a gaunt Butch McCall. With his bushy mustache, bald head, and tattoos, Butch looked as if he had just stepped out of solitary confinement at a state penitentiary.
“As you know,” Noah was saying in his deep baritone voice, “my only child, Rose, disappeared in the Congo eleven years ago. Not a day …” He wiped a tear from his eye and cleared his throat. “… not an hour goes by that I don’t feel the heartbreaking loss I wrote about in my autobiography, My Wondrous Wild Life. The mystery of Rose’s disappearance has never been solved.” He looked at Butch and put a manicured hand on Butch’s shoulder. “My friend and chief field biologist, Butch McCall, loved Rose almost as much as I. He felt compelled to revisit the Lake Télé region of the Congo, where Rose was last seen, hoping to uncover new evidence of what happened to her. Sadly, he failed in this endeavor, and in the process was injured and became hopelessly lost….”
It took all of Butch McCall’s considerable willpower to stop himself from scowling. This was the only part of Noah Blackwood’s outrageous lie that he had a problem with. The idea that Butch McCall could get lost in the wilderness, or anywhere else, was utterly ridiculous. He prided himself on his ability to know exactly where he was at all times, and with good reason. But today he had to swallow his pride. The only thing in the world that Butch feared was the white-haired old man standing next to him.
Noah continued. “Fortunately, I was able to locate him and carry him out of that terribly hostile environment.”
Butch gritted his teeth. It had taken them over a week to reach the nearest settlement. And it had been Butch who had carried Noah out of the jungle.
Instead of heading back to the Seattle Ark, Noah had his private jet drop him at an exclusive private spa in the south of France to recuperate from his ordeal, leaving Butch in the Congo in much less lavish circumstances
to lick his own wounds.
“As luck would have it, while I was searching for Butch in the Congo I made two very important scientific discoveries,” Noah went on.
It was Butch who had made the discoveries, and only one was scientific — the other was personal. And this was the second reason Butch was putting up with this charade. He had managed to let both discoveries slip through his callused hands, and Noah Blackwood was furious with him. Butch wanted the discoveries back. The only way to get them was with Noah’s considerable wealth and power.
Predictably, the reporters asked Noah what these discoveries were. And just as predictably, Noah, with his familiar sly smile and a mischievous blue-eyed glint, said, “I am afraid I cannot tell you.”
The reporters let out a collective disappointed groan.
“At least not yet,” Noah added. “You know my policy and the name of my other bestselling book, Wildlife First. It’s not just a title, it is the lifeblood of my soul. Wildlife first, without exception.”
“Did you discover a new animal species?” one of the reporters asked.
“No comment at this time,” Noah said. “But you have my word that I will let you know what I discovered as soon as I possibly can.” He stared at the group for a moment, then began again. “The reason I called this press conference was to thank everyone for the outpouring of concern and prayers for my safety during the past two weeks.” He smiled again. “I’m afraid that the rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated.”
The reporters laughed at the famous quote by the writer Mark Twain. What they didn’t know was that the rumors of Noah Blackwood’s death had actually been circulated by Noah himself while he was undergoing his spa treatments. When Noah had sufficiently recovered, he snuck back into the Congo and stumbled out of the forest cradling Butch in his arms — no easy task because of Butch’s size, but luckily it was only a distance of thirty feet.
Coincidentally, there was a camera crew in the very village Noah staggered into.
NOAH BLACKWOOD ALIVE!
DR. BLACKWOOD SAVES COLLEAGUE
FROM DEADLY JUNGLE!
… were the lead stories on television and in magazines and newspapers all around the world.
Noah’s disappearance and miraculous reappearance had added millions of dollars to his considerable bank account. Aside from his highly rated wildlife television show, he owned several popular animal theme parks around the world called Noah’s Ark. During his two-week disappearance, visitors had flooded through the gates of his parks, and his television show rerun ratings had never been higher. He had made more money missing or presumed dead than he had when he was alive, making him wonder why he hadn’t tried the disappearing act before.
Noah lived in a mansion on a hill perched above his Seattle Ark. When the press conference was over, he was planning to tour the park and talk to visitors, which always made great footage on the five o’clock news. The Noah Blackwood everyone knew was a man of the people, an accessible man, a kind man, but a merciless warrior when it came to protecting the world’s wildlife.
“The only thing I can tell you now is that what I have discovered will rock the scientific community to its very foundation,” Noah said.
“What do you think of Northwest Zoo and Aquarium’s plans to capture and exhibit a giant squid?” a woman reporter asked.
Noah blinked. This was the first time he’d heard about it. NZA was his main competitor in Washington State. He believed that every dollar spent at NZA was a dollar stolen from him. Why hadn’t his spy at NZA told him about this?
“I wish them luck,” he said with a strained smile, as if it were old news. “But it will be no easy task. A living specimen of Architeuthis has never been captured.”
“They’re pretty confident they can bring one back alive,” the reporter persisted. “We haven’t been able to verify it, but the rumor is that they’ve contracted eWolfe to capture the squid in Kaikoura Canyon off the coast of New Zealand.”
At the mention of eWolfe, Noah’s smile failed him.
“Didn’t Travis Wolfe work for you?” the reporter asked.
“Yes,” Noah said tightly. “A long time ago.”
“He and his partner, Ted Bronson, captured that great white shark for you, didn’t they?”
“Actually, I captured and brought the great white in,” Noah lied. “Travis and Ted were deckhands at the time.” Noah gave the woman a smile and chuckled. “And not very good ones at that.”
Some of the other reporters laughed along with him.
“After the great white died at your park,” the reporter continued without smiling, “I always wondered why you didn’t replace it. It was a very popular exhibit.”
“Yes, it was,” Noah said. “But the great white is hardly endangered. We used the empty tank for an endangered species of porpoise. My Arks are conservation facilities, not amusement parks.”
The truth was that Blackwood’s parks were gold mines and breeding grounds where he grew animals for the unusual collection he kept on the top floor of his mansion.
Noah leaned over to Butch and whispered, “Act like you’re ill. This press conference is over. And before we leave, get that reporter’s name. Her career is over.”
Butch didn’t know how to act ill, having rarely been sick a day in his life, but he gave it his best shot. He started to wobble as if he were going to pass out.
“Are you all right, Butch?” Noah grabbed Butch’s arm to stop him from falling. “I told Butch he didn’t have to attend the press conference,” Noah told the reporters with deep concern. “In addition to his other injuries, he’s suffering from a bout of malaria. I’m afraid we’ll have to cut this short.” Noah started leading Butch through the crowd of reporters to the electric cart that would drive them back up to the mansion.
As they passed the reporter who had brought up the shark question, Butch asked her what her name was. She told him. Butch smiled, knowing that by the end of the week the reporter would be looking for a new occupation. Noah would see to that.
* * *
Butch was relieved to be back inside the mansion and away from the cameras, where he could drop the rescued victim charade. Unfortunately, Noah had also dropped the kind and caring Noah Blackwood charade. He was fuming as Butch followed him upstairs to his inner sanctum on the top floor. It was a large room few people had ever seen, and with good reason — it was the lair of the real Noah Blackwood.
The world was used to seeing Noah Blackwood holding and petting baby animals on late-night television shows, giving impassioned lectures on wildlife conservation, and pursuing evil animal poachers and bringing them to justice. But in this room, filled with the most exotic and endangered animals on earth, only two animals were breathing: Noah Blackwood and Butch McCall.
Butch walked around the hermetically sealed, climate-controlled glass dioramas filled with exquisite taxidermy. The animals looked better in death than they had in life. And Butch knew these stuffed animals well, having killed or captured more than half of them. He stopped before the window of a new occupant. It was a young female Caspian tiger in her prime, attacking an ibex. Her name was Natasha. Butch had not killed Natasha, but he had captured her parents in Afghanistan several years earlier and smuggled them into the Seattle Ark. The Caspian tiger was thought to have gone extinct in the early 1900s. It hadn’t, but it was extinct now.
Butch turned to Noah, who was sitting behind a huge spotless desk, glaring angrily at the only thing on it — a large flat-screen computer monitor.
“Natasha never looked better,” Butch said, trying to lighten the tension in the room.
“Henrico botched the job,” Noah retorted sourly. “If you look at the right upper canine, you can see there’s a hairline crack.”
Henrico was Noah’s personal taxidermist. Butch had never seen him. His workshop was in the basement of the mansion and could only be reached by a private elevator to which Noah alone had the key. As far as Butch knew, Henrico had not left the basement
in more than twenty years — and in all that time he had seen and talked to no one but Noah Blackwood.
“Henrico is getting old,” Noah said. “He’s losing his artistic touch. We are going to have to get an apprentice for him soon so he can pass on what he knows before he dies.”
“That’s not going to be easy,” Butch said. “Where are you going to find someone willing to spend twenty years underground with a bunch of dead animals?”
“Who said Henrico was willing?” Noah said. “Who said he had a choice when I found him on the streets of Rio picking tourists’ pockets? He had a very light touch, which all good pickpockets have. That’s why I chose him. He was trained by my father’s taxidermist. You’d be surprised how good you become at something when you are locked in a basement with absolutely nothing else to do. He was resistant at first, but now he’s a true artist.” Noah swept his elegant hand across the beautiful dioramas. “In Rio he would have been imprisoned, or murdered, or would have died of disease. Instead, he has created a legacy of work that will make him immortal.”
Noah turned his attention back to the computer monitor and punched a button on a keyboard. There was a short ring over a speaker, then a nervous-sounding woman came on the line.
“Dr. Blackwood, I’m so relieved you’re safe. I was afraid you —”
“Stop wasting my time,” Noah said. “Why wasn’t I told about the expedition for the giant squid?”
The woman paused. Butch could sense the fear in her hesitation.
“I didn’t know about it,” the woman answered shakily. “They kept it a secret.”
“I pay you to know about everything going on at NZA,” Noah said. “It’s difficult to believe that an expedition of this magnitude could be kept secret. I was just told about it by an obnoxious reporter. You are supposed to give me news before it becomes news. When did you learn about this so-called secret?”
“Two days ago.”
“Why didn’t you call me two days ago?”
“I thought you were dead.”
Butch turned toward the diorama of the Caspian tiger to hide his relief. He didn’t know the woman, but he was sure that right about now she wished the rumors of Noah Blackwood’s death had been true. Butch hoped Noah’s anger toward her might lessen the anger Noah was feeling toward him. He was surprised that Noah hadn’t fired him (or worse) after he lost the Mokélé-mbembé eggs and Noah’s granddaughter, Grace, at Lake Télé. He was certain Noah would make him pay for these failures, but the old man had yet to inform him how, or what the price would be. If Butch could somehow get Grace back, retrieve the dinosaur eggs, and possibly stop Wolfe and NZA from snagging a giant squid, his boss might just retire the debt and maybe even add a little money to his bank account.