Riptide jl-5

by Paul Levine

  They drove upcountry in her pickup truck, through Pukalani and then higher in the Kula District, finally up Crater Road to the summit. They entered the Sliding Sands Trail, walking down from the observation area. The crater was filled with clouds, blowing in from Hanakauhi, the Maker of Mists, and they could barely see the bright red floor. Closer up, the rocks revealed other colors — yellow, lavender, silver, and black streaks, the remnants of ancient lava flows.

  Coming down the trail, Lila had pointed through the clouds to the small rise she said was their destination. Later, on the floor of the crater, she gestured and said, “There’s our cone, Pu’uo Maui.”

  Lassiter’s broad shoulders sagged. “But that’s a mountain. It didn’t look that big from above.”

  “You get no sense of perspective from on top,” Lila said. “There’s nothing down here recognizable to compare to the cones, so they all look small. I’ll try to remember where Keaka and I camped. It was away from the trail so we couldn’t be seen.”

  The cone was a miniature volcano itself, rising nine hundred feet from the floor of Haleakala, with an indented crater of its own on top. Lila was puzzled. “I remember there were bushes and pili grass nearby.”

  They found an area on the far side of the cone with patches of ‘ ohelo berries. “It could be around here,” she said.

  Could be, Lassiter thought, knowing it was futile. There was no way they could just jam a shovel into the red sand and come up with a million bucks. It was getting dark, and the temperature was dropping.

  Lila kept looking for familiar landmarks. “Problem is, it’s constantly changing in here. Look at the ripples in the sand. New plants grow and die. Others are covered by the blowing sand. We used to camp anywhere we wanted and now looking around, the size of this place, I just don’t know. I’m sorry, Jake.”

  “Don’t worry. It doesn’t matter.”

  And it really didn’t. He wasn’t sad about the money. He thought about it and figured he didn’t care about the bonds after all. He’d really come for Lila, it had just been hard to admit on the way out here. After Tubby was killed, there had been another purpose, revenge, and with Keaka dead, it seemed like it should be over.

  Darkness came quickly, and with it the mountain air grew cold. Then the sky lit up. The clouds disappeared and the stars blazed, thousands of them, more than he’d ever seen, sparkling against the black velvet sky, a king’s ransom in gemstones. They set up camp in the twinkling light, zipping their sleeping bags together, making a comfortable nest for two. The heavy sweaters came off and so did everything else.

  They made love, the crisp night air outside, their bodies warm in the sleeping bag. And this time it was different. Maybe it was the place — the stars and the rocks that were born so long ago, a universal silence except for their own murmurs — maybe it was him, maybe it was a million things, but what did it matter, because Lila responded as she had not be fore, her breathing quickened, and then her breasts heaved and her body shuddered, then rested and shuddered again, and she gave out a short cry, and then another. They both lay there, bathed in each other’s sweat, and this time Jake Lassiter didn’t ask because he knew, and Lila opened her eyes and dewy tears ran down her sculpted cheeks and Lassiter kissed each salty drop.

  Jake Lassiter looked toward the heavens, and in the clear, thin air, it seemed he could touch the stars. The entire world sparkled, the thousand-foot cinder cones etched in relief against the night, the flickering suns burning with fires of antiquity, the woman whose legs entwined his. If only this moment could be frozen for eternity like the bed of an ancient lava stream. Lila was his and he had only one goal: to get her out of Maui and home with him. To hell with the bonds, he thought, and he slept like a man with no enemies and a future as bright as the sky.

  CHAPTER 31

  Silversword

  They could see their breath in the morning air. They could also feel the mist, cold droplets from the clouds. The outside of the double sleeping bag was soaked.

  Lila was up, puttering around the campsite, while Jake lay there in the warmth she had created. “Jake, look at this!” Her voice rose with excitement, and at first he thought she might have found an old landmark, a key to the treasure he had all but forgotten. But Lila stood motionless in front of a four-foot tall plant, sleek gray leaves at its base, a burst of purple flowers pointing upward, leaves shimmering, nearly white.

  “Silversword,” Lila said. “In full bloom. Take a good look. They only bloom on Haleakala, nowhere else on Maui, nowhere else in the world.”

  He pulled himself out of the sleeping bag, and hopped into his undershorts. “It’s breathtaking.”

  “But sad, too.”

  “Why? It’s glorious. A plant flaming out of the rocks and sand, it’s almost unearthly.”

  “Sad because it won’t last,” Lila Summers said. “The silversword grows for twenty years without blooming, just a bush in the desert. Then it blooms, but only once, a brief flash of colors, then dries up like an old kitchen mop and dies.”

  They stood there, absorbing the beauty of the plant, struck by its splendor against the stark landscape. Tears came to Lila’s eyes. What was she thinking, Lassiter wondered in the silence, looking at the plant, so beautiful, so near death.

  Such a strange reaction. When she butchered her former lover, not a trace of emotion. Now, on the lunar landscape, tears for a flowering bush. What did it mean to her, he wondered. Was the realization sinking in? That she had to leave the island, now and forever, this was her last time in the crater, the last glimpse of a silversword in bloom?

  Still looking at the shimmering plant, she said, “Will you always remember last night?”

  “For the rest of my life.”

  “Remember the silversword, Jake. Remember it and think of me.”

  “I’ll think of you all the time, especially if we’re sharing the same sleeping bag.”

  But she just shook her head sadly and began gathering up their belongings.

  By the time they ate their papayas and gathered their gear, the sun was sizzling over the rim of the crater. Lila paced around the base of the huge cone, but even in the morning light, she had no idea where to look, no way to guess where Keaka had buried the treasure. She scuffed at a few rocks, then gave up. You could dig more holes than Con Ed and have nothing to show for it but a ton of sand and rocks.

  It was time to get off the mountain, to get away before Mikala set out to avenge his cousin’s death. Which is what Lila predicted he would do. He’s a killer, she said, not up close with his own hands like Keaka, but more of an assassin, a methodical professional. Lassiter remembered the talk in the police station, the pride Mikala took in the slaughter in Vietnam.

  After the long climb up the trail to the observation building, they loaded their gear in Lila’s old pickup and started slowly down Crater Road. Six miles below the summit, behind a sharp bend in the road at the eight-thousand-foot level, a few cars were pulling into the entrance to the Halemau’u Trail, which led to the rim of the crater. As they passed the parking lot, it pulled out behind them, a 1979 Chevy Blazer with a reinforced steel bumper, a row of spotlights, and a rumbling engine. Two tons of terror, a nightmare on wheels.

  CHAPTER 32

  Deja Vu

  Lila Summers hit the gas, hut the engine backed off — the Mazda could have used a tune-up — then revved and tore around the next curve. The Blazer closed the distance, its fortified front bumper drawing a bead on them. Then it just hung there, a foot or two feet behind, taking every curve with them. Lila slowed, the Blazer slowed; she sped up, the Blazer sped up.

  “They’re toying with us,” Lassiter said. “Do you have any weapons in here?”

  “Nothing here but the windsurfing gear in back,” she replied, never taking her eyes off the road.

  He remembered Tubby, deja vu, and he figured he wasn’t doing any good this time either. “I’m going back there,” he said, opening the door and watching the pavement streak beneath him. L
ila didn’t say a word. No meek feminine protests — don’t do it, Jake — not from Lila Summers. She was calm, her athlete’s reflexes taking care of the driving. If he could help out, fine. If not, just stay the hell out of the way.

  Jake Lassiter took a deep breath, and then, holding onto the shoulder harness, swung a leg over the side of the bed and pushed off. A strange thought in midair: the image of Jackie Kennedy climbing over the trunk of the black Lincoln convertible. What was she doing, hauling ass to get out or helping the Secret Service guy in? And what was Jake Lassiter doing, jumping to safety again or picking up arms to fight? His hand caught the roll bar in midleap; it steadied him and he dropped into the bed.

  The Blazer hadn’t changed position, still hanging back a foot from their rear bumper, growling like an angry beast. Wasting no time, Lassiter took inventory. The harnesses, booms, and mast extensions were rolling around at his feet. So was an eight-foot wave board. Lassiter grabbed the board and tossed it at the Blazer. The driver braked quickly, and the board crashed to the pavement, the fiberglass shattering, the Blazer crunching over it. Then, as if angered, the beast hit the Mazda pickup a jolt from the rear, sending Lassiter toppling forward. Not much time now. He picked up a boom, a five-foot-long aluminum wishbone covered by a rubber handgrip. He bounced it off the hood of the Blazer, a flea brushed from an elephant’s hide. Next, one of the heavy aluminum mast extensions: It fit in the palm of his hand like a nightstick. But it pinged on the Blazer’s windshield and fell harmlessly to the road.

  Then Lassiter saw an old sail rolled up in the corner. He crouched down and opened it. The five plastic battens were not in the sleeves. Good, the sail would be more flexible. It had four vertical panels of different colors from the leech to the mast sleeve. From the head to the tack, it was fourteen feet long, about four feet across from sleeve to clew. It was the right size and it might work, but he would need the element of surprise and more luck than he’d had so far.

  The sun glared off the Blazer’s heavily tinted windshield. It was ten feet behind them now, and Lassiter stood, spread-eagled, holding the sail, which filled with wind, threatening to take him over the side. He waited until the Blazer charged them, then let go. Five square meters of brightly colored Mylar crackled in the wind, then flew to the windshield. Brakes squealed but the sail stayed put, draping the cab of the Blazer like a shroud. They were on a curve now and the Blazer went straight across the uphill lane into the mauka side of the road, where the huge front wheels vaulted over a clump of boulders and slammed into a grassy slope.

  Lila Summers hit the brakes, squealing the tires and sending Jake Lassiter sprawling again. He landed hard on a shoulder that had been separated three times and dislocated twice. She expertly slid the Mazda into a 180-degree turn.

  Now what? Lassiter thought they’d beat it down the mountain, but Lila was streaking back up the road, nearing the Blazer where the passenger door was opening — the driver’s door was pinned against the slope — and as a man stepped from the high cab, Lila swung the Mazda off the road toward him. Lassiter felt the jolt and heard a th-ump.

  Lila brought the Mazda to a stop and Lassiter jumped out. Sprawled across their hood and front windshield was one of the largest men he had ever seen, aloha shirt pulled up over his huge belly. Lila Summers sat motionless, her hands on the steering wheel, calmly contemplating the sight of the big man’s navel staring through the windshield like a Cyclops.

  Blood flowed from the man’s nose and trickled from one of his ears. One eye was closed and a nasty welt was forming on his forehead. But he wasn’t dead, not even unconscious. He was at that very moment pulling himself up with one hand and tearing off the Mazda’s radio aerial with the other. From in front of the pickup, Lassiter grabbed the man’s foot to pull him off the hood, a task no more difficult than dragging a tractor trailer up a hill. The foot, wrapped in a size 15EEE Reebok running shoe, jerked Lassiter toward the hood, then with the kick of a plow horse sent him tumbling into the sand at the side of the road. A sumo wrestler, or maybe defensive line material.

  The big man slid off the Mazda and got to his feet, shaky but massive, whipping the aerial back and forth, heading for Lassiter, who crouched on his haunches, his hands trailing along the ground. No one said a word.

  The big man got closer, the aerial whining in the air, and Lassiter stayed put. When the man was close enough that Lassiter felt the breeze from the metal whip, he sprang forward, tossing two handfuls of red sand in the man’s face. There was a yelp, the aerial fell, and the man’s hands came up to his eyes.

  Lassiter hit him, a good left jab to the right eye, then a short right to his huge belly. The big man simply grunted and blinked, still clawing at his eyes. Lassiter planted his feet and got a lot of hip behind a left hook. The timing was good, but the aim a little high, and it caught the big man square in the middle of his sloping forehead. Slugging Dave Casper’s helmet with a roundhouse right in the AFC Championship game had probably hurt more, but maybe not, Lassiter thought, his knuckles flaring with pain.

  The giant grunted again and hit Lassiter in the chest with an open palm. The impact knocked him back three feet. A great pass blocker. The man wiped the blood from his nose, and twisted his face into a vicious smile. “Hit me again, haole.”

  Lassiter didn’t, but Lila did, clobbering him from behind with a mast extension, then a second time, and the man crumpled like a buffalo shot through the heart.

  “Let’s get him off the road,” she said, looking each way for traffic. It would have been easier with a crane. They pushed and rolled him into a gulley and Lila quickly brought some sturdy quarter-inch boom line from the Mazda.

  “Help me get his hands behind his back,” she told Lassiter. Working quickly, she bound the big man’s wrists with a sheepshank knot. He was facedown in the gulley, moaning softly. It took both of them to turn him over.

  “Hello, Lomio,” Lila said softly. “You’re not as quick as you used to be, but you’re just as ugly. And you look like you’ve been hit by a truck.” Lila laughed, and a chill went through Jake Lassiter. He tried to think. What was it about this moment, about that laugh, but it wouldn’t compute and he stored it away.

  Lila was bent over the bleeding man. “Now, Lomio, tell me where they are. You would have been with Keaka when he hid them.”

  The man was silent.

  “Oh, Lomio, Lomio! Wherefore art thou… bonds?” Lila said to him theatrically. Enjoying the moment.

  Lomio spoke through swollen, bleeding lips. “Up my ass, wahine laikini.”

  “Lomio, that’s very crude, calling me a whore.” Then she smashed the mast extension into his ankle. Metal shattered bone. Lomio’s face contorted in pain but he made no sound.

  Lila scowled and turned to Lassiter. “C’mon, Jake. Let’s put him in the back of the truck. We’ll have to baby-sit him until he tells us where the bonds are.”

  “What if he doesn’t know?”

  Lila laughed, the same mocking, chilling laugh. “We’ll find that out, too, if we handle it right. By the time he dies, he’ll tell all his family secrets.”

  By the time he dies. What the hell does that mean? The big man was hurt, sure, but the injuries weren’t fatal. And here’s Lila talking about him dying like it was inevitable, like they were going to… well… finish him off.

  Lila was very businesslike, no trace of emotion. No anger, no fear. Okay, she’s not like me, Jake Lassiter thought. So what? She’s not like anybody I’ve ever known.

  Except that laugh, the taunting of Lomio, that was familiar.

  It reminded him of someone, and the memory gnawed at Lassiter, calling back a night of terror and doom.

  She sounded just like Keaka Kealia.

  CHAPTER 33

  Dead Is Dead

  Lomio refused to move, so they propped him against the pickup, and when Lila threatened to break both his kneecaps, the giant used his one good leg to hop into the bed. Lila gagged him and pulled an old sail over his head, the smell of s
weat and blood fouling the morning air.

  They drove down the mountain and across the Central Valley into Lahaina. On a deserted street near the waterfront, Lila parked the pickup under an angel’s-trumpet tree, huge white flowers hanging downward in the shape of a horn, the exotic scent of musk heavy in the air.

  “What’re we going to do with him?” Lassiter asked.

  “Get him to talk, then find a hole to stuff him into.”

  “It’d have to be big enough for a moose.”

  Lila’s eyes lit up. “Or a pig. Jake, have you ever been to a luau?”

  “No, and I’m not too hungry just now.”

  “That’s okay, we don’t have time to eat. We’ll just let Lomio soak up the cultural experience of his ancestors, a long line of Samoan goat-fuckers.”

  Her voice was hard. Lila continued to surprise him — so much toughness, so little compassion. Lassiter wondered if part of the attraction was her strength and the danger it courted. Was his button-down life so boring that he needed battles in the jungle and attacks on mountain roads to keep the blood flowing?

  They drove another block before turning into an alley where the sign said DELIVERIES ONLY, LAHAINA BEACH HOTEL. Close to the beach a pavilion was set up for the evening luau. Lila pulled to a stop behind a row of pink Tecoma trees and killed the engine.

  She pointed to a pile of leaves and banana stalks in the shade of the trees. “That’s an imu, an earthen oven. The boys would have put the pig in there a couple of hours ago. It will take six or seven hours to cook this way, so they shouldn’t be back for a while.”