The cops claim Colt has “vaporized,” “vanished,” and “ran like lightning.” When the posse does close in, he allegedly rustles luxury cars, boats, and even planes.
The Latest on Colt
Read breaking news on the search for Colt on Bob Friel's blog, outlawsandoutcasts.
Colt's Facebook fan club now has more than 15,000 members. A big Swedish contingent came aboard recently, along with a number of marriage and wanna-do-you proposals and plenty of helpful suggestions for the "Barefoot Burglar," such as "You should steal the space shuttle."
Pam calls me one Sunday morning to say that Colt phoned her the previous night. "He's safe and in good spirits," she says. "And he's nowhere near Camano Island. He's on the mainland, staying with friends at a house protected by all kinds of high-tech security and cameras." Colt, she says, does computer work for them and gets paid $600 a week. "I told him to send me some money," she laughs.
Pam says Colt told her before that he may lie low for a while, maybe a year, to let things die down before coming in from the cold and turning himself in. She doesn't think, however, that he'll get a fair trial. Pam believes the best place for him would be out of the country, someplace without an extradition treaty. She said Colt's goal was always to fly wealthy people around in jets until he got rich enough himself to buy a yacht and live on a tropical island. "That's still what his plans are," she says. "He wants to come get me, and we'll go live the good life."
Back home on Orcas, walking down the path toward my little cabin, I hear a noise in the woods. It's dusk and raining. Maybe it's just a bird rapping its bill against a tree, but something's a little off. Since all the break-ins, every simple sound seems to echo a little louder. I move into the trees and pick my way carefully down the steep slope to a spot under a big fir where bald eagles like to perch and eat. The skulls, spines, and fine bones of fish and seabirds litter the forest floor. There's no one around and no sign anyone has been. All I hear now is tree frogs, the only living things besides the resurgent moss that are happy about the ceaseless rain. I look up at the cabin. My wife has switched on the lights, and through the big window I can see her moving around the bedroom. As I stand here in the woods, in the dirty blue light and cold drizzle, the sight of the cabin's honeyed glow epitomizes the idea of warm and cozy, of safety, of home.
I climb back up the hill, duck under a wet cedar branch, and walk inside, where I'm greeted by my big dog and a toasty fire. I feel sorry for Colt. And then I lock my door.
