Death on the Patagonian Express

by Hy Conrad

  Amy laid herself down a few feet away, feeling as weary as her mother looked. But she was kept alert by the unsettling sensation that this arroyo was just too familiar. Of course, they all looked familiar, she told herself. And this couldn’t possibly be the same place where they’d spent last night. Could it? After a full day of walking, without water, without food, that would be just too cruel. She had heard the stories of people being lost and accidentally walking in circles. It had something to do with having an uneven pace or being right handed or having one leg longer than the other. She couldn’t quite recall the logic.

  Despite her anxiety, the fatigue of the day caught up with her. Amy closed her eyes and felt suddenly, inexplicably comfy. It would be all right, she thought, to fall asleep now. They could sleep until sunset, then walk at night. No, they couldn’t walk at night. That’s right. No light. Maybe it would be better for them just to sleep until morning. Then they would get up, take a shower, drink a gallon of water, and have a nice big breakfast. Eggs and hash browns. Orange juice. Bacon, maybe. She never allowed herself to eat enough bacon. One of her big regrets in life.

  Maybe the people in the car were bringing the bacon. That would be nice. Amy could hear the car now, coming closer, barreling over the plains. Was it Marcus? she wondered. She had told him not to come. But wouldn’t it be just like this incorrigible man to come, anyway? He had probably flown all night. He was driving up right now, ready to apologize for ignoring her wishes and then to save her and propose. She would accept, of course. It was about time. Although she would make him repeat the proposal at a more appropriate moment, when she wasn’t dying from dehydration and hallucinations.

  Or maybe it was Kevin, her adorable pilot. And maybe it wasn’t a car, after all, but Kevin’s helicopter. Or both. Car and helicopter. Uh-oh. That would be awkward, wouldn’t it, if both Marcus and Kevin came to rescue her at the same time? She would have a lot of explaining to do, even though she had never meant to lead Kevin on.

  Or maybe it was Oscar, she mused. The gaucho had gone home and told everything to his daughter, Juanita. Juanita was a good girl. She would make him come out to find them. Oscar and Juanita would follow their trail from the condor’s nest. And then . . . But how would they find them here, sleeping in the arroyo? Oh, that was easy enough. Child’s play. Fanny’s bat signal. It had led Jorge to them before. Now the flashing light would lead Oscar and Juanita to their little nesting place, and she and Fanny would be saved.

  The car engine stopped. Five seconds later, Amy forced her eyes open and did her best to focus. She was well aware that she might be hallucinating, like a lost soul in the desert, seeing a cool, lifesaving oasis that would turn out to be a mirage.

  But then again, maybe not.

  EPILOGUE

  Amy had been staring at the red light, willing it to go on. Why was it taking so long?

  Fanny was at her side, blithely checking her e-mail. She chuckled. “Todd Drucker has reduced himself to begging. Trippy’s biggest fan. He’s dying to know.”

  “It was on the news,” said Amy. “Jorge’s arrest. His plea of accidental death.”

  “Please.” Fanny chortled. “Todd knows there’s more involved. But O’Bannion is one of Chile’s great old names, and the police are being very closemouthed. Of course, that will change once they find Jorge’s girlfriend and she testifies.”

  “If they find her.” Amy kept staring at the light. “Are you going to tell the truth? In the blog?”

  “You mean, will Trippy tell? Honesty, I don’t know. According to our disclaimer, it’s based loosely on true events, so I don’t want to make it too real. It’ll ruin the fun.”

  “Almost dying wasn’t enough fun?”

  “It wasn’t fun at all,” admitted Fanny. “But it also wasn’t very dramatic. I mean, one minute you’re passing out from exhaustion, and the next minute you’re being revived in a bumpy Jeep. Where’s the drama?”

  “Sorry to disappoint.”

  “I’m just saying that we might want to add gunshots. Or a fistfight.”

  “Have you ever been in a fistfight?”

  “You could have fallen off a cliff and broken some bones. Then we could post the photos.”

  “So you want to disfigure me? Just to make a better blog?”

  “You can’t take it personally.”

  “Maybe next time.” Amy checked. The damned light was still unlit.

  Fanny’s e-mail dinged. “Todd again, I’ll bet. Ooh. No. It’s Juanita.”

  “Juanita!” Amy momentarily forgot the red light. “How is she? Is she excited about school?”

  Fanny read. “Very. Her English gets better every day, although I wish she didn’t use so many smiley emojis. It’s a lazy habit.”

  “Did the Pisanos take her shopping today?”

  “Three smiley emojis worth of shopping. I think Carmen’s falling in love with our Juanita.”

  “She should fall in love with Juanita. I’m in love with Juanita.”

  Amy’s last hallucination from that Patagonian afternoon four days ago had been amazingly accurate. When Jorge O’Bannion arrived back at the estancia without the Abels, Oscar suspected the truth. But it took him a day of wrestling with his conscience to tell his daughter the real reason why Amy hadn’t dropped in to say good-bye. Without hesitation, without a moment’s thought to her own future, Juanita had insisted that she and her father go out and find them. And it was the reflected light from Fanny’s bat signal that had guided them the last hundred yards or so.

  After a full day between the hospital and the police, Amy had taken it upon herself to sit down with the Pisanos. On learning of O’Bannion’s arrest, Lola’s niece flew in from Buenos Aires. Carmen and her brother would soon be principal owners of the New Patagonian Express, including the Chilean estancias. Amy did everything she could to credit the Jones family, Juanita in particular. If Oscar and Juanita hadn’t been willing to sacrifice their own interests, then O’Bannion would have succeeded and the Pisanos would have lost out.

  Despite what Jorge had indicated, Amy had found the Pisanos to be good people. Carmen Pisano took an immediate and understandable liking to the Joneses. Oscar, she agreed, should maintain his position at Glendaval, working as a tenant rancher and overseeing the property. And Juanita would still be able to attend school with the Sisters of Grace in Puerto Montt.

  The red light finally flashed, the alarm went off, and the baggage claim conveyor belt began moving clockwise on its path. Clockwise was good. Amy had guessed correctly and positioned herself right by the rubber flaps. Now she stared intently at the flaps.

  “A little anxious to see Marcus, are we?” Fanny was smirking, but it was a pleasant smirk.

  She ignored her mother and focused. First bag, no. Second bag, no. Third bag, a set of golf clubs. Who the hell brings golf clubs back from Patagonia? Fourth bag looked like hers—except for the red ribbon tied around the handle. She already had her carry-on bag and her customs form, so she would be ready to go. As soon as her black, oversize . . . Ah, there it was.

  Amy leaned in, grabbed it with both hands, set it on the floor, and started wheeling it toward the NOTHING TO DECLARE line at the customs exit.

  “Hey,” Fanny shouted from somewhere far behind. “What about me?”

  Amy walked through the open doors and saw him before he saw her.

  She stopped, half hidden in the exiting crowd. Beyond the dozens of car-service drivers holding up their name boards, in a side space on the left, which gave him a little more privacy, stood Marcus Alvarez, dressed in his best and favorite suit. He, too, was holding a sign, straining his neck to see who might be coming through the open double doors of International Arrivals.

  Amy watched as complete strangers read Marcus’s sign and smiled. Marcus smiled back. The strangers, Amy could see, would read his sign, smile, then loiter at a respectful distance, a few of them pulling out their cell phones to record what might come next.

  Amy’s heart was pounding now. S
he took a deep breath, then another deep breath. She straightened her glasses and ran both hands through her hair. She did her best to keep calm as she took her big suitcase and her carry-on and her purse and joined the throng.

  But her calm didn’t last. As soon as she caught Marcus’s eye, as soon as she saw him light up with his devilish grin, as soon as she could make out the words on his sign—AMY ABEL. WILL YOU MARRY ME?—she broke into a run, heading straight for him, dragging her luggage behind her, heedless of the chaos of the other emerging passengers and their own bags and their excited waiting families and the black-clad drivers with their signs.

  She didn’t see the huge, pink, old fashioned make-up case plopped carelessly in the middle of the floor, not until it was too late, not until a dozen cell phone cameras were already recording her horrific, bone-crunching fall.

  Marcus was at her side almost instantly. On his knees. “Oh, my God. Are you all right?”

  Amy answered with a groan. “Absolutely yes,” she added. But she was answering his sign and not his question.

  The airport emergency responders would arrive within five minutes. The total damages would amount to a broken leg, two cracked ribs, a black eye, various cuts and bruises, and an almost irreparable pair of black Lafont frames, her absolute favorites.

  Amy would always remember it as one of the happiest moments of her life.