With a slanted smile, Dugan replied, “Probably not a good sign.”
Dan snickered and took another draw just as a voice came from behind.
“Hate to break this up, but time’s a wasting.”
Turning, they saw Richards lurking in the doorway pointing to his watch. Beside him was Esquinaldo, looking as wedding cake dapper as he had earlier.
“I understand you are to be my guest, Mr. Proctor,” he said with a thin smile. “Delighted to have you. We will put you up in the guest cottage. You can be most assured you will be well taken care of.”
Turning to Dugan, Dan raised an eyebrow. Dugan winked in reply. The two then flicked what remained of their cigars onto the fine-trimmed lawn and walked across the patio back into the house.
Chapter Three
1
Had he still been blessed with a normal, human stomach, Dugan thought drolly, instead of whatever the hell had replaced it during his almost unendurable transition, he might have been hurling chunks all over the back of the airplane. As it was, he took the ups and downs, crazy bucking rolls, and sudden plunges of the perilously low-flying aircraft in stride. After all, the plane was being piloted by a cowboy. He even had the hat to prove it.
For their part, Richards and the three other men strapped in across from him in the tail of the vast, though cramped cargo hold seemed no stranger to the pilot’s odd manner of flying. Two of them had nodded off in their jump seats almost as soon as the plane had taken off. Richards used the time to peruse a bundle of documents he’d brought with him, or to review maps with the man seated beside him. As the lone passenger buckled in on the opposite side of the cavernous space, Dugan could only watch as the two talked amongst themselves, occasionally heatedly, on a radio channel that Dugan’s headset wasn’t privy to.
After saying goodbye to his uncle, Dugan and Richards got into the same limousine that had brought them there, and with the troop transports again escorting them, their motorcade made its way back to the military base and the helicopter. Before boarding, Richards said, “Sorry, dude. Gonna have to frisk you.”
Dugan raised an eyebrow but held up his arms as Richards expertly ran his hands along and between his legs and backside, then his chest and upper torso. “What are you looking for?” Dugan asked.
“Wallet. Personal effects. Anything that could identify you.”
Before he was finished, Richards lifted the collar of Dugan’s coat and tore out the label, tossing it to the ground. When he was done, Dugan lifted his duffel bag. “What about this?”
Catching his eye, Richards smiled faintly. “Already taken care of,” he said.
Dugan pondered that while taking a mental inventory of everything he remembered putting in there. It wasn’t much. A Spanish edition of a Stephen King novel he was reading. Extra T-shirt, socks, and underwear. A few of the talismans he held while sleeping. He suspected they’d all been left alone.
Once on the helicopter, they flew southeast for an hour or so, putting down in what Dugan reckoned from time and distance was somewhere in the Mexican state of Vera Cruz. As they descended into a dark valley, courtesy of his enhanced nighttime vision, through the windows of the chopper he saw carved out of the dense jungle below was a long airstrip. At the remote end of the runway, though it bore no official markings or other insignia, was what had the shape and size of a military cargo aircraft. A rusted and ancient tanker truck was just now pulling away from it.
The helicopter set down about a hundred yards away. Dugan and Richards unstrapped themselves and stood, with Dugan smiling to think there were no uniformed soldiers helping with stairs this time. The two jumped out, and as soon as they were clear, the helicopter lifted off again.
Glancing to the brilliantly star speckled sky, Dugan guessed it was about two in the morning. A little more than three hours remained before he would need to seek cover from the morning sun. That thought only made him wonder again about placing his trust in Richards, not that he’d had much alternative. There was one fallback course of action he had pondered, if only fleetingly. It occurred to him while sitting in Esquinaldo’s office that he could easily kill the man then and there, and afterward, happily feast on his blood. He flirted with the idea a long moment while focusing on Richards throbbing jugular during one of his and his uncle’s verbal sparrings. Yes, he could have killed the man and comfortably gotten away. He might even have saved his uncle, though what sort of life they’d have afterward, he couldn’t say.
During their helicopter flight, he cast stealthy glances Richards’ way and wondered uneasily if this was all a ruse, if Richards indeed planned to kill him. But then, if the man had wanted to kill him – or try to – he’d already had plenty of opportunity. Still, there was no better way to kill Dugan than to wait for him to sleep. With an inner sigh, he set all of that aside. The die – however it landed – had already been cast.
The loading ramp at the aft end of the plane was down. Richards and Dugan walked across the rough earth of the makeshift airstrip, going past grubby looking bearded sentries bearing machine guns. They went up the ramp and into the stuffed cargo hold, where scruffy men in civilian clothes carried clipboards and double-checked the inventory. One or two acknowledged Richards arrival with a cursory nod or hello. Aside from a few curious stares, they didn’t pay Dugan much attention at all.
Just up the aisle about mid plane, a stocky, florid-faced man in a cowboy hat leaned one arm against a stack of wooden crates, bemusedly watching the bustle in the rear while puffing on a cheroot.
Seeing him, Richards asked, “Is that smart?’
The man took the cigar from his mouth, then narrowed his eyes toward Richards before he hawked and spat. “My plane, my rules,” he said, in a distinctly Arkansas twang.
Richards just shrugged.
Beneath the odor of cheap cigar, Dugan’s heightened sense of smell perceived other aromas wafting throughout the interior. Some of it was residual sweat left by the men who had loaded the plane. Some was jet fuel. Most of it emanated from within the dozens of wooden crates stacked three deep on palettes on either side of the hold, jammed wherever they could fit. Even if many hadn’t been stamped “AK-47,” Dugan would have recognized it instantly as the sharp metallic tang of small arms, the pungent scent of gun oil, and the acrid, sulfurous smell of munitions. The plane was crammed floor-to-ceiling with armaments. There was no doubt about that. The thing was a flying bomb.
Summoning an inner smile, he thought, no wonder Richards was concerned about the man smoking. He found it interesting too that Richards didn’t or couldn’t tell the cheroot smoking man what to do. Perhaps he wasn’t as in command as Dugan assumed. Or maybe, perhaps more chillingly, he just didn’t care.
Not more than ten minutes later, they were off.
2
The hours-long, monotonous drone of the engines set Dugan’s mind adrift. In addition, he was just beginning to feel the all too familiar torpor of the oncoming morning, that lazy, dull sensation that was a portent of his imminent death.
“How you doing over there?” his headset crackled.
Looking across the cabin, Dugan saw it was Richards who had spoken. The men to his right were still sleeping. The man on his left looked like he was fading now too. Dugan guessed then that Richards was speaking to him on a channel only they could hear.
“Okay,” Dugan replied into his own headset, adding hesitantly, “Getting near morning, though.” He hated the way it sounded, and at that moment hated even more that he had put his trust in this man.
Richards surprised him.
“No worries. Got you all taken care of. Wanna see?”
Dugan wavered a moment before nodding. Richards began unbuckling. Dugan followed suit, and when Richards got up and walked up the narrow passageway toward the front of the plane, Dugan picked up his bag and trailed behind.
About two-thirds of the way along, Richards stopped at a long piece of standalone cargo that was covered in canvas. When he lifted the tarp, Du
gan saw underneath was a conveniently coffin-sized crate marked with a skull and crossbones along with stern warnings in various languages:
Achtung. Peligro. Danger.
On either side of the warnings was the silhouette of a man wearing a gas mask. Smiling, Richards lifted the top.
Inside, Dugan saw what looked to be a very comfortable sinecure. Lined with red velvet, there was plush silk bedding to lay on, and a pillow for his head. A storage cubbyhole was fabricated into the top. The inner edges were beveled and molded for a firm seal. Solid looking gaskets ran along the top edge. Industrial hinges that looked well oiled and brand new were solidly affixed to the lid. For a brief moment, it reminded him of the storage area beneath the bench seat of a carnival trailer where he had slept so many evenings. With a jolt of melancholy, he put that thought out of his mind.
About midway along the inside lid was a handhold providing ease of opening and closing. Interestingly, Dugan saw there was even a sturdy looking sliding bar and latch enabling it to be locked from the inside. When he turned toward Richards, Dugan found him still smiling.
“Might have been fun to be there when the government contractor got the order for this, no? Can’t imagine what the hell went through his mind. Anyway, enjoy it, my friend. You should. It cost enough.” When Dugan turned to again look inside, Richards added, “Still has that new coffin smell!”
Dugan grunted at the attempted humor, then noticed a sealed plastic bag with paperwork inside. Taking it out of the box, he removed the brochure and saw it was instructions, complete with drawings and a blackened silhouette of a body inside. On the generic looking front cover, beneath an incredibly long, no doubt government assigned model number, were the words:
“For Use and Transport of Toxic Human Remains (Rev. B)”
Dugan smiled and shook his head. “It’ll do nicely. Th–” He restrained himself from going any further, not yet ready to thank this man for anything.
“You’re welcome,” Richards replied anyway, glancing at his watch before going on. “Okay, so here’s the deal. The plane sets down mid-morning. All this stuff gets off-loaded. I have some business to attend to, but at some point tomorrow afternoon, we take off again and head to our destination. I’d estimate you should be coming around when we’re about halfway there.”
“Where’s that?” Dugan asked, recalling that thus far, Richards had been loathe to share that information. But it was worth a try.
Richards smiled. “Need to know basis. Right now, you don’t need to know. But tomorrow, when we’re closer, I’ll tell you more. Is that fair?”
It wasn’t, but Dugan nodded anyway just as the inexorable languor of the approaching dawn made him shudder and close his eyes. When he opened them again, he caught Richards staring with a concerned look on his face.
“Why don’t you climb in,” he said, not unkindly. “I’ll take good care of you. I promise.”
Gonna hold you to that, Dugan thought. However, before getting in, he glanced again at his box, then looked left and right, noting its resemblance to all the others in the hold.
Turning to Richards, he said, “Don’t lose me.”
Richards chuckled as Dugan climbed in, stashing his bag in the storage compartment above his head, then pulling the top closed behind him. For good measure, he slammed shut the interior bolt and felt it slide and lock with a satisfying click. It might cost extra, Dugan thought, but the peace of mind is worth it.
As his mind started shutting down and he began his daily dying ritual, he reached to the compartment above his head and unzipped his bag. Groping around inside, he grasped hold of what he was after, once again his best friend’s eyeglasses. In this most peculiar situation, on his way to God knows where, he figured he could use a good laugh. And more than anyone else in his life or ongoing death, he knew that Larry could always be counted on to provide one.
3
At about the same time his nephew lay his head on his pillow, his uncle a thousand miles away was doing the same. As good as his word, Senor Esquinaldo directed his butler, the same man who had escorted them from the driveway and into the office, to make him comfortable in the guest house. While they walked across the lawn, Dan thanked the man and asked him his name. “Fritz,” was all the answer he got from the still frazzled and apparently very busy man.
Once inside the well furnished bungalow, Fritz gave him a hurried tour: the upstairs bedroom with full bath; the small kitchenette where a fridge had been well stocked with milk, bread, cold cuts, and cerveza; a parlor at the front of the house beneath a bedroom balcony; a rear sitting room with floor-to-ceiling windows outfitted with a telescope pointing toward the massive city beyond. Dan thanked the man sincerely and said it would do nicely. With another short bow, the servant dismissed himself and left Dan to fend for himself.
Alone now, Dan poked around some more, opening drawers and cabinets, snooping around in empty closets, and peeking underneath the bed. In the kitchen, he thought about a sandwich, but decided instead to just crack open a beer. Taking it in the back room, he peered through the telescope, swiveling it back and forth while spying on denizens of the city below, watching them bustle along the crowded sidewalks, or riding alone in cars along the busy thoroughfares. He viewed a long line of fashionably dressed young people waiting to be let into a dance club. He spied a romantic couple walking hand in hand through a park. He witnessed a swarm of police use their nightsticks on a man with what seemed gratuitous force before handcuffing him and shoving him roughly into the back of an unmarked police car.
Standing, he blew out a long sigh and again glanced around the room. Eyeing a low bookshelf, he walked over and surveyed the offerings, seeing only a handful of titles in English. As good as his Spanish had become in the years he’d spent here, he still preferred reading in English. Selecting a Leon Uris tale of the Warsaw ghetto, he sat down in a comfortable chair and read for a few hours, surprised to find his efforts to take his mind off his own and his nephew’s situation were successful. When he again raised his head, he saw he had only a swallow of beer left and drank that down. Gazing out the window, he thought he might just see the first flickering hints of the coming dawn in the skies above the tall volcanic peaks. He caught himself letting out a big, satisfying yawn and decided to call it a night.
Heading upstairs, he used the toilet before collapsing fully clothed atop the comfortable double bed and closing his eyes. He smiled inside to think that if he were indeed a prisoner, it was in a much better place than the last time. Then, he thought about his nephew and said a silent prayer to whoever might be listening to watch over him and keep him safe.
He drifted off thinking about the Uris novel, about tens of thousands of guiltless people being herded into a few city blocks, living among filth and disease and death by sole virtue of the way they worshiped God, and realized no matter what happened to him, things could always be worse.
4
With the droning hum of an oscillating buzz in his ears, and curious pulsations upon his back, Dugan swam up from the netherworld between death and life that was his domain at this time every evening. Not yet animate, he waited for the strange vibrations to pass. When they didn’t, he felt first a sense of fear, then dread, before a once familiar voice in his head asked, “What the hell are you doing?”
As fortune would have it, Dugan’s dying lips had fallen away from his teeth, leaving his face frozen in a gaping grimace that might have been misinterpreted for a smile.
“Hey, buddy!” he asked his friend Larry. “How’s it going?”
“Actually, pretty good today. Ricky Nelson and Elvis are putting on a big show tonight. Rumor is, Buddy Holly and the Big Bopper might show up. You wanna know the best part? Tickets are free!”
In his head, with the oily blackness only now just starting to clear, Dugan smiled. “Sounds great, my friend. Sounds great. But be careful! Think I read somewhere that the Wicked Witch of the West is up there now!”
Dugan had read about Margaret Hami
lton’s passing last May.
Larry chuckled. “Trust me, she’s a pussycat. And that green face really does it for me. Hubba hubba. Anyway, you know me around the ladies!”
Dugan laughed inside, while in his mind, Larry went on in a more solemn tone.
“Seriously, though. What the fuck are you doing? Do you know that right now, at this very second, you’re in a wooden box, in an airplane that is filled with fucking bombs? Not smart, buddy! Not smart.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Dugan replied weakly. Then, with an air of adolescent bluster, he added, “But remember, they can’t kill me!”
It didn’t get the laugh he expected.
“Maybe not, pal, but if the plane goes BOOM, there’s gonna be lots of wooden splinters flying around. Seriously buddy, be careful. I mean it.”
Dugan considered it and said, “You’re right, man. I will. I promise.”
The long silence that followed caused Dugan to fear his friend had already left him. A convulsive shiver passed through his reanimating flesh as the last of the afternoon sun disappeared over the horizon.
“Larry?” he asked in a quavering voice. “You still there?”
It seemed to him a long time passed before he got an answer, and when he did, it seemed to come from a million miles away.
“Be careful of that dude you’re with, man. Seriously. Because he is crazy as a fucking loon.”
And then, as if bursting from a long, dark tunnel into still more darkness, Dugan awoke.
5
When he finally slid the bolt and opened his coffin, Dugan was taken aback to see Richards waiting. The ever smiling man looked down at him and said, “Wake up, dude! Jesus. The sun’s been down for like, ten minutes now. For a second there, I worried you might really be dead!”
Though disconcerted to find the man hovering, Dugan returned the smile just to be polite. Sitting up, while waiting for the cobwebs to clear, he took stock of his surroundings. That he was on an airplane he had figured out the moment his consciousness returned. Flicking his eyes around the dim cabin, though there were again stacked crates of armaments, this batch apparently rigged with parachutes, he knew immediately he was on a different airplane. It could have been twin to the aircraft he had boarded yesterday, but the smell was different. The sound was different. For him, the very taste was different. He wasn’t sure what to make of that, or even if it was significant.
Applewood (Book 3): The Space of Life Between Page 5
