Free The Tourist Trail by John Yunker Page B

knees.
    â€œYou need a hand?” Lynda asked.
    He stood. “What I need is a decent fucking car—one that would have had me there by now.”
    â€œWell, 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.
    â€œNeed a hand?” he asked.
    â€œNo,” 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.
    â€œWhere are all the penguins?” Lynda asked.
    â€œMaybe 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