But after that, everything was confused. Lights had hit him in the eyes, brilliant halogen lamps that blinded him as thoroughly as if someone had thrown a bag over his head.
After that, his memories were nothing more than impressions.
More lights.
The sound of engines; voices yelling.
Suddenly, more hands were on him, and he was on the ground, pinned down by someone on his chest, someone else on his legs.
Something was pressed over his face, and he struggled to turn his head away, but couldn’t.
Blackness had begun closing around him, and he’d known he was dying.
But now he was awake, and he was not dead.
He lay perfectly still, listening.
He could hear sounds he’d never heard before.
His own heartbeat, pumping blood through his veins. Though he knew it wasn’t possible, he even imagined he heard the sound of his blood itself, whooshing softly as it coursed through his arteries, the sound changing with every contraction of the chambers of his heart.
He took an inventory of his body, testing every muscle, but moving each of them so slightly as to appear utterly immobile.
Nothing was broken; nothing even hurt.
And he was naked.
He turned his attention away from his own body to the environment around him. Though his eyes were still closed, he could sense there were walls around him, very close by.
And he was alone.
The air around him was moving, and unfamiliar scents were wafting through his nostrils.
Not unpleasant scents, but unfamiliar ones.
At last he opened his right eye—no more than a fraction of an inch—the movement so perfectly executed that no observer could have seen the slight flicker.
Fog.
The same brown fog.
But not fog, for he felt nothing of the cool dampness of fog against his skin.
His eye moved beneath its hooded lid, scanning the area around him, though he was far too uncertain of where he was or what might be nearby to betray himself by any but the slightest movement.
He saw nothing.
He opened both his eyes then, opened them wide, the lids snapping open in an unblinking stare.
He gazed straight ahead, his mind analyzing the data his eyes and ears and nose were gathering, searching for an as-yet-unnoticed enemy that might be lurking in the miasma.
Why didn’t his eyes hurt?
Why weren’t they stinging from the smoky haze, and streaming with tears?
Why wasn’t he coughing and choking on the fumes that swirled around him?
No answer came to him.
He lay inert, only his eyes moving, flicking first in one direction, then in another.
Nothing he saw, nothing he heard, nothing he smelled, betrayed the presence of any other living thing.
Yet he was being watched.
He could feel it with a certain knowledge he’d never experienced before. Despite the evidence of his eyes, and his ears, and his nose, his skin was tingling and his nerves were on edge.
Then he saw it.
Far up, above him, and off to the right.
A camera.
He turned his head to it, staring straight into its lens like a wolf staring into the telescopic sight of a gun.
His eyes never leaving the camera, Jeff Kina slowly gathered himself into a crouch, every movement so subtle and smooth it was barely perceptible.
Had he been in a field of tall grass, barely a blade would have stirred.
He froze, his eyes fixed on the camera, waiting.
Then he sprang, launching himself from the floor on which he lay, his body extending with the grace of a leaping cat, his arms stretching outward as his hands reached for the camera, his legs extending behind him as they hurled his huge frame upward.
And in a split second he slammed against an unseen barrier.
A grunt escaping his lips, he fell back to the floor, pain shooting through his right hip and his left knee as they struck hard against the surface of the tile beneath him.
He lay still, waiting for the pain to ease, then slowly got to his feet and began moving cautiously, his hands and fingers reaching out to explore the strange surroundings.
He was in a box.
A large box, transparent, not cold to the touch.
Plexiglas.
The thick gray-brown fog that swirled around him had kept him from seeing it before, but now, as he made his way around its perimeter for the second time, he could see it as well as feel it.
He was trapped, imprisoned in the box, which seemed to have no entry or exit, except for two vents through which the foglike atmosphere swirled, and a small air Jock, with a door on each side.
He could open the inner door, but not the outer one.
He was imprisoned, like a wild animal.
And to the men who watched the image the camera above him was capturing, a wild animal was exactly what he appeared to be.
A feral creature, pacing the confines of its cage.
Michael was just closing his locker before going to the cafeteria for lunch when he heard the voice behind him.
“I don’t know about you, but I’m starting to get scared.”
Michael didn’t need to be told what Rick Pieper was talking about; he’d been growing more and more worried himself all morning, ever since Josh had not turned up at the break after second period, and even after hearing the radio report of Jeff’s disappearance, he’d still half expected to see the big Hawaiian under the banyan tree where the rest of the track team hung out. But when Jeff failed to appear … “Did you try to call Jeff?” he asked as they started toward the cafeteria.
Rick nodded. “I talked to his mom just before third period. She said he went out around nine last night and didn’t come home. She said she called the cops around four in the morning.”
Michael stopped short just outside the cafeteria door and waited until the kids behind them had gone inside. “Maybe we should call them ourselves,” he said. “I mean, after what happened to Kioki—”
“We don’t know what happened to Kioki,” Rick countered.
“What if someone saw us break into that dive shop the night before last?” Michael pressed, searching for an explanation—any explanation—for what had happened to Kioki, and could now explain why Josh Malani and Jeff Kina had disappeared. “I mean, what if someone told the guy who owns the shop who it was that broke in?”
Rick Pieper’s eyes widened as the implication of what Michael was saying sank in, but a moment later he shook his head. “Ken Richter wouldn’t do something like that.”
“How do you know?” Michael demanded. “In New York—”
“This isn’t New York,” Rick said sharply. “If Ken was going to do anything at all, he’d call the cops, and the deputy who talked to us yesterday didn’t say anything about breaking into the dive shop.”
“So what else could it be?” Michael demanded. “Were Josh and Jeff in any kind of trouble?”
Rick hesitated.
“What?” Michael prompted him.
“Jeff wasn’t in any trouble,” Rick said carefully, “but Josh Malani’s always in some kind of mess—”
“Oh, yeah?” a voice asked, and Rick spun around to see Josh Malani himself coming around the corner of the cafeteria, his eyes glinting angrily. “Just because I don’t suck up to everyone like—”
“Well, I guess we can stop worrying about Josh,” Rick cut in, his voice turning cold and his expression tightening. Before either Michael or Josh could say anything else, Rick stalked off into the cafeteria.
Michael stared at Josh’s rumpled clothes and the smears of dirt on his face, seeing in an instant that Josh hadn’t been home since last night. “What’s going on?” he asked. “Where’s Jeff?”
“Oh, Jeez,” Josh whispered. “He isn’t here?”
There was something in his friend’s voice that made the apprehension Michael had been feeling all morni
ng congeal into fear. He shook his head and told Josh what he had heard on the radio and what Rick had just confirmed.
“I ran into him after I left your house,” Josh said. He glanced around nervously. “Maybe we better get out of here, huh?”
“You mean just cut school for the rest of the day?” Michael asked. “Come on, Josh! Just tell me what’s going on, okay?”
“Not here!” Josh said as the cafeteria door opened and two kids came out, looked uncertainly at them, then hurried on. “What’s wrong with them?” Josh asked as they disappeared around the corner.
“Have you taken a look at yourself? What did you do last night?”
Josh felt a flicker of anger. Why was Mike quizzing him so much? It wasn’t as if he was asking much.…
But if he got pissed off at Michael, where could he go? Who could he even talk to? And he was starting to feel bad, too. But why wouldn’t he, after breathing all that smoke in the cane field last night, then sleeping in his truck? “Look, let’s just go over to the locker room. At least I can take a shower, and I’ll tell you what happened last night. But you gotta promise not to tell anyone, okay?”
Dropping several quarters into the vending machine outside the cafeteria door, Michael got a couple of Cokes, a bag of Fritos, and two packages of stale-looking cookies. Popping the top off one of the Cokes, he handed it to Josh, who took a long swig from it as they started toward the locker room. But as Josh lifted the Coke to his lips for a second drink, he was seized by a fit of coughing.
“You okay?” Michael asked.
Josh shook his head. “I feel like crap.”
In the locker room, Josh stripped out of his clothes and went into the showers. As he stood under the steaming water, scrubbing the soot and dirt from his skin, he finally told Michael what had happened last night.
“You just left him there?” Michael asked as Josh finished his shower and grabbed a towel.
“Well, what was I supposed to do?” Josh shot back as he started to dry off, his temper flaring again. “He wouldn’t get back in the truck, and the fire was all around us, and those guys were coming, and—” His words were cut short as another hacking cough doubled him over.
“Maybe you better go home,” Michael said.
“Home?” Josh demanded as the coughing subsided. “That’s real easy for you, isn’t it, Mike? Your mom doesn’t get drunk and start pounding on you, like my dad does, and—” Suddenly Josh could barely breathe. Choking, he stumbled out of the locker room and shambled toward the rest room.
Michael hurried after him, and by the time he got to the rest room, Josh had sagged to the floor, his face pale. Frightened by the sudden change in his friend, Michael reached out and touched Josh’s arm.
His skin was cold and clammy.
Josh was gasping for breath. “What is it?” Michael asked. “What’s wrong?”
Josh peered up at Michael out of eyes that seemed to be glazing over. “D-Don’t know,” he gasped. “C-Can’t breathe …”
Michael’s eyes widened. Asthma? Could Josh be having an attack of asthma? His atomizer—the one his mother still made him take with him all the time, even though he hadn’t had an attack of asthma in over a year … where was it?
His locker.
Or should he run and get the nurse?
He didn’t even know where the nurse’s office was!
“I’ll be right back,” he said. “I’m gonna try to find the nurse, and I’ve got something in my locker that might help you breathe.”
“Not the nurse,” Josh gasped. “I don’t want—” But it was too late; Michael was already gone.
Struggling to catch his breath, Josh scrambled back to his feet, steadying himself with the knob of the closet door he’d been leaning against only a moment earlier. He took a tentative step, started to lose his balance, and jerked on the doorknob.
The door came open, revealing a jumble of boxes, cans, and bottles—the cleansers and disinfectants the janitor stored in the closet.
Instinctively moving back a step, Josh stared at the array of bottles and containers spread out in front of him. Then, reacting to an impulse that had suddenly seized him, he reached out, picked up a bottle of ammonia, opened it, and tentatively held it to his nose.
Sucking the fumes deep into his lungs, he felt an instant rush of energy, as if a shot of adrenaline had been injected into his bloodstream.
He breathed in again; an almost electric tingle ran through his body.
A moment later, when Michael Sundquist reappeared, his inhaler clutched in his hand, Josh Malani’s entire demeanor had changed again.
His complexion looked healthy, his eyes were bright, and he seemed to be breathing perfectly normally.
As Michael looked on in astonishment, Josh once again raised the ammonia bottle to his nose and inhaled its fumes into his lungs. “Jeez, Josh, what are you doing?” Michael cried, grabbing the bottle from Josh’s hand. “What’s all this mess?”
“Give it back!” Josh demanded. “I was just sniffing it.”
“Are you crazy? That stuff’s poisonous! It can kill you.”
Josh reached for the bottle once again. “Just give it to me!”
Shoving Josh away from the closet, Michael slammed the door shut, then leaned against it, the bottle of ammonia clutched in his hands. Josh glowered at him, and for a moment Michael was afraid he might be about to slug him. But then Josh shook his head. “The hell with you,” he muttered. Turning his back on Michael, he barged out of the rest room. By the time Michael had put the ammonia away and gone after him, Josh was almost dressed again.
“Come on, Josh,” Michael pleaded. “I’m just trying to help you.”
Josh barely looked at him. “I don’t need you helping me. I don’t need anyone helping me.” Then he was gone, shoving Michael aside as he left the locker room and headed for the parking lot. Michael caught up with him just as he was getting into his truck.
“I’m going with you,” Michael said, heading toward the passenger’s side.
“The hell you are.” Starting the engine, Josh slammed the truck into gear and screeched out of the parking lot.
Michael stood in the cloud of dust the truck had kicked up, staring after his friend. Tears were welling up in his eyes, and in his stomach he felt a hard knot of anger and pain, all twisted together so tightly he couldn’t even begin to unravel it. He’ll get over it, he told himself as he finally turned away and started back toward the locker room. By the time school’s out, he’ll get over it. It’ll be okay.
But even as he silently uttered the words to himself, he knew he didn’t believe them.
CHAPTER
20
Josh Malani had no idea where he was going as he roared out of the school parking lot. All he knew was that he had to get away.
Already the tingling he’d felt in his body when he breathed in the ammonia was fading away, but so was the fury that had boiled up in him when Michael had torn the bottle from his hands.
What the hell was he doing, getting pissed off at Michael? Michael was his best friend.
Michael had saved his life.
Michael had only been trying to help him.
And what had he done? Blown his stack and taken off.
Terrific!
So now what?
Home was out—no way was he going to go there until at least five, when his mom would be home from work and he wouldn’t have to be alone with his dad.
Maybe he’d just go to the beach for a couple of hours. He always felt a lot better after going for a swim, and then he’d come back just before school let out and find Mike.
He’d apologize, and then they’d figure out what to do about Jeff Kina. Maybe Mike was right—maybe they really should go tell the police where they’d been the night Kioki died.
By the time Josh came to the floor of the valley between Haleakala and the West Maui mountains, the strange discomfort in his chest had started up again, and as he headed out toward a park on the wind
ward side where few people ever went during the week, another fit of coughing gripped him. Then, with the same frightening breathlessness that had come over him at the school once again descending on him, he pressed hard on the accelerator, determined to get to the beach, where he could take in the trade winds blowing in from the ocean. So focused was he on his struggle to overcome the choking airlessness, that Josh never noticed that the car behind him sped up, too, keeping perfect pace with his truck.
The ammonia, he thought. Michael was right. His chest was aching painfully now, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t seem to get enough air into his lungs. As he pulled the truck to a stop in the empty parking lot behind the beach, he was gripping the wheel hard with both hands, partly against the terrible fiery pain spreading through him, but even more to keep himself steady.
His knuckles, already white with tension, were starting to turn blue, and now, when he looked out to sea, he could barely even see the horizon.
Everything seemed to be getting blurry, and the brightness of the afternoon was fading, even though a moment ago there hadn’t been a cloud in the sky.
Out.
He had to get out of the truck and down onto the beach. If he could just get that far, he’d be able to breathe again, and lie down and rest for a while, and then this strange attack would pass. He’d be okay again. He fumbled for the door handle, found it, and slid out of the driver’s seat. But instead of landing on his feet, his knees buckled beneath him and he crumbled to the ground, sprawling out in the dust.
He was panting, gasping for breath, but with every movement of his diaphragm, it felt as if his lungs were being seared from inside with a blowtorch.
Dying!
He knew it now, knew it with a terrible certainty.
The darkness was closing around him, and the pain was growing worse, and he couldn’t breathe at all.
He reached out, flailing, searching for something—anything—to hang on to, to cling to, as if the act of clutching something in his hands could stave off the horrible suffocation that was claiming him.
John Saul Page 18
