by Hy Conrad
The interior noise level was surprisingly low, thanks in part to the noise-canceling headsets they were each given to wear. Before Amy realized the rotors were at full operational speed, the King Fisher was off the ground and heading north by northeast.
“How could she be north?” It was O’Bannion’s voice over the headset, the question directed at no one in particular. “There are no real trails to the north. And she was riding south.”
“We don’t know, sir,” came the disembodied voice of one of the Canadians.
“This is a mistake. You must have made a mistake.”
“No, sir. We were focused on the southern terrain, per our instructions, when Norm made a wide swing up by the river. We flew along it, configuring our old maps, since not every spot in the world is GPS friendly all the time. Anyhow, I spotted her. It was almost a fluke.” They were flying over a pathless swath of scrubby green. The gray-blue glint of a wide, meandering ribbon of water played among the low foothills.
Amy and Fanny were the first to see the condors. Two of them were gliding at about the same height as the chopper, with their long black wings and separated feathers at the tips, flying away from the noise of the rotors. Fanny let out a little yelp.
“Pardon me, ma’am?” asked one of the Canadians.
“Nothing,” replied Fanny. “Just a little déjà vu.” She nudged her daughter’s arm and pointed to the phone in Amy’s hand. Amy understood. She turned on her video feature and pointed the phone out the window toward the river. Be judicious, she reminded herself. There might be a lot more that needs filming today. With any luck, she wouldn’t have to erase her glacier adventure, but she might. As they came in low, she could clearly see a small figure—red top and black pants—lying by the bank.
The Bell 407 circled once, then eased down onto a bend in the river, onto a large rocky patch in the midst of the solidified silt. The pilots cut the engine and reminded their passengers to stay on board until the doors were opened for them. When the young copilot opened Amy’s picture window and helped her out, he saw her camera phone. It reminded him to take his own camera, probably last used to record the landing of a prize trout a hundred miles away. The older pilot saw the two cameras, and that reminded him to open up a small storage compartment on the outside of the hull and retrieve a large, thick black plastic bag. He tried to be nonchalant, but Amy had to wonder if they had packed it specifically for this job, or if all helicopters working in the wilderness came equipped with body bags.
“Get in front,” said Fanny, elbowing Amy in the back. “I want good footage.”
Amy toyed with the idea of obeying her mother, but there was something about Jorge O’Bannion that stopped her. She let him take the lead as they walked the twenty yards or so between the helicopter and the river. The man look so vulnerable, almost frightened. The younger pilot tried to point the way, but the body’s location had been pretty obvious from their time circling the spot. Amy kept filming.
Lola Pisano’s body was wedged in a little eddy, almost submerged as the river water swirled around it in a miniature whirlpool. It was a foot or two from the shoreline. Amy had never seen a human being dead in the water like this. There was more bloating than she’d expected, considering it had been in there for perhaps only thirty hours. The woman lay on her side, facing the shore, dressed in red and black, but the fabric was so muddied and tattered that little remained of the design. Her face had been pecked at by the scavengers, but not to a horrible degree. No, Amy rethought that assessment. Horrible, yes, but not to an unrecognizable degree. Although Amy had never spent much time with Lola, she thought back to the woman she’d seen on the horse—the hair, the sharp features, even the mole on the cheek, surprisingly unpecked, as if the condors had found it as distasteful as most humans had.
Jorge O’Bannion approached slowly, his eyes fixed on the face. And although the sight was exactly what everybody had expected, his expression went from vulnerability to wide-eyed wonder, then to a kind of calm resignation. “It is Lola Pisano,” he finally said. “I didn’t think . . . Until this minute, I didn’t think it could be. My dear Lola.”
Amy caught what she could on tape—the face, Jorge’s reaction, the pilots and their catch of the day. But at some point the whole thing became too personal, too intrusive. When she slid her finger off the video button and lowered her phone, even Fanny didn’t object.
The rest of the recovery mission was simple but mind-numbing. O’Bannion and the Abel women stood by the banks of the Serrano, averting their eyes, watching the muddy water flow down from the distant Andes on its zigzag journey to the Pacific. The two pilots, assisted by Edgar, lifted the body, settled it into the open body bag, zipped it tight, and carried it—one at the head, one at the feet, Edgar guiding them along—to the waiting helicopter.
After the pilots had finished their job and were escorting their living passengers into the chopper, Amy couldn’t avoid glancing into the cargo area. The black bag was being held in place with built-in straps meant to hold down equipment. Luckily for all concerned, the bag seemed to be airtight. On the short ride back to the estancia, there were next to no smells wafting up from the rear.
CHAPTER 20
Jorge remained with the aircraft, the pilots, and the body, while Amy, her mother, and Edgar walked from the meadow across the gravel drive, up to the Torre Vista porch and the small crowd that had gathered—all the other guests, plus Nicolas and a few of the staff. Fanny tried valiantly to preserve an aura of somber respect, but she nearly trotted the whole way.
“What happened?” Todd Drucker was at the front of the pack. “Was it her?”
“Was it the same as your vision?” asked Alicia Lindborn, who had apparently been able to put two and two together.
“What vision?” Todd’s eyes went from Fanny to Alicia and back again.
“My vision four days ago, dear, the one you said I made up.”
Gabriela stayed busy with her Furies and the Spanish-speaking staff, translating the drama step-by-step.
“I don’t blame anyone for doubting me.” Fanny was at her magnanimous best. “But as soon as I met Lola, I knew. I tried warning her, but she wouldn’t listen. Not in English, anyway. I guess the lesson is we can’t change the future, as hard as we may try. Amy, give me your phone.”
For the next hour, Fanny held court on the porch. She began, with Alicia’s support, by singing the praises of yerba maté as a vision-inducing drug.
“That’s not what maté does,” Todd protested, but no one cared.
From then on, the tale unfolded like a Greek tragedy. Fanny’s vision in the wilderness, the cruel world doubting her, Alicia’s brilliant suggestion, then the surprise arrival of Lola, and Fanny’s futile attempt to stop the hand of fate. The finale was the video, raw and unedited. The audience watched it several times, passing it around and around again. Even her nemesis, the Toad, was awed into submission. In the sport of competitive traveling, Fanny had made a touchdown, a home run, and a hat trick combined.
Halfway through the saga, Amy melted away through the double doors and into the lounge. The younger of the two pilots was standing over the map, admiring their handiwork from yesterday’s search. “You guys were organized,” he said. “And I don’t blame you for not looking up by the river. Not a logical spot.”
His full name was Kevin Vanderhof, originally from Ottawa. As Amy had assumed, he was ex-military, having served with the Canadian Air Reserves, flying search and rescue in the frozen North until he opted for a change of scenery and came down to the frozen South. His love of fly-fishing had made this job a natural. He was almost exactly Amy’s height, five-ten, but had a presence that made him seem taller.
“What are you going to do with Lola?” Amy couldn’t bring herself to say “the body.”
“My partner is arranging the flight plan now. After lunch, we’re taking her to the El Calafate airport in Argentina.”
“We’re that close to Argentina?”
“The
geography here is deceptive,” Kevin explained. “It can take you half a day to drive fifty miles as the crow flies. There’s mountains and glaciers in the way. And the roads are crazy. Most of them were laid out a hundred years ago to connect sheep ranches. Nothing is direct.”
“I think our train took that route.”
“Then you know. The deceased’s relatives are arranging the logistics. Someone will be meeting us in El Calafate and flying her back to Buenos Aires.”
“Will Jorge be going with her?”
“I think he’s got his hands full here.” Kevin turned to face Amy. His eyes were hazel, she couldn’t help noticing, just like Marcus’s. He lowered his voice. “From what I overheard, I don’t think the relatives were ever thrilled with Mr. O’Bannion. Even before she rode off and got killed.”
When the noonday meal was announced, Amy asked Kevin and Norm to join their table. She knew her mother. Fanny would be preoccupied by her vision, trying out slightly different versions on her daughter as she endlessly retold the tale, barely able to eat. Having two strangers with them—two practical military types—might help to put a damper on her enthusiasm. But no. It just provided her with a new audience.
After lunch, a crowd gathered on the long porch and watched as the two pilots and their cargo took to the air, sprayed gravel along the drive and up the steps, then pivoted east and gained altitude over the meadows. Then their attention returned to the more serious matter of touring.
The monastery visit had been scheduled for a full day, including a donkey ride up an Andean path that hugged the mountain. The itinerary didn’t say how you were supposed to get down the mountain, but Amy assumed it would be with the same donkeys. The monastery’s replacement, arranged by Nicolas at the last minute, was an afternoon excursion. They would off-road through a petrified forest to a small working estancia, where the guests would witness a sheepshearing demonstration. The travelers had put on brave, concerned faces during the ordeal of the last day and a half. But they’d all barely met the deceased, and hey, enough was enough.
Despite their eagerness for a good time, the afternoon did not turn out well. The off-roading part failed to make allowances for the older bones and older nerves of some of the travelers. And the sheepshearing proved to be a little bloodier and less animal friendly than any of them had imagined. The mood didn’t improve when they returned off-road through the same petrified forest and found lamb chops and mutton curry as two of the three selections on the evening menu.
After dinner, Fanny took a long, hot bubble bath in their clawfoot tub, easing out the aches of the day. Amy sat on her bed within easy earshot and tried to make sense of that morning’s video. “Don’t accidentally erase any of that,” Fanny warned, her head half under water. “It’s great TrippyGirl stuff.”
“I can’t promise not to accidentally do something.”
“Just be careful.”
“How do you think she died?” Amy had frozen the footage on a still of Lola’s face. Something didn’t look quite right. Amy’s insides began to knot up, a too-familiar sensation.
“She fell off a horse. Broke her neck.”
Amy inched the footage ahead until the still was clearer. More knots. “There’s a bruise on her left temple. Pretty nasty. I’m wondering if that was the cause of death.”
“She fell and hit her head on a rock.”
“Maybe.” Amy pressed PLAY again and kept watching. “But it’s a silty river, this part of it at least. I don’t see any rocks.”
“You’re saying something other than a rock? Like a tree stump?”
“I never heard of anyone dying from a tree stump.”
“What then?” It took Fanny several seconds to figure out the implication. Then her head jolted and went under the bubbles. She reemerged, sputtering and splashing.
“Mom, are you all right?”
“I was right. I was right,” Fanny gasped between wet coughs. “It was murder. Murder and a vision. This is going to be a TrippyGirl gold mine.”
Amy wagged her head, half yes, half no. “Only if I’m right and we solve it.”
“Do you think her ghost came to me seeking revenge for her murder? No, that’s right. She wasn’t dead yet. Her pre-ghost.”
“What’s a pre-ghost?”
Fanny ignored the question. “So who do you think killed her? And why?”
“That’s the hard part. Jorge O’Bannion’s the only one who knew Lola, and he was at the estancia from the time she rode off until we got into the chopper.”
“Do you want me to go into another trance?” Fanny volunteered. “No problem, but I’ll need more maté.”
“Mother, it wasn’t a vision.”
“Then what was it?”
“I don’t know. But I know we don’t have enough information.” She joined her mother in the bathroom, wiped the steam off the mirror and her glasses, checked her makeup, refreshed her lipstick, ran a brush through her hair and pulled it back into a loose chignon, the way most men seemed to like it.
“What’s up? You got a hot date?”
“None of your business,” said Amy. “I’ll be back in half an hour, tops.”
“Sounds like one of your dates.”
When Amy walked into the lounge, she found several guests still up, sitting at the bar. She sat down on a far stool and caught the bartender’s eye. “Campari y soda, por favor.” It would help take the edge off what had been a long, edgy day.
“I apologize about the sheep,” said Nicolas to someone else. He was at the other end of the bar, between Alicia and Gabriela. Amy waited for her Campari and listened in. “I thought it would be more pleasant. After all, they need to be sheared. For their health.” He took a long draft from his bottle of beer. “Don’t they?”
“You’re the naturalist,” said Alicia. She’d been the one most upset. The group had come to the demonstration at the end of the day’s shearing, when the gauchos were tired and had had a few cervezas before picking up the shears again. There had been no real injuries to the sheep, just some cuts and scrapes and the kind of screaming lambs that a Jodie Foster character had once dreamed about.
“Naturalists don’t need to know about sheep,” Nicolas said, defending himself. “That’s animal husbandry, I think you call it.”
Gabriela nodded in sympathy. “You can’t expect a boy from Buenos Aires to know. Nicolas has done a very good job, considering he was a replacement.”
“I’m not from Buenos Aires.” His tone had turned guarded.
“No?” Gabriela sipped her red wine and considered. “Your accent is porteño. And that beer you asked for, it’s Quilmes. Most Chileans drink something local. Escudo.”
“Escudo tastes like piss.” Nicolas covered his mouth, coughed out a giggle. “Pardon my language. About my accent . . . I went to school with Argentineans. People say I sound like them.”
“That must be it,” Gabriela said. She didn’t care to argue the point.
When Amy’s Campari arrived, she took it with her to the corner of the lounge, by a sheepskin-covered love seat. Nestled behind the love seat was the Wi-Fi router. Within a minute, she had settled in and dialed her Skype call. It connected. “Is it two hours later there or earlier? I always forget.”
“It’s earlier,” said Marcus, smiling up at her. “Dinnertime.” He was in a familiar-looking kitchen, with a napkin tucked into the neck of his shirt. It was a habit she always found endearing.
“You prefer Mom’s half of the house to mine?”
“She has plants that need watering, and her leftovers are better.” He removed his napkin and made kissy lips. “Mwa, mwa. Good to see your beautiful face. What’s up?”
“Why does something always have to be up? Maybe I just called . . .” The screen froze for half a second, then unfroze. “The Wi-Fi’s sketchy, so I won’t waste time arguing.”
“How sweet.” He lowered his voice conspiratorially. “So, what’s up? A murder?”
“Why do I always have to have a murd
er?” The screen froze another half second. “I think so, yes.” She scooted over to the far end of the love seat and changed the phone’s angle. Then she concisely, quietly reviewed the events of the past two days, including Gabriela’s unexplained jaunt in the Land Cruiser. The screen froze twice more but recovered both times.
Marcus listened attentively. At the end, he was pressing his temples together, as if massaging a headache. “So Fanny’s a psychic? I don’t get it.”
“No one gets it,” said Amy. “It’s un-gettable. But if we solve the murder, then we’ll probably also solve that.”
“How will solving the murder explain away her vision?”
“We won’t know until we solve the murder. And for that, we need a suspect.”
“What do the police say?”
Amy rolled her eyes. That was the great thing about video chats, the nonverbal thing. “Her body’s been airlifted to Buenos Aires. It’s going to be labeled an accident, without anyone checking the scene or investigating.”
“Humph. Next time I want to kill someone, remind me to do it in Chile.”
“It’s not their fault,” said Amy. “She was found alone in a remote area. If her family wants to make waves, I’m sure the police will do more.”
“Meanwhile, my two TrippyGirls are in the thick of it.” The camera caught Marcus’s impish grin. “Like old times.”
Another roll of the eyes. “Don’t even mention Trippy. I get apoplectic just thinking what Mom is going to do with this.”
“Is she going to blog about the vision?”
“Of course she is. I don’t think I can stop her.”
“Well, you should try. At least until you know what’s going on.” There was something about his suddenly serious expression and his lack of eye contact.