His coughing subsided, but the pain in his chest got worse.
What the hell was going on? He was never sick!
Kioki began to walk again, but within a few yards had to slow down. His whole body was starting to hurt now, and his breath was coming in short gasps.
Home!
He had to get home!
He lurched on, straining to make the muscles in his legs work, but lost his balance and pitched forward, sprawling facedown into the road. He threw his hands out to break his fall. A rock scraped the skin on his left hand, and a piece of broken glass slashed deep into his right palm.
Kioki grunted at the stab of pain, pulled himself into a sitting position, and tried to get a look at his bleeding hand.
The cut extended from the base of his thumb across to his little finger, and was already starting to throb.
Clutching his right hand with his left, Kioki struggled back to his feet, staggering with the effort. Now his heart was starting to pound, and every breath he took was agonizing.
He tried to force his body into a run, but he felt the dizziness descend again. After only a single step his legs buckled beneath him and he collapsed onto the ground. Falling too close to the edge of the irrigation ditch that ran along the edge of the road, he slid down its steep bank and sank into the stinking water and the thick layer of mud that lay three feet beneath its surface.
The shock of the water closing over him galvanized Kioki for a moment, and he hurled himself back onto the bank, clawing at the dirt with both hands, ignoring the pain that was throbbing up his arm and the blood gushing from his right palm.
His legs seemed mired in the mud, and he could barely breathe, but at last he heaved himself free from the muck, scrambled up the bank, and sprawled out by the side of the road.
Kioki lay still, exhausted, his whole body hurting now.
He stared up into the sky, waiting for whatever had struck him to pass, his breath coming in ragged patches.
Now his vision blurred, and as he felt his stomach cramp with nausea, he rolled over to keep from puking all over himself.
As the retching began, the uncontrollable spasms sent him sliding back into the irrigation ditch.
This time he couldn’t find the strength to pull himself out, and clawed ineffectually at the bank as the pain in his chest and stomach spread through him, his dizziness grew worse, and vomit began to boil up out of his throat.
A few minutes later, alone in the blackness in the middle of the cane field, Kioki Santoya sank into the arms of death.
Ten more minutes.
Katharine decided to wait ten more minutes—until the clock on the mantel showed exactly midnight—before she started making her calls.
She’d already written down the phone number of Maui Memorial Hospital, as well as the number for the main police station in Wailuku and the substation in Kihei. So far, she’d been unable to get a listing for Josh Malani’s parents.
A movie. That’s where Michael had said he was going.
A perfectly reasonable and harmless thing to do.
But she knew why she was worried: Josh Malani. Although she hardly knew him—and kept trying to convince herself that she shouldn’t judge a sixteen-year-old boy on first impressions—all her instincts warned her that the handsome teenager whose life Michael had saved was a dangerous companion for her son. He’d struck her as cocky, and the fact that he’d gone diving by himself told her he was supremely lacking in common sense. And who else was Michael with? Some kids from the track team.
Kids whose names he hadn’t even bothered to mention.
“Would it make any difference if he had left their names?” Rob had asked with a logic that had done nothing to allay her fears. “You wouldn’t know any more about them.”
“It would have given me more people to call if he’s late!”
Rob had eyed her from across the table in the restaurant where they’d had dinner. “That would make him real happy,” he observed archly. “Teenage boys love to have their moms call their friends, looking for them. Besides, this is Maui, not New York. He’ll be fine.”
Through the rest of their dinner and during the drive home she’d managed to hold her worries in check, but in the house alone an hour later, when Michael hadn’t arrived home, she’d called Rob. “Give him until eleven-thirty at least,” he’d counseled. “If he’s still not there, then call me and we’ll figure out what to do. Unless you’d like me to come over?”
“No,” Katharine had sighed. “I’ll be okay. But thanks for offering.”
She’d done her best to stay calm, telling herself there were any number of plausible reasons for Michael’s lateness.
The movie could have run later than they’d thought, or the theater could be far enough from Makawao that it was taking longer for him to get home than he’d thought. After all, neither of them really knew their way around the island yet, and if anyone had asked her how long it took to drive from her house to Kihei, she wouldn’t have the slightest idea what the right answer might be.
By eleven-forty, though, all her rationales had turned hollow. By a quarter to twelve, a nightmare image had invaded her mind:
Michael trapped in a wrecked car, struggling to get out.
When the clock’s gears began to grind softly as it prepared to strike midnight, Katharine reached for the phone to dial the hospital. Before her fingers had touched the first button on the keypad, however, the glint of headlights coming down the driveway struck the wall opposite the front windows.
Her hand dropped away from the telephone as the clock chimed. As Michael came through the front door, the bubble of fear that had been swelling inside her broke, exploding into anger at his lateness.
“Do you have any idea what time it is?” she demanded even before he’d closed the door.
Michael’s eyes darted toward the clock, and he winced as he saw how late he was. “We just sort of lost track of time,” he said. “We were playing video games and—”
“Video games?” Katharine interrupted. “I thought you said you were going to the movies.”
“We were,” Michael said quickly, improvising as fast as he could. “But the only one we wanted to see was sold out, so we started playing video games, and just lost track of time. I’m really sorry, Mom. I—”
“Why didn’t you call me?” Katharine interrupted. “Do you have any idea how worried I’ve been?”
The repentance in Michael’s eyes vanished. “Jeez, Mom, I’m only an hour late! What’s the big deal?”
“The big deal, as you put it, is that I’ve been worried sick!” Katharine shot back. “Anything could have happened to you! You could have gotten into an accident, or someone might have mugged you, or—”
“This is Hawaii, Mom, not New York! And I’m not a baby anymore. Nobody else had to call his mommy!”
“Maybe nobody else has a mommy who cares,” Katharine snapped, deliberately mimicking his tone. “I don’t even know who you were with, except Josh Malani, and I can’t say I’m nuts about him!”
Recoiling from the sting of his mother’s words, Michael struggled against the tightness that had suddenly constricted his throat and the wetness welling in his eyes. “I was just with some other guys from the team, okay? Jeez, Mom! I made the track team, and I’m making some friends out here. I thought you’d be happy for me!” Katharine’s anger dissolved in the face of her son’s pain, but it was too late. “I’m not dead,” he went on. “And I’m not hurt.” His eyes fixed on her, as if challenging her to say anything more. “And I’m going to bed!” he finished. Stalking from the living room into his bedroom, he slammed the door behind him.
Left alone, Katharine dropped tiredly onto a chair. Why had she yelled at him? Why hadn’t she at least listened to his explanation before she’d jumped all over him? In fact, now that she thought about what he’d said, she realized he had a point. Part of the reason he’d always been home on time in New York was because he’d been by himself. The asthma tha
t had kept him out of school so much had seen to that. Until a year ago, when he’d made up his mind to make the track team, Michael had never been part of a crowd, rarely even had friends to hang around with for more than a few weeks at a time. And then, just as he’d been on the verge of realizing his goal, she’d moved him out here.
And he’d succeeded. How could she have started in on him before she’d even congratulated him on making the team this afternoon? It had to have been one of the happiest days of his life, and what had she done? She’d spoiled it, simply because he was an hour late getting home.
Rob was right—she should have controlled her own fears, and been happy that for once in his life Michael was just one of the guys instead of the skinny, wheezing kid who always stood on the sidelines.
He must have been so excited, she should count herself lucky that he’d called her at all!
Katharine went to his door, knocked softly, then opened it a crack. “Michael? May I come in?” When there was no answer, she spoke again. “Tell you what. I’ll forgive you for being late if you’ll forgive me for forgetting that you made the team today. I’m really sorry I yelled at you.”
She waited, hoping he’d turn on the light and tell her to come in, but after a long silence, he only spoke briefly out of the darkness. “Okay, Mom,” he said. Then: “See you in the morning.”
Katharine pulled Michael’s door closed again.
In his room, Michael lay staring up at the ceiling in the darkness. Should he have told her the truth about where he’d really been and what he’d been doing? But if he had, she would have yelled at him some more.
Better just to leave it alone.
Still, it took a long time for him to get to sleep that night.
He could feel nothing except the still coolness around him.
It was dark, the kind of darkness that could wrap itself around you like a shroud, bringing with it claustrophobia. All around him was blackness, and he was suspended in midair.
Slowly, just as the space around him started closing in—so slowly Michael was at first uncertain that it was happening at all—the blackness began to fade into silvery gray.
The water!
He was back in the water again!
As if to prove the thought, a fish swam by. A beautiful fish, striped in startling hues of bloodred, electric-blue, and a green so bright it was almost blinding.
Michael had never seen such a fish, and he turned to look at it. As if sensing his interest, the fish circled slowly in the water, almost as if it were deliberately exhibiting itself to him. With a kick of his fins, Michael moved toward the fish, but it countered his move, pulling away from him at exactly the same speed with which he was approaching.
He stopped.
The fish stopped.
He swam closer, and this time the fish hesitated before moving away and dropping deeper into the water.
Michael tried the maneuver again, but this time moved very slowly, hoping the fish wouldn’t notice his careful approach.
He got within a few feet of the fish before it dived away and stopped below him, as if challenging him to follow.
Michael stayed where he was. Time itself seemed to slow as he floated in the water, gazing down at the fish, now as immobile as he. In the ghostly gray, silent water, he realized that his friends were gone.
He was alone.
Slowly, inexorably, the fish drew him deeper below the surface, moving closer to him whenever he hesitated, backing away from him just before he could quite reach it with his fingers.
Luring him.
The fish moved deeper into the water, and Michael, powerless to resist, dived after it. Deeper. Deeper and deeper they went. Michael, mesmerized, followed the brilliantly colored fish. Then it stopped, abruptly twitched its tail, and disappeared.
Startled, Michael turned in the water, searching for the fish, but it was nowhere to be seen.
And suddenly he realized that the bottom seemed to have fallen away. No moonlight penetrated the water from above. The darkness had returned. The sea itself was pressing in on him. It was getting harder to breathe.
It felt as if metal bands were fastened around his chest, squeezing him. He struggled against the tightening bonds, but it didn’t help.
Panicking, he struggled harder.
Breathe. Breathe!
But he couldn’t!
No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t get any air into his lungs.
The tanks!
Something had gone wrong with the tanks! He sucked at his regulator, trying to pull air from the tank on his back into his lungs, but nothing happened.
Empty!
The tank was empty!
But there was a reserve supply! All he had to do was reach back and turn the lever and he would have ten more minutes of air.
He started to reach back; his arms wouldn’t move.
He was sinking now, dropping into the darkness, into the great yawning void below—
He fought to reach the emergency valve, struggled to suck more air out of the tank, but now his lungs began to feel as if they were filling with water.
The surface. He had to get to the surface!
Drop the weight belt! Drop the weight belt, and pull the cord on the CO2 canister. His vest would inflate: he would pop to the surface.
But he couldn’t move!
He couldn’t even feel his fingers anymore.
Terrified, he struggled again, dislodging the regulator from his mouth.
He had to get it back in!
But his hands wouldn’t obey him. The regulator dangled from the air hoses, just out of reach.
If he could just get his mouth close enough …
He struggled to move his head, but even that was useless.
Now he could feel water seeping in through his nose. He tried to exhale, but there was nothing left in his lungs to expel.
His mouth opened and he tried to breathe.
Water flooded into his mouth, down his throat, into his already choking lungs.
He was going to die.
Die here, alone, deep under the surface of the sea.
No!
Loose! He had to get loose!
Even as he felt his lungs flooding and the blackness of death begin to close around him, Michael thrashed against the milky shroud that was still tightening around him, and a great scream built in his throat.
Frantic, he kicked out, twisting his body in a futile struggle to escape, struggling to gather enough energy for one last effort before the blackness closed around him forever.
Then, suddenly, the shriek in his throat erupted.
Michael jerked awake.
He was tangled in the bedding; the panic still clutched him. He could barely move, barely breathe.
Then, slowly, he began to understand.
A dream.
It had been nothing but a terrible dream.
The light in the middle of the ceiling flashed on, blinding him.
“Michael?” he heard his mother say. “Honey, are you okay?”
His chest still felt as if it were constricted by the bands that had tightened on him in the dream, and Michael wasn’t sure if he could speak. When he finally formed the words, his voice was barely audible. “A nightmare,” he said. “It was terrible. I—” He cut his words short as he realized where the dream had come from, what had triggered it.
“You were having trouble breathing,” Katharine said, coming over to the bed to gaze anxiously at her son’s face. “I was afraid you were having an attack—”
“I’m not,” Michael told her, working himself loose from the sheets and sitting up, sucking the fresh night air so deep into his lungs that he started coughing. A moment later, though, he got through the coughing fit and flopped back against the pillow. “It’s okay, Mom,” he insisted as she started to speak. “It was just a bad dream, that’s all.”
Katharine leaned over and kissed his forehead. “You’re sure?” she asked, her eyes still worried. “I kno
w you thought you were all over it, but—”
“But nothing,” Michael told her. “I’m fine.” He glanced over at the clock on the nightstand; it was nearly five, and outside the window it was almost as dark as it had been at the end of the nightmare. “Let’s just go back to sleep, okay?”
“Maybe you shouldn’t have stayed out quite so late last night,” Katharine suggested, but laid a hand on Michael’s cheek to keep the words from stinging.
Michael sank lower in the bed. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I guess when I knew I was going to be late I should have found a phone. Okay?”
“And I’m sorry I overreacted,” Katharine told him. “And congratulations on making the team. I’m really proud of you.” For the first time since he’d come home, a smile came to his lips. “Sleep tight.” She kissed him once more, and turned the light off as she left the room. But as she went back to her own room, the worry stayed with her. Had it really been only a bad dream that awakened him? Or was it the beginning of yet another siege of the disease they both had thought he’d conquered?
She got back into bed, but for a long time didn’t sleep. Instead, she listened, silently praying not to hear the rasping sound of asthmatic lungs struggling to fill themselves with air.
In his room, Michael was no longer in his bed.
Instead he was sitting beside the open window, breathing deeply of the fresh night air, trying to rid himself of the terrible choking feeling he’d had in the dream.
Yet even now that he was wide-awake, he still couldn’t quite get rid of it, couldn’t quite catch his breath.
CHAPTER
9
Alice Santoya slid the stack of pancakes onto her son’s plate, put the plate on the table, then called out for the fourth time, “If you don’t get up right now, Kioki, you’re never gonna get the bus, and I’m not gonna drive you!” When she still got no answer, she went to her son’s door, rapped loudly on it, then shoved it open. “Kioki, I’m tell—”
The words died on her lips as she saw the empty bed and realized that he hadn’t come home at all last night.
But Kioki always came home! He was a good boy, not like that Josh Malani he hung around with sometimes. And when he’d called, he promised to be home early. He was just going to a movie with Rick Pieper and Josh and—
John Saul Page 9