The Green Room (19 page)

“For what it's worth, I thought Nahoa used terrible judgment.” The anger in her voice surprised her, but DeSilva just shrugged.

“Most people did,” he said. “But Evie was part of the act, and by the time I found out, it was too late to do anything about it. The little guy was on his way, and he needed a family to love. Why not us?” This time, his smile held a touch of sadness.

Storm wondered about DeSilva's wife, Evie's mother. Warren hadn't said anything about her, and Storm hadn't seen anyone else at the house.

As if he knew her thoughts, DeSilva spoke again. “My wife died in a traffic accident when Evie was five. My brother and sister live on Maui, so it was just the two of us most of the time.”

“Still, it must be hard for you and Evie to have a baby around.”

DeSilva squinted toward the edge of the beach, where two contestants gathered their gear to head into the waves. A shout had gone up from the crowd, and Storm noticed that Kimo Hitashi, who had been with Goober yesterday, was now paired with the tall Australian Pua had just interviewed.

“You know, she was never good at school before,” DeSilva continued. “Her grades have been better since Sparky was born. Like she's starting to see a reason for it.”

“What about Nahoa? Did he accept any responsibility?”

Storm had been carefully watching DeSilva for his reply, so when his eyes slipped from her own gaze to something behind her head, she turned, though she sensed he was relieved at the distraction.

Goober was stomping toward them, and the scowl on his face would distract most people. He still wore the board shorts she'd seen that morning and had added a faded red sweatshirt to counteract the chilly day. His dreads were more matted than usual, and the wind, which swept from behind him, carried unwashed body odor. His arms were rigid and his hands clenched into fists. Though she and DeSilva stood shoulder to shoulder, Goober's stare bore into Storm. So intense were his emotions, and unwavering was his focus, that she doubted he even saw DeSilva.

He marched right up to her. “Better watch yourself,” he said and grabbed her arm. He shoved something into her hand, then shot a quick glance over his shoulder. Without another word, he dashed away from the water, toward the tree line and beach homes.

Chapter Thirty-four

O'Reilly finished sorting out Gordon, his former colleague from KZXM TV. Honestly, why would the man think a national audience would be interested in a local memorial service for the two dead surfers? Hell, he'd straightened him out on that sappy idea, then sent him off to do some surfer interviews. That's where the juice was. In fact, the idea had come to him while they stood there. One of KZXM's competitors had zoomed in on a babe's tattoo—across her nearly bare ass—and it had given him an idea. One of the girls in the local pizza joint had told him that Sunny, Nahoa Pi‛ilani's girlfriend, was a big name on the women's circuit. So he'd sent Gordon off to talk to her on camera. People would eat it up. Good grief, the woman was gorgeous, a champion surfer, AND her celebrity boyfriend had just died doing the sport he loved. What a story.

Gordon trotted off with his panting cameraman in tow. Next conversation, he'd have to tell him to lay off the hairspray. Looked like a Viking in a fucking helmet. It was bad enough he wasn't a natural blond.

Sunny, a girlfriend, and a man O'Reilly didn't recognize all stood shoulder to shoulder, binoculars growing out of their faces. The guy was too pale to be a surfer, plus he walked with a limp. Maybe he was a relative from the mainland. And whoa, there was Ben, about twenty feet away from them. Where was Barstow, anyway?

“Hey,” O'Reilly shouted, when he finally caught sight of his partner, face to face with fucking Goober again. Poor kid was still trying, but he had to hand it to Barstow on this one. The guy treated the young man with more patience than he would have been able to dredge up. For crying out loud, the little prick had blown it himself, after they'd given him the chance of a lifetime. Handed it to him on a platter, just for doing them a few favors. Barstow might not even know about some of the favors O'Reilly had asked of the kid. Still, Barstow treated him with respect.

Barstow's expression was pretty grim when O'Reilly finally got his attention. He shrugged and turned his palms up in the universal, “What am I to do?” gesture, and made his way toward the media hut.

“Over there,” O'Reilly shouted again and pointed to Ben, who was talking to Pua Pi‛ilani. Christ, what the fuck was she doing here? O'Reilly felt his face flush and forced himself to take a deep breath. She was doing surfer interviews, too. And he knew the station she worked for had as much pull, or more, than KZXM. She was a lot easier to look at than Gordon, too. Fuck.

O'Reilly would have to deal with Pua later. He mouthed “Ben,” and pointed again. No one could hear over the racket of the surf, helicopters, and PA system, which blatted and crackled. He needed to get a technician to look into that problem, too.

Barstow finally saw where O'Reilly pointed and veered off to intercept his son. O'Reilly could see a mixture of relief and frustration on his face. Barstow loved that kid, and he must have been worried as hell last night. That morning, in the short time they'd had together before the Kayama woman and Goober showed up, he'd related how Stephanie had shown up at his house.

O'Reilly had seen the fear in Barstow's eyes and deep lines of fatigue that bracketed his mouth. In fact, the thought had gone through his mind that Barstow might actually still care for Stephanie. Nothing he'd said, just a niggling suspicion.

Whatever, O'Reilly was himself relieved that Ben stood there on the beach, the big gun his dad had bought him for the contest propped beside him. One of Mo‛o Lanipuni's special designs, a primo board. There was Gabe Watson, too, never far away from anyone with a microphone. Or a beautiful woman, O'Reilly thought with a surge of emotion he couldn't identify.

A roar from the crowd distracted O'Reilly. Jesus, Kimo Hitashi was having a spectacular ride. O'Reilly shouted at a nearby cameraman, a fellow with a tripod and a huge lens. “You getting that?”

The guy didn't answer, which was a good thing. He was too busy getting footage. O'Reilly held his breath and watched Kimo's maneuvers. He couldn't help being captivated. What a sport! They'd have it on ESPN this evening, by God. Even more sponsors would get on board. This was turning out just as he'd hoped and prayed. He only had a few loose ends and another day to keep up this momentum.

Then he'd pay attention to some personal issues he hadn't had time to deal with. Women, for one. And Goober. He was a good kid, but he was getting kind of wacky.

Chapter Thirty-five

“What the hell?” DeSilva said, watching Goober's disappearing back. “That kid getting so
pupule
. What'd he give you?”

“Keys.” Storm stared at the item in her hand. “To my house.”

“You just notice?”

“The Honolulu one. They were in my purse.”

DeSilva frowned at her. “How'd he get 'em?”

“I'm not sure,” Storm said. Unless he was the person who broke into the cottage. But why would he return them? And in this manner?

“I better find out,” she said, looking around for Hamlin. Hamlin, who stood with Dede and Sunny about thirty yards away, lowered his binoculars. Their eyes met.

“I'm going after Goober,” she shouted, and pointed toward the trees. A gust of wind, crowd noise, and static from the loudspeaker system whipped away her words. She looked in the direction Goober had gone, then at DeSilva.

“Will you tell him?” she asked DeSilva. “Tell that man I'll be right back.”

Storm kicked off her rubber slippers so she could run more easily, and headed away from the swarm of people on the beach. Spectators were still arriving, and Storm made her way against the flow, weaving among the beach-chair, mat-schlepping individuals who staggered in after having to hike along the highway for at least a mile.

A low beach scarp, left by the combination of high surf and receding tide, slowed her down a bit. To save time, Storm tried to climb right up the face, and the two-foot soft sand cliff collapsed and carried her back with it. The incoming stragglers avoided this pitfall, and headed for a shallower slope. Since the mini-avalanche had already come to rest, she clambered up the rise on her second try and trotted across an apron of deep sand to a wide-leafed ground cover.

Most of the arrivals got to the beach via a sandy path that was a public access, but Goober had taken a less-traveled route. Storm saw movement some distance away, in the private space between two large beach homes. It was the combination of the faded red sweatshirt and blond hair that caught her eye. If he hadn't turned to watch his former partner's progress into the water, he would have been long gone, but he stood with a hand shading his eyes and a droop to his shoulders.

Though she wanted to confront him with how he'd had possession of her keys, she also felt a surge of pity for the young man, so she stopped and observed him for a moment. She'd grown up with kids like him. There had been a boy in the tenth grade whose parents were notorious drunks, and who came to school with bruises, cuts, and one time, a black eye. He'd been a surfer, too.

The kid Storm had known had won local events and eventually dropped out of school and moved somewhere—word was he'd gone to Australia with the World Surfing Tour. Storm hoped so.

She could understand Goober's disappointment. Not only was surfing the ultimate in cool for his peers, it took balls the size of coconuts to face waves like Goober did yesterday. Surfing like that demanded respect, no matter what your family life or income level might be.

But Storm doubted he gave himself any credit for having braved yesterday's challenge. He would want at least enough points to rise above his existing anonymity.

She would bet that Goober had been counting on the Intrepid to carry him out of the mire of mediocrity and hopelessness that had probably dogged him all his life. A chance like this didn't come often.

How often do people like Goober hear the word no, Storm thought. No job, no credit, no down payment, no car, no hope. She'd felt the same bleakness she saw in him, before Miles Hamasaki had given her a shove and powerful encouragement—along with trust, maybe the most potent boost she'd ever had.

Barstow had told Goober he was out of the Intrepid. His chance, however he had come by it, was
pau,
gone with one ill-timed fade on a treacherous wave. And though Storm thought Barstow had done his best to be gentle, he'd done it in front of her, which had to hurt Goober even more. O'Reilly had also witnessed the rejection, and had done nothing to defend the kid.

Consequently, Storm stood for a few seconds and observed Goober watching his own partner catch a gorgeous wave. Experience, strength, courage, and athleticism all play a part in a surfer's performance, but Lady Luck also has her role. Picking the right wave, and then having it turn out to be even better than anticipated, can catapult a surfer to greatness. Kimo Hitashi had one.

Kimo's first cutback brought a round of applause from the audience. Then the young man, his feet solidly in the foot straps, rocketed down a twenty-foot face. At that speed, ripples acted like ramps, and even from where she stood, Storm could see Kimo and his board bounce along the surface of the water, getting at least six feet of air. When he landed in a crouch, he took stock of his position and seized the opportunity to fade up the wave and disappear into the tube.

Storm and every other spectator froze, riveted on how, when, and if the speck-sized human would emerge. Time slowed. Storm held her breath, unable to tear her eyes from the thundering mass of water.

And Kimo appeared, a mote of yellow, careening on the oblique across the slope of a mountain that began to fold in on itself. But he was ahead of the closeout. And his teammate, the Australian, was already revving the powerful PWC through the boiling soup left in the wave's wake. A roar went up from the crowd, a bellow that carried over the helicopters and blaring PA systems to Storm and Goober. Storm, her mouth still agape, turned her gaze to Goober.

His posture was straighter, and he held a fist in the air. A reflex of triumph, a cheer for his partner, for the ride Goober had himself wanted so badly.

The breath caught in Storm's throat at Goober's uninhibited and selfless reaction. She shouted to him, but her voice was swallowed by the wind and surf. Though she wondered if he hadn't paused for a split second, he turned and dashed through the trees and hedges that separated the two beach houses.

Storm sprinted after him. Her feet sank in deep sand for another thirty yards before she got to a ground cover of lantana, ironwood needles, and a harder packed surface. By then, she was between the two dwellings and out of sight of the beach. On her left was a low fence, whose function was to impede drifting sand, and several dense hibiscus and oleander bushes. On her right was the wrap-around lanai to the nearest house, which showed all the signs of an unoccupied vacation home. Draperies covered all the big, sliding glass doors and picture windows. A couple of wood chaises sat forlornly on the lanai, their cushions stowed until the owner's next visit.

Storm stopped and looked around. She also used the moment to catch her breath and knock the hard little round seeds from the ironwood trees from beneath her toes. She had a nasty bruise on the bottom of one heel, which made stepping directly on it painful.

She brushed at a cut on the ball of her foot, where sand adhered to the beads of blood.

Gusts of wind still loosened strands of her hair, but she was more protected here by the rise of the beach and the house than she had been down by the water. A line of trees and sprawling philodendra blocked her view of the highway, which passed about two hundred secluded yards from her. Goober was nowhere in sight.

Wait, had a curtain twitched on the second floor? Storm had the uncomfortable feeling that she was being watched. She looked around, pivoting slowly in the sand.

The windows on the higher story were mostly large casements, completely draped. There were some wood louvered windows on the bottom floor, next to several large sliding glass doors, also curtained. All the doors and windows appeared to be closed, so she doubted that a breeze had stirred anything inside the house.

It must have been her imagination, or a spark of paranoia, but she still felt as if someone was nearby. She swallowed. Even the little hairs on the back of her neck began to stand on end.

Though she hadn't heard anything she could pinpoint, Storm wheeled to see if anyone stood behind her. Before she could complete the turn, she felt a sharp jab under her left shoulder blade.

A shock followed, so powerful that all her muscles contracted, then went into spasms. Her jaw clamped tightly and her teeth painfully bit into the side of her tongue. The sinews of her neck contracted, and her eyes, beyond the scope of conscious direction, rolled back in her head. On some level, she knew that she was getting an electric shock, and that she'd fallen onto the sand. But any conscious thoughts were overwhelmed with the knowledge that her limbs stiffened and twitched, completely beyond her control. Her heart pounded with terror and confusion.

Struggling against the effects of the shock, she found she could roll her eyes. Who was doing this to her? She was just beginning to regain control of her neck muscles when another shock convulsed her. A part howl, part squeal escaped her, then a white cloth covered her face.

Storm's muscles couldn't respond to her brain's signals, though she wanted to hold her breath. Her gasps were a reflex, beyond her conscious control. She knew that cloying chemical odor. Ether, a common solvent and powerful anesthetic.

Blackness rolled over and around her, enfolding her in a mantle of nauseating oblivion.