“It’s like an invasion,” Lynda said.
She and Robert watched the tour buses arrive at the pier, one after another, and empty their cargo. Passengers, eyes squinting, shuffled single file down the steps and up a ramp back into the ship. It was late afternoon, and the Emperor of the Sea’s restless engines signaled an end to its brief visit. Robert sat on a bench, coffee in hand, watching over the circus of street vendors and pedicabs, desperate for last-minute business.
“Looks like they’re preparing for departure,” Robert said.
“I pity the next port of call.”
“For someone from Miami, that’s really saying something.”
Robert should have been sleeping now, while Lynda stood sentry, but he couldn’t sleep without dreaming, and his dreams were more stressful than being awake or suffering sleep deprivation. He drained his coffee and stared out at the Tern.
He knew the crew was getting ready to make a move. Earlier that day, they’d let a fuel truck through, as well as deliveries of food and water. Robert considered preventing the supplies from arriving but realized that this would only prolong the waiting. Not only was he tired of it, but he knew that each passing minute felt like an eternity to Aeneas, with the Japanese already prowling the Southern Ocean, harpooning whales without resistance. Time, Robert realized as he yawned again, was working against the both of them.
He heard the brief whoop of a siren and looked back at the tour buses. A police car had snaked its way through the crowd. Two officers got out and approached a tour guide, a hot little number in tight khaki pants. She pointed them toward a few passengers who held up their video cameras for review. A crowd began to gather.
“What’s going on over there?” Lynda asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Has the makings of an international incident, I’d say.”
“Stay here and keep an eye on the ship.” Robert approached the huddle and pushed his way through. He looked over the shoulder of an officer at a video camera in replay mode. Nothing more than tourists and penguins. Penguins on their bellies. Penguins walking. Penguins flapping wings. A woman posing in front of penguins. Then shouting from off camera. The woman pointing at something, the camera following, refocusing on two men arguing, one in a yellow jacket, the camera too far away to make out faces. The man in the yellow jacket throwing a punch. The camera zooming in, freezing on the man’s face.
* * *
Robert drove while Lynda monitored the phone. The rounded gravel road was surrounded by chaparral and low-lying hills, and if it weren’t for the steady stream of dust-covered vehicles headed in the opposite direction, Robert would have thought they were lost. The angle of the road kept the car on a persistent downward slope, like a boat heading into the wind, making Robert feel as though he had to right the ship every few seconds. But that wasn’t what bothered him at the moment; it was the fact that only one windshield wiper worked, the one on Lynda’s side. Every ten minutes Robert had to stop to wipe off the dust.
“I thought you asked for a new car.”
“I did,” Lynda said. “I didn’t think we’d be off-roading today.”
The phone rang. Linda answered it, listened, then dictated. “Gordon says a cruise ship reported a fight at Punta Verde between a passenger and an unidentified gringo,” she said. “The man was described as large, heavyset, hostile. And American.”
Robert sped up until the car began to shake. Going to Punta Verde together was a calculated risk. Lynda had volunteered to stay behind, but she would be more valuable here, helping him track down Aeneas, allowing him to cover a larger swath of land. Lynda had instructed the harbormaster to keep an eye on the Tern, to call them in case of any activity. The fact that the phone had not rung yet was a positive sign. And if by chance the Tern did make a run for it, at least Robert knew where it would be headed. If he moved quickly enough, he stood a chance of catching Aeneas on the shore.
After they passed a sign indicating they were ten kilometers from Punta Verde, the passenger’s side tire blew, sending the car veering off the road in a cloud of dirt, rear first, into the bushes.
“Lynda.” Robert tried to cough away the dust. “Lynda, you okay?”
“Yeah, yeah.”
Robert punched the steering wheel, got out, and surveyed the damage. Except for the tire, the car seemed drivable—but Robert suddenly felt too tired to rise up from his knees.
“You need a hand?” Lynda asked.
He stood. “What I need is a decent fucking car—one that would have had me there by now.”
“Well, Bobby, they were all out of time machines at the rental lot. So you’re going to have to make do with this one.” She paused. “You want me to get the jack out, or do you want to do it?”
Robert felt as overheated as the car’s anemic engine; he needed time to cool down. Without speaking, he walked into the brush, until he was hidden behind a wall of it. He took a deep breath and looked out over the undulating panorama of scrubland. Not a tree in any direction. For a moment, he thought he might get lucky and see Aeneas somewhere, anywhere. He was due for a break. But as always, time was working against him, so he turned to walk back.
Then he heard a noise behind the bushes, the sound of movement, something large. He froze, then pulled his gun. He took a step toward the sound, then another, then he pointed his gun at the source and waited. Ten feet away, a cat emerged, about the size of a bobcat, with a smaller head and a coat streaked white and brown. Robert lowered his gun, and in a blur the cat was gone again, a large tail disappearing into a bush.
Robert holstered his gun and returned to the car. Lynda had the car up on the jack.
“Need a hand?” he asked.
“No,” she said. “I need a time machine.”
* * *
Because it was a tourist attraction, Robert expected the entrance to Punta Verde to be grander. But it was just a gravel road that culminated at a cinder-block toll booth with a manually operated, rusted steel gate. To the left of the booth, three single-story concrete buildings bordered a parking lot occupied by half a dozen cars and four large tour buses. Beyond the gate, the road turned to dirt, narrowed, and wound up a large, dun-colored hill.
“Where are all the penguins?” Lynda asked.
“Maybe they’re taking a lunch break.”
Robert pulled into the lot. Lynda got out and knocked on the door of the largest building, which turned out to be the park ranger station, and she interviewed the man in charge while Robert jogged to the top of the nearest hill. He could see a slice of ocean about a mile away, but no ships. No people. Just dirt and bushes, interspersed with patches of pale green grass.
And penguins. He didn’t notice them at first, but now he could make out little specks of black and white—huddled under the bushes, walking in pairs or small groups in the direction of the water. It was surreal to see penguins here, without a blanket of snow or ice under them. He was tempted to stay longer, but the sun was beginning to set.
He headed back toward the parking lot and noticed a small building a few hundred feet behind the ranger station. He peered inside a window and saw a darkened office with no signs of life. Twenty feet back was a Quonset hut, and he knocked on its door hut nobody answered. He opened the door and stepped inside: a row of cots, clothes scatted about, two large plastic water jugs propped on cinder blocks.
He returned to the research office, where this time he detected movement inside. Moving closer, he saw a young man leaning over a map. Robert tapped on the window with his handgun, displaying his I.D.
The young man’s name was Doug. He was a naturalist in training. And he knew all about the man in the yellow jacket.
* * *
Robert saw her a hundred yards ahead, seated between bushes. Her short, messy red hair matched Doug’s description, and her face was windblown to a nearly matching shade. She was oblivious to Robert, and as he got closer, he saw why—she was coaxing a penguin out of its nest with some sort of hook. Then she gripped its head tightly, as its wings flapped and bit at the air; it looked as if the bird would either fly away or take off her index finger. But the woman did not seem at all bothered by the commotion. With one hand holding the bird, she used the other to scribble notes in a journal.
“Are you Angela?” he asked.
“That’s me,” she said, not bothering to look up. She straddled the bird, silencing its wings, returning a sense of calm to the scene. Yet whatever she was trying to do next, the bandage on her left hand was clearly causing her problems.
“You need help?” Robert asked.
“Ever handle a penguin before?”
“No.”
“Then I don’t need help.”
“I’ve got two good hands, at least.”
She sized him up, and he felt oddly insecure that she paused for so long.
“Okay,” she said finally. “Come over here and position yourself next to me, just like this. Now, I’m going to get up and you’re going to slide over and hold her between your legs just like I’m doing. I’ll keep a hold of her head.”
He did as instructed.
“Now, see how I’m holding her. First put your left hand over my right, just like that. Now your right. Hold firm but not too tight. Do not let go.”
The bird between his knees was stronger than he expected, and the feathers were not smooth but finely knit, like the exterior of his synthetic jacket. Angela held the caliper to the penguin’s beak and feet, and Robert felt a sudden childlike excitement come over him. The penguin raised its head with an almost human look of indignation, and he couldn’t help but feel sorry for it.
“You can let go now,” Angela said.
Robert released his hands, widened his knees, and the penguin scampered back into its nest. Robert stood, brushed the dirt off his pants, then slowly circled one of the bushes, looking at birds crowded underneath, in distinctly separate cubbyholes, like some thin-walled tenement, so many eyes and beaks following his movements.
“I had no idea there were so many penguins here,” he said.
“There used to be more.”
“Why do they move their heads back and forth like that?” he asked.
“They’re trying to frighten you away.”
“They think I’m a predator?”
“Worse. They think you’re a tourist.”
Robert looked up at Angela, with her backpack on, notepad in one hand, staring at him impatiently. He suddenly remembered why he was there.
“Actually, I’m an FBI agent.”
“Looking for a missing bird?”
“I’m looking for the man involved in the altercation this morning. I believe you know him.”
Angela began scribbling something into her notebook as she spoke. “As you can plainly see, I spend too much time with penguins to notice every tourist who passes through.”
“That’s not what Doug tells me.”
She stopped writing and looked up at him—just the response he’d hoped for.
“So what has Doug been telling you?”
“That you recently adopted a fugitive, someone who looks strikingly similar to a man we’re pursuing.”
“Doug can’t tell the difference between a Magellanic and a Humboldt, so I wouldn’t put much faith in his ability to identify anything.”
“Where is this fugitive he mentioned?”
“Gone,” she said sharply. “He left a few hours ago.”
“On a ship?”
“I couldn’t say. I didn’t follow him.”
Robert studied her eyes more closely, the redness around the edges, perhaps not the result of the wind after all.
“Was his name Aeneas?”
“Yes, his name was Aeneas. And as I just told you, you’re too late. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got penguins to count.”
She turned and started off down the hill, toward the research station. Robert considered chasing her. But what would that accomplish? If Aeneas were still here, he would be in the opposite direction, along the coastline. The sun was already behind the hills, turning the sky orange. Robert needed more time—time to watch Angela from a distance, time to gather more resources. He walked to the water’s edge and scanned the length of the beach, as if he might find Aeneas. He saw only penguins.
Lynda approached. Her dour expression matched how Robert felt. “He’s gone,” Robert said.
“So’s our ship.”
“The Tern?”
“What other ship is there?”
“When?”
“A few minutes after we left.”
“Why didn’t the harbormaster call us?”
“He’s been trying. That crap phone is acting up again.”
“The chains should have slowed them down.”
“He told me the chains had already been sliced through, or he would have tried to stop them himself. They must have accomplished that little task when we weren’t looking. I’d love to know how we missed that one.”
Robert thought back to the night he nodded off, how the cover of a cruise ship would have given them the time they needed to torch through the chains, at least enough to easily break free when the opportunity arose. Aeneas was one step ahead even then. Or, more accurately, Robert was one step behind.
“That’s it then,” Lynda said. “He’s gone. Headed south.” She pulled a camera out of her shoulder bag, crouched, and focused on a pair of penguins under a bush.
“You don’t seem all that disappointed.”
“Sure, I’m disappointed. I’m spending my Christmas vacation standing around here with you instead of being at home with my old man. But I’m going to make the best of it.” Her camera flashed.
“Don’t you think it’s odd how they always seem to know what we’re doing before we do it?” Robert asked.
“Maybe they’re just good,” Lynda said, now taking a picture of Robert.
He held a hand in front of her lens. “A little too good.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You tell me,” Robert said. “I’m not the one who suggested there was someone working on the inside.”
Lynda lowered the camera and studied him. Her eyes narrowed. “Oh, I see. I’m the mole, is that what you’re implying? I let Aeneas slip out of Miami. I tipped him off before we boarded the ship. Maybe I even helped out with the chains during my shift yesterday. And let’s not forget that flat tire I engineered. You know, Bobby, I wasn’t going to do this to you, but you leave me no choice.”
Lynda moved toward him then, quickly, as if preparing to strike, and Robert took a step backward. But instead of punching him, she held a photograph up to his face. It was badly faded and creased down the middle, but Robert recognized the two people standing in the frame. A woman and a man, both in their twenties, sunburnt and smiling, standing on the rear deck of a ship, holding the tattered remnants of a fishing net.
“Care to tell me what this is about?”
“Where’d you get that?” Robert grabbed the photo.
“Where do you think? On the bulletin board in the bridge of the Arctic Tern. Back when we boarded her. Now, I may not be smart enough for the D.C. office, but I know when I smell a mole.”
“I was undercover.”
“And I’m Mary fucking Poppins.”
“I’m serious. How do you think I know what Aeneas looks like? I was working undercover as a deckhand.”
“Why were you there?”
“We were looking for someone who had been torching animal testing labs and mink farms. Someone on Aeneas’ crew. Went by the name of Darwin.”
“But you let Aeneas get away,” she said.
“I wasn’t after Aeneas. I was after Darwin.”
“So I take it, by the stunning lack of documentation in your report, that things didn’t end so well?”
“You could take it that way.”
Robert looked out over the water. A row of five penguins stood on the hill below, single file, looking up at him. He must have been standing in their path, and they appeared content to wait him out. In that moment, he was a tourist, another human just passing through.
“I wasn’t accusing you,” he said to Lynda. “I’m just frustrated. Thinking aloud.”
“Careful. Think too loudly, and you might offend someone.”
Robert nodded. He was being too hard on himself—a recurring theme of his life—and too hard on Lynda, too. But he felt as though he were caught on one of those long fishing lines, that he was being pulled along slowly, inevitably, to some horrible conclusion.
“Look, Bobby, don’t sweat it so much. I know you want to catch Aeneas, and so do I. But it’s not as if we’re getting a hell of a lot of support from the mother ship, you know?”
Robert glanced at the photo again before folding it into his pocket.
“By the way, who’s the girl?” Lynda asked.
“I don’t remember,” he said.