by Glen Robins
This guy knew everything. These revelations stunned her, and she struggled to keep up with the conversation. It was as if she was treading water in a sea of questions on a test that she had failed to study for. “What he told me? You want to know what he told me? Do you mean the part about how he liked my presentation? Or that he thought I looked nice?” Now that felt a little more like the spunky girl she knew she had to be.
“Dr. Burns, we can handle this one of two ways: either you cooperate with us on your own, over the phone, or you keep this up and we’ll continue this conversation at our LA field office with you in handcuffs, seated on a metal chair in front of a two-way mirror with a video camera and microphone. You choose.”
There was a forceful knock on her front door. She heard it in stereo, although the left ear heard it through her phone just a fraction of a second after the right ear heard it from across the room. She approached the door cautiously. “You’re outside my front door, aren’t you, Agent Crabtree?”
“I am, Dr. Burns. Trust me. This is for your protection.”
Emily peered through the peephole in her front door and saw a tall black man in a suit and tie holding up a badge with one hand and a cell phone to his ear with the other. He was flanked by a blond-haired man wearing a dark blazer and knit tie. “Would you like me to call out my badge number so you can verify my identity, Dr. Burns? I’ve got time to wait.”
“No, no. I’m not that skeptical,” she said, swinging the door open as if revealing a grand prize. “This is for my protection? At six o’clock in the morning?”
“We believe it prudent to proceed with an abundance of caution based on the folks we’re dealing with.”
“I see,” said Emily. “But I assure you I don’t have any significant details, probably not the ones you want.” She spoke to his face, although the phone was still connected to her ear.
“Let’s start with the most important items first,” said Agent Crabtree, holding the phone in front of him as he ended the call. Emily followed suit. “Did he tell you where he was going or who he was planning to meet?”
Emily grimaced and gestured for him to enter. Not unexpectedly, his partner entered right behind him, a muscled blond standing roughly six foot four. Crabtree introduced him as Agent McCoy as he crossed the threshold of the room. She walked the door to its nearly closed position, but stuck her head out into the hallway before she shut it, as if anticipating more agents streaming in. She pulled her head inside, closed the door, and leaned her back against it.
“No.”
“Did he indicate who was helping him? We know he’s not working alone.”
Emily paused while she studied the faces of the two agents. Crabtree, the more experienced of the two, had a few creases around his dark eyes and in the otherwise smooth skin near his mouth. The white at his temples and in his mostly black mustache indicated he was probably in his early fifties. McCoy, she guessed, was in his thirties and from Texas.
She answered hesitantly. “I, of course, had a million questions for him. But he said that the less I know the better. He said it was for my own safety. He also told me I should go to the FBI and tell them my story.”
“Why would he say that? What about your story is so important?”
“He said that I could be in danger now since he and I met. He thinks the bad guys that are chasing him will follow me or use me to get to him.”
“So why didn’t you come to us? Why did I have to initiate this conversation?”
“I checked the FBI website shortly after I returned from Chicago and saw the reports that said he’s dead. I didn’t think you needed to know anything about a man you thought was dead. And if he’s dead, why would I be of any significance to the FBI?”
Reggie paused for a moment. “As it turns out, we believe he has some connections to crimes that are ongoing. We believe someone helped him survive that storm and that he is out there potentially committing more crimes.”
“Interesting . . .”
“We also believe you may be in grave danger.”
****
La Jolla, California
June 14, 6:22 a.m. Pacific Time
A white Sprinter van pulled up behind the dark blue Taurus, the one with the government-issued white license plate and blue lettering. The cargo van had no side windows other than for the driver and front passenger. Magnetic decals read: “Mission Bay Home Stereo: Wiring your home for the full HD experience.” The driver was an Asian man wearing a black coat. A menacing tattoo climbed up his neck from below the coat’s upturned collar toward his scowling face. A chic pair of sunglasses hid his eyes. His partner, a fellow Asian with manicured black hair that lay at a sharp angle across his forehead with spiked tufts on top of his head, sat in the passenger’s seat. He was at least ten years the junior of the driver. His hands were gloved and his wrists adorned with spiky leather bands. He pointed an impressive camera with a long telescopic lens at the Taurus and rattled off a barrage of photos, careful not to snag the eyepiece on the long stud poking through his eyebrow. Next, he aimed at the condo complex’s front door, then toward the penthouse eighteen floors up, clicking more photos as he did.
The driver dug a cell phone out of a pocket, tapped a previously dialed number, and waited for the connection to be made while the passenger surveyed his work on the camera’s display screen. He zoomed and adjusted settings to ensure the pictures were clear and that the important details could be easily discerned. He then connected the camera to his phone in order to transmit the photos to the boss.
In his native tongue, the driver explained the situation to the boss on the other end of the connection. “Feds are here . . . Because it’s the same car, government plates . . . They must have driven from San Francisco . . . Probably because the first nonstop from SFO doesn’t land here until 7:45 . . . Must be in a big hurry . . . I don’t know how, no one has followed us or traced us . . . No, nothing out of the ordinary.”
The driver stepped out of the van and surveyed the area. Satisfied, he walked to the front of the Taurus and put his hand in front of the grill. “The engine’s still hot. They haven’t been here long . . . Will do, boss . . . Yes, I will. Right away.”
As he climbed back in the van, the passenger grunted as an impious smile spread across his face. “They can see what we see. Now we just gotta get inside.”
“That is not the plan. We watch and wait until the opportunity presents itself,” the driver said with a sneer.
“I could get in there easily and get some really good footage,” said the passenger with a raunchy cackle. He reached into a black duffle bag behind his seat and pulled out a device no larger than his thumb and a handful of zip ties. “We also have cameras on the drone.”
“Not now. Not in daylight. Later, if we need it.” The driver shot his passenger a sideways glance, threw the van’s transmission into drive, then pulled away from the curb. The streets were coming alive with activity. A few cars were emerging from underground garages along the street and filing onto the wide avenue that separated the high-rise luxury condos from the vast fog-enshrouded Pacific. A handful of joggers trotted along a path at the edge of the bluff in the distance. No one paid any attention to the van or its occupants, so the driver and the passenger continued their work.
There was a lone signpost directly across from the subject’s condo building. It wasn’t ideal, but it would have to do for now.
The driver worked his way around the block and came back to the front of Emily’s building from the north, so the ocean was on the right side of the van, thus giving the passenger the shortest distance possible to the sign post. The van would provide some cover. The passenger hopped out, checked his surroundings, then moved swiftly to the metal pole. He wrapped two zip ties around the pole and fastened the tiny camera to them. A few adjustments were necessary. He checked the image on his phone. The front entrance was visible, as was the Taurus. Step one, accomplished. The driver texted the boss to report their progress.
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.
Chapter Three
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 of 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.
Hen
ry 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.
