The Travel Writer Read Free Page A

like a frozen jet of water, and the hair spray made it glitter in the lamplight.
    “I know Hilary professionally,” I said. “As an editor, she’s one of the best.” I had practiced my opening on the train, and had made a mental note, with many mental stars beside it, to keep to the present tense. “But tell me what she’s really like.” I flicked my gaze between the two and stroked the underside of my chin, in the thoughtful manner of doctors, private eyes, wilderness trackers, and other prime-time truth seekers.
    Mr. Pearson tossed out the response immediately. “She’s like a breath of sunshine,” he said, “in the early morning mist.” Surely he had heard himself say that before, and liked it.
    “She’s beautiful,” said his wife, and I nodded. Freelance writers who had actually met her had told me as much.
    “But she’s no tart,” Mr. Pearson insisted. “She dresses right.”
    “Well,” said his wife. “Sometimes a little elasticky.”
    “Sure! She’s young. She bought this dress once, tight, tight all over like plastic wrap, every part, and I told her she looked like a hooker. And she took it off and never wore it again! That’s the kind of girl she was.” He ground his fist into his other palm, enraged at his mistake.
    “Is!” cried his wife, completely unnecessarily, and her husband ground his fist harder.
    “What do you think happened to her?” I asked.
    Mr. Pearson separated his hands like two fighting dogs and settled them on his knees.
    “The CIA’s behind it,” he said, his voice drained of all emotion but conviction. “Heard of the Cocaine Wars? They got cocaine down there. And the U.S. Army.”
    Hilary’s mother sighed and perched herself on the arm of the sofa next to me. I could see the bristles on the backs of her calves.
    “I thought the wars were in Colombia,” I said.
    “Sure! You base your operations in another country and you launch attacks across the border! I ought to know. Cambodia. Vietnam.”
    His wife sighed and bent toward me. “He was never in Vietnam,” she explained.
    “But I paid attention. I read books! I ought to know. We went to that hotel. They’re all liars there, every one of them, from the monkeys humping suitcases to the owner. He had a suit on, but you know what? He smelled dirty, like a mutt, like all the rest of them! His cousin in the government kidnapped her, and they’re all covering it up!”
    “Don’t say that!” said Mrs. Pearson. “She ran away. It’s just another adventure.”
    “She wouldn’t run! In Bolivia? Not in a billion billion years. Not without at least giving us a call on her cell.”
    “She’s our Adventure Girl,” the mother said, before firing back at her husband. “Of course she’d run.”
    Could she have run? I imagined myself creeping up to a lonely hut nestled on a hillside high above the Bolivian cloud forest, and throwing open the door to discover the surprised and admiring face of a beautiful American girl who never dreamed that anyone would be able to find her. My old editor wouldn’t know my face, but when I gave her my name, she’d shake her head in stunned recognition. “I should have known it would be you,” she’d say.
    The parents glared at each other, continuing the argument in their heads.
    “How did you first hear about her disappearance?” I asked. I had already seen two versions of the story from the online archives of the
New York Post
and the Morristown
Herald News
, but I wanted one for just myself.
    “Two days after she was supposed to be back from this press trip, we started calling around,” said the father. “Her place. Her friends. Folgers Travel Guides, where she worked. Nobody’d seen her. So we called the hotel. They said they’re looking for her. Looking for her! So I said we’re coming to look too. They told us we better not. No! Didn’t just tell us. Wrote us a
letter
! FedExed it, I’ll give ’em that. Got here the next day. Told us we’d be
interfering