by K. D. Keenan
“It’s like being visited by gods,” breathed Sierra.
“You should know,” Chaco responded. He wasn’t exactly lively, but he was definitely interested and engaged. Sierra smiled to herself. As she’d hoped, the whale-watching excursion was bringing Chaco out of his slump.
After about half an hour of multiple sightings, Sierra noticed an odd, white disc forming on the starboard side, a few hundred yards from the boat. She nudged Chaco and pointed. “What’s that?”
Chaco peered at the water. “I don’t know. Let’s ask someone who works here.”
He zipped the duffle, the sound of the waves and the chatter from the other tourists drowning out the squeaks of protest from within. They went forward and found a crewmember, a young Hawai‘ian man wearing (no surprise) shorts and a Hawai‘ian print shirt, distinguished from the tourists only by his official-looking badge.
“What’s that thing over there?” Sierra asked inelegantly, pointing at the white disc, now spinning along the water. The crewman looked, stared, and turned without a word to climb the ladder to the cockpit.
Sierra and Chaco looked at each other, puzzled.
“That didn’t seem like the right response,” Chaco said.
Sierra started to reply, but then the captain’s voice came over the PA system, loud enough to drown out all other sounds.
“Folks, at about four o’clock you’ll see a waterspout forming. It’s a fair-weather spout, which means it’s not likely to last very long, so you’d better have a look.”
Everyone rushed aft and starboard. By this time, a spout was clearly forming, rising up to meet a cumulus cloud overhead. Everyone had smartphones or cameras out to take pictures. As they watched, the spout, trailing a wake, began moving toward the boat.
“We’re moving away, now, folks,” said the captain. “Fair-weather waterspouts aren’t usually very strong, but we’re not taking any chances.”
The boat’s motors roared, and they began to move away from the spout. There were no whales visible in the surrounding waters, so Sierra took as many pictures of the spout as she could, and then she and Chaco sat down on benches attached to the deck. The ride was rough now that they were traveling faster. The waves were hitting the boat head-on, creating a bounce and slap motion that made it hard to stand up.
Oddly, the spout continued to follow the boat, twisting and writhing across the water. It reminded Sierra uneasily of a tornado, though much smaller. Despite the boat’s speed, it drew closer.
Sierra stood up. “I don’t like this. I’m moving to the other side of the boat.” She walked unsteadily to the port side, clutching the railings as the boat heaved over the swells. Chaco followed with his duffle.
“What’s happening?” wailed Fred inside the duffle bag. The noise of the boat’s engine and the slap of the waves made it impossible for anyone else to hear him.
“Um, just a waterspout. I’m sure everything’s okay,” Chaco said to the bag.
“Lemme see!”
Chaco unzipped the duffle. There wasn’t much to see from Fred’s viewpoint.
“Where is it?” Then the mannegishi caught sight of the upper reaches of the spout, now visible above the cockpit. “Oh!”
The tourists and two crewmen were gathered in a knot on the starboard side, leaving Chaco, Sierra, and Fred by themselves. They couldn’t take their eyes off the towering spout, which now seemed ominously close. They never saw the long, white tentacle that rose from the sea and swept Sierra, Chaco, and the duffle bag containing Fred overboard.
The waterspout quickly diminished and died. The tourists breathed a sigh of relief, chattering excitedly among themselves. The captain never noticed he was missing two tourists until he reached the dock on Waikiki and counted the departing guests. But of course, by that time it was too late.
Chapter 3
Clancy sat at his desk, reviewing security reports. This was not his favorite activity, but it was a critical element of his job. So far, the reports had all been incredibly humdrum, and he was beginning to feel sleepy.
He had just decided to get a cup of coffee to wake himself up when his cell phone rang.
“Clancy Forrester.”
“Hello. This is Tammy White at Clear Days Foundation? Uh, Sierra Carter’s manager?” The high, feminine voice had a habit of lifting into the interrogatory at the end of a sentence. “Is this Clancy Forrester?” Clancy, who had a great deal of experience judging voices, detected significant strain in this one.
“Yep.”
“I’m sorry to disturb you, Mr. Forrester. I, ah, I’m not catching you at a bad time, I hope?”
“Nope.” What the hell was this all about, he wondered, wishing she’d get on with it.
“Um, I take it you are Sierra’s fiancé?”
He grunted affirmatively.
“I, ah, I have some bad news, Mr. Forrester. About Sierra?”
Clancy felt his fight-or-flight response ratchet into high gear. “What?”
“Um, she went on a whale-watching tour out of Honolulu, and apparently she went overboard? They think one other person went overboard with her. They’ve been searching the water, but so far, they haven’t found her? Or the other person.”
Clancy felt an icy spear of horror lance down his spine.
“How long has it been?”
“It happened yesterday afternoon.”
It was now eleven a.m. She would have been in the water for hours. All night. Was the other person Chaco? It seemed likely.
“Who can I talk to in Honolulu?”
Tammy White gave him the name of the police officer in charge of the case.
Clancy felt himself begin to quiver with tension and anxiety. He thanked the woman from Clear Days and ended the call.
His first step was to call Sierra’s closest friends to tell them what had happened. He had never been entirely comfortable with the Three Weird Sisters, as he privately called them. Kaylee was a marketing executive for a semiconductor company by day—and a Voudún practitioner by night. Mama Labadie, tall, willowy, and acerbic, was a Voudún mambo, a priestess. She was also a network technology engineer, considered nothing short of brilliant. Gentle Rose Ramirez was a Native American shaman, a healer. Each of them was intelligent and interesting in her own way, but Clancy was just not at ease with them.
He first called Kaylee’s house phone. No answer. He tried Rose, then Mama Labadie. Then he remembered that all three women were away at a conference together—something New Age-y, he recalled. Clancy did not want to leave a voicemail about what had happened. He decided to call them later—maybe when he had more information—and turned to his computer to buy a ticket to Honolulu.
Clancy locked up the house and left. Twenty minutes later, he pulled into a long-term parking spot at San Jose International Airport.
• • •
Clancy met with the police in Honolulu and discovered the Coast Guard was searching for Sierra and her companion. Based on prevailing currents, the Coast Guard was focused on the island of Moloka‘i. He promptly purchased a ticket for Moloka‘i and returned to the airport.
In contrast to the jumbo jetliner that brought him to O‘ahu, the plane to Moloka‘i was tiny. He walked across the tarmac and up a mobile staircase onto the plane. The little prop plane took to the air and headed across the channel. The view from his window seat was not reassuring. The water was visibly choppy, even from this height. And it seemed like a long way to Moloka‘i. It was painful to envision Sierra and Chaco, lost in that endless sea of blue, but Clancy could not tear his eyes from the water. After all, what if he saw them, miraculously floating on the white-capped surface of the sea? He strained his eyes the whole way, knowing that it was futile.
After twenty minutes, the plane began to descend and prepare for landing. The land that appeared below was rusty red and flat with bright green patches. He began to see fields and houses, and then they landed.
There was one building at the airport, a bit larger than a large sub
urban house. The luggage was quickly deposited on a steel bench to one side of the gate. Clancy had only a carry-on, so he went directly to the car rental window. Paperwork completed, he stepped outside to collect his car. A young Hawai‘ian man drove up in a black Range Rover, parking directly in front of the terminal building. No one challenged him, as they would have at a large international airport. The man stepped out of his car and introduced himself.
“Aloha. Kevin Kapule. Coast Guard liaison. You’re Mr. Forrester?”
Clancy nodded affirmatively. “Any news?”
Kevin shook his head. “Sorry, sir.” Then he went on gently, “There aren’t a lot of places to stay here, and I know you didn’t have time to make arrangements. Some of the local people have heard why you’re here and have offered their homes to you. Is that all right?”
Clancy said, “Yes. It’s more than all right. It’s amazingly generous. Thank you.”
“You’ll find that’s pretty typical of Moloka‘ians,” said Kevin. “They’re friendly and generous to a fault.” He walked Clancy to his rental car. “Just don’t cross them, is all. They’re tough folks who fight for what they believe in.”
“You’re not from Moloka‘i?”
“Not me,” said Kevin. “I’m from O‘ahu. Honolulu. I’m just here temporarily. Because, ah…” he paused.
“Because of the search,” Clancy put in. Kevin nodded.
“Before we go into town,” said Kevin, “let me give you a few tips on etiquette here.” He saw Clancy’s bemused face and grinned.
“Moloka‘i is kind of old-fashioned. They believe in the old courtesies. So when you meet someone, you take their hand and lean forward to kiss a cheek. Just one.” Kevin demonstrated this technique in pantomime.
“Right. Now, when you meet someone older than you, or at least someone wiser than you,” he grinned again, “address them as Auntie or Uncle. That’s respectful. Also, if someone helps you out, especially if you ask them to, don’t be shy about offering money. You won’t insult anyone.”
Clancy gazed at him, waiting for further instruction.
“That’s about it. Follow me into town,” said Kevin, getting into the Range Rover.
Following Kevin turned out to be extremely easy. There seemed to be one main highway. Even when they reached the town of Kaunakakai, there were no traffic lights and very little traffic. They pulled up to a little green-painted house. Kevin parked in front and exited his car as Clancy parked behind him.
“This is Auntie Keikilani’s house,” he said as a Hawai‘ian woman came through the front door, wiping her hands on a dishtowel. She was a short, broad woman with a round, good-natured face. Her hair was long and curly, black streaked with silver. She walked up to Clancy and held out a hand. As instructed, Clancy took the proffered hand and leaned forward to kiss Auntie Keikilani’s cheek. The woman reciprocated, then stepped back and smiled.
“Aloha. Please come in.” She picked up Clancy’s bag over his protests and turned to go back into the house.
Her house was a small, green clapboard structure with a peaked roof. It was built on stilts that were hidden by latticework, with an open verandah in front. It was clearly old but well kept. The yard boasted several different kinds of hibiscus. There were a few banana trees hung with hands of bananas, the small, fat fruits pointing incongruously toward the sky.
Auntie Keikilani ushered them into her living room. She showed Clancy his room and deposited his suitcase on the bed, then returned and offered both men some refreshment. They sat on elderly bamboo furniture, with its bright tropical fabric-covered cushions, and sipped lemonade.
“There’s a Coast Guard cutter leaving tomorrow morning around six a.m.,” Kevin told Clancy. “It’s just down at the Kaunakakai Wharf—you could walk from here. Auntie will tell you how to get there.” Kevin took another swallow of lemonade, which seemed to stick in his throat. He looked at his feet, then up again at Clancy. His dark eyes clouded. “I have to be honest with you, sir. We aren’t going to continue the search after tomorrow, assuming today’s run comes up empty.” He held up a hand as Clancy began to protest.
“I know that it seems hard-hearted. But I have to be blunt. There just isn’t a lot of hope that they could have made it. They went overboard in deep water, a long way from shore. Even if they were good swimmers, it just isn’t likely they could have survived. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, but I can’t lie to you.”
Clancy heard this in silence. The gloom in the little living room was as thick as cold oatmeal. Kevin got up from the couch and checked his watch.
“I should be getting along. Thanks again, Auntie. Aloha.” He went to the door, waved, and left.
Clancy sat on the bright floral couch, lemonade forgotten. Auntie patted his hand.
“You’ve had a long, hard day. Tomorrow will likely be pretty long, too. Why don’t you lie down and have a nap? Dinner’s at six-thirty.”
“You don’t have to do that, Auntie,” Clancy said, feeling awkward about calling an unrelated person “Auntie.” But Auntie Keikilani seemed completely comfortable with it.
“No, I don’t have to, but I want to do it.” Auntie smiled an incandescent smile, revealing a gold tooth and a gap. “Get a taste of good, local Moloka‘i food.”
Clancy felt tired, yes. Also hollowed-out like a rotten log. He had known the chances for Sierra and Chaco were slight, but no one had been willing to say so. Kevin had broken the spell and opened the door to doubt and grief.
“Kevin’s right,” he said. “By tomorrow morning, they would’ve been in the water for three days. How likely is it that they could survive that?”
“What makes you think they’re in the water?”
Clancy stared at the woman. “Where else would they be?”
Keikilani shrugged. “I once heard of a man who went overboard in a sailboat and washed ashore on Kaho’olawe. A shark got his girlfriend, but he made it to shore and managed to live for a week on ‘opihi—limpets—until they finally found him.”
Clancy’s eyes widened. Shark! Why had he never even thought about sharks? That seemed like the final blow to hope. He felt tears sting his eyes and closed them. His throat ached with the effort of suppressing his fear and anguish for Sierra and her friends. He felt Auntie Keikilani sit beside him on the couch. She put a comforting hand on his shoulder.
“You can’t do anything about it now,” she told him gently. “Go get some rest.”
Chapter 4
“Before you leave,” Houghton Roberts said to his administrative assistant, “please bring me the most recent report on the WestWind Project. Thank you.” As Shelby softly closed the heavy koa wood door to his office, he leaned back in his leather chair. He had a magnificent view of the water from his Honolulu office and could see miles out to sea. He could also see, far below, sailboats clustered together in the marina.
Shelby opened the door silently and stepped back into his office. She was a tall young woman, elegantly dressed, with a blonde coil of hair at the nape of her neck. She was efficient, intelligent, and fulfilled his expectations for a CEO’s administrative assistant. Though she was undoubtedly lovely, he wouldn’t have touched her with a ten-foot pole. Romping with employees did not fit his self-image, and he was well aware that doing so would result in a loss of respect within the company—something he was unwilling to risk for any reason. Shelby laid the bound report on his blotter. Blotters were, of course, as outmoded as buggy whips, but he liked the way they looked. His was framed in gold-stamped red leather. The report was also bound in red with the company name stamped in gold on the cover: “Ahi Moana Energy Corporation.”
“Will that be all, sir?” Shelby asked in her melodious voice.
“Yes, Shelby, thanks,” he replied. He opened the report and began to read. He could have easily accessed it from his computer, but he enjoyed leafing through real paper, printed on the fine rag letterhead his firm used (another somewhat outmoded notion in this digital age).
Fifteen minu
tes later, he laid the report aside with a faint smile. Everything seemed to be going well at the WestWind installation. Good. Time for his next meeting.
Roberts sat down carefully at the head of the long, gleaming conference table. Shelby was there, sitting to one side with her notebook. The others were heads of various departments within Ahi Moana, with the exception of one young man. Roberts recognized him as a new hire on the WestWind project, Gary Chisholm. Chisholm was chatting easily with Coral Tsukino, vice president of Exploration Services, seated to his right. The others were quiet, and kept their eyes on Roberts.
Roberts removed his gold watch slowly and deliberately, placing it in front of him. All eyes followed his movements, even Chisholm’s. The young man looked mildly puzzled.
Roberts began, “You all have the agenda for this meeting. We’ll begin with—”
Chisholm leaned forward, his arm outstretched. “Houghton? I’d like to introduce a new topic, if I may.”
Roberts, whose employees never called him “Houghton,” was too surprised to respond. Chisholm went on, as the other attendees glanced uneasily at one another.
“I’ve noticed that there are some budgetary discrepancies regarding the deep-water equipment being delivered to WestWind. Now, I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation, but…”
Roberts, recovered, cut him off. “Mr. Chisholm, you’re new to Ahi Moana. You’re still learning how we do things around here. And one of the things we don’t do is add new business to an established agenda. If you wish to add a topic, please see Shelby at the end of this meeting and ask her to add it to the next meeting’s agenda. Thank you.” And he returned to the business at hand. Chisholm subsided into his seat with raised eyebrows. The others listened to Roberts discuss labor issues on a project in Norway.