Secret Adventures

The One Who Got Away-3

Fogerty gave several of the smaller gems to his island neighbors. He withheld the rest, not out of avarice but out of respect for their simple tropical lifestyle, which he himself had come to love. Why ruin this with the temptation of great wealth, and the division and corruption that usually accompanies it? If nothing else, the gems would provide them with food and the best medical attention for the rest of their lives. Plus, they’d buy him a lift back to the Navy base.

They laughed when he offered the pretty stones as payment for another ride in an outrigger canoe, which he thought odd.

Fogerty retraced his steps and booked passage on the same tramp steamer, paying cash this time with three hundred dollar bills, because their new cook seemed to be working out just fine.

Once in Mexico, he sought out the places “where ragged people go” and tracked down an expert on false identifications—including passports, drivers’ licenses and birth certificates. From this day forward, once he crossed the border into his home country, he’d be known as Thomas Flynn, a bearded, deeply tanned eccentric wearing a panama hat, sunglasses, Bermuda shorts, a floral shirt and sandals—all year ‘round. He was fairly sure that unless someone stared at him long and hard, no one—not even his wife and daughter—would recognize him. But of course his plan was never to let them see him at all.

The items brought him six hundred and thirty thousand dollars, as well as the anticipated and worrisome curiosity. One of the jewelers to whom he showed his treasure wanted to call the news services, so unusual were his finds. It took a sizeable bribe to buy the man’s silence, but Thomas Flynn doubted the jeweler’s words and knew he had to run for it.

Having flown from Mexico and taken a cab to downtown, once again he bought a car, a non-descript used Chevy, this time with maybe a year left in its mechanical life. With all of his emotional strength, he resisted the temptation to drive home and embrace Deborah and Janis, and instead spent his first day seeking out a modest apartment in the town adjacent to theirs.

If he was careful, he would not have to work until he returned to the island, which allowed him to do the thing he dreamed of exclusively: watching his wife and daughter from afar.

The days drifted passed like a swollen river and season blended into season. Thomas Flynn parked his surprisingly durable Chevy on the corner by the woods holding his binoculars and studying his little girl blossoming into womanhood.

There she prances down the front walk to the awaiting bus. There she climbs down with her neighborhood friends, Terry and Mike, chats for some minutes then breaks for her front door. Sometimes Deborah appears to welcome Janis and Flynn’s heart leaps.

A light snow falls and still he wears his Bermuda shorts, impervious to the cold. The flakes thicken and soon his two women emerge from the garage with shovels in their hands, laughing and stopping for the occasional snowball fight.

My God, let me hold them again, he prays, and thinks about the island, the only place that could make his dream come true.

But something holds him here, as if leaving again might expose his family to danger or additional loss. Now, they have a protector and maybe they even sense his presence.

The sun shines again and their tulips bloom. Deborah kneels besides the flower bed pulling weeds. Janis bolts from the garage on her bicycle. Deborah calls out as if to demand assistance, but quickly gives up as the young girl disappears around the corner.

By now Thomas has realized that parking in the same spot every day would attract suspicion, so he leaves the car at a nearby convenience store and walks through the woods, being careful not to be seen or break any twigs. He stands in the shadows and catches his breath as a new neighbor, young and quite handsome, stops to chat with Deborah who prunes the pine tree at the edge of their lot. She smiles a little bit too much, too soon Thomas thinks, and once again he knows he did the right thing.

Another young man, much younger in fact, strides to the front door early one evening. He is wearing formal attire and carries in his hand a corsage. Deborah opens the door with a wide smile and invites him in.

Is it possible? Thomas asks himself. Has that much time passed?

Janis steps out with the young man behind her, his hand on the small of her back. Together they walk to a shiny car; he being the perfect gentleman opens the door for her and she slides into the passenger’s seat. They both wave at Deborah who stands in the doorway brushing away tears. Minutes later, the handsome neighbor walks by and seems to ask if he might come in. Thomas feels his face go flush, but is relieved when Deborah shakes her head.

It’s only a matter of time, he thought. I’ve got to get back to that island.

A blazing summer and exceptional drought wilt Deborah’s beloved plants, but his good citizen wife refuses to water them in obedience to a town ordinance. Many die and will have to be replaced come spring.

Thomas is shocked to see Janis pull the car out of their garage and zoom away. At that moment he resolves to book a flight for Mexico. Only he misplaced his identification! He searches every nook and cranny of his apartment, but cannot locate it. Without a passport and birth certificate he can’t leave the country. At least he still has his driver’s license, but can he risk applying for replacement credentials? What if they discover his fraud? What if they start asking too many questions, and arrest him until he gives them satisfactory answers?

He could do the same thing he did that first day, drive to the border and stowaway into Mexico, but that would take too much time. He had to get down there now!

Heightened urgency seized him when he next positioned himself among the trees to watch his home. Many guests bearing gifts strode gaily up the front walkway, Aunt June and Uncle Fred, Cousins Connie, Mark and Jeffrey. Even the neighbors came, the Larsons, the Jacoby’s and the Rabinowitz’s; dozens more followed. What could this be? Then he studied the front door and saw Janis and a different young man smiling and greeting each and every visitor. It was then it dawned on him that his little girl was getting married and this was her bridal shower.

How many weeks before her wedding, two, maybe three? Who will walk her down the aisle? It should be her father, God bless it!

Thomas Flynn resolved to hit the city the very next day and track down someone who could provide him with the identification he needed to fly to Mexico. From there he could charter a boat and sail to Agua Placida—get there maybe in three days, collect the remaining treasure, cash it in, pay off the insurance company and return to his former beloved life.

But first he had to get that ID! He drove up the New Jersey Turnpike, crossed into Manhattan via the Lincoln Tunnel and parked in the Port Authority. From there he hoofed it out to Ninth Avenue, the West Side, where some of the seedier establishments were located, and soon found himself planted on a barstool at a strip club. Yes, even these opened on Monday morning. After a few ginger ales, he mustered the courage to summon the bartender. The hostile-looking man leaned over to hear him above the din of pounding electronic music. A skinny, utterly detached topless dancer writhed on the stage behind him paying no attention to the beat.

When Flynn flashed ten one hundred dollar bills, the bartender softened. “I need fake ID,” he said. “Set me up and I’ll give you another grand.”

The bartender eyed him suspiciously, figuring this was a sting, but easy money won out over the risk. He gave directions to a run down comic book store owned by a man named Igor

Igor, Thomas Flynn laughed. This was getting rich.

When the proprietor laid eyes on him, he seemed to know right away this customer’s purpose. He motioned him to the counter, verified Flynn’s mission and invited him into a curtained cubicle where he could still see the glass front door.

“It’s gonna cost you,” Igor said. “The feds are cracking down on businesses like mine, and I have to keep an eye out.”

“How much?”

“Ten thousand... with half up front.”

“What do you mean ‘up front’? I need this today!”

Igor shook his head and laughed mirthlessly. “You’re dreaming,” he said. “This’ll take at least three days.”

“You expect me to give you five thousand dollars and walk out of here?”

Igor shrugged. “It’s the best deal you’re gonna get in town. Take it or leave it.”

Flynn fell silent, thinking. He was just about to give in when he glanced at a mirror behind Igor’s head, placed there so the owner could see the front door with his back to it, and watched two dark suited men, one extremely tall—perhaps six nine—marching toward the store entrance. “Is there a bathroom I can use?”

“That’s for customers only.”

“If I can’t use the bathroom, I won’t be your customer.”

Igor smirked and nodded at a narrow corridor leading off the cubicle.

Flynn rose almost too quickly and headed down the corridor, hoping, praying he could find a back way out. He did, but it was blocked with cardboard boxes. These he pushed out of the way as Igor shouted for him to stop. In seconds the handle came visible, Flynn turned it and the door swung open into a narrow litter-strewn alleyway with scurrying mice and eager cats. He slammed the door behind him and raced out to the busy street beyond.

Believing the dark suited men to be in hot pursuit, Flynn turned and hurried toward Tenth Avenue where he encountered a miracle, a Yellow Cab in search of a fare. He flagged it down, hopped in and paused in response to the cabbie’s inquiry, “Where to?”

After several seconds, Thomas Flynn asked for a ride downtown to the Financial District.

“So you want to visit Ground Zero, huh?” the cabbie asked with a smile.

“Yes, that’s right,” Flynn nodded.

“I’ll have to let you off a block away. They still won’t allow any traffic around it.”

“That’s fine,” Flynn muttered.

Fifteen minutes later, he paid his fare, and tipped the cabbie twenty dollars. “For a little more I’ll wait,” he said.

“No thanks,” Flynn replied. “I don’t know how long I’ll be here.”

The cabbie waved in appreciation and sped off.

The neighborhood felt surreal to him, like returning to his hometown after decades away. Everything looked smaller, the avenues quiet and restrained. He caught a glimpse of the canyon where the towers once stood, and for the first time thought of his floor mates, many of whom must have perished on that awful day. The area seemed to repel him, surprisingly, so he strolled to one of the last places he visited in the city, the Apple Union Bank.

When he saw the same dark suited men pushing through the revolving door, he knew something was up. “They must be on to me!” Flynn thought frantically. “How? How did they find out?”

Desperate now, he flagged another cab and gave orders for the Port Authority, collected his car and sped south, retracing his route to Central Jersey. All the way, he risked collision by peering repeatedly into the rear view mirror. It did not appear anyone was following him, but of course he was no expert on such things.