This could primarily be ascribed to a criminally-early departure out of LaGuardia, a twenty-minute layover in Houston in which she only had time to find her next gate and barely made it at that, the questionable decision to consume two mimosas on the connecting flight instead of any food or water, and six hours of driving - four of which were on winding mountain roads - in the company of the overly-talkative private pilot who picked her up at the airport in Guadalajara. It was not because of the impractically-high heels on her Jimmy Choos, which, judging by his downward glance and subsequent smirk, the pilot must have assumed when she instinctively reached for his arm to steady herself. “I hope you have other shoes.”
“Of course I do,” she snapped. He merely smiled back, unfazed. For the briefest of moments, she wondered what his name was, if only to quantify her mounting dislike of him. He’d told her when they first met, but she’d forgotten it soon after, and didn’t care enough to ask it again. He was only the pilot, just another background figure on this adventure - if it could even be called such - and it was unlikely they would interact again until it came time to fly back out.
Claire took a deep breath to compose herself, and resumed the walk toward the helicopter. The pilot fell into stride beside her, and she felt another surge of dislike, or perhaps nausea; it was difficult to distinguish between the two, and at least the pilot gave her something outside herself to focus upon. He moved with an easy, loping grace, taking one step for her every three, and gave off the distinct air of being the sort of person who skated by on their good looks with nothing of substance behind them. His low voice and the rhythmic cadence of his Mexican accent combined for an effect she might have found pleasant if anything came out of his mouth besides an endless stream of small talk. His English, regrettably, was very good, and her Spanish passable, so there was no chance of a language barrier. Any hope of his being bright enough to discuss the historical and archaeological significance of the dig site Felicia had so urgently insisted she fly out to see had long since been punctured. He’d responded to her question of “what sort of artifacts have been found?” with a ten-minute long anecdote about taking selfies in a five-hundred-year-old conquistador’s helmet, then nearly careened off the road when he pulled out his phone to show her the pictures. That had cured her of any desire to have a conversation, and she’d successfully navigated the trip with either monosyllabic replies or ignoring him outright. Somehow, she had the feeling she would not be so lucky on the next stage of the journey.
Upon arriving at the helicopter, the pilot set her bags down and began to walk around the aircraft, unlocking the cargo hold and knocking on various panels as he inspected its condition. Claire took a moment to catch her breath, and then turned her critical eye toward the machine that was to carry them off into parts unknown. Its classic lines and somewhat faded paint spoke to its age, but on the whole, it appeared to be in good order. Of slightly more concern were the lengthening shadows of mid-afternoon; the sun was still up, but the mountainous terrain created a tall horizon that could sneak up on an unsuspecting or unprepared traveler. “How long will it take us to reach the excavation?”
“About two hours, if the wind holds.” The pilot completed his lap around the helicopter and pointed to some high, fluffy clouds in the distance. “As long as those stay to the east, we will have an easy journey. If not, well… we turn around and try again tomorrow. El Hombrecito will not be pleased, but better to get there late than not at all, yes?”
She decided to pass over the chance of danger on the journey and picked something else to focus on. “‘El Hombrecito’?” she repeated.
“Dr. Kiehl. He is the site director.”
“I know who Dr. Kiehl is,” Claire grumbled. Felicia had at least told her that much. She cast her eyes around the tiny rural airport for another topic of discussion, and spotted a few small planes near a run-down hangar. “Why did we have to drive out here from Guadalajara? Could we have flown in?”
“Not easily, and Hombrecito wanted me to pick up a few things from his department besides bringing you out. Besides, I am not certified to fly fixed-wings,” the pilot answered, and beamed at her. “Lucky you, yes?”
“Yes, lucky me,” Claire grumbled. There were many words she could have picked to describe her circumstances, and lucky was not among them. Nothing but deep affection for her longtime friend and mentor could have convinced her to abandon the business obligations and creature comforts of her life in New York City at a moment’s notice and fly out to the middle of nowhere to evaluate a find that was, at best, at the fringe of her expertise. She was an art historian, not an archaeologist, and something about this whole venture smelled of treasure hunters from the beginning in a way she did not much care for.
As if it was his very intention to confirm her suspicions, the pilot opened the door to the cargo hatch, and Claire spotted several crates with “.357 Sig” stamped onto the sides. She froze for a moment, and then, recovering, put her query to voice. “Is that… why in the world do you need bullets?”
“Jaguars,” he simply replied, and began to load her bags into the cargo hold.
“Jaguars?” Claire repeated, and to herself, wondered, What did you get me into, Felicia?
“Jaguars,” the pilot confirmed. “I would not worry about them if I were you. You and Hombrecito will spend most of your time in camp. But ah, miss, if you do get the chance to go out, you will never find more beautiful country! Mountains and jungle as far as the eye can see in any direction, a night sky as clear as glass, and the waterfall just downriver from the site… simplemente magnífica!”
Claire merely shook her head and clambered into the cockpit, ignoring the arm the pilot held out to assist her. She doubted very much that she would have either the time or inclination to see anything of the site beyond her work tent, and at that moment, did not care. She was tired, she was hungry, her feet were hurting far more than she would ever dare to admit, and she had to endure another two hours with this lout - provided, of course, that a thunderstorm did not force them to turn around or strike them from the sky. You owe me, Felicia Mohs. This had better be good.
The pilot, by contrast, was all smiles when he joined her in the cockpit after completing the pre-flight safety check. As he fitted his headset over his ears, he cast an especially broad grin her way that she was sure had broken many a heart back in Guadalajara, but had no effect on her whatsoever. “Next stop: el Templo de Piedra Ardiente.”
