Trifecta (95 page)

N
akamura was hurt badly enough that when Tom Mitsuto told
him to lie down on his couch for a minute he went directly to sleep.  He was out
for a few minutes and then he was aware of someone disturbing him, shaking him,
screaming in his ear.  An enormously fat man stood above him and yelled, holding
him by the shoulder and violently jolting him.  It was a doctor Tom Mitsuto had
called from next door.

The fat doctor made Nakamura limp around Tom Mitsuto's
living room to make sure he was ambulatory.  Then he took Nakamura's pulse and coaxed
him into drinking several glasses of water.  They switched to what seemed like gallons
of coffee.  The doctor told Nakamura he might have a slight concussion, but he
was fine except for several abrasions on both knees and his left elbow.  His left
ankle was swollen and sprained.  The doctor's prescription was rest and fluids for
the next few hours.

Nakamura's cloths were torn and filthy and he felt like
he had been clobbered by a mack truck, which then smashed his body.  He was sore
from the explosion which blasted him onto hard concrete; movement rapidly becoming
stiff in the bruised areas.  The doctor patted him very heavily on the back with
hands as big as baseball gloves.  Nakamura coughed at the onslaught, which made
the pain in his head blaze.

The doctor had a black bag with him and he took out a syringe
and started to take off the cellophane wrapping.

"What's that?" Nakamura asked.

"Antibiotics.  You have some deep abrasions."

The needle struck home almost painlessly in his shoulder
muscle.  The big doctor was actually very delicate with a needle.

"The car was flaming like a torch," Tom Mitsuto
was explaining to the doctor, who was feeling Nakamura's forehead, then checking
his reflexes, tapping with a small mallet below his knees.  The big man nodded and
murmured with satisfaction when Nakamura kicked him.

As Tom went on telling the doctor about discovering Nakamura
on the roadside, Nakamura's mind saw a picture of the large limousine as a flaming
torch.  He thought of a lightening bolt hitting Heather.  The thoughts connected. 
He knew what happened was not a normal event. 

Nakamura thought again of the lightening bolt.  Suddenly
he felt sure Michelle was in danger.  He had to get back to Waikiki and find her. 
She could be safe in the hotel room he had rented for her.  He knew that rationally. 
But irrationally he knew she wasn't there.  She had gone off and done something
dangerous.  He tried to avoid thinking she had done something stupid, but unfortunately
he knew she was no coward and would probably try to take on Omar herself.  She was
angry enough at what Omar had done to Heather to go off and confront him alone.

The doctor led Nakamura into Tom's bathroom and began cleaning
the cuts and contusions.  As he did so, Nakamura kept insisting he had to borrow
Tom's car and go back to Waikiki.  He could see Tom and the doctor looking significantly
at each other in the mirror over the sink, but he was too upset to understand their
silent pantomime.  He was also appalled by the sight of his own face in the bathroom
mirror.  No vision at any time, he believed, with the red hair and freckles, he'd
had a lot of flesh removed over his right cheekbone from the accident.

The doctor took a syringe out of his black bag and gave
Nakamura another shot.  This one hurt because the doctor seemed to be hurrying. 

"That shot will calm you down.  You have to rest,"
the big man was saying, bruising him again with friendly pats.

"No," Nakamura was insisting.  He turned to Tom. 
"It's imperative.  I have to take your car.  Go back into Waikiki."  Even
as he said those words he could feel a cool breeze of calm entering his mind, blowing
anxiety away.  A lovely warm lethargy overcame his body.  Both mind and body were
absolutely and alarmingly insisting on sleep. 

In the next few minutes, as the doctor scrubbed gravel
from his knee and thigh, the urge to sleep became almost overwhelming.  He tried
to fight it as the doctor led him back to the couch in the living room.  He was
staggering and fell down heavily on the couch, sound asleep.

T
he water was shockingly cold when Michelle dropped
limply into the ocean.  The distance she fell caused her body to plunge underwater
like a stone.  She had just been awakening, feeling that awful pin-pricking sensation
of stirring nerve endings.  The tingling sensation was increased by a beating vibration,
which had been a sound in her ears and the feeling of throbbing movement.  Then
she was dumped into the sea.

Her legs automatically kicked her toward the surface and
her arms made vague pushing movements against the resistance of the cold water. 
She was disoriented, the last thing remembered being green gas pouring from the
heating vent in her apartment.  She thought the prickling sensation in her limbs
must be from some sort of nerve gas she was recovering from.  Now the cold water
had jolted her into ultra-consciousness, awake and tingling.

She was alive, she thought, as she broke the surface and
tried to breath.  There was blackness before her eyes.  She couldn't take a breath,
although she knew her head was out of the water.  She started to panic, then realized
it was her own hair covering her face preventing breath and sight.  She frantically
pushed the thick veil aside, took a deep breath, and decided she might as well be
dead.  There was no light of civilization anywhere, just the ocean in all directions,
forever.

Michelle looked up and saw primeval, cold pinpoints of
light.  An almost full moon lit large swells that moved her up and down gently,
appearing like a thick black undulating gelatinous mass.  There were no waves, she
was too far from land for that.  Above her she could hear the rotary blade of the
helicopter.  It dove lower, with a buzz and frightful wind frothing the top of the
water.

She heard a loud splash and couldn't believe her eyes. 
The professor, Vincent, was suddenly in the water about fifty feet from her, flailing
awkwardly.  He had been dropped in along with her.  She started swimming toward
him, so angry now that a surge of adrenalin made her feel strong and powerful. 
That damn, horrible man had dropped them both far out to sea.  This was supposed
to be her Trial-by-Water, or some such utter nonsense. It was absolutely unbelievable. 

Michelle toed off her tennis shoes and imagined them falling
to a depth of miles underwater, nibbled at by sea creatures.  The thought made her
shiver, more from fright at the awful plight she was in than the surprising coldness
of the water's temperature.  She wondered if there were sharks out this far.  Then
she stopped thinking.  She had to.  Those kinds of thoughts would just panic her. 
Naturally, she next wondered if she had blood on her anywhere.  Sharks were supposed
to be able to smell minuscule amounts of blood for miles.  Of course she did.  And
Vincent did too.  They both had bleeding cuts from the glass that had exploded in
her apartment.  She tried to put that thought out of her mind, but every strange
ripple looked like a shark fin.  At least there were no great whites in this tropical
climate, but the water felt freezing just the same.

When she crested a swell, moments later, turning around
and around frantically, attempting to see something, anything, to save her, she
finally did see distant lights.  She could make out a shore line, too, in the moonlight. 
Then the ocean dropped her down into a trough again and she could see nothing. 
In space this big she would have to be careful to keep sighting the land and not
go off blindly in the wrong direction.  She might very well miss the island entirely. 

Michelle turned over on her back and tried to get star
positions to help her.  Polynesians had used the stars and moon to navigate 2,000
miles, clear across the oceans.  She only had to get to one little island.  Gazing
upward she saw the damned helicopter, red and white lights blinking merrily, zooming
off toward shore.

As she approached Vincent, Michelle could tell he would
never make it on his own.  He was already wasting an enormous amount of energy just
keeping his head above water.  So that fucking Omar had tried to present her with
a moral dilemma, as well.  She could probably make it, just barely on her own power. 
Dragging Vincent along would probably kill them both.  Her desperation to live,
an integral force of life, made her wonder if she could leave him.  She believed
she could swim the miles to shore. 

"You'll have to go for help," Vincent gasped,
when she was close enough to hear him.  Even talking seemed to take reserves of
strength he couldn't afford.  He slipped all the way under for a moment.  Then he
popped up again.  "I'll tread water and wait here.  Can't swim."

He was making it easy for her to leave him, probably on
purpose.  He could never tread water long enough for an eventual and dubious rescue. 
She found it both endearing and heroic.  He wasn't panicking, screaming or crying,
or even trying to grab hold of her, any of which behaviors would be understandable
in someone far out at sea who couldn't swim a stroke. 

Michelle decided she would never leave him, even if they
both drowned.  The hell with Omar and his deadly games.  He wasn't just a warlock,
or a necromancer, he was a bloody sadist.  And who would believe her tales anyway,
if she related attempts to kill her best friend, of poison gas, of giant bugs and
stolen money.  She would be deemed a lunatic if she even breathed a word of it. 
Not even mentioning the facts concerning rape, murder, slavery, and wealth built
upon the selling of illegal drugs passed off as herbal witch's potions. 

"Can you float?" Michelle asked, reaching out
to hold up his chin.

Vincent nodded vigorously, "I'm an excellent floater." 
He turned over on his back to demonstrate.  She supported his back and noted he
was portly enough that the avowal was true.  Fat floats, as it is lighter than water.

"You still have your shoes on.  And take your pants
off too," Michelle said.  Her shirt was clinging to her and she unbuttoned
and struggled out of it, watching it sink.

Michelle thought better of it when Vincent let go of his
pants.  She had to dive for them.  She removed the belt and buckled it into a loop,
keeping afloat by the strength of her legs alone.  The belt wouldn't be long enough
for her to pull him.  She was wearing jeans and took them off too, removing the
belt.  Both belts hooked together might be adequate.

She tried to pull the belt with Vincent hanging on, but
he couldn't float that way and she was actually forcing him under the water.  Then
she had him float on his back with both arms over his head holding onto the belt,
and started pulling him.  It worked, but it was almost impossible to swim with only
one arm.  She noticed the uneven pull was making her head off slightly in the wrong
direction.

All the while, Vincent was trying to convince her leave
him and swim to shore by herself.  Michelle didn't say anything.  She didn't have
the energy, or the breath, and she had made up her mind.  Omar was not going to
win this one.  She could never live with herself if she left the professor alone
to drown in the ocean.

Finally, Michelle put the loop of belt over her head and
between her teeth.  It freed her arms so that she could swim and pull Vincent along. 
She tried a slow breast stroke, keeping her head out of the water, so she wouldn't
bob up and down and pull him under.  She felt like a horse with a bit in its mouth. 
Pain began to burn almost immediately in the back of her neck from the effort and
she couldn't close her mouth entirely, so she kept getting trickles of cold salt
water down her throat, but they were finally making progress.

After an interminable time, she felt the belt go slack
and turned around, afraid Vincent had let go.

"Does it help if I kick?"

Michelle took the belt out of her mouth.  "I think
it would help a lot."

"Good."

"Don't tire yourself out, though," Michelle said,
resuming again.  But Vincent's kicking was an enormous help, even though they kept
bumping into each other until they got the rhythm right.

Michelle was surprised to find that even in this dire circumstance
she was furious that Omar had taken away her decision about whether to go and see
Nakamura tonight.  She knew, deep in her heart, that she would have gone.  Now she
didn't have that choice.  She was so mad she could almost cry.  If she ever got
to shore it would be a miracle, notwithstanding sharks and the burden of pulling
Vincent, just the physical feat itself would take hours.  Nakamura would think she
had just brushed him off; that the physical mating had not touched her emotionally
in any way.  It was so sad. 

Omar had already ruined her life by the monstrous attack
in Las Vegas.  He seemed intent on keeping it ruined, now that she had friends and
a job she loved, and had also kicked her problem with alcohol and her fear of men. 
She knew now that she could freely have a physical relationship with a man if she
chose to.  Which was the problem.  She realized, at this belated time, and maybe
too late because they might never make it to shore, that she didn't want to have
a relationship with anyone but Nakamura.

Michelle decided she would have to convince Nakamura that
he could be her boss.  She also had to convince him to let her go to Tokyo.  She
promised herself that she would put everything into that relationship if she could
just get to the island.  Maybe she really was in love with Nakamura, but she knew
she had to give them a chance.  Heather had been right.  She couldn't let her pride
get in the way at this point.  It would have to take a disaster like this to make
her realize it, she thought, getting furious all over again.

Vincent had a waterproof watch and he made her take breaks
every twenty minutes.  They would lie on their backs and look at the stars.  At
one point, during one of the breaks, Michelle couldn't remember which one she was
so exhausted, Vincent started talking.

"We can put Mr. Satinov in prison for a long time."

"How?"

"I have a tape.  The hypnosis session I did with Suzanne. 
After she was drugged, raped and tortured.  If I can deprogram her, get her to relate
the truth of what's on that tape, at least he'll be thrown in jail for a few years."

"He'll be waiting for us when we get to shore,"
Michelle warned.  "I think he meant for you to die out here, so you could never
tell what happened to Suzanne.  You know too much about him.  He might kill her,
too."

On another break, while they were both floating, Vincent
said.  "We can't let him realize I made it.  If he's waiting, I'll stay in
the water.  You'll have to convince him I drowned."

"Why?"  Michelle almost didn't care.  Her arms
and legs felt dead.  Her neck was a mass of pain and she was dying of thirst from
the exertion.  Surrounded by water and she was going to dehydrate and probably die. 
The trickles of salt water she had swallowed only made matters worse.  She was nauseous
and felt like she might throw up at any time.  That could be disastrous.  Control
of the body, swimming or even floating, while regurgitating was almost impossible. 
So was taking breaths between spasms.  She could throw-up, inhale ocean water and
be unable to recover.  She was very depressed.

"You get out and I stay in.  When it's safe, I'll
swim in and go and get help."

Michelle almost laughed.  She was wondering how she could
actually get Vincent to shore.  It was calm here and pretty safe for floating. 
"That shoreline ahead isn't Waikiki.  There are big breakers."

"I can dog paddle and float," Vincent said. 
"I'll make it.  I'm used to being in the water, now.  If I can't get help,
I will kill him myself.  For what he's done to you and Suzanne."

"Time to go," Michelle said, turning over and
putting the loathsome belt back into her mouth.  She couldn't imagine the pudgy
scholarly Vincent hurting a flea, let alone trying to take on a physically powerful
man like Omar.

"No.  You go ahead.  I'll stay."

Michelle almost started crying.  Her face was wet with
salt water and she couldn't feel tears.  She couldn't argue.  She was too damn
tired.  "Okay.  When we get to shore we'll do as you say."

"Good."  Vincent grabbed the belt and started
kicking.