The Inca Prophecy

7 “I’m sorry, Mr. Cleave”

Bored beyond tears, Sam huffed, chewing on the end of his Biro. Before him, on his lap, his empty notepad awaited his wisdom, which would come in elegant scribbling only pharmacists could decipher. Something itched in Sam. Something probed to be put to ink, yet he had absolutely no idea what it was that the barren paper wanted from him.

The plastic of the cheap pen squished between his teeth as he tried to write a suitable opening segment for the cover he was going to do on Purdue’s find. Even though the discovery was still off the record until Purdue’s lawyers confirmed that he could claim it, Sam thought it would be a good time to start working, as he had no doubt Purdue’s claim would be approved. He knew that Purdue could practically convince any authority to let him have his way, either by charm or with money. Sam had faith in the insanely wealthy explorer to get what he wanted, legitimately or otherwise.

It made him smile to himself, how Purdue could always just summon him without expecting any protest. Sam found it amusing to what level of willing servitude he was willing to acquiesce to when it concerned the white haired billionaire, but it was not because of the generous checks he wrote Sam for the effort. No, it was the adventure that always awaited, the exotic places Sam saw and experienced even though his life was usually at stake sooner than later.

A sharp toothache snapped Sam out of his contemplation.

“Ow, Christ,” he mumbled, puling the pen out of his mouth to soothe the tooth with the tip of his tongue. He had inadvertently chewed harder, subliminally frustrated at the tardiness of the pilot’s return. Impatiently he shifted in his seat, casting a rapid gaze across the room to scrutinize those present. Nobody resembled the pilot who had left the hall almost an hour ago, which just annoyed the weary journalist even more.

Fuck this, he thought, I’ll go look for him before I collapse here in misery and boredom. Packing up his notepad and gathering up his light luggage, which included his duffle bag and a hard case with some camera equipment, he considered the reasons for the pilot’s long absence. Surely it did not take that long to reassign a departure schedule, he thought. It was coming on in the day already, and he was in no mood to be lowered from the chopper onto Purdue’s yacht under the meager illumination of lights. This was something he would only exercise during the daylight.

As Sam turned to sling his bag over his shoulder, he bumped right into Stephen, the pilot.

“Sorry, Mr. Cleave,” Stephen apologized sincerely, yet he looked and acted quite differently than when he’d been fleeing Sam’s schoolboy teasing earlier on.

“Hey, I was just about to come looking for you,” Sam said, smiling at first, but upon closer view he quickly noticed that something was very off with Stephen. “Jesus, man, what happened to you? It looks like you went a few rounds with Tyson up there.”

The pilot tried to smile, but it was clearly only out of courtesy to Sam. “I had a bit of an accident on the sixth floor, sir. But not to worry. We are good to go now. I got all the paperwork I need upstairs.” He helped Sam with one of his two pieces of luggage and started toward the assigned gate for their exit. Sam had been an investigative journalist — a natural snoop — for over two decades, and he instantly took note of discrepancies. His eyes had been trained for many years to find loopholes, to see differences in appearances.

One such tiny detail was the condition of the pilot’s collar. Before he’d left Sam in the lounge, his collar had been impeccably neat, its edges and seams perfectly pressed down in an origami of tidiness next to his uniform epaulettes. Now it looked like a straightened out piece of paper retrieved from a paper bin, as if it had been handled.

“Any idea when we will get there?” Sam asked.

“No more than an hour from takeoff, sir,” Stephen replied hastily without looking at Sam. “The weather should hold out at least for the next four hours, so we should be able to make it in clear conditions — clear, as in wind, not as in sunshine.”

“Oh, I figured,” Sam assured him, as his wild dark hair obscured his face under the onslaught of a crosswind. “I know Spain hardly ever wanes on sunshine, but these wind speeds are positively deadly, especially for helicopter flight.”

“That’s right. I will definitely be using more fuel than usual just to keep the machine hovering,” Stephen affirmed abruptly. “It’s going to be a bitch to keep straight for long enough, so I hope you are experienced in this procedure, Mr. Cleave.”

“I am,” Sam replied as they walked out to a helipad about five hundred meters from the exit they took. The sky was clear and blue and the temperature warm, but the pilot’s demeanor was chilly. He had changed in mood and in appearance since he’d returned from the airport offices, but Sam could not put his finger on it. Apart from having obviously been roughed up by someone for some reason, it was difficult to determine the true mindset of the pilot.

As they approached the orange and white JetRanger, something came to mind that Sam had previously neglected to ask Stephen. “Where is your co-pilot?”

“No co-pilot, Mr. Cleave,” Stephen replied nervously. He opened a large luggage compartment behind the back seats to put Sam’s gear case inside, securing it.

“Usually Purdue has two men per shift, regardless of how quick and informal the flight is,” Sam remarked.

Stephen’s face swung to look at him, almost as if he were about to throw a tantrum, but he restrained himself. “Well, I was the only one he hired for this trip, Mr. Cleave. Me alone, probably because it’s supposed to be a quickie.”

More and more the journalist realized that something was amiss. While Stephen was doing his pre-flight checks with all the formal training expected of him, Sam saw a few more telltale signs of trouble. The pilot’s hands showed signs of tremor, moving a bit timidly as he ran the control tests and advised the tower of their intention to depart. His skin was pale, even for a Scot, and perspiration fixed his shirt to his skin as trickles of sweat rolled over his face.

“I appreciate that you obviously had an altercation of sorts while you were gone, old boy, but are you sure you are in flying shape?” Sam asked plainly. He spoke loud and clear into the mic of his headphones, making sure that Stephen had no excuse to ignore him. “You look awfully wan.”

“I’ll be fine, sir,” Stephen assured. “This will be over in no time, I promise. You are in good hands.” Sam did not believe a word. The aircraft lifted carefully off the ground, at first swaying in the hard gusts of the ground area before recovering smoothly within seconds. Purdue always hired only the best and Sam knew that, but the pilot’s appearance was far from reassuring. Without any further conversation, the two men ascended inside the sturdy machine, enjoying the immaculate panorama from the altitude they reached.

Now and then Sam would pretend to admire the scenery to the right in order to quickly survey the pilot’s condition. Stephen stared dead ahead most of the time, occasionally looking down over the pristine turquoise water with an almost yearning stare. Next to him, his passenger was beginning to contemplate the possibility of plummeting into the Alboran Sea, but he could never mention such a notion.

Sam had to admit to himself that he was screwed, no matter the truth of what was going on. Whether the pilot was just under the weather, anxious, or upset was as inconsequential as Sam simply being a victim of his own paranoia. Either way, whatever happened in air space could not be altered or countered, especially with no co-pilot to recover any calamity. But Sam had no idea that his mounting distrust and anxiety could be exacerbated to a degree of terror, until Stephen suddenly looked at him and smiled nervously. “Did you know that I have twin daughters I have not seen in eight years?”

At first, Sam thought the man was trying to make small talk to break the awkward atmosphere in the helicopter, or maybe he had finally warmed up to the journalist extrovert humor. “No, I didn’t know that, Stephen. Why haven’t you seen them in so long?” Sam reciprocated.

“My bitch ex-wife left the country with them while I was in the hospital,” Stephen sneered. “When I got out, they’d disappeared. Do you know what that does to a man’s heart, Mr. Cleave?”

O-o-kay, Sam thought to himself. Now is the time to say all the right stuff.

Melancholy soon overwhelmed the pilot, giving Sam reason to shift gears into panic. “I can’t imagine how painful that must have been,” he stammered clumsily, as the helicopter started tilting too much for comfort. “But I’m sure you can still get in touch with them. Hell, I know a lot of people who can help you find your daughters.”

In the distance, Sam could see a white speck on the dark blue blanket of slowly heaving ocean. He hoped that it was Purdue’s vessel, but if there was ever a time not to inquire, this was it. The vast beauty of the sea challenging the clear blue of the sky lost all appeal as Sam had to focus all his energy and perception on the faltering mind of the man holding his fate.

“Between my contacts and Purdue’s funding, I am sure we can help you, Stephen,” Sam said casually, while in truth he was frantic.

“Help me?” Stephen chuckled madly. The helicopter dipped in increments of dangerous fluctuation that Sam could feel in his body, the adrenal rush flooding his senses. His stomach churned as the pale pilot carelessly corrected the equilibrium of the machine. “Help me see my girls again?”

“Aye!” Sam exclaimed, abandoning the ruse of coolness. “Just relax, alright? We can fix this for you.”

Stephen just laughed, his mirth lined with bitterness. “They’re dead, Mr. Cleave! They died in a fire six years ago!” He shook his head hopelessly, and it was then that Sam saw a small detail he had previously missed — a fresh small puncture wound at the base of his ear. Right below it something dark barely protruded, running along the inside of the pilot’s collar, but Sam could not identify it. The engine screamed under the clap of the rotors as the nose of the craft slanted down. “Mr. Cleave?” he shouted over the noise, looking terrified. “I am so, so sorry. Just know that. I am so sorry.”

“What the fuck!” Sam screamed at him, trying to grab the cyclic stick, but the machine careened wildly as it headed straight for the white yacht meant to be Sam’s destination. “Let go! Jesus Christ! You’re going to kill us!” he shrieked as he wrestled the control from Stephen.

In horror Sam regarded the fast approaching mounds of water and the white yacht about to join them in a gruesome furnace of combustion. “I’m sorry, Mr. Cleave.”