Off Kilter

by Glen Robins

  Collin shrugged. “I don’t know. It depends. I was planning on refueling in Tortugas. Not sure I can make it back to Key West.”

  “Well, come tie up, and let’s get you taken care of,” the pilot said with a beckoning gesture, waving his arm toward the yacht. “You’re going to need some food, and we got plenty.”

  Collin started the little engine and maneuvered close enough to throw his bow rope to the second man, who pulled him alongside the yacht. The name beautifully painted on the stern wall in a flowing script was Ain’t Life Grand. He was welcomed aboard with words, like “You poor dear” from the women and “I’ll be damned” from the men.

  After greeting Collin, the two women slipped inside the cabin while the men peppered Collin with questions about how he got there, what he was doing, and what his plans were. At first, Collin wasn’t sure how to answer them. The questions came in rapid-fire succession, giving him no time to answer before another one was launched from the other inquisitor.

  The men seemed less interested in his answers and more interested in asking more questions. Before Collin had a chance to talk, the two were telling their story about waiting out the hurricane in Key Largo. “It was scary, man. The winds were horrific,” said the second man.

  “Yeah, I was afraid we were going to be stuck there for days,” said the first man, the owner of the boat. “But, as soon as the storm passed, we were out of there at first light. I don’t like being behind schedule, you know.”

  When the women returned with a large, well-appointed sandwich, stuffed with meat, cheese, tomato, and lettuce, on a plate with a pile of potato chips and a soda poured over ice in a tall glass, the owner’s wife asked, “Where ya’ll headed?”

  “I don’t know at this point. The boat I was going to work on sails out of George Town on Grand Cayman. I suppose I’ll try to work my way over there and see if I can join up with them.”

  The owner and his wife exchanged a glance. Both smiled. “You’re in luck, pal,” said the owner. “That’s our next stop. We do this every few years. We start from our home port in Beaufort, South Carolina—that’s where we live—and spend most of the summer making our way to Cancun. We do some fishing and some scuba diving along the way, you know. I have to keep this baby out of the country once every four years for tax purposes. Otherwise the government says I can’t call this a second home and can’t write off my expenses. We love Grand Cayman. Beautiful diving there, son. You a scuba diver?”

  “I am, actually. Love it,” replied Collin.

  “Good. We’ll take you there. You can join us on a dive or two if you’ve got time.”

  “I’d like that.”

  The owner pointed to the fly bridge and started climbing. “We’d better get underway. Join us up top. Let’s hear your story.” Turning to the second man, he said, “Hey Frank, why don’t you tie that dinghy to one of our long stern ropes? We’ll tow it beyond the wake.”

  Once the dinghy was secured, the yacht began to plow westward again. The remaining four climbed up the ladder and found seats on the fly bridge. They positioned Collin in the copilot’s chair so he could be heard.

  Collin took a bite and started to chew as he listened to all the questions. Upon reflection, he realized he was ravenously hungry. He nodded and said, “Thank you so much. This is delicious.” Then he started answering questions between bites, sharing a believable story that was mostly true. He left out the parts about being pursued by the FBI, explaining instead that he was supposed to work onboard the sailboat but couldn’t catch them in his dinghy as they raced to outrun the storm. He said he lost sight of them and, with the wind, couldn’t communicate on the radio, so he began to turn back to shore when he realized his mistake. He told his harrowing story of surviving the storm in the dinghy and finding his way to the tiny spit of land as the hurricane approached. His small audience was mesmerized and awestruck.

  When he had finished answering their questions and telling his story, Collin marveled at the way things were working out. If he had a doubt about being watched over, it was dismissed by the arrival of his new-found friends from Beaufort.

  * * * *

  Huntington Beach, CA

  June 13

  The doorbell rang at nine thirty that Thursday morning. Sarah was lying on her bed with her robe on, wrapped in the decorative blanket that usually adorned her reading chair. “Coming,” she called. With her strength drained by another round of chemotherapy, the words were so faint they barely made it past the end of the bed, let alone all the way down to the front door.

  Henry popped his head in the doorway. “Don’t worry, dear, I’ll get it.”

  She closed her eyes and whispered, “Thank you.”

  Henry returned with a FedEx envelope in his hands. He was already tearing it open as he sat on the edge of the bed next to Sarah. Her eyes fluttered open. “What is it?” she asked.

  “There’s a note in here, nothing else,” he said. Unfolding the single sheet of plain white paper, he read it aloud:

  Dear Mr. and Mrs. C.,

  Please meet me at The Californian Restaurant in the Hyatt Regency at noon for lunch. Thanks, and I look forward to seeing you both there.

  Rob Howell

  Henry stared at the paper for a long second. “I wonder what this is all about,” he said. He reached over and clasped Sarah’s hand and tried to read her expression.

  “I can only imagine that it’s about Collin. Why else would he send a FedEx package?”

  “You’re probably right. If you’re not up to it, dear, I’ll go alone.”

  “No, no. I’ll be fine. That will give me plenty of time to get myself looking presentable.”

  Designed to look like an old, Spanish colonial villa, the Hyatt Regency Huntington Beach exuded style and comfort. Its thick, white walls, accented with dark stained, beveled timbers and red tile roof, paid homage to the first European settlers in the region. Henry and Sarah surveyed the richly appointed, elegantly furnished interior as they walked through the hotel lobby, trying to get their bearings. The floor was covered with large, square tiles of varying shades of red and orange. Exposed wooden timbers ran along the ceilings and supporting walls. An open hearth with a fire burning divided the lobby into two lounge areas furnished with brown leather couches and chairs. As they gawked, a bellhop approached and pointed them toward the restaurant.

  Rob appeared out of nowhere and greeted Henry and Sarah shortly after they walked through the arched doorway of the restaurant, his eyes scanning in all directions. “Please come, sit down. I have a table for us on the patio. I hope that will be all right.”

  Neither Henry nor Sarah knew what to say. Henry was worried about Sarah, who was conserving her strength. She smiled wanly at Rob as she gripped his hand between the two of hers. “It’s so good to see you, Robert. You look so handsome.”

  Rob leaned down and kissed her on the cheek. “Good to see you, too, Mrs. C.”

  Rob had that movie star look about him. Casual, yet tasteful. An open-collared, light blue button up shirt under a dark blue, linen blazer. His hand woven leather Chubasco sandals, earth tone cotton slacks, and two-days’ stubble completed the outfit. More than one set of admiring, female eyes watched as they passed between tables to the patio.

  Rob double checked their surroundings before he sat down. Their table was under a slat-roofed, private gazebo. Not another table or chair within twenty feet. He pulled out one of the wooden chairs, topped with a burgundy cushion, for Sarah and scooted it in as she sat.

  Sarah beamed at him, full of pride. “You were always such a gentleman.”

  Nodding to Henry as he folded himself into his seat, he said, “I learned from the best.” With only a slight pause, Rob continued, “I’m sure you’re curious as to why I invited you here, especially given the manner in which the invitation was sent.” He checked both of their faces to confirm their amused confusion. “I’ve been sent here by Collin. He wants you to know that he is safe and doing well. I can’t give yo
u the details, but he is being sheltered and fed by some good friends in a safe location.” He paused as the message sunk in. The Cooks were silent, stealing glances at each other, a sort of reassurance spreading between them. “Problem is,” Rob continued, “he can’t come home yet. That would put you in danger. As you’ve no doubt seen or heard, he is—or was—a wanted man. The FBI has been trying to put him in prison for crimes he did not commit, and Collin is trying to draw out the guy who framed him so he can put an end to not only his nightmare, but the nightmares this sleazebag plans to inflict upon others. Collin’s a brave and determined man. He wants justice served and his name cleared, and he won’t stop until that happens.”

  Sarah was silent, dabbing at the tears in her eyes with a tissue.

  Henry reached for his wife’s hand, gave it a squeeze, and said, “How is he going to catch the bad guy and clear his name?”

  “Let me just say he has some very capable people, who are very well connected with the upper echelons of law enforcement, helping him.”

  “Then why is the FBI hunting him?”

  “That is part of the ruse. To draw out this criminal, he has to play this cat and mouse game with the FBI and Interpol. Otherwise, the guy would be suspicious and would never come out of hiding.”

  “It seems Collin’s been placed in a very dangerous situation,” Henry said.

  “Yes, he has, Mr. C. By no fault of his own, he got mixed up with an offshore insurance company headed by an anti-west economic terrorist.”

  Henry and Sarah looked at each other. Sarah’s face shone with righteous indignation. “What are Collin’s chances against this terrorist?”

  “Collin has proven himself to be quite deft at eluding him and his group so far. He’s got an incredibly brilliant sponsor within the US government’s anti-terrorism task force and he’s got the resources he needs to live underground for as long as it takes. Besides that, he’s really mad now and refuses to let this guy win.”

  “I don’t know that any of what you just told us brings me much comfort, but at least I know he’s still the same person he always was, even after the tragedy.”

  Rob let out a short, amused burst. “You can say that again. Now that it’s become personal, Collin is out to win and won’t stop until he does.”

  “How are you involved in this, Rob? You’re not working for the government, are you?” Henry asked.

  “No. I’m involved because Collin’s my friend, and I want to help him. I also have a connection to that brilliant guy I mentioned who wants to keep him safe.”

  “Have you seen him? Or talked to him?”

  His hands were folded across the table in front of him. He leaned forward and spoke just above a whisper. “Not directly, but my friend has. I’ve told you this so that you know he’s alive and safe, but you can’t tell anyone, not even those two FBI agents you’ve spoken to. That would expose my friend and blow the whole operation, making it impossible for me to communicate with you in the future. You have to assume that your phones have been tapped and that your e-mails are being read. In fact, it would be safe to assume that all of your online activities are being watched.”

  “Why? Don’t they think he’s dead?” asked Sarah, her brow furrowed and her face contorted.

  “That’s what they published online. It’s an easier explanation. But, since they have no confirmation, they will watch and wait. They believe, since Collin is such a family man, that if he’s alive, he will, at some point, return home or make contact with you. They’re waiting for him to make a mistake and get caught.”

  “Oh, dear,” gasped Sarah. “That’s unconscionable.”

  “With the misinformation they are going on, it stands to reason. They think he’s complicit in a number of cyber crimes that crippled several international banks and embarrassed government agencies.”

  “That couldn’t be,” said Sarah.

  “You and I know that, but they have nothing else to go on except for the contrived evidence this man has left online, which implicates Collin.”

  “But can’t they sort out what information is false and what is not?” asked Sarah.

  “Not without more evidence. As I said, Collin is being helped by some very knowledgeable people in high places. These guys will help exonerate him when this is all over.”

  “That’s good to hear, but what can we do?” asked Henry.

  “Your job is to just be yourselves. Don’t change what you’re doing; just be mindful that they’re watching you, and be careful not to divulge anything about this conversation. If reporters come asking for a story, point them my way. I’ll handle media relations for the family again, like I did before.”

  Henry and Sarah looked at each other again. Henry nodded and said, “Thank you, Rob. This means so much to us.”

  A handsome, young waiter arrived to take their orders. Rob sat back and, from that point forward, steered the conversation to other topics.

  * * * *

  George Town, Grand Cayman Island

  June 14

  Captain Sewell barked out orders, and the crew lazily responded. Every sail, every line, every pulley, and every boom had to be inspected, tested, and made ready. Every surface had to be cleaned and polished. Every detail had to be right. Each man’s skin shimmered with a coating of sweat as they worked. Rojas stopped, pulled a bandana from his pocket, and wiped his face, surveying the surrounding boats and docks as he did. A man stood far off, leaning on a rail, watching them labor from his elevated vantage point. Rojas stuffed the red cloth back in his pocket and turned back. The man was gone. Rojas shrugged and went back to his duty.

  A moment later, that same man appeared, walking briskly along the dock toward the slip where the Admiral Risty was moored. He wore khaki trousers without a wrinkle on them, a starched, white polo shirt, a cream colored blazer, and a broad brim hat that matched his pants. Thick, black sunglasses covered his eyes. His goatee was dark brown, neatly trimmed, and gave him a hard-edged appearance. As he approached the Admiral, he saluted the crew and asked for their captain.

  Gordon Sewell regarded the stranger without moving from his spot next to the mainmast, sensing a potential customer. “May I help you?”

  “You may, indeed,” said the man in a crisp and proper tone.

  Captain Sewell arched an eyebrow and took a step forward. The man removed a thick envelope from an inner pocket of his blazer and handed it to him. The Captain cocked his head and kept a cautious eye on the stranger as he opened the envelope and peered inside. There was a handwritten note on a white index card. It read:

  I’d like to rejoin the crew if there’s room onboard. I’ll even return your dinghy.

  The Captain stared at the note, his face tightened in confusion. Behind the note, a thick stack of hundred dollar bills. He eyed the stranger again, squinting at him until recognition dawned. Collin Cook had returned. Then he couldn’t contain the smile that enveloped his face. Captain Sewell burst out with a hearty chuckle. His baritone voice boomed as he thrust forth his hand and grasped the stranger’s. “We always have room for you, wanderer.”