Mexico Fever (The Bill Travis Mysteries Book 12)

by George Wier

  When I touched down at Brownsville, I noticed I had missed a phone call from Julie. I gassed up the plane, then walked out across the tarmac both to stretch the old legs and get some exercise while I called her.

  “You need to call Sawyer,” she said.

  “Why? Has something happened?”

  “He won't say and I don't like the sound of his voice, but he wants you to call him as soon as you can.”

  “I will.”

  “Are you okay?” she asked.

  “I'm starting to get a little tired. Baby, am I getting old?”

  “You've been getting old ever since I've known you. Would you cut out the morose business and focus?”

  “On what?”

  “On what you're doing. On flying that plane. On getting there in one piece.”

  “Oh, I concentrate on all that stuff so easy that it's all on automatic,” I said.

  “That's what scares me.”

  “Goodnight, honey,” I said. “I'm gonna call the Governor now.”

  “Goodnight.”

  We hung up and I looked for and found the phone number for 'Gov. Sawyer.'

  He answered on the first ring.

  “There's been a development.”

  “What development? Did Walt report in?”

  “Not exactly. I just got a ransom demand for him. We have seventy-two hours to get half a million dollars to a guy named Guillermo or they're going to kill him.”

  The concrete under my feet wasn't quite so solid as it had been a moment ago. My stomach seized up for a second and I had trouble breathing.

  “Bill?” Governor Sawyer asked.

  “Heard you,” I managed. “How are you supposed to get the money to him?”

  “By wire. I have the routing number and account number. Once they have that, they say they'll let him go.”

  “What's today?” I asked.

  “Monday morning. Almost three o'clock.”

  “Do you have half a million dollars?” I asked. “And if you do, are you planning on paying it?”

  “I do and I will, but not immediately. My bank opens at nine o'clock. I can begin the process on this end, including verifying the account on the other end, especially what bank, where, and whose account it really is.”

  “I'm about to head across the border,” I said. “I assume I'm still going, right?”

  “Oh, you're going, all right. But the stakes just got bigger. You're no longer going down there just to see if he's still alive. They put him on the phone for a second.”

  “Was it...?”

  “It was Walt. He only got out three words before they took the phone away from him.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He said, 'Remember the Alamo.'”

  “Damn,” I said. “That's Walt. That's exactly what he would say.”

  “What does that mean to you, Bill?” he asked.

  I didn't answer right away. Instead I looked into the blackness to the south. Over that direction, mere miles, lay the Rio Grande. It was over a hundred and seventy-five years before, that Generalissimo Antonio Lopez de Santa Ana, the President of Mexico, brought about ten thousand Mexican's across that same river and into Texas to put down an uprising of the Texas colonists. He marched on the Central Texas towns of San Antonio de Bexar and nearby Goliad, lay siege to the men holed up in the old and dilapidated Spanish Missions, attacked them, and put every man to the sword. The war for Texas would culminate a few months later in an attack by Texian forces during siesta time near San Jacinto Creek southeast of what was then known as Harrisburg—but would later be renamed after the victor of the battle: Houston. During that last famous battle, Sam Houston rallied his men with the cry, “Remember the Alamo! Remember Goliad!”

  “Bill?” he repeated.

  “It means, Governor, that he's not planning on living through this.”

  “Yeah. That's what I thought. It sounds like Walt.”

  The silence over the phone was heavy; a gulf deep and dark.

  “Governor,” I said. “I'm going to save him.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Within a few minutes of crossing the river, I had a radio call from the Mexican tower at Matamoros's Aeropuerto Internacional General Servando Canales, inviting me to land. I accepted the invitation and turned to the west. I was quickly turned over to an air traffic controller, who guided me in, telling me in turn to reduce speed and come down to first three thousand, then two thousand feet. After ten minutes, I lined up on the runway, flaps full, carburetor heat on, reduced my airspeed, and came in right on the numbers.

  I was about to undergo a Customs inspection and I hoped they wouldn't take long. Seventy-two hours seems like a lot at first blush, but the sun rises and it sets and the minutes tick away in a most unforgiving fashion. It is, in fact, maddening. Time is always shortest nearest the end of the run, and a thing is only as valuable as it is rare.

  The instant my feet touched the tarmac, a car jerked to a stop and a fellow wearing a green uniform got out.

  “Señor Travis?”

  I nodded. “Si.”

  “I am Raymond Gonsalmo. I will be clearing you for travel in Mexico.”

  “Gracias,” I said. I turned and reached across the seat and withdrew my papers. In case anything were to happen, I had a complete other set hidden on the plane, including the passport. I turned back and handed the packet to Raymond.

  “Please state your business in Mexico.”

  “I am looking for a missing person.” I had decided not to lie, entirely, but to withhold whatever information I felt necessary. At best, I would downplay the whole 'missing persons' thing. “A friend went on vacation in Yucatan and hasn't come back.”

  “Is he in the country illegally?” Raymond asked.

  I smiled. “No. He is an old friend of the President, and is most welcome here. But I have been worried about him and cannot reach him.”

  “I see,” Raymond said. He removed the rubberband from the packet, rolled it up his wrist, and began looking through my papers. “So you will find this friend and then return to the United States?”

  “That is the plan, Señor Gonsalmo. I have to get back home to work as soon as possible.”

  “What kind of work is it that you do?” he asked.

  “I'm an accountant.”

  “Ahh. Yes. I see. May I look inside your plane?”

  “Please be my guest,” I said.

  I moved aside and Raymond stepped up into the cockpit and seated himself at the controls. This was somewhat annoying; the only parallel I can think of that comes close is some official demanding to ride your horse and then doing so. For just an instant I wanted to walk up to him and punch him in the face, but I successfully restrained myself. Had I done so, I would have both guaranteed Walt Cannon's demise, and landed myself in a Mexican jail, likely for several years.

  “Ah. Yes, here is the log book.”

  “It's in order,” I said.

  “I'm sure it is. Who are these other people? The notations are not all yours.”

  “Joint owners of the plane. It's better for the plane to have more than one owner. That way it's kept serviced and in good running condition.”

  “Ahh. It is nice to own an aeroplane, I am certain.”

  “I suppose,” I admitted.

  I was waiting for it; the take-down. An official finds some little thing that's wrong, or some procedure that hasn't been followed, after which there are miles of red tape, followed by the invitation for a bribe. Money is exchanged, and suddenly the matter is handled. It was no big deal after all. We can let that go. We're doing you a favor. I stood looking at Raymond Gonsalmo, assessing him. He must have detected my steady gaze, because he turned to look at me. His eyes narrowed on mine.

  He must have made a decision of some kind, because he turned and nodded to himself, then slid back out of the airplane.

  “Señor Travis,” he said, “you say that this is a mission of mercy you are on.”

  “It is. I assur
e you.”

  He slowly removed the rubberband from his wrist, placed it around the packet and handed it back to me. “The fueling station is at the last hangar to the west, should you need it. You pay for fuel in the opposite office.”

  I nodded.

  “Enjoy your visit to Mexico,” he said.

  “Thank you, Señor Gonsalmo.”

  And then he turned, strode to his car, got inside and closed the door, started the engine and drove off.

  I stood there for a minute and watched him go.

  And then I breathed.

  *****

  I took to the air again as quickly as I could, once the tower gave me the go-ahead.

  I aimed the plane south and climbed to seven thousand feet and slowly the blackness of the Gulf of Mexico crept into view off to my left. I would aim along the edge of it, always staying over land, until the sun rose and I could see. It was approximately three hours until my next stop, and by that time I would be as far south as Poza Rica de Hidalgo, where I planned to refuel and grab some breakfast. The next stop after—and the final stop, before coming to Pisté—was Villahermosa.

  I was dog tired, I was flying across the darkened landscape of another country, and my friend was some seventy hours away from certain death. I had children and a loving wife at home, sleeping the sleep of the comfortable, and I was heading into circumstances unknown and probably dire.

  “This is your life, Bill Travis,” I said to myself. But I had never gotten used to it. Who knows who they really are?

  *****

  When I stopped at Poza Rica, I called Governor Sawyer's number, adding in, of course, the International Code for the United States. Elizabeth, his granddaughter, answered.

  “Yes?”

  “Elizabeth?” I asked.

  “Yes. Is this Mr. Travis?”

  “It is. I'm in Mexico. Is the Governor awake?”

  “He's...he's not where you can talk to him.”

  “Where is he?”

  “I called an ambulance a while ago. He didn't want me to. He said he had to be by the phone and talk to his banker. I'm scared, Mr. Travis.”

  “Call me 'Bill,'” I said. “Please.”

  “I'm scared, Bill. I think he may be dying. His blood pressure is extremely low. He's also dehydrated. They have an IV in him and they gave him some adrenaline to raise his blood pressure. I'm afraid we might lose him.”

  “Are you at the hospital with him now?”

  “No. He made me promise I would stay home. That I would be here when you called. I'm here.”

  “Elizabeth, do you have authorization to transfer money on his behalf?”

  “He gave me that. He made me record him saying that. We were doing that while the paramedics were loading him into the ambulance.”

  “He's a tough old bird, Elizabeth. Don't you forget that. He's going to pull through this time because he's on a mission to save Ranger Cannon.”

  “Yeah, I suppose you're right. But I'm going to lose him, aren't I? I mean, eventually.”

  “Elizabeth, we all lose everyone. Eventually. It's what makes us human.”

  “I know,” she broke down. “I know, it's just that—”

  “I understand,” I said. “It's okay. This is his life. But how we die is just as important as how we live. Your grandfather knows that. Right now, all he cares about is saving his friend. He doesn't care about his own hide. And that's maybe a good thing. That's what he's living for, and as far as I'm concerned, it's a good enough reason as any.”

  “Okay,” she said.

  “You're doing great. I've stopped to refuel at a little town way down in the interior, not far from the Gulf. I'll be back in the air in another ten minutes. Do you think there's a better than even chance your grandfather will die in the next five or ten hours? I know you don't have a crystal ball or anything.”

  “I think he'll make it that long. God, I hope he does.”

  “Me too,” I said. “Me too. Tell you what, don't make that transfer until and unless you hear from me. But if you haven't heard from me before the seventy-two hours is up, go ahead and make the transfer. It may be the only thing that can save Walt's life. And that's what we all want. Especially your grandfather.”

  “Okay. Thank you, uh, Bill.”

  “I'll call you when I can. I'm about to get back into the air.”

  “Goodbye.”

  “Goodbye.” I hung up.

  “Shit,” I said.

  *****

  The land winds back to the east, pushing against the Gulf, then surges to the north again. I was around the southern shore of the Gulf of Mexico, azure blue to the horizon and beyond, when I began to notice the cenotes.

  The Yucatan is dotted with cenotes—large, circular and oval pools of water, anywhere from a few dozen to a few hundred feet beneath the rain forest canopy. I've heard they're great for scuba diving and snorkeling, and I've often dreamed of doing just that. I'd read that they were the remnants of the great, mountain-sized comet that slammed into the Earth sixty-five or so million years ago, snuffing out the dinosaurs and re-arranging the face of the planet. Tens of thousands of comet shards had likewise punctured here and there across the landscape, and thus were the cenotes born. The United States has it's own version of them in what is referred to as the Carolina Comet field. They are all oval lakes, oriented from northwest to southeast, and are believed to be the comet's debris field. No one knows, however, when that firestorm came.

  When I came in to Villahermosa around noon, the sun a hot orb directly overhead, my radio announcement that I was turning onto the base leg of my landing approach was met with silence. I rechecked my notes, and hadn't annotated whether Villahermosa, a city of nearly half a million souls, did or did not have a control tower. I landed anyway, gassed up, and paid the sleepy worker in the airport office in American dollars.

  I called Elizabeth back.

  Governor Sawyer was still alive. His blood pressure had come up to an acceptable level, he was breathing normally, and was beginning to rehydrate. His kidneys seemed to be springing back.

  “Any word on where the bank is located?” I asked.

  “It's in a town called Pisté, Yucatan. That's Mexico.”

  “It certainly is. And the account owner?”

  “Someone named Guillermo Ysidro Martinez. That's all I know.”

  “Did you happen to get an address on this Señor Martinez?” I asked.

  “I did.” She gave it to me and I jotted it down in my logbook. As good a place as any to make a note. However, you don't ordinarily find street signs in small Mexican villages. They don't work or think like we do.

  “Good going, Elizabeth.”

  “Be careful, Bill. I think these are very bad people.”

  “Maybe they're just misunderstood,” I said.

  “Are you making a joke?”

  “I was trying to.”

  She laughed. It was a good sound.

  “Elizabeth, be ready to send the money, just in case. I'm about three more hours from Pisté. I'm flying as fast as I can.”

  “Good luck, Bill,” she said.

  We hung up.

  I thought about calling Julie, then decided against it. She would want to know things, and then she might have opinions about things. And at the moment I was tired, mentally running on fumes, and unprepared to hold my own against the marshaled forces of the mother of my children.

  I finally found the opportunity to grab a bite to eat at Villahermosa. On my way back past the counter, the bored attendant had a dozen tamales sitting out. I asked her if they were for sale. She pushed them to me. I peeled off a twenty dollar bill and handed it to her. Her eyes widened. She reached down and brought up an aluminum foil packet of another dozen from a cooler she kept close by and pushed them to me. She started fishing for change but I shook my head, said, “Gracias!” and slid both packages under my arm. Maybe my wife wouldn't forgive me, but my stomach was going to love me, very shortly.

  I got back in m
y plane and threw her into the air for the final leg of the journey. When I got to Pisté—if I made it without going to sleep at the switch—I would find a hotel close to the airport, get a room, and pass out. That was the plan, anyway.

  Pisté and Chichen-itza are within a hundred and twenty miles of Cancun, which is perched on the tip of the Yucatan Peninsula out into the Atlantic Ocean. It is both a tourist destination and Mayan Country. The descendants of the Maya still live there. They are a terribly short and hardy folk, the Twenty-First Century equivalent of hobbits, but hobbits who have largely forgotten their heritage.

  I aimed for the dense forests of the Yucatan to the northeast, tested the wind, and flew.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Pisté came up ahead of me about five miles away. From the maps, I knew the airport was to the southeast of the city by no more than a few miles, and the Chichen-itza plaza was a mere stone's throw from that. I banked to the south and scanned for the opening in the jungle—a mere rectangular swath—and found it. I cut the power by half, brought down the flaps ten degrees and shed both altitude and airspeed. I made the obligatory call to all Pisté air traffic, but received not so much as a blip in acknowledgment.

  “That's fine,” I said. “Bill's coming in, so everybody had better get out of my way.”

  The runway turned out to be a small canyon in an ocean of jungle. The runway was so much hard-packed dirt. I brought Lola in with the landing gear grazing the palm fronds and set her down. I cut the engine all the way back, jumped on the pedals to keep from slewing into the jungle from the rough dirt runway, and rolled to a slow stop.

  I scanned the airport. There was a lone building with the tanker portion of a rig parked outside, and a small car sandwiched between them. A lone Mexican man walked out on the porch, doffed his hat and waved at me. I brought the engine back up and rolled slowly over to him and off the runway. I cut the power and climbed out.

  “Buenos Días,” I said.

  “Gringo,” he stated. “How long are you here?” While his words were English, his accent was thick. He appeared to be in his late twenties, or perhaps early thirties. Sometimes people age differently closer to the Equator. He had black, curly hair and a thick mustache. His clothes appeared slept in.