Sail (14 page)
All Together Now
“MOM, are we going to die too?”
Ernie’s question shoots me in the heart, and for a few moments I’m speechless. I thought the hardest thing I’d ever have to do in my life was telling my children that their father had died. Turns out I was wrong. Breaking the news about Jake, that he didn’t make it through that first night, was even harder.
When Stuart died, we all
felt
alone.
With Jake gone, we truly are.
For two days now, no less.
We’ve been burned beet red by the sun, and our food and water are beginning to run low, almost as low as our spirits. The sadness of losing Jake has taken the kids from overwhelming despair to something even worse. Fear.
That we all might be next.
We’ve been staying as close as possible to where
The Family Dunne
went down, but there’s been no rescue boat, no helicopter. The only planes overhead are like ants in the sky, mere specks that we probably wouldn’t see at all if not for their vapor trails. For sure they can’t see us.
In short, we’re lost somewhere in tropical waters, but we don’t know exactly where. Apparently neither does anyone else.
So why do I keep telling the kids that we need to stay put? Why do we keep fighting the current?
For two days I’ve been a stubborn mule, saying that we need to give the Coast Guard more time. By now I know the kids suspect the real reason.
I’m
the one who needs more time. Jake’s at rest at the bottom of the ocean and I still can’t let go. I can’t move on. Physically. Truth is, if I were the only person on this lousy raft, I wouldn’t leave. I’d stay here near Jake until I was either rescued or not.
But that’s not the way it is. I now realize that. My children are on this raft with me, and I’m their mother. We may be alone out here on the ocean, but we’re alone together.
And we need to be saved.
I stare through narrowed eyes at their sunburned bodies, their cuts and bruises, the sea salt clinging to their scabs. Looking between their chapped white lips and disheveled heads of hair, I stare deep into their eyes.
“No, Ernie,” I answer. “We’re not going to die too.”
It’s time to let go, to stop fighting the current.
And see where it takes us.
OPERATION CHANCE ENCOUNTER has begun.
That’s what Ellen Pierce called it as she walked into the small, albeit well-equipped gym that the DEA offered its agents in the basement of the New York Division building.
The time was 5:20
A.M.
Early with a capital
E!
Not surprisingly, Ellen had the gym to herself. Good thing, too. This way she could pour some Poland Spring water into a towel and strategically dab her face and wet down her T-shirt without having to explain herself to anyone. Including the man she was waiting for: her boss.
She knew that Ian McIntyre worked out every weekday morning, starting at five-thirty. He was a fitness freak, having competed in iron-man triathlons up until his late forties. Now that he was a card-carrying member of the AARP, he had scaled back a little. He only did marathons. Three a year, to be exact. Boston, New York, and Philly, his old hometown.
Needless to say, the man was hard-core—all the more reason why Ellen had to go through this little charade just to have a private chat with him.
During the day, on Uncle Sam’s time and dime, Ian McIntyre did everything pretty much by the book. The subject matter of work conversations he had with agents was logged in what was famously known as “the Tomb.” In the era of knee-jerk congressional hearings, it was a pretty smart thing to do, actually.
There was also another benefit. The Tomb kept agents from wasting McIntyre’s time. Because when it came to far-flung hunches, no one liked to go on record. It certainly didn’t bode well for your annual performance review.
Sure enough, at five-thirty sharp, Ian McIntyre came bouncing into the gym via the men’s locker room. Immediately he did a double take as he spotted Ellen Pierce stepping off a treadmill. He wasn’t used to having company at this early hour.
“Good morning, Ian,” said Ellen, wiping the Poland Spring “sweat” from her brow.
“Morning, Ellen. What a surprise. I didn’t know you even worked out here.”
“I don’t. A pipe burst last night at the gym in my apartment building. So here I am, bright and early.”
McIntyre nodded as he dropped down to the floor mat to stretch. Ellen wanted the segue to seem natural, so she waited a few moments, toweling off the handrails on her treadmill.
Then, as nonchalantly as possible, she asked, “Hey, have you been following that whole thing with Peter Carlyle’s family?”
“You mean their sailboat disappearing? Yeah, a little bit. Horrible, huh?”
“Really horrible. Those kids, his wife. I never thought I’d feel sorry for the guy.”
McIntyre gave her a quick, knowing smile. “You and me both. At least for his family.”
She opened her mouth as if to speak but stopped. This was the moment of truth.
“What were you about to say?” asked McIntyre.
“Oh, it’s nothing,” said Ellen with a shrug. “It’s just that I got this feeling when I was watching Carlyle on
The Judith Fox Show.
”
“What kind of feeling?” he asked.
“Something kind of strange. It was as if he —”
McIntyre cut her off like an ax. “Stop right there,” he said. “I don’t want to hear it.”
“Hear what?”
“Whatever you’re about to tell me.”
“You don’t even know what it is, Ian.”
“I don’t have to, Ellen. This isn’t the time or the place.”
“Just hear me out, will you?” she asked. “It’s the way Carlyle was acting. Something’s not right. I’m a hundred percent on this. Carlyle
knows
something.”
McIntyre stood up from the mat. In less than two seconds he was directly in Ellen’s face. “Listen to me,” he began. “The guy’s a first-class A-hole and he made us look bad in court and blew up your case. I know you’re still mad, and I can understand that. But what I won’t understand—what I won’t
tolerate
—is one of my agents letting her anger affect her better judgment. You keep that imagination of yours in check, you got that? That goes for your female intuition, too.”
Ellen stared blankly at him.
Imagination? Female intuition? How about street smarts and common sense?
“I said, have . . . you . . . got . . . that?”
She finally nodded.
McIntyre turned and walked over to the nearest treadmill. Before stepping on, he turned back. “Oh, and the next time you want to fake a workout so you can have my ear, try not to make the sweatstain so perfect on your little T-shirt, okay?”
Ellen grimaced.
Ouch. Busted.
So much for Operation Chance Encounter.
It was time for Plan B.
IT WAS BARELY 9
A.M.
in Miami and the temperature outside the Coast Guard base was already pushing up into the high eighties, and it was humid.
As for the temperature inside, it wasn’t much lower. The central AC was seemingly waving the white flag again, and the vents in Andrew Tatem’s office were trickling the lukewarmest of lukewarm air.
Great, just great. Splendid . . . and now things get really hot, right?
Tatem picked up the phone and dialed. As much as he hated to take shit from anyone, that’s exactly what he was about to do in a big, unpleasant way.
“May I speak with Peter Carlyle, please? This is Lieutenant Tatem of the Coast Guard.”
Another night had come and gone without finding
The Family Dunne
and its crew. After ordering the search effort to continue around the clock and adding a slew of helicopters and man-hours, Tatem and his Coast Guard unit had turned up absolutely nothing.
Now, in what had become a twice-daily routine, Tatem had to call New York and share the news. Or rather, his no-news.
“I don’t get it!” barked Carlyle over the phone, his patience clearly waning, if he ever had any. “You said you had their coordinates, am I right? Didn’t you tell me that, Lieutenant Tatem? I made a note of it.”
“We thought we did.”
The bastard is making notes. For the lawsuit, right?
“What about your maps? Are you sure you’re reading them right?”
Tatem closed his eyes, blinking long and hard in an effort to maintain his usual even keel.
Reading our maps right? What does he think we’re using, an old foldout Rand McNally from the glove compartment?
“Mr. Carlyle, this is one of the largest search efforts we’ve ever made. I assure you that we’re doing our very best,” said Tatem.
“Then your best needs to get a whole lot better,” he heard back. That was followed by a loud
click!
Carlyle had hung up on him, and he wanted Tatem to know he’d been cut off.
Oh, well.
Such abuse was nothing new to Tatem. He was used to family members expressing their frustrations. More important, he understood it. It was only natural. Very human. And thus forgivable.
What struck Tatem as being a little odd, though—or at least different—was that he wasn’t getting the abuse face-to-face.
He’d been involved in over a hundred search-and-rescue efforts for people missing at sea. Most of the time, “loved ones” felt compelled to travel to the base, especially if they could afford it. They wanted to be closer to the action, feel more part of the effort. “It’s the least we can do,” he often heard.
Not Carlyle, though. He wanted to know everything that was happening, only he wanted to know it while he was back home in Manhattan.
Granted, his rushing down to Miami wouldn’t make any difference in the search effort itself. In fact, as the search dragged on, it could only complicate things, especially since the media had really latched on to the story.
Carlyle’s appearance on
The Judith Fox Show
had all but set the table.
Now, nearly three days later, with the Dunne family still missing, the feeding frenzy would only get worse.
So why was Carlyle still up in New York?
I WANT TO SCREAM! I want to let go with a Grand Canyon–deep, ear-piercing primal scream that rattles the heavens and whoever may or may not be up there holding on to the deed for this planet.
We’re all part of something much bigger than ourselves?
I’m losing faith, Dad. I’m feeling so small and insignificant you wouldn’t believe it.
We’ve been drifting for two days, and the view hasn’t changed. Everywhere we look it’s just ocean and more ocean. Nothing else exists in our universe.
This raft may still be inflated, but the blistering sun combined with our dwindling food and water has let the air out of all of us. We’re exhausted, zapped. Numb.
The kids at least have been able to sleep. Not me. Here it is, the sun about to rise on another day, and I feel like I’m back pulling thirty-six-hour shifts as an intern. Only this is so much worse. Back then I always knew that things would get better, that the shift would end.
Which brings me to my leg.
The bone may be mending, but the skin around the wound has turned a very unfortunate shade of green. Even if my medical background consisted merely of watching
Grey’s Anatomy
or
House,
I’d know that the one thing I feared has happened. It’s infected. I’m infected. A raging fever can’t be too far behind.
I haven’t said boo to the kids about any of this, nor do I plan to. At least not yet. They’ve got enough on their minds. So I’m keeping my leg covered and hoping against hope that the scenery changes for us soon. Really soon!
Actually, I’d laugh out loud if I had the strength.
For the longest time, years and years, I’ve wanted to buy a great beach house on Martha’s Vineyard, or maybe Nantucket. It would be my escape from Manhattan—something with a private deck, a couple of chaise longues, and, most important, an amazing ocean view.
Ha!
To hell with wishing for that anymore. All I want to see now, and forever, is land.
I want to be rescued! I want my kids to be safe!
Then maybe I’ll finally be able to sleep.
I’m about to close my eyes and try yet again to sleep when both my lids suddenly pop open like jack-in-the-boxes.
Oh!
My!
God!
Is that a mirage? Am I so ridiculously sleep-deprived that I’m seeing things?
No! It’s for real, all right. I think it’s real, anyway.
Way off in the distance, amid the first hint of sunrise, is the most beautiful sight in the world.
“Kids!” I yell. “Wake up! Wake up!”
They slowly begin to stir—
too
slowly, I decide—so I supply them with a little added incentive at the top of my lungs. It’s a Grand Canyon–deep, ear-piercing primal scream that rattles the heavens and whoever may or may not be up there holding the deed to this planet.
“LAND HO!” I announce.
AS FAST AS YOU CAN SAY . . . well, “Land ho!” we turn into the Dunne family Olympic paddling team.
This is incredible. It’s so fantastic. Unbelievable.
As we scoop frantically with paddles and hands, our pain and exhaustion take a distant backseat in the raft. I even forget about my leg.
We’re gunning for a mere speck of green on a blue horizon, but the kids are just as sure as I am. It’s an island. And we can’t wait to get there!
Especially our empty stomachs.
“I hope they have a McDonald’s!” chirps Ernie. “You think?”
We all burst into laughter, and it feels great. Humor, much like our rations, has been in very short supply the past couple of days.
“Screw that burger nonsense,” says Mark, showing no letup on his paddling. “I want the whole cow, a big-ass porterhouse steak! Maybe there’ll be a Morton’s on the island! Ruth Chris. Flames!”
“Or maybe a really great pizza place,” says Carrie, getting in on the act. “I could eat an entire large pepperoni pie all by myself! I’d do it, too!”
Talk about a couple of sentences I never thought I’d hear from her . . .
“What about you, Mom?” asks Ernie. “What kind of restaurant do you want?”
I need to think about it for only a split second. “Room service!” I belt out. “I want the entire menu delivered to me as I lounge on my comfy pillow-top bed at the St. Regis.”
“Works for me!” says Carrie. “Order up!”
“That would be so cool, if there’s a hotel,” adds Ernie.
“Hey, I don’t care if all this island has is a Motel 6,” says Mark. “Just as long as it’s a bed and not this lousy raft with its Hail Mary box buffet.”
Our shoulders and arms ache as we continue paddling, but it’s the best pain in the world. In the back of my mind, I can’t help thinking about Jake and wishing he were here to see this.
I feel tears welling up in my eyes. I can’t hold them back; I don’t even try. Sadness? Joy? Both, I realize.
I also realize how proud Jake would’ve been of all of us. We’ve hung in there, toughed this out together.
Like a real family,
the
family Dunne, the one that really matters.
