by Ian Bull
Then it hits me. They know who I am.
Chapter 42
* * *
Julia Travers
Day 13: Thursday Afternoon
Rainbow Valley, Arizona
Carl drives the Dodge Grand Caravan down Estrella Road until we reach a wooden barrier and a Dead End sign. I’m in front with Carl, while Glenn sits in the first backseat with Anthony. Mendoza and Taylor sit in the last row of seats. Glenn looks at his cellphone.
“This is the exact spot. He went no farther than this.”
Carl kills the engine and we get out. The harsh sunlight bounces off the yellow desert. My floppy sunhat helps. Men are funny; we all knew we were coming to the desert, but none of them except Carl brought hats, so they all stand there with their palms over their heads, shielding their eyes.
“Your plan is at a dead end, Mr. Webb and Major Ward. Any ideas?” Taylor asks.
Carl stares over the wooden barrier at the dirt road that stretches to the mountains in the distance. He’s still, like an antenna waiting for a signal to hit him. “Someone took him out there,” Carl says, his eyes narrowing as if he’s picking something up.
“Let’s go around the barrier and drive there,” I say. “Maybe he’s in those mountains.”
Carl shakes his head. “No. It could be wasted effort. We have to think first.”
“What if he’s hurt? Or in danger?” I argue.
Carl puts up his hand. “We can’t rush. We need a plan.”
“Where are we, anyway?” Anthony asks.
“Gila River Indian Reservation,” Mendoza says. “Six hundred square miles of desert.”
Glenn scrolls through his cellphone, doing his research. “The tribal headquarters are dead ahead, but there’s no road. We have to go all the way back to the highway and loop around those mountains to get there.”
Special Agent Taylor speaks in a low voice into his own cellphone, then hangs up. “That was the Phoenix Field Office. An agent will meet us at the Gila Reservation airport, with Alicia Matone. She’s the Lieutenant Governor of the Reservation.”
“That takes too long,” I say. “Can’t the FBI just call in a helicopter and start looking?”
“The FBI and Native Americans don’t have the best relationship,” Taylor says. “A helicopter swooping over their sovereign land may do more harm than good right now.”
“I say we go for it. It’s easier to apologize later than ask for permission now,” I say, but none of these men are listening to me. I am the invisible woman again.
“Why the airport?” Glenn asks. “The tribal offices are farther south, in Scanton.”
“That’s where he wants to meet. It’s a thirty-minute drive, let’s go,” Taylor says, and he and Mendoza climb back in the van.
I tug on Carl’s arm. “Aren’t you going to do something?”
Carl bites his lip and shrugs at me. “We lost him. It’s their show now.”
We drive back across the Gila River and hook up with Interstate 10. The Estrella Mountains are to our right. Steven may be trapped in there, or injured, or dead. I have no idea.
Anthony leans in from the backseat and pokes my arm. “Steven is alive. We Quintanas are like cucarachas—you can stomp on us, and we’ll scurry under the kitchen baseboard and come back stronger than ever.”
“He’s right. Staying alive is Steven’s greatest skill,” Carl says.
No one speaks for a long time. We drive through Phoenix, and then Highway 10 heads south into open desert again. Carl breaks the silence. “The switch must feel strange to you.”
“What switch?” I ask.
“Eighteen months ago, you went missing, and he went to the Bahamas trying to find you. Now he’s the one in trouble and you’re trying to find him,” Carl says. He punches my shoulder, like an older brother. “And you’re doing a good job. He’s lucky you care so much.”
“If we ever get him out of this, just tell him that,” I say, and Carl and Anthony laugh.
“You exit at Queen Creek Road,” Taylor says from the back. “It’s on your right.”
Carl makes a right-hand turn and follows a dirt road, past a marker for the Gila River Indian Community, and then a No Trespassing sign. Sun glints off shiny metal structures in the distance.
We reach the Gila River Memorial Airport, but it’s not an airport anymore. It’s the ruins of an airport, with a rusting hangar and a destroyed office building. Up close, the metal mirages glinting in the sun are actually the gutted ruins of old airplanes. Our van bounces across dirt and grass until we reach a smooth surface stretching into the distance. It’s the old runway. Two people stand next to a brown Jeep Grand Cherokee—a short woman and a tall man. We park alongside and climb out.
The woman is Native American with long black hair, and wears black slacks and a red shirt, with a big turquoise necklace. The tall man wears cowboy boots, jeans and a white shirt, topped with a black baseball hat that says FBI.
“Agent Taylor?” the man asks as he and Taylor shake hands. “I’m Agent Norman Gorney. This is Lieutenant Governor Matone of the Gila River Indian Community.”
She shakes Taylor’s hand, but glances around like she’s suspicious of all of us. After all, five strange men and one woman just arrived unannounced in her backyard. She looks at me twice, as if she’s seen me but doesn’t remember from where.
“Thanks for meeting us here. The community has an ongoing problem with a group of trespassers,” Gorney says.
The woman points at the airport buildings. “They were here last night. About two dozen people, racing around, drinking and taking drugs and crashing cars.”
“Peter Heyman,” I say. “That’s him, for sure.”
“Tribal police can’t stop them?” Mendoza asks.
“Gila River Indian Community is 11,000 people living in an area as big as the city of Los Angeles, most of it empty desert. This airport hasn’t been used in decades. By the time we get word down in Scanton that they’re here and we send cars, they disappear again.”
“Can we take a look around?” Taylor asks.
“You won’t find anything,” the woman says. “They stole parts from the planes, and there’s a wrecked car that they drove into a wall, but they vanished into the desert.”
Carl and I trade glances. Steven vanished with them. This really is a dead end.
Taylor talks to Gorney, but loud enough so we all hear. “We have to check any TV studios or any warehouse space that could be rigged as a studio.”
“And check if anyone from out of town has been hiring local TV crews,” Mendoza adds.
“That’s a lot to check,” Gorney says. “You guys should find a hotel for the night.”
“Okay, let’s drive into Phoenix and get started,” Taylor says.
Where are you, Steven? Send me a message so we can help you.
Chapter 43
* * *
Robert Snow
Day 14: Friday Morning
Ryan Airfield, Arizona
Lionel and Jim lift their carryon bags and follow Pauline up the staircase into the plane. It’s Friday morning, and we’re leaving for Mexico. After two years of constant work, I’m down to the last twenty-four hours. Once the plane leaves the ground, there’s no turning back. No one will stop working until Saturday at noon, when the plane takes off on its final journey and I become the producer of the most profitable hour of TV ever made.
I inhale the cool air under the shade of the left wing as the sun bakes the quiet hills around us. The desert was beautiful for a day, but now it’s boring. Time to move on.
A Ford Explorer zooms up and screeches to a stop under the left wing. It’s Tina, driving Hachiro and his team to the plane. I want to board last for dramatic effect, but Hachiro and his team dawdle as they exit the Explorer. Tina stays behind the wheel. After dropping them off, she will lead the two-car caravan with one half of the team into Mexico while I travel with the other half by plane. We can’t all fly; it won’t match our terrain mapping cov
er story. Plus, we need a way to drive away once the plane leaves.
“Come on, guys, get your bags and get on the plane. Hayaku-shiro!”
Katashi, Yoshi, and Yuko all grab their bags and dash up the back stairs while Hachiro stays to ask me a question. “Are all the props and design elements safe?”
‘They’re all locked and stowed in the baggage containers.”
“May I see them?”
I stare him down. He should not be asking this question, but the tension he’s seen between Tina and me emboldens him enough to question my authority on my own show. After all, he’s not my hire—he’s Boss Man’s choice.
I could explain how all the design materials he bought are safely stowed and hidden in the baggage compartments. I could explain that I’ve been planning this flight to Nogales for years and show him how I’ve prepared for our border inspection. I could then explain how we will fly the final fifty miles to Cananae, where he can see his precious cargo again and finish building my flying reality competition show. But I learned a long time ago that if you coddle your department heads, they become prima donnas who will hijack your production, and I’ve come too far to endure this.
“Get on the plane,” I say.
He grabs his carryon and dashes up the stairs.
My walkie-talkie crackles. “You ready to fly, chief?” Pauline asks.
I radio her back. “I’ll be right there.”
She radios me again. “Flight plan’s been approved. We just have to cross into the Defense Identification Zone and get to Nogales within the hour.”
“Copy that.”
Tina smiles at me through the open driver’s side window. “Hachiro wasn’t rebelling. They’re just invested in the project and excited.”
Her face is pretty, even without makeup. Her glasses are pushed into her hair, and she’s dressed in a green t-shirt that matches her eyes. What makes her even prettier is that she’s smiling at me again, for the first time since she got back from Idaho and we had our little fight.
“Get out of the car.”
She giggles as she obeys, then leans against the car. I reach around and pull her close.
“Hey, someone could be watching,” she says in mock protest.
“The people flying are already on the plane. The people driving are all back at the office waiting for you. It’s just you and me out here.” I hold her tighter.
She doesn’t pull away. “Fly safe.”
“It will be uneventful. You drive safe.”
“We’re just two carloads of tourists checking out the border towns. Kat and Sydney have it covered, from Mexican car insurance to water.” She strokes the hair on my arm.
I want to kiss her, but I’m distracted. “What about Peter, Bree, and Michel? And Vic?”
“What about them?”
“Their look makes for a dramatic border crossing.”
“Now who’s doubting whom?” she teases me back. “They’re listed as circus performers with performance dates in Mexico. And they won’t be crossing back through US customs like us, where the real concern is. Peter’s tribe will pick them up, and they’ll disappear into the Mexican desert. We’ll just cross back like tourists.”
I nod slowly, gnaw my lip.
She exhales in frustration. “What else?”
“Vic bugs me. He never looks me in the eye, but then I catch him looking around.”
“He is the newest guy, so you have a right to be suspicious. That’s why he’s traveling by car with Peter, and why I flew in Boss Man’s tough guys to help monitor the situation.” She tugs my shirt. “What else? We won’t have time to talk again until the game is done.”
I look into her eyes. It’s now or never. “Thank you for convincing Boss Man about Brady Yourell.”
“You’re welcome. And thank you for thanking me. I know you don’t do it often.”
“Let me do it again then. Thank you for saving my show.”
“You’re welcome.” She smiles. She’s enjoying this, but in a soft way, without any “told you so” mixed in.
“And thank you for putting up with all my accusing jealousy. I was a jerk.”
“Keep it coming, I’m loving this!” she laughs, squeezing me back.
It’s time to make my move, otherwise this will all stop when the production stops. I pull her tight to me. “And please…let’s not end this,” I whisper in her ear. “I want to be with you. We can be rich together. I want to be in your life, and in your son’s life. Because…I love you.”
There, I said it. She’s not tensing up like I thought she would, so I let her go and look in her eyes. They are soft and moist.
“I love you, too,” she whispers back.
That’s when I kiss her, long and hard, a forever movie kiss, right under my own plane. It’s a perfect life moment that’s just as good as a movie moment, and I want it to last forever. “Come to Ixtapa with me,” I say. We’ll live two weeks in glorious hedonism. Say yes.”
“Okay, Yes! Pauline is going to kill you! Now go,” she says, pulling away. Her skin is flushed. She exhales and smooths her shirt. “I’ll see you on the airstrip outside Cananae, okay?”
I give her one last kiss before darting up the stairs. I feel another movie moment happening midway up. I stop and turn. “I love you!” I shout, then wave like a teenage jackass.
“I love you too!” she hollers back, getting back in the car.
I dart up the last few stairs and into my plane, feeling like Hefner and Michael Bay and Jerry Bruckheimer all rolled into one.
“This bird can fly!” I shout down the fuselage toward the open cockpit door.
“Thanks, Chief!” Pauline shouts, and I dart down the interior of the plane past Lionel, Tim, and the Japanese punk band and slide into the copilot seat next to Pauline, just as she gets the engines revved up.
“Mind if I join you? I want to enjoy the view,” I say, buckling in.
“If you want,” she says. “It’ll only be a twenty-minute flight across the border.”
I fall silent as she goes through her vocals with the control tower. She turns the plane and points it—no need to taxi, since we’re already at one end of the runway. She revs the engine, and then pushes the throttle. It’s strange to see such a small woman behind the wheel of such a huge plane, surrounded by gears and dials and buttons.
She must read my thoughts. “It’s just like my bush plane, only bigger,” she says as we lift off the ground. We rise five hundred feet off the ground, and the landing gear clunks into place.
Pauline does her pilot talk with Ryan’s air tower and, farther away, Tucson International. Then everything falls silent as we head south. The winter sun shines straight into the cockpit and warms it up fast. We reach three thousand feet, and the view is flat brown forever.
I open my satchel and pull out the travel binder and review its contents—the plane’s insurance policy, the airworthiness certificate, the registration, Pauline’s pilot license and medical forms, and a copy of the radio license. The only thing we had to fake is Pauline’s identity, so she can disappear when the plane does. There are also passenger printouts for Tim, Lionel, Hachiro and his team, and me. Their identification is real; only mine is faked, like Pauline’s, because we’re the only ones they’ll examine.
“Everyone aboard has their passports,” Pauline assures me. “And they’re in the Advanced Passenger Information System.”
“Thank you,” I say. “What about tail numbers as we fly through the ADIZ?”
“Duct tape, baby. Two feet high, on the tail of the plane. I climbed up there and stuck the numbers on myself. But I doubt we’ll get any Air Force jets tailing us.”
Minutes pass in silence. My mind slows, and I feel something I haven’t felt in years—I feel calm. Everything I’ve planned has aligned perfectly, giving me success, wealth, and now love. Who could ever imagine that a mixed martial arts death match on a crashing airplane would lead to love? Life is strange. A contentment washes over me, better than t
he calming high I get when I mix my Xanax with a massive bong hit.
“We’ve just crossed the border, Chief. We’re on the descent into Nogales,” Pauline says.
“Are you as good jumping out of planes as you are at flying them?” I ask.
“I have two hundred jumps. Fifty from the back of a DC-9 just like this one.”
“And once you jump, Peter and his tribe will track you with their GPS and find you. Will you be okay on your own in the desert?”
Pauline waves her hand. “No problem. I’ve survived on my own on glacier ice sheets and in Alaskan rainforests. I can manage in the desert for a few hours until he tracks me down. I ain’t joining his tribe, though. Peter’s a nice guy, but I have enough friends.”
“He understands. He won’t get paid his last installment until you’re in the Garden Hilton in Hermosillo.”
“You, on the other hand, I could be friends with.” She winks at me.
She’s sending out “available” vibes. Maybe it’s the success of the show, or she smells the love pheromones Tina laid on me, but she’s hitting on me.
“I’ll stretch the flight an extra twenty minutes. You can join the Mile High Club,” she says, and reaches out and squeezes my thigh, and I instantly harden.
“Are you serious?” I ask.
“Sure. This baby’s on autopilot. Let’s party.” She tilts her head and shoots a sly, toothy grin. With her red bandana in her Madonna-blonde hair, red lipstick, pink t-shirt, and overalls, she has a bouncy appeal, with a freak factor thrown in. Should I?
No, I decide. It’s as if the universe is sending me an integrity test. I just said “I love you” to a woman for the first time in my life, and that means something.
“I wish I could, but I can’t, so I won’t,” I say, and pat her thigh.
“That’s sweet. It’s not cheating if she joins in. We could all hook up at the Hilton in Hermosillo. Remember that.”
Her radio crackles, and she adjusts her headset and talks with the Nogales airport. Life is strange. Two years ago, I was working eighty hours a week developing hit shows and only making two hundred fifty thousand a year, and never getting laid. Now I’m coasting, getting rich, and getting sexual offers, all at the same time.