Off Kilter

by Glen Robins

  The woman saw Collin and pushed the door open slightly. She looked him up and down, concern spreading across her typically square, native Peruvian face. Her brow pulled together as she mumbled something to him, but he couldn’t make out the words. She said it again, louder this time. “Get your things and go. It’s not safe for you here.” She jabbed a thumb repeatedly toward the stairway, hurrying him along.

  Collin followed the prompts, slipping silently past her into the dim hallway. He dashed up the stairs and spun to the right. His was the third door down. As he scampered toward it, he fumbled for the key and dropped it on the floor at his feet. As he bent down to retrieve it, he heard voices coming from the opposite end of the hallway, along with heavy footfalls, he guessed from thick-soled boots that carried an air of authority. They were coming up the other set of stairs at the far end of the building.

  He managed to grab the key and open the door before the boots made it to the top of the stairs. Closing the door silently, Collin made his way through the dark room. Closet on the right, bathroom on the left. Closet ends, room opens up. Bed to the left, dresser to the right, window straight ahead. Small desk to the right of the window. He pulled the curtains open to allow light from the street lamps below to illuminate the space as he unplugged the laptop, shoved it in the computer bag, and fumbled for his backpack. The boots were coming down the hallway outside his door. He could hear them pounding on the thin carpet that covered the wooden floor. His fingers did a quick inventory of the contents of the backpack. Passports, bundles of currency wrapped in rubber bands, boxes containing hair coloring kits, medicine, and toiletries. Contact lens cases. Bottles of lens solution. Glasses cases. Two wallets. Combs, toothbrush, toothpaste, electric shaver. It all seemed to be there, so he zipped it up and slung the pack over his shoulder.

  The boots sounded like they were only two or three doors down when they came to a stop. Collin held his breath and listened. Silence. Then a knock at a door. Some loud, demanding words, a door opening, followed by more stomping. The door closed, and the voices and stomping stopped. It was evident from the sounds that the boots had gone into another room. This was his chance.

  Collin bolted for the door, opened it quietly. He poked his head out and looked to his left. No one. Good. He slipped out the door and tiptoed to the same staircase he had climbed just moments before. His door slammed shut as he took the sharp left U-turn and began to descend, taking three stairs at a time. The big voice became audible again. The door down the hall had opened and the sound of the boots emerged and began stomping toward him. Never hesitating, he vaulted down the remaining stairs, through the narrow back hallway, to the side door where the square-faced old woman stood with her foot holding open his passage to freedom. He nodded and whispered gracias as he bounded into the tumult on the street.

  Returning to the safety of the darkness from which he had emerged minutes before, Collin retreated as fast as he could, fear and adrenaline propelling him to run, backpack and computer bag bouncing against his body as he fled the chaos into the shadows.

  Leaving a trail of evidence, such as fingerprints and hair, in his room was not what he had planned, but under the circumstances, he had no choice. Reluctantly, he had to flee the beautiful little town of Puno, Peru, forever.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Peruvian-Bolivian Border

  May 27

  His eyes glazed over as he stared out the dirty window of the lumbering, old bus. Although the sky outside was pitch black, he was aware that he was traveling through mountains. Only outlines of jagged peaks were visible in the pale starlight. Trees blurred as they passed. The bus teetered and swayed as it rounded one curve after another, alternately speeding nearly out of control on long, downhill stretches and whining as it labored up another hill.

  After retrieving his belongings from the hotel, Collin had sprinted to the bus terminal on the outskirts of Puno and caught the next bus out of town. Lima was the only place he didn’t want to go. As luck would have it, he was on his way to La Paz, Bolivia.

  Collin wondered what was next. Now that they had found him in this remote part of the world, he knew they could find him anywhere. He felt vulnerable and confined. His world was shrinking; hiding places vanishing. The mounting stress was putting pressure on his fragile mental state.

  Maybe it was time to try a different strategy, try something unexpected to catch everyone off-guard.

  His thoughts meandered, eventually settling on Emily. He wanted to talk with her. Actually talk. This electronic communication thing was great, but not as good as being there, in the same place, at the same time. The more he thought about her, the more he wanted to see her, to have a real conversation. A conversation with someone he knew, someone who cared about him, would be novel. Since meeting Captain Sewell, he longed to have a friend again. He wanted contact. He wanted a real connection. Why not with Emily?

  A dark feeling ran through him as he recalled kissing her that night in her hotel room. It felt like a barb had been plunged into his heart, causing him to gasp and cough. His near miss with infidelity and the guilt that shrouded him afterward returned, pressing against him, stealing his breath.

  It took several minutes to unwind the coil that had wrapped itself around him. He told himself that it was a mistake; it had no bearing on the accident. Emily had been drinking, and he was not in a good place at the time. He reminded himself that he had been strong enough to remain faithful to his wife and that Emily was just a friend. A good friend with whom he shared some of the best times of his youth.

  Wouldn’t it be good to see her? And wouldn’t it be fun to surprise her? Once this idea caught root, nothing could stop it from growing. His shattered soul needed something that it didn’t have in his current situation and, like a hungry person craving food, it didn’t matter what was set before him; he would take it. His mind was fixated on surprising his friend, on reestablishing a link with someone familiar. He knew he couldn’t go home. Not yet. His presence would endanger his family. But a quick visit to Chicago might be the next best thing. Chicago was a big city. It would be easy to go undetected there if he did it right.

  This distraction, this idea of actually seeing Emily, with its heightened level of difficulty, could help his aching mind, which, when left idle, threatened to unravel. If his grief caught up to him, a meltdown could render him helpless. With his enemies close behind, that was dangerous.

  Having a mission, a vital task to complete, always helped him stay focused on something other than his loss. New scenery, a new plan, new challenges to overcome had helped in the past. Maybe it would help again now.

  Collin’s flashbacks had become less frequent and less severe than they had been a month ago in Europe. He credited his adventures and new-found friendship with Captain Sewell, as well as the change of scenery.

  Ah, the thought of Captain Sewell brought a smile to his face. What a cool cat. He had proven to be a great help in so many ways. He had programmed the Captain’s satellite phone number into his cell phone. He knew he’d use it someday.

  These thoughts occupied him as the bus ride dragged on. He struggled to ward off memories of his past and what he had lost. His beleaguered body wanted sleep, but he couldn’t allow it. He tried everything to prevent a meltdown, but his mind grew weary, unable to focus. The screeching brakes and droning engine disrupted his concentration, exacerbating his fatigue.

  Somewhere during the early morning hours, Collin lost the battle and dozed off. During this brief and shallow sleep, they found him—vulnerable, physically exhausted, mentally drained. Like wisps of smoke creeping through the crack under the door, memories of his beautiful wife and children entered in the form of an innocent dream. In the dream, which was really a memory replayed, his sweet daughter Jane, who was about four years old at the time, was enjoying an ice cream cone on a hot summer day. The ice cream was melting faster than her little tongue could lick it. Sticky, blue streams rolled down the cone onto her little hand and chubby fi
ngers. Her furrowed brow showed her concern that her parents would be upset about the mess. She looked up at her daddy with apologetic eyes. Collin just grinned at her, kissed her little nose, then began licking the ice cream from her hand. “Daddy!” she started to scold, then burst into a giggle fit as he tried to stuff her entire hand in his mouth. “You can’t eat my hand, you silly!”

  “Why not? It tastes so good! Like bubble gum ice cream!”

  “But that’s my hand. What will I hold my ice cream cone with if you eat my hand?”

  “You’ve got another one, you know.”

  “But Daddy, I need both my hands so we can play basketball together.”

  “You’re right, sweet girl, maybe I should just bite off your cute little nose instead.”

  “Noooo, you can’t do that either! How will I smell?”

  “Well, if you didn’t have ice cream on it, I probably wouldn’t want to eat it.”

  “Why don’t you eat your own ice cream, Daddy?”

  “I did. But I’m still hungry.”

  “So eat Mommy’s.”

  “Mommy won’t let me. Besides, she’s way over there on the other side of the table. You’re right here, and it’s just easier to eat your yummy fingers and nose.”

  “Oh, Daddy. You’re silly.” Playful giggles and the sweet laughter of an innocent child rang in his head.

  The bus slowed to a stop, and the image of his precious little one abruptly vanished as he jolted from sleep. A second later, it all came back to him—where he was, why he was there, and what was happening to him. Unable to control himself, he stretched out an arm, grabbing at air, and released a pained noooo, awakening the dozen other passengers onboard. His sweet Jane was gone, and he couldn’t pull her back, no matter how much he wanted to. He would never share an ice cream cone with her again. His ears would never again hear her lovable, playful giggle. His eyes would never behold that precious smile, those golden ringlets, or those pudgy fingers. The cruel reality gripped him like an electric charge, causing a fit of grief and pain. Burying his head in his hands, he struggled to control his breathing and his emotions.

  A minute later, he regained his composure and apologized to his fellow travelers. Waving his cell phone in the air, he explained that there was some bad news coming from his family. It would be fine, he assured them. He just needed to get home and see them again.

  His story and his accent were apparently believable. With sincere concern in their voices, a few of the older women, after briefly conferring among themselves, promised to pray for him and his family. They crossed themselves, bowed their heads, and mumbled inaudibly. Then, looking up to Heaven and mouthing amen, they each turned toward Collin, one by one, and said, “Vaya con Dios.”

  His instincts had kicked in to make up a plausible story on the spot and win the hearts of the ladies on the bus. Now, he had to avoid the scrutiny of the border patrol officer that was boarding the bus. He wasn’t sure he could withstand too much interrogating at the moment.

  A young uniformed guard stomped up the steps, a stern look on his hardened face. He cradled an AK-47 assault rifle across his chest, muzzle pointed up, with one hand, a large flashlight with a powerful beam in the other. Puffed up with importance, the guard tramped deliberately down the aisle, scrutinizing each face and visibly relishing the fear he inspired. He interrogated a few about where they came from or where they were going, followed by queries regarding what they were carrying with them.

  As the guard approached, Collin dabbed his eyes with a tissue. He did this while leaning down and away as if he was adjusting his socks, trying not to be noticed. The guard caught the motion and jerked the beam of light at Collin. “You there! What are you doing?” he barked in Spanish.

  Collin replied with an unsteady voice, “Tying my shoe.” This enraged the young soldier and he stormed down the aisle. Collin looked at the tissue in his hand and wanted to scream in horror. The white tissue was streaked with brown. The tanning lotion he had applied to his face and hands in the bus terminal restroom to help him look more Latin was rubbing off. There was no time to check it in the mirror. No time to re-apply. No time to think. The soldier stood over him, glowering down, the beam of his flashlight darting all around.

  “Identification,” he demanded.

  Collin’s hand shook as it moved toward his shirt pocket. He couldn’t help it. The strain was taking its toll. His fingers pulled at the passport, but he lacked the control to grip it tightly. It fell to the floor. The soldier huffed and Collin apologized, finding the strength to hold it this time. He presented the requested document with his trembling hand. Collin kept his face down, looking at his lap, the tissue wadded tightly in his fist.

  The guard flipped each page with exaggerated drama.

  “Why are there no markings for entry into Peru?” he demanded.

  Collin didn’t have an answer. He couldn’t say why, so he just shrugged.

  “What were you doing in Peru?”

  “Business.”

  “What kind of business?”

  “I sell cleaning products to restaurants and hotels. Sometimes when I go to countries—Peru, Brazil, Uruguay—they don’t stamp my papers. Sometimes I don’t see the border patrol. I cannot say why. I don’t question,” Collin explained in a feeble, weary voice.

  “Where did you visit in Peru?” demanded the guard.

  “Just Puno,” answered Collin.

  “How long were you in Puno?”

  “Just for the day.”

  “Did you see or hear about the American they are looking for in Puno?”

  “I saw the commotion, but I did not see the American. I know nothing about it.”

  “Is the Qelqatani Hotel one of your customers?”

  “No, not yet,” Collin said.

  “Did you visit there today?”

  “No, I did not. The manager said he did not have time for me today. Maybe next time.”

  “Who did you visit while in Puno?”

  Collin paused, searching his memory for names, any names, which he could throw out. “Atajo, IncaBar, Los Uros—”

  “OK, OK. I’ve heard enough. Where do you live?”

  “Buenos Aires.”

  “Where are you going next?”

  “I will visit hotels and restaurants in La Paz.”

  “For how long?”

  “Two days, maybe three.”

  The young guard paused, considering his words, then slapped the booklet shut and thrust it back toward Collin. Without another word, he spun on his heels and marched back down the aisle. At the edge of the steps leading down to the exit door, the guard turned once more to face the group of blurry-eyed passengers. He glared at them, especially Collin, before clicking his heels and stamping down the steps.

  The ordeal was over. Hot sweat had formed under Collin’s shirt, at the back of his neck and, most dangerously, at his forehead and temples. As he dabbed the sweat, more brown patches appeared on his tissue.

  His chin dropped to his chest, his hand lay still in his lap, and exhaustion kicked in. His situation appeared increasingly precarious with two near misses in less than six hours. He was flirting with disaster.

  The door squealed as the bus driver pulled the handle in a long, sweeping motion toward himself. Sleep did not return, nor did he want it to. Not worth another breakdown in front of strangers. He needed a new plan. He had to talk to Lukas. Sooner would be better, but he knew it had to wait until he was off this bus and alone. That would be another five hours. A very long five hours.

  * * * *

  Huntington Beach, CA

  May 28

  Sarah Cook had been fretting since the day before when she had that strong feeling that Collin was in danger. Of course, in his most recent e-mail he said everything was fine, even when she quizzed him about why she would have had that prompting. His answer, as casual and vague as ever, was simply, “Yeah, I had a bit of a scare and thought I might faint, but I’m all right now, Mom. Thanks for the prayers. Th
ey definitely help.”

  She felt he was skimming over some important details. Thanks to the Internet, as well as Agents Crabtree and McCoy, she wasn’t as naïve as he perhaps thought. Collin was wanted by the FBI. She saw the picture with the sinister-looking Asian man and knew everything was not all right with her son. It bothered her that he wouldn’t tell her the truth.

  As she sat staring at her computer screen, Henry walked up behind her and put his large, gentle hands on her shoulders. Without saying a word, her husband gave her comfort and strength. She squeezed a hand and pressed her cheek against it as she began to sob.

  Henry knelt down beside her and pulled her close. He was a man who chose his words carefully and spoke them sincerely. His opinions were based on facts and heartfelt convictions.

  Holding his wife, with her face buried in his chest, Henry found the words to console her. “Dear, the good Lord is aware of our son and is watching over him, wherever he is. He’s a smart, resourceful young man. He’s a survivor. I trust that he knows what he’s doing, and there is purpose behind it.” Sarah’s weeping subsided. He wiped away a tear, then added, “Try to stay positive. He’s going to be OK; I know it.”

  His words and the conviction in his deep, baritone voice gave Sarah comfort because she believed whole-heartedly what he said. He was steady and sure, the rock of his family, the one they all turned to during the storms of life.

  Henry added, “I’m sure there’s a reason for his not sharing more details with us. He’s being protective, I’d say. When the time is right, he’ll tell us the whole story.” Henry knew Collin as well as anyone, perhaps better than Sarah ever would. It was a father-son thing, wrought from many long talks during those critical teenage years, some of them late at night over a bowl of cereal at the kitchen table, some of them watching a bonfire burn at the beach after a round of catch with a Frisbee or a football, some of them in the car on the way to or from a baseball game. He couldn’t explain it fully to his wife, but he trusted Collin’s judgment.