Authors: H. Ward
Thinking back on it, I’ve done some pretty stupid things—picking up strange guys, getting into vehicles with people, but nothing terrible ever happened. I’ve experienced a few lousy one-night stands, but never have I had a man try to really hurt me. So is that dumb luck or good intuition? Did I make good choices or did I just miss the opportunity to make a bad choice, like that girl Natalee Holloway who disappeared in Aruba? How do you know if that cute guy who wants to buy you a drink is really a sociopath? And how do you know that he’s meant to be your soul mate?
Chapter 8
The protective goggles were too big for Amber’s face, and they kept sliding down her nose which was driving her crazy. The clunky ear protection was bad enough, but it was hard to focus on the target when the sweat beading up on her face was making the glasses slip. Cal accepted no complaints and no excuses. He had ceased to be Cal, the guy who made her scream in bed, and now he was some kind of hard-ass taskmaster.
It seemed odd to Amber that a beach resort would have a shooting range, but apparently enough people liked their guns to make it profitable. Cal said ranges were easy enough to find all over Panama, so she had no excuse not to practice. She just couldn’t go in packing concealed. Cal had magically produced a permit for the .38 bearing her name, and Amber decided it was better, at least for now, to not ask questions.
For the first hour, Cal was relentless. He made Amber load, and unload the gun, over and over, snapping the safety on and off, until the feel of it became second nature. Then they spent a long time on learning to use the sight. He explained that he had done away with the factory-installed sight, and put on a much, much better one. She also learned that compact guns, while easier to conceal, give up a little on accuracy, hence the top of the line sight. Finally, he allowed her to shoot the gun. He had done some other modifications, and the clip it used chambered sixteen rounds. She squeezed them off slowly and deliberately, pausing each time to get Cal’s critique.
“You’ve got good concentration,” Cal said. “I kind of thought you would suck at this.”
Amber set her gun down in front of her and took off her protective glasses. “I kind of thought I would too.” She tilted her head as she studied him, “For a pilot, you sure seem to know a lot about guns.”
Cal looked around quickly, his voice sharp, “Don’t talk about that here, not anywhere, do you understand?” he hissed.
“Yeah, okay.” Amber rubbed her forehead. “I’m tired Cal. This has been a lot to absorb. Can we go take one last swim at the beach before we get on the bus?”
Her fatigue was visible, and Cal realized that Amber had done everything he asked, and hadn’t joked or slacked off once. He caught her with an arm and kissed the top of her head, “Yeah, of course. You’ve done really great. Let’s pack up and get out of here.”
Back at the cabana, Amber’s mood lifted as she slithered into her bikini. “I need some water, just twenty minutes, okay? Just to cool off and relax.”
Happy to see her bounce back to her vibrant self, Cal pulled on his trunks, and chased her out the door as he locked up. “I need to put this stuff in the office safe, before we go, though, okay?”
Guns and who knew what else were secured, and then they ran full tilt toward the water.
They dove in and swam out until they could no longer stand, and where the water was not only deeper, but cooler.
“How are the beaches in La Palma?” Amber asked as she floated, her hair spreading out on the water.
“It’s nice there. You’ll like it.”
“Are you going to leave me alone in La Palma?”
Cal was quiet for a moment. “Not all the time.”
Amber started swimming for shore, “Then maybe I’ll still go to the National Park.” She turned around as Cal’s eyes bored into her back, “The safe parts, Cal, only the safe parts.”
They showered off quickly and got dressed to travel. Amber put on a skirt and a tank top, and Cal put on a fresh t-shirt and summer weight khakis. Amber pulled her hair up into a ponytail on top of her head, as Cal settled a cap on his. Sunglasses followed for both of them, and they looked like two, fresh-faced, Americans on vacation. They gathered their belongings and caught a taxi to the bus station.
Cal purchased their tickets and they sat on a bench to wait. The other passengers were mostly locals, with a few tourists mixed in. Then, in walked the Hungarians.
“Shit.” Amber poked Cal. “What are they doing here?”
“I imagine catching the bus, like we are.” Cal sighed a little. “Don’t be rude. It will accomplish nothing.”
Denes, in his guileless way, waved at Amber; apparently unaware of how his brother’s evening had ended. Amber gave him a little wave back. The only empty seats were across from Amber and Cal, and the two brothers made their way over. Tomás glared a little at Cal, but tried to be civil.
“Good afternoon,” Tomás said, a little stiffly.
“Hi. I thought Denes’ flight was tonight?” Amber asked.
“It is,” Denes said, “But it keeps getting pushed back. Seems there’s a volcano going off in Iceland that is making a mess of air travel in Europe.” He grinned, “I wanted every minute I could at the beach. We have Belaton Lake back home; it’s big, but not the same as an ocean.”
Amber nodded trying to make polite, small talk, “Yeah, there’s something about the sea, isn’t there?”
Tomás was sizing up Cal, Amber could tell, wondering what Cal had that he didn’t. On the surface, one might be hard-pressed to find one or the other lacking in some way. Both were handsome, and both were athletic. There was a rough edge to Cal though, the kind of indescribable quality one might associate with a cowboy, or a mountain climber, or maybe, a SEAL or an Army Ranger. There was a softness to Tomás, Amber thought, a slick refinement that many women would adore, but which she found somehow, slightly repulsive. Now that she had a little distance, she understood why Cal kept calling Tomás ‘Count Chocula’ and thinking of him as a ‘princeling.’ The difference, Amber decided, was Tomás’ opinion of his own value to the female gender, and his importance to humanity in general. Cal was focused on the world outside himself.
Cal unconsciously ran the edge of his thumb across the scar on his face and Amber made note of how she no longer saw the scar as something separate from Cal, a mark on him. The scar just
was
Cal and that sort of summed up her comparison of the two men. Cal was one hundred percent Cal without any effort; Tomás was trying to be impressive.
“So where are you off to?” Tomás asked Amber.
Before she could respond, Cal jumped in, “We’re heading over to Playon Chico.”
Amber tried to not look surprised. Playon Chico was a little island on the Caribbean side of Panama, just barely off the mainland. It was an indigenous area, and had some nice resort accommodations owned by the Kuna people. It was a perfectly reasonable place for tourists to be going, except that it was in the opposite direction of La Palma, which was on the Pacific side.
Amber nodded enthusiastically, “It’ll be peaceful there.” She kept her voice neutral, “So are you still planning on going to Darien?”
Tomás fixed his gaze on Amber, “Yes, I’m going to Darien
alone.”
“I wish I could go,” Denes said naively, “But I have to go back to work.”
“That’s too bad,” Amber said. “Oh look, I think this is our bus.”
The Hungarians took seats toward the front, while Cal nudged Amber to keep going toward the rear. They settled in, almost at the back.
“I couldn’t take the Princeling staring at you for the next two hours,” he said with a smile as he flipped up the armrest separating their two seats. Amber snuggled up next to him.
She spoke in a low voice, “So I’m getting the message that I never tell anyone the truth about where we are going or what we are doing?”
“That’s right.” Cal resettled his arm around Amber. “I picked Playon Chico because it’s a bit of a place to get to, an island, not heavily trafficked, and the accommodations are out on the reef, and private.”
“So in La Palma, I’ll have some kind of story?”
“Yeah, I’m working on that. I think maybe you’re my fiancé.”
“Wow, you move quickly.” She fluttered her hand playfully, “Where’s my damn ring?”
“Okay, maybe not fiancé,” he muttered. “How about common-law wife?” He tickled her side.
“Buddy, there is nothing common about me.” She gave him a little kiss.
“No kidding,” Cal said with a raised eyebrow.
The bus was comfortable enough and air conditioned, and it was certainly a cheap way to travel. They settled in for the ride, and soon the motion lulled Amber to sleep. Her head fell against Cal’s shoulder, her breathing quiet and rhythmic. The next thing she knew, Cal was patting her awake.
“We’re almost there. You know, you sleep more than any human I think I’ve ever met,” he said.
“I think it’s some kind of reflex from working the bike tours. We got up early and went late, and so you learned to nap at any available moment. Believe it or not, I can manage really well in a totally sleep-deprived state. I’m like the sleep equivalent to a camel—I seem to keep the excess in some kind of sleep bank.”
“I don’t think that’s scientifically possible,” Cal said doubtfully.
Amber shrugged her shoulders, “Just saying.”
As they got off the bus, Amber felt compelled to be nice to the Hungarians. Denes was a sweetheart, she thought, and Tomás wasn’t a bad guy, only a little full of himself. She
had
been a cock tease, and she needed to take responsibility for that. She turned to Cal, “Give me just a minute. I really should apologize to Tomás.”
Cal didn’t look thrilled, but he understood that it’s never good to leave ends frayed when they might be tied up.
Amber drew Tomás away from his brother, “Look, I behaved badly and I want to apologize. You’re a good guy, really attractive, and I want to say thank you for the nice things you did—the meals, the drinks—I didn’t mean to take advantage. I—I was mixed up. I’m really sorry.”
Tomás looked at some mysterious point in space as Amber hung her head. He expelled a breath. “Okay, yeah, apology accepted.”
“I hope you enjoy the rest of your vacation.” Amber meant it genuinely. “Be safe in Darien, keep to the beaten paths, you hear some weird stuff about things along the Colombian border.”
“Thanks.” Tomás started to walk away, then turned back to Amber. “You have my phone number if you change your mind?”
Amber had no intention of ever using it, but why rub it in? “Yeah, I’ve got it,” she said.
“Good luck, Amber.” Denes had hailed a cab, and Tomás went to join him.
Amber waved good-bye, and then went to where Cal had collected their bags. “Okay, that’s done. I feel better. What now?”
“We’re going to check into our hotel, have dinner, and relax. We’ll take an early flight to La Palma in the morning.” He shouldered a bag. “Have you ever been to the historic district? I thought we’d stay down there. And I plan on taking my uncommon wife out for a very nice dinner.”
Amber smiled, “That sounds great.”
The taxi let them out in front of a colonial looking building in the Casco Viejo, the old city, and soon they had dumped their belongings in the floor of their room.
“This is nice,” Amber said, “Definitely a step up from the beach bungalow.”
“Yeah, there’s air conditioning. You want it in the city.” He flipped on the switch. “I’m going to take you to a great place on Plaza Bolivar. You like ceviche?”
“Heck yes, I like ceviche.”
“Well they have the best ceviche and tapas and cocktails there.” Cal pulled Amber down on the bed. “It’s very romantic there.”
“It’s very romantic right here,” Amber said as she covered Cal’s mouth with her own.
Journal Reflection 9
Just because I didn’t go to college doesn’t mean I don’t have a life of the mind. I’ve read more classic books than lots of people with college degrees, and probably spent more time thinking about them. When you’re peddling up the Pyrenees, it helps to have something to focus on besides the fact that the top of the mountain is still twenty kilometers away.
I like novels and stories enough, but I really like a lot of non-fiction too. That’s an interesting term in itself—non-fiction, you would think that the opposite of fictitiousness would be truth, but apparently it’s not. Apparently the opposite of make-believe is not make-believe which makes you think there’s a third category of existence between fabrication and reality.
Anyway, one summer I got on a philosophy jag, and I read bits from all the classics: Aristotle, Plato, Kant, Descartes, Buddha, Confucius, St. Thomas Aquinas, Marx, Sartre.
Sartre said, “It is only in our decisions that we are important.” That’s a heavy thought, you know? That our lives only become meaningful through the choices we make, and anything else is just accident or circumstance. For a long time I thought I was defined by the fact I never put down stakes in any one place, but as a child growing up, that wasn’t a decision I made. That was just something I had to face because the Air Force made those decisions—it wasn’t even the Colonel, for the most part. But when I began to
choose
to be a rolling stone, well, that’s a whole different thing. I
could
have chosen to go to college, get a job, and settle down in one place—until, of course, some circumstance of fate disrupted that plan, like an illness or an accident. Instead, I chose to peddle through the Pyrenees and read the musings of a French philosopher, but how exactly do those decisions make me important?