For an agonizing minute, the boat seemed to drift back toward the beach. Then, falling off the wind, it shot forward, smacking the incoming waves as it headed away from the beach. There was little Adam could do but grab Alan with one hand and hold the tiller with the other.
The boat passed directly in front of the club, but Adam was afraid to try to change his course. He heaved a sigh of relief when they got beyond the breakers. Soon after, they were around the point and safely out of sight.
Relaxing to a degree, Adam looked up at the parabolic curve of the sail contrasted against the star-strewn tropical sky. Glancing to the west, he saw the moon intermittently veiled with small, scudding clouds. Below the moon was the dark silhouette of Puerto Rico’s craggy mountains. The beauty was overwhelming. Then the boat hit the long Atlantic swells and Adam had to turn his full attention to the tiller.
Cleating the mainsheet securely, he raised the jib and the Hobie Cat shot through the water at even greater speed. He started to feel optimistic that within a few hours he’d be far enough up the coast to find help.
• • •
Dr. Nachman turned from the computer in a rage. Harry Burkett had come to update the research director on the search, but Nachman wasn’t content with false assurances.
“Are you telling me that all you’ve learned with forty men and a million dollars’ worth of security equipment is that one of the orderlies has been found unconscious and one of our guests, Mr. Schonberg, is missing from his room?”
“That’s correct,” said Mr. Burkett.
“And the orderly,” continued Dr. Nachman, “was presumably injected in the back with his own syringe of Conformin?”
“Exactly,” said Mr. Burkett. “He was injected with such force that the needle broke off and is imbedded in the man’s skin.” Mr. Burkett wanted to impress the research director with the completeness of his investigation, but Nachman wasn’t having any of it. He found it inconceivable that Mr.
Burkett, with his huge staff and sophisticated resources, could not locate a heavily sedated patient. Thanks to Burkett’s inefficiency, what had started as an inconvenience was rapidly becoming a serious affair.
Dr. Nachman angrily lit his pipe, which had gone out for the tenth time. He couldn’t decide whether or not he should inform the inner circle of MTIC. If the problem got worse, the earlier he reported it, the better off he’d be. But if the problem resolved itself, it would be best to remain silent.
“Has there been any evidence of anyone touching the perimeter fence?” he asked.
“Absolutely not,” said Burkett. “And no one has been allowed out of the main gate since Dr. Mitchell called.” He glanced at the psychiatrist, who was nervously examining his cuticles.
Dr. Nachman nodded. He was certain the patient was still on the grounds and that the electrified fence was an insurmountable barrier, but he still worried about the competence of Burkett’s security force. There was no reason to take chances.
“I want you to send someone to the airport to check the departing flights,” he ordered.
“I think that’s going a bit far,” said Burkett. “The patient won’t get off the compound.”
“I don’t care what you think,” interrupted Dr. Nachman.
“Everyone told me the patient couldn’t have left the hospital, and obviously he has. So cover the airport.”
“OK,” said Burkett with an exasperated sigh.
Dr. Mitchell, who was well aware that he was the man who had insisted the patient couldn’t have left the hospital, stood up, saying, “Even if the transmitter is too weak to use to trace the patient, maybe if we stimulate his electrodes, he’ll reveal himself.”
Dr. Nachman looked at Mr. Hofstra. “Could we do that?”
“I don’t know,” said Hofstra. “The position of his electrodes hasn’t been neurophysiologically mapped. I don’t know what would happen if we stimulated him. It might kill him.”
“But could we stimulate him?” asked Dr. Nachman again.
“Maybe,” said Hofstra. “But it will take some time. The present program has been written with the expectation that the patient would be initially present.”
“What kind of time are you talking about?”
Hofstra spread his hands apart. “I should know if I’ll be able to do it in an hour or so.”
“But you didn’t have any trouble activating the electrodes.”
“That’s true,” said Hofstra. “But actual stimulation is much more complicated.”
“Try it,” said Dr. Nachman wearily. Then, gesturing with his hands toward Mr. Burkett, who was still on the phone, he said, “I’d like to have some kind of backup for his Keystone Kops.”
• • •
Looking at his watch, Adam realized that they’d been sailing for nearly two hours. Once they’d rounded the point north of the MTIC-Arolen beach, they’d encountered increasingly high swells that occasionally crested and broke over the canvas trampoline. A couple of times when they were in the rough of a particularly high wave, Adam was afraid they would be buried by tons of seawater. But each time the boat had bobbed up and ridden like a cork over the top of the wave.
They headed due west along the northern coast. Unsure if there were any reefs or not, Adam stayed about two or three hundred yards offshore. By far the hardest part of the adventure was dealing with his imagination. Each minute, his concern grew about sharks lurking beneath them in the dark swirling water. Every time he glanced down, he expected to see a huge black fin break the surface.
Certain that they had long since passed the limits of the MTIC-Arolen compound, Adam began to aim the Hobie Cat toward land. In the past fifteen minutes or so he’d begun to see occasional lights along the shore. He now could hear the waves pounding on the beach. He tried not to think about what that might mean.
A scream shattered the silence. All at once Alan grabbed his head with both hands and shrieked into the night. Adam was caught totally off guard. A large bolus of adrenaline shot into his system.
Alan’s screams increased to full lung capacity, and he tried to stand up, straining against the rope that secured him to the mast. He began to throw himself from side to side, threatening to capsize the boat. Adam abandoned the tiller and the mainsail sheet and tried to restrain the crazed man.
The boat immediately fell off the wind and the mainsail luffed.
“Alan!” yelled Adam above the sound of the wind. “What’s the matter?” He grabbed Alan by the shoulders and shook him as hard as he could. Alan was still clasping his head with his hands with such force that his face was distorted. His shrieks came amid gasps for breath.
“What’s the matter?” shouted Adam again.
Alan let go of his head, and for a second Adam could see his face. The man’s previously blank expression had twisted into one of pain and rage. Like a mad dog, Alan lunged for Adam’s throat.
Shocked at Alan’s strength, Adam tried to scramble out of his reach, but there was little room on the Hobie Cat’s trampoline. Alan twisted within his bonds and flailed his arms, catching Adam in the face with a forceful punch.
Screaming himself, Adam teetered on the edge of the Hobie Cat, his hands frantically grabbing for a purchase. His fingers found the uncoiled mainsail halyard, but it did not provide any support. In a kind of agonizing slow motion Adam toppled into the forbidding ocean.
He plunged beneath the surface of the icy water.
Desperately clawing at the water, Adam fought back up to the air, terrified that at any moment he would be bitten by a sea monster. His leg brushed the rope in his hand and he screamed.
Although the sails were luffing, the strong trade wind continued to push the boat through the water. Adam held on to the mainsail halyard and was dragged behind like bait on the end of a fish line. He could feel his right eyelid swelling, but worst of all, there was trailing warmth from his nose, which he guessed was blood. He expected his legs to be snapped off at any moment. Hand over hand, he frantically pulled himself back to the boat. On the trampoline Alan was still shrieking in pain. Adam grabbed a pontoon and started to scramble out of the water.
