Arrayed against him at the moment, there was only a small contingent of RBPF officers in Marsh Harbour. Even though the Bahamian police announced that they were sure they would very quickly round up the young miscreant, it felt to me like Colt had done his homework. Either that or he was just very lucky in that he picked another welcoming, unsuspecting community.
I BOUGHT A TICKET to Marsh Harbour that night, but the more I thought about it the more I worried that I’d wind up on an open-ended stay in the Abacos while Colt went surfing from villa to villa, unseen for months. Or, worse, I’d arrive just as he island-hopped somewhere else. One thing about the Out Islands is that most of them are “you can’t get there from here” destinations. Unless you have your own plane or boat—or steal one—getting between Out Islands can take all day or even require an overnight in Nassau.
The next morning I called Tim Roberts at his Concept Boat Rentals office. There was definitely news, and Colt had decidedly not laid low and kept out of trouble. During the night, he’d basically done a Blood, Sweat and Beers tour, hitting Curly Tails Restaurant and Above & Below Abaco dive shop—both places I’d written about in my story. He’d even attempted to break into the hotel where we stayed. It felt like the
At Curly Tails—named after one of the local types of lizard—owner Alistair McDonald said that Colt broke in at 4:20 a.m. and strolled around the restaurant “as if he owned the place.” He calmly probed the dark restaurant with a flashlight until he spotted the three security cameras, and then turned them to the wall. He pulled the network cables out of McDonald’s modem and plugged in his laptop to get online. Other than ether, though, he didn’t steal a thing.
Colt did a bit more damage at the dive shop. Curly-haired scuba queen Kay Politano said he broke in sometime in the early morning. He neatly sliced three sides of a screen to get to the window, which he jimmied open. He took $156 out of the cash drawer and then pulled four shark T-shirts off their hangers, but threw three of them back. “Only one was missing,” said Kay. “I assume he was looking for his size.” The shop was filled with expensive scuba gear, but none of that was gone. Her computer hard drive had been pulled out of its slot and the Internet cable disconnected and left unplugged, but nothing else was disturbed. Detectives flown in from Nassau found a handprint on the window. “It was very big, long fingers, and very distinct,” said Kay. “It looked like someone had intentionally smacked their hand against the window to leave a calling card.”
During the same night, the FedEx building, a bike shop, and the Abaco Cancer Society Thrift Shop were also broken into. A few pieces of clothing were taken from the thrift shop, and a first-aid kit went missing from another business.
“It’s a lot of excitement for this little island,” said Kay. “Many of the people are expressing frustration, irritation, and anger that he’s here doing this.” But, she said, there was also a little of that pirate side of the Bahamas showing. “No one is condoning it, but a little twinkle creeps into the eyes of some people as they talk about it.”
ONCE AGAIN, COLT ALSO induced a motherly response. The next call I made was to sixty-one-year-old Ruthie Key, who said that Colt had walked, barefoot, into her Bahamas Family Market on Monday, before the police started handing out flyers with his photo.
Along with the Robertses, the Keys settled in the Abacos 230 years ago. The Keys have been boatbuilders and farmers, and Ruthie’s brother represents South Abaco as a member of Parliament. Ruthie’s late husband, Frank, was from Pittsburgh, and together they ran the friendly store where I always provisioned when boating in the Abacos. After Frank’s passing two years ago, Ruthie’s kids convinced her to go high-tech, adding computers and offering free Internet at the market. That’s what drew Colt.
“He came in and very politely asked to use the Internet,” says Ruthie. “I told him I was sorry but the computers were down.” Colt noticed that Ruthie’s son had a laptop online and told her that if the Internet worked he could use his own computer. “He said he hadn’t been in touch with his mom for months, and he also wanted to call his girlfriend. He had a great smile and his eyes… very pretty, like to just swallow you up. I said sure, and we set him up at one of the tables.”
Colt pulled a laptop and headphones out of his backpack and spent an hour making Internet phone calls. One of Ruthie’s granddaughters, a five-year-old, was running around the store. “I said to him, ‘I hope she’s not disturbing you.’ And he said, ‘Oh no, she’s not bothering me at all, just let her play.’ He was kind, and very nice, very nice… I never would have suspected him of doing anything wrong. Never. If he told me he was hungry I would have cooked him a meal.”
Colt took his time and finished his calls, then bought a deli sandwich, said good-bye, and left. “Then the police came in with a poster and told me to call if I saw this guy,” said Ruth. “I looked at the picture and said, ‘What?’”
Investigators swarmed in. “I told them I don’t really have anything to say, I don’t want to get involved.” When they left, Ruthie says her main feeling was fear—for Colt. “They’re out there with guns, and Lord, if they find him and he tries to protest… I’m afraid they’re going to shoot him.”
BACK IN THE UNITED STATES, Pam the quote machine did not disappoint. She said she was glad Colt was out of the country, “the further the better. I’m glad he’s able to enjoy beautiful islands, but they extradite. It doesn’t help matters at all.” She also wanted a message relayed to Colt, reprimanding him, not for stealing a plane, but for stealing the wrong kind: “Only take twin-engine planes, and carry a parachute. That’s the rules.”
BY TUESDAY, THE EAST Coast media had descended on Marsh Harbour—“they on our ass,” as one Bahamian told me. Another Bahamian friend said he could tell something big was going on because for the first time in recent memory, “the police have actually left their station.” With Colt this active, the government decided to reinforce the RBPF with the RBDF. Tommy Turnquest, Bahamas national security minister, who announced, “If he is there to be caught, our police will catch him.”
Assistant Commissioner Hulan Hanna of the RBPF said he was locking down Great Abaco. “We have taken steps to neutralize the areas he may try to use to leave the island.” Bahamian cops and soldiers flooded in to keep watch on the airports and marinas. Leaflets with Colt’s photo papered the island. The game was on.
ON ORCAS, IT FELT like it was going to be all over before I even made it to Seattle to catch a plane east. I was packing when Sandi came home early from work, sick. My selfish first thought was that the last thing I needed was to catch her cold before a long trip. But then her fever soared. I’d never seen her this ill. I changed all my tickets, pushing the trip to Marsh Harbour back a day. I called Tim Roberts again. He said nothing new had happened, but more police were running around. There was also, he said, some local vigilante action, “soon come” style. “A bunch of guys at the bar were talking about getting together to go look for him, maybe snag the reward,” he said. “But they were disappointed the FBI was only offering ten thousand dollars,” so they ordered another round.
I warned Tim to keep an eye on his boat and said I’d see him on Thursday.
That evening, a bartender said Colt—barefoot and with a cap pulled down on his head—walked into a Marsh Harbour sports bar, ordered a Kalik beer, drank it, and left after five minutes. Another sighting had him stopping by to use a bar’s restroom, and one young woman later claimed she had talked with Colt and that he’d told her who he was. None of the sightings was confirmed.
First thing Wednesday morning, my phone rang. It was Tim, but something was wrong. “Bob… ,” he said in a hoarse whisper, then paused. I immediately thought he was going to tell me that Colt was dead.
After an agonizing few moments of silence, Tim said, “I can’t talk louder because there’s a TV crew in here sniffing around for information.”
My heart started beating again. He said he’d just heard that a boat had disappeared from the marina. Boat theft is not unknown in the Abacos, so that didn’t necessarily mean it was Colt. I asked him what kind.
“Forty-five Sea Ray,” he whispered.
New and tricked out, a forty-five-foot Sea Ray Sundancer is a $750,000 sex bomb of a boat.
“That’s him,” I said. “Any idea where it went?” I could hear Tim shuffling the phone around before he said one word into cupped hands: “Preacher’s.”
I thanked him for the tip and hung up, laughing. Colt was writing his own story and here was some more
