by Pam Richter
"I'll tell him I dropped it," Michelle said. They were both smiling at their boss's loss of composure. He usually strode around pontificating and frowning with not an idea of what anyone was really doing.
"Don't bother," Susan said, still giggling.
Michelle whispered thanks to Susan. Susan didn't mind taking the blame. She was young and beautiful, hired for that very reason, and would never be in trouble for breaking some cups.
Michelle helped Susan for another minute and then went into the conference room after her boss. She stood behind the two men and hoped they wouldn't notice her. Or require her to speak. She was still trembling dramatically.
The two men were speaking Japanese. The sight of a red haired man spouting the Oriental language was slightly comical and very strange. Michelle had been learning the Japanese language for some time, but they were speaking so quickly she couldn't understand much.
She could tell that Tom Mitsuto was taking full credit for the report summaries, which were one of her innovations. He had never looked at the reports before, and made a practice of ignoring those she placed on his desk and then filed away each month. Now he was pointing to specific figures on the graphs, frowning with importance, and waving his arms around, blustering in Japanese. He was good at it though, and people liked him because he was polite and basically very nice. Michelle appreciated him because he did not interfere with her work and gave her full rein in her job.
Nakamura turned around and glanced at Michelle, shaking his head minutely. She was surprised that Nakamura could know, in just a few moments, that her boss was putting on a gigantic act for his benefit, trying desperately to hide his ignorance.
Tom Mitsuto turned and beckoned her to the table, saying, "Maybe you can explain this figure," very angrily, as though it was her fault that he could not understand the statistics. Then he stood looking at her, frowning. "Are you all right?"
Michelle started coughing. "I have a tickle in my throat."
Both men were looking at her now.
"The reports can wait," Nakamura said. "I need a tour of the building. Right now. Ms. Montgomery?"
He strode over commandingly, took her arm, and was starting out of the conference room. "We'll be back in a half hour or so."
They left Tom Mitsuto with his mouth open, poised to pontificate and gesticulate some more.
Michelle hurried to keep up with the man. He was taking long strides, almost pulling her along. It was strange, unless he was extremely perceptive.
"I want to see the building, top to bottom," Nakamura said as they practically trotted out the door.
They stopped in front of the elevators and Michelle could feel him peering at her carefully for a moment from under red-gold eyelashes. "Lets take the stairs."
He started to the end of the long hallway, still quickly striding and holding her upper arm. When they reached the stairwell and started down he said, "Don't fall in those stilettos."
Michelle almost laughed. Because of her height she never wore high heels.
It was a long way down to the basement where the sump pump was thrashing away, in perfect condition. Nakamura inspected it minutely, ignoring the odor, nodded approval, and they went on to the electrical room. Then he inspected the supply room where all of the janitorial inventory was neatly stashed.
With all the quick physical movement Michelle was becoming calmer and calmer. By the time they ended the inspection tour, on the roof, where Nakamura walked through the gigantic, windy and noisy mechanical rooms, which contained the electrical generators for the air conditioning system, Michelle was definitely back to normal.
"Are all the buildings in shape like this one?"
Michelle nodded. "I have good maintenance teams. I insist on upkeep and go on each of the inspections."
Nakamura nodded. "Lets go back. Go over the budget reports."
If Nakamura had realized that anything was wrong earlier he was not saying anything, Michelle thought, as they minutely went over the costs she had projected for the next six months for each of the buildings. The meeting lasted two hours. Nakamura checked on his calculator for the cost of living increments based on the CPI index. It was exhausting, but it was also exhilarating for Michelle to be able to talk to someone truly knowledgeable in her field of specialty.
This meeting was also crucial to Heroshi Hawaii. Nakamura was the man with the knife. He could force her boss, Tom Mitsuto, to sell properties if she was unable to show a profit, or potential profit, for the buildings in the future.
"Lunch," Nakamura said, finally, after brief meetings with the real estate and construction divisions, which he insisted she attend. "You'll have to take me. I haven't been to Hawaii in years."
"I have a million things to do," Michelle said, frantic to get away. She had to return calls, sooth tenants, and had a leasing meeting with a real estate company in an hour. "I know Mr. Mitsuto would love to take you out."
"I've ruined your schedule," Nakamura said. "But you have to eat. And I need to pick your brain. I'll be here for a week. Tom and I will have plenty of time. He wants to buy two more buildings. I want you there with us. He's been lucky. Miraculously hasn't picked one with a major defect. You should see the ones in New York. Total disasters. Everything from roaches to buildings contaminated with asbestos."
"There are some Japanese restaurants not far from here," Michelle began, knowing how the Japanese preferred their own cuisine. She herself was sick to death of only eating Japanese on the endless company luncheons.
"No. Please. Anything but Japanese. I'm reveling being in the United States. McDonald's would be preferable."
Michelle nodded. Even though he was deadly serious about his work, Nakamura was heading toward the 'nice guy' category.
CHAPTER 5
Omar was laboring, although no one would have guessed it by observing the prone figure lying perfectly still. Occasionally his eyeballs would turn up, showing only white, and then he would be comatose again.
The room complemented Omar's dark appearance theatrically. It was decorated entirely in sterile white and black. The accent pieces were of chrome, appearing like unpolished hunks of silver. Large abstract paintings adorned the walls, with the same motif of black and white with occasional splashes of bright red and blue. A sky-light provided bright morning light, which would cast the room in gloomy shadows when clouds passed overhead.
Omar opened his eyes, concentrating on a particular spot near the ceiling. A feminine image appeared. The conception was so clear it was almost as if an effigy was projected on the white wall; a tall woman with black hair and yellow eyes. Lucifer's eyes. The devil's eyes. But the colors surrounding her were brilliant, unlike anything he had seen in his long life.
When Omar had been a young child, walking the streets of Osaka with his mother, he used to tell her about the vivid colors he saw. His mother was always indulgent. She would smile and gently reprove, saying the person was wearing grey, not pink or yellow or any of the shades Omar saw. He would tug on her skirt, insisting, and she would smile and say that imagination was a wonderful thing. But Omar gradually learned not to mention the colors to anyone else. His tiny classmates just said he was lying.
As Omar grew older he found that the colors he perceived around his friends and relatives changed in intensity with their emotions. He now knew they were halos, or auras, these luminous radiations. Mirrors of the soul. Red usually signified anger. The lighter colors typically went with tranquility; the dark colors he learned to shy away from. What little he saw of his father was always a dark purple/black.
When Omar was almost eight, his mother contracted a terrible illness so that her color changed from the usual bright pink to a watery and nearly transparent dirty brown/grey.
One day she took him with her to an herbalist's shop in a seedy part of downtown Osaka. The place was almost hidden in a filthy alley. That was the first time Omar saw an emanation that was pure white. The tiny man was thin and very old, with eyes like black raisins in skin so blotc
hed white and wrinkled he looked like an animated, shriveled mushroom. His hands were so thin they appeared transparent, his limbs were like sticks. Omar could see a white light shining around this ancient personage like the mystical pictures of saints in the Catholic church he passed on the way to school.
"The war is within you, lady," the herbalist had said, when he peered at Omar's beautiful mother. She had nodded. Omar understood then that his mother would die. Besides the colors he saw radiating around people he could also understand the thoughts and emotions of certain individuals. This truth about death was projected from both his mother and the ancient man.
"You can do nothing?" Omar's mother had asked.
The old man sighed and shook his head.
"I don't want to leave him..."
Suddenly, Omar felt the old man's concentrated attention. He was so angry that the herbalist would not help his mother, he willed the old man dead on the spot. He wished it with all his strength, despising the old man like he had never hated anyone before. He hated his father, yes. He loathed his classmates because they laughed at his size and Occidental features. He hated his teachers because of their barely veiled contempt that he was a half-breed, but he had never felt so fierce a malignancy as he felt toward this man.
"Ah. Your son loves you very much."
That made Omar abhor the ancient healer even more and he said, "You're just a nasty old white man."
"Omar!" His mother was shocked at his bad manners.
The frail herbalist shrugged. "He is only angry that I can't make you well. Your son has a great gift."
Omar's mother did not understand. The herbalist explained that her child could detect the electromagnetic fields that surrounded all living creatures. Manipulating these fields was an ancient Oriental method of healing. Omar, her son, could be a great healer with his natural gift.
Both Omar and the old man knew this was not true. Omar saw it behind the herbalist's eyes. He was lying to give comfort. Omar knew the old man was sensing a bad seed, something dark that projected from him even at this young age. Omar didn't know what this meant, only that the old man was repelled.
Omar vowed at that moment that he would never become what the old man foretold. He would be the opposite. He would use this useless gift that could not heal his mother in another way. Something dark, to oppose the old white man with his fusty worthless bottles that cluttered the dusty apothecary.
When his mother finally wasted away a few months later, Omar was angry at her, too, for leaving him, for her weakness, and for forsaking him to a father who despised him. He renewed the vow that this contemptible gift, seeing auras, would be used as power over those he hated.
In the years that followed his only friends were the many pets his mother had allowed him, and he found he could manipulate animals easily. They did his bidding when he projected an image of his desire. His dog bit his father. His cat savagely scratched the despised nanny.
Now, as Omar lay on his couch, his mind was revisiting the night before, touching the beautiful woman, Michelle, and perceiving the recoil and fear with a satisfying sense of domination and power. Fragility drew him like a magnet to his prey. But he had to be careful. He had weakened her previously. Alcohol had also done its devil's work, but she was a naturally powerful woman. She was gaining in strength each day. He had to eat away at her defenses until she was more susceptible. Her job. Her friends. Everything must be stripped for his purpose, which he had understood the first time he had seen her in Las Vegas, and stopped motionless, all his senses alerted.
When Michelle walked past him through the lobby of the Luxur Hotel, he had seen a brilliant aura like no other. He understood immediately that she was the one, in all the millions of women, that he had been searching for. The interesting thing about Michelle was that she seemed totally innocent, with no understanding of her own powers, which had been so obvious when Omar saw the amazing, illuminating rays projecting around her.
The wall where Omar's eyes were now fixed did not have a painting or any object to concentrate on, only the grill for the building's central heating system, which was seldom used in Hawaii and high up near the ceiling. He lay supine and concentrated for about five minutes before anything happened.
Finally a black segmented stalk protruded from the grate where he was staring. He watched as several thin appendages wiggled through the grate, and a large insect made a waveringly awkward exit through the grill. Some of the legs were not working and were held high in the air, as though touching the wall would be painful. It moved slowly down the wall, hesitantly, almost like it was tired and sick.
Omar watched the performance expressionlessly as the large insect finally made it to the floor and laboriously crawled over the bumpy white carpet to his feet. The black insect stood there as if in defeat, until it finally reared up, using it's tail for extra leverage and tried to climb on Omar's slipper, still holding up two useless legs.
A small kitten bounded into the room and went for the interesting object, bent on feline destruction, sadistic and thrilling death. Omar frowned at the kitten and the small white cat stopped abruptly and lay down very still, watching the insect with unblinking blue eyes.
Omar finally shook his head and sighed. Then he reached down and picked up the insect with his extremely long fingers and examined it minutely.
Omar walked out onto the balcony which surrounded his entire apartment. He went over to a boxlike cage enclosed with mesh screen. There he dropped the insect inside with the others.
In the insect world, only the strong survive.
Omar decided to take a trip to the beach.
Heather was both pissed off and apprehensive as she stood on a promontory of rocks beside blow-hole at Hanauma Bay, a state underwater park in East Honolulu. The scene was breathtaking and she tried to concentrate on the sparkling ocean and be in the correct position the next time a large wave came. She could squint her eyes, but had to open wide when the wave came. She counted when she heard the crash of the surf and opened wide, feeling as though her eyeballs were being seared by the sun, which was still low on the horizon.
"Great shot," Franklin shouted as he touched the automatic button to film faster than he could press. "Open the coat wider next time."
The photographer was above her on another ledge of rocks. They were waiting for the next water spout, which would come a few seconds after an enormous wave would crash on the beach. Then the wave would fill an underground tunnel in the rocks below with enough pressure to push air and water, forcefully mixing the two, through the tunnel to a hole in the top of the rocks. A magnificent plume of spray would burst forth to a height of twenty to thirty feet in the air.
This natural waterspout was famous all over the island of Oahu, and the bay, with a beautiful sandy beach below, was distinguished for its tame tropical fish. There were colorful butterflyfish, goatfish parrotfish, surgeonfish and sea turtles. Since it was early morning the snorkelers and amateur sea photographers had not yet arrived to explore the underworld of the shallow inner reefs.
Heather had gone inside the blow-hole several times and ridden the ocean up and down in the natural small pool in the rocks, a dangerous and exciting pastime. It was perfectly safe when the surf was tame, which was about ninety percent of the time. But Franklin was insisting she to go into the pool today and it was just too unpredictable. The same surf which made the fantastic displays from the blow-hole was the kind that made riding inside it dangerous. Heather had never seen the geyser spout as high as today. There had been storms in Australia, which was making the surf in Hawaii pound.
The force of the water could either suck her down into the rocks below, she was a very small person, or it could yank the bathing suit right off her if it got really rough in there. Another possibility was that she could be thrown by the water's force out of the blow-hole and land on the uneven and sharp rocks. It was against the beach rules at Hanauma Bay to jump into the blow-hole and ride the surf, but the regulation was ignored
by tourists and natives alike.
"Just a bit more shoulder, darling," Franklin, the photographer, was saying.
Sure, a little more shoulder and you'll get a good shot of my right boob, Heather thought, as she adjusted the fur coat she was sweltering in. She could feel her hair sticking to perspiration on her cheeks and dampening her forehead. She flicked her hair back. Fur in the islands. Fashion photography was ludicrous. And they were insisting on two for the price of one. Shots of her in a white, full length ermine coat in front of the blow hole, and then a sequence of her jumping inside the hole clad in a bikini.
Heather heard a loud crash on the beach, and opened the coat, twisting back and forth. She was wearing a natural colored body stocking under the coat, which conveyed high-fashion nakedness. The body stocking was cut low on top, scarcely concealing her chest and high on the legs, barely see-through. She wished Franklin would hurry up and finish so she could put on some clothes.
"Wow. Perfect. That one was beautiful," Franklin enthused. "Just one more time to make sure."
It took five more shots. Five more waves. Then Heather went into the silver truck standing by to change into a bikini. She used body glue in strategic areas to keep the suit on, knowing that the water would erode the glue quickly and probably leave abraded spots on her skin.
When they went over an arm of rocks which surrounded one side of the natural bay, and looked down inside the depression of the blow-hole, Heather decided her fear had been groundless. The water was filling the hole and then receding, but it didn't look nearly as dangerous as she had anticipated. Maybe the surf was quieting down a bit. She sat on the edge of the pool with Franklin taking pictures. Then she stood up and jumped in, feeling bubbles whirl around her, her hair swirling like seaweed, the sudden cool salt water making her feel alive and invigorated.
Heather moved to the side and caught hold of the rock rim to hear Franklin's instructions. He knelt in front of her, his back toward the bay. "Great wet look, with the hair slicked down, ...push it back from your forehead...Yes! Now just paddle around and look natural..."
