Quintana Roo

by Gary Brandner

“My husband wore a bridge — his four front teeth. That … thing had all its teeth.”

  “I’m going inside and take a more thorough look around.” He looked down at Alita. She cradled the rifle comfortably in the crook of her arm.

  “You okay?” he called.

  “Okay,” she answered. “Any funny moves and I shoot.”

  “Thatagirl.” He grasped Connie by the waist again and lowered her to the ground. Then he pulled himself up and through the broken window into the pilot’s compartment.

  The wheel was snapped off the shaft, the whole instrument panel shattered and pushed back into the cockpit. All that remained of the powerful engine was a tangle of broken tubes, wires, and a mass of rusted metal. There was moss and tropical lichen growing on all exposed surfaces. In another year, the jungle would have claimed the wreck entirely.

  As far as Hooker could tell, the one skeleton was all there was up there. He closed his eyes for a moment and pictured Buzz Kaplan — hearty, broad shouldered, big muscled. Could these scattered bones be all that remained of him? Strip away skin and tissue and there isn’t a whole lot of difference between any of us. He supposed that if they took the skull back to civilization, it might be identified. They did wonders with bits of bodies these days.

  He knelt at the rear of the compartment and used his knife to hack away the creepers that crawled over the hatch leading down to the passenger’s cabin. It was rusted shut, but he managed to pry it loose.

  As he lowered himself into the cabin, a land crab the size of his fist scuttled away from under his feet. It looked like a huge spider and moved with startling speed. Hooker shuddered and dropped the rest of the way into the musty cabin.

  The rent in the side of the fuselage began up in the cockpit and continued all the way back to the rear of the cabin. Part of it had been stuffed with padding from the seats. In the aisle, a pile of blankets and seat cushions had been fashioned into a makeshift bed. Hooker stood looking at it, rubbing his jaw. It was then he noticed that the outside cabin door was slightly ajar. He picked his way over to it and worked the panel back and forth. Surprisingly, it was not rusted in place.

  He sat down on one of the upended seats to consider the significance of what he had found. Beyond the partial skeleton in the pilot’s compartment, there was no sign of human remains. That left two men unaccounted for. It was possible, of course, that their bodies had been dragged off by animals into the jungle. It was also possible that one or both of them had survived. There was definite indications that somebody had been living in the wreck.

  Still pondering what it all meant, Hooker let himself out through the cabin door and dropped to the ground. He walked over and stood with Alita and Connie, looking at the wreck. The chicleros were totally taken with the airplane and were no threat, at least for the moment.

  “As far as I can tell, there’s only one body in there,” Hooker said. “And you say it’s not your husband.”

  “I’m sure it isn’t Nolan,” Connie said.

  “Then it has to be either the pilot or Buzz Kaplan.”

  “What happened to the others?” Alita said.

  “A reasonable question,” Hooker said. “And I’m as curious about it as you are. The thing is, my instinct tells me it would not be smart for us to hang around here trying to find the answer.”

  “Your instinct,” Connie repeated.

  “It’s served me well in the past.”

  “Then what do you suggest we do? Just turn around and go home?”

  “I’ve got a camera and film in my pack. We’ll take pictures of the wreck and of what’s inside. That ought to be enough to prove the plane went down.”

  “What good will that do? It doesn’t prove whether Nolan is alive or dead.”

  “To tell you the truth, it’s more than I ever expected to find.”

  “And you could just walk away from it now?”

  “Easy.”

  Connie stared at him. “Every time I start thinking I could like you, Hooker, you do something to make me think you’re a heel.”

  “I never claimed to be Jack Armstrong.”

  “But what if Nolan’s still alive? Or your friend?”

  “We’ve got a lock on the position of the wreck now. Your husband’s company — your company — can send out a fully equipped expedition that can do a hell of a lot better job looking for them than we can. The sensible thing for us to do is get our ass back to civilization and report what we’ve found.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” Connie said doubtfully.

  “You’re damn right I’m right.”

  “Let’s hurry, Johnny,” Alita said. “I don’t like the smell of this place.”

  “Neither do I, chiquita,” Hooker said.

  He whistled sharply to get the attention of the chicleros, who were starting to poke through the wreckage for anything worth stealing. As he beckoned them over, a roar came from the thick undergrowth directly behind the spot where he stood with the two women. It was unlike any animal they had heard since entering Quintana Roo. The three of them turned. Hooker’s hand went instinctively for his .45.

  “Hooker, you crazy son of a bitch, it is you!”

  Out of the trees hobbled a huge apparition, dressed in rags, the face mostly hidden behind a wild red beard.

  “Buzz?” Hooker peered at the enormous man lumbering toward them, a Mayan spear clutched in one hand.

  “It ain’t Dr. Livingston.”

  The two men stumbled forward and embraced. For one giddy moment, Hooker felt as if he were going to cry. Then both of them started to laugh like crazy and pound each other on the back and shoulders. When they finally stepped back, Hooker cocked his head and looked at his friend. He jerked a thumb at the spear.

  “What were you going to do with that?”

  The bearded man looked down, laughed, and tossed the spear aside. “Strictly for show,” he said. “If you turned out to be bad guys, I was going to use it to make a gallant last stand.”

  Hooker shook his head. “Kaplan, what the hell is going on here?”

  “It’s a little complicated. Was that you who buzzed over here a couple of times two, three days ago?”

  “Yeah. Was that you flashing at us with the hunk of metal up in the tree?”

  “That was me. Kaplan pointed to a tall mahogany tree on the other side of the wreck. Down from the upper branches hung a vine that had been twisted and knotted together with pieces of rope and braided cloth. It reached to within five feet of the ground.

  “My homemade semaphore. I heard the plane come over in the rainstorm and knew damn well nobody could see anything down here. Just in case they came back, I worked like hell to carry that hunk of the engine cowling up the tree and brace it there so it would wobble when I yanked on the rope. When I heard the plane again the next day, I just kept tugging on the rope, hoping somebody would spot the signal.”

  “We damn near missed you.”

  Kaplan’s glance took in the two women and the chicleros. “Who was your pilot?”

  “Klaus Heinemann.”

  Kaplan’s smile faded.

  “He’s a damn good flyer,” Hooker said.

  “I know he is. He just always struck me as a cold fish.”

  “We couldn’t have made it without him.”

  “In that case, as soon as we get back to civilization, I’ll buy him a beer. Aren’t you going to introduce me to your other friends?”

  “You know Alita.”

  “I sure as hell do.” He held out his bearlike arms and Alita ran into them. He squeezed her for a long moment, then released her.

  “And this is Connie Braithwaite.”

  “That would be the wife,” Kaplan said.

  Connie nodded, staring at him.

  “Pleased to meet you.”

  “Can you tell me what happened to my husband?” she said.

  “Up to a point.”

  For the first time, Hooker noticed that Kaplan was supporting himself on a crude cane fashion
ed out of a branch. He looked down at tattered leg of his friend’s trousers and saw no foot there. Instead, there was a carved wooden stump attached to his leg above the ankle by leather thongs.

  “What the hell is that?” he said.

  “Like I told you, it’s a complicated story.” He looked across at the chicleros, who stood watching them with impassive faces.

  “Who are they?”

  “A couple of men we picked up in Campeche. Chicleros, if you’re familiar with the term.”

  “I am,” Kaplan said. “They’re not the kind of people you want to spend a lot of time in the jungle with.”

  “There wasn’t any choice. We needed two men, and these were all we could get. The little one’s Chaco. Don’t let him out of your sight. The big one is Manuel. Him I’m not sure of.”

  “I got the picture. If they brought you in here, I trust they can get us out. I don’t walk too good, but with a little support, I can make it. Until you showed up, I was afraid I was going to have to float out of here.”

  “Float? On what?”

  “A raft. I got it damn near finished. Hell, buddy, I’m a regular Huckleberry Finn. Want to have a look at it?”

  “I mean on what kind of water. There are no rivers in Quintana Roo.”

  “Not on the maps, but I know different.”

  “Are you going to tell me what happened, or are you saving it for the Saturday Evening Post?”

  “You got any cigarettes?”

  Hooker passed over his pack of Luckies.

  “Thank God.” Kaplan lit up and inhaled the smoke hungrily. He let it out with a sigh of immense satisfaction. “I’ll give you the short version now and fill in the details when we get to a nice comfortable bar somewhere.”

  CHAPTER 20

  Nolan Braithwaite was neither the hardest man Buzz Kaplan had ever worked for nor the easiest. However, he was by far the richest. It was a point of pride for Buzz that his reputation had brought him to Braithwaite’s attention. He knew that he was being carefully scrutinized during the interview in Braithwaite’s suite at the Hotel Palacio. He also knew that he would get the job. Buzz Kaplan was as good at what he did as anybody in Mexico and a lot more honest than most.

  The flight to Panama had sounded like a pleasant break from his usual routine of short trips in and around Veracruz with men fearful for their money or their lives. It was only going to take three days, so he would not have to be away long from Carmen and the boys. Buzz Kaplan, family man. He sometimes laughed at himself, thinking what the perpetually angry Kaplan of ten years before would have thought of the idea. But he was happy now, and he would not have traded places with anybody.

  As was his custom, Buzz let Nolan Braithwaite know early in their relationship that he had no interest in Braithwaite’s business in Mexico or Panama or anywhere else. He did the job he was hired to do. Period. Braithwaite liked that. The fewer people who knew his business, the better he liked it.

  The yellow and blue Lockheed Orion was an impressive sight at the small airfield outside Veracruz. Inside, it was equally impressive. The cabin was fully carpeted, the seat cushions extra deep. There was soft music playing from concealed speakers and a bar stocked with the best liquor available. With only Buzz and Braithwaite as passengers, the cabin provided plenty of room to stretch out.

  The eight-hour flight from Veracruz to Panama was so smooth it was boring. A couple of times, Buzz climbed up into the cockpit to talk to the pilot, a fleshy man named Wilcox. However, the man’s only interests seemed to be airplanes and pussy, so Buzz retreated to the passengers’ cabin and paged idly through the financial magazines, which were the only reading material available.

  The fueling stop in Campeche on the way down gave Buzz a chance to stretch his legs but little more. There was nothing there except a patched-up shed and a man named Gonzales, who was awestruck by the Orion.

  In Panama, the pace had picked up somewhat. The city was crowded with foreigners, all of whom seemed to be on mysterious errands of great importance. Buzz enjoyed a sightseeing jaunt with Braithwaite to the canal to watch a Dutch freighter go through the locks. He ate heartily of the rich Panamanian food, though he missed the spicier taste of Carmen’s Mexican cooking. As always when he was working, he drank nothing stronger than mineral water. A drunken bodyguard was as useless as a toothless watchdog.

  Nolan Braithwaite’s business in Panama seemed to involve dealing with a number of unsavory individuals. It was Buzz’s job to let them know he was there and alert, then position himself out of earshot but close enough for immediate action, should the situation call for it.

  The negotiations, conducted in Spanish, English, and German seemed to involve the transfer of huge sums of money. Buzz ignored the talk and kept an eye out for any suspicious movement on the part of Braithwaite’s companions. Everything went so smoothly, he might as well have stayed in bed.

  The only excitement of the trip came when they stopped in Guatemala to refuel on the way back. There a dozen ragged peons showed up with signs denouncing the American capitalist and his exploitation of the world’s poor. Buzz sauntered over and advised them to simmer down. He didn’t want to get rough with the poor bastards; God knew they had enough trouble. Still, they had to learn this was not the way to accomplish worthwhile social change.

  After taking off from Guatemala, Buzz had been dozing for an hour or so in the rear seat of the cabin when the engine coughed. The big Pratt & Whitney mill was so finely tuned that the single cough jarred him awake like a gunshot. He sat up, listening. The engine coughed again. Up in the front seat, Nolan Braithwaite leaned tensely forward, his briefcase gripped in both hands.

  Buzz pushed his way up the narrow aisle and shoved open the hatch in the ceiling that led to the pilot’s compartment. The engine was sputtering now, and the plane was vibrating dangerously.

  “What’s going on?” he asked the pilot.

  Wilcox was cursing under his breath while he snapped a toggle switch up and down. “If I didn’t know we just took on a load of fuel, I’d say we were out of gas.”

  The engine sputtered again, backfired once, and quit.

  Wilcox pounded on the instrument panel with his fist. “Son of a bitch! We are out of gas!”

  He cut the ignition, feathered the windmilling propeller, and the Orion began to nose downward. Buzz dropped into the seat next to him and stared at the unbroken sea of green below them. A cold lump formed in his stomach.

  “What do we do now?” Even as he spoke, Buzz realized how stupid the words sounded.

  “Are you religious?” Wilcox asked, wrestling with the wheel.

  “No.” Then, without thinking, he added, “My wife is.”

  “Well, if you know any of her prayers, you better say them.”

  Buzz’s thoughts jumped back to the stern, bearded God he had pictured as a child. A remote and vengeful God ready to smite down little boys who grew careless in their attendance at temple. Carmen’s God was a different sort, more like a kindly grandfather to whom Carmen spoke on comfortable intimate terms. Self-consciously, Buzz tried making the sign of the cross, the way Carmen had showed him, but he couldn’t make his hand move the way it should. Probably it was too late to do him any good now, anyway.

  The rush of wind rose to a howl as the Orion dived more steeply. The hatch banged open, and Nolan Braithwaite’s head appeared. Even in this emergency, his wavy silver-white hair was in place, his silk tie knotted, his voice calm.

  “What is it, Wilcox? Are we in trouble?”

  “We’re out of gas, sir. Something’s wrong with the number-two tank.”

  “How can that be?”

  “I don’t know, Mr. Braithwaite, but you’d better go back and strap yourself into your seat. We’re going to hit pretty hard.”

  Braithwaite nodded. His head disappeared below the hatch, and he lowered the cover into place.

  Buzz fastened the buckle on his own seat belt. “Is there anything I can do?”

  Wilcox shook his h
ead. Moisture trickled down the pilot’s plump cheeks. Buzz could not tell whether it was perspiration or tears.

  The jungle rose swiftly to meet them. Wilcox tugged back on the wheel and managed to level off their glide path somewhat before they went in. The first of the treetops brushed almost gently against the underside of the plane. Then something boomed like a cannon. The wing on Buzz’s side vanished with a scream of tearing metal. The instrument panel rose up and hit him in the face, and the world blew up.

  • • •

  The smell was his first sensation when Buzz regained consciousness. Raw, metallic, feral. A smell he knew. Blood. He opened his eyes and looked down at himself. He was covered with fragments of glass from the shattered windshield. Gingerly, he raised one arm, then the other. They seemed to work all right. The blood was not coming from him. He turned to look at Wilcox.

  The pilot was smashed against the back of his seat, the bent steering wheel pushed deep into his chest. Wilcox’s eyes were open and bulging, but he was not looking at anything. A spear of glass had gone in just under his chin. The jagged point protruded from the back of his neck. Wilcox wore a scarlet bib of his own blood.

  Something thumped against the hatch behind him. Buzz unbuckled his seat belt and started to get up. That was when the pain hit him. It felt like he had stuck his right leg into a meat grinder. For a moment, his vision fogged over. He almost passed out again but willed himself back. His right foot was caught in ragged metal jaws that held him as securely as a bear trap. His boot had been torn away, and his dead white toes pointed off at an impossible angle. The shattered ankle bone showed pink and white through the torn flesh.

  “Oh, shit,” he said.

  With a bang, the jammed hatch came open, and Nolan Braithwaite stuck his head up into the cockpit. “Wilcox. Kaplan. Are you all right?”

  “Wilcox is dead,” Buzz said in a voice that was unnaturally calm. “I seem to be caught here.”

  Braithwaite pulled himself up into the cockpit. His hair was messed now, the tie loose, and there was a mouse growing under one eye. He looked at the bloody hulk that was Wilcox, then down at Buzz’s mangled foot. He turned away and vomited.