Off Kilter (17 page)

Tingles ran up and down Collin’s spine; the hair on his neck bristling. As the yelling of the authorities grew louder and more incessant, Collin heard words that made his blood run cold and his breath stop short. Words like “Americano” and “ladron” and “peligroso” hung thick in the air, causing the crowd to gasp and whisper among themselves. “Thief.” “Dangerous.” His guts began to twist and tighten as if being constricted in a vice. A nearby group of teens was all abuzz about this “international criminal” who had come to their town. From their fast-paced chirpings, Collin understood the federales were looking for an American who was wanted for something to do with banks and taking a lot of money. The teens wondered if he had the money hidden right here in Puno. Wouldn’t that be cool?

The twisting inside intensified.

The throng of people pressed in tightly when the chief inspector raised a color photo of the suspected terrorist high above his head, turning slowly so all could get a glimpse. Collin could only make out a white face and brown hair, so he moved in for a better view. Peering between shoulders and heads three layers back in the crowd, his horror was confirmed. His own face stared back at him. Taken three weeks prior in the Grand Keys Bank, the photo was clear as day. For the moment, he forgot that he had cut his hair and changed its color.

The street near the hotel was electrified. Groups of women huddled, hands over their mouths, shaking their heads. Merchants and workers craned their necks to get a closer look, nodding agreeably. The teens were amped up, some of the boys becoming animated and excited, some eager to find the treasure, others wondering out loud if there was a reward available. Many of the girls were terrified and crying. The crowd was anxious, fueled by fear, uncertainty, and morbid curiosity.

He tried to run, but a paralyzing dread crashed down upon him, shackling Collin’s very soul and shattering the short-lived sense of security he had enjoyed since leaving Lima. The accusations made by these men in uniform stung like a thousand wasps. The blood ran out of his head, leaving him dizzy and faint, as his mind caught hold of the ramifications of what was happening. Fear made it difficult to breath. No wind, no strength, and no thoughts. He was incapacitated.

Collin staggered toward the shadows at the crowd’s fringe, struggling to stay upright, reeling under the weight of a changing reality. It was all caving in on him. Again, he tried to run. His legs would not cooperate.

He was falling. He could feel his body swaying, but he was powerless and began descending toward the sidewalk. As he fell, he grabbed hold of a chain link fence, causing a loud clattering and clanking. The teens standing atop a pile of rocks only fifteen feet away let out a cacophony of laughs, heckles, and shrieks of terror at what they thought was a drunk. They hadn’t noticed him until now, having been too caught up in the drama unfolding on the street. Their commotion was loud enough to draw the attention of the officers, who looked over and scrutinized the man who could hardly stand. The officer in charge nodded to the one closest to Collin and signaled with a toss of his head for him to go investigate. Collin wobbled, even as he clung to the fence, unaware of the approaching policeman.

*              *              *              *

Huntington Beach, CA

May 27

As Henry and Sarah Cook prepared to eat dinner that night, Sarah was struck with a sudden sense of melancholy. No, it was more than that. There was an urgency behind it. Something tugged at her heart, but she had no idea why. Dark and foreboding, she could not shake the feeling. Instead, it grew stronger and more pressing. Her countenance showed the strain she was experiencing inside. When she dropped the paring knife against the granite countertop and braced herself with both hands, Henry moved quickly to her side and wrapped an arm around her waist for support.

“What’s the matter, dear? Are you all right? What’s going on?”

“I don’t know. Something’s wrong. Something’s horribly wrong.”

“What is it? Shall I call 911?”

“No, it’s nothing like that. It’s something else. One of the kids is in trouble,” she said in a faint voice.

Henry knew from years of experience that his wife had an uncanny knack for sensing when her children needed her. Thirty-eight years of marriage had taught him that. “Which one?” he asked without thinking. Of course he knew.

“Collin. It’s definitely Collin. Let’s pray for him. Right now, Henry. Let’s pray for our son,” she said. Her voice was much stronger now, determined, and full of faith.

Henry reached for Sarah’s hands, facing her, head bowed. She followed suit, clutching his large and gentle hands, feeling his warmth and strength. He started the prayer. “Dear Lord, we know that you know all things. We know you love your children. We know you have watched over us and our family continually. For all of these blessings, we thank you, Lord. Now we ask you to reach out and extend your hand of protection in the care of our son, Collin. We know not where he is or what he is doing, but we fear he is in real danger. Please deliver him. Send your angels to be with him and give him strength, comfort, and inspiration. Help him to know we love him and are praying for his safe return home. This we pray, dear Father, in the name of your Holy Son, Jesus. Amen.”

The Cooks stayed in that position, holding hands, heads bowed and eyes closed. Each silently repeated a similar prayer, sending love and strength. Their desire and their faith united and powerful.

*              *              *              *

Puno, Peru

May 27

In the same instant, Collin felt a power rush through his body. His mind cleared enough for him to hear, or maybe sense, the footsteps coming toward him. He had to move. Now. Although his stomach remained tied up in knots, his mind scrambled and raced, the fog within lifting. Strength returned to his legs. They began moving unsteadily, taking him away from the crowd, down the block, and into the shadows of a darkened street, staggering like a drunk. The officer continued to follow for a few paces before giving up. Why bother? There was a much more important matter to attend to.

A courtyard wall across the street provided an unlit place for Collin to retreat. He followed the barrier to the next intersection at the end of the block. He turned right and picked up the pace. Even though the air was thin at twelve thousand feet, he broke into a fast jog and maintained the pace for nearly a mile. He didn’t think. He just ran and ran. Block after block, running. At the edge of town, only a few streets from the bus station, he stopped, realizing that he couldn’t leave. He had nothing with him but his phone and a couple hundred dollars. He studied the map on his phone and knew what he had to do. And it scared him.

Because Collin had allowed himself to slip into a comfort zone, he had left two important items in his hotel room: the computer and backpack. They were essential to his survival. The two bags contained about $70,000 cash, in a variety of South American currencies and US dollars. All of his fake IDs were in them as well. Plus, his laptop contained all of his important, personal information. There was no other option. He had to go back and get them. Without them, he was done for.

Two weeks in South America had made him much too lax. He had not followed Lukas’s strict protocol, the instructions that had kept him ahead of his pursuers for so many months. That realization ran through his veins, like coursing shards of glass, causing pain the entire length of his body from the inside out. At the same time, it brought instability, putting pressure on his fragile mind. He felt memories invading, their powerful tentacles embracing him, squeezing tightly, and he knew he had to switch gears internally if he wanted to survive another day without capture.

Stay in the moment or you die,
he thought.

Exerting all of his mental energy, recalling the sudden burst of strength from minutes earlier, Collin focused his mind on the situation at hand, concluding that these federal agents were not the brightest set of detectives. There they were making a public scene with shopkeepers that would have had a limited amount of interaction with Collin instead of searching the hotel for clues. What were they doing and why? Despite their dominant presence, he knew he had to get his stuff and get out.

He sprinted back to the hotel, slowing as he approached to catch his breath.

When he returned, Collin found the scene still teeming with people. The yelling had stopped, and the authorities had disappeared somewhere. Collin moved cautiously closer to the crowd, listening to what they were saying. He was able to discern that the hotel staff were being interrogated inside by the federal police because of all of the tourists staying there. Many of the guests had been questioned as well. The crowd was anxious, expecting more action. Those staying in the hotel wanted to get out of the cold night air.

Amid the commotion outside, Collin moved warily, wanting to hear but not wanting to be seen. His hood covered most of his head and face. His hands were thrust deep in his pockets, and he moved as casually as he could. Seeing a fellow American tourist standing alone at the edge of the throng, Collin approached him guardedly.

The young man leaned against a wall, observing the crowd. He was younger than Collin, maybe in his mid to late twenties. He wore long cargo shorts and a long sleeve thermal shirt. His hair was long and straggly and stuck out in all directions under a beanie cap. He hadn’t shaved in a few days. He seemed as likely as anyone to be friendly. “Hey, man, do you know what’s going on here?” Collin asked.

As he turned toward Collin and took him in, his eyes grew wide with recognition. “Dude, they’ve got a picture of you. At least, I think it’s you. Your hair is different, but the eyes and face are the same. You’re the one they’re looking for!” The man didn’t raise his voice. On the contrary, he spoke just above a whisper as if in some sort of hushed conspiracy.

Collin knew this already, but it still made his stomach drop. He tried to contain the panic that gripped him. But the color drained from his face, and his knees felt weak. Collin braced himself against the wall and looked the man in the face imploringly. “Why? Why are they looking for
me
?”

The young man recoiled. “That I don’t know, man. My Spanish isn’t that good. All I know is that they seem to think you’re dangerous and—”

Collin cut him off. “I’m not. I can promise you that. I am not a dangerous person. But the people coming for me are. Look, for your own sake, you never saw me, OK? Keep yourself out of this, and you’ll be OK.”

As Collin turned toward the hotel, with its yellow and white façade, wood-trimmed windows, and rock accents, the young man began to yell and wave his hands. He was calling out to the federales and pointing at Collin. “Hey, look. Over here. This is the man you’re looking for.”

Collin shot the young man a dark look as he clinched his jaw and shook his head. The buzz from the crowded street drowned the man’s cries. A few local police seemed to take notice of the man waving his arms, but Collin was gone, weaving and ducking through the throng of people to the front entrance of the hotel. The lobby that had seemed quaint and cozy was now too small and cramped to maneuver through. Cops everywhere, talking to hotel staff in every corner. He’d never make it through. How could he get to his room? There had to be a way.

A side door that led to a hallway with phones, restrooms, and a staircase started to open. Collin made his way over to it for a closer look. Behind the door was one of the nice older ladies that worked there, peering out into the street. From what he could tell, she was the cleaning supervisor. Collin had been polite and friendly with her and the other staff members since his arrival. In return, she always smiled back. Short and stout with black hair and weathered skin, she had a serene demeanor.

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.