“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.