Storm Kayama looked at the sticky linoleum floor of the car rental shack and remembered the legend of Māui, the Hawaiian god and mischief maker, and how he’d lassoed the sun to nourish the land. Right then, she thought he’d overdone it. It was way too hot for a Wednesday in April. It didn’t help that the Kahulului car rental office was packed and the air conditioning broken. In the stillness, no relief came through the propped-open doors.
Ahead of Storm in line, two parents and three of their children sagged against the rental counter and complained to the very young and very pregnant clerk. The fourth, a droopy-diapered tyke of about two sauntered up and down the line, scrutinizing the overheated customers with black eyes that dared anyone to meet them. Most people stared ahead, but Storm grinned at the kid, and wondered if it was a boy or a girl.
“Lexie,” barked the mother, who turned from the counter. The woman’s face glowed with heat and exasperation.
Lexie ignored her mom and stopped next to Storm. Was Lexie a girl’s name or a boy’s? In one hand, a paper cone of melting shave ice dripped virulent pink liquid onto the kid’s toes. Ant battalions queued up across the grubby linoleum.
Storm broke eye contact with the toddler and shoved back damp, wavy strands of dark hair that had sprung free of her French braid. Everyone in line drooped with heat, and Lexie’s feet made sucky sounds in the growing pink puddle. Ants, single-minded in their mission, outlined the nectar like someone had used a black pen.
The pregnant clerk, whose belly pulled the flowers on her company mu‘umu‘u into amorphous blobs, had been explaining something to the family in a low voice, but now her whisper carried. “…are all blocked, anyway.” Everyone in line leaned forward.
“Eh? The roads are blocked?” asked a man in front of Storm.
“That’s what they’re saying,” said the clerk.
“All of them?” asked someone behind Storm.
“That’s what I hear.” The pregnant girl fanned herself with a rental contract.
“What happened?” Storm asked. From a couple miles away, the whine of sirens carried on the still air.
“I’m not sure—” the girl began, but the staccato snap of leather heels distracted her. Her eyes flitted to the door, and she ruffled through a stack of contracts resting on the countertop.
A woman in a navy suit and matching navy mid-heeled pumps marched up to the clerk. Four men, dressed in the masculine version of her outfit, followed. All of them wore Ray Bans. Their heels tapped their significance to the peons in line.
Lexie watched, mouth agape. Everyone in line bristled. The pregnant clerk fumbled a pile of keys and the waiting papers into the suited woman’s outstretched hands. The suit veered away, with the four men following behind like imprinted ducklings.
The line of homogenous agents reminded Storm of the ants, except crisis was the agents’ puddle of nirvana. And that meant there was a mountain of misery out there for someone. Without realizing it, Storm touched the emerald-eyed pig that hung on a gold chain on her neck. He was her ‘aumakua, or family totem, and Aunt Maile had given it to her for luck a few years ago.
One by one, the customers got their cars. The family obtained the van they needed. The mom scooped Lexie up and jammed a flowered pink elastic headband on her shining scalp. Lexie howled.
The man in front of Storm asked about the blocked roads. Now that the Feds had come and gone, the pregnant clerk was happy to chat. “An explosion in Kahului. Madelyn—you know—the sales manager over at Avis, said someone died. Might be a terrorist attack.”
“Who were the suits?” Storm asked when she got to the counter.
“A federal task force.”
“Makes sense if they’re worried about terrorism.”
“It’s scary, isn’t it?” The young woman didn’t sound scared. “Row three, stall eleven. Good luck.”
It only took two blocks for Storm to realize that she’d need that luck. No one was going anywhere fast. It was after five, rush hour, and cars were lined up as far as she could see.
Up to now, she’d been looking forward to the trip. She had a handful of paying clients on Maui, which was a gorgeous place to visit. The most intriguing was a job incorporating and overseeing liability issues regarding a new dive shop. The owner, a minor celebrity, had called out of the blue because a friend of a friend had recommended Storm’s services. Word of mouth was a strong persuader in the islands.
Lara Farrell’s name had sounded familiar to Storm, and the minute she’d hung up the phone with her new client, Storm Googled her. Sure enough, six or seven years ago, Lara made a name for herself in the windsurfing world. Maui’s north shore beaches were among the world’s most ideal sites, and Lara had been an internationally known competitor. She stopped suddenly five years ago, and though Storm spent almost two hours on the Internet (how did it gobble so much time?), she couldn’t figure out why Lara had quit. She did find a reference to Lara’s temper, however. Not enough to scare Storm off; temperamental people were more apt to annoy Storm than scare her.
She flipped through radio stations, searching for a news report that would explain the traffic jam. An explosion had occurred in a restaurant that morning, and streets were still jammed. Probably not an international terrorist, Storm thought, but crazy people are everywhere.
A tickling sensation bothered the back of her head, and Storm looked around at the other idling cars. Funny, she felt like she was being watched. But who could locate anyone in the parking lot that would normally be Dairy Road? There was a street cop, red-faced and sweating in his dark hat, uniform, and white gloves, a handful of pedestrians, and one brave or stupid bicyclist, who talked on his cell phone as he wove between cars.
Ahead of her, a child stared from the back window of a van. It was Lexie, who raised both hands to the window. Storm waved. Lexie frowned, then sat down. The feeling of being watched abated.
Storm sighed with exasperation, and crawled ahead. She hoped the car didn’t overheat. There was no way she was going to make her dinner date with her new client. Not even close.
***
Sergeant Carl Moana, Maui PD, didn’t flinch at the blaring horns. His face a ruddy mask, he stood his ground in the middle of the intersection at Dairy Road and Hana Highway. Ignoring the sweat trickling across his burning scalp, he kept one gloved palm toward Hana Highway and waved the other like a metronome at the endless procession of heat-radiating, fuming vehicles that crept toward him.
His brain, however, raced like the engines that revved in frustration. Why were the police blocking all the streets leading into town? Every citizen in Wailuku and Kahului combined, all thirty thousand of them, seemed to be on the road. His nine-year-old could roller blade faster than these cars were moving. These people just wanted to get home for dinner. Plus, the top of his navy blue cap felt like a steam iron sat on it.
He was blocks from the explosion, which took out the side of the Blue Marine, a restaurant that was usually only open evenings for fine dining. Odd that they’d been serving breakfast, and certainly not to the general public. But he knew one thing: the worse the problem, the tighter the lid on the matter. There hadn’t been a press release yet, and people were clamoring for news. As a result, the coconut wireless hummed. At least one person had died, maybe two. Word on the street had it that the dead guy was a contact for the Yakuza. He was also a member of the Maui Department of Liquor Control.
Moana knew better than to take gossip at face value. Someone else said that ATF, FBI, and representatives from the U.S. Attorney’s office were on the way from Honolulu. His mouth twitched with that thought. Good luck if they were driving from the airport.
Sweat coursed down the side of Moana’s face. But it wasn’t just the navy blue uniform that cranked up the heat. Though Moana had trained for explosions, he’d never had to deal with one.
Just last week, his wife had sewn the third stripe on his sleeve, and they’d put their three kids to bed, drunk Korbel from jelly glasses, laughed, and made love. He’d studied hard for the sergeant’s exam. And he wanted to work on this new crisis, but knew he had no connections. He had no relatives on the force or uncles in government. Kahului wasn’t even his regular patrol district. Working overtime directing traffic was as close as he was going to get to this emergency. Especially since the federal heavies were on the way.
And what if the rumors of terrorism were accurate? It was a damn scary thought. Here on quiet, friendly Maui? What was going on?
Despite his apprehension, Carl wanted to make a difference in his community. And he wanted his kids to go to college someday. He needed to be noticed; he needed to be on the inside of a big case.
***
The boss had been right, as usual. A bicycle was the way to go in this situation. The man sailed between the stalling, steaming cars. People were going to be steamed, too. He had what he’d come for; it was time to move out of this mess.
His mobile phone rang, and he dug it out of his shorts pocket. “She’s here. Avis rental, white Chrysler Sebring, license MBW 9453. She’s stuck along with the rest of these slobs.”
“She’s not a slob, she’s a pit bull. Don’t let the clothes or the free spirit act fool you.”
“Right, boss.” He hung up and avoided the rear bumper of a mini van. Some kid was leaving sticky hand prints all over the window. Slobs.