The Tourist Trail (20 page)

Tourism, Gordon liked to say, was the true opiate of the masses; it fostered the illusion that people could escape. You might leave your home, your country, your continent. You might even end up in Antarctica. But you could never escape yourself. And perhaps that was why Gordon didn't question Robert when he said he was taking a leave of absence and didn't know when or if he would return.

“I need closure,” Robert said. And Gordon extended a hand.

The Ethan Downes case was still open, but the two junior agents assigned to the case were already back in Washington. There was no sense of urgency or optimism. Once the media and the cameramen had begun packing, so, too, did they.

Robert had carefully chosen the itinerary for his so-called vacation, and it was in part because he could not stop wondering about Ethan. He could connect the dots in his head; he could logistically place Ethan on the Zodiac that knocked him into the water, but he could not, for the life of him, understand
why.
Why would a tourist martyr himself for such a cause? Or maybe all Robert's questions and theories were nothing more but a sad attempt to keep Aeneas alive, and, by extension, to keep Noa alive.

All these theories were leading him south again. Another layover in Miami, another long flight to Buenos Aires. He had Lynda's voice in his head now—
Are you sure, Bobby?
This time, he would be sure.

***

The tour bus to Punta Verde swayed as the currents of the Andes tried to push it off the road. At the tourist trail, Robert followed the hordes for a few hundred yards, then veered down a path devoid of penguins and, not surprisingly, devoid of tourists. He hopped the rope and headed into the brush. He walked quickly, slightly crouched, to avoid the eyes of a park guard or any naturalists. He headed for the last hill overlooking the water, knowing that once he crested it, he would be hidden from the public. Surprised penguins darted about as he passed, some snapping at his legs.

Robert headed north for a mile and then angled back inland for the tallest hill in the area. He raised the binoculars and scanned the horizon. At first, he saw nothing. He thought about continuing on but decided to wait. He sat and watched the penguins stare at him from beneath their bushes. A large chick inched toward him, its parents braying at it from their burrow. Robert remained still as the penguin pecked at his hiking shoe, then turned and scurried home. He felt guilty for having left the tourist trail, for trampling over ground reserved for smaller feet and the few who study it.

He stood and scanned the area once more.

In the valley, to his north, he noticed movement, then zoomed in, and saw two people dressed in khaki-colored clothing. They were on either end of a length of rope. On one end, he recognized the researcher he'd met the first time he'd come—Angela. On the other end of the rope was a man, crouched, his head inside a penguin burrow. When the man stood up, Robert saw his face.

Aeneas.

Robert stared through the binoculars for a few more minutes, then lowered them. He didn't know what surprised him more, seeing Aeneas—a living, breathing Aeneas—or knowing that his instincts, for once, had been spot-on.

With one call, Robert could close two cases, once and for all. The missing cruise ship passenger. The supposedly dead ecoterrorist. He would receive a promotion, a raise. Maybe he would buy a house, finally settle down. Live the life he should have been living all along. With one call.

He raised the binoculars once again. The two looked like an old married couple, a harmony between them, she standing in the middle, scribbling in her notebook, while he orbited. He could leave them alone, and probably should. At the same time, he and Aeneas still had unfinished business. And, as he had for so many years, Robert wanted to finish it.

He pocketed his binoculars and made his way, carefully, down to where they worked.

* * *

Robert awoke to the glow of the flight tracker's bluish screen. He'd fallen asleep and, thankfully, had given nobody a reason to awaken him. No nightmares, no shouting.

He sat up in the dark and blinked at the screen. The little white plane was suspended over blue water, its nose nearly touching the eastern coast of South Africa. Another two hours and he would be in Cape Town, waiting for a connection to Windhoek. The resignation letter would arrive on Gordon's desk at about the same time Robert arrived in Namibia.

The screen refreshed, the nose of the plane now suspended over Africa. He returned the flight tracker to his armrest. Robert looked out the window to find only clouds, but he knew where he was headed. Aeneas, fulfilling his end of the bargain, had told him everything at Punta Verde. And Robert, fulfilling his end of the bargain, left them alone together, without a word to Gordon or anyone else.

It was the time of the culling. Soon the Cape seals would be giving birth to pups. Noa would be there, defending them. And, if not, it was a good enough place to begin.

One night, alone in her trailer, Angela heard a noise. She pulled on her jacket and stepped outside. It was a windy night. Geraldo, standing next to the trailer, scurried off toward the water, into the darkness.

It was the end of the season, time for the penguins to return to sea, time for goodbyes. Aeneas's ship had returned two weeks ago, and he left with it. She knew she couldn't keep him forever, and she didn't need forever. There were battles still to be fought, whales to be saved, penguins to be counted.

As the penguins left, so too would the humans. First the tourist trail would go empty. Then the naturalists, with nothing left to study, would pack up and leave. Angela would be needed in Boston, to finish her Ph.D., grade papers, administer exams—but lately, she'd been thinking of wintering here instead. Extra time alone would not be such a bad thing, or so she told herself. The true reason would be to keep an eye out for him, a man washed upon the rocks in need of a sheltering shore.

Angela crested the hill and sat in her usual place. She reached up to touch the penguin tag around her neck. A penguin approached, a young male, by the looks of him. Probably curious to see such a large creature as herself, and apparently glad to find her unattached. He circled her, brushed her with his flapping wings. The old familiar circle dance. He danced to win her, to draw her to his nest, such a sad, fruitless, beautiful gesture.

Angela sat still as the bird circled her, continuing his ancient ritual, as she watched a light on the horizon, moving slowly across the water.

This novel is dedicated to the researchers and activists who have dedicated their lives to protecting wildlife.

To learn more, and to lend your support, please visit:

The Penguin Project

www.mesh.biology.washington.edu/penguinProject

The Sea Shepherd Society

www.seashepherd.org

International Fund for Animal Welfare

www.ifaw.org

Farm Animal Rights Movement (FARM)

www.farmusa.org

Mercy for Animals

www.mfa.org

International Bird Rescue Research Center

www.ibrrc.org

The Tourist Trail
was inspired by a trip to the Patagonia region of Argentina, where John volunteered with a penguin census for The Penguin Project. He has also traveled to Norway and Antarctica, where portions of
The Tourist Trail
are set. John lives in Ashland, Oregon.

The Tourist Trail

www.thetouristtrail.com

Published by

Ashland Creek Press

www.ashlandcreekpress.com

© 2010 by John Yunker. All rights reserved.

ISBN-978-0-9796475-2-9

This is a work of fiction. All characters and scenarios appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.