by Pam Richter
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.
CHAPTER 27
The 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.
* * *
The room was warm, dim and very still when Nakamura woke. He watched finely lit dust particles moving very slowly. Disoriented for a moment, he looked around, and then the fear came back with overwhelming force. Michelle was in danger. He sat up groggily on the couch and looked around. The peaceful spacious room was almost dark because twilight was dimming the island. He must have been asleep for at least an hour. The urgent need to relieve himself of all the water and coffee forced down him was the only thing that had awakened him.
After using the bathroom, Nakamura staggered into the kitchen and drank a few glasses of water. Outside, through the plate glass window above the sink, he could Tom Mitsuto bending over in the garden pruning tiny Bonsai trees.
Nakamura saw several donuts on a plate on the kitchen table and ate a few. He was still groggy and hoped the sugar would help wake him up. The keys for Tom Mitsuto's cars were hanging on a wooden rack next to the door that led to the garage. He opened the door to the garage almost soundlessly, speculatively eyeing a blue Mitsubishi and a large green Cadillac. The garage door switch was right next to the light switch. He could leave before Tom even realized he was awake.
Nakamura took the keys for the Mitsubishi, went back inside the kitchen and called the Sheraton hotel, asking for Michelle's room. There was no answer. He called his own room and didn't get any response there either. Then he tried Michelle's home number. Someone picked up the phone, he could hear loud exhales over the phone lines, but his repeated, 'Hello's?' elicited no
response from the breather, who eventually hung up on him.
Nakamura looked out the window. Tom was still working in his garden. He went into the garage to get the Mitsubishi, comforted in theft by the fact that Tom had two cars.
* * *
Omar's white haired witch, Genelle, had on a nurse's uniform complete with a white folded hat with a dark braided band around it. She wafted through the green linoleum floored hospital hallways toward the Burn Center. She was on automatic pilot, nothing in her mind except the instructions she had been given. When she found the correct room she looked inside and saw the tiny woman asleep, her eyes visibly moving under the lids as though she were dreaming.
Heather was drifting in and out of sleep. The narcotics she had been given seemed to overwhelm her in sickening waves. She would move up toward consciousness and then be pulled down into blackness again, until the dream of fire in her chest awakened her again.
There was a tiny child in the next room who had been horribly burned in a car accident. He kept crying dismally, seemingly without hope of the pain abating. The sad hopeless sound continued on endlessly and periodically brought Heather out of her own nightmares. And then there was her own pain. It was also constant and somewhat masked by the drugs, but on a subconscious level her mind knew it was there. The pain was arousing and enervating at the same time, stealing away all energy.
It was the pain, the nightmares and the child's dismal low intensity crying which finally brought Heather to full consciousness. She thought. Until she saw the nurse standing in the doorway.
Even with continuous fluids entering her body through the plastic bag hanging from a metal stand beside her and attached to her arm through a needle, Heather seemed to be constantly thirsty. She asked the nurse for some water and the woman walked stiffly to the bed and handed her a glass with a plastic straw. The nurse then helped her sit up so she could drink more easily, fluffing the pillows around her. All the while the nurse was helping her, Heather was studying the woman's face, which was familiar, but she was drugged and sleepy and the feeling that she knew the woman from somewhere didn't disturb her very much.
