The Green Room

by Deborah Turrell Atkinson

  “Help! I’m in here.”

  The whining sound got closer, then dropped to a lower pitch. The man’s voice sounded again, but she lost most of the words in a crashing thump and a surge of water. “….dive…entrance…out…”

  Storm braced herself on the rocking surfboard. Both her hands were still numb from being bound so tightly, and she shook them to get the blood flowing.

  What did he say? Dive? Storm eyed the only place where light still seeped into the darkening cave. It was underwater, below the little holes that had let in the air she so desperately needed. How much had the water risen? How deep was the hole? It had disappeared below the surface of the water before she’d regained consciousness. How long ago had that been?

  She had to try. After all, what did she have to lose?

  Storm was terrified. She swallowed hard and took deep, methodical breaths while she talked to herself out loud. “Can’t be that deep. He got you in here, right? Even if it’s five or six feet down, it’s nothing. You do that all the time.” Right.

  Storm floated the surfboard toward the imagined entrance. Her hands were still tingling clubs, and they made clumsy paddles. Her fingers were barely functional, though sensation was beginning to burn through them.

  She heard a shout from outside the cave, and the pitch of the engine rose. It got loud, and then faded, as if he’d headed away. Hadn’t he heard her?

  “Stop!” she shrieked. “Stop! I’m here!”

  That was it, she had to go. Slipping from the board into the cold water revived her more, and she took a desperate last gulp of air before she dove.

  Storm felt her way down the bumpy rock face. Her numb fingers were just able to grasp protrusions on the wall, enough to pull her deeper into the water. The cave wasn’t completely dark, and she knew the faint glow had to come from beneath the surface of the water. There wasn’t enough light to see clearly, and all she could make out were light and dark shapes. But none was a beacon of escape.

  Storm felt along the wall, pulling herself deeper by grabbing onto jagged knobs of lava. Her lungs were on fire, and her diaphragm began to convulse with the need for air. With a cry of anguish, she let go of the wall and kicked frantically to the surface.

  The cave seemed even darker, and when she broke surface, she almost hit her face on the nose of the drifting surfboard. It took up most of the remaining space, and she hung on for a minute while she wheezed for whatever oxygen was left in the diminishing room.

  She leaned her face on the board, and tried not to give in to despair. She had to dive again. And keep thinking. If the entrance involved a short tunnel, it wouldn’t necessarily let in enough light to be visible from the surface of the water. She’d have to go deep to find it. That must be what the person outside was trying to tell her. But she had to find it this time. There wasn’t enough oxygen left in the cave.

  Hyperventilating might help, especially in this thin air. She knew free divers who’d died from the practice, but it was a chance she’d have to take. She was going to die if she didn’t.

  Ten breaths. Ten deep, slow breaths. Storm actually used her fingers, splayed on the surfboard, to count. And she dove again, straight down. When she’d surfaced before, she’d been surprised to find that she’d only been about four feet down, though it had felt much deeper. She didn’t grope along the wall this time. Instead, she kicked and stroked as hard as she could, down, down, until her ears popped. Where it was dark, and there was still no bottom that she could see.

  She grabbed the wall, crabbing along sideways, head toward the bottom. Around the perimeter, if she had to. No, just along the wall where the light had come in. That was her best chance.

  Storm actually surprised herself with these thoughts, glad that her brain still functioned on some level. She had very little time. Already, she’d guess that twenty or thirty seconds had passed. How long until she passed out? Two minutes? Three? Don’t think about it.

  Her eyes were getting used to the diminished light. She could just make out the bottom, sandy and scattered with black rocks. There was even a little fish, a reef triggerfish, common to anyone who enjoys swimming or diving along Hawai'i’s shoreline. In fact, it was a humuhumu-nukunuku-ā-pua'a. Storm giggled, which sent a few bubbles to the surface. Oops. The humuhumu with a snout like a pig, her own pua'a. Little pig-fish. Uh oh, she was getting silly. That was oxygen deprivation again, wasn’t it?

  Where’d that fish go? There he was, two feet from her, and heading into the wall. Into the wall. Storm grasped a bulge in the rock and pulled herself toward him. She kicked hard, rounded a corner, and peered ahead, where a halo shimmered.

  It was a tunnel, more of a long arch, about three feet wide, but deep. It extended to the sandy bottom. Lots of room, if she could go two or three feet deeper. And if it wasn’t too long; she couldn’t see the end.

  Storm’s diaphragm shuddered with need, but there was light ahead, only six or seven feet away. There was the little fish again, nibbling at something on the wall of the tube. Good little pig-fish. Wished she had gills, like he did. Pull with her arms, use ’em like he does his little pectoral fins. Kick, kick. Feeble feet, not nearly as good as a tail fin.

  Wished her eyes were letting in more light; she was getting tunnel vision. Black on the sides. Pull with those pectoral fins. Maybe use a dolphin kick. Her vision was fading, but she could still swim. Follow the little pua'a. Helpful little fellow, finding that tunnel for her.

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  “Hey, I’ve got you. Can you climb on?”

  Storm squinted and coughed. Her lungs heaved, and the ocean surged around her, pelting her with droplets and foam. It was too bright, like she’d walked out of the theater in the middle of the day. Startling, too harsh. Cough, cough. The buzzing stink of an engine, too.

  What was this guy doing to the back of her bathing suit, anyway? It’s not a handle, for crying out loud. She felt like a hooked fish, and flopped an arm in his direction.

  His voice cracked with urgency. “Help me out here, there’s a set coming.”

  Storm squinted up at him. “Goober? What’re you doing out here? Hey, that hurts.” He was crushing her hand in his, trying to pull her arm out of its socket.

  “Get on, Storm. Quick. We’re going to get pushed onto the rocks.” He looked behind. “Hurry!”

  Storm scrabbled for the hull of the jet ski, but her fingers still weren’t at their best. She started to slide.

  “Jesus,” Goober muttered, and scrabbled for one arm and whatever else he could grab. The big jet ski tipped while Goober snagged the back tie on Storm’s bathing suit. It unfastened like the bow on a gift box, and Storm yelped with surprise.

  “Good grief,” she sputtered as he hauled her up and left her sprawled face down like a set of saddlebags across the seat behind him.

  In this position, she noticed the towering and jagged rock wall that loomed a mere foot from her face. Still not thinking clearly, she reached out in an instinctive attempt to shove the watercraft away from an imminent crash. At that moment Goober gunned the big engines, and Storm seized what was closest—a cleat and a foothold—to keep from flying off the back. Head down, flopping on her stomach like a beached tuna, she held on for a ride she couldn’t see, and hoped she’d never experience again.

  Goober wheeled the machine sideways and up while Storm held on for dear life with her hands and grappled with her feet for some kind of toehold on the craft’s other gunwale. There was something attached to that side by a tight bungee, and she hooked one foot through the cord, though the other leg floundered.

  By the howl of the engines and the angle of their climb, Storm could tell that the big Kawasaki was too close to the speeding wave to go directly over. Forget about trying to sit up now. She bounced on her stomach, glad it was empty, and prayed she could hold on while she watched her bathing suit top flop around her straining wrists. The triangular bra cups filled like little sails. If the situation hadn’
t been so desperate, the ridiculous banner would have cracked her up.

  The powerful watercraft roared over three waves before Goober cut the throttle to a mere rocketing speed and reached back to grab Storm’s nearest arm. “You can sit up now.”

  “Right.” But she pushed herself up from her face-down position, somehow managing to keep one bathing suit strap hooked to her left wrist. She had to grab Goober’s waist to get there, and he scrambled to help her by latching onto her left arm. They both watched the bra sail away.

  “Oh, no,” Storm shouted above the rumble of the engines.

  Goober pulled his wet and faded sweatshirt over his head and handed it back, but he kept his eyes out to sea. “We’ve got bigger problems.”

  Storm followed his gaze. They did. Goober had managed to get them out of a partially protected rocky cove just in time to avoid being pounded against a craggy volcanic shelf. But the concept of protected was a relative term. The cove was dangerous with rebounding waves and currents and without any possible landing point. In order to get around the rocks and to an approachable beach, they had to go farther out to sea, into the really big stuff—the roiling stew of huge surf.

  “Where are we?”

  “Just north of Pupukea.”

  Storm grabbed hold of Goober with one arm and a handle next to her seat with the other hand. The big machine roared out to sea, and Goober read the incoming swells as if he’d driven the City and County rescue watercraft before. She felt like hugging him with gratitude.

  Instead, she hunkered down behind him, out of the wind. A hundred critical questions ran through her mind. When he got beyond the break zone and eased off the throttle, she couldn’t hold back. “How’d you know where I was? Who put me there?”

  “Let’s get out of here first,” Goober said, and headed out toward a plain of white, breaking water without answering the questions. Engine noise made it impossible to talk, so Storm waited until he cut back on gas to get his bearings before she tried again.

  “So who put me in that cave?” she asked over his shoulder, and readjusted her seat so that her leg fit around the surfboard lashed to the side of the jet ski.

  Goober’s shoulders seemed to droop a bit. “I’ll tell you what I know when we get to shore. We don’t have time to sit here. Conditions are getting worse, and I’m afraid we’ll run out of gas.”

  “What?” Storm nearly stood up on the back of the craft.

  “Hey, I grabbed what I could. Took me a while to find you, too.”

  “I know it. Thanks, I appreciate it.” He wouldn’t look at her; his eyes scanned the shoreline.

  “Where’d you get this machine?” she added.

  “Stole it from City and County. I’ve got keys to one of their storage sheds.” She could just make out his words over the wind.

  “I see.” Storm recalled that Sunny had mentioned he assisted Gabe unofficially. “The lifeguard fleet?” That explained the surfboard, which would be used for rescues.

  “Yeah, I had to take what was left.”

  “How’d you get the keys to my house?”

  Goober gunned the motor. “We’ve got to move on.” He gave the big machine enough gas to send Storm sliding backward. She grabbed his waist, and noticed that he was covered with goosebumps. A shiver went through her, along with a surge of gratitude for not only Goober’s efforts, but his sweatshirt. Though it was soaked, it still provided a layer of insulation.

  She looked toward land and shouted into his ear, “You don’t think we can get in here?”

  Goober shook his head. “It’s closed out. We’d better not chance it.”

  Storm could see for herself. There was no place they could go in without being overcome by following surf, which barreled toward land faster than even the big Kawasaki could travel. There was also a powerful current that carried them parallel to shore, toward Waimea.

  “We’re near Pipeline. We don’t want to get chewed up on those reefs,” Goober shouted. He gave the machine more fuel and headed downwind.

  Storm huddled behind him and held on tight. She was tired, cold, and scared. Hamlin would be going crazy. The thought of how close she’d come to dying in the cave brought on a renewed fit of trembling.

  Goober zoomed along a course parallel to the coastline. His head swiveled as he watched the incoming sea for unexpected swells and currents. From time to time, he stood to better see over the peaks and valleys of the heaving ocean.

  Meanwhile, the watercraft climbed and plummeted like a chunk of driftwood in the huge swells, and her stomach rose and fell with it. When they dropped into a trough between waves, Storm would have believed they were a thousand miles from land. It was disorienting, dizzying.

  They couldn’t even see shore, nearly a half mile away, until they got to the top of a swell. When they did, everything from the sand to a quarter mile out to sea was solid whitewater.

  Storm held on and stored up the questions she needed to ask Goober. Whoever had put her in the cave had killed Nahoa, she was certain. And Goober had known where the cave was. He’d suspected that she’d be there.

  “Maybe we can get the attention of one of those choppers,” Storm shouted over his shoulder.

  She felt, rather than heard, Goober grunt a reply over the noisy engines and whipping wind. All she could do was hold tight, her arms around his waist, while parts of his baggy sweatshirt filled with air and parts clung clammily to the rest of her body. She shivered, and tried to see the gauges on the machine.

  Then she wished she hadn’t. The gas level was in the red, though that included an entire quarter of a tank. Criminy, how fast did these things burn fuel? By the engine noise, she’d bet they weren’t exactly the Sierra Club’s top pick. Jesus, she had to hope Goober knew what he was doing.

  He seemed to. They flew along, sometimes literally airborne, slapping back to the water’s surface with jolts she could feel down her whole spine.

  “How far away are the ’copters?” she yelled.

  He had to turn his head, and the wind whipped his words toward her. “Nearly a mile, I think.”

  “Do we have enough gas?” And she wished she hadn’t asked, because his answer was a shrug that she could only feel. If they ran out of fuel here, they were motes in a vast sea. Their bodies wouldn’t even be found.

  So Storm settled into the rough ride and concentrated on moving with Goober, leaning when he did, hunching down to lessen the craft’s wind resistance. Maybe they’d conserve fuel. She could only hope.

  Meanwhile, her stomach lurched with the machine’s pounding, screaming flight and sent pangs that she alternately interpreted as hunger and motion sickness. Or maybe it was just stress.

  The helicopters loomed closer and Storm could see a basket dangling from the bigger one. A person wearing the brightly colored singlet of a surfer huddled in it.

  “Surf may be closing out here, too,” Goober shouted over his shoulder. He slowed the machine to a throaty rumble. Storm was glad for a rest from the bone-jarring ride, but she wondered why he’d cut power, because the waves tossed and battered the machine when it wasn’t moving forward.

  She watched the helicopter rescue and swallowed hard. When a wave bore them high enough to see shore, she asked, “You think they’re calling the meet?”

  She couldn’t see anyone, but she had the feeling she wouldn’t be able to see a person in this sea until she was almost on top of him. She wondered if the helicopters could see the two of them.

  “Maybe.”

  That was not good news. “How far are we from the surfers?”

  “A few hundred yards or so. You think you could drive this thing?” Goober asked.

  “What? Are you nuts?”

  She could feel a quiver go through Goober, and she hoped he was just cold.

  “Look,” he said after a pause. “It’ll go faster and use less gas with one person on it. I’m going to surf in.” He reached back and unfastened one end of the bungee
that held the surfboard to the side of the craft. “It’ll be lighter and easier to maneuver without the board, too.”

  “We’re almost out of gas?” Storm yelled to be heard over the roar of the ocean and the wind whipping around them. The Kawasaki sputtered and the surfboard began to slip from its perch.

  “Close.”

  “Oh, God,” Storm murmured.

  Just as the surfboard splashed into the water, she snagged the leash attached to its tail. “I’m going to surf.”

  Goober eyed the waves building on the horizon, and she realized he was either contemplating their chances or he was in shock. He looked very young to her right then.

  “I’ve never driven one of these. You’ve got to take it,” she told him.

  “I’m a better surfer.”

  “You’re supposed to keep your head dry.”

  She didn’t know what else to say. Never mind that they were both soaked and shivering. If she waited one more second, she’d chicken out. Goober had already rescued her from the cave, he deserved this chance.

  She slid into the water and grabbed the board. “Don’t argue, we don’t have time. Now, get out of here.”

  Goober stared at her, surprised. Then he tried to smile, but his lips had a bluish tinge and they seemed to stick to his teeth.

  “You can ride the whitewater, you know,” he said.

  “I know.” Both of them knew she couldn’t. The surf was too big.

  Goober paused one more second. “Go see O’Reilly.” He kept his eyes on the jet ski’s controls.

  “I’ll see you when we get to shore. We’ll both go. And send one of those helicopters after me.”

  Goober looked up at the chopper with the basket, which was carrying its dangling passenger toward shore. “Right.”

  Storm turned to fasten the surfboard leash around her ankle. The sweatshirt was heavy and weighed her down in the water, but she was cold and didn’t want to take it off. She also didn’t want him to see the fear that had to be all over her face. Even her movements felt jerky with it. She felt as if she were twelve again, in waves like the ones that had taken Bert Pi'ilani’s life.