Echoes: Hawaiian Storm, #4

By Scott Bury

"I am hopelessly in love with a memory. An echo from another time, another place." — Michel Foucault

 

In 1999, the Kahuna was The Man on Oahu's leeward side. The coolest guy at the wildest parties, with the coolest posse, the best weed and the most beautiful girlfriend.

 

Then he disappeared.

Fifteen years later, that girlfriend is no longer a high school senior. She is FBI Special Agent Vanessa Storm, and she sees through every lie the Kahuna spins when he shows up again to beg her help.

 

How can she say no when the Kahuna wants her help not for himself, but to protect his little sister. Young Christine Koraka is ready to set fire to the whole Oahu illegal drug trade—for revenge.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Scott Bury
• Release date: Nov 24, 2023
• ISBN: 9781987846386

Scott Bury

Scott Bury can’t stay in one genre. After a 20-year career in journalism, he turned to writing fiction. “Sam, the Strawb Part,” a children’s story, came out in 2011, with all the proceeds going to an autism charity. Next was a paranormal short story for grown-ups, “Dark Clouds.” The Bones of the Earth, a historical fantasy, came out in 2012. It was followed in 2013 with One Shade of Red, an erotic romance. He has several mysteries and thrillers in the former Kindle Worlds program: Torn Roots, Palm Trees & Snowflakes, Dead Man Lying, Echoes, Stealth The Wife Line and The Three-Way. With the cancellation of the Kindle Worlds, Scott is re-writing these titles. The new, expanded Torn Roots and Palm Trees & Snowflakes are now available. He then wrote a military memoir trilogy: Army of Worn Soles, Under the Nazi Heel and Walking Out of War, the true story of a Canadian-born man drafted into the Soviet Red Army in World War II. Since then, he has launched a new Wine Country Mystery series, with the first title, Wildfire. Scott’s articles have been published in newspapers and magazines in Canada, the US, UK and Australia. Born in Winnipeg, Manitoba, he grew up in Thunder Bay, Ontario. He holds a BA from Carleton University’s School of Journalism. He has two mighty sons, two pesky cats and a loving wife who puts up with a lot. He is a recipient of Maclean Hunter’s Top 6 Award and a member of a team that won a Neal Award for business reporting.

Book preview

To Bruce Springsteen and Paul Simonon,

But really, to Roxanne.

Prologue

2019

The pounding on the door had to be the police. Keahi had at most a minute before they brought in the battering ram. 

She lit the mound of marijuana—a tiny amount, but enough to send her to jail. She held the Bic lighter against it until it was burning well. Why flush it, when you can use it for kindling? she thought. Besides, the toilet in this shack hadn’t worked for months.

When the shower curtain was nicely enflamed, she closed the bathroom door and stepped quickly to the boarded-over back window.

The front door frame splintered. The cops would come through in seconds.

When they bang down your front door, how will you react? said the voice in her head, the voice that was the real her, without all the baggage of politeness and self-doubt. With your hands on your head, or on the trigger of your gun?

I’m answering with this, Keahi told the voice. She drew her Glock from the back of her belt and thumbed the safety off. With her free hand, she pulled the plank off the back window and vaulted over the sill.

The sun had set and the shadow of the uniformed cop stood exactly where she had expected. She fired, hitting the cop in the leg. As he crumpled, Keahi turned and fired at the cop’s partner. Without waiting to see whether she had hit the officer, Keahi ran for the open bare slopes behind the house.

They will pay, Keahi thought as orange light from the burning shack lit up the hillside. Everyone is going to pay, now. It’s time to put all the plans into action.

She disappeared into the shadows of the Waiʻanae Range.

Soft summer rain

Summer 2004

Vanessa recognized the Kahuna’s Dodge as soon as the bumper cleared the mailbox on the corner, sleek and black as a seal in the bay. She let it come to her, reclining on her parents’ front stoop, elbows on the step behind her, legs stretched out in front of her, ankles crossed, one heel a pivot on the cracked concrete walk.

The Dodge stopped in front of her, parked the wrong way on the street so the driver could lean out the window. He shook his long, black hair out of his eyes and said, Howzit, babe. Why doncha come ovah heah?

Vanessa regarded him for a long moment, eyes half open. She tilted her head to say, What for?

The Kahuna held a hand out of the car window. Something long and thin dangled from his hand, glittering in the light of the setting sun. Gotcha a present.

Vanessa’s heart pounded, but she didn’t show it. What is it?

It’s a set of hubcaps. Cantcha tell? 

Vanessa couldn’t resist any longer. She jumped up and almost skipped down the walk to the curb. Her ponytail, tied in an attempt to bring cool air to her shoulders, bounced against the back of her neck. When she reached for the gold necklace, though, the Kahuna jerked his hand back into the car. "What a minnit. I get honi, first."

The Kahuna leaned out of the car as Vanessa bent down. She pushed his thick black hair away from his face and gave her boyfriend a peck on the mouth. There. Now gimme.

You call that a kiss? The car rocked a little as the Kahuna killed the engine. He got out, a young god in an open-necked shirt and board shorts. He pulled Vanessa into his arms, leaning down to a deep, slow kiss.

Vanessa savored the feeling of the Kahuna’s full mouth over hers, the strength of his arms around her, then pushed him away as his hands roamed lower down her back. Not here, she said, squirming out of his grasp. My parents might see.

So? They don’t know you have a boyfriend? 

They don’t mind that I have a boyfriend, but they don’t necessarily want to watch you groping me. Now give me my present.

The Kahuna smiled broadly and held up the necklace, a delicate gold braid. He reached around Vanessa to clasp it behind her neck, and kissed her gently again. He stood back like a sculptor admiring his own work. "You make it look even more nani, babe," he said, using the Hawaiian word for beautiful.

Vanessa lifted the necklace for a better look. Oh, Dylan, it’s beautiful. Thank you. But it must have been very expensive.

Nah. I got it for a steal. 

Dylan—did you steal this? 

"No, I didn’t. I told you before, I don’t steal anything. I bought this from a guy. There was a local meet in Hamika last night, and I sold a shit-load of weed. I bought the chain from a guy I know."

From a guy. Is that why there’s no box?

Who needs a box? I threw it away.

Vanessa tilted her head, her green eyes flashing in the setting sun. You should know you can’t lie to me.

I’m not lying when I say I didn’t steal this necklace.

So, your dopey friends stole it.

They’re not really my friends. They do what I tell them.

You should tell them not to steal.

"Hey, a man’s gotta make a living somehow. I can’t let ’em sell pakolo. They’re not akamai"—smart.

He reached in the car window and took two cans of beer out of a cooler on the back seat. Man, is it ever hot. Why are you out here in the heat? 

My parents never installed air conditioning. It’s worse in the house. She took a beer and cracked the top to take a long, cooling drink. It’s not so much the heat as the humidity. My skin is all sticky.

The Kahuna leaned in again and kissed Vanessa’s long neck. "Sticky. Mm, ono,"—tasty.

Silly, Vanessa said, and sat on the hood of the Dodge, enjoying the feeling of the air on her bare feet. 

The Kahuna jumped to sit beside her on the car, and took a long drink of his beer. Vanessa sipped hers. It’s warm. 

Sorry. It wasn’t in the cooler for very long. 

Usually, when you buy beer in a store, it’s already cold. Or did you get this from a ‘guy,’ too?

Dylan laughed and took another drink. Eh! It is warm.

They sat together quietly, sipping warm beer, savoring each other’s company. A soft summer rain started. Vanessa tilted her head back, enjoying the cooling drops. Then she sighed and looked down between her swinging feet. 

What’s wrong, Nani?

My parents are moving.

What? Where to? 

Burlington, Vermont. 

Huh? Where’s dat?

Vanessa pushed the Kahuna’s shoulder, but it was like pushing on a mountain. She nearly slipped off the hood of the car. In Vermont, of course. 

Where is that? On the mainland?

Yes, north. Near the Canadian border.

Never heard of it.

What? Vermont? Or Canada?

Who cares? Bummah. When they wanna go? 

Vanessa looked at the ground between her feet again. Before the fall. They’re talking with a real estate agent to sell the house.

In this shitty town? Good luck finding somebody to buy it. He took a long swallow of beer and stared at Vanessa’s parents’ split-level house. Dylan, the man whose friends called him Kahuna, didn’t know that Vanessa’s father had rebuilt it himself, with the aid of two brothers, on top of a house that looked more like its single-storey neighbors. He had no way to appreciate the time and effort the front bay window had required, no way to appreciate the increase in value. He did know about the effort it took to maintain the garden in front, and to mow the lawn. Mr. Storm—Professor Storm—had made him cut it more than once last year, as the price for dating his daughter.

That, and bringing her home by midnight.

He also understood the divide between the part of Hamika that Vanessa lived in, near the community college and the golf course, and the part he lived in, down by the dive shops and marina.

What’s in Burlington, Vermont? he asked.

My dad’s been offered a job. A good job.

What kine jobs they got in Vermont for yo fade? Maple syrup maker? Or skiing instructor?

So, you have heard of it, she said, pushing his shoulder again with no more effect than the first time.

I hearda it. So what job?

Adjunct professor at the University of Vermont.

I thought he taught chemistry.

He does.

But now he’s gonna teach ajjunk?

It means ‘associate.’ Above assistant—

Dylan could not suppress his grin anymore. Oh! Vanessa screamed and slapped his thigh.

The Kahuna drained his beer and tossed the can into the street. Hey, don’t do that. This is my parents’ house, Vanessa protested. 

Dylan slid off the car to retrieve the can and threw it in the back seat of his Dodge. So, you gonna go? 

I guess I have to.

You’ll be 18 in a coupla months. You don’t hafta do anything but what you want. 

If I don’t go with them, where will I go? I don’t even have a job. 

You could live with me.

Vanessa froze. She looked at Dylan wide-eyed, her mouth open. She felt her heart pounding. Had her boyfriend just asked her to move in with him?

Dylan opened the driver’s door. Lesgo.

What? Now?

He laughed that deep rumble that she had fallen in love with. Relax. You don’t have to move in tonight. Come with me to the Rap Battle tonight.

Oh ...

"What? It’ll be fun. We’ll drink some beer, smoke some pakolo, hear some crappy local bands ... "

Uh ... okay, but I have to change, first.

Dylan came closer, smiling the way he knew Vanessa found irresistible. Don’t ever change a bit, Nani. I like you just the way you are, he sang, off-key. Unless you wanna take your clothes off.

Vanessa shook her head, coming back to earth. If we’re going out to a bar, I have to change out of these sweaty clothes into something nice.

You look pretty nice to me, Dylan leered.

She shook her head again. Give me five minutes.

It took Vanessa much more than five minutes to wash up, brush her hair and find the right combination of top and shorts that was not too casual, but not too dressy for the kind of bar that hosted rap battles, and sexy for her boyfriend but not too sexy to walk past her parents. And then she had to tell her parents that she was going out with Dylan, and promise to be home no later than one in the morning before her father could make a comment about that hoodlum. She would have to say it fast enough, but not too fast, so she could get out without reminding them that she was almost 18 and an adult, because that would only lead to her parents reminding her the legal drinking age was 21.

No. She chose a top with a scoop top that her mother had bought for her, and cute mid-thigh shorts she knew they wouldn’t—couldn’t—object to. Then, shoes. Because it was hot, she chose espadrilles with just a wedge. 

It worked. Her parents were sitting in the family room. Her father was reading a hardbound book, as usual, her mother the newspaper. I’m going out with Dylan, she announced. I’ll be back no later than one, I promise. She skipped down the hall.

Do you have your cell phone? her mother called after her, rising from the sofa.

Yup. Don’t worry! Vanessa pulled the front door closed, not hard but not too softly, either. She skipped down the walk, her long, light-brown hair bouncing on her shoulders.

The rain had stopped, leaving the walk slick. Grey clouds were tearing apart, revealing a slowly darkening sky. Dylan leaned against the door of the Dodge, pouring the last of another beer into his mouth. He looked at his watch as he opened the door for her. About time, he said as he slid behind the wheel.

The Kahuna knew enough not to squeal the tires until he turned the corner off Vanessa’s street, but then he let the Charger open up, racing through Hamika, earning a raised fist from an old man on the corner. 

Vanessa clung to the door handle. She knew the Kahuna well enough not to bother telling him to fasten his seat belt. He was proud of this twenty-plus-year-old car, proud of rebuilding it, replacing rusted quarter panels with original intact pieces, rebuilding the engine until no one could deny its 280 horses. 

Oh, no, not Paddy’s, she groaned when Dylan pulled the Charger to a stop. 

What’s wrong with Paddy’s? Dylan asked as he moved the Hurst shifter into neutral. 

Calling it a seedy dive would be an insult to seedy dives everywhere. It stinks.

Come on, it’s not so bad—

No, Dylan, it literally stinks, and not just of spilled beer.

He opened his door and came around the front of the car to open hers. Come, my lady, he said in the worst British accent Vanessa had ever heard. As she let him help her out of the car, she overheard one of the bouncers say to the other: Holy shit. It’s the Kahuna.

Paddy’s Bar literally was a hole in the wall—the doorway, three concrete steps below street level, had been sledgehammered out of the cinderblock wall of an abandoned warehouse near the waterfront. Above the door, an electric sign leaned at a steeper angle every time Vanessa saw it. The lights in two of the letters in the name were burned out. It looks like it says ‘P. Diddy’s Bar.’

"They’ll fix it bumbye, Dylan said, using the pidgin for when they get around to it. He tossed the key to one of the bouncers. If you get a fucking bit of dust on this car, I’m comin’ for you, lolo," he said.

He’s a bouncer, not a car valet, Vanessa said. 

I don’t care if he’s the Queen of England, said the Kahuna, without taking his eyes off the bouncer. It’s a classic. Park it carefully.

Y—yessir, said the bouncer, and somehow slid his jacked body behind the wheel of the Charger. He lurched away from the curb.

Most people park their own cars, themselves, said the other bouncer.

I’m not most people. Like beef?

The bouncer held the door open for them.

The crowd inside parted for the Kahuna as he led Vanessa past the bar. At the back, three local guys were rapping, a DJ warping a record behind them. Vanessa couldn’t make out their words over the noise of the mosh pit in front of the stage.

Dylan stopped at a booth where two young men leaned across the table to confer over the noise. Shove over, Joey, Dylan ordered. 

Vanessa had first come to know Joey and Benny as the two dumbest boys in her high school. Now they were known across Hamika as the worst rappers in town. Upon meeting them, most people assumed they were brothers, Irish twins born in the same calendar year. Vanessa knew differently. They were about the same height, dressed in similar jeans and t-shirts, cut their dark brown hair the same way, close to the scalp, and shared almost identical mannerisms, trying to mimic African-American styles. But they were not related. Joey was nearly two years older than Benny, and therefore even dumber, as they were both in the same grade in high school. 

Joey slid over to make room for the Kahuna. Benny stood to let Vanessa slide in. We’re goin’ on stage second after these guys.

Ackshully, we prob’ly should go backstage now, said Joey. Skuze me, Kahuna.

Hey. Don’t call me that in here, Dylan said, not moving.

C’mon. No one can hear us. 

Dylan still didn’t move. A waitress showed up and put two bottles of Bud Light on the table for him and Vanessa, even though he hadn’t ordered yet. Dylan nodded at her and took a long, slow drink. 

On stage, the two rappers and their DJ acknowledged the cheers of the crowd, bowed and exited. Two girls, one white and one black, came on.

Okay, I’m sorry, Dylan, Joey whined. Now, lemme out. We’re on after these girls.

Dylan glared at Joey and drank more beer.

I said I wuz sorry, Dyl. I’ll be more careful.

Dylan glared for a beat longer, then smiled and punched Joey playfully on the shoulder. G’wan, Joe. He slid out of the booth, and Joey stumbled after him. Blow ’em out of the water, he said as he sat again.

Joey and Benny made their way backstage. 

You didn’t tell me this rap battle was going to feature the Blockhead Twins, Vanessa said.

Hey, they’re my homies. I gotta support them.

No, you gotta stop encouraging them. They’re just embarrassing.

Sometimes you gotta learn the hard way.

Vanessa shook her head and turned to the girls on the stage, who had whipped the mosh pit crowd into a hopping, fist-pumping mania. They gyrated, squatted and jumped, came to a screaming finish to the roar of the crowd. They bowed over and over, tried to walk off the stage, but the crowd called them back. They did a couple of improvised choruses, then obeyed the emcee’s instructions to make room for— 

Joey and Benny, the Midnight Gang! the emcee crowed.

Dylan clapped as loud as he could, and Vanessa joined him along with a few others in the bar. 

Benny went to the DJ booth, put down