CHAPTER FOURTY-SIX ~ OPERATION: COOKIE CUTTER ~ by B.A. Linhares

I dwell in my window seat and write in my journal until my hand aches. I stretch out my legs and read over what I’ve written and wrote since leaving Georgetown.

Four days ago, we boarded the 747 and settled in our seats. My first thought is I’m a different person. The girl that came to Florida changed. For the better? I think so. Bear with me while I explain. While talking to Josh last night, I sat on the balcony. And unbeknownst to me, I was attacked by a zillion invisible biting bugs. I found out later they’re called no-see-ums...perfect. They should send the little buggers to Iran. And by the way—person at the front desk—a hot shower does NOT stop the itching. But let’s focus on the positive.

Monday, September 3, 2005:

It’s our last day in Florida and I have to see the sunrise. I get up at first light, quietly slip into the bathroom and slither into my (still damp) bikini without turning on a light. Pop is dead to the world and I don’t want to wake him. Beach bag on my shoulder, and surfboard in hand, I shut the door silently, and head down to the beach. An orange sun is rising above the horizon, just like in Endless Summer and the vast ocean is flat as a lake. Perfect. I set my bag on the first white beach chair. Gathering my nerve, I stand breathing deeply and watch seagulls swoop down on the beach squawking at each other like old married people. There’s no wind either therefore the surf is completely flat, not even a ripple. Maybe it’ll pick up as time passes and the airstream picks up—seems logical. I feel something nipping at me and look at my skin with horror. Holly cow! I look like I have the chicken pox! On second thought, maybe I won’t move to Florida. I stomp my feet in the soft sand to scare off whatever is biting me, but they are relentless. Maybe the salt water will heal the red dots. I balance my surfboard on top of my head and cross the sand disturbing a dozen or so seagulls and sandpipers searching for breakfast on the shoreline. The water is slightly chilly, but I get used to it as I wade out until the water is waste high. I straddle my surfboard and glance around. To my left is the pier where we at dinner of in the distance. Off to the right and about a mile down the beach, a pair of die-hard runners trot along the edge of the water where the sand is more packed. I stretch out on my tummy, rest my on one hand and drop the other in the water. I close my eyes and focusing on the sounds of the ocean. This must be what it’s like hovering in outer space. I daydream, drifting lazily. Not really worrying about anything. At some point, I must’ve fallen asleep because I remember dreaming that I’m cold. I’m lying in the snow and my head hurts really badly. I can feel something warm and wet running down my face. I tell myself it is just melting snow and bite my lip trying not to think about what it really is —my blood. I shiver as a freezing wind blows over my face. Poppy’s voice trembles as he helps me up and gently wipes the snow off my face. He takes my hand, holding it tightly. I use my other hand to tug down my wool cap and lower my eyes to the snow. I want to cry and howl…I’m so scared. Poppy looks me over with his worried face. “You fell down pretty hard honey, are you sure you’re okay?” I nod my head and hot tears escape my eyes and roll down my frozen cheeks. I don’t like the way strangers are looking at me with their alarmed expressions. After gathering our snow skis, he asks, “Did you hit that hidden tree stump?”

Terrified, I nod my head again and mumble, “I think so.”

He tries to lift me up with his free arm, but I resist and insist on walking. He forces a concerned smile. “Are you sure?

I mutter, “I’m not a baby.”

“That’s my tough Cookie.”

When we get inside the Alpine’s lobby, a sharp pain makes me squeeze his hand. We pause by the big fireplace and Poppy stares down at me with worried eyes. He lets go of my hand, kneels down, and removes my red mittens and my sky blue ski jacket. He checks me over and then lifts off my cap. I watch his green eyes grow dark with alarm—like when his best friend in Ireland died in a really bad car crash. I feel funny like my legs are going to give way. Poppy says, “Let’s get you upstairs and have your mum take a look at that.”

I slide off my surfboard and drop to the ocean floor.

The two runners stop on the shore. Agent Ivan Brody explains to his pilot friend Peter why he needs to borrow his new aircraft. “We tracked Fredrik Koshechka via his cell phone and saw that he was here in Cocoa Beach, Florida.”

Peter raises his arm and points at something in the water. “What the hell? Is that’s a body floating?”

Without waiting for an answer, they both rush out and gently flip the girl in a red bikini over, checking for a pulse. “It’s Cookie Blakely!”

Fingers press the side of my neck and my eyes flutter open. There’s a familiar face close to mine. “Ivan? Wa…what happened?”

“You almost drowned.” Ivan Brody says, and carries me to the shore and lays me on the wet sand. He looks mad. “What are you doing out here by your self?” Ivan gasps. “Cookie!” Alarmed, he checks her breathing. “Shit! She’s stopped breathing!”

Peter crouches on the other side of Cookie. “Give her mouth to mouth man!”

I hear my name and try to speak, except my nose is pinched close and Ivan’s face comes close to mine. His mouth cuts off my words. I gasp as moist hot air is forced into my lungs. I turn on my side as a fit of dry-heaves racks my entire body. Bile and disgusting salt water burn my throat …it hurts, but I can’t stop coughing. I lay back down in the wet sand and everything goes black.