Page 65 of Bay of Plenty

From deep within my brain, I dug up something from the mass of research I’d waded through that week. “Would the facilities in Tasmania be sophisticated enough to grow this poppy?” I asked. It was an island at the bottom of Australia. “It’s the largest grower of poppies in the world for producing heroin for the medical industry.”

Declan nodded enthusiastically. “And it’s only a four-hour flight from here.”

“Mm, that tracks,” the scientist said. “One of their most qualified employees could definitely be illegally using their facility to do this.”

After discussing it further, we rang off, and still seated in the car, we both gazed thoughtfully out over the golf greens.

“What if thegenuineheroin came from Tasmania too?” I asked Declan. “Let’s go over again how it might have got here,” I said. “Is it flown in? Shipped? This beach is so remote, there’s only a tiny airport and no place for a big boat to moor except at The Mount, an hour away.”

“My port contact at The Mount said that incoming shipments from the pharmaceutical industry were flagged and highly monitored,” Declan said. “But still, anything is possible for someone who has gobs of cash to bribe workers at the port.”

“Can’t be a small yacht. The seas are too treacherous,” I said. We’d already researched this. “And a helicopter couldn’t make it.”

We both sighed.

“I have a hopeless sense of direction,” I said. “Where’s Tasmania from here?”

Declan waved his arm inland. “The quickest way is across New Zealand’s North Island. But too many people would notice a plane flying over. Likely it would come around the bottom of the North Island and up.” He gestured from the East Cape and toward us.

I waved my arm in the same direction.

Arms flapping like drunk windmills, we looked at each other and laughed. That laughter bubbling up, not at some wordy joke but out of sheer silliness, loosened something in both of us.

A light bulb pinged in my head. His eyes widened at the same time.

Our voices tumbled all over each other.

“Mr.Otto waved his arm in the same way when he was talking about the UFO,” I said.

“It couldn’t be a plane or a helicopter. Could it be—” Declan said.

I hung over Declan’s shoulder as he searched the distance from Tasmania, how far the most powerful military drone could travel, and how much it could carry.

We spoke at the same time. “It’s a drone.”

*

“Let’s go see Mr.Otto,” Declan said.

We stopped in at home for gifts of lemons and carrot cake, then headed on foot to Hans Otto’s red and white cottage near the library. His walls inside were crowded with framed photos of all the iterations of Bella the cat. Kids and grandkids were featured only if they were holding one of the Bellas.

“I know what you’re here for,” he said, storing the lemonsand carrot cake in his kitchen. “Bella and I saw another UFO last night. It flew out to sea, but it didn’t fly into shore again.”

Declan and I exchanged a look.That’s it.

We talked for a while, trying to get more details, but he couldn’t add much more. As we said goodbye, Mr.Otto waved with Bella’s paw, giggling at her cuteness.

Outside, I asked Declan, “Was that the final shipment arriving? Where do you think it landed?”

“Maybe farther up the coast? The Mount?”

“You have good instincts trusting him.” Declan held my hand on the walk home. Our fingers took on a life of their own, rubbing and teasing, like a flirty dance. “Anyone else would have written him off.”

“Thank you.” I smiled and bumped his shoulder with mine.

I felt a creative buzz between us. Finally, were we working this out? Making sense of this mangled mass of information?

*

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