Pleasing the Dead

by Deborah Turrell Atkinson

  “Damon?” she said. “Why?” She hated that she sounded like a whimpering child.

  No one answered her, but there was a sudden noise. It sounded like a scuffle, then a striking of something solid and meaty. As if someone got slugged. Then there was no other sound, as if the person had been lifted out of place. Zapped, or immobilized.

  Storm strained to listen through the heavy material that insulated her from sensation. She lay on the floor with the roughness of the door mat chafing her thighs and knees, which had suffered rug burns in the take-down. Her skirt was rolled to her waist and she couldn’t even pull it down. Strange how that indignity crossed her mind and infuriated her, not that she could do a damned thing about it.

  But the anger sharpened her senses, and she had the clear impression she was being observed by more than one person. She tried to get a feeling for how many people stood around her, but it was impossible.

  Dread numbed her. She’d been warned, hadn’t she? Two wise and experienced people (at least) had told her to distance herself from anything Obake might be involved in. In fact, anything he might notice. Suzuki had told her to ditch her phone to protect his new number. Which she hadn’t done, and a pang of regret ran through her so fiercely that one of her legs jerked.

  Damon had betrayed her. She’d assumed they were friends, or at least amicable. They were definitely drinking buddies, and had witnessed a tragedy together. But Stella implied that Obake could pressure anyone. His threats had forced Hiroki Yoshinaga to shoot his own daughters, for God’s sake. A weak-assed wimp like Damon would cave at first contact.

  And here she was, trussed like a terrorist’s hostage. Or terrorist, depending on where you stood. It didn’t matter, though, did it? Fucking Damon had given her up. They’d threatened him with something: his daughters’ welfare, his custody arrangement, maybe his drinking or gambling habits, his employment prospects. Did it matter?

  She turned on her side, hoping to expand an air pocket in the bag over her head. Maybe work her skirt down over the pretty lace underwear she’d put on after her swim. How dumb was that idea? She’d done it for Hamlin, who would be stuck at the airport, high and dry.

  Someone sat on her feet, immobilizing her legs and grinding her chafed knees into the rough carpet. “I’ll lie still,” she shouted, but in a too-short second, she knew that immobility wasn’t her captor’s primary motive.

  The sharp sting of a needle pierced a vein at her ankle and jerked her wits back to her dilemma as handily as a leash on a mutt. She yelped with surprise and shock. The jab was followed immediately by the burn of a dissipating drug. It felt like someone had dribbled hot water all the way up her leg, along her thigh, and let it ooze into her body and brain.

  This time, panic did seize her, and sweat rolled off her scalp and face. It stung her tearing eyes, ran into her open and gasping mouth. “Damon,” she roared inside the dark, cloying sack.

  Then she shut up. She knew her fear facilitated the effect of the drug, but she couldn’t control fear. She could manage her mouth, but her heart felt like it would burst from her chest with each pounding contraction. Stay calm, she told herself, but the rough fabric of the bag over her head stuck to the perspiration on her forehead and cheeks. It puffed in and out with her shallow, frightened breaths.

  “I’m sorry, Hamlin,” she moaned. And before the drug stupefied her besieged brain cells, she pictured him, and thought of how they’d almost made it. Their reconciliation was a sure thing; they loved each other. She was going to share, to open up, and to ask for understanding, too. He had to meet her halfway, but he was giving every indication he would do more than that.

  Until she’d blown it again, that is. He hated how she waltzed into trouble. This time, he’d never know how careful she’d been. Switching hotel rooms, borrowing a car. Who would have thought retrieving the car would be her downfall?

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Hamlin took a seat at the Aloha Airline gate, and caught the glance of a neatly dressed man in his thirties. Another lawyer, he thought. Where have I met that guy?

  The plane was crowded with a tour group and what appeared to be a local high school swim team. Teenagers in matching green warm-ups were having a great time. The only seats left were in row sixteen, at the emergency exit hatches. That was okay with Hamlin. He took the aisle; the man from the lounge smiled at him from the window seat.

  “I think we’ve met,” the man said. “It was during the mayor’s campaign. I’m Terry Wu.”

  Hamlin put out his hand and gave his name. “You’re with the U.S. Attorney’s office, aren’t you?”

  Wu nodded and smiled. “Getting away for the rest of the weekend?”

  “Yes, I’m meeting my girlfriend.”

  “The beautiful woman who was with you at the mayor’s dinner?”

  “Yes,” said Hamlin. Wu had a good memory, a trait Hamlin worked to cultivate. He recalled meeting Wu, but couldn’t remember if he had been with a date, or even with a colleague.

  “What’s her name again?” Wu asked. “I know she’s a member of the profession.”

  “Storm Kayama. She’s got a few clients on Maui,” Hamlin said, and wondered if he’d imagined the shadow that had fluttered through Wu’s eyes.

  Wu’s smile didn’t falter, though, and a second later Hamlin assumed that some idea unrelated to their conversation had distracted Wu for a brief moment. Maybe he forgot to make a call before the announcement to turn off their mobile phones.

  “She takes on some women’s causes, doesn’t she?” Wu asked.

  “Yes, that’s Storm,” Hamlin said.

  “She’s got a good reputation.”

  “I agree.”

  It was a short half-hour flight from Honolulu to Kahului, and Wu dug into his briefcase for some reading material. Hamlin broke out the local paper, to catch up on whether ‘Iolani or Punahou School was leading in the track season. Hamlin had run track in high school and college, and he still liked to follow the meets. Event times were much faster now; the fact simultaneously thrilled him and made him feel old.

  When the plane landed, both Hamlin and Wu gathered their carry-on luggage from the overhead bins, exchanged good-byes, and went their own ways. Hamlin went out front, where drivers waited for disembarking passengers. He’d forgotten to ask Storm what kind of car she had, and he scrutinized every rental sedan that passed. None stopped for him.

  After fifteen minutes, he figured she’d been held up in a meeting or traffic, and he called her mobile, but got no answer. He sat down to finish the paper. Fifteen minutes after that, he began to pace. She still didn’t answer her phone. He was one-quarter angry, and three-quarters anxious. He squelched the anger. No, she said she would be here. Something was wrong.

  A dark red Chevy Monte Carlo pulled to the curb and Hamlin dashed across the walkway and grabbed the passenger door handle, only to see Terry Wu through the window.

  “You need a ride?” Wu asked.

  “That would be great. My ride hasn’t come.” Hamlin got into the passenger seat. “Would you mind giving me a ride to the rental car desks?”

  “No problem, they’re five minutes away.”

  Hamlin was pondering why Wu had driven around the airport loop when Wu’s cell phone, which was attached to his belt, rang.

  In the quiet of the air-conditioned car, Hamlin caught a few of the caller’s words. “Trying…voice mail.”

  “My phone was off during the flight,” Wu explained. The caller must have spoken his next statement more quietly, because Hamlin couldn’t hear his voice, though Wu’s solemn expression drew his attention.

  “Where?” Wu said. “When?” A pause. “I’m leaving the airport now. Should take me about twenty minutes.”

  “Problems?” Hamlin asked. “You can let me out here.”

  “It’s okay, we’re nearly at the rental lot.”

  “There’s a quicker exit from the lot than driving by the passenger pickup,” Ha
mlin said, and pointed to a sign that gave directions to the highway.

  “I know,” Wu said. “I wanted to talk to you.” He pulled between the Budget and Avis huts, then slowly put the car in park before he handed Hamlin his card. “Your friend Storm called me about a case I’m involved in. They’re bad people. Do me a favor and call me when you find her.”

  Hamlin stared at him. “Does this have anything to do with the phone call you just got?” His throat was so dry he could barely utter the words.

  “No. That was about something else.” Hamlin believed him, but Wu’s concern and the grim set of his mouth chilled him.

  “I will.”

  Hamlin leaped from Wu’s car. He jogged into the Budget hut, which looked less crowded than the others. In less than ten minutes, he had a car and sat, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel at a red light on the road to Kahului. He didn’t know where to begin looking for Storm.

  ***

  Ryan unlocked the door to his apartment and walked in. “Dad?” He called out, though all senses told him that the place was empty. He walked through the apartment and called again, though the bathroom door was open, Tagama’s bed was made and his overnight bag, neatly packed, sat on the taut covers. His dad had reverted to old, disciplined ways. His breakfast plate was washed and in the dish drainer, though when Ryan peered into the rubbish bin, he found the English muffin he’d toasted that morning.

  Naturally, Tagama didn’t answer his cell phone. But the minute Ryan disconnected, his own rang.

  “Where are you?” a man’s deep voice asked.

  “Who’s this?” Ryan didn’t bother to conceal his impatience.

  “I’m a friend of your father’s. Please go outside to the street and I’ll call you back.”

  Ryan snapped his mobile phone closed, and as he did, he caught sight of a white business-sized envelop on the kitchen counter. His name was written in his father’s hand. A chill of dread came over Ryan, and he jammed the envelope in his pocket. He didn’t want to look. He’d talk to his father’s friend first. Maybe the friend could help stop whatever his father had gone to do.

  As soon as Ryan was outside, the man called back. “I’m Major Lekziew with MPD. Your father and I have known each other for years. I’d like to talk to you.”

  “Where’s Dad? Is he all right?”

  “We’ll talk when we meet. I’m driving a green Ford Taurus.”

  Despite the doorman’s offer of a seat in the lobby, Ryan went outside and paced the curb of the busy street. Lekziew drove up within minutes, and Ryan climbed into his car.

  “He’s dead, isn’t he?” Ryan sagged against the passenger door.

  Though he’d used denial to get himself out the door that morning, he’d known when Tagama had sent him to meet their clients alone. Yet he couldn’t deny his father, nor could he have shared his fears with him.

  When he’d found the apartment empty, his last shreds of hope began to disperse like a battered flag in the wind. Now even his strength left him, and he was alone.

  Lekziew couldn’t help him. Nor did he want Lara, oddly enough. Somehow, he had to survive the next few hours, then tomorrow and the day after. He had to face that Tagama had known his path since he received the phone call last night, and they’d gone to the beach to find Yasuko. He’d joined Guan-Gong.

  “I’m so sorry, Ryan,” Lekziew said.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Unless she was having the out-of-body experience reported by near-drowning or heart attack victims, Storm knew she wasn’t dead. For one thing, she felt awful. Her eyelids were glued together, her head pounded, her mouth felt like and tasted like roofing tar, and nausea roiled somewhere beneath the film that wrapped her consciousness. It was like being under water, so she’d give in and succumb to the sticky darkness, which partially buffered her from queasiness and pain.

  The other clue that life persisted was the same attractive Asian woman with the gardenia in her hair whom she’d seen in a dream at some point before—when had that been?—came to visit again. The woman’s pale, powdered face wore an expression of kindness and concern, and her carmine lips moved to communicate a message that Storm couldn’t quite understand. Storm knew that she and the woman didn’t exist in the same realm, and the woman was trying to give Storm an important message.

  In the real world, which was still out of reach, Storm felt tossed and pitched, rolled from one side to another. It wasn’t helping the nausea one bit. Her brain hummed and voices murmured, though Storm couldn’t tell if those were the sounds of the geisha-woman attempting to get through to her or if there were other people around her.

  As if the static lifted, Storm understood the woman’s words. “Help Damon and Stella,” she said, and gestured behind Storm. “You can trust Yuan Ling.” Then she held up what looked like a long shepherd’s crook, a modern one made of pale blue aluminum. It made no sense whatsoever.

  Who would help that rat Damon, and what the hell was a Yuan Ling? Then her sticky eyelids came apart. The first thing she saw was Keiko, who was swabbing her face with a damp rag. The smell of vomit and diesel fuel gagged her, and Storm closed her eyes against the nauseating dizziness that washed over her in waves.

  Keiko moved a bucket across the floor with her foot. “If you’re sick, can you lean over?” she asked in a soft voice.

  A crack in Storm’s consciousness opened and shed some light on her memory. Yuan Ling was Keiko. Obake or one of his agents named her Keiko after they purchased her from her parents. With as much consideration as they would have for a rubber doll, or a pricey spittoon. Certainly less than a car, which would cost ten times as much.

  Vertigo inverted Storm’s stomach and she barely got her head over the bucket in time. She knew how insensate she was when she went to wipe her mouth and found her hands tied behind her back. Whatever held them bit painfully into her skin.

  Keiko’s wrists were tied with some kind of heavy duty plastic tie, and Storm surmised her hands must be secured in a similar manner. Keiko, with her hands in front, had enough mobility to blot Storm’s mouth, though her skin was broken and bleeding in places. Storm remembered how Keiko got her hands in front of her at Pauline’s house. She was young.

  Storm laid her head down gently so as not to bring on another session of vomiting and moved her eyes slowly around the small, enclosed space. Stella was there, too. She sat opposite Storm on a separate bunk, pale as the walls and stiff as a mannequin. The bed swayed, and Storm knew it wasn’t just her vertigo, because Stella cringed in pain. Her arms, too, were behind her and Storm knew they hurt like hell.

  The room rolled again, and the movement brought on another bout of vertigo, but at least she knew why their space tilted and swayed. It wasn’t due to her drug-induced delirium or dizziness. They were in the tiny forward cabin of a boat, and the hum that had added to the confusion in Storm’s dream was an engine. A diesel engine, by the odor. Storm hated that smell. Even without the drugs, the smell of diesel made her queasy. Underlying the diesel was a fishy scent, combined with the stink of urine. Storm gulped back nausea again.

  With effort, she began to examine the room, which was V-shaped, the contour of the prow. The bunk on which she lay and the one on which Stella sat met at the point of the V. Between the bunks was a small floor space, where Keiko could just about stand upright. Storm, who at five-eight was a couple of inches taller, would have to stoop a bit.

  There were narrow horizontal windows above the bunks, too small to climb through, and they were open a few inches. Thank God, or the women would have baked. Hot wind drifted through the side on which the sun shone, which was Stella’s side of the cabin. Stella’s face was glossy with sweat, and her color was grayer than Storm had ever seen it. She didn’t look good.

  Storm struggled to a sitting position, which caused pain to shoot from her deadened hands to her cramping shoulders. It was why Stella was trying not to move, though the bouncing boat made that effort impossible.
>
  The boat wasn’t moving fast, just steadily, and the ocean had to be clean and glassy, or they would have been tossed around like corn in a popper. As it was, they were subjected to a good deal of swaying with an occasional hard thump. The downside of a clean and glassy ocean was that there was virtually no breeze. Hence, the stifling heat.

  Storm looked up at the ceiling. Topside, it would be the forward deck of the boat. As she’d expected, there was a good-sized hatch.

  “You’ve tried the hatch?” she asked, knowing the answer.

  “Yeah.” Stella said.

  The only other space big enough to get through was the door to the cabin, and Storm didn’t bother to ask if they’d tried it. There had been some pounding in her drug-induced stupor, and she surmised that this had been Stella and Keiko’s work. She’d have done the same.

  Next to the cabin door was a smaller door. “What’s in there?” Storm asked.

  “A toilet,” said Keiko, who sat next to Stella on the bunk.

  “Anybody on the boat used it?”

  “No,” said Stella. “But Keiko checked it out.”

  “No windows?” Storm asked, and the other two women just shook their heads.

  “Figures.”

  The boat crashed over a swell, and Storm nearly tipped over. Stella did, with a cry of pain.

  “Who’s driving? Do you know?”

  “We don’t know,” said Keiko, “But it’s the Quest, one of Lara’s boats. They must have Lara tied up somewhere else.”

  “Have you seen her?”

  “No, but we think she’s topside. The only other cabin is the galley and salon,” said Keiko. “They’re open to stern of the boat.”

  “There’s another head. They could have her locked in there.”

  Ugh, thought Storm.

  “We heard her voice. She yelled,” Keiko said.

  “She was scared.” Lines etched sadness onto Stella’s face. “I didn’t protect Angela, and now Lara’s in trouble.”

  “It’s not your fault,” Keiko said. “What could you do?”