Time passed with agonizing slowness.
He couldn’t help feeling he should be doing more . . . faster.
CHAPTER 63
Jack forced the dread from his mind and focused on getting her to the boat. He was doing all he could for the moment. But it was small conciliation.
She still wasn’t breathing.
At the platform, he filled her lungs twice. And each time he turned his ear to her face and listened for a response. On the third attempt, she coughed and gagged up watery vomit with blood in it. He saw her blink away the fog of unconsciousness and puke up more red, watery vomit.
“That’s my girl,” he said. “Get it all up.”
The blood from her lungs concerned him. So did the gash in her arm.
Not expecting an answer, he unbuckled the aluminum air tank from her inflated vest and let it slip away in the current. Next, he lifted her onto the platform and stripped off his own dive equipment, including his fins, and heaved it onto the deck. When he was done with that, he climbed aboard.
It was a difficult task having to keep a grip on her at the same time, but that was the least of his worries. He leaned over the transom and lifted her onto the deck. The slight rise and fall of her breasts indicated she was taking shallow breaths. Alive. Though far from okay.
He needed to control the bleeding. And then get a rescue chopper there.
She had to hold on until help arrived.
He raced into the cabin and returned with a beach towel and a first-aid kit. Steeling himself to what he was going to see, he kneeled beside her and unzipped her wetsuit. He couldn’t help reminding himself how long it was taking him to get the bleeding controlled.
Not nearly fast enough.
Working as gently as possible, he peeled the nylon lined neoprene from her shoulders and arms, and pulled it down around her hips. The bloody laceration in her forearm was deeper than he’d first imagined, and it appeared a bone was broken.
He went to work bandaging the injury. Her eyes were open and peering up at him. He thought he detected the hint of a smile.
That made him grin as well.
He put the final wrap on the bandage, and said, “I thought I’d lost you.”
She made no effort to talk, and he didn’t try to get her to.
“I’ll be right back,” he said in as calming a voice as he could muster. “I’m going to call for help and get something to splint that arm.”
She coughed a couple of times, causing him to pause out of concern. A trickle of blood appeared at the corner of her mouth. Tears filled her eyes and one broke loose, streaking her cheek.
Never had he felt so completely helpless . . . so hollowed.
Or so totally in love.
He dabbed the blood with the towel and gently stroked away the tear on her check with his fingertips. She was far from out of the woods. She needed emergency medical treatment.
And she needed it immediately.
“Lie still,” he said and rushed into the cabin to radio the Coast Guard.
It took longer to get the message across to them than he liked, or maybe it was his impatience to return to her side, what mattered was they were sending a helicopter to airlift her directly to Maui Memorial. Now came the long, desperate minutes of waiting for the chopper to arrive.
He grabbed a magazine to use for a splint and hurried back out to her. He didn’t want to leave her alone.
Not even for the minutes it had taken to radio for help.
In the first blush of sunrise, he noticed more blood had formed at the corner of her mouth. She’d been coughing again. He dropped to his knees, eased her head onto his lap and lovingly stroked her wet hair.
When he opened his mouth to tell her help was on its way, she raised her left arm and lightly touched his lips with her fingertips. Her green eyes held that same sorrowful look he’d seen underwater. He gripped her hand and kissed it. This time he was sure she smiled.
“I love you,” he said and felt her go limp.
Her eyes closed in a way he knew they’d never open again.
Tears welled as he gently lowered her arm to the deck. The shallow rise and fall of her breasts had ceased. And with it, the last beat of her dying heart. And the love he’d never share.
She was gone from his life.
And it was his fault.
CHAPTER 64
Jack loved sunrise in Hawaii. He’d counted each one since Dana’s death.
But the sky that morning went from dark to light. No vibrant color. No life to it. It was like it wasn’t morning, and then it was.
Somber. Like his mood.
Over the past four days, he’d answered enough questions to keep the Coast Guard, Police Department, and Homeland Security busy for the next month. Her parents and younger sister were due to arrive on the island later in the afternoon. Arrangements had been made to have her body cremated. Her ohana would be emptied and the furniture sold.
Everyone doing what they needed to do.
Even him.
The authorities would gather their facts, and strategize, and investigate, and do whatever they intended to do to Chiharu Takahashi and the three thugs. Dana’s parents and sister could have her things . . . do what they wanted with them. But this part was his.
And his alone.
He climbed out of his rental Jeep dressed in khaki bush shorts and a light blue Jimmy Buffet t-shirt. Not that he cared much how he was dressed, he wondered what he looked like to Dana’s neighbors.
They could think what they wanted, he decided.
Pausing at the front fender, he looked across the street at Dana’s cottage sitting forlornly at the end of the driveway next to a large two-story house in Wailuku Heights. The property was located high on the mountainside with a panoramic view of much of the island. Imagining her living there was easy.
Exactly how he had pictured her place.
The small house was neat and clean on the outside. The yard maintained. A great view of everything from Waiehu to the north, to the rim of Haleakala to the east. And beyond that, a broad expanse of the Pacific Ocean.
She’d told him she lived in Wailuku Heights, even talked about her cottage the night they had dinner at Gerard’s. But she never gave him the address, only her phone number. Not because she hadn’t wanted him to have it. Because everything moved so fast they never got a chance to spend time there. If it hadn’t been for the Hawaii driver’s license in her purse, left aboard Robert’s boat, he wouldn’t know it now.
He was glad Robert had an excellent memory.
Unfortunately, the key to the door had been turned over to the police along with her purse and change of clothes.
He’d have to find another way inside.
And not be seen doing it.
The house up front appeared to be unoccupied. There were no cars parked in the driveway or at the curb along the street out front. There’d be no awkward explaining to do in order to gain entry.
He looked up and down the street. A lawnmower whined in a backyard several houses away. He heard a car honk a couple of times somewhere far down the hill. Other than that, nothing.
No prying eyes to worry about.
As if he belonged there, he calmly walked down the driveway to the front door of the ohana. Even though he suspected the door was locked, he tried the knob. It was. No surprise there. The Dana he knew would not have left it unsecured.
The next logical thing for him to do was check for a hidden key.
Most people had one.
He scanned the porch for the usual hiding places. He looked under the doormat, ran his fingers over the tops of 2x4s above his head, and checked the potted plant next to the door. There was a ceramic toad sitting there, green, covered with bumps. Or maybe it was supposed to be a frog. He checked under that. Nothing. Then he spied the rock. Light colored with dark grey specks, like the granite you see in the mountains on the mainland. It looked out of place.
The hiding place was in a rectangular hole underneath, with a matching-
colored screw-on cover concealing it. He removed the key, returned the rock to the dirt in the planter, and looked around. Those prying eyes again, only there weren’t any.
Just his paranoia.
The key was tarnished, but it went into the slot on the knob and turned the lock with no problem. The matching deadbolt as well.
Two locks. One key.
Simple and efficient.
He stepped inside and eased the door closed behind him.
CHAPTER 65
Jack stood looking at the room. Fighting a flicker of uncertainty.
It had been his idea to come there. Something he felt he had to do. Now it seemed strangely inappropriate for him to be standing in her quaint little home where her scent, perhaps even her breath, still lingered.
But he couldn’t allow himself to leave.
Gradually his vision adjusted to the dim interior.
And all that remained of her life.
The place was hot and musky from being closed up. A hint of sandalwood scented the air. There was one glass and a small bowl turned upside down on a folded dish towel laid out on the counter next to the sink in the kitchen. There were pictures on the walls: a couple of Lassen seascapes including, “Mother’s Love.” And framed photographs: family and work.
There is never a good time to do what he was doing.
It felt both morose and satisfying to be reconstructing a part of her life he had missed, and would never see after this day.
But would always be carried with him.
The front room was separated from the kitchen by a deep red, condo-sized sofa. Directly on the other side of the settee was a white bistro table with a natural wood top, and two matching chairs. A heavy straw rug covered most of the laminate oak flooring in the living area. The coffee table sitting in front of the couch was a rust-colored octopus with a lighter rust tinted underside and suction cups. Four of the tentacles supported an oval glass top. Two dive magazines and a treasure magazine, with a cover photo of two divers squatting next to a large cache of gold coins, lay in perfect alignment at one end. And a novel with a marker about three quarters of the way through it. Inca Gold, by Clive Cussler.
He’d read the story.
The discovery of a fortune in lost treasure. He knew the thrill.
Is that what she was after in life?
She said she never felt so good, so alive . . .
On the opposite wall sat a narrow bookcase and matching oak TV cabinet with a thirty-something-inch flat screen television sitting on it. To his right was a short hallway with two doorways leading to other rooms. Both doors were open about four inches. Pulled, but not closed. He could see enough of the interior in each room to know the front one was the bathroom. The bedroom was in the rear.
He started with the bathroom. Small and spotless. There was no mistaking it was all female. Perfumed soap, bottles of lotion, and small jars of creams. An electric toothbrush sitting on its charger. Large, fluffy, yellow towels neatly hung. A matching shower curtain.
For a moment, he stood smelling the air, picturing her last shower there. Her naked body barely visible behind the curtain, sudsy and wet. The water cascading down on her from the spigot above her head. And when she finished bathing, standing on the fuzzy white rug while toweling her curves dry.
He carried the vision with him to the towel bar and lifted the towel to his nose. Her scent was still there. Soapy and unmistakably Dana.
He lowered the bath sheet and smoothed it into place with the back of his hand. Then he turned and opened the medicine cabinet. Toothpaste, Aspirin, Motrin, birth control pills. And more stuff a woman uses. The sink below it was clean. He opened the drawers in the vanity. Brushes and even more female stuff.
Nothing he found surprised him.
The bedroom was last on his list. The boudoir . . . her most private sanctum.
Where all the secrets are kept.
He pushed the door open and stood still, taking in the room. The scent of sandalwood was strongest here. The blinds were closed but enough light entered between the louvers to allow him a clear view of the furnishings.
The room was not large but more spacious than he’d imagined for a cottage. A mahogany dresser with a mirror above it. A straight-backed chair sitting at an angle in the corner. A queen-size poster bed, also mahogany. Simple white bedspread with yellow accents. A narrow edge of top sheet peeking from underneath. Also yellow. Two nightstands with lamps that could have come from Tommy Bahama’s.
A framed 8x10 photograph sitting opposite a small, wood jewelry box at the far end of the dresser caught his eye. He stepped to the bureau and studied the enlargement of a snapshot of him aboard Pono. Three days of sun and fun on his catamaran over a year ago. He was in the cockpit grinning at the camera. His left hand was on the large chrome-spoked wheel at the helm. Dana was behind the camera smiling back at him, and he was waving to her with his right. He remembered her taking the picture, and her grin never seemed to fade.
She’d kept it all this time.
He ran his fingertips across the polished surface and faced the room, sensing her presence there. If he hadn’t known she was dead, he’d have sworn she was standing behind him, watching what he was doing.
Maybe she was.
He debated looking through her drawers and decided he’d seen enough. There was no reason to run his hands over her sexy lingerie envisioning how they would look on her. Or dig deep into her most personal belongings.
The glimpse he had into her past year was enough.
Some things should remain private.
He walked to the front door, took one more look around and stepped outside. Locking the door behind him was like closing the cover on a book. But a book could be reopened and enjoyed again. If not in hand, in his memory of her.
He’d not be back here.
He combed back his hair with his fingers and faced the view. Dana was neat and orderly. She craved adventure. And that thirst for the wild uncertainty of journeying beyond her comfort zone had killed her.
“I’m trying,” he whispered to the mountain breeze.
CHAPTER 66
Jack drove to Beach Bums later that afternoon and parked in a space next to the boats moored in the harbor across the street from the restaurant. Robert and Kazuko were seated at an outside table waiting for him when he climbed out of his rental Jeep. They waved him over.
If he had to guess, they were genuinely happy he was there.
Or making a good show of it.
He was hiding behind his darkest dark glasses. Oakley FLAKs in black, an expensive pair. The ones he wore on the water to cut the glare. Even though they might, in a small way, disguise his identity, his reason for wearing them was to provide some relief to the throbbing inside his head.
On the drive over, he’d wondered if the hole in his gut—that awful feeling of loss he’d suffered over the past days—was guilt or punishment. That all he’d done wrong was coming back to haunt him. Penitence for his misdeeds.
He strode toward his friends, more than ready for a beer.
Anything to take the edge off of the morning.
And he was glad Robert and Kazuko were still talking to him. Civilly, for the most part. Even though a lot of what they had to say about what happened was difficult for him to listen to. Nevertheless, he deserved the rebuke. More of one, actually. No person was harder on him than himself.
But they’d also been supportive and concerned.
Friends to the end.
Since Dana’s death, he hadn’t worried about being seen by Chiharu Takahashi’s gorillas. It was doubtful Crewcut and his two cronies had forgotten about him and Robert and Kazuko. The closest there was to living witnesses to their crimes. But she and her attack dogs appeared to be laying low since recovering the necklace. And the hell that broke loose over the discovery of Orochimaru’s watery grave and the deadly tragedy that occurred deep in the bowels of her rotting hull.
Even so, the dust would eventually settle and it woul
d once again be game on.
Different rules, same intended outcome.
He walked directly to his friends and noticed a bottle of Foster’s Lager sitting on a cardboard coaster in front of an empty chair across the table from Robert. Condensation beaded and rolled down the glass. A ring had not yet formed.
He pointed, and said, “I see you ordered me a beer.”
“It’s cold, too.” Robert nodded in the direction of the bar. “That cute waitress over there just brought it.”
“Did she hurry back with it on my account?”
“Something like that.”
Jack slid the empty chair back and dropped onto the seat. “I must have looked like I needed it.”
“You look like hell, is what you look like,” Robert said. “But that’s nothing a sharp razor and a month’s sleep won’t fix.”
Jack stroked the stubble on his cheek and chin. He was sure his friend was quite serious about his assessment. He’d not hold back. Nor would he be hesitant to voice his opinion.
Jack turned to Kazuko, and said, “I suppose you agree?”
“That you look like shit, yes.” There wasn’t even a slight curl to her lips to indicate she was joking.
“Guess I do at that. Would it help matters if I told you how deeply sorry I am . . . for everything?”
“You’ve done that.”
“Suppose I have.” It seemed like all he’d done was apologize.
She didn’t offer a response.
He took a long swig of beer and returned the bottle to the cardboard coaster. No measly apology was going to undo what he’d done. Regardless of how sincere he was. Obviously, he was not their favorite person at the moment.
And who could blame them?
He asked, “You still heading back to Oahu today?”
“Tomorrow,” Robert answered. He steadied his gaze, drawing Jack in. “You couldn’t have saved her, you know?”
Jack was taken aback, not expecting to hear that.
He slumped in his seat and shook his head. “I should’ve insisted she remain topside, is what I should have done.”
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