Free The Tourist Trail by John Yunker Page A

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.
    â€œWhat’s going on over there?” Lynda asked.
    â€œI don’t know.”
    â€œHas the makings of an international incident, I’d say.”
    â€œStay 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.
    â€œI thought you asked for a new car.”
    â€œI 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.
    â€œLynda.” Robert tried to cough away the dust. “Lynda, you okay?”
    â€œYeah, 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