Coincidence Read online

  The only other person in the waiting room was a man who sat reading the newspaper. He seemed too old to be a student. Maybe he was a teacher looking for a job with the academy—or maybe he was just a client of the accounting office where the interviews were being held. After about a ten-minute wait, during which Melissa concentrated on keeping her fidgeting under control, she and her parents were called in.

  Kathleen Tutty was as young as she had sounded on the phone. She was an attractive blonde, about twenty-eight years of age, and a Blue Water Academy student herself ten years earlier. Her first job after university was teaching on the Inspiration. Promotion to shipboard director and then program director followed.

  Kathleen’s smile put everyone at ease. She began by showing a twenty-minute video of life aboard the Inspiration, which clearly outlined the heavy workload the student crew could expect:

  Breakfast at seven-thirty sharp; colors, where all meet to review the planned activities for the day, at eight; followed by classes, maintenance work on the ship, lunch, more classes, more work, maybe a little free time if you were lucky, dinner, still more classes, some type of evening program, free time, bed, and night watch. Most crew members slept during free time because their night’s sleep was interrupted by the two-hour night watch. And any time sailing conditions changed and sails had to be set or doused, the crew had to drop whatever they were doing, because “all hands on deck” were required.

  Melissa realized that her experience sailing a small craft for pleasure was nothing like this.

  “What do you look for in a student?” she asked.

  “We are looking for a good all-round individual,” Kathleen said. “Not a super scholar, necessarily, nor an exceptional athlete; but rather someone who has demonstrated an ability to work hard and who can get along well with others. Those are by far the most important attributes for the program. In short, we want a well-balanced person.”

  “Do most of the kids already have sailing experience?” Craig asked.

  Like his daughter, Craig had quickly grasped the difference between being a savvy leisure-time sailor and crewing a working ship the size of the Inspiration.

  “Most have none, and in any case they all have to be trained together on the barquentine rig. That’s a three-masted boat with a square-rigged forward mast.”

  “How many students are there on the ship?” Carol asked.

  “The ship has a capacity of forty-nine, but we don’t usually have a full complement.”

  “What is the ratio of boys to girls?”

  This was from Melissa.

  “The ratio fluctuates, but generally there are more boys.”

  Melissa’s face brightened.

  Craig hated to be the one to ask it, but someone had to. “How do you handle a problem with a student when you are so far from home?”

  “It depends on the incident. Generally, problems are few, but disciplinary action ranges from cancellation of shore leave to being sent home for a week or so, and even, as a last resort, to being expelled from the program. Each of these has happened, although very seldom.”

  After many more questions and answers from both sides, Kathleen asked Melissa’s parents to leave the room so she could speak directly to Melissa.

  It was now Kathleen’s turn to ask the questions.

  “Why are you thinking that you’d like to be part of the Blue Water Academy experience?” Kathleen’s warm manner had vanquished Melissa’s initial anxiety. She was finding it easy to follow her parents’ advice to be herself and answer the questions openly.

  “It’s something out of the ordinary,” she said. “Sailing around the world and studying at the same time is a chance of a lifetime for anyone lucky enough to be selected. Seeing the world is something I’ve always dreamed of doing.”

  For her part, Kathleen saw in Melissa something of herself at the same age: a bright and eager young woman whose enthusiasm and determination would get her through any rough patches. She turned to some practical issues—some questions that the academy required her to ask, even though she was confident that, in this case, they were not necessary.

  “Have you ever been drunk or tried drugs?”

  “No and no, although my parents let me have some wine with dinner on special occasions.”

  “You know from the brochure that Blue Water Academy has a strict no-alcohol, no-drugs policy. What would you do if you observed a student who was impaired by either?”

  “I’d probably help get them to bed so they’d be out of harm’s way. If I thought they were a danger to the ship or to anybody else, or even to themselves, I guess I’d report them to a teacher.”

  “Do you consider yourself to be a loner or outgoing?”

  “Oh, outgoing, definitely! I have a lot of good friends, and I don’t really dislike anyone.”

  “Do you get along well with your parents and brother?”

  “Yeah, I do. I think I have an unusually good relationship with both my parents—especially when I hear some of my friends talk about theirs. And don’t tell him I said so, but I really love my little brother. I used to boss him around horribly when we were little. He’s only a year and half younger, so I had to show him who was in charge.”

  “Sounds just like my big sister! It must go with the territory. If you are accepted into the program, you’ll be away from your family for an entire year. Do you think you can handle that?”

  “Definitely.”

  Melissa had one more question, although she was a little afraid of the answer she might get.

  “How many people go through the process but aren’t accepted into the program?”

  “About a third of those interviewed go no further,” Kathleen replied. “That could be either their decision or ours.”

  It isn’t going to be my decision, Melissa thought. She just hoped with all her heart it wouldn’t be theirs either.

  The next few days were hell. One day she knew she would be accepted—how could she not be? The next she was equally sure she’d been rejected in the first cut. Her friends proved to be a good support network. They were prepared to share in the excitement of her acceptance but also assured her they’d be there for her if she was rejected—not that that would ever happen, they hastened to add. Stephanie told her that if they kept on such an emotional roller coaster much longer they’d all get whiplash.

  Arriving home each day, Melissa’s first question was, “Is there any news?”

  A negative answer was not received with pessimism. Quite the opposite. She hadn’t been turned down, so therefore she must still be under serious consideration, right? Right! She got her optimistic nature from her father’s side of the family. There is really no point worrying about something you can’t control, he always said. Even so, as each day passed, it was tougher for her to keep doubt from creeping in.

  Ten long days later, Melissa received a call from Kathleen letting her know she had been accepted into the program; the official papers would be in the mail the next day.

  Melissa hung up the phone in a daze. Every emotion possible was flowing through her body, and all at the same time. Relief came in great waves, making her legs feel wobbly. Exhilaration made her fingertips tingle. Triumph made her want to stand up on the old plaid couch and shout at the top of her lungs. Excitement made her want to jump up and down on it. And sheer nervousness, coupled with an unexpected surge of sadness at the thought of being away from home for such a long time, made the tears roll down her cheeks.

  This must be what it’s like to fall head-over-heels in love, she thought.

  Meanwhile, Carol, Craig, and Eric were all experiencing similar waves of emotion.

  Craig knew it all along, he said; there was no way they’d have passed up an old salt like his girl for the program. How he was going to manage without his girl for the coming year was another question, one he was at a complete loss to answer. Who would keep him company on his drive to work every morning if he didn’t have Melissa to drop off at school on the wa
y, getting his morning off to a rousing start courtesy of her infectious zest for whatever the day might bring? Who would look to him for help for everything from quadratic equations to the psychology of the male? Who would humor him with the silly, repetitious night-night ritual begun when she was a toddler?

  He couldn’t blame her for wanting to go. If he had been given a chance like this when he was her age, he’d have been off like a shot, probably with scarcely a thought about the parents he was leaving behind. He’d love to do the same thing now, in fact. Maybe a few parents ought to go along, actually, just to make sure everything was kept on the straight and narrow. He could see about getting a leave of absence …

  No. No, of course he would do no such thing. This was Melissa’s big adventure. His role—the harder role—was to let her go.

  Carol was thrilled at Melissa’s good fortune. She said so numerous times, her eyes welling up, when the family was having a celebration dinner at Luigi’s. The restaurant had the only pasta that was even better than her own, and who knew when Melissa would be able to have such a meal again? Hardtack, that’s what she’d get onboard, wasn’t it? Nothing but hardtack.

  Carol knew better, of course. But she had found that by pushing her worries to their most ridiculous extreme, she could get them in perspective. Still, she thought, it couldn’t hurt to get Melissa some vitamin C tablets to take along, to counteract scurvy. And Band-Aids, of course, and antibiotic cream—she’d have blisters, no doubt, with all those ropes she’d be pulling.

  And sunscreen! Carol would have to impress on her daughter again the importance of using sunscreen every time she was out on deck—even if it was overcast. Never mind that she’d been slathering SPF 45 on her children since birth; she’d have to make certain that Melissa understood how quickly one went from young girl to middle-aged woman, and how important it was to take care of the only skin she’d ever have before she started getting crow’s feet or, God forbid, skin cancer. She’d seen it all too often as a nurse, hadn’t she? And they all said the same thing: If only they’d realized at the time the damage they were doing …

  Carol sat up straight, suddenly realizing that she had been paying so much attention to Melissa-at-sea that she hadn’t heard a word of what Melissa-beside-her was saying.

  Eric thought going to sea was an outstandingly cool thing for his sister to do. He planned to apply to Blue Water Academy himself as soon as he got to grade eleven, in one more year. Would having a family member who had done the program help his chances? Had to be a plus, he was sure of it. He told Melissa he’d make sure her CDs didn’t get rusty from lack of use in her absence. It was going to be awfully quiet around the house without her, he thought, repressing a sigh.

  After dinner Melissa was on the phone letting her friends know the good news. They all offered encouragement and support, promising to write—maybe they could even visit her at some port if it was allowed. Stephanie, now that she was confronted with the reality that one of her best friends would be gone for so long, was beginning to wish she had applied to Blue Water, too. Why hadn’t she thought of doing so? Hard work, sure, but hearing Melissa go on about it, it sounded like fun.

  Melissa hardly slept that night. Every time her eyelids started to droop and her body started to give in to fatigue, she was jolted awake as the thought hit her again: In just a few weeks, the adventure of her life was going to begin.

  4

  “That’s the plan. You in or not?”

  Stefano Bortardi craned his neck, trying to get a glimpse of Esteban’s face to gauge his reaction, but all he could see at this angle was his rough hand holding a cigarette through the cell bars. This was, in fact, the view of Esteban he was used to—the way he always thought of him during their three-year friendship at the Moore Haven Correctional Facility in Glades County, Florida. It took him by surprise every time he saw the rest of Esteban Bedoya out in the exercise yard; somehow he never pictured the figure attached to that hand as quite so short, quite so heavy. There was no denying that at five six, two hundred fifty pounds, Esteban was fat.

  Esteban had had a successful career as a bank robber for years until his wife, who shortly thereafter became his ex-wife, ratted on him. He had carried a gun but never used it, relying instead on his brains to get him in and out of a job with no bloodshed. He knew how to use one, though. He’d spent six years in the army before deciding that was enough discipline for him. The rebellion against discipline had taken its toll. He was younger than Stefano by several years. He had been as good looking, too, but had let himself get badly out of shape. Anyone looking at them would have assumed Esteban was much older. Stefano was of medium build, lean and fit, his black hair just beginning to gray. His only distinguishing feature was his nose, which was long and pointy. If anyone commented on it, he would say, “All the better to smell you with, my dear,” at which he roared with laughter. His education had ended after two years in the eleventh grade. He had ten years of experience in drug running and had developed a wide network of contacts around the world. It was going to be easy to get back into the business when he was on the outside again. The only reason he’d been caught the last time was that his car ran out of gas and the police stopped to offer assistance. It was one of the little detail things that had haunted him in his cell. No way would he allow a thing like that to happen again.

  Over the last three years the two men didn’t lack for time to reminisce about their capers, good and bad. They knew each other’s strengths and weaknesses.

  “Well, hombre? You with us or not?” Stefano asked again.

  “Whoa,” Esteban said, exhaling a mouthful of smoke. “You gonna steal a vanload of perico from the cartel, steal a boat big enough to take the coke and six guys to some island in the middle of the Pacific, and then send the stuff back here by airplane?”

  “You got it.”

  “You loco!”

  “Maybe so. But soon I’m gonna be loco and loaded.”

  “We been locked up here three years,” Esteban said. “How you know the cartel still trucking cocaína same way they used to?”

  “Don’t, but what I do know is they moved it that way two weeks ago. My brother Juan seen the trucks and guards following same route from Cali to Medellin, just like before.”

  “How many guardia?”

  “Six. Always the same. A pickup in front with two, the cocaine in the van with two more, then another pickup behind with two more. They all got rifles.”

  “So how you gonna take the stuff from six armed guardia?”

  “My secret! I been working on it for three years. Juan says they take the same route every two weeks—says there’s a place close to ocean there where we can do it. We do it with five guys and one more on the boat.”

  “Okay. Say you get cocaína on boat, how you gonna keep the cartel off your back?”

  “We ain’t gonna leave no witnesses. And by time they find out the coke’s missing, we gonna be over sixty miles out to sea. They’re not gonna be looking for us in the ocean.”

  “But they gonna be looking for a stolen boat, no?”

  “No.”

  Stefano shook his head, smiling.

  “That’s the beauty of the whole thing,” he said. “We gonna take the boat from somewhere in Costa Rica or Nicaragua. They won’t know nothing about it in Colombia. So, Esteban, you in or not?”

  “Stefano, you still loco. If the cartel finds out, we dead meat. I mean goners. I gotta ask some questions.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “You got six hombres working the job. Who are these guys—can we trust them?”

  “It’s my idea. I’m the boss. Juan’s gonna take care of all the details, so you know that’s gonna be okay. You gonna be a gun. Then Severo Carrillo and Polo del Valle, two more guns. Severo, he’s strong as an ox, and Polo—well, you know Polo. Phillip Ransburg—he’s a gringo, but he’s okay. I worked with him before. He’s gonna handle the boat, and he knows boats.”

  “Hermano, how big this barco go
nna be?”

  “At least sixty feet long, and fast, too, eighteen, twenty knots maybe. It’s gonna have everything.”

  “How far is this island?”

  “Easter Island, it’s about nineteen hundred miles west of South America.”

  “Just one more thing, hombre. How we gonna split up the money?”

  “The stuff is worth somewhere around a hundred million. Me and Juan get half—that leaves fifty million divided by four for the rest of you.”

  Esteban let out a low whistle. Twelve and a half million—tax free—wouldn’t be a bad start for his new life.

  “What if we get mareado?” he asked.

  He started to snicker. He could see the six of them hanging over the railing of the boat, too sick to care that they were brand-new millionaires. His wife had always told him he had a weird sense of humor.

  “Juan and I been sailing all our lives—Phillip, too. No problem. If you get sick it’ll only be for a couple days.”

  Stefano decided to press the question again.

  “That’s it. You in or not?”

  “Give me a day.”

  “No! I gotta know now. Juan’s coming at eleven and we gotta make plans. Last time: Sí or no?”

  “It’s chalado to go against the cartel, but what the hell—why not? Sí, I’m in.”

  Promptly at eleven o’clock Stefano was called to the meeting room, a small room with a table and two chairs where an inmate and his visitor could sit and do paperwork. A bored-looking guard stood at the door but he couldn’t hear anything provided you kept your voice low.

  Juan visited Stefano every month, always on the fifteenth, always at eleven in the morning. Detail was an obsession with him. Everything had to be in place and had to be perfect. Stefano knew the planning part of the job was in the best possible hands.

  You could tell the two men were related. Juan had the same profile as Stefano, the same long, pointy nose. He was a couple of years younger than Stefano, early forties, and his hair was still very black. He was sitting at the table when Stefano entered the meeting room at a couple of minutes past the hour.