Off Course (4 page)

The driver grunted as he held his phone up to read the message that buzzed in. The passenger looked to him in anticipation, so the driver shared. “I told the boss about the FBI being here. I told him we put the camera in place. Listen to his response: ‘We cannot allow the unexpected arrival of the FBI to hinder our efforts. We must find a way to succeed in our mission and stick to the schedule. There is no giving up. There is no settling for less.’”

The passenger clinched his jaw, cracked his knuckles, and nodded.

Western Caribbean Sea, 75 miles south of Grand Cayman Island

June 14, 10:25 a.m. Caribbean Time

Waves of pain radiated through his skull, inward and outward from both sides. He tried, but could not open his eyes. He slipped back into darkness, where he saw his beautiful wife, Amy, tied to a chair, arms behind her back. The chair slid toward him, then slid back across a smooth, polished floor. The room was dark, but her figure was illuminated no matter where she was. As she approached the second time, Collin struggled to reach out to her, but his arms wouldn’t move. They were pinned to his sides. Then she began to slide away from him again.

After several repetitions of this frustrating scenario, Collin was awakened by a sudden pain on his cheek and the loud slapping sound that accompanied it. With his return to consciousness came the frightful realization that he was still alive and Amy and his children were not. Her image and the sense of helplessness that accompanied such visions continued to shroud his fragile mind, even eleven months after the accident.

Collin had been awakened and slapped several times throughout the night. He had lost count and had lost track of time. It was as if he was trudging through a haze, searching for Amy and every time he found her, he got hit in the face and jarred back to reality. Only, it didn’t seem real. Was it all a dream? He was confronted repeatedly by the same Asian man who spoke harsh words he could not comprehend.

Light filtered into his half-open eyes. The pain in his head kept rising and falling, rising and falling; intensifying, then dissipating. Someone was squeezing his face―hard. It really hurt. Then cold water hit him and he sputtered and struggled for air.
I must be drowning.
No, it’s gone. I can breathe
.

A few blinks later he remembered everything―where he was, how he got there, and the sudden assault. Collin started putting together the pieces. The same Asian man with the flowery button up shirt, the one who had attacked him, stood over him and slapped him again and barked something he could not understand. Perhaps it was English; he couldn’t be certain. He realized he was on the lower bunk. Behind its wall, his most valuable belongings were hidden in a smuggler’s compartment. His hands were tied behind his back with something sharp and stiff. Must be plastic bands of some sort. His wrists burned and bled from his mid-sleep thrashing. The boat was rocking side to side and waves slapped against the hull in a familiar and comforting rhythm which lulled him back toward the hazy dream state.

When his body was jerked into a sitting position and a fist connected with his lips, the haze disappeared. Hot, salty blood and a coppery taste filled his mouth and more guttural barking filled his ears. It was apparent now that another man had joined them below deck so that one could prop him up while the other one punched. Collin knew the man wanted something because he kept shouting and staring at him and hitting him. He was demanding something, but what? What did he want? And why wouldn’t he stop punching and shouting?

The boat continued to sway and the pain in his head multiplied and spread to his gut. A chill ran the length of his body, turning his skin cold and clammy. Everything was spinning, so he closed his eyes. That didn’t help. Everything went white and his stomach revolted. Without warning, he lurched. A warm stream of vomit shot out and landed on the flowery shirt as a fist approached.

Though he could not understand the man’s words, Collin was sure it was profanity, unleashed in a torrent of anger. Collin coughed and gagged, bent over at the waist. He continued to heave, but his handler pulled on his hair and shoulder to straighten him up. Then several one-two combinations landed on his cheeks, eye sockets, mouth, and head before everything went dark again.

  *              *              *              *

Huntington Beach, California

June 14, 8:27 a.m. Pacific Time

Sarah Cook braced herself against the light marble countertop in her bathroom’s vanity area to avoid collapsing. Her legs shook. Her whole body quivered. There was so little strength left in her she wondered how she could manage the stairs alone. The aggressive, experimental treatments Emily and the Scripps team had given her had leached every ounce energy out of her. This was a targeted cancer-fighting therapy that was supposed to reduce the symptoms typically associated with chemotherapy, which made Sarah wonder how anyone ever survived chemo.

She thought briefly about the alternative and decided life, even with the queasiness and pain, was still worth living. Her family made it so. Besides, Collin was still out there somewhere and still needed his mother. She couldn’t give up until he was home.

The familiar sound of the door downstairs slamming shut echoed through the house. Henry had re-entered the house from the garage and its spring-loaded hinge created the unmistakable “phht” sound that signaled her husband’s return. Before he reached the top of the stairs, Sarah tried to stand on her own so as not to worry him. She pushed back from the counter and mustered all of her strength to straighten up and hold her head high. The image staring back at her was a much older woman than just a few months ago. Her reflection startled her.

It had been nearly a year since she lost her beloved daughter-in-law, Amy, and the three precious grandchildren she and Collin had provided. But she had lost even more than that, including Collin―not permanently, she hoped―and several pounds. Without her son, his family, and her health, her life had become akin to a roller coaster ride.

She would be no use to anyone if she wallowed in self-pity, so she stopped and counted her blessings, which included Henry, her other two children, and her two grandchildren, her home, her rekindled friendship with Emily, and her admittance into the trial program which promised to extend her life. Yes, she convinced herself, it was a blessing to be alive still.

Ever since that catastrophic day last July, her youngest child’s life seemed to be careening out of control. Losing his family had changed everything―and not just for him. She knew he needed his mother. His problems were foreign to her, but a mother’s love is a powerful thing and she knew he needed it more now, after the tragedy, than ever before.

Sarah primped her hair one last time as Henry entered the room. “How do I look?” she said into the mirror.

“Gorgeous as ever and ready to conquer.” Henry always knew what to say to make her feel like a million bucks.

Sarah smiled and opened her arms to embrace her knight. Henry held her tight and kissed her forehead. She knew he could feel her trembling, but wouldn’t say anything for fear of deflating her.

“Your chariot awaits you downstairs, my lady. Your purse, water bottle, and a sweater are all in the car, too. Shall we?” He held her around the waist and stayed by her side down the sweeping stairway, across the marble foyer, past the den in the hallway that connected the family room and kitchen to the garage. Henry escorted her through the garage to the car in the driveway. He didn’t let go until she was comfortably seated in the soft leather passenger’s seat of his Cadillac STS. As usual, Henry had everything prepared ahead of time, including having punched the address of the treatment center into the GPS. The screen said the estimated time of arrival was 9:41. Her appointment was at ten o’clock. Henry was always punctual and anticipated potential delays. She was blessed to have such a diligent, caring man to share her life. He managed the details so well and provided so much strength and comfort. It seemed he never wearied, never tired from the additional strain. No, Henry was as steady as ever, the rock of the family. A tear formed as she contemplated her situation and the extra burden it had placed on Henry.

Henry grinned at her as he slid into the driver’s seat, then leaned across and reached for her seatbelt―a trick he’d started years earlier. It put his face directly in front of hers. She smiled as he kissed her softly.

As he backed out of the driveway, Henry asked, “Have you heard from Emily today? Will she be there?”

“She texted me and said that she would try to make it, but that there was something she had to do first.”

“Didn’t say what it was?”

“No and I didn’t ask. Why?”

Henry paused as if he was contemplating some deep mystery. “Because I got a call from Agent Crabtree this morning. It came in around 5:45. Sounded like he was in the car. He asked me if we had had any contact with Emily since the storm.”

“5:45? That’s awfully early. What’s the urgency, I wonder?” said Sarah, concern spreading across her face. “That was over a week ago, why is he asking about it now?”

“He didn’t explain that part. Just said he needed to gather as much information as he could about Collin’s last hours. He wondered if the two of them had talked before he headed out to sea, and if so, when,” said Henry.

“What did you tell him?”

“I told him you and she had talked on the phone several times as she arranged for you to participate in this clinical trial. I told him that she seemed emotionally distant now, but still involved in a medical sense.”

“That’s an honest answer now, isn’t it dear?” said Sarah. “She has not broached the subject of Collin with me since those first few days and I haven’t pushed it. I figure she’ll talk when she’s ready. We all have our own ways of handling these things, don’t we?”

“That’s good to hear. I don’t want him to find out otherwise, then think I was lying to him,” said Henry.

“Do you think something’s wrong, Henry?”

“I don’t know what to think. It’s just unusual, isn’t it, for him to bring her into the conversation when we never mentioned anything about her to him or anyone at the FBI as far as I can remember.”

Sarah thought for a moment. “No, I think you’re right. I don’t remember ever saying anything to him or McCoy about Emily.”

They rode in silence for several long minutes until they reached the onramp to the 405 Freeway and began heading south. “How would they know about her?” asked Sarah.

Henry shrugged. “It’s the government. They get paid to know all about us and when there’s an investigation, especially with suspicions of terrorism, there’s no end to their justifications for invading our privacy.” Though spoken softly and evenly, this was an unusual editorial comment for Henry. He rarely spoke ill of anyone, let alone his own government. To Sarah, it signaled Henry’s deepening concern for their son’s perilous predicament and for her health, especially for him to bring up a sensitive subject when she was so frail.

“What are you saying, Henry?”

The creases in his forehead tightened. One of his large hands rubbed across his mouth and chin as he let out a long breath. “They know Collin is alive and they’re still after him. That’s the only reason he would call and fish for information like that. If they really believed he had drowned in the Caribbean during the storm, they wouldn’t care about Emily and they would leave us alone to grieve.”

“And they think Emily can help them somehow,” Sarah interjected. “I wonder if she’s had contact with Collin since the storm. I hope so. It would be so nice to hear some news from him.”

“They’re still after him, hunting him like an animal. I wish there was something I could do.” Henry’s voice had grown indignant, but it trailed off. He stopped short, then turned to her and smiled a tight-lipped smile. There were more thoughts in that wonderfully brilliant mind of his than he would share. She knew he didn’t want to worry her, so the rest of his concerns he would mute for her sake. “I trust Collin will find his way through this mess, eventually. He’s a bright kid and has proven to be very resourceful. I just wish I could help.”

Henry thumped the steering wheel with his thumb, then gripped it tightly. He turned to Sarah with a forced smile and added, “Everything’s going to work out, dear. Don’t you worry about it. Everything’s going to be alright.” He reached over and squeezed her hand. Sarah squeezed back and tried a smile of her own.

A normal conversation was out of the question now. Plus, her strength was fading, so Sarah leaned her seat back and closed her eyes for the rest of the hour-long trip.

Western Caribbean Sea, 76 miles south of Grand Cayman Island

June 14, 10:31 a.m. Caribbean Time

The humor of fresh vomit dripping down a $400 silk Tommy Bahama shirt worn by an angry assailant cursing Collin in his native Asian language was mostly lost in the situation, but Collin couldn’t help himself. As irate shouts echoed like drums inside his throbbing head, a smile turned his swollen and bloodied mouth upward, even in his semi-conscious state. The smile disappeared and his cognizance clicked into gear when something sharp nicked the soft tissue under his chin. A warm trickle ran its course down his neck to his chest. The draft swirling through the cabin became especially noticeable on the torn flesh.

“Ah, you think this is funny? A game, perhaps?” the angry man growled.

Through his puffed-up and tender eyelids, Collin could make out a face, an Asian face, directly in front of him. So close, all he could see were the eyes―enraged to the point where he thought they might catch fire―and the nose, flattened but flaring erratically. Collin became aware that his handler, sitting at his left, simultaneously gripped his throat and pulled a wad of the hair atop his head so tightly he thought it might detach from his scalp. So many synapses were firing he couldn’t possibly process all of the pain at once. Each new stimulus took a protracted length of time to register. Even then, there was a distance between his body and the pain.

“This is no game, Mr. Cook. This is serious business. You have our money. Lots of it. We want it back. It’s ours, not yours. Do you understand me?”

Collin surveyed the cramped quarters below deck. While he was out cold, the place had been ransacked. Nothing was in its rightful place. Everything had been overturned, ripped apart, slashed, or broken. The few articles of clothing he carried, two sets of false teeth, three boxes of assorted hair dye, contact lens cases, and sundry toiletries had been pulled out from his backpack and spread across the wooden floor. Even the door to the microwave lay cracked near his feet. These were angry men, he concluded. His eyes closed involuntarily and he felt himself slumping down until a stiff whack to his back and a tug of his hair straightened him up again.

Collin wished he could disappear. In that moment, more than at any time before, he wanted his boring old life back. He wanted to be home with Amy and his kids, destitute but happy. He wanted to go to work each morning and labor at the job he used to hate until it was time to come home and play with his kids and watch Amy’s favorite sitcoms while snuggling on the couch. He’d give anything at this point to have that dull but fulfilling life again.

All this violence and terror and pain―he just wanted it to go away. He thrashed with his elbows; twisting fiercely he connected once with his captor. His captor’s reaction reminded him of the desperate reality he faced: his destiny was no longer his own. The man wrenched him backward by the hair and while the one with the vomit on his shirt slapped his face viciously as he cursed at Collin.

Collin sat teetering on the edge of the bed as the boat pitched up and down through the rolling sea. His mind attempted to carry him somewhere else to escape, but these angry men continued to batter his aching body. With his eyes still closed, he sensed someone drawing near, very near, but try as he might, Collin could not force his eyelids open.

The pungent smell of puke wafted to his nose, carried the short distance from the flowered shirt by a breeze entering through the stairwell a few paces to his right. A fresh wave of nausea gurgled from his belly. This time, the man heeded the warning signs and deftly backed away as Collin heaved the last of his stomach’s contents onto his own lap. The stench itself caused him to gag and choke repeatedly.

Before he could recover, a new assault began. A backhand across the cheek followed by a kick in the chest followed by spit hurled in his face. The ribs he had cracked last week when he fell asleep at the wheel and crashed during his escape from Chicago hadn’t yet healed. He groaned as a fresh wave of searing pain spread through his torso and doubled him over. Without warning, the man at his side pulled him up, wrenching all the air out of his lungs. Collin couldn’t breathe, but neither of these men seemed too concerned about that.

“Tell me now where it is and this will all stop.” The words were spoken slowly as the stinky man with the vomit shirt tried to pronounce the words properly.

Collin was slow to process the question and utter a reply. While he waited for the pain to subside enough to inhale, another backhand slapped his bruised cheek and mouth. More blood ran down his chin, meeting up with the previous streamlet. “I don’t know. What are you talking about?” Another slap.

“Where are the codes, the account numbers?”

Collin stared blankly. “For what?”

“For your secret bank accounts. Remember? Where you hid our money? You have $30 million of our money. You give it back, or your friends will die.”

Collin, still slow on the uptake, struggled to formulate an appropriate reply. His mind went first to Rob Howell, his best friend and next-door neighbor since first grade. Next, the image of Emily, his former high school sweetheart, flashed behind his eyes. Then he thought of Lukas, the one who was dead as far as the rest of the world knew. Things started to click, somewhat. “What friends?” he mumbled. “My friends think I’m dead.”

“These friends,” said Stinky, waving a hand toward the deck above.

It took him a moment to comprehend and formulate a response while the man glared at him. “The Captain and crew?”

“Yes, of course. These are your friends, no?”

Collin remained silent for another long moment while his mind began to churn and come to life, despite the urgency of his inquisitor. He guessed these soldiers of Penh’s knew nothing about sailing and needed the crew to get anywhere. “You want to hurt them?” asked Collin. He paused as he stitched more thoughts together. “
You
going to pilot this boat while your buddies, Larry, Moe, and Curly here, run the lines and riggings, hoist the sails, and tack at
your
expert command? You know how to navigate? Read the instruments? Set a bearing? When and how to jib or gybe? Do your guys even know the difference between the bow and the stern? Starboard and port?”

Another slap across his face, harder than before. The blood flowed faster from the corner of his mouth and down his neck.

“Silence!” Stinky, in all his flowered-shirt glory, smelling like barf, panted like a tiger ready to pounce. He used the long-bladed knife, the one with Collin’s blood dripping off it, like a pointer aimed first at Collin’s right eyeball, just inches away. This was especially unnerving due to the rocking of the boat and the man’s lack of “sea legs.” Then he waved the knife and directed the man holding Collin’s hair toward the hatch and up to the deck. Collin’s body slumped, but he forced himself to remain upright. A moment later, a new man, one he hadn’t seen before, returned with Tog and Miguel at gunpoint, their hands behind their heads.

Tog and Miguel wore steely, defiant looks on their faces as the Asian man with the gun pushed them forward into the cabin.

As the procession rolled in, Collin sized up his captors. If he was right, these guys were nothing more than hired helped. Penh had thus proved the length of his reach and the depth of his resolve. These goons were mercenaries, not sailors. Thugs with guns, not masterminds with plans. They had one mission and one mission only. Until he could think his way out of this predicament, Collin knew he had to play along and wait for his opportunity. It would come, but he had to be patient.

Stinky leaned in close again. “I ask you one last time. Where are the codes?” The man with the gun lifted the muzzle and aimed it at Tog’s temple. Tog, a short, but wiry man, was quiet but proud; tough, uncompromising, and unafraid. He made eye contact with Collin and gave an almost imperceptible headshake. Collin understood him. Tog didn’t want to budge an inch. Not for this guy; not for anyone.

“What? You think I’m smart enough to memorize them? Sorry, but I’m not that smart. They’re on my laptop, but I’m not stupid enough to keep that with me.” Collin spat the words out as convincingly as he could. He moved his head and eyes in a circular fashion toward the littered floor of the cabin. “Looks like you already tried to find my computer, but couldn’t. That’s because I don’t have it.”

Stinky glared at him, jowls quivering, nostrils flaring like a bull. Two more punches, a right-left combo that sent Collin backward against the bulkhead. The hollow bulkhead into which he had crammed his five foot ten inch body to hide from the Coast Guard a month ago. The same bulkhead where his laptop was now hidden. He wished he, too, was hiding in there now, even with his claustrophobia, where this brute couldn’t touch him.

Stinky sprang forward, grabbed the front of Collin’s faded T-shirt, tearing it as he yanked him forward to an upright position.

Everything was spinning, but he had to answer. Forcing back another wave of sickness, Collin came up with a plausible tale. “I left the computer in Chicago. In a safe deposit box downtown. It has all the codes.”

“You lie!”

Collin straightened himself as best he could, forced his bruised eyes open as far as they would go, set his jaw, and angrily protested. “Why would I lie to you? What have I got to gain? These are my friends. The only friends I have left in the world. Why would I put them in danger?” His emotions were true, even if the part about the location of the computer was not. He pushed aside the thought that the computer was stowed in the hidden compartment two feet behind him.

Stinky, still glaring, held up a hand and mumbled something to the other guard.  The man with the green shirt lowered the muzzle of the Uzi and pulled a hand gun from his waistband. Taking a step back, the man pointed at Tog’s head. Stinky looked at Collin and said, “This man’s life depends on you.”

But there was something else going on. Collin noticed it before, but it hadn’t dawned on him until now. His abuser was beginning to look pale. He staggered slightly with the constant movement of the boat as it bounced through the waves. His eyes were swimming and less focused. Stinky was getting seasick.

The boat continued to rock and sway. Stinky’s balance continued to diminish. Collin hoped to prolong the standoff long enough to formulate some sort of rescue plan.

“What will it be, Mr. Cook? The codes or your friend’s life?”

Collin assessed Stinky’s resolve and said, “We need him. We
all
need him to sail this ship.”

“Do you want him to live, Mr. Cook?”

“Yes. We all need him to live. He’s an important part of the ship’s crew,” said Collin, his voice straining under the pressure of the escalating situation.

“Then give me the codes.”

“I told you, I can’t. I don’t have them.”

“Very well, Mr. Cook. You leave me no other choice.”

Stinky’s seasickness did not reduce his meanness. The hand he held up dropped to the outstretched position and his fingers formed the shape of a gun. When his thumb came to rest atop his forefinger, a loud bang shattered the air inside the cabin.

*              *              *              *

La Jolla, California

June 14, 7:33 a.m. Pacific Time

Emily checked her watch again. She was behind schedule, but this did not seem to bother Agents Crabtree and McCoy. They sat on her ultra-modern, stainless-steel-legged, black leather couch, taking notes. She sat across from them, an odd-shaped glass coffee table between them. The interrogation seemed to spin in circles and Emily was growing agitated.

“Dr. Burns,” Crabtree said, tapping his pen on his notepad. “Tell us again how you knew this Genevieve person would meet you in Chicago and escort you here to San Diego.”

“I told you. He called me,” she replied, checking her watch again. “He told me exactly what to do and how he had planned for my escape. He said he would do his best to protect me from the people that were after him, even if he couldn’t be there to do it himself.”

“Dr. Burns, don’t you think we checked your phone records before we came here? Do you think we would drive through the night from San Francisco to ask you questions that we knew the answers to?”

“I’m still trying to figure out why any of this matters, Agent Crabtree, when no one has officially admitted Collin’s alive, nor provided any proof to confirm it. It seems we’re wasting our time talking about someone who is presumed dead.”

“It matters to our national security, that’s why,” said Crabtree. “Whether Collin is alive or dead is beside the point. We need to establish a trail, a timeline. We have to establish his connection to this Asian syndicate and map out where he went and who he might have met with. It seems he had some sort of meeting with these guys either in Chicago or after he left there. It’s important to piece together all of the clues in order to complete the puzzle and locate the bad guys so we can bring them to justice before they bring the whole US economy to a grinding halt.”

Spinner McCoy took up the questioning. “Ms. Burns, we’ve researched every number on your call log while you were in Chicago. We’ve identified every caller and the origin of every text you received in that time period.”

“Now that’s just creepy,” huffed Emily. “That’s an invasion of my privacy.”