Restless Waters Read online

There was no getting around the fact that I had to report in to work. The other sure bet was that I had no intention of heading there now. Not when I had an appointment with Stas Yakimov looming so soon in my future.

  Instead, I punched the office number into my cell phone, hoping that Pryor wouldn’t be there.

  “U.S. Fish and Wildlife office,” Jaba the Hut answered the line.

  Damn, damn, damn.

  “This is Rachel,” I responded, having little choice but to stick my neck in the noose.

  “And just where the hell are you?” he snapped irritably. “I don’t know how things worked at your last posting, but this isn’t some social club where you can waltz in and out as you please.”

  The two options were either to lie or to tell him the truth. I made the only sensible decision.

  “I know, Norm. And I’m really sorry, but this couldn’t be helped. I got a call from one of the state conservation officers first thing this morning. Some birds were shot in Kualoa Park last night, and he asked for my assistance. I’m still here investigating what took place.”

  Pryor sighed so deeply that I could almost smell the sweet scent of cherry Danish wafting through the phone.

  “Don’t these guys know that sort of thing is really their job?” he complained.

  There are times when a girl’s got to do what a girl’s got to do. This was definitely one of them.

  “You know that state officers don’t get anywhere near enough the training they need. Besides, I think it’s important to help them out whenever we can,” I responded, ever the little diplomat.

  “I suppose you’re right,” Pryor agreed. “God knows, it’s best to keep good relations with the state. But just remember that you’ve got a time sheet to fill out, and I want every minute of your workday accounted for.”

  I knew that only too well. I also had the sneaking suspicion that Pryor didn’t really care if it was one hundred percent accurate. Not as long as it looked good to his superiors back in D.C. That brought me around to thoughts of Sammy Kalahiki and our meeting this morning.

  “Something’s been bothering me that I’d like to ask you about,” I heard myself say.

  I was nearly as surprised by the statement as Pryor seemed to be.

  “What is it?” he asked, sounding startled.

  What the hell. I might as well jump in and find out if he had any knowledge of what was really going on.

  “Can you tell me why Fish and Wildlife has jurisdiction over protected species like walrus in Alaska, and manatees on the mainland, but it’s hands off as far as marine mammals here in Hawaii?”

  I heard Pryor’s chair squeak, and knew he was squirming around in his seat. Maybe he’d wondered the very same thing. Whatever the reason, it took him forever to answer the question.

  “It’s because that’s the way National Marine Fisheries likes it,” he finally responded.

  That was it? I felt like a three-year-old who’d asked why the sky was blue and just been told, Because that’s what God decided.

  “But you see, that’s what I don’t understand. How can NMFS be so powerful when it comes to this state?” I continued to stubbornly press.

  I didn’t have to be standing beside him to feel the tension begin to build.

  “You’re sticking your nose into matters that clearly don’t involve you,” Pryor retorted, his voice sounding strained.

  That’s where he was wrong. As far as I was concerned, every species with a heartbeat fell under my jurisdiction. And I had no intention of forsaking a single one of them.

  “I’m not trying to annoy you, Norm. Really, I’m just curious,” I softly replied, falling back on a tried-and-true method: my feminine wiles.

  Why stop there? I decided to go for broke and blatantly stroke his ego. “Besides, you’re so well connected with the higher echelons in both agencies that I felt certain you would know the reason. But if you don’t, it’s all right. I understand,” I conceded, allowing the slightest hint of disappointment to creep into my voice.

  “It’s not that I don’t know why the policy was put in place. It’s just complicated, is all,” Pryor genially responded in kind. “You see, there are a number of issues that go into it.”

  “I’d love if you’d explain them to me,” I coaxed, doing my best to keep up the sugary-sweet front.

  But my cover must have slipped a bit, because Pryor started to withdraw.

  “What do you want to know for?” he suspiciously countered.

  We’d plainly danced around the issue long enough. It was time to lay down my cards.

  “I’ve been hearing rumors that shark finning is still going on, and that Honolulu dealers are involved in a major way.”

  “That’s totally ludicrous. There’s a law banning that sort of thing,” Pryor replied with a cynical grunt. But his tone held a slight edge.

  “I know. That’s what makes these rumors so disturbing,” I agreed, secretly hoping he’d prove me wrong.

  “And just who is it that you’ve been hearing them from?” Pryor questioned, turning the tables on me.

  I hesitated, having learned not to trust anyone—not until I knew which side they were on.

  “I can’t help you unless you’re willing to confide in me, Porter,” he tried to coerce. “For God’s sake. I’m not the enemy here. We’re with the same agency, remember?”

  Pryor was right. He sounded so reasonable that I nearly told him the name of my source. It was pure gut instinct that kept me from blurting it out.

  “It’s just gossip that’s been floating around,” I asserted.

  I knew I’d made the correct decision upon hearing Pryor’s response.

  “That’s right, Porter. Idle gossip is all it is and nothing more,” he concurred, neatly clipping each syllable. “I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt, and clue you in on something that you might not yet realize. It’s always best to keep your nose out of another agency’s business, no matter how tempting it is to get involved.”

  I didn’t need to be told. I already knew what happened to those who opposed a sister agency. They were labeled troublemakers and promptly ostracized for having dared cross the line.

  “Hawaii is a small pond where people play for big stakes, and gossip can be a very effective tool. Come to think of it, I’ve already heard a rumor or two about you. Nothing you need to worry about, of course. But then again, one never knows,” Pryor lightly warned. “Just remember, the nail that sticks up is the one that gets hammered down.”

  I didn’t know whether I’d just been threatened or given sage advice. What I did know was that if rumors were going around, it was best to stop them now. They could effectively destroy an agent’s career.

  “What have you heard?” I asked, curious as to what was being said about me.

  “Just idle gossip. Probably the same sort of thing you’re encountering with those malicious rumors about shark finning,” Pryor insinuated, making his point.

  I had no idea if what he said was true. But the fact that I was beginning to worry was proof enough of the power that rumors could hold. His unspoken threat danced in the air between us.

  “I plan to head to the airport and check in with Customs once I’m through here,” I said, ending the conversation and, at the same time, providing my excuse for this afternoon.

  “Good idea,” Pryor agreed, his voice turning smarmy with newfound confidence. “Do us both a favor and just stick to your job.”

  That’s exactly what I am doing, I thought.

  “So I probably won’t be in the office until tomorrow morning,” I informed him.

  “No problem,” he replied, as if granting me absolution. “As I said from the start, this posting can either be very easy or extremely difficult. It’s all up to you. The smart thing to do is to stay below the radar and keep a low profile.”

  Now where had I heard those sentiments before? Oh yeah. From just about every Fish and Wildlife resident agent in charge that I’d worked for. What did these
guys do? Take an oath to keep a tight grip on their agents and never ruffle any feathers?

  The thing that continually astonished me was why they’d joined the Service in the first place. It certainly wasn’t because they were conservationists at heart, or gave a damn about saving species. All I could figure was that it was for the paycheck and prestige.

  Hanging up, I took his advice, rolled it in a tight wad, and slam-dunked it into a mental trash basket. I had every intention of playing by my own set of rules. And as of now, that included an appointment with Stas Yakimov.

  Turning south, I drove past miles of military land. A quarter of Oahu’s territory is in the armed services grip, with more than a hundred military installations on the island. Defense is such big business that it ranks just below tourism, pouring three billion dollars into the local economy each year.

  The dark side is that the government illegally took possession of all of this without giving the Hawaiians any compensation. What private land remains lies in the hands of fewer than fifty individuals and corporations. As a result, large numbers of natives live in poverty, many of them homeless. They’re still waiting for land promised to them since 1920 under government programs. More than five thousand Oahuans remain on the list today, while others have died having never been resettled.

  I approached Schofield Barracks, the largest U.S. base in the world. Across the street were a variety of fast food shops, tattoo parlors, and a bar famous for its Jell-O shots. A sign announced that the bands Pimbot, Slug, and Primal Tribe, with their trippy vibes, would be performing live over the weekend. It was the perfect idyllic retreat for those hankering to indulge in a slice of headbanger heaven.

  Hopping onto the H-2 Freeway, I experienced a little headbanging of my own, by joining in an endless line of traffic. This afternoon, paradise consisted of brake lights for as far as the eye could see. There was little choice but to take a deep breath and try to relax. I improvised on that by unleashing a stream of new curse words with each exhalation.

  The blue waters of Pearl Harbor and the U.S.S. Arizona Memorial came into view. The stark white shroud sits atop the sunken hulk of a battleship bombed by Japanese torpedo planes more than sixty years ago. Entombed inside are the remains of more than a thousand sailors. The ship’s ruptured fuel tank still bleeds oil, as if crying tears for its crew, producing a kaleidoscopic slick that floats on top of the water’s surface like a burial garment.

  Legend has it that locals were upset when the U.S. Navy dug Pearl Harbor’s dry dock in the same area where the shark goddess, Kaahupahau, supposedly lived. There must have been truth to their concerns, for the entire structure collapsed after only four years. Prophetically, a giant shark skeleton was found among the rubble.

  I left the military base behind and began my ascent up the West Coast, where few tourists stray, frightened away by its reputation of being unreceptive to outsiders. This is the last stronghold of Hawaiian culture, where the old customs and traditions still prevail. It’s also one of the poorest and most drug-riddled corners of the island.

  The West Coast differs from the rest of Oahu in other ways as well. The vegetation is much more sparse, the landscape embedded with rocky crags and cactus-studded hills. I passed through one small town after another, each consisting of little more than a small grocery store and a couple of drive-in restaurants. My sole companions on the road were locals driving their pickup trucks, with pit bulls riding shotgun in the rear.

  I continued with Dwayne’s directions, hoping I was on the right track. But after a while, I started to wonder if Stas Yakimov really existed. Perhaps this was just some clever ruse to lead me astray.

  I was whiling away the time imagining the horrors I’d inflict on Rasta Boy for having tricked me, when a street sign flew by bearing a name that sounded vaguely familiar. Checking my directions, I saw that this was the street where Stas Yakimov lived. I performed a tire-squealing one-eighty and quickly turned onto it.

  I wandered through an area where Hawaiian and Samoan farmers tended dusty fields behind sunblasted homesteads. Their hoes dug at dry, baked soil, the particles of which hung like a dingy red curtain in the air. Pigs and chickens paid little heed to the sound of my Ford, but pecked and scratched around junked cars that sat like pop art sculptures in the front yards.

  A wave of relief rushed over me as I spotted Stas Yakimov’s house. I had to hand it to Dwayne. So far, he’d proven to be a stand-up guy.

  I parked behind a dark blue van, got out and faced a typical standard tract house. Only this one had a chain-link fence encompassing its property. Discolored bedsheets covered the windows, looking like a poor man’s version of a patchwork quilt, and the yard was a barren field of bare dirt. The house itself was painted a moldy yellow with cinder blocks lining the contours of the roof as if to hold it on.

  Dwayne had said that I was to meet Yakimov in the backyard. That was fine with me. Just like one of the three little pigs, I worried that if someone huffed and puffed hard enough, this house might fall down. Besides, I was curious to see the rest of the property.

  I pushed the front gate open and walked through, picking my way past sheets of plywood that had been thrown on the ground. It was obvious that Yakimov didn’t put a lot of time into lawn care. In that sense, he was a man after my own heart. I’d always figured, why pluck weeds when they were only going to grow back again, anyway?

  It was then that I heard a strange sound. What could only be described as chorus of grunts and trills was coming from somewhere close by. The noise grew in volume as I tiptoed up to the corner of the house and peeked around.

  Holy leaping lizards! The backyard was filled with at least fifty cages, each of which contained different varieties of iguanas, chameleons, and geckos. All were ready and waiting to be packed up and shipped out.

  There were green anoles, whose heads bounced up and down like little bobble-head dolls while they did what appeared to be pushups. They emphasized the movement by fanning a flap of skin beneath their throats like a banner. Next to them was a cage with Jackson chameleons, their stubby bodies queued up as if they were a factory line of miniature triceratops. Each bore three sharp little horns on its head. They sat and stared at their neighbors, a group of Indonesian tokay geckos that touted light gray bodies flecked with bright orange and red spots. The geckos noisily barked as if to say, We’re the bad boys on the block. On that account, however, they were definitely wrong. I’d already spotted a cage filled with Australian bearded dragon lizards. The ominous-looking creatures lived up to their name, with large triangular heads and spines that ran along the sides of their bodies.

  But even these were dwarfed by a crate packed with bright green South American iguanas, each of which measured over five feet in length. They barely acknowledged the other reptiles, knowing that when it came to size they were clearly the winners.

  I gazed about in wonder, feeling as if I’d stumbled upon Ground Zero for invasive species. Everywhere I looked, there was something new to see. Other cages held poison-dart frogs, silvery brown skinks, bird-eating Cuban knight anoles, ball python snakes, and blue and red Madagascar geckos. Last, but not least, I caught sight of twenty-five veiled chameleons. They were easily identified by the three-inch shield resembling a shark fin on top of their heads.

  My own head was spinning, barely able to process it all, when an angry explosion of barking erupted behind me. I whirled around, my heart racing wildly. What I saw was a vision that had sprung to life from one of my worst nightmares. Five pit bulls, with lips pulled back and teeth bared, were flying through the air, their sights dead set on their target. These were no docile versions of Spam, but five hounds from hell, with only one thing on their mind: to attack and kill.

  I grabbed a piece of plywood and held it in front of me like a shield, all the while knowing they’d slice through it as easily as a pack of karate champs. But there was nothing else with which to defend myself. Fear’s a strange thing. My heart beat so loudly that I could no longer hea
r the roar of their howls, and I had to tell myself to continue to breathe. As for my sight, it had narrowed to such a fine point that I was unable to see beyond a speeding blur of fur and teeth.

  I said a quick prayer and braced myself for the worst when a voice, so low and rough it must have slithered up from the bowels of the earth, screamed out one single word.

  “SPARTACUS!”

  The dogs screeched to a halt, as if having hit an electrified fence. Even so, two of the beasts were unable to stop, their bodies sailing through the air. They slammed into the board with such force that I was knocked off my feet. I held the plywood tightly against my face, fearing that I was about to be mauled. Opting for a face-lift was one thing. Undergoing reconstructive surgery was quite another. But all I heard was a chuckle, its resonance falling somewhere between a diesel engine and the rumble of an earthquake.

  “It’s all right. You can get up now. Don’t be afraid. The dogs won’t hurt you,” instructed the voice that had issued the command.

  Easy for him to say.

  I lowered my wooden shield and caught sight of a guy who could have been part reptile and part human striding toward me. Oh yeah. And there were five vicious pit bulls cheerfully wagging their tails. This was what the legendary Charles Atlas might have resembled, had he been blown up into a giant Thanksgiving Day parade balloon. Stas Yakimov was a body builder who had clearly lost all control.

  Yakimov’s arms stuck out from his sides, rather than placidly lying against his body. His muscles were so pumped that the veins popped up like lines on a 3-D relief map. As for his thighs, they rubbed together with the perseverance of a camper with two sticks determined to start a fire. The sound they produced was a swish, swish, swish, generated by a pair of nylon blue gym pants that fluttered against his Paul Bunyon–sized legs.

  But what really caught my eye was that Stas had breasts nearly the size of mine. Even more demoralizing was that the he didn’t need a bra. An “Italian Stallion” T-shirt allowed me a glimpse of his rock hard pecs. Unbelievable. They never once jiggled as he walked. Had he been a girl, I’d have been totally envious. As things stood, I was pretty miffed.