Taking Flight

TAKING FLIGHT

I

The St. Charles Regional Airport was only semi-crowded today. Anne rushed across its expanse to the nearest pay phone she could find and dialed Ruben’s number again. This time, he answered.

“This is Ruben Ramirez.”

“Ruben, this is Anne.”

“Anne. How are you?”

“I’m at the airport. Can you meet me here?”

“At the airport?”

“Can you meet me here or not?”

Ruben paused. Anne’s voice had remained neutral, but her delivery was concise. She didn’t care to squander the minutes away, not now. If anyone would understand, she thought, Ruben would.

“All right,” Ruben said. “Tell me exactly where you will be and I’ll meet you there.”

“There is a café here,” she said. “A small one in the airport. I think it must be new. I’ll be waiting for you there. Is your passport current?”

“Excuse me?”

“If it is, bring it.”

“What is this about, Anne?”

Finding a beginning wasn’t easy. With everything coursing through Anne’s mind, she ran the risk of spewing it out in an incomprehensible mess. “Ruben,” she said after a moment’s pause. “Can you just meet me at the café?”

Seconds of silence passed before Ruben spoke again. “I’ll be on my way.”

Anne hung up the phone. She walked along the expansive walkway, which was becoming more crowded now, toward the distant doorway on the right side, marked with an overhanging Café sign.

The small café was unoccupied except for the young man behind the counter. Anne ordered a cup of black coffee and had a seat at a table in the back corner. She allowed her coffee to cool and waited for Ruben.

Anne drank the coffee halfway down before Ruben arrived, dark hair, dark skin, dark eyes, dark collared shirt, and dark slacks. He saw Anne and came to the table.

He gave a brief, tight smile that said, good to see you, and pulled out the small, oval-shaped brown table’s other wooden chair to sit across from her. He looked at her cup of coffee.

“I apologize that it took so long,” Ruben said. “There was traffic and rain.”

“I know,” Anne replied. Her eyes moved down to her plain white coffee cup for a few seconds before she met his gaze again. “I’ll be direct, Ruben. You worked with Damon for a long time.”

“Yes?”

“You know he made discoveries that were discredited, but you also know who was largely responsible for this.”

Ruben said nothing. He appeared uncomfortable and shifted his legs beneath the table.

“You of all people should know that if there had been a trace of doubt in Damon’s mind, he would not have attempted to go public with the information. Are you aware of just how far he continued to pursue his studies even after Keller sabotaged his work and reputation?”

At the mention of Keller’s name, Ruben’s eyes went from Anne’s coffee to a far wall of the café.

Anne continued. “Damon’s discovery was hypothetical. I recognize that. He couldn’t verify it for a lack of solid evidence, but he wouldn’t be deterred. He was more than passionate. He was obsessed.”

She leaned forward. “What interested him the most were the secrets buried with the ancient civilizations, the ones lost to the modern world. We know that evidence exists of Peruvian civilizations much older than the Inca and even the Chavín, but with no known written language and almost no art that we know of, there was very little left behind of these ancient cultures and we still have a lot to learn. Even to the end, Damon believed he was closer than many others to solving the mystery of a long-lost people.”

Ruben looked up and across the table at Anne. “The Mourner’s Cradle?”

“That was the term Damon used for it, yes.” She regarded Ruben, put her hands around her coffee cup, and lifted it to take a drink.

Ruben looked at his watch. Anne felt a twinge of agitation. She set her coffee cup down with a hard clink, causing Ruben to glance up with mild surprise.

“Please don’t waste my time, Ruben,” Anne said. “You should know better. While I understand that I’m not my husband, I do plan on finishing what he began.”

“What do you mean?”

“Since you aren’t being forthcoming and I don’t know what it is you know and what you don’t, I’ll tell you. Damon believed he had pinpointed the location of that lost mystery, the one he called the Mourner’s Cradle, to the eastern Peruvian mountainous region instead of the coastal area as first believed.”

Ruben placed his hands on the edge of table. His eyes slipped down while he appeared to lapse into thought.

“Yes, I am aware,” he said after a moment. “But why are you telling me this?”

“Because I’m taking a flight to Peru and I’m bringing my husband’s documents with me.”

Ruben paused, regarding her. “Doesn’t that seem rather extreme?” he asked. An exaggerated calmness diluted his tone when he spoke.

Anne’s lips were firm. “I couldn’t care less what it sounds like to anyone else. When I finish my cup of coffee, I’m going to buy a plane ticket. My husband’s journey in life might have ended, but his work isn’t over. I’m still here. I know it was special to him and I want to know why. I want to understand.”

“Of a lost civilization,” Ruben said, shaking his head. “What do you think you will find that others haven’t?”

“I have something that no one else has,” Anne said. She lifted the bag beside her chair. “Damon’s research papers are right here. He even has hand-drawn maps, one in particular that he was absorbed with over the last days, I remember. I’m bringing Damon’s camera along. If I can find anything tangible at all, I’ll have the pictures to prove it. I invited you here because I wanted to ask whether you wanted to come with me.”

“Are you serious?”

“Don’t I sound serious?”

Anne drank the last of her coffee. She stood, picked up the bag, and started away from the table. Ruben still sat, in thought.

Anne stopped and turned. “Ruben.”

He looked over. “Yes?”

“I was attacked today in my home.”

“What?”

“Have a nice day, Ruben. I’m going, with or without you.”

She walked out.

She didn’t have to wait in line for long. She stepped up to the counter, intent on the soonest flight that would carry her to her destination.

“When do you need to depart?” the woman asked her.

“As soon as possible.”

“What time of day?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“We have a flight leaving in a few days,” the woman at the counter explained after checking on the matter. “Can you wait just a minute?”

Anne gave no response. She didn’t want to stay in St. Charles another few days, but she appeared to have no other choice. She didn’t want to go back to her house now, not after everything that had happened.

Anne considered staying at a hotel. She didn’t want to spend any more money than was necessary. At the same time, she didn’t treasure the thought of staying in some downtown hole-in-the-wall like the King’s Motel or the Dollar Inn.

The woman at the counter turned away to speak to her superior, a thin, gray-haired man in a suit. Anne shifted her weight from one foot to the other, waiting and thinking about her unappealing options.

“Ma’am?” the woman said when the older man left her.

“Yes?” Anne responded.

“Today might be your lucky day.”

Anne stared at her. It became obvious that this woman didn’t know a thing about the day she’d had.

“As it turns out,” the woman continued, “we now have some seats open on a flight just this afternoon, if you’re interested.”

“I’ll take it,” Anne said.

II

With the plane ticket in her hand, Anne checked her luggage, which was light, and found a seat in the open room to wait for her flight to board. Somewhere in the back of her mind, Anne had recognized the surety of this course from the moment she made that decision in the middle of her own husband’s funeral. She only now admitted it to herself. She was bound for Peru with nothing but her own determination, her husband’s writings and sketchings, his copies of documents and photographs, and his camera.

The tales of the lost world had diminished to scattered remnants. Some of these Damon had obsessed to decipher. He was resourceful and had a way of crafting situations to his benefit. He had certainly made the right connections, at least in the beginning, and this lent him access to discoveries and reports unreleased to the general public.

Anne remembered their trip to South America well. Damon had remained busy, but he emerged galvanized in his efforts for reasons Anne didn’t understand. Instead of quenching his desire for immersion in the obscure details of those dead legends, as Anne had hoped, the venture had deepened his thirst for that knowledge.

The turning point, she suspected, was the day when Damon’s exploration led him to a dirt-floored hut and its elderly resident, a thin, bald-headed man. He sat on the floor, mumbling at times so that even Damon had difficulty understanding him.

“What is he saying?” Damon had asked the other younger man, the man’s impassive nephew.

“La cuna de luto, mister—what is your name? Sharpe, you say?”

La cuna de luto. An odd name, the Cradle of Mourning, linking birth with death— what did it mean?

Anne wished they hadn’t spoken to that batty old man, listening to his riddles and dead-end tales.

The later discovery of alternate tales, crude folklore and legends betrayed by a handful of the old or wandering mad reinforced Damon’s suspicions of an ancient grave site, though there was no recorded information of its existence until Damon’s final research paper. There Damon recounted it by name, “The Mourner’s Cradle.”

Among all of the papers she brought, Anne also had the notes Damon made prior to his passing. These had never seen publication or dismissal in any form. In these final notes, Damon had pinpointed, as closely as he thought he or anyone else ever might, the location of that hypothetical mystery in the western Andes.

With bits of this information committed to memory and contained in the duffel bag that rested beside her in the airport waiting area, Anne would make the first focused effort to locate some sign of the Mourner’s Cradle.

As she fidgeted with the plane ticket in her hands and thought about the journey ahead, someone sat down beside her. She looked up and saw Ruben. She looked back to the plane ticket without speaking.

“You’re really doing this, then,” Ruben spoke, not as a question. Anne said nothing.

“I shouldn’t let you do this,” he added, his tone quiet. This drew Anne’s glance.

“What makes you think you would be able to stop me?” she asked.

Ruben released a sigh. His head dipped. “All right. You have me.”

“What does that mean?”

“I’m here,” he said. “I’m listening. I’ll do what I can to help you, but—” He paused. “I want you to understand, I can’t do it for free. Damon was my friend, but he was also an associate.”

“Fine, Ruben.”

Ruben rubbed his palms against his pants. He raised his head, and his eyes roamed toward the windows, a distance beyond which he could see the waiting plane.

“You told me you were attacked,” Ruben said. “What happened to you?”

“There isn’t time,” Anne said. “My flight boards soon. I’ll be traveling to Lima and heading east from there. If you’re planning on coming with me, you should buy a ticket.”

“Lima,” Ruben echoed.

“I’m going to find out what I can.”

“Are you sure you will find anything?”

“No, I’m not sure of anything.”

“I wish you would reconsider, but I suppose I shouldn’t leave you to do this alone.”

“Then buy a ticket. They have a few seats left on a flight this afternoon, or they did. If you’re going to buy a ticket, you should do it now.”

Ruben wiped his hands on the front of his pants again and stood. He glanced at Anne once more before walking away.

The airport attendant called Anne’s flight. She stood with her plane ticket in her left hand and the strap of the bag draped around her right arm, and walked across the gray-carpeted floor to the attendant. She showed her ticket. The woman motioned her past.

When the attendant called for the last time, Ruben came hurrying along with his ticket.

III

Sometime before the blue uniforms and blue lights appeared in front of the Sharpe home, Vince was gone from the house. He now stood in downtown St. Charles, not far from Candle Square, speaking on a pay phone.

“Nothing?” the voice on the other end asked.

“Nothing,” Vince said. With the black receiver of the pay phone pressed near his crusty lips, he glanced around. “I turned the house upside down, couldn’t find a thing. She had to have taken it all with her.”

A hard gust of wind blew cold rain across Vince’s jacket and face. He turned away from it and toward the pay phone, awaiting further instructions.

On the other end of the phone line, Keller had lapsed into silence. He paced the white tile of the foyer dressed in the same blue suit he had worn to Damon Sharpe’s funeral. In contrast to Vince’s miserable surroundings, Keller stayed warm and dry in his home, but he was far from satisfied.

It had been his own fault, Keller realized, for underestimating Anne Sharpe. Now she was gone, but to where?

He would need to make some more calls to get to the root of the situation, but he had his suspicions. After recent events, Mrs. Sharpe was either going into hiding somewhere in St. Charles or she was leaving town. If she left, where would she go?

Letting the situation lie was no longer an option. Anne knew Vince’s face now. Vince’s actions could be traced back to Keller, and the law could become involved.

 “Vince, I need you to wait where you are,” Keller said. “I need to make a few calls.” Before Vince could answer, Keller hung up the phone.

Left cold in the rain, Vince pulled his jacket tighter around himself. He looked across the rainy parking lot, at the vehicles whizzing in and out of it. More rain, carried by the wind, splashed him. He leaned against the wall and turned his face from the rain as best he could.

Vince heard footsteps above the sound of the rain. He lifted his gaze to see a man approaching.

“Sir, are you using this phone?” the man asked, since Vince was blocking the pay phone. “I need to make a call.”

“Beat it,” Vince said.

The man stared, sizing Vince up. Vince reached into his jacket.

“You don’t want to start something you can’t finish,” Vince said to the man. His gloved hand closed around the switchblade in his jacket.

The man muttered something under his breath and turned to leave.

“That’s what I thought,” Vince said. He waited, keeping an eye out for anyone else who might come around to challenge his stance in front of the phone. Next time, he wouldn’t be so nice about it. His stomach hurt where that bitch had stabbed him earlier. He’d pay her back for it, no question about that.

While Vince waited in the cold dampness, Keller stepped into the cozy study of his home and picked up the phone.

If Anne Sharpe was still in St. Charles, he would find her. He knew people. He might not find her today, but eventually, he would find her. After that incident at the funeral, his pride wouldn’t allow otherwise, and that wasn’t the whole of it.

The Keller family pride was a hefty inheritance. Brock Keller was the last of the line. He knew what failure could do to a Keller.

His father had led the failed Keller Expedition into those frozen Antarctic burrows where many had perished, and the hardships were for naught. Damon Sharpe’s work had been a considerable part of that venture.

Keller had watched the heavy failure drive his father into a bottle, where he deteriorated for the rest of his days, his reputation and finances ruined. The deaths suffered during that wasted trek were on Old Man Keller’s head, and he had paid dearly.

Seeing his father reduced to such a self-pitying wreck wasn’t easy. During the old man’s drunkest moments, he had a few choice words about Damon Sharpe. Keller had listened. The genuine anger in his father’s voice had commanded his attention. It remained the only aspect of his father’s emotional breakdown he could respect, and he remembered it well after his father’s death.

Brock Keller was a different sort of man than his father. If someone struck him, he struck back harder. Sometimes, he struck first.

Keller became intrigued when Dr. Cornwell saw value in Damon Sharpe’s later work. How could Cornwell find any respect for Damon Sharpe, a charlatan who couldn’t keep his facts in order?

If Sharpe’s work really interested Dr. Cornwell, Keller thought, the man needed a hard dose of reality. At the same time, he realized that if Sharpe actually had made a discovery of note, he owed it to his old man to take Damon Sharpe down and stick the knife in deep.

Among other things, Keller had informed Cornwell of Damon Sharpe’s involvement in the Keller Expedition. By making a few calculated phone calls, Keller ensured much of Sharpe’s so-called “research” was exposed as unreliable, useless, even dangerous as evidenced by the Keller Expedition.

Keller called it justice. He only wished his father could have lived to see it.

You shouldn’t ever cross a Keller. Damon found that out. His bitch of a wife would learn the same.

Keller had tossed around the notion of confiscating Damon Sharpe’s final unpublished research materials, both to satisfy an unshakable curiosity and as a final clump of dirt onto Sharpe’s coffin. Only after that confrontation in the funeral home had he truly set his mind to the task. A call to Vince hadn’t taken long, but he hadn’t anticipated Anne’s early return. Regardless, Keller would remedy the situation.

After speaking to Rochelle at the St. Charles airport, Keller found the answer he searched for. Anne Sharpe had made a decision that was either very brave or stupid.

Keller called Vince back. “Yeah,” the man’s voice, like sandpaper, coughed into the phone.

“Vince, we have a flight to catch.”

“Mind if I ask where to?”

“Lima.”

“Where?”

“Lima, Peru. I’ll call you back when I have more information. I’ll have to secure us a flight. They’re telling me that all of the flights are booked but I can pull a few strings. Just be somewhere where I can reach you and don’t do anything suspicious.”

“Roger that,” Vince replied.

Keller hung up. He left his study to prepare for the trip ahead.

Out in the rain, Vince clicked the greasy black public phone onto its receiver, shoved his hands into his pockets, and shuffled away.