Forever (8 page)

He drew his eyes back in and looked at the
brilliant emerald- green-and-black butterfly he was holding by its
yellow thorax with a pair of tweezers. It was still alive, and
fluttered its wings in a desperate attempt to escape.

He held it up. 'Do you know what this is?'
he asked in Portuguese-accented English.

'Of course,
senhor,
' replied Colonel
Valerio, formerly of the U.S. Army, now retired, who stood off to
the side in the military position of at ease. 'It's a
butterfly.'

De Veiga shook his head and smiled. 'No, no,
no, Colonel. This is no mere butterfly!
This
is an
Ornithoptera priamus!
It is found near the coasts of the
Moluccas and New Guinea and northern Australia. And, as of now,
here! Beautiful, is it not? My first male of this species for my
collection! Notice the yellow dots near the costa? Here?' He
pointed with an index finger. 'It is quite similar to those of the
female Ornithoptera victoriae. A butterfly's colours,' he added,
'are a result of its ability to convert its own excreta to pure
pigment. Fascinating, no?'

That explained, de Veiga unscrewed the lid
of a jar inside which he kept an ether-soaked sponge. Swiftly he
plunged the butterfly down into the fumes until its fluttering
ceased, then took it back out and replaced the lid tightly. He laid
the unconscious insect with its half-closed wings against a
six-inch-square wooden rack which had two lateral lathes and a
cork-lined groove into which to fit the thorax. Then, selecting a
tiny pin, he impaled the butterfly with one swift jab. Bending
forward, he blew gently on its abdomen, and its jewel-like wings
opened wide. He laid a strip of parchment vertically down on each
wing, and with a pair of needles mounted on tiny wooden holders,
secured them in that position. Then he slid the wooden rack into a
larger rectangular container of ether.

'There, my pet,' he said softly to the
butterfly. 'You see? Death can be absolutely painless, and now your
beauty will bring joy for ever.'

He was quite serious.

After a minute he slid the wooden rack back
out of the ether. Now it was just a matter of waiting a week or so
for the butterfly to dry. Once that was done, he would remove it
from the rack, place it under glass, and carefully label it.

He motioned for Colonel Valerio to roll
forward a giant, mesh-enclosed cage mounted on casters which had
been pushed away against the wall. Inside it, thousands of live
butterflies like the one he had just mounted fluttered and swirled,
like a constantly changing kaleidoscope of emeralds.

'Ah!' Ernesto de Veiga looked up at the
colonel. 'A miracle, is it not?' His eyes were gleaming. 'Just
yesterday, these were still but chrysalides. And now look at them!'
For a long moment he stared into the cage with pride. Then, lifting
the lid, he set them free.

Up and out the green butterflies fluttered,
rising like a column of living jewels before becoming a cloud of
scattered emeralds.

'There.' When they had dispersed, de Veiga
folded his hands on the wicker tabletop and looked questioningly up
at his Chief of Security. 'Now then,' he said. 'I take it you have
good news to report, Colonel?'

'Yes,
senhor
.' Colonel Valerio
nodded. He was a tanned, lean man with tiny white crinkles in his
leathery skin and was dressed in a khaki shirt, web belt, black
beret, and khaki trousers which he wore bloused over his jungle
boots. He wore a holster on his hip and mirrored aviator shades
which rendered his face expressionless. His shirt was damp and
clung to him, but if he suffered any discomfiture he did not show
it. He was ex-US Army, and had spent a lifetime in the humid
tropics. Compared to the steamy jungles of Central America, Ilha da
Borboleta was paradise. But then, it was paradise compared to any
other place in the world, too.

'The body has been discovered?' de Veiga
enquired softly as he sipped his glass of vegetable juice.

'Yes,
senhor
.' Colonel Valerio's
voice was clipped. 'I have just received word.'

'And the cause of death?'

'Suicide by hanging.'

'How unfortunate.' The billionaire brought
his drink thoughtfully to his lips. 'What about his research
material?'

'
Senhor
?'

'You mean it is still there?' De Veiga's
expression did not change, but his voice conveyed infinite
displeasure.

'You never said it should be destroyed,
senhor
.''

De Veiga took another sip of his drink. 'See
that it is. And Colonel?' He tilted his head back, peering at the
Chief of Security through hooded eyes.

'Yes,
senhor
?'

'See that you do not fail me.' De Veiga
gestured dismissively. 'Now go.'

Colonel Valerio spun a neat about-face and
strode briskly down the verandah and around a corner. As his
footsteps receded, a woman of indeterminate age and breathtaking
beauty swept out through the French doors. She moved soundlessly on
gold sandals, but Ernesto de Veiga was immediately aware of her:
even unseen, his mistress exuded an extraordinary presence.

He turned his head to look at her. Today she
was wearing a loose jumpsuit of turquoise parachute silk, and her
hair was completely hidden by a matching turquoise slip-on turban.
Her complexion was very pale. Like many South American women, she
had on bright-red lipstick and a little too much makeup; unlike
them, she also wore upswept sunglasses encrusted with genuine
diamonds. Her carefully shaped eyebrows were the colour of rich
honey.

'What did Valerio want?' she asked in
Portuguese as she swept towards him in a cloud of jasmine.

'He reported the suicide of that American
writer.'

'Suicide?' For a moment she lifted her
sunglasses and stared at him through the most extraordinary green
eyes.

Ernesto de Veiga permitted himself a slight
smile. 'It seems the poor man hanged himself.'

'Ah!' she said with delight. Lowering her
glasses, she went to stand behind him. Her strong slender fingers
kneaded his shoulders possessively. 'He is dead then?' she asked,
just to make sure.

'Oh, very. Or should I say, unfortunately
so?'

Her voice turned suddenly bitter. 'You will
say nothing of the kind, Ernesto! That meddling old fool! Lili
Schneider is long dead and buried. Why didn't he let her rest in
peace?'

'Unfortunately for him, he didn't. But do
not worry, my butterfly. Her memory is now safe.' He reached up,
took her by the wrist, and slipped a thirty-carat diamond solitaire
on her ring finger. 'A present for the most exquisite butterfly of
them all,' he said, kissing her hand.

'Oh, Ernesto!' She raised her hand and moved
it around to admire the brilliant shards of blue, the flashes of
pure white light. 'You shouldn't have.'

'It's D-flawless.'

'Of course,' she said. She leaned down and
touched her soft cheek against his. Then, smiling, she reached into
her voluminous sleeve and withdrew a flat clear-plastic box. 'And I
have a present for you also.'

He took it from her and looked through the
lid.

A butterfly.

Wings a translucent shade of green and
iridescent pearl grey. Speckles of pale-violet spots.

He clapped his hands in childlike delight.
'A
Salamis parhassus!
My very first!'

She smiled. 'I know,' she said.
'Unfortunately, I couldn't acquire a live caterpillar or a
chrysalis. Yet.'

Eagerly he opened the box. Barely touching
the delicate edge of a wingtip, he murmured, 'In death it gives us
beauty everlasting.'

'Yes,' she agreed softly and continued
stroking his shoulders. 'Indeed it does.'

After leaving the police station, Stephanie
wandered around midtown. She had no clear destination, and went
wherever her feet carried her. She needed time to clear her head
and make sense out of everything that had happened. She couldn't
shake the feeling that she had wandered through a looking-glass -
and had been plunged into another, darker world. A nightmare world
inhabited by suffering and pain.

There was so much to cope with. So many
questions gnawing at her. And the police had been of no help.
They'd insisted her grandfather had committed suicide - showing her
his note to prove it. A note typed on his treasured old Remington.
The one on which he'd written his bestsellers.

'It's not even signed!' she'd pointed out
angrily. 'And what kind of sentence is this - "/
cannot bare to
live any longer
." He'd never misspell a word like bear.'

'A man under stress would,' she'd been
told.

And now she suddenly wasn't so sure any
more.

What if Grandpa
had
typed that
suicide note? she asked herself.

He didn't
, she answered herself at
once.
I know that in my heart
.

And what if the police were right, and the
cigar he'd smoked had been the last earthly treat he had permitted
himself?

It wasn't. I have no proof, but I know.

Perhaps he'd been ill. Suffering from some
painful, terminal disease he'd kept secret from her?

The thought was like an explosion in her
chest. She practically reeled under the impact.

Oh, God.

Dont' let it have been that! Oh please, dear
God -

Suddenly she became aware of where she was -
the corner of Park Avenue and Sixty-fifth Street. The very block
where her grandfather's doctor had his offices!

She wondered: Has my subconscious guided me
here?

'Doctor will see you at once, Miss Merlin,'
the receptionist told her warmly.

Stephanie conveyed her thanks and walked
into the doctor's office. She was filled with trepidation. The idea
that her grandfather might have been hiding a terrible disease from
her was unbearable.

Lyle Forsyth, M.D., Carleton Merlin's
physician, said, 'I gave your grandfather a thorough physical not
three weeks ago. X-rays, EKG, blood tests, the works. He was in
excellent health for his age, Stephanie. Other than his leg injury
from long ago, nothing was bothering him. That's why I couldn't
understand it when I heard he -'

'He
didn't!
Stephanie cut in
vehemently. 'I just had to make sure there was no reason he might
have wanted to.'

Dr Forsyth's manner was gentle. 'Are you
holding up all right? Can I prescribe anything for you?'

'Thank you, but no.' She shook her head. I
have to feel the hurt, she thought. I don't want my bereavement
clouded by chemicals.

She rose from the chair and shook the
doctor's hand. 'I appreciate your having seen me.'

'If there's anything I can do ... ' His
voice trailed off.

Sighing, she smiled wistfully and thought,
If only you could bring the dead back to life . . .

She returned to the Osborne to find Pham
puttering around the living room, trying to clean between fits of
silent tears.

The moment Stephanie came in, the young
Vietnamese man opened his arms wide. 'Oh, Miss Stephanie,' he
moaned, clutching her tightly. 'I am so sorry.'

For a while they clung to each other and
shed tears together.

'He was such a fine man,' Pham said thickly,
shaking his head. 'I am going to miss him.'

'I know, Pham, I know.'

'When I found him, I could not believe my
eyes.' Pham wiped away tears with thin fingertips. 'I still
cannot!'

Stephanie thought, Neither can I.

After a while, Pham sniffled, then drew a
mantle of dignity around his tender feelings. He said, 'By the way,
some gentlemen called. The lawyers. Also the accountant. They want
to set up meeting with you.' His harsh voice made it clear what he
thought of business intruding before Carleton Merlin was even laid
to rest.

'I'll call them,' she said.

Pham nodded. 'I wish they leave you alone at
a time like this.' Sniffling again, he floated off in search of
dust and grime.

Stephanie sighed and sank into a chair
beside Waldo's cage. Pham glided silently back in, set a cup of hot
tea and a plate of biscuits down on the gueridon beside her, and
slid just as soundlessly back out.

Stephanie sat there numbly.

'Wal-do!' the bird squawked, eyeing the
biscuits with greedy eyes. He cocked his head sideways. 'Waldo
wants a crack-er! Wal-do! I love you, Steph!'

Absently, Stephanie fed him one biscuit
after another until they were all gone. She was deep in thought.
There was so much to think about, and she already felt so drained.
First there was the funeral. Then there were taxes. There were so
many details to worry about, so many things to take care of.
Insurance policies. Bank accounts. Safety deposit boxes. Bills.
Personal property to dispose of.

Suddenly it was all too much to take.

One thing at a time, she cautioned herself.
Don't try to do everything at once. And don't be afraid to ask for
help. That's what friends are for.

She picked up the phone and called Sammy
Kafka at his apartment.

When he answered, Stephanie said thickly,
'Uncle Sammy? You said I could call whenever I needed you. Could
you please come over?'

'I'm on my way, Girlie,' the old man
promised.

New York City

Thomas Andrew Chesterfield III did not
appreciate late-night telephone calls. He appreciated even less
having to get up at that ungodly hour to run a sleazy errand. The
truth of the matter was, he had no choice.

He put down the phone with a sigh and looked
at his wife. Katinka lay on her side, facing him, her unlined face
in peaceful repose, her black satin hair fanned out over the
324-thread-per- inch pillow cases. The ringing of the telephone
hadn't awakened her; she'd only rolled over on her side and curled
herself into a ball, tucking her knees up against her breasts.