Restless Waters (3 page)

I don’t know which stunned me more: the fact that I’d been caught off-guard, or that my skin burned as if I’d been stung by a hive of angry bees. Rasta Boy took full advantage of the moment to grab the sacks from my hands and start to run.

You little shit,
I thought, watching his dingy hair fly through the air like links of uncooked sausages.

I was damned if I’d let him escape. I began to chase him in an all-out race. But what I’d forgotten about was my foot. The cut from my earlier swim began to pound in time with my face. Even worse, I now found myself slipping and sliding on what seemed to be an endless patch of mud. It was all Rasta Boy needed to make headway.

Come on, come on, come on,
I silently urged, willing myself to speed up.

Though I managed to increase my stride, it still wasn’t
quite enough. I was left with no other choice but to steal Rasta Boy’s earlier move. Hitting a particularly good stretch of mud, I coasted along on it as fast as I could. Then I flung out my arms and hurled myself at him.

Success! I grabbed on to his braids and jerked hard, bringing him to a stop. Only he wasn’t yet ready to give up. My fake agent twisted around and attempted to punch me.

I quickly feinted to the left, pivoted on my heel, and thrust a hand against his chin with all my weight. Thank God, Krav Maga, the self-defense system I’d been trained in, had become second nature. I didn’t have to think, just react, as he was thrown up against a tree and temporarily knocked out. But our skirmish had attracted another problem. Gunshots now began to erupt uncomfortably close by.

“Hold your fire, Mr. Keoki,” I called out to my unseen assailant. “Everything’s all right. I’m a federal agent.”

However, it didn’t get the response for which I had hoped.

“Yeah, I’ve heard that line before and I’m not falling for it again,” came his snappy retort from somewhere in the darkness. “I’m going to teach you a lesson, and that’s not to show up on my property anymore.”

Great. Just what I needed to deal with—another obstinate, pissed-off citizen.

“The boy that came to your door was an imposter. He’s here with me now, and the situation’s under control. Stop shooting and I’ll show you my badge,” I tried to reason.

“I’ve already seen one too many of those tonight. Why should yours be any different?” he responded, punctuating it with more gunfire.

My foot throbbed, my face hurt, and I wasn’t in the mood for all this. In addition to which, I was hungry and
tired. That’s when bad things can happen to distracted agents. It was time to bring this lunacy to an end. I pulled out my .38 and quickly fired two rounds into the air.

“I’ll tell you only once more that I’m a federal agent. Your wife called and asked for my help. Now throw down your gun and come out where I can see you. Otherwise, my target won’t be the sky next time, and I warn you that I’m an excellent shot.”

A man in his sixties with the torso of a walrus, powerfully built arms, and two double chins walked through the foliage and came into view. His clipped gray hair was coarse as a scrub brush, his face so tight and round that not a wrinkle showed on his skin. The problem was that Walter Keoki maintained a tight grip on his rifle.

“I’m not kidding, Mr. Keoki. Throw your weapon down right now!” I advised, aiming my .38 at him. “If you don’t, I’ll be left with no choice but to shoot.”

Walter Keoki stared at me for a moment, and then slowly did as instructed.

“All right. Now I’m going to reach into my pocket and take out my badge.”

I did so, along with my ID, and tossed both items to him.

Mr. Keoki carefully examined them. “They look different from what that other fellow had,” he grudgingly admitted. “But you can’t blame me for thinking you were a trespasser. After all, what kind of federal agent travels around with a skateboard and a couple of bags of lizards?” he inquired, pointing to the articles at my feet. “Besides, I don’t see anyone else here with you.”

Damn!

I quickly whirled around, but Rasta Boy was gone, along with the sack he’d been holding. Mr. I. M. Kuhl had proven true to his moniker, coolly slipping away during all the shooting.

“So, is this what you call having the situation under control?” Walter Keoki questioned, beginning to stand a little taller. “And there’s still the problem of damage that’s been done to my property. Somebody’s going to have to pay for that.”

I wondered if the lizards inside the sacks had any idea of how much trouble they’d already caused. And if so, did they care at all? Probably about as much as their captor did I figured. I silently vowed that he hadn’t seen the last of me yet.

I followed Walter Keoki back to his house, where his wife was busy talking up a storm on the phone.

“Here. Your boss is on the line and wants to speak to you,” she said, thrusting the receiver into my hand.

“Porter? I expect to see you in the office first thing tomorrow morning,” Norman Pryor darkly intoned.

I gazed at Mrs. Keoki, wondering how the hell she’d managed to get me in trouble so quickly. Norm Pryor’s phone number was unlisted, as was that of every other law enforcement agent.

“I’ll be there,” I replied and hung up.

Hattie Keoki shot me a triumphant look. “You should remember that it’s people like us that pay your salary,” she lectured, before turning to face her husband. Loudly clucking her tongue, she slapped him in the stomach, and took his rifle away. “And no more fooling around with guns for you, unless I say it’s okay.”

I grabbed the skateboard and bags of goodies, no longer wanting to play. Instead I walked out of the house and down the driveway. All I wanted to do right now was go home. But I couldn’t resist first taking a peek inside the sacks.

Holy leaping lizards! The first bag held a pair of protected Egyptian spiny tails that were roughly thirty inches long and weighed a couple of pounds.

Their clublike tails had large, pointed, sharp scales that
could be whipped around to beat an attacker. Hawaii was far, far away from their desert home. It made me wonder if my lizard-catching friend had planned to set them loose in the hope that they’d survive and breed.

The second bag contained a panther chameleon as colorful as a rainbow on acid. Each of its turreted eyes turned in a different direction. One stared at its surroundings, while the other rolled up to examine me. It must have thought I was one hell of a big bird, for a tongue, twice the length of its body, catapulted out and headed straight for my mouth. I quickly shut the bag to avoid an interspecies kiss. As much as I like wildlife, I did have my limits.

While it was nice to know that I had a smidgen of animal magnetism, I doubted that it would help me in the morning. I started my SUV and took off, certain of one thing: The illegal ranching of lizards on Oahu was a much more highly organized trade than anyone would ever have thought.

I
heard the pounding of the waves before I actually saw them. There was a good reason for that. These were the winter monsters capable of swelling up to sixty feet in height. They roll in from the Gulf of Alaska having traveled two thousand miles, gaining strength along the way.

I held my breath and swore I could feel them rumble, the ground trembling as they broke. Salt sprays trailed behind them like a legion of lacy wedding veils, their vapors carried on the air, covering the road in a light mist. It was a gentle reminder that the North Shore couldn’t have been further from the bustling streets of Honolulu and from Waikiki Beach.

There are no high-rise buildings, no acres of pavement, and rather than a freeway, only a two-lane road runs along the coast. Three stoplights are all that regulate its thirty-mile stretch. Of course, in just one of those miles are over a dozen surf shops. But then, what else could one expect? This is the surfing capital of the world, a place boasting surf breaks with names such as Avalanche, Monster Mash, Gas Chambers, and Banzai Pipeline. Even the Beach Boys paid tribute to the North Shore in one of their songs, “Surfin’ U.S.A.”

This was where I was living these days—in Haleiwa, to be more precise, a quirky little plantation town dotted with old clapboard buildings and creaky wooden sidewalks. The highly eclectic population consists of surfers, artists, ex-military, former mercenaries, skateboarding dudes, and multi-ethnic families that have lived here for generations. Throw into the mix the mysterious rich who reside up in the hills, living in multi-million-dollar mansions, mostly paid for with cash.

This was the kind of place where one could purchase a handmade surfboard for ten thousand dollars. If that didn’t suit your fancy, cheaper wares were continually being hawked from thatch-roofed stands and off the backs of pickup trucks.

Tourists wandered through, but they generally didn’t stop. Rather, they circumnavigated the island in their rental cars or stared out the windows of tour buses. The crowds that did come were those that watched or participated in surfing contests during the winter months. And even they stayed for only a few days before returning back home.

I turned onto a narrow dirt road and headed for a driveway marked by an upright surfboard. For some reason, it always reminded me of a tombstone waiting to be inscribed. I parked the Ford and walked toward an old beach house that was badly in need of a paint job. Its faded blue exterior looked as if it had been dipped in saltwater-blue tears that had long since dried.

The only things that gave the place life were the potted plants lining both sides of the well-worn stairs. Each step sagged beneath my feet, as though caught in the midst of a tired yawn. I did my best not to trip over the ragged hodgepodge of sneakers, shoes, and flip-flops that haphazardly led up to the doorway. Instead, I added my own boots to the collection, all the while being watched closely by Tag-along.

The marmalade-colored cat mewed in rebuke, as if to scold me for coming home late. I placed the skateboard down on the porch, and the feline anxiously sniffed at the burlap bags in my hand.

“Trust me, Tag-along. You don’t want to tangle with those things. The spiny tails in there could probably rip your head off. What are you doing outside, anyway?”

I shooed Tag-along indoors, knowing full well that he could cause as much damage to the native birds as the uninvited reptiles on the island. Tag-along had come with the house, as had his owner and our current roommate. I tried to take solace in the fact that at least one of them was under my partial control.

I followed the cat through the screen door, my bare feet padding on the sandy wooden floor. It took a moment for my nose to adjust to all the mosquito punks about the house, their aroma spread by the overhead ceiling fans. I called out, but neither Kevin nor Santou appeared to be anywhere around. That was all right. I had a pretty good idea where to find them. Besides, the chameleons needed to be cared for.

With that in mind, I dragged a potted ficus tree from its appointed post in the kitchen all the way down the hall. A few deft moves and the plant was inside the bathroom. Another couple of grunts and groans and it was hoisted into the tub. Once there, I misted each leaf, removed the Eqyptian spiny tails from their bag, and placed them on its branches. Then I repeated the procedure with a second plant and set the panther chameleon on it.

“Nighty night and sweet dreams,” I said, closing the bathroom door tightly behind me.

Then I headed outside and walked down the beach, careful to avoid any sharp rocks that might further slice open my feet. Soon two lava lamps came into view. Their flames flickered in conjunction with a grille that sprang to
life, as Jake stoked its fire. The warm yellow light revealed Santou’s distinctive features, ever so softly smudging the sharp line of his nose while playing hide-and-seek among his nest of tousled black curls. Even now, my pulse sped up at the sight.

Sitting in a beach chair beside him was a man whose hair had been bleached flaxen white by the sun. He apparently didn’t care, for the sun’s rays had also etched a web of deep squint lines around his eyes. Their color was lock-box gray, the same as that of the sea after a storm.

The men appeared to be so deeply engrossed in conversation that neither took notice of me. It was the black-and-white pit bull by their side that gave my presence away. Fifty pounds of pure muscle jumped up and began to charge in my direction. Fortunately, Spam had a whole lot more creampuff than Cujo in him.

Jake had stumbled upon the pooch shortly after we’d moved to Haleiwa. The dog had appeared to be abandoned and bedraggled. His ribs had poked through his skin, he’d walked with a limp, and his eyes had been lackluster and sad. Since that time, Spam had been nursed back to health until he was stocky and strong. Perhaps a little too much so.

These days he boasted powerful jaws and a thick muscular neck that held up a head the size of a brick. Spam’s cropped ears stood straight at attention like two little horns, while his whip of a tail tapered to a sharp exclamation point. His devilish appearance cleverly belied his sweet nature.

However, if there was ever a candidate for doggy Valium, Spam certainly had to be it. He had the odd habit of accelerating to full speed and bashing head first into whatever stood in his path. At the moment, that turned out to be me. Spam came close to knocking me off my feet as he excitedly jumped up and began to lick my face. And just like most men, he hated to take no for an answer.

“Spam, that’s enough. Down!” Santou called out to him.

The dog immediately left me and trotted back to his master.

“Hey, chere. Where have you been? We were just about to start dinner without you.”

Walking over, I leaned down, and gave Santou a kiss, figuring we should share equally in Spam’s sloppy affection. Kevin said nothing, but continued to drink his beer slowly as he gazed off into the distance.

Kevin O’Rourke was a buddy from Santou’s past, a ghost that had flitted in and out of his life—one that I’d only recently met. From what I had gathered, they’d known each other years ago in New Orleans. After that, Kevin’s background became suspiciously murky.

I’d been told that he’d served in the military, and then had traveled the world. Maybe so. But as far as I was concerned he’d picked some mighty unusual places to visit. Hot spots such as Afghanistan, El Salvador, Lebanon, Iraq, and the Philippines. In other words, he wasn’t your average tourist. The only personal item on display in his room was a photo that obviously had been taken years ago. It showed a much younger Kevin in front of a hut, beneath a sign that read
SCHOOL FOR JUNGLE SURVIVAL TRAINING
. My guess was that it hadn’t been a course offered by Club Med.

Though he liked to brag about the numerous languages he spoke, Kevin would never reveal what they were, or exactly how many. I’d have gladly written the guy off as a con artist and jerk. However, Santou wouldn’t let me. Instead I could only assume that he’d either been with the CIA or had worked as a paid mercenary—neither of which he or Santou would confirm or deny. The only things I knew for certain was that Kevin was now “retired” and that he annoyed me immensely.

I also wasn’t convinced that he was the best influence on Jake. Or maybe I was jealous of the growing amount of time they spent together. The problem was that the housing market on Oahu was both exorbitant and tight. That gave us little choice. If we were to rent, we’d have to reside with at least four other people in a reality version of the old TV series
Friends
.

Our problem was solved in an odd twist of fate. Kevin’s girlfriend had decided to split for greener pastures just as we’d arrived. Kevin had a great place and wanted to share expenses. We needed somewhere to live, and the price was right. It was a match made in renter’s heaven—otherwise known as how to make do in Hawaii.

“Today was great, chere. Kevin brought me some beat-up surfboards, and I’ve been learning a new airbrush technique with cut-out stencils. Wait till you see what I’ve done. Remind me to show you the boards later on.”

Kevin’s major passion these days was surfing the big waves. He supported his habit by crafting primo handmade surfboards. It had been his idea for Jake to paint the torn-up boards that they found.

“How was your day, chere?” Santou politely inquired.

I didn’t dare tell them about my disastrous surf lesson. Not unless I wanted to become the butt of one of Kevin’s running jokes.

“Same old, same old,” I blithely responded. “I spent the time catching up on paperwork.”

“Oh yeah? Then you must have had one hell of a big pile. Are you certain that it was really paperwork you were doing?” Kevin casually questioned.

I nailed him with a sidelong glance.

Kevin’s girlfriend had cheated on him. It wasn’t terribly difficult to understand why. As a result, he was now suspicious of every woman he met. I also didn’t know how
much Santou had told him about our own past problems. It was at times like this I wondered if Kevin was trying to drive a wedge between Jake and myself.

“I took a drive up along Tantalus after sunset,” I replied, casting him an icy glare. “It seems some joker is running around the area passing himself off as a Fish and Wildlife agent.”

“Why in the world would he want to do that?” Jake asked in surprise.

I was unsure from his tone whether to take it as an innocent question or an insult.

“In order to gain access to private property. I imagine from there he’s heading back into the rain forest and collecting illegal reptiles at night,” I replied.

“What in hell for?” Jake continued.

“My guess is he’s probably selling them. I have a hunch that reptiles are being smuggled and released in the wild to colonize and breed. After that, their offspring are most likely gathered and pipelined to dealers on the mainland where they’re sold for big bucks.”

“In other words, some lowlives are treating Hawaii as their own private terrarium,” Kevin summed up.

“Exactly,” I agreed.

I’d once heard that everything grows like gangbusters in this place. All one had to do was plant an item, count to ten, and jump out of the way.

“Personally, I think that’s pretty damn clever of them,” Kevin added with a smirk.

“Why am I not surprised by that?” I shot back.

“Now, now, children, let’s play nice,” Santou intervened, having become used to our rivalry. “So chere, did you catch anyone?”

“I spotted a kid with blond Rasta braids and Maori tattoos, but he got away,” I grudgingly admitted. “However, he did leave a few things behind. I managed to get my
hands on his skateboard and two bags of protected reptiles, a pair of which originally came from Egypt.”

“Sounds like white surfer trash to me,” Kevin mused, taking another sip of his beer.

“What makes you say that?” I asked, figuring any information would be worthwhile.

Kevin blinked, as if in silent acknowledgement. “Let’s just say it has to do with the Rasta braids and tattoos. My money’s on a punk that’s drifting between trying to be Bob Marley and going native. Then there’s the skateboard, of course. That’s always a dead giveaway.”

There it was: the smarmy undertone that made me want to slap him. Instead I bit my tongue, aware that Kevin tended to be right on the mark.

“It’s probably one of those little surfer wannabes who dreams of getting in tight with the big boys and riding the monster waves up here,” he concluded.

“You’re talking about the kids that are continually breaking into cars and stealing what they can to support their surf habit?” I tried to clarify.

“Yeah. That, and to buy drugs. You’ve seen them around. They’re the scumbags that skateboard all over town when the waves aren’t up. You know. The ones who smoke crack when they have the money and huff glue when they don’t. Their sole means of support seems to be committing all the petty crimes in the area.”

See, that was the thing. I couldn’t imagine kids like that would have the smarts to connect with big-league pet dealers on the mainland. In addition to which they’d need the know-how to run an underground business. No, there had to be someone else in the mix; a mastermind behind the scheme.

I sat on a log and thought about it, only to become transfixed by the waves that steadily pounded the sand beneath me.

Ba bump, ba bump, ba bump.

It was almost as if the beach had developed a beating heart.

We were the sole occupants on this paper white strip of sand, except for a stand of tall ironwood trees. Garlands of sea grape encircled their base, insouciant as children playing a game of ring-around-a-rosy. From there the vines languorously stretched and spread out, decoratively lining the shorefront.

I leaned back and took a deep breath, wanting nothing more than to float on the beguiling scent of the sea and the night air. Instead my senses were overwhelmed by the delicious aroma of mahi mahi, cooking on the grill. The smell filled my nose, causing my stomach to rumble and my mouth to water.

A whisper of breeze rustled my hair, its warm breath caressing my back in a seductive dance. I willingly gave myself over, my toes digging deep into the sand. Spam came over to nestle against my leg, burying his damp nose in my calf, as I rested my hand on his fur. If I’d had one wish, it would have been to freeze-frame this moment forever.