Death on the Patagonian Express

by Hy Conrad

  Quickly enough, Amy saw it—the VITA Pro Action, balanced in the crook of Fanny’s left arm, its lens pointed out and downward. A flash of red pulsated against her jacket. Impetuous and willful, but not stupid at all.

  “You can tell us,” Fanny continued. “It might be cathartic. And we don’t have to worry about Oscar hearing.”

  O’Bannion glanced in Oscar’s direction, curled his lip, then turned back up to face the Abels. “It was an accident.”

  “You killed her accidentally?” Amy had joined in.

  “Yes, accidentally. I’m not a murderer, despite your opinion of me.”

  “What?” Fanny adjusted her arm. “My hearing isn’t what it used to be. Can you speak up?”

  Surprisingly enough, O’Bannion complied. “When Lola paid her visit, she was upset.” His voice was loud and clear. “The money. The problems. But I could talk her into things. Given time, she would see how important it was. With a little more faith, the business would be a success. My father’s dream. My legacy. All I needed was time. But she was stubborn. When she tried to walk out . . .” He cricked his neck uncomfortably. “I had no choice but to stop her.”

  It took all of Amy’s self-control not to glance at the camera. “I understand.”

  Fanny also seemed to understand. “It must feel good to get that off your chest,” she said.

  “To be honest, no,” said O’Bannion. “But it makes no difference, does it? Since no one will ever hear me say that again.” And with that, he began walking back toward the vehicles. “Oscar?” he shouted, then followed up with a sharp sentence or two in Spanish.

  Fanny stepped out of his line of vision and switched off the camera. Amy joined her. “Pretty smart of your old mother, huh? Even if the video is a little jerky, the audio alone . . .”

  “Very smart,” Amy agreed, although she didn’t quite feel like celebrating. There had been something about Jorge O’Bannion’s tone just now. “We should get off this cliff.”

  “Agreed,” said Fanny. This time she secured the camera inside her nylon Windbreaker, where it would be camouflaged by her natural contours, and zipped up tight.

  When they next looked down to ground level, one of the Land Rovers, the one driven by Oscar, was on the move. It made a tight little circle and began to pick up speed, retracing its path back toward civilization. Jorge O’Bannion stood there, watching it go. When the vehicle was kicking up dust a good kilometer away, he pivoted back to the cliff, gave a soldier’s salute to the two women, got into the second Land Rover, and made a similar tight little circle.

  Then he drove off.

  CHAPTER 31

  It had seemed a very doable hike, at least at first, when the day was young and they weren’t yet so hungry and dehydrated, to follow the trail of tire tracks back to Glendaval. At the estancia there would be a few sympathetic employees, they thought, including their English-speaking waiter Alejandro. They would find Alejandro and explain their situation, and they would be safe. If Jorge O’Bannion was counting on them to just give up and die in the middle of nowhere, then the man was a bad judge of character.

  The last food they’d eaten had been the apples in the truck. The last water had been from the water bottles in the truck. Amy led the way for the first hour, keeping a steady pace in the bright sunlight, walking into a light breeze, which kept them both from overheating. She had promised herself she wouldn’t look back until the hour mark. It might have been a few minutes before the hour when she finally did and saw just how close the cliff face still seemed. An optical illusion, of course. But a disheartening one. Amy said nothing to her mother but kept up the pace. After that she kept looking back every few minutes, just to check.

  The landscape was not as easy to navigate as they’d thought. On closer inspection, taken step by laborious step, the topography was not a straight plain, but was littered with dry arroyos and small foothills. The cliffs, such a prominent starting point, would disappear every now and then, only to reappear in what seemed like a slightly different location. Amy tried to use the sun as a reconnoitering point, but of course the sun kept moving. Their only sure guide, their lifeline, was the line of tracks, and she maintained her focus on that.

  Through all of this, Fanny kept up, trudging without complaint, her head protected by that damned Peruvian cap. Amy’s own head was uncovered, and she could feel the beginning of a sunburn on the top of her head and the back of her neck. Luckily, she was dark complected, but that didn’t help her lips. More than once she rummaged through her pockets, hoping to find a small, forgotten tube of lip balm. How many times had she roamed around New York, carrying forgotten tubes of lip balm that she never used? In place of the balm, she started licking her lips to keep them from chapping, but she succeeded only in making her mouth feel even drier.

  Twice so far Fanny had stopped to get pebbles out of her walking shoes, balancing herself on Amy’s arm as she untied the shoe, slipped it off, shook it out, and replaced it. After the second adjustment, Amy felt her mother’s pace slow down. Amy slowed her own pace, and they fell in side by side. And because it felt so unnatural, so depressing, to continue without saying anything . . .

  “How are you holding up?”

  “Fine,” Fanny said. “And you?”

  “Fine,” Amy said. This lively exchange was followed by another unnatural, depressing pause.

  “What are you thinking?”

  “Oh.” Amy decided to be honest. “I was thinking that Jorge knows these parts better than we do. He was raised around here.”

  Fanny raised a plucked eyebrow. “Your point?”

  “My point is Jorge thinks we won’t make it. I’m not trying to be pessimistic.”

  “Well, he doesn’t know us, does he? We’ll make it.”

  “And if we don’t?”

  “You’re a cheery one.”

  “What do you think he’ll tell the authorities? I mean, he has to acknowledge that we were at the estancia. Marcus knows. People there know. He’ll probably say we went out for a hike. And he’ll probably wait as long as possible before telling anyone. Just to make sure we’re dead.”

  “What about Oscar?” asked Fanny. “When Jorge drives back without us, what will Oscar say? He’s not a killer.”

  Amy had had plenty of time to think. She’d thought about Oscar, the one outsider who knew at least part of the truth. “Oscar showed his colors when he ratted us out. Maybe he’ll feel bad. I hope he does. But he’s not going to ruin his life to save a pair of crazy gringos. He’s also not going to ruin his daughter’s chance at a future. Juanita is his whole life.”

  Fanny mulled this over. A few seconds later she broke into a chuckle. More of a snigger than a chuckle. “The joke will be on them, won’t it? Because someone’s going to find our bodies. And when they do . . .” She patted the bulging pocket of her jacket. “They’re also going to find Jorge’s confession.”

  “You’re right. That’s a great joke.”

  “I’d like to see him talk his way out of that.”

  “Unless he’s the one who finds our bodies—which is perfectly plausible since he’s the one who knows approximately where to look.”

  Fanny sighed but didn’t break stride. “You are a walking, talking depressant.”

  “Me? I’m not the one who brought up the idea of dying here.”

  “Forgive me for trying to look on the bright side.”

  “You made me feel so much better.”

  Amy actually did feel better. The fact that she and her mother could still banter, even when trekking through the Patagonian prairie, abandoned by a killer, with no water or map or supplies, that had to be a good sign, didn’t it? Honestly, how bad could things be?

  It was around that point that Amy looked down at the trail of tire tracks and saw that there was no longer a trail. At some point—two minutes ago, ten?—it had disappeared in the breeze or they had wandered off it.

  * * *

  After the sun dipped below the mountains in the west,
the temperature dropped. And dusk, the afterglow of sunset, came and went dangerously fast, leaving them in near-total darkness. Only the stars and a sliver of the moon supplied any light at all. They had tried out several gullies, but the first two were aligned with the prevailing breeze, acting as wind tunnels instead of buffers. The third gully was deeper and flowed perpendicular to the others.

  It was here that they set up for the night, not that there was much to set up. Amy cleared away a few rocks and settled her mother in first. The two of them curled up in back-to-back fetal positions, drawing every piece of clothing tightly around their bodies. They had both worn jeans; that was good. Fanny had her Windbreaker. And the heavy shirt, Marcus’s flannel, had been a lucky choice for Amy that morning.

  “I’m so thirsty,” Fanny groaned, almost inaudibly. “Not to mention hungry. What are we going to do?”

  Amy had the same question. The hunger was painful and constant. But the thirst was worse. It affected everything: her joints, her ability to think and move. Even her eyesight. She could feel her mother’s back against hers as they both struggled to find a good position. “They say if you suck on a button, it helps. It can help retain the moisture in your mouth.”

  Fanny didn’t answer, even though the suggestion of sucking on a button would have provoked five minutes of banter under a different set of circumstances. Amy tore the two buttons from the breast pockets of her shirt, popped one into her own mouth, and handed the other around to her mother.

  “It’s relatively clean. Don’t swallow.”

  Half a minute later, Fanny answered. “Thank you. I think it helps.” The moon had just disappeared behind the clouds. The stars were disappearing, too.

  “Good,” replied Amy. The button did help. Her own mouth was no longer quite so dry. “Just take it out before you fall asleep. The last thing I need is you choking to death.” Again, a perfect opening for Fanny Abel’s legendary banter. Again, nothing.

  “Amy?” She only rarely called her daughter by her first name.

  “Yes, Mom.”

  “I’m sorry,” Fanny mumbled.

  “Don’t swallow your button.”

  “It’s all my fault. The one time I tag along and what happens? I get you stuck in the wilderness, sucking buttons, and . . . I won’t say dying. I won’t say that. Trying to survive.”

  “We’ll survive.”

  “You warned me. Before we even started. But would I listen to you? No.”

  “Mom, it’s not your fault.”

  “Really? Do you think Jorge would have abandoned us if I hadn’t been so clever? We had all the evidence we needed. But I had to push it. You’re right. I’m impulsive and reckless. You never should have brought me along.”

  “I’m glad you’re here,” Amy said. “I can’t imagine being out here on my own.”

  * * *

  Fanny had been hoping for Amy to give her more of an argument. But, to be honest, it was her fault, and she felt horrible and helpless about everything. When the warm body behind her began to convulse in little shakes, Fanny knew that her daughter was crying, her soft sobs half lost in the wind. Slowly, the shakes subsided.

  “If you cry, you’ll get more dehydrated.” Fanny advised.

  “I don’t think any water came out.” Amy sniffled and cleared her throat. “I was just thinking about Marcus.”

  “He loves you.”

  “I love him. That’s what makes it sad. I didn’t think anyone could replace Eddie.”

  “No one can replace Eddie.”

  “But I kept comparing them, and that wasn’t fair. Whatever I have with Marcus is different. He’s infuriating and unpredictable, and he lies whenever it suits him. But that doesn’t make it any less valid. All my talk about finding an apartment, what was that about? We have the perfect place already. Marcus knew it. You knew it. It was just a dumb excuse.”

  “So you’re going to let him move in?”

  “It’s all theoretical now, isn’t it?”

  Fanny didn’t have an answer. Her usual phrases of comfort and reassurance felt suddenly hollow and couldn’t force themselves past her lips. Perhaps she was just too exhausted and hungry and dehydrated. Perhaps she had already said them so often that they felt false, and now was not the time or place for false hope. In the silence, she could feel her daughter’s body start to shake again. The sobs were barely audible—until the last few erupted into something that resembled a cough.

  “Are you all right?” asked Fanny.

  “I swallowed my button.”

  “Oh, well. That’s the least of our problems.” But just to be on the safe side, Fanny spat out her own and slipped it into her pocket for later. She burrowed down farther into the arroyo, trying to get a smidgen less uncomfortable. When she felt the first fat drops of water on her hand, she assumed that Amy was crying again and that the tears had somehow been carried on the breeze. It took her a second to realize. “Rain,” she muttered grumpily. “Just what we need.”

  “What?” Amy had stopped crying.

  “I said, ‘Rain. Just what we . . .’ Wait a minute. It is what we need.” The drops were coming heavier now, falling closer together.

  Fanny and Amy stumbled to their feet, colliding as they did. Their impulse was to tilt their heads back and just drink it in. That worked for half a minute, until the rain escalated into a downpour and they both began to choke.

  “Your Windbreaker,” Amy shouted. “We can use it like a tarp.”

  Fanny understood. She unzipped the waterproof jacket, took it off, and together they held it open, leaving it slack in the center to funnel the rain into a little plastic pool. They were getting drenched, Amy in her flannel and Fanny in her thin wool pullover. In the near total darkness, she could visualize the pool growing from a few drops to maybe a few ounces.

  Fanny turned her head back up to the sky. She hooted victoriously, long and loud, feeling like a wild animal. Amy didn’t join her, since she wasn’t much of a hooter. After the howl, Fanny kept her mouth open, relishing the cool wetness in her throat, being sure to swallow occasionally and not choke. Until it stopped. It took her a moment to realize the rain had ended. A few stars were starting to reappear above her open mouth, shimmering through a scuttering band of low clouds. Fanny licked her lips. “So that’s it?”

  “A passing shower,” said Amy, eyeing the Windbreaker’s glistening center. “Oh, well. It’s better than before.”

  “Better than before?” Fanny had always been the optimistic one. Never say die. But this was just too much. “I’m cold and wet. My bed is cold and wet. My jacket is cold and wet. How is this better than before?”

  * * *

  Amy had read about survivors. She’d seen the movies, although they’d never been her favorites, in which ordinary people survived for weeks in deserts or on mountaintops or on rafts in the middle of the sea. Before, if anyone had asked her about her own chances on a sunny, temperate prairie, without any food or water or survival gear, she probably would have given herself a week. Not a fun week, granted, but a week of staying alive and relatively coherent.

  It was the middle of the afternoon, and they had been on the move since the light of dawn had given them something, anything, to look at. The previous night, before settling into the gully, she had reconnoitered their position, picking out a landmark on the horizon, a space between two ridges, that was her best guess for the Glendaval estancia. When the sun rose in the east, Amy had reconfirmed the landmark and had been reasonably confident that their direction was correct—south-east, according to the photo of the map on her phone.

  With the exception of the short, stingy shower, their night had been uneventful. They had heard a few unsettling howls echoing in the distance. Was the cougar the one big predator in this region? Or was it the puma? Or were they the same thing? Nicholas had told them, but who really paid attention to the nature guide? She’d never seen any snakes in Patagonia. But she knew there were scorpions. As for the condors, she assumed they didn’t fly
at night and wouldn’t bother them, anyway, not until it no longer mattered. The night had been uneventful but long, and whatever sleep she got had come and gone without her being aware of it.

  Amy spent much of the long, silent trudge today second-guessing her decisions. Walking back to Glendaval had seemed the logical choice. But it had exposed them to the elements and the reality of getting lost. In those survival movies, didn’t the characters tell each other to stay in one place? Conserve your energy? Drink your own urine? Wait for help to arrive? But that option, staying in the protection of one of the caves, would have been wrong, Amy knew, since no one would be out looking for them for a day or more. They had done the right thing, she told herself. There was some perverse consolation in having done the right thing, even if you wound up sunburned and dehydrated and dead.

  “I need to stop for a while.” Fanny was limping badly. It wasn’t quite as noticeable now, because she was limping on both legs, turning her gait into a kind of John Wayne shuffle. They had been walking since yesterday morning and didn’t seem any closer to the space between the two ridges. “Just a little while.”

  “I’ll find some shade,” Amy said. The shadows were starting to lengthen across the plains. Looking around, she spotted a deep arroyo ahead and to their left, where they could lie down with at least half of their bodies out of the direct sun. “We’ll rest for a few minutes. I know we’re close. I think we can get back by sunset, I do.”

  “Are we totally lost?” Fanny asked as she hobbled to catch up.

  “No, no. We’re getting close, Mom. You’ll see.” She skidded down the sloped side of the arroyo and cleared a few rocks away from the most shaded section before helping her mother down.

  They settled in quickly, without any of the fuss they’d made the night before. Fanny pulled off her Batman cap. She considered using it as a pillow, but there was something about the smell that made her change her mind. She placed it on the gully rim above her head, then faced the mirror away, where it wouldn’t shine in anyone’s eyes.