Pacific Vortex, Page 3

  There was something strangely sinister about his discovery of the Starbuck’s final message, he idly reflected. There was a wary, retrospective thought that fought desperately to surface from the inner recesses of his brain. But it faded and fell back into the nothingness from which it came.

  Out of the corner of his eye Pitt caught a man further down the bar holding up a glass in his direction, gesturing the offer of a free drink. It was Captain Orl Cinana. Like Pitt, he was dressed casually in slacks and a flowered Hawaiian aloha shirt. Cinana came over and leaned on the bar beside him. He was still sweating and dabbed at his forehead and wiped his palms almost constantly with a handkerchief he carried.

  “May I do the honors?” Cinana said with a smile that smacked of insincerity.

  Pitt held up a full glass. “Thanks, but I haven’t made a dent in the one I’ve got.”

  Pitt had taken little notice of Cinana earlier at Pearl Harbor, but now he was mildly surprised to see something he’d missed. Except for the fact that Cinana outweighed Pitt by a paunchy fifteen pounds, they could have passed for cousins.

  Cinana swirled the ice around in his Rum Collins, nervously avoiding Pitt’s expressionless gaze.

  “I’d like to apologize again for that little misunderstanding this afternoon.”

  “Forget it, Captain. I wasn’t exactly a paragon of courtesy myself.”

  “A nasty business, the Starbuck’s loss.” Cinana took a swallow from his glass.

  “Most mysteries have a way of eventually getting solved. The Thresher, the Bluefin, the Scorpion-the Navy never gave up until everyone was found.”

  “We’re not repeating the act this time,” Cinana said grimly. “This is one we’ll never find.”

  “Never say never.”

  “The three tragedies you mentioned, Major occurred in the Atlantic. The Starbuck had the fatal misfortune of vanishing in the Pacific.” He paused to wipe his neck. “We have a saying in the Navy about ships lost out here. Those who lie deep in the Atlantic Sea Are recalled by shrines, wreaths, and poetry, But those who lie in the Pacific Sea Lie forgotten for all eternity.”

  “But you have the position from Dupree’s message,” Pitt said. “With luck, your sonar should detect her within a week’s sweep of the area.”

  “The sea doesn’t give up its secrets easily, Major.” Cinana set his empty glass on the bar. “Well, I must be going. I was supposed to meet someone, but apparently she stood me up.”

  Pitt shook Cinana’s outstretched hand and grinned. “I know the feeling.”

  “Good-bye, and good luck.”

  “Same to you, Captain.”

  Cinana turned and sidestepped through the crowd to the hotel lobby entrance and became lost in the mining sea of heads.

  Pitt still hadn’t touched his drink. After Cinana’s departure, he sensed a maddening loneliness, despite the surrounding din of voices in the crowded room. Pitt had the urge to get very drunk. He wanted to forget the name Starbuck and concentrate on more important matters, such as picking up a vacationing secretary who had left all her sexual inhibitions back in Omaha, Nebraska. He downed his drink and ordered another.

  He was just about ready to try out his soft-tongued affability when he became aware of the touch of two soft, feminine breasts pressing into his back, and a pair of slender white hands encircling his waist. He unhurriedly turned and found his eyes confronted by the impish face of Adrian Hunter.

  “Hello, Dirk,” she murmured in a husky voice. “Need a drinking partner?”

  “I might What’s in it for me?”

  She tightened her hands around his waist. “We could go to my place, tune in the late, late movie, and take notes.”

  “Can’t. Mother wants me home early.”

  “Oh come now, lover, you wouldn’t deny an old friend an evening of scandalous behavior, would you?”

  “That what old friends are for?” he said sarcastically. Her hands had moved downward and he pulled them away. “You should find yourself a new hobby. At the rate you indulge your fantasies, I’m surprised you haven’t been sold for scrap by now.”

  “That’s an interesting thought,” she smiled at him. “I could always use the money. I wonder what I’d bring.”

  “Probably the price of a well-used Edsel.”

  She thrust out her chest and faked a pout. “You only hurt the one you love, so I’m told.”

  Considering the exhaustive pace of her nightlife, Pitt thought she was still a damn good-looking woman. He remembered the soft feel of her body when he last made love to her. He also remembered that no matter how relentless his attack, nor how expert his technique he could never satisfy her.

  “Not to change the subject of our stimulating conversation,” he said, “but I met your father for the first time today.”

  He waited for a hint of surprise. There was none.

  She seemed quite unconcerned. “Really? What did old Lord Nelson have to talk about?”

  “For one thing, he didn’t care for the way I was dressed.”

  “Don’t feel badly. He doesn’t care for the way I dress either.”

  He took a sip from his Scotch and gazed at her over the top of the glass. “In your case, I can’t blame him. No man likes to see his daughter come off like a back alley hooker.”

  She ignored his last remark; that her father had come face-to-face with but one of her many lovers, didn’t interest her at all. She wiggled onto the next bar stool and gazed at him with a seductive look burning in her eyes, the effect heightened by the long black hair winding around one shoulder. Her skin glowed like polished bronze under the dim lights of the cocktail lounge.

  She whispered, “How about that drink?”

  Pitt nodded at the bartender. “A Brandy Alexander for the... ah, lady.”

  She scowled a little and then smiled. “Don’t you know that being referred to as a lady is very old-fashioned?”

  “An old carry-over. All men want a girl, just like the girl, that married dear old Dad.”

  “Mom was a drag,” she said, her voice elaborately casual.

  “How about Dad?”

  “Dad was a will-o’-the-wisp. He was never home, always chasing after some smelly old derelict barge or a forgotten shipwreck. He loved the ocean more than he loved his own family. The night I was born, he was rescuing the crew of a sinking oil tanker in the mid-Pacific. When I graduated from high school, he was at sea searching for a missing aircraft. And when Mother died, our dear admiral was charting icebergs off Greenland with some long-haired freaks from the Eaton School of Oceanography.” Her eyes shifted just enough to let Pitt know he was onto her sore spot. “So don’t bother shedding tears over this father-daughter relationship. The admiral and I tolerate each other purely out of social convenience.”

  Pitt stared down at her. “You’re all grown up now; why don’t you leave home?”

  The bartender brought her drink and she sipped it. “What better deal can a girl find? I’m continually surrounded by handsome males in uniform. Look at the odds; thousands of men and no competition. Why should I leave the old homestead and scrounge for leftovers? No, the admiral needs the image of a family man, and I need old Dad for the fringe benefits that come with being an admiral’s daughter.” Then she looked at him, faking a shy and bashful expression. “My apartment? Shall we?”

  “You’ll have to take a raincheck, Miss Hunter,” said a delicate voice behind them. “The captain is waiting for me.”

  Adrian and Pitt both turned in unison. There stood the most exotic-looking woman Pitt had ever seen. She possessed eyes so gray, they defied reality, and her hair fell in an enchanting cascade of red, presenting a vibrant contrast against the green, Oriental sheath dress that adhered to her curvaceous body.

  Pitt quickly searched his memory, but with no success. He was certain he had never laid eyes on this beauty before. When he rose off the bar stool, he was pleasingly surprised to feel his heart accelerate. She was the first woman to ignite his emotions on a firs
t meeting since a basset hound-eyed blond in the fifth grade who bit him on the arm during recess.

  Adrian was the first to break the silence. “I’m sorry, honey, but as they say in the old family mining claim, you’re trespassing.”

  Adrian seemed to enjoy the situation. To her, the intruder was no more than a nuisance. She turned, offering her back to the girl, and began sipping her drink again.

  The great gray eyes never strayed from Adrian. “Your rudeness, Miss Hunter, is only surpassed by your reputation as a tramp.”

  Adrian was too cool to give up an inch. She sat immobile, staring straight ahead at the girl’s reflection in the mirror behind the bar. “Fifty dollars?” she said loudly so all within thirty feet could hear. “Considering your amateur standing and less than mediocre talents, you’re vastly overpriced.”

  Several customers sitting in the immediate neighborhood of the bar were listening intently to the caustic exchange. The women were frowning, but the men were grinning, secretly envying the speechless male who was trapped in the no-man’s-land of the sex battle. Pitt was adequately awed. It was a new experience to have two lovely females trading barbs over his possession. His ego basked in the sheer exhilaration of the moment.

  “May I speak with you in private, Miss Hunter?” asked the mysterious girl in the green dress.

  Adrian nodded. “Why not?” She turned and slid smoothly off the bar stool, following the stranger through the open doors that led to the hotel’s private beach. Pitt stared in rapt fascination at both pairs of rounded hips as they rotated in a fluidlike motion that was, or so Pitt imagined, suggestive of two beachballs caught in the same swirling whirlpool.

  Pitt sighed and leaned limply against the bar, feeling like a spider eyeing two flies circling his net, and wishing they’d entangle somewhere else. Then he caught the open stares of his audience; he grinned and bowed, acknowledging their steadfast attention before he turned back to the bar.

  There’s been enough surprises for one day, he ruefully admitted to himself. Where will it all end? Heeding the call for more courage, he signaled the bartender and ordered another Cutty on the rocks- a double this time.

  Fifteen minutes later, Gray Eyes returned and stood silently behind him. Pitt was so deeply lost in thought that it took him several seconds before he sensed her presence and looked up to be met by her reflection in the mirror.

  Her lips moved in what could have been the beginning of a smile. “To the victor goes the spoils?” It was a question asked hesitantly.

  The bruise beneath her right eye had begun the transformation from red to purple, and a small cut on her lower lip unleashed a few drops of blood that trickled down her chin, failing with precise accuracy down the cleavage between her breasts. Pitt still thought she was the most desirable woman he’d ever seen.

  “And the loser?” he asked.

  “She’ll be in need of heavy makeup for a few days, but I think she’ll survive to fight another day.”

  He pulled his handkerchief from a pocket, wrapped it around an ice cube fished from his glass, and touched it lightly to her lip. “Here, keep this pressed against the cut. It’ll contain the swelling.”

  She forced a wan smile and nodded a thank you.

  His meddling audience was back, this time with a concerted leer that bordered on infamy. Quickly, he paid off the bartender, taking the girl by the arm and dragging her from the lounge to the beach outside. Pitt scanned the shoreline but there was no sign of Adrian.

  “Mind telling me what happened?”

  She had to remove the ice cube to speak. “Isn’t it obvious? Miss Hunter wouldn’t listen to reason.”

  Pitt looked at her, half uncertainly, half speculatively. Why elect me, he thought. Why fight over a man she’d never met? And the jackpot question- what was her game? Pitt didn’t kid himself; no movie studio would ever star him in a remake of Don Juan. He’d had his share of women, but never before the usual preliminaries, the artful little lies, the step-by-step manuevers. He decided not to delve into her reasons but to let the mystery heighten the intrigue.

  “Shall we walk along the beach?” he asked.

  “I was hoping you’d suggest that.” She smiled, and immediately had him in her power. And she knew it. She shrewdly watched his eyes wander to her breasts, then down her body to her legs.

  Her breasts were surprisingly small and taut in contrast with the accented curves that abounded the rest of her figure. In the moonlight and the flaming glow from the torches staked around the hotel terrace, he could see where the deeply tanned flesh, speckled by blood, plunged invitingly beneath the dress. Lower and beyond, her waist gently tapered to a firm, flat stomach which then exploded into a brace of pneumatic hips that fought to escape the tight seams of their green prison. She looked Indian, but the flaming red hair that fell to the small of her back did not attest to it.

  “If you keep staring at me, I’ll be forced to charge you admission.”

  Pitt made an effort to look shyly embarrassed but didn’t pull it off. “I thought art galleries were free.”

  She squeezed his arm. “Not if you wish to purchase something.”

  “I like to browse. I rarely buy.”

  “So you’re a man of principles.”

  “I have a few, but they don’t apply to women.” Her perfume was getting to him, a fragrance that somehow seemed familiar.

  She stopped, clinging to him for support, and removed her shoes, wriggling her toes in the cool sand of Waikiki Beach. They strolled on in silence for a few minutes, she tightened her grip on his arm and pulled herself close as they walked.

  Her eyes glinted in the dim light and she said in a low voice, “My name is Summer.”

  Pitt said nothing as he enclosed her in his arms and lightly kissed her on her swollen lips. And suddenly the warning bells were clanging in his mind, but the warning came too late; the pain burst on him first His mouth dropped open and a gasp that started deep down in his throat erupted into the quiet air as Summer thrust her knee into his groin.

  What caused the cells in his brain to order such a lightning reaction he would never know: through the haze of the shock he barely saw his fist lash out in a blurring reflex action and catch Summer solidly on the right side of her jaw. She swayed drunkenly for an instant and then crumpled silently onto the sand.

  The hidden, unsuspected resources, ready to be called upon in a moment of desperation, kept Pitt from sliding into an unconscious void. The agony in his lower body forced him to suck in air in great wheezing gasps. He slowly sunk to his knees beside the inert form of the girl, clutching his groin and swaying in pain.

  Pitt clenched his teeth together until his jaws ached, damming back any outcry from the agony. He dug his knees into the soft sand and swayed back and forth. Discovered hunched over an unconscious girl holding his hands tightly between his legs could result in embarrassing questions. Fortunately, except for a circle of beachboys and hotel guests who were seated around a small fire about two hundred feet away, the beach was vacant.

  Four minutes passed; four minutes during which the grinding torment finally faded to a dull, throbbing ache. It was then he noticed something gleaming in Summer’s hand, something glasslike reflected by the flames of the flickering tiki torches. He crawled over to the girl, crouched over her quiet form, and gently pulled a hypodermic syringe from between her loosely clasped fingers.

  Pitt was at a loss. In the faint light Summer looked no more than twenty-five, gentle and sweet. Holding the syringe, he wondered what it held as he dropped the liquid-filled glass tube carefully into his breast pocket

  He leaned over, awkwardly heaved the girl over his shoulder, and rose shakily to his feet. It had suddenly occurred to him that she probably had a couple of friends lurking about in the shadows; he wasn’t about to wait for the posse to block the pass. His hotel was a good three blocks away, so he balanced his load, steadied himself, and began limping stiffly across the sand.

  His one hope of getting pas
t the roving crowds of tourists who wandered the sidewalks at night was to skirt through the heavy foliage of the gardens. He certainly didn’t want to meet cruising policemen or a do-gooder vacationer who might conjure up the notion of playing Herbert Hero and rescuing little Eva from the villainous Simon LaPitt.

  Along the sidewalks it would have been an easy walk of five minutes, but it took Pitt twenty by way of the backyard jungle. He paused in the shadows, catching his breath and waited for a group of drunken party goers to stagger out of view. He savored the delicate fragrance that whispered about Summer’s body. This time he recognized it as plumeria, not an uncommon scent in the Hawaiian Islands, but it was the first time Pitt had sensed its presence on a woman.

  His hotel was just across the street now, the lights behind the lobby door beckoning with womblike safety. At the first lull in traffic, Pitt covered the distance on the run, his face strained from the ache in his groin and his lungs tortured from the physical effort of carrying a deadweight over a four-hundred-yard obstacle course in the dark. He threaded his way quickly around the parked cars at the curb, edged up to the doorway of the building, and cast a wary eye in the lobby.

  His luck deserted him momentarily. A cleaning woman was vacuuming the carpet outside the elevators, a huge dark-skinned behemoth of a Hawaiian woman with an I’ll-scream-for-a-cop-look. He moved around the corner and trotted down the ramp leading to the underground garage. Except for a sprinkling of cars stationed throughout the dim, concrete interior, the garage was empty. He found an open elevator, entered, and pushed the panel button and then leaned against the heavy teak railing that ran along the closet-like walls.

  Pitt was a damp mass of sweat now; the exertion and the humidity of the night had combined to push him within a hairline of total exhaustion. As he stood there, stooped under Summer’s weight, he managed to catch his breath. The elevator hummed monotonously and cooperated by not opening on any other floor than the one Pitt had selected.

  The panel light blinked 10. Pitt’s luck stuck by him -the hall was clear in both directions. Groping clumsily in his pants pocket for several frustrating seconds, he finally managed to extract a key and shove it into the lock of a carved rosewood door marked 1010.