The Green Room (22 page)

Chapter Forty

The water made the decision for her, and she was committed. No choice but to paddle, hard. Three strokes, and the wind tore at her face. The sucking, roaring current obliterated all other sounds. Wind-borne water blinded her to the point that she had to rely on sensation rather than sight, and that sensation consisted only of speed. Teeth-chattering, flesh-rippling speed.

Aware of a thinning, transparent curl of greenface, Storm remembered Ben's and Nahoa's shouts when she'd gone out with them. “Stand up,” they'd yelled. She popped to her feet. Just in time, and she instinctively adjusted her weight toward the tail to avoid pearling, and going over the falls to tumble down the face of a wave. A wave whose size and velocity wouldn't allow her to penetrate its surface. If she fell, she and her board would bounce along the wave's face like stones skipping down a concrete dike. Boards and backs could be snapped like toothpicks when that happened.

The rising wave created its own vortex and, combining with the force of the day's offshore trade winds, whirled stinging droplets of saltwater so that she had to squint and draw only shallow breaths. Her body was like a sail, keeping her aloft before the plunge. Now she understood why big wave surfers used foot straps. The board chattered as if she jammed over cobblestones, wanting to lag behind the wave, while the wind filled the now-accursed sweatshirt.

“No!” she shrieked to the ocean, the wind, the board under her feet. And she bent her knees to right angles while she shifted her feet to drive the board, increase its speed. To her relief, the fins dug in, though the jolting lifted the board entirely out of the water. It was like standing on the bouncing back one of the Big Island quarterhorses she'd grown up with, though she'd never done that at a full gallop.

She'd never felt the effects of momentum so strongly. Her thigh muscles burned. Even her toes ached in their desperate grip on the waxy surface of the board, and she held her arms like an osprey plunging for sustenance. And plunge she did, crouching so low on screaming quadriceps that her fingertips brushed the water gushing by the rocketing slab of fiberglass.

At one point, she sensed rather than saw the wave curling too close above her head, and she managed to scoot up the wave's face to a point where she clung, just ahead of The Zone. The wave broke left, which, with her goofy-footed stance, helped her. Its translucent lip curled just over her shoulder.

She raced toward land, still a quarter mile away, but knew she'd done it, she'd made the drop on a wave that had towered above her. She'd also negotiated the break zone, which was what she'd most feared.

Storm felt like she'd clung to a guardian angel's thunderbolt as it rocketed through the perils of hell. The wave she'd ridden hadn't been as big as the ones the tow-in surfers took, and she'd been fortunate that it had come along. Not only was she not skilled enough, but the board she rode wasn't built for that kind of speed. But she'd never have done it without the pointers Nahoa had given her. Ben and Goober, too. She'd been incredibly lucky.

Her thighs quivered with fatigue and spent adrenaline. Storm relaxed her stance and straightened a bit, just to give her trembling legs a reprieve. It was a mistake. Though the ocean hissed a warning, she was too tired to react.

An eddy of wind twisted the still-curling lip to Storm's left, and folded it over like a book slamming shut. One moment, she was congratulating herself on the biggest ride of her life. The next, she was cartwheeling through whitewater.

Storm's first thought was to protect her head against assault by the catapulted surfboard she'd been riding, but her limbs were helpless, pulled willy-nilly by the boiling soup. Her mind worked, though, and Nahoa's words popped into it. Stay relaxed and curl into a ball. Don't fight. Hopefully, the surfboard was far above her.

It was all she could do not to struggle. Tons of water tumbled her like a leaf in a river. Opening her eyes didn't give her any information; she couldn't tell up from down. She was in the green room, and there was nothing she could do about it until the ocean decided to release her.

Her hip banged against the bottom, and she felt the baggy sweatshirt fill around her head as she somersaulted. When her shoulder bounced painfully off a rock, the sweatshirt billowed like a drag racer's parachute. It may have protected her to this point, but the shirt was extra baggage now. The neck and sleeves were all that held the shirt on; the rest fluttered around her head. Storm shook her arms, tucked her chin, and let the water pull it free.

At the same time, she got her bearings and kicked to the surface, where she gasped for air. Two breaths later, another breaking wave roared toward her. She dived a split second before it got to her. It still flipped her end for end twice before she clawed her way back to daylight.

Oh, shit. Another frothing wall of water barreled toward her. Jesus, this wasn't even the impact zone. She tumbled for longer this time, and for the first time wondered what happened to the leash and board. The board might help her get to shore, even if she plowed through whitewater on her belly. The reassuring jerk on her ankle wasn't there, and when she finally reached the surface, she knew she'd either broken the leash or pulled free.

She couldn't hold her breath any longer. Little red and black spots flickered in her peripheral vision. Her ears rang. Her arms and legs felt like dead weights. Desperate to get out of the foaming boil, Storm flailed to align her body so that she would at least be aimed at shore. Go with the waves, she told herself. Even if she got sucked back, the next one would take her closer. She hoped.

So when the crackling, amplified voice came from above, she didn't even hear it. It had to ask twice before she sputtered and twisted her neck toward the noise.

“Can you grab the basket?”

Storm nearly cried with relief, and swung one arm wildly in the direction of the hovering craft. But wind from the helicopter rotors pushed her arms back into the water, and the basket swung two feet above her head. She wasn't anywhere near it.

She swung again, and missed. The pilot was trying to get lower; she could tell. The sound of the rotors was deafening. They pelted her with water droplets, too.

“C'mon now, you can do it,” the voice from above said.

It took three tries. Even when she'd managed to snag it, her arms were so weak and shaky, she wondered if she could pull herself aboard. That took long seconds too, struggling not to backslide into the water. When she flopped into the basket, she lay limp and panting.

A few minutes later, the basket deposited her on the sand and people surrounded her. She couldn't react to them, and felt like she moved in a dream-like state. Exhaustion and relief had depleted her final reserves.

Someone threw a warm blanket around her shoulders. She couldn't yet discern faces, though she wondered if Hamlin might be nearby. She was shaking so hard, it was all she could do to hold onto the blanket.

“How'd you get out there?” someone asked, but dirty looks from two emergency technicians shut him up.

“Let's get her warmed up and checked out.” One of them put his arm around her shoulders and led her inside the medical tent, out of the wind and away from the crowd.

“Did Goober tell you to come after me?” Storm asked. Someone had given her hot chocolate in a heavy paper cup. It was the best thing she'd ever tasted.

“Who's Goober?” one of the medical people asked.

“The guy on the jet ski.” But Storm could tell by their expressions they didn't know him. “How'd the helicopter find me?”

“A City and County surfboard shot into the air, then washed toward the beach. It wasn't supposed to be out there, plus the leash was broken. So we started looking for a rider.”

“Did you see a jet ski?” Storm asked.

“An unauthorized one? No,” one person answered, but Storm had everyone's attention.

She told them how Goober had taken one from a City and County storage shed and rescued her from a cave. The rest of their questions were the same ones she wanted to ask Goober. She didn't know any of the answers.

“We've got to find him,” she said.

One emergency technician, a woman, frowned at her. “You don't want to hang around a guy who'd leave you in twenty foot surf, especially with that board.”

“He didn't have a choice.”

Storm could tell from her grunt she didn't agree.

“Those tankers aren't made for big waves,” another tech said. “You didn't actually surf that thing, did you?”

Storm nodded. The techs stared. Finally one of them spoke softly. “You're damned lucky, you know that?”

Storm swallowed hard. Her hand unconsciously went to her neck, where she still wore Aunt Maile's little pig charm, which, unlike certain articles of clothing, had stayed with her. She knew she'd been very, very lucky.

Chapter Forty-one

“Could I make a couple of phone calls?” Storm asked.

Someone handed her a phone and she punched in Hamlin's cell number.

His voice was ragged with worry. “Storm, where are you?”

“On the beach, in the medical tent. Where are you?”

“Leaving Sunny's house. Are you all right? What happened?”

“I'm all right. I'll tell you when you get here.”

Storm's next call was to Brian Chang. He was out in the field, but she left a message for him, then one for Detectives Ursley and Yamamoto.

When Hamlin burst into the tent, she was having a third cup of hot chocolate and wearing one of the contest's logo T-shirts in a long-sleeved style.
The Intrepid
blazed across her chest in orange. Underneath, except for the emerald-eyed pig, she was nude, which felt a lot better than her clammy bathing suit bottoms and stiff, salt-encrusted hair.

Hamlin hugged her hard, let her go for a few minutes to listen to her story, then grabbed her again. One of the EMTs filled in with the part about the C & C rescue board, which had prompted the helicopter to look for a rider not entered in the contest. No one had seen an old City & County jet ski.

“Ian,” Storm muffled into his shoulder, “could we go back to the cottage? I want a hot bath and dry clothes.”

Hamlin went after his car, and bundled her in. He wrapped her in a big towel from her beach bag, which he'd been carrying around since she disappeared. “How are you feeling?”

“I'm tired, but I'm okay. Hamlin, I was really frightened, but I was even madder than I was scared. I wish I'd seen who did this to me.”

Hamlin's eyes glinted with fury, and he was about to respond when Storm's cell phone rang. She dug it out of the beach bag. “Hi Brian, I'm glad you got my message. It's got to be the same person who killed Nahoa. I think it might be O'Reilly.”

“Why do you say that?” Brian asked.

“Goober told me to talk to him.”

“Storm, sit tight. Leila, Robbie, and I will be there in a few hours. Meanwhile, I'll get hold of someone in the North Shore Patrol District to come take a report.”

Storm hung up and snuggled next to Hamlin. “All I want is a hot bath and to know that Goober is okay.”

“I want to find the asshole who did this to you.” Though he kept his eyes on the road, she could see the simmering rage in his narrow gaze.

“Me, too.” Storm frowned. “Word is going to get out that Goober rescued me, and he's going to be the next target.”

“The police will find Goober,” Hamlin said. He looked over at her. “Unless he doesn't want to be found.”

Storm chewed her lip. “He risked his life to come after me. He's not going to leave town.”

“You're sure? He's a kid who avoids authority.”

“He'll help.”

Hamlin still looked doubtful. “I hope you're right.”

“I hope he's safe.”

The car's dashboard clock read 5:14. It would be dark in an hour, and Kamehameha Highway was clogged with departing spectators. Storm chewed a hangnail and observed Hamlin hunched over the steering wheel as if he could will the traffic to move faster.

Maybe they needed to think about something else. “What happened with the surf contest? Is everyone else okay?”

Hamlin leaned back, but tapped one hand on the wheel impatiently. “Kimo Hitashi is leading, but one of the Australians is only three points behind,” Hamlin said. “Another guy needed fifteen stitches when he wiped out and his surfboard cut his head, and there was a search on for another surfer who had been swamped by a big wave.”

Hamlin looked over at her. “Come to think of it, Barstow and a group of lifeguards asked O'Reilly to close down the meet an hour early. They were concerned because the wind was coming up and waves were getting blown out. It took some persuading before O'Reilly agreed.”

“How'd Ben do?”

Hamlin shrugged. “He's got a few more points than his partner, the guy with the tattoos. They made the cut for the finals, but they're not in the top three.”

“Did Barstow look happy?”

“He looked tense all day. Even the TV announcers picked up on it.”

“Maybe he and O'Reilly haven't been seeing eye to eye for a while. Plus, he's got to be worried about Ben.”

Which brought her thoughts back to Goober. O'Reilly would know that Goober had rescued her and was being sought by various rescue teams. The boy's peripatetic habits were known to his friends, but how many of them knew that his last residence had been O'Reilly's guest apartment? And what if he went back there for his belongings?

Both Hamlin and Storm, lost in their concerns, were quiet for the rest of the drive. At the cottage, Storm headed directly to the hot shower, and when she got out, two uniformed HPD officers were waiting in the cottage living room.

“We'll file a report with the detectives on your case,” one officer told Storm. “They may give you a call later, but they're out on another case.”

Storm repeated her account of how she was attacked and put in the cave while the officers recorded her statement.

“Have you found Goober?” she asked when she was finished. “He saved me.”

“No, and we're looking,” the officer said. “We've got people posted along the shoreline. There's even a Coast Guard helicopter searching.”

When the officers left, Storm sank into the sofa. For a few minutes, she looked out of the cozy, brightly lit room, past the lanai, toward the blackness of the pounding ocean. “Hamlin, we've got to look for him.”

“You heard the police. They've even got one of the big choppers involved.”

Storm sat quietly for a few moments. Hamlin had brought a glass of wine, and she sipped it. She was grateful the authorities were out there, but she and his friends knew more about him. And she couldn't forget how he'd come when she needed help.

She took Hamlin's hand and squeezed it. “Please don't be upset with me, but I can't sit here and wonder where he is.”

She picked up the phone on the end table next to the sofa. Sunny's answering machine picked up after four rings. “Sunny, call me back. It's important.” She left the same message on Sunny's cell phone.

“Hamlin, I want to drive by O'Reilly's place.”

Hamlin shook his head. “What are you going to do?”

“I've got a couple of questions for him. I also want to watch his reaction when he sees me.”

“Storm, it's too dangerous.”

“I doubt he'll be alone. And we'll call Brian and tell him what we're doing.”

“Brian called while you were in the shower. They're on the road, but they ran into an accident on the H-2, around Wahiawa. Traffic's backed up. They'll be here around eight.”

“We'll still tell Brian where we're going. He can tell the North Shore police. O'Reilly isn't going to do anything if you're there and we tell him the cops are on the way. But our showing up may keep him from hurting Goober.”

“Storm, you've had a hell of a day.”

“I'll be okay. You'll be with me. Hamlin, I owe Goober.”

Hamlin paced the floor. “We don't go in his house, agreed?”

“Right,” Storm said. “We'll talk to him outside.”

***

Traffic from Laniakea to Chun's Reef was lighter than it had been when everyone was trying to get to the surf contest, but there were still more cars on the road than usual. It was seven o'clock and dark. Most people were headed toward them, out for a Saturday night in Haleiwa.

It took Storm and Hamlin about fifteen minutes to reach O'Reilly's neighborhood. Except for a light over the door, the house was dark.

“He's probably at dinner,” Hamlin said, and pulled into the drive next to a dark Porsche Boxter. Storm couldn't tell if it was black or navy.

“I'm going to knock, anyway.”

“I'm going with you.” Hamlin got out of the car. “Looks like he's got an awesome view.”

“It's a great house.” Storm rapped on the front door, waited a few seconds, then tried the doorbell twice. They were about to leave when they heard soft footsteps approaching the door.

Ben opened it, and stood wordlessly in the dark foyer. Even in shadow, his face looked blotchy. “Storm. It's you,” he said. “I'm glad you're here.”

He didn't sound glad, and Storm could smell alcohol on his breath from five feet away. She felt a creeping dread. “Is Goober here?” she asked.

Ben shook his head, and when he spoke his voice cracked. “His body washed ashore down past Kalalua Point.”

Storm felt as if she'd been punched in the stomach. She sagged against Hamlin, who put his arm around her. “Oh, no,” was all she could say.

“When?” Hamlin asked. His voice was shaky.

“Dad just called, but I guess some people walking the shoreline found him about a half hour ago.”

“Where's your dad?” Hamlin asked.

“Having dinner with O'Reilly and some of the media people.”

“Where did they go?” she asked.

“Where'd they go?” Ben looked down at his bare feet and seemed to ponder the question. “Probably Damien's or Rosie's Diner.”