Thunder in the Night (Crimson Romance) (4 page)

I nodded. “Sure.”

Hotel staff kept the buffet well stocked with standard breakfast cuisine, although a few unusual items were also on offer. Taking a tray, I was happy to see pancakes, a bit rubbery-looking from the heat lamp. I added a bowl of cereal and a glass of juice then put together an assortment of fruits.

Mart looked surprised when I returned, as if he’d forgotten about me.

I slid the tray onto the cleared spot of the table and smiled. “I brought a whole bowl of fruit,” I said, gesturing at the colorful, juicy display.

He nodded. “Thanks. It looks great.”

This morning, he wore an ivory camp shirt, open at the throat to reveal a patch of dark hair. Long, khaki shorts came to his knees and he’d paired them with hiking boots. His socks were scrunched down over the tops.

“So, have you written your first blog entry yet?” he asked me, lifting his coffee cup and sipping.

“Yes, as a matter of fact.” I looked up. “Pretty straightforward. Who’s here and where we went.”

Spearing a piece of melon before answering he said, “You have to start somewhere.”

I didn’t answer, concentrating on pouring syrup over my pancakes.

Setting aside his papers, he propped his chin in his hands. “I just wish this trip emphasized the need for people to take action before the habitat is destroyed and the animals are gone. But it’s more of a see-it-quick-before-it-disappears sort of thing. Like a tourist attraction, or a wonder spot, you know? I just hope this sort of trip doesn’t do more harm than good.”

“What?” My hand stopped. My fork hovered over my plate, dripping syrup. “According to the literature, this trek is supposed to promote understanding of and concern for the rain forest.”

Mart sighed, pushing a hand through his hair. “The rain forest doesn’t need tourists any more than Antarctica does. I can understand that that’s sometimes the only way to get people to care, but I’ll always say it’s the wrong way.”

My eyebrows drew together as I frowned, pondering his words. “Then what are you doing here?” I asked bluntly.

“It’s my job,” he stated. “And I live in hope.” Leaning one elbow on the table in a casual manner, he went on. “Hope that it’s not too late for the forest. Hope that attitudes about zoos will change. Evolve.”

“You’ll have to forgive me, Mart. Zoos aren’t my regular beat. I didn’t know there was so much to ponder about them.”

“Tell me about your regular territory,” he said.

“I’ve been covering all sorts of topics — from club functions to charity events to a couple of really boring committee meetings. But what I really want to do is investigative reporting.” I set down my fork and let my mind conjure up a vision of what I hoped the future might be.

“Like Woodward and Bernstein?”

“Exactly!”

“That sounds like a tall order to fill from Rochester,” he said.

“But you have to have goals. They’re what I keep in mind on the days I cover humdrum stories, you know?”

He nodded. “Yeah, I know.”

He went back to shuffling papers around as I finished my pancakes and I assumed our conversation was over. When I pulled my cereal bowl closer, however, he spoke up.

“Be sure you try some of the local cuisine as long as you’re here. Take a flavor break.” He surveyed my bland-looking bowl of cornflakes. Obviously, he was of the when-in-Rome school of thought.

I poured my grapefruit juice over the cereal. “Yes, but it’s familiar and I like it.”

“You put juice on your cereal!” Mart leaned forward. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen that done before.”

“You should try it sometime. It’s wonderful,” I assured him, lifting a heaping spoonful of flakes. They were light and crunchy in my mouth and the juice gave them a tangy, citrus flavor that always reminded me of summer.

I’d dressed for summer as well, pulling my hair back and braiding it so it hung just past my shoulders. According to the guidebooks, the temperature would be well over eighty degrees, so I wore loose-fitting khaki walking shorts and a light, airy shirt with an apricot tank underneath. I knew the colors went well with my fair skin and the blue of my eyes. In my backpack I carried sunglasses, a baseball cap with an oversized bill, tanning lotion, and enough bug spray to stop a cloud of locusts. Be prepared, that’s what I always say.

Mart had bent his head, returning to his papers, whatever they were. I munched through my cereal, watching him concentrate.

“Will you be giving us a presentation on Tikal?” I gestured to his papers.

Mart tilted the papers away from me, so I couldn’t see any of the writing and tidied them into a stack. “No, no. This is just some personal research.” He rolled the papers into a tube shape and slipped a rubber band around them. “Clark will give a brief talk on the ruins before we leave this morning.” He glanced at his watch. “Very soon, in fact. Then, the group will split up for the ride to Tikal. It’s lucky there hasn’t been much rain or the roads would be impassable.”

“Then what? We’d miss the site?”

“No, then we’d have to be flown in. It wouldn’t take as long to get there by plane, but it would be a bit more expensive, of course.”

“And this way, we’ll get to see some of the country,” I said. “Some of the forest, too?”

He smiled, pushing back his chair and rising. “You’ll see plenty of forest, Allison. I promise you that.”

For an instant, as I sat looking up at him, our eyes met and I felt the welcome stirring of attraction. I lost this game of chicken and looked away first, back at the plates and bowls spread across the table.

“You’ll excuse me, but I need to speak with Clark before we get underway.” Mart tapped his rolled papers against his temple in a jaunty salute. “It was nice breakfasting with you, Allison. I’ll see you in the lobby.”

I nodded and watched him thread through the maze of tables and chairs in the dining room. It had been an interesting meal in plenty of ways. Not the least of which was Mart himself, and those deep, dark eyes.

I almost laughed out loud, listening in on my own thoughts. Here I was, at the beginning of an assignment, wasting valuable time thinking about someone’s eyes. I’d been sent here to do a job and, right now, that job entailed gulping the last of my coffee and joining the others headed for the hotel lobby.

I followed the sound of chattering voices to where our group was gathered. The Underwoods waved and I returned the gesture, but didn’t push through the throng to reach them. Scanning the group, I noted Clark’s position near the wall. As I watched, he waved his arms overhead in an appeal for quiet.

“This morning,” he began once the group hushed, “we’ll be journeying to the fantastic Mayan ruins of Tikal. I guarantee you will find the site fascinating and utterly, utterly unforgettable.” He closed his eyes on the second “utterly” and reopened them now to direct his warm smile at each of us. “We’ll be traveling in four-wheel-drive SUVs, so we’ll break into small groups momentarily. I’d like to share a bit of Tikal’s history with you first, however.”

I fished rapidly for my notebook so I could jot some of this down.

“Tikal is the largest city ever built by the ancient Mayan Indians and served as the capital. When I say ‘ancient,’ that’s exactly what I mean, too. There is evidence Tikal was occupied as far back as 2500
B.C.
and had a population of at least forty thousand. At the site, there are remnants of more than three thousand buildings. The University of Pennsylvania spent years working to restore some of these, cutting back the jungle growth to reveal the structures, but such work is a colossal undertaking.”

He turned, gesturing to a picture on the wall nearby which showed the flat-topped pyramid with steps down the front. “Some of the temples are as tall as a modern-day skyscraper,” Clark told us. “This one, for instance, is probably fifteen stories high. That’s about one hundred and fifty feet. The tallest, which is still pretty well covered by the jungle, is two hundred and twelve feet high.”

There were whistles and gasps from the crowd as we tried to imagine an ancient civilization constructing such massive buildings without the aid of modern machinery.

“For reasons no one fully understands, Tikal was abandoned before 900
A.D.
and not rediscovered until the mid-nineteenth century. Today, restoration work continues, so we may all admire and respect the wondrous achievements of the people referred to as ‘the Greeks of the New World.’ On the way to our vehicles, I urge each of you to pick up a copy of this fact sheet on Tikal, put together by our own Mart Lawler especially for this group.”

Clark held up a green sheet of paper. “It will give you plenty of further information to help you enjoy the ruins. We have a beautiful day for the trip and our transportation is just outside, so let’s get started.”

The people nearest the door began the migration and slowly filtered through the hotel’s entryway. As I had last night, I hung back, letting the others break up into clusters of friends who wished to ride together.

Clark and his wife, Sylvia, stood curbside, directing traffic. Clark was outfitted in bona fide safari clothes today — khaki from head to foot. Sylvia wore a variation on the theme — short-sleeved cotton shirt in white, a scarf at her neck, and a dark green, slim-fitting skirt that draped to the ankle. Her sneakers and socks looked comfortable and coordinated and very, very retro. Glossy brunette hair peeked out from beneath her straw pith-style hat. Chunky gold earrings glittered in the sun. Obviously, she felt one didn’t need to sacrifice style merely because one was about to enter a jungle.

I felt like a tourist, in comparison, and took a few steps in the opposite direction. But as I approached the only vehicle whose door still stood open to indicate a vacancy, Alan streaked past me. He smiled an apology. “Have to sit with my wife,” he said as he climbed inside. The door closed, leaving me on the sidewalk with only Clark, Sylvia, and Mart as company.

“You’ll be coming with us, Miss Belsar,” Clark said, walking up beside me and sliding his arm around my elbow. He steered me toward the lead vehicle, where the other two waited. “It’s best like this, I think, because you’ll be able to ask all the questions you want on the ride out.”

“Sounds great, Clark. Please, call me Allison.”

“Do you mind taking the rear seat?” he asked, holding the door. “Sylvia gets carsick if she isn’t up front.”

“Not a problem.” I gathered my pack into my arms, ducked my head and climbed inside.

From my reading, I knew we needed to travel in high-bodied vehicles because of the poor roads. As Mart had mentioned, during the rainy season the roads turned into muddy ruts. Improvements were taking place all the time, but the literature I’d consulted before we left warned me that a bumpy ride lay ahead.

The sun shone, bright and glorious, in a sky of deep, vibrant blue. A few enormous white clouds hung overhead, adding to the picture postcard appeal of the scene. Old buildings constructed of wood shared the blocks with newer concrete structures. We passed a two-story structure Mart said was the courthouse and I had to admire its charming veranda bordered by wrought-iron scrollwork. It wasn’t an especially busy day at the market, so the square opposite wasn’t very crowded.

“There will be plenty of time for shopping and exploring the city, Allison,” Clark assured me, twisting around in his seat to face me. “Our trekkers enjoy the marketplace almost as much as they do the ruins,” he added with a smile. Sylvia echoed his expression but, since her eyes were carefully hidden behind sunglasses, I couldn’t tell if her smile reached her eyes.

I wriggled in my seat, trying to get comfortable. It was a long road to Tikal and I figured we were in for a tense time with Mart and Clark in such close proximity. But as mile after mile passed, I began to relax. Clark answered a few of my easy questions about the zoo trek program and a few more about how he came to the Rochester Zoo. I tried to ask Sylvia about life with the zoo director, but she seamlessly tossed the question back to Clark without really answering. It’s a trick I’ve seen politicians use on occasion, and I had to admire the skillful manner in which she’d deflected attention. I gave up being a reporter after a time and the conversation turned all small-talky.

That’s what made it even more startling when Sylvia said, “Mrs. Underwood told me something interesting about you last night, Allison.”

Chapter Six

“Oh?” I said. “What’s that?”

“She said your father was a journalist, too. That he even served as editor in chief of your magazine for a while.”

Apparently, Sylvia hadn’t gotten up at the crack of daylight to watch my appearance on the
Wake Up Show
. I’d talked about Dad, in response to the host’s questions.

“That’s right. He was a brilliant journalist and he did run the magazine.” I smiled, remembering Dad with his sleeves rolled up. Sitting at the typewriter, a cigarette dangling from one corner of his mouth, he was the picture of industry. “That was a long time ago now. He inspired me to become a reporter,” I confessed.

“I’m sure you’ll do an excellent job with this story, Allison, and do him proud,” Clark said with certainty, verbally patting me on the head. “You know these treks are pretty interesting events — and I don’t say that just because they were my idea.” He paused. “Although they were.”

Then, he started telling tales about other treks the zoo had sponsored. Funny things that had happened. Food disasters. A love story. I didn’t really think he’d bring up whatever had happened on the last trek — the “unfortunate incident” Elaine had called it — since that would mar the image of the treks. And he didn’t.

So I did.

“I heard there was some trouble on the last trek to Belize. What happened?”

I didn’t imagine the immediate silence and the tension that filled our vehicle like an electric charge.

“An accident,” Clark began, overly interested in the view all of a sudden.

“Elaine called it an ‘incident,’” I pressed, keeping my tone questioning.

“Incident, accident,” Clark waved away the semantics. “All of our trekkers were safe. That’s what matters.”