by Glen Robins
He was starting to feel alive again, like a functioning human. His mind replayed the events of the previous night, and he realized how significant and wondrous it was to be alive, to be functioning. It was a miracle. Miracles happened, he had heard, always as part of a grander design. In that moment, he knew there was a reason he survived, a purpose for his life. He planned to fulfill it. He gathered a lungful of fresh, tropical air, clinched his fists, and stretched them upward, more invigorated than he had been since his teenage years. Emboldened, empowered, preserved. Tears of gratitude and relief streamed down his cheeks as he dropped to his knees. Collin Cook knew his life still had meaning and that thought humbled him.
The silhouette from the Internet news story crossed his mind’s eye. The Asian man he had been photographed with in London just a few weeks ago. The man who had turned his existence upside down, disallowing Collin the chance to mourn the loss of his wife and children. The man he had been running from all this time. The man whose shadow had chased him across three continents.
It was now clear to him that his mission was to save other innocent people from the financial calamities Pho Nam Penh and his band of evil geniuses lay ready to unleash.
The thought brought him to his feet, back to the moment.
He had to get off the island. Most likely the Coast Guard or Navy would scour the area looking for him now that the storm had passed. Surely they knew about this tiny island and would come searching.
After checking the contents of the sea bag and determining that his computer and both phones still worked, Collin prepared to leave the protection of the island and take his chances once again on the open ocean in his twelve-foot dinghy. He tied down the sea bag and gas can under the front bench and checked the tubular walls all the way around. All were tight, holding air. Another miracle.
Turning on the GPS, he scrolled through the favorites to determine which was closest and to calculate, as best he could, the feasibility of making it there. Dry Tortugas was closest—thirty-four miles away. He topped the tank, leaving the can half full. Judging from the amount of fuel he used the night before to cover roughly thirteen miles, he gauged it to be doable, especially on calmer seas. He pushed the “Go” button on the GPS, and a blinking red dot appeared with a gray line extending almost due south to Dry Tortugas. Wasting no time, he untied the ropes from around the two rocks and dragged the raft down the ravaged beach, into the now calm, but still murky, water of the lagoon.
As he started the motor, he gave the island a long, contemplative look. It was a bleak and barren spot of solid ground amidst miles of water. Not much more than a pile of rocks. One of thousands of such islands in this part of the world; but to him, it was beautiful and hallowed.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Coast Guard Station, Key West, FL
June 7
After several minutes of haranguing from a San Francisco-based FBI agent named Crabtree, the Commanding Officer at the Southernmost Lifesavers station agreed that as part of their search for two small craft missing since the hurricane, they would search a grid ten miles in radius from the spot where the Admiral Risty was intercepted. At first, the CO balked, saying he did not have the manpower to search an additional hundred square miles of ocean. His reluctance was short-lived because of his political aspirations. In exchange for a commendation for providing exemplary interagency cooperation, the Commander acquiesced. He was more willing to oblige than he let on.
The four-ship armada left the Key West harbor at 0500 hours, heading to the search area. Specialized aircraft launched at 0700 hours. All searching for two missing vessels that had called mayday during the hurricane. Finding those two boats and their occupants were their first two priorities. Third on the list was finding the tiny, gray dinghy with a lone, white male, age thirty.
Progress reports came in regularly with no change until 1200 hours, when the thirty-foot cruiser had been located, the white painted bottom of the hull making it visible from the air. It had capsized seventy miles off the coast, two of its three crew members clinging to it. The third reportedly drowned.
The missing fifty-foot schooner had made it to a harbor near Naples under its own power, half of its sails shredded and flapping uselessly. Its location was radioed in at 1400 hours.
Only the twelve-foot rubber dinghy was still missing. There was no sign of it, though the search effort now focused exclusively on the hundred square mile grid surrounding its last verifiable location.
At 2100 hours Eastern Daylight Time, the Commanding Officer relayed to Crabtree the message from the officer in charge of the rescue effort that the entire grid had been searched and nothing was found. Their conclusion: the lone man could not have survived a Class Two hurricane in a twelve-foot dinghy. It was presumed that the boat had sunk, and since the man had no life preserver, that he had perished.
When Reggie Crabtree heard that message, he hung his head and let out a long sigh. He had been called into the Coast Guard CO’s office so he could deliver the news to Crabtree in person. Reggie knew the parents would be distraught, inconsolable. He knew he and the Bureau would be blamed. He knew he had not heard the last from Sarah Cook.
* * * *
La Jolla, CA
June 9
Emily had not heard from Collin since her arrival at the safe house. That was Wednesday evening. She had been driven to her office the next morning, which was awkward; had begun her preparations to advocate Sarah’s candidacy for inclusion in the clinical trial phase of the experimental new treatment; had been driven home to her freshly “sanitized” condominium after work; had spent a restless evening, first waiting for Collin to call, then trying to get through to him. She stayed busy at work on Friday, though she felt unproductive.
Saturday morning she awoke and went for a run, trying to push away the clustered and conflicted feelings that wrestled inside her. The run helped in that regard, but it didn’t last long. In the shower, the troubling thoughts returned. She tried him again on the secret phone when she was dressed. Again, no answer. She was half-annoyed, half-worried sick. Thoughts of Collin interfered with everything she did, all weekend long, whether she was doing errands, cleaning her condo, making dinner, or watching TV. She couldn’t stay busy enough to not think about him.
As Emily prepared for bed Sunday night, she was emotionally exhausted. She knew she had a long, crucial week ahead of her. She wanted to be fresh and energetic when she presented Sarah’s case on Monday, but with so much on her mind, she feared she would fail. Collin was taking up too much of her mental energy.
Ever since he showed up unexpectedly in Chicago, his face, his voice, even his smell, permeated the majority of her thoughts, her dreams. The lack of response, the absence of communication, was tearing at the fibers inside her tightly constructed sense of well-being. These feelings, like outliers on a plot graph of results, didn’t conform to her scientific life. She couldn’t explain them, nor could she summarily rule them out. Ignoring them wasn’t a solution; it only fueled more questions that begged to be answered.
She knew Genevieve was waiting outside and would follow her to the office in the morning. She knew Sarah would call her and ask if she had heard anything from or about Collin. She was not looking forward to either encounter.
Late Sunday evening, Emily poured hot water into her mug and watched it swallow the tea bag dangling over the edge. The tea, she hoped, would help her relax so she could sleep. She decided to do some research online to occupy her mind, hoping it would provide some answers to put her at ease.
During their conversation in Chicago, Collin had mentioned the FBI and their pursuit of him. He said he was one of their Most Wanted. Maybe there would be an update about Collin online. Why hadn’t she thought about that before, she wondered? She opened her laptop and went to the FBI website and typed his name in the search bar. A list of reports filled the screen. She scrolled down the page, reading the captions, stunned at the number of entries about her friend. The one at the top, the on
e she dismissed off-the-cuff because it seemed too unbelievable, was the one she went back to read more thoroughly. She clicked on the link to read the full write-up. It was brief and to the point.
Saturday, June 8, 21:53 EDT: Collin Cook, the fugitive wanted in connection with cyber attacks on RBS and many other European banks, eluded FBI agents and local police at two Florida roadblocks and escaped into the Gulf of Mexico in a twelve-foot rubber dinghy late afternoon on Friday, June 7, as Hurricane Abigail approached. Last known location approximately forty-five miles north-northwest of Key West, FL. Navy and Coast Guard personnel and equipment spent sixteen hours searching a hundred-square-mile area of ocean, where he was reported to have gone missing. Search crews and equipment in the water and air found no evidence of Cook or his vessel. He is presumed to have perished at sea. All search activity has been called off.
Emily read the report twice, disbelieving her eyes the first time. Collin was gone. Her mind went numb; her insides felt hollow. She began to weep. She couldn’t absorb the true meaning of the words. She was not prepared for it. A melancholy ache worked its way through her core as if a burning poison was being carried through her bloodstream, damaging everything it touched. Emily’s head dropped to her hands. Her shoulders heaved; her body shuddered.
Twenty minutes later, she pushed herself up from her kitchen table, walked to her bed, and collapsed.
Monday morning, her music alarm blared at six o’clock. Emily pounded the snooze button, wanting to shut out the world and wallow in her sorrow. Then the thought struck her and jolted her to a sitting position: Sarah depended on her. She had to advocate for her. She had to keep moving forward. She had promised Collin she would take care of his mother.
Emily forced herself to concentrate on getting Sarah’s case reviewed for acceptance into the clinical trial. Her presentation was stilted. Even though it was filled with compelling information and a passionate plea, she lost her train of thought twice during the fifteen-minute meeting.
As she left the conference room, it seemed that gravity was several times more powerful inside her chest cavity than anywhere else. She walked slowly toward her office. Mike Zimmerman caught her in the hallway. “What’s up with you, Emily? You feeling all right? You don’t seem your usual self.”
“Yeah, I’m just a bit off today. I’ve got a lot on my mind, but I’ll be OK.”
“Just go home. You won’t do much good here. Besides, you deserve a break.”
At her desk, Emily collected her things; each felt heavy and cumbersome. Her lab coat, her purse, her computer bag, even her phone. Walking through the building and across the parking lot felt like climbing a mountain. Her steps were labored. It required thought to push one foot forward, then the other.
Then it came. The moment she had been dreading since she read those FBI reports. She was almost to her car, key in hand. Her phone was buzzing. The caller ID said Sarah Cook. Her mouth went dry, and her stomach twisted like a pretzel, but she answered anyway.
“I don’t suppose you heard the news about Collin, did you?” asked Sarah.
“I actually read it online last night. I don’t know . . .” Emily couldn’t hold back the sob that burst out of her, though she tried to conceal it with a hand over her mouth.
Sarah jumped right in. “Listen to me, Emily. Don’t fret. There’s no need to cry. Collin is alive. I know it.” Her tone was resolute. But Emily thought she detected something different, something unusual. There was a strain, a rasp hidden under there as if she had been crying.
Despite that fact, Sarah’s message was so strong that it staunched the flow of Emily’s emotions like a flood gate in a canal. She cleared her throat. “How can you say that with such conviction?”
“I just know. My mother’s instinct tells me he’s alive.”
“You’ve seen the reports, haven’t you?”
“Yes, and I received a special phone call from Agent Crabtree. He went to Florida and saw Collin get away on a small rubber boat. He chased him for hours, he said. At one point, Agent Crabtree said he thought he and his partner might die, the storm was so powerful. He told me there is no way Collin could have survived a hurricane in that boat. But you know what? I don’t care what he says or what the Coast Guard report says. My son is alive.”
Emily wrestled with her thoughts, not sure what to say. The scientist in her looked at the evidence and followed logic to a justifiable and reasonable conclusion. One hundred mile an hour winds, twelve-foot waves, and driving rain. Odds were against survival. But her feminine intuition latched onto Sarah’s steadfast pronouncement. “Maybe there’s a slim chance, Sarah. Maybe.” She stopped as if to put words to a new thought. “If anyone has the pluck and fortitude to make it through something like that, it’s Collin.”
“That’s more like it. I need you to stay strong, Emily. You must believe and pray for him. He’s still in danger, but he can make it through. I believe that like I believe I’m talking to you.”
“Wow, Sarah. I don’t know how you stay so strong.”
“It’s not easy, but when you learn to close your eyes and let your feelings guide you, you find that what can be trumps what the world says should be.”
Chapter Thirty
Gulf of Mexico, North of Dry Tortugas National Park
June 7
Billowy, white clouds dotted the sky. The turquoise ocean spread out in all directions like a shimmering field of diamonds as the crests in the water reflected the sunlight. A gentle breeze stirred the thick, heavy air. With the sun beating down on him, he was covered in sweat and felt like he was slowly roasting. Collin had trouble believing that only hours earlier he was in stage one hypothermia, shivering uncontrollably, praying that he would live to see the sun again. Now its glare was blinding him, the heat suffocating.
He had been racing along in the dinghy on a southwesterly course heading toward Tortugas, which was seventy miles west of Key West. He knew nothing about what was there but figured to find food, water, and gasoline, if nothing else. Beyond that, he hoped there might be transportation back to the mainland, although the thought of going back into the United States was unsettling. He was a wanted man there, and if someone recognized him, it could spell the end of his freedom.
The engine had shut off, having run out of fuel. He refilled the tank with the last of the gas Captain Sewell’s crew had loaded on the dinghy for him. The five-gallon plastic container was now empty. The GPS showed eight miles to go to reach his destination, so his confidence was high.
To gain some relief from the blistering heat of the late afternoon, Collin scooped seawater with the white bucket he had used for bailing during the storm. He poured it over his head, soaking his hair and shirt. Though the water was quite warm, it felt refreshing to wash away the sweat.
Collin was so preoccupied with the gas and the bucket shower that he didn’t notice the large motor yacht bearing down on him. It approached at a healthy clip, but Collin didn’t see or hear it until it was just a stone’s throw away. Although there were people on the fly bridge, one of which sat behind the wheel in the pilot’s chair, no one seemed to be watching where they were going. The four of them were laughing and talking and sipping bottles of beer. Collin scrambled to start the engine and maneuver the dinghy out of the way in order to avoid being run over. About the time he started moving, the pilot of the larger boat noticed him, cut the power to the yacht’s engines, and steered to the right to avoid Collin’s dinghy. He was flapping his arms and shouting something. Collin thought he was angry. The man hurried down the ladder from the fly bridge to the back deck and hailed Collin toward them. Collin swung around in a loop and approached the stern as the yacht drifted to a stop. Both boats were bobbing gently in the wake the yacht had created.
Collin estimated the yacht to be somewhat shorter than the Admiral Risty, which would make it maybe fifty feet long. It was wider and very plush, much like Rob Howell’s boat.
“Hey, what are you doing way out here in a dinghy?” ca
lled the man, sounding more confused than angry. He now stood leaning over the gunwale with his hands cupped over his mouth. Collin detected a Southern accent.
“I’m heading for Tortugas.”
“Alone?”
“Yes. I got separated from the mother ship during the storm.”
“Are you OK?”
“Yeah, I’m fine.” The dinghy had drifted close enough for the two to talk instead of having to shout.
“Is your mother ship meeting you in Tortugas, or what is your plan there?” The pilot was joined on the deck by another man and two women, who listened intently. They all looked to be in their fifties, dressed casually, well-tanned, and relaxed. None of them seemed to have a concern in the world before they saw Collin. The women looked at him with worried expressions.
“I was hoping to get some gas and food and maybe a ride to the mainland.”
“You won’t find any of that there. There are no services. It’s just a National Park with a ranger and some tour guides. You’ll learn a lot about the history of the island, but you’ll still be hungry.”
“No gas there, either?”
“Nothing except a gift shop. And with the storm, I doubt they’ve reopened yet. It’s probably all shut down.” One of the women stepped close and whispered in the man’s ear. He nodded as if her idea had never crossed his mind. “You hungry? We’ve got plenty of food. My wife here is worried about you, kid.”
“I’ve got some food and water. I’m all right.”
The woman stepped closer and said, “Why don’t you come on board with us and get yourself something to eat? You’re a long ways away from anything, and I can’t believe you have enough food on that tiny boat.”
The man added, “You got enough gas to get you to the mainland?”