She opened her eyes to a preponderance of cacti, one like a heap of bristling snakes, another with folded, cabbage gray leaves like rippled brain tissue. Interspersed were pots and pots of delicate orchids; white, magenta, red speckled. Ferns dangled from the rafters, so that her next thought was of the tropical forest.
The room was the one she’d stumbled into the night before. She must have fallen asleep at once, because she recalled nothing after lying down on the rattan daybed and breathing the scent of freshly laundered sheets. She rose to one elbow. The bed was the color of milk caramel, the sheets frothy cream.
Outside the wide sliding doors, a sheet of gray mist passed. She shuddered. The sense of something pending intensified—but what?
A tap came at the door. The woman from the garden peeked in.
“You’re awake.” Her eyes were almost the exact color of the rain outside. “Did you sleep well?”
The disconnect indicated sleep wasn’t a problem. She nodded and winced. Verbal responses would hurt less.
“Last night you couldn’t tell me what happened. Or even your name.”
Her name … How could she not know? She pressed up to sit. “I must have hit my head.”
“You still don’t remember?”
Fear stirred. But was the fear that of not knowing? “I remember yours. It’s Monica.” She clung to that piece of information.
“Call me Nica.” The women sat down on the edge of the daybed, concern etched on her face. “Maybe you should see a doctor. Okelani thinks you have a concussion.”
“Okelani?”
“She examined you last night.”
Dismay sank in. She had no memory of another person. Nothing.
“You were too deeply asleep to notice.”
That was some relief, though not when she thought of lying utterly unaware. Anything could have happened. Something already had.
Nica said, “Don’t worry. Okelani’s son Clay, the pearl diver, once hit his head so hard he repeated the same things over and over for days.”
“Am I repeating myself?”
Nica smiled. “No. You seem to have a gap in your memory.”
“A gap …”
“Can you tell me anything?”
Fear spiraled up. “No, I … it’s all gone.” Maybe she should see a doctor, but an unaccountable hesitation kept her from saying so.
“Maybe the police—”
“No.” The word was out before she knew why.
Nica tipped her head. “Are you in trouble?”
“I don’t know. I said that without thinking.”
“A reaction more instinctive than thought.” Nica turned pensive.
“Maybe.” Without recall, did she function on some primal level? She pressed her palm to her temple.
“Okelani thinks someone hurt you. She sensed malice.”
Malice. Wouldn’t she know? Maybe she should go to the police. Yet something stronger held her back. “I can’t explain it. But I need to wait.”
Nica nodded. “So what should I call you?”
She shook her head, fists clenched. How could everything be gone, as though she’d only begun yesterday?
Nica fingered a succulent plant with leaves like small polished stones. “How about Jade?”
She gave the room a quick glance. If she was going to be named for a plant that was better than Aloe Vera or Orchid. “Jade. Okay.” She slipped the name like a thin garment over her nakedness.
“Would you like some fruit, Jade?”
“Maybe a little.” She was still queasy, but a bump on the head couldn’t last forever. She’d remember, and then she’d understand. “Could you tell me …” Her mind clogged with questions, all the things she didn’t know. “Where am I?”
“Hanalei. On the island of Kauai.”
“Kauai?”
Nica nodded.
Jade bit her lip. What was she doing on Kauai?
“Come and eat something.” Nica stood and glanced over her shoulder. “It’ll all work out.” But her smile didn’t hide the shadow on her face.
Nica looked out through the window to Jade sitting in the garden, and an ache settled in the pit of her stomach. Maybe this time would be different. But if it wasn’t? How many damaged souls could she usher to the portal of death and let go? She still ached from Old Joe’s passing. He’d reached her with his body so full of cancer she’d smelled him before seeing the heap of rags and bones at her steps. She recalled keenly how his fingers had clung to hers, unable to relinquish even the pain until she had banished his fear, giving him a peace she could hardly find herself.
She touched her fingers to the glass. Jade had come like an injured bird, her trouble locked in her mind. She might be nothing more than a clumsy tourist, but Okelani didn’t think so. What storm could be brewing for the woman with no memory? Had someone hurt her, and would they try again?
Like Jade, most of those who came clung to their privacy and what little dignity they had left. She usually involved no one but Okelani, but now she picked up the phone. Jade had said no doctor, no police, so there was only one place to turn.
The rings ended in an abrupt, “Cameron Pierce.”
“Aloha, Kai.”
“Nica.” He softened perceptibly, though she’d obviously interrupted. It was midmorning on the West Coast.
“Are you working on a case?”
“Shuffling a handful, why?”
“I have someone who might need your help.”
“Another stray?” His tone communicated his frown.
“A woman came to me last night. She doesn’t know who she is.”
“Right.” The word, clipped and skeptical, did not surprise her.
In light of the sorts of things he handled, she could imagine his wheels turning. But once he saw her, he’d realize Jade wasn’t what he thought, that it was as Okelani said; if she was in trouble, the malice was bent on her. A shiver of fear shimmied down her back, though she tried to hide it in her voice and said simply, “It would be nice if you could come.”
“Give it to me on the serious scale—one to ten.”
“I’m calling, aren’t I?”
He expelled a hard breath. “I’ll see if Denny’s flying over.” His hanging up without saying good-bye was more an indication of his focus than his temperament. He didn’t mean to be rude, but sometimes he trampled the niceties. Like the sea—Okelani had said—at high surf. Nica smiled.
In the dim recess of the cave, something bumped against the arm that had slipped into the cool water, something that felt different enough to stir him from sleep. He moved his hand and took hold of … his pack. Water streamed from his elbow as he hauled it up against his chest, hyperventilating with relief and groping it like a loved one.
Though it had been ripped from his back, leaving welts across his waist and chest, it didn’t seem to be damaged. He’d carried the major portion of their provisions, but what he needed most was clean water. He’d avoided drinking from the dark, still pool, intending to hold out until help came, but now he bit the release at the end of the hose and drank.
Heaven.
He furtively rose to one elbow. He’d always bought the best equipment, believing it might matter someday. With fumbling fingers, he checked pocket after pocket. Knife, food, first-aid kit, all protected by the waterproof exterior. “Oh, Lord.” The words slipped from his mouth with deepest gratitude.
For the first time since dragging himself onto the shelf, he felt true hope, not just wishful thinking. With what he had in the pack, he could hold on. Gentry would have climbed back the way they’d come and found her way out. If she was uninjured and able to hike.
He prayed again that she had not struck the rocks that had battered his legs. If she was out there, wounded … He couldn’t think it. He’d seen her surface just before he went over. She’d been carried out and away. She had to be all right. But it bothered him that he’d heard nothing.
Was the cave visible from the other side? The mouth
was low, admitting only a half-moon of light, the largest portion underwater, and the waterfall sheeted it. If not for the shelf, he’d be lost. Once again he offered thanks. It was going to be all right. Those details helped him see it. He wasn’t young, but he wasn’t that old either. And he was fit. Remarkably fit. He’d endure the pain. He’d be smart. He’d make it.
After sitting outside between misty showers in the garden, Jade had lain down to rest again in the little porch room in Nica’s house. Sleep seemed to steal up and erase hours at a time, and now the day was waning. Her headache and dizziness had subsided, along with the nausea, though she was still stiff and sore. Her ears rang faintly, but her vision had cleared. And her mind?
She pressed her fingers to her temples and tried … but could not come up with the answer to Nica’s most basic question. Sighing, she went upstairs and found a note saying, I’ve gone out. Help yourself for dinner if you’re hungry before I’m back.
Amazingly trusting. A strange woman in her home who refused conventional help and offered no understandable explanation. Why, even she didn’t know. And Nica treated her like a guest.
She wasn’t hungry—only frustrated, discouraged, and a little afraid. For that she had to get outside and think … or whatever her brain was doing instead. Taking a walk, she jotted, to the shore. Nica had said the bay was within walking distance. Maybe it would trigger something.
She had a sense of having walked along a shore, wet sand, frothy water licking her ankles. She couldn’t place herself, couldn’t name the strip of beach where her feet had impressed their form, but she could almost feel the sand beneath her toes. Not a memory she could hang a date and location on, but something.
She went out the front door, through the front garden, teeming with a profuse and varied horticulture. She made her way to the road that led past the neighbors’ houses and, with the broad valley and the mountains behind her, headed toward the ocean.
It was farther than she’d thought, but walking felt good, in spite of her aches. The damp evening was redolent with wet earth and vegetation, and she drew the aroma into her lungs. The white leather sandals Nica had lent her grew slippery from the wet ground. No rain fell, but moisture so infused the air that the borrowed cotton sundress, a grayish blue batik, grew thick and clingy.
Balmy winds caught her hair as she waited for a few cars, then crossed the two-lane highway. She passed elegant island estates and neared the grass and sand that stretched down to what Nica had told her was Hanalei Bay. Disappointingly fatigued, she took a seat on a low stone wall and watched a handful of distant surfers bob in the swells.
The setting sun broke through the clouds and spilled gold over the deepening blue of the sea. Whitecaps rolled in, catching the rays in their glassy turquoise arcs before tossing themselves on the sand. By the damp state of things, it must have rained most of the time she slept, but she was still surprised more people were not out enjoying the scene.
She supposed familiarity could leach the magic from anything—unless one was in the unique position of finding nothing familiar, not even oneself. A wave of panic rushed in like the breakers before her. Each time she had awakened, she’d expected it all to come back … but found the same blank wall. She didn’t like walls.
And how did she know that? She half smiled. On what did she base such self-awareness? Her smile faded.
Shifting her focus to the bay, she watched her drama played out in nature as the waves rushed in, forgot what they’d come for, and withdrew. She breathed deeply the salt tang of the sea and something smoky cooking nearby. She’d had fresh fruit for breakfast and a plate of rice with strips of grilled chicken for lunch. She might eat again when she returned to Nica’s, but in the meantime, she accepted the gentle caress of the island in contrast to its previous rough handling.
There was no reason to take it personally. Nature was nature. The error would have been hers. A misstep, a wrong turn. If only she could remember.
A brown-and-white sparrow flitted to the path and hopped about at her feet. She watched him court her, darting in and tipping his head, pecking the ground to make his point.
“I’m sorry. I have nothing to give you.”
The bird hopped along the beaten dirt path, turned his chest to the sun, and flew off for more promising beggary. Or maybe the approaching footsteps sent him off. She glanced at the roundshouldered man who approached from the right and paused.
“Hey, aren’t you … nah.” He shook his head. “Sorry. You looked like …” He gave a little laugh. “Name’s Sam. What’s yours?”
His question echoed in her void. In golf shirt and baggy, flowered shorts, he seemed anything but dangerous, but wariness crept in nonetheless.
“Jade.”
“Sure. For your beautiful green eyes.” The cliché floundered, but he didn’t stop there. “What would you say to a fun night on the island?” Sam shook the thermos he carried. “Mango-passion mai tais.” He wiggled eyebrows that, like the pale mustache over his fleshy red lips, bore an unfortunate likeness to mold.
“No, thanks. I can’t drink.”
He rubbed his cheek, mottled pink from too much sun. “A.A.?”
“Brain damage.”
He half laughed before he realized she might be serious, then covered it with a cough. “How about a walk on the beach?”
She shook her head. “Sorry.”
Undeterred, he perched himself about five feet from her on the rocky wall. A chunky gold and emerald ring jutted out from his index finger like a promontory when he poured himself a mai tai. He drank it heartily, then bestowed on her the conversational gem, “Ice melts quick here; have you noticed?”
THREE
She almost left the wall to Mai-Tai Sam and went back to Nica’s, but even as she hoped he’d lose interest and, like the sparrow, leave her for better prospects, someone else approached from the direction she’d come. As he moved toward her without shifting his gaze, she strained to recognize him.
The closely trimmed beard outlined his mouth and jaw in a way she’d always found dramatic—She stopped with a jolt and replayed that thought. Yes. Ever since grade school. She had looked at the posters of the Spanish Conquistadors in their shining armor and crisp beards, and even though their conquests had been rough for the natives, she couldn’t help the thrill that came over her at the sight. The sense of power, even danger.
Dressed in Teva sandals, worn cargo shorts, and a faded navy T-shirt, this man who looked more Hamlet than Cortez had elicited a real glimpse into her past. Could she know him? He stopped beside her perch and fixed her with a piercing indigo stare. No one would be so bold with a stranger. Hope flared.
“Jade?”
She deflated like a pricked balloon. “Yes?”
“I was told I’d find you here.”
She studied his brows, the slight lump on his nose, the chestnut hair cropped and either gelled or naturally unruly in the damp air.
Apprehension touched her spine. “Who told you?”
“Nica.”
Sam poured a second mai tai and reestablished his position on the wall. With his trusty thermos he’d gained confidence, mellowing into a better opinion of himself. Or maybe the appearance of a competitor awoke something fierce inside his soft shell. Should she be glad he was there?
“We need to talk.”
“So talk.”
He glanced at her companion. “I’ve got my truck. Let’s take a drive.”
“I don’t think so.” Her head spun. Her breath quickened. “Malice,” Nica had said. Was he there to see if she could identify him? He could claim to be anyone, and she wouldn’t know.
“What’s the matter?” His eyes glinted.
“Nothing.” Everything. Why couldn’t she think? Concussion. Brain injury. And if she’d been injured why hadn’t she gone to the police? The resistance had been so strong, yet now it seemed foolish in the extreme.
He frowned. “Look, Nica’s—”
“How do I know you know h
er? You could be anyone. You haven’t even given me a name.” Which at least Sam had done right off.
He took out his wallet and flipped it open. Pierce. His last name matched Nica’s. Cameron Pierce. Great picture. Who took a good driver’s license picture? That alone was suspicious. Except that the resemblance to his sister was striking, more obvious in the photo than in person, where his masculine presence superceded their similar features.
She looked up. “Even if that’s real, I’m not leaving with you. We can talk here.”
“You might find my questions sensitive.” Again he glanced at Sam.
“At Nica’s, then. I’ll meet you—”
“No.” He shook his head. “I don’t want her upset.”
“Do you plan to be upsetting?”
“Nica’s way too trusting. She wouldn’t see through the Invisible Man.”
Under other circumstances she might enjoy his wit.
A couple of teenagers passed by them, toting their boards, and the breeze wafted their sea-soaked scent. Cameron must have seen her digging in her figurative heels, because he slipped his wallet into his pocket and said, “There’s not really a choice here.”
Au contraire. She shifted position on the wall, adjusting the drape of the dress over her legs and sending the silent message that this location suited her fine. If she’d been the victim of an attack and had no recollection of whom to blame, everyone was suspect. The way he got under her skin could be nothing more than his arrogance, or it could be an internal warning.
Add to that the frenetic way her mind kept processing every detail of his face, physique, and manner…. Frustration took hold, then aggravation. Before she could voice it, his cell phone rang. He checked the source and turned away to take the call.
She glanced to her side, wondering if she should bolt.
Sam had developed a glaze. “Walk on the beach?” He grinned.
She’d underestimated Mr. Mango-Passion. The more buzzed he got, the better his chances seemed.
“I’m sorry, no.”
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