“Are all Argentinean bars on corners?” I said.
“Not all,” she replied, and squeezed my arm, “But maybe all good ones. Let’s go inside.”
At the table she ordered a lágrima coffee, explained that it was warm milk and espresso, and I said I’d have a double espresso myself. She shook her head.
“It’s just not acceptable to leave Argentina without trying Fernet,” she insisted, “It’s almost our national drink.”
It came to the table in a tall glass and I took a mouthful.
Ignoring my instinctive grimace, she said, “Cal, my friend, you are now one sip closer to being a real Argentine.”
It had a strong herbal taste, with a hint of licorice, and the liquor content must have been staggering.
“Forty-five per cent alcohol,” she said, answering my unspoken question, “But mixed with Coke so that even gringos can drink it.”
From the broad smile on her face she was obviously savouring my discomfort. Manfully, I kept going and by the time I got to the bottom of the glass I was almost enjoying it.
“You are no gringo,” she laughed, “You are now honorary Argentine.” She clapped her small elegant hands and, despite my protests, signalled to the waiter to bring another.
An hour later when we left I was definitely a little unsteady on my feet and we walked with our arms around each other’s waist. By now I was regretting having to leave tomorrow. I would have loved to be able to stay longer and get to know this fascinating woman better.
“Dance with me,” she suddenly said completely out of the blue.
“What, here in the street?” I protested.
“Where better?” She smiled and moved in front of me, raising my arms.
“We do a little vals,” she said and led me in slow circular motions. I dreaded treading on her toes as my head grew lighter and lighter.
At last she stopped, and I staggered into her tight embrace.
She broke into a deep, throaty laugh as she held me up. “The giros are making you fall over,” she said, “We do no more.”
It was a sublime moment of craziness. At that moment I was captivated by this crazy, sexy woman.
A taxi came down the road and she stepped dangerously out in front of it, leaving me swaying slightly.
“Time to get you back,” she said, grinning, “I’ll go with you to your hotel.”
My mind immediately began to clear.
“And go on home from there,” she added.
“Of course.” I gave the driver the hotel address and we were there in a few minutes. She raised her head from my shoulder and we got out. I paid the driver and told him to keep the change.
“I’ll help you to your room,” she said.
I didn’t really need her help – I hadn’t drank that much – but I wasn’t going to protest. As we rode the elevator to the sixth floor I knew this was the end. I’d probably never see her again.
“Perhaps if we exchanged phone numbers and addresses,” I said hopefully.
She touched my lips with her fingers in a shushing gesture. We stopped at my room door.
“Thank you for a lovely evening,” I said. It seemed so inadequate. I gave her hands a last squeeze and kissed her forehead lightly. “Goodnight María, sleep well.” I put the key in the door, went inside, and switched on the light.
She stepped in behind me, pressed the door shut behind her, and switched the light back off. In the darkness her arms went around my neck and suddenly we were kissing.
“You’ve convinced me that the night is just beginning, Cal,” she whispered in my ear. “We had the vals and now we have the tango.”
She raised one leg until it was tightly curled around the back of my thigh. Then she led my hands from her slim waist up to the zipper of her dress.
Chapter 10
I opened my eyes, looked at the alarm clock and groaned. My flight had left hours ago. Then I remembered why I’d missed it, turned to my left and didn’t mind at all. I lifted away the sheet covering us and gazed on María’s naked body. Sunlight filtered through the drapes across the room and her sleek skin gleamed in the striated light. Her contours were perfect, her waist and legs as slim as a teenage model’s, but fuller in chest and hips.
The look of serenity on her smooth olive face brought me contentment, a calm satisfaction at the way things had progressed so quickly between us. She stirred, and I put the sheet back over us.
She woke, smiled and kissed me. I placed my hand lightly on her flat belly and returned the favour, taking my time.
“You missed your flight,” she said.
“Doesn’t matter, there are plenty more.” True enough, but I’d still have to take one later today. Which meant saying goodbye to María, probably forever. I couldn’t forget I was here on Eric’s dime.
We showered, and I watched her apply make-up at the mirror, making practiced little sweeping movements with her mascara brush. There was something strangely calming about it. Suddenly my cell phone rang and startled both of us. She dropped the mascara brush. I raced across the room, fumbled in my jacket pocket.
“Cal.” It was Eric’s voice, wanting an update. I gave him an account of my trip out to the farm and got a snort of impatience at the other end. His decision was instantaneous, I was to revisit her and try again. He was right and Jennifer, being his daughter, would see that and come to heel. Clearly, something must have gone wrong in the communication of his wishes. Without saying it straight out, it was obvious that Eric thought I hadn’t been persuasive enough. My fault as usual . . .
For once, I didn’t mind. While he was talking I envisioned staying here a long as I could, drive out to see Jennifer Larsen several more times until she couldn’t stand the sight of me. And I’d take my time about it. It’d be the perfect excuse to spend the rest of the days – and nights – with María.
I assured Eric that I’d persevere and, ever the busy man, he killed the connection.
“Who was that?” María asked.
I explained the situation and she smiled when she heard I was staying. She had to go to work, but we arranged to meet in the evening and take a drive out to a local winery. I didn’t really care where I went as long as it was with her. We kissed, and she left hurriedly.
I spent the morning lazing around the hotel, basically putting in time. The day seemed to move on very slowly. I couldn’t go out and talk to Jennifer Larsen again so soon and couldn’t think of anything else to do. After an early lunch I got tired of looking at my watch and went back up to my room and took a siesta.
She came around five-thirty and we drove for an hour to the winery. It stood on gently sloping land, row upon row of deep green grape bushes stretching out into the distance with mathematical precision. Beyond lay a narrow barrier of trees, then low lying fields, and finally rust coloured mountains in the distance. The evening sun shone brightly, illuminating the weather smoothed peaks and the undersides of the clouds. It was lovely and, in her simple floral summer dress, so was María. As I gazed at the vista, my hand slipped into hers.
She took the next day off and we spent it walking around Mendoza, where she showed me the older streets and traditional stores the tourists miss. At a small café we sat at a tiny table on the sidewalk and shared an incredibly intricate ice cream made of different coloured balls, each one dripped with chocolate. Conversation came easily between us and we were relaxed about quiet times too. Sometimes I would look at her and find she was looking at me in the same appreciative way. We ate dinner at the hotel and had an early night.
“I should go out to see Jennifer Larsen today,” I told María the next morning and she nodded her agreement. After a hasty breakfast she went off to work and I went back up to my room. Feeling suddenly weary, I lay down on the bed to doze for a while before setting out.
I had probably only slept about half an hour when I opened my eyes again because of loud knocks on the door. I got up and opened it, and María swept into the room. I touched her arm and she turned
around. A forlorn expression creased her face. Her hands went up, covering her eyes, and she sobbed loudly.
I put my arm around her. “What’s the matter?”
“My father has had a terrible accident,” she said, “A bus smashed into his small car. His back is broken, legs too.”
I didn’t know what to say so I sat her down on the end of the bed and put my arm around her. After a minute or so she wiped her eyes and looked up. She was about to say something when a cell phone rang. She reached into her bag and fished it out, fingers fumbling it eagerly.
A conversation in rapid Spanish began and soon her voice became frantic and her free arm waved in the air. She clicked the phone off, stared at it then tossed it on the bed beside her.
“He is dying. The doctors have no hope.” Her body started quivering again. Through sobs and gulps she said, “My step-mother swears he only has a few hours to live.” She fell quiet, leaving only tears dripping silently onto her dress. It stayed like that for what seemed forever.
I squeezed her shoulder. “You must go to him.” It was the last thing I wanted but I told myself not to be selfish. If I really cared for her . . . of course she must go.
She straightened up. “You are right. Even though I will be too late to say goodbye. I’ll never get there in time.” She gave me a sad look. “And you and I, Cal, we must say goodbye now too.”
I cursed the fate that had brought us together so quickly and split us up again nearly as fast. If only there was something I could do.
“Too bad I don’t have a plane,” I muttered, thinking out loud.
“What do you mean?” she said.
“I’m a pilot,” I reminded her, “I could have flown you there.”
“But you said you fly the ones on water . . . the floatplanes. You fly ordinary planes too?”
I smiled at her choice of words. “Yes, of course. Flying with a wheeled undercarriage is actually easier. No waves or current to worry about, less thrust needed on takeoff. And a front wheel to steer with instead of a rudder.”
She shook her head as if confused by all these details. “A commercial flight will have to do,” she replied, “It will get me to him.”
I shook my head regretfully. “Yes, it will, but it will take much longer.”
She nodded slowly. “You are right. My dad lives north of Santiago in a place called Chicureo. Driving there takes time.” Her voice trailed away. Then she looked into my eyes again. “I don’t want to ask you to do this, Cal . . . but I have no-one else . . . there’s an aerodromo – small airstrip – next to the hospital. You could take me there?”
My mind immediately turned to practicalities. “I don’t have access to a plane, María,” I said softly, “And I’d need a damned good one, with a built-in oxygen system.”
She hesitated. “Bautista . . . my brother, he has one, brand new, with oxygen, with everything. He has a pilot fly him from place to place too, just like your boss,” she insisted. “We can use his.”
“Then ask him to fly you. Won’t he want to go too?”
Her eyes lit up like fiery coals. “Never,” she replied, “He is no good; he is, how you say, estranged from me? But the plane is mine as much as his. I will use it if I choose.”
“Sure about that?” The conversation was veering in an unhinged direction I didn’t like. I kept my voice low and gentle. “Anyway, María, you probably know as well as I do, it’s a bit unusual to cross the Andes in a small plane.”
“But this one does it all the time. Bautista told me. There is a low pass. He takes . . . cargo through there. This time we use his plane for something good, just for once.”
I wondered what all this meant but it wasn’t the right time to ask. Instead I visualised her waiting anxiously at the big commercial airport for the next passenger flight. Strangers with noisy toddlers bumping into her as she made her sad, lonely way to the departure lounge. Boarding a massive jet and forgetting about me.
Then I thought about this idea I’d put into her head. If I could pull it off, it would bind us together like nothing else ever could. After the last few days I wanted a future with her and this would surely do it.
María’s wet brown eyes looked up into mine. At that moment I would have done anything for her. Even something as crazy as fly over the Andes in a small plane. A few years ago I’d taken the Creston Valley Regional Airport special course and graduated in the hazardous art of mountain flying. I just had to remember it all.
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll throw a few things into a bag then you can take me to the airstrip.”
Next thing I knew her lips were pressing on mine. “Thank you, thank you, Cal,” she said, and I felt her warm breath on my face.
“One thing more I have to ask,” she added, “We must keep this secret. No one must know about it, no one at all. If it gets back to Bautista . . .”
I frowned at this request to break normal flight rules but there was no time to argue it. Her pleading look had returned. I simply nodded and got up.
It still wasn’t enough for her. “Swear it,’ she insisted, “You will keep silent on the radio, tell no-one?”
“Alright, alright!” I answered and turned away, frustrated, confused and happy all at the same time.
Chapter 11
The small airstrip was like numerous others I’d seen only this one was more remote. Low grey hills surrounded it, making it more hidden than I’d ever encountered. A line of electricity poles led to the edge of the tarmac and, together with a grimy windsock, interrupted an otherwise barren skyline.
Take off would involve either immediately crossing a shallow, muddy river, or demand a stiff climb straight after the wheels lifted, depending on the direction of the wind. Neither would be a walk in the park. Doubts had set in as soon as I left the hotel and I was silently cursing myself for having agreed to such a harebrained scheme. This tiny airstrip in the middle of nowhere was just one more reason why María was wasting time she didn’t have.
We got out of her car – we’d gone to her apartment where she’d quickly packed a few things – and walked over to the small hanger situated halfway along the runway. Ignoring the garage-like door for the plane, she took a key from her shoulder bag, opened what I call the ‘man door’ at the side, and switched on the light. Her fingers tapped in a code on a small wall panel and the alarm system went dead. I followed behind her, eager to see what I was supposed to fly, secretly hoping it would be an old Beaver or Piper that would be totally impractical for such a trip.
Instead I saw a gleaming Cessna Skylane, the Jet-A version. Half a million dollars of airplane. I’d read about this model recently in an issue of Flying magazine that I’d found lying around, and recalled it had a range of nearly a thousand nautical miles, and a maximum speed of at least a hundred and fifty knots. More to the point, its ceiling was twenty thousand feet. Still not enough to be comfortable really, but I could see my excuses rapidly evaporating.
I ran my hand along the frame and reached up to feel the smooth skin around the flap, then admired the pristine propeller blades.
“Hasn’t been flown much?” I said.
“Once a month I think. Let’s get going.” She opened a padlocked metal cabinet and handed me the plane’s keys. I stared at them in my hand and swallowed hard. No backing out now. I unlocked the cabin doors; we threw our stuff into the back seats and climbed in.
I found the Skylane’s POH and began to study it. The Pilot’s Operating Handbook gave me step by step checklists for prepping, starting, taking off, flying and landing, all of which were pretty standard. There were also manuals for the avionics, radio, and autopilot but I didn’t need to examine those. Far more interesting, and reassuring, was the GPS, an eight thousand dollar add-on called the Garmin GMX-200. A ‘situational awareness’ system, it makes navigating a bit like a video game. Linked to the plane’s mechanics and autopilot, the Garmin simplifies much of the in-flight calculations and workload. All I had to do was pull up Chicureo on the screen cha
rt, click on it as destination, and the computer would tell me how to get there.
I stepped out again and went through the external checklist, examining the prop but also checking ailerons, flaps, rudder and elevator as well as making sure all antennae were in place.
Next, I pressed the button to raise the hanger’s wide metal door. Then I unplugged the Tow Buddy from its charger, attached its long, claw-like arms to the Cessna’s nose wheel, and slowly rolled the ton or more of plane out onto the tarmac.
After closing the hangar door behind me I climbed up into the Cessna’s pilot seat and went through the internal checklist. Fuel tank selector, throttle, prop, mixture . . . all in their correct positions. I flicked the master switch on, then the auxiliary fuel pump just until the fuel flowed and throttled back to idle. María stirred in her seat but I ignored her. I hit the starter and felt the familiar surge as the engine whirred up and the prop began to turn. The pistons caught and gave their distinctive throaty roar.
I went rich on the fuel and throttled to a thousand rpms. Checked the oil pressure, switched the avionics and the navigation lights on.
Ready to roll. I smiled at María, knowing I could do this after all. She smiled back.
Then bedlam broke out.
There was a blur of movement at the window on my right, and the door beneath it sprung open. A man reached in and pulled at María’s arms. She struggled but he was too strong for her and yanked her out of her seat. They stood on the tarmac almost nose to nose while he screamed something at her that I couldn’t hear over the engine. She wriggled her arms free and slapped him in the face. Big mistake. He shook his head angrily and punched her hard in the stomach. She doubled over, and I couldn’t see her anymore. I felt a tremendous surge of anger and he looked at me as if sensing it.
In seconds he was inside the plane. Without thinking, I swung my whole upper body around to my right, my left arm following like a slingshot. My fist connected perfectly with his chin and a shaft of pain shot up from my knuckles to my shoulder. But it did the trick. The man slumped in the seat, stunned. Behind him, María was on her feet again. She hauled the guy out of the seat, dumped his limp body on the ground, and climbed back in.
Shadow of a Killer Page 3
