The trouble is, what’s difficult for Bartlemore is also difficult for us! Andy thought as he washed up in a steel bucket. It was so dark he could barely see the towel next to his canteen, and he nearly grabbed a bunch of mosquito netting to dry his face.
Andy’s eyelids felt like they had weights tied to them as he shouldered his heavy rucksack and began the trek through the jungle to the airport where, Rusty had said, they would receive further instructions. As he walked, Andy patted his pocket. Thankfully, he’d remembered to bring his Zoomwriter. He’d nearly forgotten it in his rush to leave the tent.
Not having my pen would be a disaster, he thought. How could he ever succeed in his big second chance if he couldn’t defend himself?
Besides, not only was the fountain pen weapon incredibly handy, but he was an avid collector of writing instruments. Who knew if he’d be coming back to this base camp? He never would have forgiven himself if he’d left it behind and not been able to get it back.
The group walked quietly, trying to make as little noise as possible. “All the more difficult for Bartlemore,” Rusty had whispered.
Andy hazarded a look over his shoulder. There was no sign that they were being followed.
Bartlemore’s probably snoring away under a cashmere blanket right now.
Andy smirked. A Hollywood actor like Bartlemore finding it in himself to get up before noon was probably impossible. Andy had heard that the rich and famous had it pretty easy.
He’s in for quite a shock when he finds out that we already left. I wonder what he’ll say to his cameraman about that.
The thought of an outraged Bartlemore perked him up a little as he followed Rusty down a winding path. The brush was thick, but the big pilot easily led the way, cutting swaths of undergrowth with his razor-sharp machete, hardly making a sound as he went.
The group zigged and zagged through the jungle in what Andy assumed was an effort to thwart any attempt by Bartlemore to follow them. It might take twice as long to get to wherever it was that they were going, but Andy was content to follow Rusty’s lead.
As the darkness gradually began to lift, Andy took in his surroundings. Tall fruit trees grew everywhere, their long, hairy vines dangling like tentacles from their heavy branches. The trees were much easier to handle when they weren’t smacking your face in the darkness, conjuring up images of pythons. Andy had nearly jumped out of his boots when the first one had grazed his cheek and had spent the next five minutes unconsciously brushing the side of his face at just the thought of the huge snakes.
Finally, after hours of marching, Rusty’s big voice boomed out, “Ah, there it is!”
Andy looked up. The tall trees had come to an abrupt end, and a wide swath of land had been cleared for a large wooden building with a huge tower.
“The Jungle Navigation Company Airport,” Rusty said with a smile. “Spent many weeks at this place when I was in training as a bush pilot. Good times!”
Upon closer inspection, Andy could make out a runway with a few shabby planes parked nearby. A tattered wind sock, a hollow fabric tube mounted to a bamboo pole for the purposes of indicating the direction of the wind, fluttered on top of the tower, and the faintest sound of big band music drifted on the breeze.
Rusty glanced back down the pathway in the direction from which they’d come. “Let’s just see him try to follow us,” he grunted. Then, adjusting his pack, he led the way down to the airport.
There was no possible way Andy could have been prepared for what he saw when he entered the airport. Even an army of gorillas or a giant crocodile would have surprised him less.
Battered and sweaty from the long jungle hike, the group emerged into the clearing—only to find a clean-shaven Bartlemore lounging in a hammock waiting for them. His sycophantic cameraman, Charlie, sat in a chair beside him.
Bartlemore leapt from the hammock and grinned. “About time!” he exclaimed. “Took you long enough to get here. Charlie, are you ready to roll?”
Charlie shouldered his camera and gazed through the eyepiece. “Ready to go, J.B.”
Andy could hardly speak. The only word that left his mouth was a small whispered “How?”
“We were intending to follow you, but instead, you followed us,” Bartlemore said, grinning. “Leaving at the crack of dawn. Tricky.” He waggled a finger at Rusty. “But the fact is, I already knew where you were off to. We used the studio plane to beat you here.”
Bartlemore smiled again at the confused look on Rusty’s face. “Oh, the studio plowed a landing field about a mile from your campsite months ago. And since this is the only real airport for miles around, we assumed this was where you were going. No other way to get out of the jungle, unless you want to go back upstream or over the waterfall.”
Bartlemore laid his hand on Rusty’s shoulder and gave him a sympathetic look. “If you’d only asked, I’d have been happy to arrange travel for your little group on the plane. There’s plenty of space. My producer spared no expense on this little junket, and we have a fridge stocked with champagne and beluga caviar.”
He gazed down at Rusty’s travel-stained shirt and ripped shorts. “Might have saved you a cleaning bill, too.”
Rusty looked like he was about to explode. He shoved Bartlemore’s hand off his shoulder and stalked toward the door to the wooden building. Andy and the others quickly followed, glaring at Bartlemore as they passed.
Inside, Rusty bolted the door. The bush pilot gritted his teeth but didn’t say a word as he
