It had been over a month ago that she and Parker had traveled to Chicago and petitioned the court to open Amy’s adoption records. The judge said he couldn’t do it without justification. He needed something like a hereditary health condition that the adoptee needed to know about, since it would be in her best interest.
Miranda still remembered Judge Rozeki’s question. “Do you have any other close relative who might have a life-threatening, hereditary illness? Your father perhaps?”
She hadn’t seen her father since she was five years old. The wonderful Edward Steele had left her and her mother and gone off to God knows where. She’d almost forgotten what he looked like until she’d found a picture of him in an attic in Chicago a month ago.
That photo had brought back a flood of unwanted memories.
Parker had wanted to try to find her father and see if he had a hereditary condition, but Miranda had told him very clearly, very firmly, no.
Not just no, but hell no. And a few other expletives to boot.
She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t face that man again. Not after all this time. Not after all that had happened to her. Besides, for all she knew, her father could be dead. And if he wasn’t dead, he might be if she ever ran into him.
Just the idea of seeing her father again made her feel suddenly sick. Like she had a bad case of swine flu. A Guinness Book of World Records case.
Anger rushed inside her as she paced over the soft sand. She hated her father. Maybe even more than she hated Leon. If he hadn’t abandoned her to be raised by a cold, cruel, emotionless mother, maybe she wouldn’t have married the first guy that came along and gave her a chance to escape. Maybe her life would have turned out differently. Maybe she wouldn’t have lost her daughter. Maybe she wouldn’t be having nightmares.
But no, until the day she’d met Wade Parker, her life had been bleak and miserable and hopeless. And the resentment she carried for Edward Steele was as deep as the ocean she was strolling alongside. As powerful as the raging waves rolling toward her.
The tide was rising and the waves hitting the sand would have doused her if she hadn’t skipped away. The sea was like a living creature, expanding as it ebbed and flowed. She sidled several feet out on the path and kept going, her pace picking up. With the wind in her hair, she broke into a run.
She could never face her father again. Not even if it meant finding Amy. Which it probably didn’t. From what she remembered, her father was as healthy as a horse. Just like her mother.
Pain mounting inside her, she ran faster. She wished she could run so far she’d never feel this way again. She ran and ran. It must have been several miles.
The ground beneath her feet began to incline. The sand grew hard and rocky. After a while it was too uneven to run. Her chest heaving, she slowed down and took in the new surroundings. It was darker here, with only the moonlight and lights from scattered torches flickering on the cliffs above.
She came to a stop. A large, jagged structure loomed to one side. Lava, she assumed. Last week she’d read in a guidebook that the whole island chain was formed from volcanic activity under the sea.
Slowly she made her way toward the peak. The sea must be several yards below now, but the sound of water was loud here. Almost like thunder. And there was an odd moaning sound. Curious, she squinted into the darkness.
Suddenly there was a huge gush and a monstrous spray shot from the rocks and spewed into the air, maybe thirty feet high. With that strange moan, it subsided again. But after a minute or two, it shot up once more, this time with a wave from the ocean barreling up to join it.
Mist sprinkled her face and body.
Mesmerized, Miranda stood watching the geyser and the waves dance, as graceful as a herd of wild gazelles leaping into the air.
What was that? A blowhole? She’d read about those in the guidebook, too. It was gorgeous. Amazing. She couldn’t wait to see what it looked like in the daylight.
But as she stood transfixed, a strange feeling came over her. A sensation of cold that had nothing to do with the temperature. Her skin prickled as icy fingers snaked up her spine.
Startled she sucked in air. She’d felt that weird sensation before. But how could this beautiful sight give her the heebie-jeebies?
She’d find out.
She crept closer, picked up the flashlight at her side, and shined it on the rocky, pumice-like ground so she wouldn’t lose her footing. She came to a sign and held her light up to it.
Warning. Danger.
Better turn back, she thought. The sensation must have been left over from her dream. This place was gorgeous. She’d bring Parker here in the morning and show him what a cool site she’d discovered.
But as she turned to leave, another spray shot from the hole and that icy sensation gripped her again. Now the moan sounded human.
She spun around and peered at the blowhole, shined her flashlight toward the spewing water. It didn’t do much good.
And then she saw it.
Her heart stood still. In the darkness an appendage bobbed up and down at the base of the waterspout. A human appendage. An arm.
It was an illusion. She had to be seeing things in the shadows.
But no, propelled by the force of the water there was an arm waving at the base of the hole. She was sure of it. Was somebody out there?
Forgetting about the warning sign, she started over the rocks toward the hole. Moving as fast as she could, she cursed the jagged, uneven ground. It slowed her down, impeding her steps, cutting into her thin-soled sneakers. The rocky passage began to slope downhill toward the sea, making it even harder to keep her balance. It was like traversing a rainy cobblestone street after an earthquake. She stepped in a puddle and her foot got soaked to the ankle, but she kept going.
After what seemed like a lifetime, she reached the blowhole.
Another spray shot up and came crashing down, drenching her and knocking her to her knees. The water was powerful. She grabbed onto one of the boulder-like rocks around the hole and her flesh scraped along the sharp lava. Her leg went into the water. It was all she could do to hold on as the force of the tide receded, dragging her down.
Somehow she managed to keep from being propelled with it and pulled her leg out again. As the water churned and bubbled in the hole preparing for the next gush, she crawled painfully toward the place where she’d thought she’d seen the arm, hoping she hadn’t been hallucinating.
She put a hand down in the water and this time instead of rock, she felt something soft. Human.
Her flashlight was still on her wrist. Rising to her knees, she gripped it and shined it on whatever she was holding onto. The light fell on her fingers. There was brown-colored flesh beneath them. She moved the light and saw an elbow. An upper arm. A bare chest. A face matted with long dark hair. A youthful male face.
Oh, dear God. She’d been right. It was a body. A young man.
Without thinking, she tried to get her hands under his shoulders and discovered his shirt was tangled in the rocks. One sleeve on, one off. That must be what was keeping him from getting sucked completely under. But the swirling water was getting ready to gush again.
She had to get him out of here before they both were swept out to sea. “Hang on,” she yelled to him. “I’ll get you out.”
Frantically her fingers found the place in the rock where the shirt was caught. She tugged and yanked, but the fabric wouldn’t come loose. In desperation she bent down and tore the material with her teeth. The fabric began to rip. With both hands she tore it in two.
At last he was free.
Now she really had to move fast. She couldn’t lift him. She was pretty strong, but she couldn’t lift an adult male. She couldn’t drag him over these rocks without slicing him to bits. She’d have to go piecemeal.
Summoning all her strength, she tucked her arms under his shoulders and carefully pulled his upper body up and away from the rocks and the sputtering hole. She moved at an angle and then set him down again. She went roun
d to his feet and did the same thing. Back and forth she went, zigzagging, moving him bit by bit, until after what seemed like an hour, they were far enough away from the blowhole.
The water spewed up again and came down dosing her thoroughly.
Ignoring it, she knelt down, pressed her lips to his and breathed. She sat up and put her hands on his chest and pushed as hard as she could.
She breathed into his mouth again. “C’mon.” She pushed at his chest. She stopped.
No response.
She put her fingers to his neck and felt. No pulse.
“C’mon,” she shouted. He couldn’t be—.
There was something wet on her hands. Wet and slimy and it wasn’t just water. She groped around on the rocks for the flashlight. She found it, switched it on, shined it on his face. There was a cut down the front of it. She touched the back of his head. It felt like it had been ripped open. He was bleeding all over the rocks. She took off her sweater and wrapped it around his head, tears streaming down her face.
She’d recognized him.
It was the fire dancer from the performance. And when her light fell on his neck, she saw that dark spot she’d seen when he’d stared at her.
Sobbing, her fingers trembling like crazy, she groped in her pocket for her cell phone, pulled it out. She could barely dial, but she managed to press Parker’s number.
He answered on the third ring and didn’t sound a bit groggy. “Miranda, thank God. Where are you?
“Remember that bet we made on the plane?” she asked in a shaky voice. “I won.”
Chapter Seven
It didn’t take long for the police to arrive after she dialed 911. Parker arrived just a moment before the squad cars and the ambulance pulled up.
He stood rigid with a comforting arm around Miranda’s shoulders as they watched the officers do their grim work while lights from the squad car beams and emergency vehicles played over the dark scene.
“This is Keola Hakumele, all right,” said a tall, thin man with an African accent who was huddled over the body. “I recognize him.”
“Everyone knows that face,” agreed an officer who was examining the ground with a flashlight.
“He won the World Fireknife Championship in Oahu three years in a row.”
A few feet away, another uniform was taking notes. “Works at the Luau Pilialoha. Most popular dancer in Maui.” The officer sounded Polynesian.
A stocky, dark-skinned man who looked like the one in charge put his hands on his hips. “Popular with the young girls, Yamagata. My daughter especially.”
A skinny woman in crisp blues with her dark blond hair pulled back in a ponytail made her way over the rocky hill that led to the highway beyond. “Found his truck parked alongside the road, Sergeant,” she said to the stocky man with an accent that sounded Australian. “White Ford pickup. A little old, but it looks clean. No other vehicle in sight other than ours and the gentlemen’s BMW over there.” She nodded toward Parker. “Lots of tire tracks from tourists, though.”
“Good work, Jones,” said the man in charge. “We'll take the truck in and go over it. How are you coming, Dr. Okoro?”
Doctor. The African-sounding man must be the ME.
“Vic’s got bruising on the left eye,” said Okoro. “Laceration on the right cheek. Could be from the rocks. No defense wounds.”
Jones strolled closer to the body. “He could have gotten that shiner earlier in a bar fight or some such.” She peered at the face. “He was a looker, wasn’t he? Cuts on the head. He may have fallen on these rocks.”
“Time of death?” The man in charge wanted to know.
Okoro pulled back an eyelid on the body. “From the look of his eyes, he definitely expired in the water. Skin condition indicates he was in there no more than two hours.”
The officer with the flashlight came to a stop. “There’s a lot of blood right here.”
“Let’s give the boys in the lab something to do, Andrews,” said the man in charge.
“Yes, sir.” He slipped a camera off his shoulder and took a few shots of the spot. Then with a short grunt, he bent down. He had a bit of a paunch and seemed to have some years of experience on him. “Pretty fresh. I’ll see if I can get a sample.” Andrews sounded like he hailed from New York.
Brooklyn, Miranda decided, thinking of her buddy Joan Fanuzzi back home. The officer was several feet from the body. Had that blood come from the dancer’s head when she’d pulled him away from the water? Or had something gone on before he ended up in the drink?
The sergeant scratched at the scrap of dark beard on his chin. “So he fell, got disoriented, stumbled into the blowhole.”
And drowned? Didn’t sound right.
He turned to Miranda. “Where exactly did you find the body, Ms—?”
“It’s Mrs. Mrs. Parker.” Miranda had decided to keep her last name for professional reasons, but at the moment the Parker moniker might give her more credibility. “And you are?”
“Sergeant Balondo.”
He had a very slight Spanish accent. Filipino, maybe. And a squarish build that made the dark blue shirt of his uniform look like it was still on the hanger. His straight black hair glistened in the beam of the emergency vehicle lights, and the patch of black on his chin bobbed as he spoke. Miranda wondered at the breach of typical cop regulations.
“Can you point out where you found him?” he asked.
“In that blowhole.” She gestured toward the spewing water that continued to gush, impervious to the death scene below it. “His shirt was caught on a rock. That must have been what kept him from getting sucked under with the current. I tore it loose and pulled him over here.”
“By yourself?”
“I moved half of him at a time. Legs first, then the head, then the legs again.”
“That took some effort.”
“Yeah. I’m in pretty good shape and I guess I had a lot of adrenaline.”
He nodded.
“I didn’t notice the condition of his head until I tried to give him CPR and he didn’t respond.”
“You mean the cuts?”
“Yes.”
He rubbed his chin. “Very brave of you.” He studied her a moment. “Did you know the deceased?”
Miranda felt Parker tense at the implication, but both of them knew it was standard practice to suspect the person who called in a suspicious death first. “We went to the Luau Pilialoha tonight and I saw him at the show but never before.”
The Sergeant’s gaze went from her to Parker. “Honeymooners?”
Parker nodded. “We’re vacationing here on our honeymoon, Sergeant.”
The tall man who was the doctor rose and joined them. “My first guess is accident, sir. Though it’s usually the tourists who fall into blowholes.”
Sergeant Balondo nodded. “Well, he was a fire dancer. They aren’t known for being overly cautious.” He turned back to Miranda. “If you don’t mind, I’d like you to come into the station tomorrow and give a formal statement, Mrs. Parker. It’s just routine.” He reached into his pocket and handed her a card.
Accident? That was a pretty quick conclusion. And one her gut told her was a mistake. “Sergeant Balondo, my husband here is Wade Parker. We’re with the Parker Investigative Agency in Atlanta. We’d like to help.”
“Your statement will do that.”
“We’d like to do more. We’d like to help with the investigation.” In case it wasn’t an accident.
One corner of his mouth turned up. “That’s generous of you,” he said as if he didn’t mean it. “But we can take care of our own investigations. We don’t need help from haoles.” He turned away and headed for the body.
Haoles? Did that mean what she thought it did?
“It means outsider,” Parker whispered in her ear. “We should go, Miranda.”
Go? She couldn’t just drop it. Keola’s eyes, the way he’d looked at her tonight during his last performance, still haunted her. She broke free of Parker’
s embrace and stepped over the rocks to the sergeant. “What if it wasn’t an accident? What if it was murder? The Parker Agency has a solid reputation, a long track record for solving murders.”
Balondo shook his head. “We don’t have many murders in the islands.”
She snorted. “You never watched Hawaii Five-0?”
“Good night, Mrs. Parker,” he said, sneering the name.
Parker watched his wife chase after the sergeant with growing anxiety. If what he suspected were true, he couldn’t let her get involved in this case. “Miranda,” he said, trying to sound gentle.
She spun around and glared at him. “Are you going to let him get away with that?”
“It is our honeymoon.”
Miranda felt as if he’d just slapped her out of a frenzy. She looked into Parker’s face. It was weary and riddled with concern. Her heart melted.
“The police can handle it.” His voice was a tender plea.
She wasn’t sure about that, but she couldn’t let this ruin the time he had planned for them here. Though it certainly would put a damper on it. As terrible, as tragic as Keola’s death was, she’d have to let it go. The investigation of it, at least.
“Okay,” she sighed and turned back to the sergeant. “I’ll come in to the station tomorrow.”
Chapter Eight
Miranda sank into the rattan chair in the corner of the hotel bedroom and stared blankly at the rumpled bed.
“You should get cleaned up and try to go back to sleep.” Parker took his cell phone out of his pocket and plugged it into the charger on the dresser.
In a daze, Miranda looked down at herself. Her new jeans were torn and bloody. There was a rip in her shoe. She didn’t move.
“Are you cut? There’s a first aid kit in the bathroom.”
“I’m okay.” She didn’t care if she was cut.
“Do you want a drink?”
She shook her head. “Those Mai Tais gave me bad dreams.”
“You had a nightmare?”
She gave a short nod, still staring into space.
He crossed to her and reached for her hands.
Fire Dancer Page 4
