Take the Money: Romantic Suspense in Costa Rica

by Lucia Sinn

“But it’s awfully small.”

  “Look. That is your plane to Guanacaste coming in.” He pointed to a small plane careening downward in their direction, its wings seesawing back and forth.

  Julie struggled to control her fears. She couldn’t possibly fly across the mountains in that contraption. Unaware of her mood, the driver got out and opened the door with an elaborate courtesy. She jumped out onto the road, trying to appear nonchalant.

  “Would you like me to wait while?” he asked.

  “No.” Julie said. “I’ve arranged for a ticket, and this place doesn’t look too busy.” She walked inside just in time to see the plane taxiing across the runway and come to a stop. The lone passenger—a sandy haired man in cutoffs carrying a surfboard—stepped to the ground, followed by the pilot.

  “Great waves,” the surfer called out to Julie before dashing outside in time to flag down her taxi.

  “I hope you have only one bag,” the clerk at the ticket counter said.

  “Of course, just this.” Julie pointed to the dark green backpack.

  “You’ll have to be weighed with it.” He pointed to the next room where a path led to a large scale.

  “Weighed?”

  “Yes. But don’t worry, a beautiful slim lady like you won’t tip the scales.” He winked, slowly stroking the end of his thin mustache.

  “Just how large is this plane I’m taking? Or should I say, how small?”

  “It seats six very comfortably. Don’t worry, we have good pilots and the plane is safe. Are you visiting friends in Liberia?”

  Nosy questions could lead to trouble she didn’t need. “Yes,” she lied. “They have a home there, in the city.”

  “Oh. I see.” His voice dropped and he busied himself with making out her ticket. Julie wondered what he would have said if she told him she hadn’t the slightest idea where she was staying once she got off the plane. She remembered Bud’s comments about women traveling alone in this country and realized most Ticos probably regarded her as something akin to a prostitute.

  The waiting room was deserted; it seemed Julie would be the sole passenger on her flight. She walked into a small room that looked like a garage, where an attendant asked her to pick up her bag and step on the scale. 125 pounds.

  Julie laughed. “You think I’ll sink the plane?”

  “You have not exceeded the limit,” he said gravely. “You may board as soon as the pilot arrives.” She wondered what, exactly, the limit would be.

  The pilot who’d landed a few minutes earlier emerged from the men’s rest room and walked briskly toward them, still wiping his hands on a paper towel.

  She wasn’t ordinarily afraid of air travel, but this plane looked like it was made of tin. Was she really going to fly over the mountains in this thing? There was an overpowering odor of mildew as she settled into the seat with torn upholstery. The rusty doors clanked shut and the pilot motioned her to fasten her seatbelt. Julie complied, and looked out the window, not sure she wanted to watch every move he made since she didn’t understand the instrument panel.

  A few minutes passed as the pilot went through a checklist. She studied the back of his head while he fiddled with various knobs. He was one of the few Ticos she’d seen without a mustache and was the picture of competence in his starched shirt and navy blue pants with knife-sharp creases. She assured herself that this was a well-established airline; their pilots had to be well trained. It was comforting to see that he wore a wedding ring. A married man would be more stable.

  The pilot gave her a quick smile, started the engine, and taxied down the runway, accelerating rapidly while the engine sputtered and growled. Suddenly he braked. Two men in the hanger waved, but he shook his head furiously and wagged a finger, then made a right turn.

  “What’s wrong?” Julie asked.

  “The wind, Senorita. They had me going against it.”

  As they climbed upward, the plane dipped up and down like a rubber raft on a tidal wave. Julie was glad she hadn’t had lunch. “How can you tell by looking?” she called above the sonorous drone of the engine.

  “You watch the trees,” he said, “the way they bend against the wind.” Keeping his eyes straight ahead, he casually picked up a barf bag from the seat beside him and handed it back. “You’ll be needing this,”

  Julie pressed the stiff paper bag to her face while her stomach heaved, but thankfully, nothing came up. Finally they were above the wind and out of the city, drifting above the verdant countryside—an undulating landscape of mountains and green valleys. They crossed over crystal clear rivers and great waterfalls plunging down mountain slopes. Occasionally, they passed through a cloud. These lapses of visibility made Julie’s nerve endings tense and she exhaled shakily when the mist cleared and they could see land once again. Although she spotted an occasional landing strip, the terrain looked treacherous; an emergency landing would be hazardous.

  An hour later, the pilot said. “Be sure your seat belt is tight. We’re nearing Guanacaste.” The sky was like a rotating color wheel, shifting rapidly from light blue to dove gray and finally leaden with thunderous black clouds. The plane lurched, dropped, and rumbled between upward thrusts as they headed straight into a storm. Julie watched the pilot for facial clues and signs of tension as jagged streaks of lightning flashed across the horizon, but except for the deepening of the furrows in his forehead, his facial expression showed no hint of alarm, and his hand on the steering wheel appeared steady and relaxed. No white knuckles yet.

  At last she saw a large building at the end of a long runway. “That looks like a place to land,” she said, hoping he’d take advantage of a chance to get on the ground.

  “It’s the airport,” he said, “but we’ll have to go on, it’s starting to rain too hard.” Pellets of hail bounced off the wings as he nosed back up into the sky.

  “Go where?”

  “I’ll have to drive out of the storm. There’s a village we passed, we’ll go there.”

  “Couldn’t we go back to San Jose?”

  “No, we have to land soon. We’re low on fuel.”

  Again, Julie studied the man for signs of stress, but he almost seemed to be enjoying this flurry of excitement. True to his prediction, the skies cleared as they approached an open-air hut at the end of a landing strip. He began his descent, but a cow moseyed out into their path. Abruptly he turned the plane upward, finally showing some emotion as he exclaimed, “Ay, Caramba!”

  “Now what?”

  “Un momento.” He threw back his head as he circled the landing strip.

  Several men ran to the runway, grabbed the cow, and waved. The pilot began his descent once again, and this time they made it to the ground. “You may as well get out,” he said. “We may be here for awhile.”

  Julie legs were rubbery as the pilot helped her disembark. “I’ll never get on that plane again,” she said to herself. She vomited into some bushes and groped for a large leaf to wipe her chin. Within moments, she felt better.

  “I’m sorry if you were frightened.” The pilot turned to look at her with dark absorbing eyes as if seeing her for the first time. She realized that all of his concentration had been focused on piloting the plane and bringing them to safety. He wasn’t quite so cavalier as he pretended to be.

  “You mean you weren’t worried?”

  He shrugged in feigned indifference, damp tendrils of dark hair falling across his forehead. “It was just a little storm. But it’s getting late now, and the rain is moving this way. It will be fine tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow? What do we do tonight?”

  A group of men and boys ran toward them now, probably excited with the novelty of a plane coming to their village.

  “Tonight we stay here in Santa Clara,” he said.

  “Here in Santa Clara? Overnight?” Julie stopped walking and looked around for signs of civilization. All she could see were some cows grazing in a ragged pasture that seemed to offer little in the way of bovine nourishment. Ahead was a wi
lderness of towering trees and vines.

  The pilot looked apologetic. “I hope it’s not too great an inconvenience?”

  “No, I’m just surprised you can decide this without checking with someone back in San Jose.”

  “It’s no problem, I’ll give them a call. This is the last flight of the day. My name is Juan Guzman, by the way.”

  “But where will we stay?” Julie tried to act as though it mattered, even though she was ecstatic about such a propitious turn of events. No one would dream of looking for her in such a remote area. Kevin’s killer would never find her here.

  “Don’t worry, there’s a clinic here. The doctor stationed there is a friend of mine. There are clean beds, food, you’ll be fine. Also, many of the villagers produce pottery. You may find it interesting.”

  And safe. She smiled and said, “my name is Julie Lawson.”

  *

  They walked down a dirt road and entered a forest. The air was heavy with the smell of ozone, but the rain had not come yet, and there was only the gentle swish of leaves in the wind. They followed a narrow path through a maze of trees with tall slender trunks and leafy plumes that feathered high across the sky, forming a protective canopy above fledgling trees, giant ferns and mysterious oversized plants. Monkeys scampered along tree limbs, and butterflies paused to spread their brilliantly colored wings. There was a cathedral-like feeling of reverence as they trudged silently through the forest, listening only to trill of birds and the whispering of a brook. Within a few minutes they entered a clearing.

  A cluster of small houses, mostly cinder block or zinc—or a combination of the two—formed a small village. Barefoot children came running to greet them, while the men and women hung back and merely stared. From their flat cheekbones, full lips, slanting eyes and straight black hair, Julie concluded they were not Spanish, but the descendants of the original inhabitants of Costa Rica, even though they wore colored shirts and modern dresses. “You’re seeing some of the true natives of our land,” the pilot said. “These Indians date back at least 4,000 years.”

  “So how do they survive?”

  “Many of them work on the ranches now. Things were better when the Peace Corps was here.”

  “The Peace Corps? What did they have to do here?”

  “The people were living in extreme poverty. Economic development was needed. The volunteers encouraged the people to develop their pottery making skills. They helped them organize and streamline their work and market it throughout the country.”

  Everywhere, Julie saw stacks of ceramic jugs, ocarinas, bowls, cups and dishes painted in bright colors and decorated with intricate designs. And yet, the houses had no glass in the windows, looked dirty and crowded. “But they still seem poor.”

  He sighed. “Yes, many of them are. When the last volunteer left, they went back to their old ways of working independently instead of together.” They were coming to a small white building surrounded by a long queue of women, children and old people.

  “What’s this? A doctor’s office?” Julie asked.

  “It’s the clinic where the government provides free medical care. Unfortunately, there is only one overworked doctor, a couple of assistants, and a scarcity of drugs and medicines.”

  “The doctor is your friend?”

  “Yes, we went to school together in San Jose.”

  “Why in the world would he get stuck in a place like this to practice medicine?”

  “Why wouldn’t he?”

  “Well, obviously, it’s not a great place for an educated young doctor to prosper. I’d think his family would want to live in the city.”

  “He has no immediate family. His wife and son were killed in a car accident in the mountains.”

  At the mention of a fatal car accident, a memory seeped into Julie’s consciousness. Kevin’s icy hands; sticky blood between her fingers; the winter sky exploding with orange light. A month ago, she couldn’t have imagined such horror, but now it was all too real. “How terrible,” was all she could say, not wanting to relive those moments by bringing up her own experience with such devastating tragedy.

  They walked into the clinic where every chair was filled with tired young women holding almond eyed babies with feverish pink cheeks. Surrounding the mothers were small children with dirty faces and ragged clothes who nevertheless seemed happy and playful.

  The air in the dark waiting room was heavy with medicinal smells and the musty odors of sickness. At the end of a narrow gloomy hallway, they came to a small room where a physician was talking to a patient. Julie was surprised that the door was open and feared the doctor would be upset at their unannounced entry, but as he looked up, his heavy lidded brown eyes filled with light.

  “Juan!” he cried out. “Que pasa?”

  The doctor’s tawny skin had the even-colored look of man who spent his daylight hours within the shadowy confines of four walls. Taller than his friend Juan by a head, he was thin—almost gaunt, his Adam’s apple moving up and down his neck above the open collar of his white lab coat. His black straight hair was feathered at the sides with gray, but it seemed premature since the creases around his eyes only formed when he smiled. As they drew closer, Julie was aware of intensity about the man—an aura of light and sweetness. He rested his long-lashed eyes on her a moment longer than necessary, filling her with a strange longing.

  Juan broke the spell and began speaking rapidly about how they’d run into a storm and needed to refuel.

  “Good. You’ll stay here tonight?” The doctor’s eagerness for company was almost pathetic.

  “If it’s all right. My passenger here will need a room. In fact, she’s feeling airsick and probably could use some rest. Julie, this is Dr. Rojas.”

  The doctor said, “Please call me Enrique, and you’re welcome to the stay in the patient room at the back. But what about you, Juan?”

  “I can stay at the hotel.”

  “Hotel?” Julie’s ears perked up. “I could stay there, too couldn’t I? Instead of inconveniencing the doctor?”

  The two men looked at each other, then back at her. “It would be safer here at the clinic,” Juan said. “It’s guarded all night, and the doctor is here, too.”

  “But isn’t the hotel protected?”

  Enrique looked serious. “Just take his word for it. Now, Juan, if you’ll show the young lady her room, we’ll plan to meet at La Casita for dinner about seven.”

  “I still think I should stay at the hotel,” Julie protested, as Juan showed her a small, neat room with a tile floor and a narrow bed covered with a white blanket. The only window was high and heavily barred.

  Juan spoke with urgency. “I don’t mean to frighten you, but some American girls were murdered on the beach up at Liberia last week.”

  “Murdered? I thought the only thing you had to worry about in this country was theft.”

  “Ordinarily, it is. But these murders have everyone worried. There’s a lot of anti-American feeling lately.”

  “Why? What’s happened?”

  “Coffee prices are down in the US, meaning high unemployment here. There’s a feeling that American investors are helping to keep wages low, and then there are the American tourists.”

  “You mean they’re loud and obnoxious and have a superior attitude?” Julie had seen some of them barking orders at the waiters and waitresses at the Cariari and in the stores downtown.

  “They arouse resentment and jealousy. Then too, the people feel our government is becoming too much like yours, too capitalistic.”

  “But this village seems serene and everyone smiled at us.”

  “That’s because they know me here. Now, get some rest and I’ll stop by later so that we can have dinner.”

  “Right now, food doesn’t seem very appealing.” Julie’s stomach was still sore from heaving.

  “True. But you’ll be surprised how much better you feel in a few hours. La Casita is a charming little place overlooking a lake. I’m sure you’ll be please
d.”

  Julie was too tired to argue. An attendant brought her a glass of tangy golden fruit juice which she drank quickly, then stretched out on the narrow bed while the sound of children’s laughter lulled her to sleep. When she awakened, dusk had darkened her room and the white walls reflected the pinks and purples and oranges of the sunset.

  Across the hall was a small bathroom with a hand sink and strong-smelling soap which she used liberally, even to shampoo her hair. Anything was better than reeking of vomit. A light bulb dangling from a wire in the ceiling provided a dim light over a pockmarked mirror where Julie could see to run a comb through her hair. She was still wearing the same T shirt and shorts she’d had on all day, and she had forgotten to bring extra underwear. She washed her panties and bra, hung them near the window to dry, and changed into the black silk blouse and short black shirt which she had remembered to bring. Hopefully, it would be dark enough that the men would not realize she wasn’t wearing underwear. At the last minute, she removed the circles of gold she usually wore in her pierced ears and replaced them with some silvery dangles she’d bought from a Nicaraguan street vendor.

  The restaurant was a small wooden building nestled amongst tall trees, tropical plants, and flowering shrubs. A torch lit the entryway. Inside, candles glowed at tables arranged with small vases of fragrant flowers. Near a large picture window overlooking a small, shimmering lake, a dark-skinned man strummed on a guitar and a woman next to him crooned softly, her black hair cascading to her shoulders.

  Away from the clinic, Julie could see that Dr. Rojas possessed a certain urbanity. His manners were polished as he seated her and gravely ordered for them without glancing at the chalkboard menu. There was about him a lithe gracefulness that suggested gentlemanly pursuits like tennis or golf. She was surprised when he lit a dark thin cigarette and inhaled deeply, sending long curls of smoke twirling across the room.

  She ordered bottled water to soothe her still cramped stomach but the men had bottles of beer that arrived accompanied by small plates of cerviche and fried plantains. Dinner was beans, rice and chicken. A delicate custard was served next, along with steaming cups of strong coffee.