“Where is Patagonia?” I asked Alex as the raven-haired lady at the counter flirted with the guy in front of us. We’d been standing in the check-in line for fifteen minutes. Geography wasn’t my strong suit, and I hadn’t planned our trip.
Alex pulled out a roll of bills. “South.”
The lady caught his cue and got rid of the passenger at the desk.
I didn’t ask why Alex paid for our tickets in cash. He was a PI, but he also specialized in all sorts of disreputable things, like helping people disappear. My passport said I was Katrina Ellison instead of Maddie Whittaker, and his said he was Bruce Ellison, my dad, instead of Alex, my boss.
Palm Springs would have been nice or maybe Vegas, but Alex wanted me to go with him to South America. I’d rather stay here in Hollywood—more my style.
TV directors gave me those parts in shows when they needed a blond chick to dress up a scene. They liked me because I could think fast. If someone slipped up, I could improvise. Once in a while, they even gave me a line or two. The acting paid well when it happened. On the side, I worked for Alex, taking care of his office and doing some surveillance.
I wish I’d been thinking fast yesterday when Mr. Sanchez, the guy Alex had me following, went into this club over on Sunset Boulevard where I lost him in the crowd. When I called Alex, he said not to worry so I called it a night.
I stopped to buy cat food for the critter that roams the halls of my apartment building and something recreational for me. Nothing went wrong until I got home.
The moonlit parking lot was peaceful enough until I dropped my keys on the bleached blacktop. As I bent over, a ping made me freeze. Maybe I knew the bullet was coming before it hit the blue pickup next to my old Malibu, probably not. I popped back into my car and called Alex who told me to come to his place ASAP. Another bullet broke my side window as I pulled away.
He met me outside his bungalow. “You didn’t see anything?”
I tried to act cool. “Home sweet home was calling me.” I’d been so scared I hadn’t thought about looking for the shooter.
“You were thinking about that bong.”
The look I gave him was enough to stop that conversation. “What’s going on?” I threw my fake Gucci purse down on the scarred Formica counter. “Who’s shooting at me? Was it Mr. Sanchez?”
“No. He’s dead.”
“What happened to him?” I tried to look like it was no big deal and took a beer from the fridge. Mr. Sanchez must have bought it right after I lost him. Some nasty stuff went with this job. Before I turned around, I put on that bored face Bette Davis used in so many movies.
“Throat slit.” He did that finger thing across his own neck and grinned.
I wished he hadn’t done that. I closed my eyes, willing away the spurts of blood I imagined. That made me dizzy. I opened my eyes and focused on the window behind Alex. “Seems strange somebody would use a knife on him and try to shoot me,” I whispered.
“I’m taking off tonight,” he said, cutting off the discussion. He gave me one of his fatherly looks. “Can’t leave you here.”
It sounded like an invitation. Alex had been talking about his trip to Patagonia for weeks, but I thought he’d decided to wait until next year due to some money problems. Guess I was wrong. His backpack was stuffed and sitting by the door. Maybe what happened to Mr. Sanchez made him change his mind?
“If you advance me a few bucks, I can find some place to hole up on my own.”
“What if your shooter shows up again?”
If I’d been in my right mind, I would have said no, I’m not a camping kind of girl. As it was, the world was threatening to do that merry-go-round thing again.
Alex acted like I’d already said yes. Before I knew it, we were in his car. Somebody called and didn’t get much out of Alex except a couple of grunts. By the time we were back at my place, he was more talkative. “You got any boots?”
I pointed at the empty backpack he’d pulled from the trunk of his car. “I don’t need that.”
“Yeah, you will. People don’t take suitcases where we’re going.”
My brown boots were more for effect than walking, but he nodded his head when he saw them. I packed a sexy slip of a dress that didn’t take much space and a bikini before he pushed some jeans, a couple of tanks, and some plain shirts into the pack along with a coat he grabbed out of my closet.
“Come on.” He pushed back a slice of gray hair that fell over his forehead. “We’ve got to get going.”
I added a few essentials to the bag. “What’s the hurry?” I wanted some recreation and a few hours of sleep.
“There’s another wrinkle.”
Seems his friend Sarge from the Hollywood precinct had been the one on the phone. I was wanted for questioning in the Sanchez murder. They must have seen me in the surveillance footage from the club.
“Why?” I didn’t know much about the dead guy except he had an affair with our client’s wife.
“Someone put out a contract on him.” He lowered his head.
“Did you know about the contract?” I stared at him. Maybe my shooter had killed Mr. Sanchez.
He didn’t answer me, but I thought that meant yes since he had that mournful look Humphrey Bogart sported in the beginning of The African Queen. The least he could have done was told me what was going on. And wanted for questioning—did that mean the cops thought I’d shot Mr. Sanchez?
“Let me feed the cat.” I was too worn out to argue.
* * * *
Waiting on the tarmac to board the little plane that would take us from Santiago to Punta Arenas—wherever that was—I drank the strong brew from the coffee bar and tried to stop thinking about Mr. Sanchez.
If I wanted to kill somebody, I sure wouldn’t use a knife. Although I suppose the guys down at the precinct didn’t know all that blood stuff would make me throw up. If they had checked my bank account, they would have seen that nobody had paid me for the hit. My balance was barely holding its own at $238.21.
“How much were they offering?” I asked.
Alex glared at me as the rest of our group filed outside. “Fifty grand,” he whispered.
I didn’t know why anybody would take the chance of getting caught for fifty grand. Killing a man should pay more.
The pavement shimmered around the small plane even though the air felt pleasantly warm. I squinted, wondering if I had the guts to be a gun-for-hire.
Only six of us were waiting to board. Alex and me, two twentyish blond guys holding hands, and a woman with short brown hair and her swarthy female friend, both in their thirties. All of us had backpacks, which I thought was a bad sign. Everybody must be camping at this place. Another guy showed up after we boarded, one of those bronzed men who don’t worry about their dark curly hair or their wrinkled khaki shorts. He gave me a grin. Put him in a tuxedo or a swimsuit, and he would’ve been perfect. Alex looked away. Sometimes he did act like he was my father.
In the air, we were closer to the mountains that soared high enough for their peaks to sport white caps even in the summer. “Look, Dad,” I said as I pointed out the window like a kid even though I was kind of impressed. The Andes made a cool backdrop for the city.
“We’ll see glaciers farther south,” he said and went back to reading his book. He’d probably heard about Patagonia in one of those thrillers he was always reading.
I met Alex six months ago when he was working on a case for some movie producers. When we finished filming, he’d asked me if I needed work. I was getting more gigs than the other actors I knew, but I liked the security of a regular job where I could name my own hours. Even with this new twist—it was every girl’s dream to be shot at by someone unknown and wanted for questioning by the cops—staying with Alex was still my best bet unless I wanted to go back home to Chicago. I wasn’t ready to admit defeat.
Soon we landed in Punta Arenas where the travel agency handling our group met our flight and drove us to our home base—EcoCamp Patagonia. When we stepped out of the van, the wind almost knocked me over. José, our guide, said we were lucky it was calmer than usual. The winds, he said, would gust up to 120 miles per hour. As the van rattled down the dirt road, I hung onto the seat hoping to minimize the jolts. The ride was still better than the sudden drops the small plane had suffered flying south.
When we reached camp, it was still light enough to see how close we were to the ragged peaks. My feet, only slender arches ending in tender pink toes without a callous to be seen, were too soft for hiking. The mountains would ruin my boots too. I ducked inside our dome-shaped tent.
Alex frowned. “I’m sorry we didn’t outfit you with proper boots,” he said as if he’d read my mind.
“I only have those little half socks I wear when I’m exercising.” I wasn’t complaining because I was out of shape—I wasn’t—but my feet weren’t ready for the mountains.
“Guess your socks will have to do. You coming?” he said and left the tent without waiting for my response.
I didn’t want to join the group because I’d already slipped up and called him Alex when I was talking to the blond boys. Besides, sitting around a campfire was not my idea of a good time. At least my boots slipped on easily over my socks when I tried them on to see how they’d fit.
The wind still hammered our tent, making me wonder if any of them ever collapsed.
Tomorrow I would think of a good excuse to stay behind. I crawled into my sleeping bag, minus my boots, to dream of Dorothy in her twirling house.
* * * *
The next day I argued with Alex. “I can’t do it. I’ll stay here in camp.”
“Too dangerous. We might have been followed,” he said with that look that told me he wasn’t going to take no for an answer. “Put your boots on.”
“Who? The cops wouldn’t come here. Do you know something else you’re not telling me?”
He shook his head. “Come on.”
I hated how he kept me in the dark.
While we waited to catch a catamaran to cross Pehoe Lake, I tried not to think about my feet. First my green nail polish would rub off, then the nice soft skin around my heels would get sore. I was wondering how many blisters I would get when I sensed someone standing beside me.
“You’re not that close to your dad, are you?” the bronzed guy said.
“Close enough.” Bronzed or not, I didn’t like his question and looked away.
Across the water, lush undergrowth and dark green trees dotted the base of the mountain. Farther up, nothing grew out of the blue stone. The trail winding up the side of the mountain disappeared into a low cloud.
“You really his daughter?”
“Leave me alone.” I brushed past him. I’d decided he was a freak. One of his eyebrows was raised and a small smile curled his lip.
“Don’t look back,” Alex said after I told him what the guy said.
“It’s hard not to look.” They’d introduced him on the bus as John somebody. Cheaters and guys vandalizing old ladies’ houses weren’t scary at all. This guy gave me the creeps. He probably didn’t even tell us his real name.
“Stay with me on the trail,” Alex said and helped me onto the catamaran.
The mountains loomed before us when we went ashore. A long stretch of flat, gravel-type stone separated us from the steep path to the hanging bridge above the French Valley. The wind caught me full force on the beach, almost blowing me over and sucking the warmth out of me. José had loaned me a red windbreaker that I could wear over my coat. I pulled the hood up and tied it tight around my face. Alex dragged me across the flat stretch until we reached the path. When I glanced back, the brown-haired woman was striding across the beach, her hair blown straight back from her face.
We followed the path that wound zigzag up the rock face. I tried to stay close to Alex but my steps started to drag after half an hour. Every inch of leather in my boots rubbed against my tender feet, but I didn’t want to be left behind. Why had the freak asked if I was really Alex’s daughter?
One of the young blond guys, Reuben, begged for a break and sat down next to us. Alex perched on a bluish-gray stone beside me, still in good shape. Me, my feet were throbbing.
The top of the blue mountain was still covered in white mist. Our guide had said we would be hiking all morning. I checked the watch dangling from Alex’s belt, which said a little after ten. At least our path had been protected from the full force of the wind after we left the beach.
“We will be rounding the mountain soon,” José said. His weathered face wrinkled into a smile, but his eyes looked worried.
“Keep up,” Alex said again, close to my ear gesturing to the blond couple. “I don’t think they’re as innocent as they want us to think. When we were talking last night, they asked too many questions.”
Maybe my boss had read one too many thrillers.
The young couple smiled at me when I looked up. My mouth felt dry and sticky so I swallowed a couple aspirin with a little water.
When we started hiking again, Alex moved us up in front of the two young men. Maybe he thought we would be safer close to José.
Soon I forgot everything except putting one foot in front of the other. If I didn’t push my full weight forward each time, my foot would slip back on the loose stones. Alex bent his knees, lifting himself with each step. I followed his example until my right thigh started to cramp. I tried putting more of my weight onto my left leg. The space between us widened.
When I caught a glimpse of Alex looking back, I stopped. He wasn’t staring at me. He was staring past me. Why? I glanced over my shoulder. The brown-haired woman was right behind me. She’d passed the gay couple leaving behind the other woman, who lagged even farther back than before.
I gasped for breath. Should I be worried about her? I wanted to cry out that I couldn’t make it, but a gust of wind silenced me. Had she been in the club the night Mr. Sanchez was killed? I didn’t remember seeing her before Santiago.
Alex reached for my hand and pulled me forward for a few steps before he let go. One leg, then another. I pushed on. When a cramp shot through my left leg, I did a kind of shuffle where I always put my right leg forward first until the cramp was gone.
Suddenly, the sun winked at me as it rose above the mountain peak to my right. We were at the top, a flat open space before the trail angled down again. The clouds were spread out in a white blanket below us.
I couldn’t believe I’d made it. The dark-haired woman passed me and continued down the trail. So she must not be a threat to us. While I was taking inventory of the rest of the group standing at the entrance to the rock bridge, the wind slammed into me. I crouched behind Alex and closed my eyes.
“I don’t like people interfering with my hits,” the freak’s rough voice whispered in my ear. “I want my money.”
I pushed him away and put some distance between us as my brain put the pieces of the puzzle together. He was the one following us. He looked like so many other men in Hollywood. He could have been in the bar that night.
But what did he mean, interfering? Had Alex convinced our client that he’d killed Mr. Sanchez? “Where did you get the money for this trip?” I demanded of Alex.
He shook his head. “Thought this guy would be long gone.”
But the freak wasn’t long gone, and he knew we had the money. Money he thought was his. “How could you?” I said, so angry I almost didn’t notice José moving out of sight.
“I didn’t mean to put you in danger…” Alex started to say.
The gay couple smiled and passed us before the freak slid his hands around my waist and pulled me to the edge of the trail. The blue sky stretched out forever in front of me. The blanket of soft white clouds that looked so substantial below us wouldn’t stop me from plunging down the mountain. The voices on the trail came to me in short bursts, interrupted by Patagonia’s winds.
Alex grabbed my hands while the freak tightened his grip on my waist. I doubled over.
“Hold on,” Alex yelled.
I yanked one of my hands loose from Alex’s grip and clawed at the freak’s hands around my waist. “Let go of me.” With a twist, I fell to the ground. I was sure the freak was going to grab my feet, so I scrabbled crab-like away from him. The wind filled my ears.
The freak stood up on the trail. For a moment, any movie director would have relished the shot of his yellow coat against the endless blue sky. Then his eyes widened as the wind pushed him backward on the loose stone. Jimmy Stewart couldn’t have looked more surprised.
I instinctively reached forward to grab his coat, but it all happened so fast, I couldn’t help him. The yellow fabric slipped through my hands as the wind took him.
Before I knew it, José was beside me pulling me to my feet. He stared down at the parted mist and the jagged rocks. “I thought he was an experienced hiker. He had all the gear.”
“I tried to save him.” If I had fallen instead of the freak, I don’t think José would have been surprised.
“Yes, I saw you. I must call for a rescue crew,” he said walking back toward the bridge holding up his hands to keep the others away.
From the awkward position of the body, I guessed the freak must be dead.
“He is,” Alex said, reading my thoughts as he held me close.
I whispered in his ear. “You were there in the alley when Mr. Sanchez was killed.”
He didn’t deny it. He only said, “I’ve always wanted to see Patagonia.”
The wind whipped my face with a strand of hair that had escaped from my ponytail. My boss was one of the bad guys. He might have even killed Mr. Sanchez if the freak hadn’t killed him first. I still didn’t want to believe that Alex murdered Mr. Sanchez. I’d figure it all out later. For now, I decided to act the part of the loyal secretary. Before I looked at Alex’s face again, I imagined I was Elizabeth Taylor gazing into Spencer Tracy’s face in Father of the Bride. No one would have ever believed she wasn’t the dutiful daughter. I could play this part until a better one came along.
Mary Stojak has had a number of short stories published in anthologies, journals, and magazines. Most recently she had stories published in The Letters, a Sherlockian publication; In Short, Volume III, a collection of flash fiction; and The Raven Review. Mary received her master’s in fiction from Johns Hopkins University and currently leads a critique group for a local writers’ association. She has a blog at https://mysteriesinc.org.