The Green Room (21 page)

Chapter Thirty-eight

“Hey, I've got you. Can you climb on?”

Storm squinted and coughed. Her lungs heaved, and the ocean surged around her, pelting her with droplets and foam. It was too bright, like she'd walked out of the theater in the middle of the day. Startling, too harsh. Cough, cough. The buzzing stink of an engine, too.

What was this guy doing to the back of her bathing suit, anyway? It's not a handle, for crying out loud. She felt like a hooked fish, and flopped an arm in his direction.

His voice cracked with urgency. “Help me out here, there's a set coming.”

Storm squinted up at him. “Goober? What're you doing out here? Hey, that hurts.” He was crushing her hand in his, trying to pull her arm out of its socket.

“Get on, Storm. Quick. We're going to get pushed onto the rocks.” He looked behind. “Hurry!”

Storm scrabbled for the hull of the jet ski, but her fingers still weren't at their best. She started to slide.

“Jesus,” Goober muttered, and scrabbled for one arm and whatever else he could grab. The big jet ski tipped while Goober snagged the back tie on Storm's bathing suit. It unfastened like the bow on a gift box, and Storm yelped with surprise.

“Good grief,” she sputtered as he hauled her up and left her sprawled face down like a set of saddlebags across the seat behind him.

In this position, she noticed the towering and jagged rock wall that loomed a mere foot from her face. Still not thinking clearly, she reached out in an instinctive attempt to shove the watercraft away from an imminent crash. At that moment Goober gunned the big engines, and Storm seized what was closest—a cleat and a foothold—to keep from flying off the back. Head down, flopping on her stomach like a beached tuna, she held on for a ride she couldn't see, and hoped she'd never experience again.

Goober wheeled the machine sideways and up while Storm held on for dear life with her hands and grappled with her feet for some kind of toehold on the craft's other gunwale. There was something attached to that side by a tight bungee, and she hooked one foot through the cord, though the other leg floundered.

By the howl of the engines and the angle of their climb, Storm could tell that the big Kawasaki was too close to the speeding wave to go directly over. Forget about trying to sit up now. She bounced on her stomach, glad it was empty, and prayed she could hold on while she watched her bathing suit top flop around her straining wrists. The triangular bra cups filled like little sails. If the situation hadn't been so desperate, the ridiculous banner would have cracked her up.

The powerful watercraft roared over three waves before Goober cut the throttle to a mere rocketing speed and reached back to grab Storm's nearest arm. “You can sit up now.”

“Right.” But she pushed herself up from her face-down position, somehow managing to keep one bathing suit strap hooked to her left wrist. She had to grab Goober's waist to get there, and he scrambled to help her by latching onto her left arm. They both watched the bra sail away.

“Oh, no,” Storm shouted above the rumble of the engines.

Goober pulled his wet and faded sweatshirt over his head and handed it back, but he kept his eyes out to sea. “We've got bigger problems.”

Storm followed his gaze. They did. Goober had managed to get them out of a partially protected rocky cove just in time to avoid being pounded against a craggy volcanic shelf. But the concept of protected was a relative term. The cove was dangerous with rebounding waves and currents and without any possible landing point. In order to get around the rocks and to an approachable beach, they had to go farther out to sea, into the really big stuff—the roiling stew of huge surf.

“Where are we?”

“Just north of Pupukea.”

Storm grabbed hold of Goober with one arm and a handle next to her seat with the other hand. The big machine roared out to sea, and Goober read the incoming swells as if he'd driven the City and County rescue watercraft before. She felt like hugging him with gratitude.

Instead, she hunkered down behind him, out of the wind. A hundred critical questions ran through her mind. When he got beyond the break zone and eased off the throttle, she couldn't hold back. “How'd you know where I was? Who put me there?”

“Let's get out of here first,” Goober said, and headed out toward a plain of white, breaking water without answering the questions. Engine noise made it impossible to talk, so Storm waited until he cut back on gas to get his bearings before she tried again.

“So who put me in that cave?” she asked over his shoulder, and readjusted her seat so that her leg fit around the surfboard lashed to the side of the jet ski.

Goober's shoulders seemed to droop a bit. “I'll tell you what I know when we get to shore. We don't have time to sit here. Conditions are getting worse, and I'm afraid we'll run out of gas.”

“What?” Storm nearly stood up on the back of the craft.

“Hey, I grabbed what I could. Took me a while to find you, too.”

“I know it. Thanks, I appreciate it.” He wouldn't look at her; his eyes scanned the shoreline.

“Where'd you get this machine?” she added.

“Stole it from City and County. I've got keys to one of their storage sheds.” She could just make out his words over the wind.

“I see.” Storm recalled that Sunny had mentioned he assisted Gabe unofficially. “The lifeguard fleet?” That explained the surfboard, which would be used for rescues.

“Yeah, I had to take what was left.”

“How'd you get the keys to my house?”

Goober gunned the motor. “We've got to move on.” He gave the big machine enough gas to send Storm sliding backward. She grabbed his waist, and noticed that he was covered with goosebumps. A shiver went through her, along with a surge of gratitude for not only Goober's efforts, but his sweatshirt. Though it was soaked, it still provided a layer of insulation.

She looked toward land and shouted into his ear, “You don't think we can get in here?”

Goober shook his head. “It's closed out. We'd better not chance it.”

Storm could see for herself. There was no place they could go in without being overcome by following surf, which barreled toward land faster than even the big Kawasaki could travel. There was also a powerful current that carried them parallel to shore, toward Waimea.

“We're near Pipeline. We don't want to get chewed up on those reefs,” Goober shouted. He gave the machine more fuel and headed downwind.

Storm huddled behind him and held on tight. She was tired, cold, and scared. Hamlin would be going crazy. The thought of how close she'd come to dying in the cave brought on a renewed fit of trembling.

Goober zoomed along a course parallel to the coastline. His head swiveled as he watched the incoming sea for unexpected swells and currents. From time to time, he stood to better see over the peaks and valleys of the heaving ocean.

Meanwhile, the watercraft climbed and plummeted like a chunk of driftwood in the huge swells, and her stomach rose and fell with it. When they dropped into a trough between waves, Storm would have believed they were a thousand miles from land. It was disorienting, dizzying.

They couldn't even see shore, nearly a half mile away, until they got to the top of a swell. When they did, everything from the sand to a quarter mile out to sea was solid whitewater.

Storm held on and stored up the questions she needed to ask Goober. Whoever had put her in the cave had killed Nahoa, she was certain. And Goober had known where the cave was. He'd suspected that she'd be there.

“Maybe we can get the attention of one of those choppers,” Storm shouted over his shoulder.

She felt, rather than heard, Goober grunt a reply over the noisy engines and whipping wind. All she could do was hold tight, her arms around his waist, while parts of his baggy sweatshirt filled with air and parts clung clammily to the rest of her body. She shivered, and tried to see the gauges on the machine.

Then she wished she hadn't. The gas level was in the red, though that included an entire quarter of a tank. Criminy, how fast did these things burn fuel? By the engine noise, she'd bet they weren't exactly the Sierra Club's top pick. Jesus, she had to hope Goober knew what he was doing.

He seemed to. They flew along, sometimes literally airborne, slapping back to the water's surface with jolts she could feel down her whole spine.

“How far away are the 'copters?” she yelled.

He had to turn his head, and the wind whipped his words toward her. “Nearly a mile, I think.”

“Do we have enough gas?” And she wished she hadn't asked, because his answer was a shrug that she could only feel. If they ran out of fuel here, they were motes in a vast sea. Their bodies wouldn't even be found.

So Storm settled into the rough ride and concentrated on moving with Goober, leaning when he did, hunching down to lessen the craft's wind resistance. Maybe they'd conserve fuel. She could only hope.

Meanwhile, her stomach lurched with the machine's pounding, screaming flight and sent pangs that she alternately interpreted as hunger and motion sickness. Or maybe it was just stress.

The helicopters loomed closer and Storm could see a basket dangling from the bigger one. A person wearing the brightly colored singlet of a surfer huddled in it.

“Surf may be closing out here, too,” Goober shouted over his shoulder. He slowed the machine to a throaty rumble. Storm was glad for a rest from the bone-jarring ride, but she wondered why he'd cut power, because the waves tossed and battered the machine when it wasn't moving forward.

She watched the helicopter rescue and swallowed hard. When a wave bore them high enough to see shore, she asked, “You think they're calling the meet?”

She couldn't see anyone, but she had the feeling she wouldn't be able to see a person in this sea until she was almost on top of him. She wondered if the helicopters could see the two of them.

“Maybe.”

That was not good news. “How far are we from the surfers?”

“A few hundred yards or so. You think you could drive this thing?” Goober asked.

“What? Are you nuts?”

She could feel a quiver go through Goober, and she hoped he was just cold.

“Look,” he said after a pause. “It'll go faster and use less gas with one person on it. I'm going to surf in.” He reached back and unfastened one end of the bungee that held the surfboard to the side of the craft. “It'll be lighter and easier to maneuver without the board, too.”

“We're almost out of gas?” Storm yelled to be heard over the roar of the ocean and the wind whipping around them. The Kawasaki sputtered and the surfboard began to slip from its perch.

“Close.”

“Oh, God,” Storm murmured.

Just as the surfboard splashed into the water, she snagged the leash attached to its tail. “I'm going to surf.”

Goober eyed the waves building on the horizon, and she realized he was either contemplating their chances or he was in shock. He looked very young to her right then.

“I've never driven one of these. You've got to take it,” she told him.

“I'm a better surfer.”

“You're supposed to keep your head dry.”

She didn't know what else to say. Never mind that they were both soaked and shivering. If she waited one more second, she'd chicken out. Goober had already rescued her from the cave, he deserved this chance.

She slid into the water and grabbed the board. “Don't argue, we don't have time. Now, get out of here.”

Goober stared at her, surprised. Then he tried to smile, but his lips had a bluish tinge and they seemed to stick to his teeth.

“You can ride the whitewater, you know,” he said.

“I know.” Both of them knew she couldn't. The surf was too big.

Goober paused one more second. “Go see O'Reilly.” He kept his eyes on the jet ski's controls.

“I'll see you when we get to shore. We'll both go. And send one of those helicopters after me.”

Goober looked up at the chopper with the basket, which was carrying its dangling passenger toward shore. “Right.”

Storm turned to fasten the surfboard leash around her ankle. The sweatshirt was heavy and weighed her down in the water, but she was cold and didn't want to take it off. She also didn't want him to see the fear that had to be all over her face. Even her movements felt jerky with it. She felt as if she were twelve again, in waves like the ones that had taken Bert Pi‛ilani's life.

The jet ski coughed, and Goober gave it a tiny bit of gas. It moved him about ten feet away, and he disappeared in the heavy seas.

Chapter Thirty-nine

Storm didn't watch him go. Instead, she examined the seas between herself and the strip of beach so far away. Sitting upright on the board and floating atop a wave, she caught a glimpse of a surfer about a hundred yards from where she floated.

That was where she needed to go. She needed to move to stay warm, plus she had to get to the lineup, which was not only where she'd find other people, but where the waves first hit the outer reef and changed to a shape that could be ridden. Goober had left her outside the break zone, but it was also an area where currents could carry her farther out to sea and down the coastline, where her chances of getting help would diminish.

Her wrists burned from their re-immersion in the sea and she shivered from cold. The ordeal in the cave had thoroughly chilled her. Storm began to paddle, partly to generate body heat. She was relieved to note that once she got moving, her arms loosened up and felt stronger. In some ways, it was good to get off the bouncing jet ski and into a medium that was more familiar.

She could no longer see Goober, nor could she hear the machine. She thought about his last look, though, and the admission that he'd broken into her house. Talk to O'Reilly, he'd said. So O'Reilly was behind the break-in? Goober had been living in his guest apartment, so maybe he'd felt a sense of obligation that extended to burglary. Which was stupid, and she'd tell him so later. In fact, she and Sunny would have to have a talk with him about his sense of obligation, or desperation, whichever it was. It was way too easy to become sucked into other people's deceptions, chicaneries, and rationalizations.

Storm found it easier to ponder these issues as she paddled than to think about the challenge that faced her. If she thought about the size of the waves around her, she'd be paralyzed with fear and hopelessness. No, it was better to think about Goober, O'Reilly, and Nahoa. Especially Nahoa, who had taught her some crucial concepts about surfing and the ocean.

She could tell she was getting closer to the break zone. Whenever she heard the roar of a breaking wave ahead of her, and felt the familiar clench of fear that coincided with the noise, she shook her arms out and forced the tension out of her shoulders and neck. By now, her neck was getting tired of its craned position, always trying to peer over the chop around her. From time to time, she sat up and waited for a swell to elevate her so she could see where she headed.

She wasn't far from the lineup, and she could see at least two heads still bobbing around in the water. If she could see two, there were probably more. Contest participants or not, these were maniac big-wave surfers, the kind who surfed to brush up to a power greater than one's self and who sought to test their own strength against dispassionate brute force. They were kindred souls with other athletic extremists—certain mountain climbers, scuba divers, pilots, and others who wanted to measure their courage, their skill, and their wits against the earth's might.

Nahoa may have fit into this group, but she didn't. And right now, she wanted to get to land so badly it nearly brought tears to her eyes. Yet she couldn't let herself think about her chances, or how cold she was, or even hope like crazy that Goober had been able to get to shore and send help.

She sat up on her board to shake the shivers out of her arms and roll the tension out of her neck. Good grief, there was Gabe Watson twenty yards away. He looked her way, then did a genuine double take. His mouth even dropped open. If Storm hadn't been stiff with cold and terrified, she would have laughed. But she wasn't amused, and he wasn't the kind of person she'd rely on for help. Better that she put some distance between them.

Not far away, a jet ski whined, but she couldn't see it in the troughs between the waves. She hoped it was Goober. At that moment, fear gripped her to the point that she wondered if she'd ever see Hamlin again. She shouted and waved in the direction of the noise, but it was too far away, and the sound of the engine faded without her ever catching sight of the machine.

She couldn't even see Gabe anymore. Instead, she pitched in the chop that covered the approaching swell. The jet ski had likely dropped a surfer onto a wave. Storm sat up and turned seaward to get a read on how big the approaching set might be and whether she was positioned where she wanted to be. Seas like this would move her quite a distance without her knowing, and the ocean could easily shift her into what surfers referred to as The Zone. This was the dreaded area landward of the break zone where there was no escape from the oncoming wave. In a second, she'd be caught in the rip current, too far inside to catch the wave, and not enough time to paddle over it. She'd get worked, pounded by tons and tons of water. Pushed all the way to the bottom.

The wave coming at her right now was a monster, the biggest she'd ever seen. Storm flopped down on her board and dug into the rising water with pumping arms. The wave was still growing, and her shoulders ached with the effort of getting to it. It was fast as a bullet train, and it was imperative that she get over it before the lip started to curl. Rising on its flank was like being on one of those outdoor elevators, where her ears popped twice before getting to the thirtieth floor.

The next second, it passed by her, and she tore down the backside. This plummeting swoop presented its own challenge, because the wind-generated chop threatened to jerk the board out from under her.

Storm extended an arm to slow and turn. She needed to watch the wave's progress toward shore, to get a read on the ocean's rhythm. At the same time, she took deep, even breaths and told herself not to be frightened. They couldn't all be that big. Aim for one wave, just one. But one that was smaller, perhaps nestled between the huge sets. One that she could ride to shore.

But the passing wave did what she'd most feared. It broke across the entire shore, all the way to Kalalua Point, which jutted more than a half mile to her right. The shoreline was closing out. There'd be no swimming around a wave that turned out to be bigger than she wanted. Once she got into the break zone, she'd be committed. There would be no bailing out, no avoiding the mountain that would either bear her on or beneath its thundering race to land.

Storm shuddered. If anyone had ridden that wave, and she couldn't see from where she sat, he'd have needed the slingshot action of a jet ski just to catch that rocket. Which was what tow-in surfing was all about. Storm had heard that the good tow-in surfers could swim five miles in the open ocean and hold their breath for more than two minutes in a roiling brew.

No, she'd have to bide her time, pick her progress. A swell bore her up to view the whitewater left behind by the wave. She was just in time to see a surfboard shoot twenty feet into the air, riderless, its broken leash trailing like fishing filament from a marlin.

The surfer hadn't appeared, and his partner zoomed back and forth, parallel to shore, waiting for the soup to subside enough to roar in on the jet ski. Just to get near where the surfer was last seen. She hoped he'd practiced holding his breath.

The helicopter, having dropped its last passenger on the sand, probably at the medical tent, was on its way to where the surfboard had popped out. Two more helicopters hovered, though they seemed focused on the whitewater, not in the break zone. Another shiver ran through Storm and she frantically waved both arms at the approaching chopper. But as she sank into the trough between swells, she saw the tail rotor pivot toward her. The pilot had turned away.

Storm suppressed a moan of despair. If Goober made it, she told herself, he would go for help. With the next swell, she scoured the whitewater for any sign of the his jet ski. But she only saw the one, pacing like a dog looking for its lost master.

Storm looked away. Right now, you're on your own. Get back to basics. Study the ocean. And most of all, stay calm. Remember Nahoa's advice. Number one was to relax and go with, rather than fight, the power of the water.

She had the feeling she was in a lull between sets of monstrous waves. Several minutes had elapsed where the distances between ups and downs in the cobalt depths hadn't seemed as dramatic. Storm repositioned herself and paddled in a bit closer to shore.

She shivered. Fatigue washed over her, and she noticed her fingers were numb again with cold. The rising wind whipped at her hair. Hawai‛i waters are warm compared to many other places, but people still suffer from hypothermia and exposure. It was easy to underestimate the effects of the temperate climate. It was balmy if you were hanging out at Waikiki Beach, but not on a mountain ridge, a lava flow, or in the ocean.

Storm had been in the water for hours. She didn't really know how long, and she pondered this fact with the same urgency that she usually remembered to make her annual dentist appointment. Oh yeah, it's that time again. It was her own reaction that clued her in to the fact that her emotions were no longer commensurate with her circumstances. This was a root canal, not a tooth cleaning. Creeping complacency showed degeneration in her judgment, which could be deadly.

She slipped off the board and ducked her head underwater to slick back her hair. The water, which was probably around 77° Fahrenheit, felt warm compared to the air, which was another sign she was chilled. It was time to go. She needed to sharpen up, pick her ride, and get set to make the drop on a wave bigger than anything she'd ever ridden.

The dip revived her. In fact, fear tightened her throat to the extent that it was hard to draw a deep breath. She slithered back onto the board and moved slowly into the break zone. She looked around for other surfers, but couldn't see any in her vicinity. She remembered how Gabe had dropped in on Sunny. He'd deliberately snaked her. Here, where the waves were bigger, dropping in would more likely happen by accident, for the simple fact that it was hard to see people. But accident or not, impacting another person with a heavy big wave surfboard, with its pointed tip, sharp skegs, and reinforced rails, could be fatal. Big wave boards were called guns for a number of reasons, and one of them was deadly speed.

Storm scanned the water again, but didn't see the telltale flash of colored singlet or board shorts, the splash of someone's arm or leg. One wave steamrolled by, and she tried to observe its form, which way it broke, and how the wind blew its curl. But they were moving fast, and were hard to read. Each wave looked different, and if she picked the wrong one, it could send her up a blind alley to a booming wall of water. Even the right choice was going to be a tough ride.

It happened before Storm intended. One moment, she was craning her neck to observe a wave form on her left. The next, her board was sucked up the face of a wave.