The Presence

  “Do you know one?” Katharine asked.

  Howell thought for a moment. “No,” he said glumly. His gaze shifted to the window on the monitor that was displaying his own project, but nothing seemed to have changed, and he felt the gnawing pangs of hunger that reminded him he’d completely forgotten to eat today. “What do you say we break for something to eat? Then we’ll come back and try again.”

  Katharine’s first impulse was to object that there wasn’t time for food, but with a glance at the dark circles under Phil’s eyes and the tight lines of his face, she knew his endurance was almost gone. “Maybe we’d better,” she said, rubbing the back of her neck to ease the soreness of straining to watch the changing display on the computer screen. “I want to see what Michael’s up to,” she said aloud, turning to Rob. “Have you got your cell phone?”

  Rob fished the flip phone out of his pocket. “You want to go someplace in Makawao, and take Michael, too?”

  When the answering machine at home picked up on the first ring, signaling that there was a message waiting, Katharine assumed it would be Michael, telling her his own plans for the evening. But when she punched in the playback code and the impersonal electronic voice announced, “Seven … new … messages,” a current of panic surged through her.

  The phone at home rarely got even one message, let alone seven. She quickly punched in the code to play all the messages back. The moment she heard the tone of voice of the first caller, she knew it was about Michael.

  And it was bad.

  “Dr. Sundquist, this is Jack Peters, the track coach at Bailey High. I—I’m real sorry to have to tell you this way—I mean, I wish I could talk to you directly, but …” The voice trailed off, then started up again. “Michael collapsed on the track this afternoon. I don’t know exactly what the problem was, but we called the EMTs. The ambulance was just arriving when Dr. Jameson showed up in Takeo Yoshihara’s helicopter. I assume they took him to Maui Memorial. I just called there, but they haven’t admitted him yet. I’ll keep trying, though, and if you want to call me after you get this message, I’ll be at 555-3568. I just can’t figure what happened. I mean, he was running better than ever, and then …” For the second time, Jack Peters’s voice trailed off. “Anyway,” he continued, “I’ll keep trying the hospital, and if I find anything out, I’ll leave another message. I—well—God, I hate these things!”

  By the time the next message began playing, Katharine’s tiny cry of anguish when she’d heard Peters’s words had brought Rob to her side. She tipped the phone enough so he could listen, too. They heard the voice of a frightened-sounding boy.

  “Mrs. Sundquist? My name is Rick Pieper.” As the boy began to repeat what she’d just heard the track coach say, she pressed the code to advance to the next message.

  “This is Yolanda Umiki, Dr. Sundquist. From Mr. Yoshihara’s office? He asked me to call you and tell you that your son is ill, and that he would like to talk to you as soon as possible. If you could call me as soon as you get this message, I can put you directly through to Mr. Yoshihara.”

  The panic that had seized her when she was told that Michael was ill turned to terror when she heard that Takeo Yoshihara was somehow involved. And why had Dr. Jameson shown up in the helicopter?

  There were two more calls from Yolanda Umiki, and then another one from Rick Pieper:

  “It’s Rick Pieper again, Mrs. Sundquist, and I’m at Maui Memorial Hospital. I came to find out how Michael is, but he’s not here! I mean, they say he hasn’t even been here! But where else could they have taken him? Oh gosh, I’m sorry—I’m just—well, I guess I’m scared. I mean, I thought they’d bring him here, and—look, I’m really sorry, Mrs. Sundquist! But Michael said something just before he passed out, and I thought you should know! He said something about ammonia before he fainted. I don’t know what he meant, or anything, but that’s what it sounded like he said. Just ‘ammonia.’ ”

  The last message was from Jack Peters again, and it was almost a duplicate of Rick Pieper’s: “I don’t get it, Dr. Sundquist. If they didn’t take him to Maui Memorial, where—” He broke off abruptly. “Christ, I must be scaring you half to death! He probably woke up and it turned out it wasn’t anything serious and there wasn’t any point in taking him to the hospital at all. Anyway, if you can let me know what’s going on, I’d sure appreciate it.”

  The electronic voice came on once more:

  “End … of … final … message.”

  “He’s at the estate,” Katharine said. “They didn’t take him to the hospital! Oh, God, Rob, what if he’s—” Even if Rob hadn’t put his finger to her lips, she couldn’t have brought herself to finish the sentence. Michael couldn’t be dead! He just couldn’t be!

  “Call the woman in Yoshihara’s office,” Rob told her. When Katharine seemed unable to cut off the connection to the answering machine, Rob took the phone from her, punched in the number he’d memorized after Yolanda Umiki had left it the second time, and pressed the Send button. Then he handed the phone to Katharine.

  When the assistant answered on the second ring, Katharine identified herself, then: “Is my son there? Is he at the estate?”

  “Dr. Jameson thought he could treat him better here than—”

  “No!” Katharine snapped. “I want him taken to Maui Memorial immediately. Or flown to Honolulu. But I don’t want Dr. Jameson to—”

  “I’m afraid I don’t have the authority to do any of that, Dr. Sundquist,” Yolanda Umiki replied in a voice that made it clear that she took orders only from Takeo Yoshihara. “If you will come out to the estate, Mr. Yoshihara will explain the situation to you.”

  Katharine hesitated, not wanting to ask the next question, not knowing whether or not she would believe the answer she was given, but knowing she could not end the call without asking it. Finally she forced the words out. “Just tell me one thing. Is Michael still alive?”

  Takeo Yoshihara’s assistant hesitated, then said, “I’ve heard nothing to the contrary.”

  As Katharine terminated the connection, she tried to tell herself she’d heard a note of sympathy in Yolanda Umiki’s tone. But the woman’s words were so … peculiar.

  Was she trying to tell her that Michael was still alive without violating some edict Takeo Yoshihara had laid out against giving out any information? Or had she simply not wanted to be the one to tell her the bad news? Katharine’s eyes, glistening with tears, fixed on Phil Howell. “Please,” she whispered. “Keep trying. I don’t know what they’re doing, but if we can’t find out, I think my son is going to die.”

  Numb, Katharine allowed Rob to lead her out of the building. Less than a minute later, with Rob driving her car while she sat trembling in the passenger seat, they were speeding back across the island.

  Josh Malani leaned against the Plexiglas wall, glowering through the brownish haze that swirled around him at the empty room beyond the confines of the huge box in which he and Jeff Kina were imprisoned. He’d lost track of how long he’d been here, for the light in the room never changed.

  No clock hung on the wall.

  No window betrayed the changing light between night and day.

  The last thing he truly remembered was going to the beach at Spreckelsville, thinking that just being outside and maybe going for a swim might make him feel better.

  The memory was faint, but he thought he’d fallen, collapsing next to his truck. He’d felt terrible—worse than he’d ever felt in his life.

  He’d felt like he was dying.

  Then someone had been there, picking him up and putting him in the back of a car.

  The next thing he remembered was waking up, and feeling good.

  The tightness in his chest was gone, and his whole body had been tingling with energy. But when he’d opened his eyes, he knew instantly that something was wrong.

  First, there’d been the haze; and then he realized he was naked.

  And he wasn’t in a hospital room.

  He wasn’t
even in a bed.

  He was lying on a cot, and the brown haze had made it hard to see; except for that, he felt all right. He’d sat up, looked around, and realized he wasn’t alone.

  There was someone else, stretched out on another cot about six feet away. As the last foggy wisps of sleep lifted from his mind, he’d recognized Jeff Kina. Jeff, also naked, had been sound asleep, but when Josh touched him, he’d come awake, springing off the cot to crouch on the floor, his eyes fixing on Josh as if he were about to attack.

  “Jeez, Jeff, it’s me!” Josh said, instinctively pulling back from Jeff’s tense body. At first it seemed to him that Jeff didn’t recognize him at all, but then he’d slowly relaxed, dropping from the crouch into a sprawl on the concrete floor. For a long time he’d simply stared at Josh, and when he finally spoke, his voice had a rough, almost guttural note. Though Jeff no longer seemed on the verge of attacking, his unblinking eyes were fixed on Josh with the concentration of an omnivore targeting its prey.

  “They got you, too.”

  For a moment Josh had no idea what Jeff was talking about, but then it came to him—the cane field!

  The car parked at the mouth of the dirt road, which shot into the field as he’d come out.

  And the other car—the one with flashing blue lights that he’d been sure was a police car, but which hadn’t turned around to chase him as he’d sped down into the valley, ignoring the speed limit in his race to escape the fire in the cane field.

  The fire to which he’d abandoned Jeff Kina.

  “I—I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I shouldn’t have—” He hesitated, then: “I shouldn’t have left you there.”

  “You mean you shouldn’t have run away,” Jeff growled. Once again his body tensed, his thick muscles knotting under his skin, and Josh braced himself for the attack.

  Jeff Kina was at least six inches taller than he was, and nearly twice as heavy, but until now Josh had never felt even slightly threatened by Jeff.

  Now he could almost feel Jeff struggling to keep himself under control. “What did they do?” he whispered, making no effort to mask the terror he was feeling. “Where are we? What did they do to us?”

  For another terrible moment Josh watched the conflict that was raging inside Jeff. Finally, slowly, Jeff’s big body relaxed again.

  “We’re gonna die,” he said. “Just like Kioki, man. We’re just gonna die.”

  “Why?” Josh demanded. “What happened?”

  Jeff shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t know anything, and there’s no one to ask.”

  As Jeff watched, Josh began prowling along the sides of the Plexiglas enclosure, examining every inch of it, touching every surface he could reach, searching for a way out. Again and again. Around and around. Like a rat in a maze, Josh kept moving, circling the perimeter of their prison.

  For maybe an hour.

  Maybe two.

  Maybe more.

  For a long time Josh had felt Jeff’s eyes on him, watching his every move. At first he made sure he didn’t turn his back on the other boy. But as the minutes dragged by and Jeff remained motionless on the floor, Josh focused more of his attention on the Plexiglas prison and less on Jeff Kina.

  Finally, Jeff crept back onto his cot and fell asleep.

  Yet Josh could still feel eyes watching him, and he’d moved his focus from the confines of the enclosure to the room outside.

  He’d seen the cameras then.

  Four of them, all pointing toward the box, watching every move he made, from every angle.

  There was nowhere to hide, nowhere to escape from the all-seeing lenses.

  After a while Josh, too, had fallen asleep, but suddenly come wide-awake, coiling his body tight in an instant, then springing away from the cot and whirling around, crouched low to the ground.

  Jeff Kina was poised over his cot. “It’s all right,” he said. “I wasn’t gonna hurt you, man.”

  From then on they’d been like two caged animals, warily watching each other, sleeping only fitfully, slinking around the perimeter of their prison when they weren’t stretched on the floor or the cots, dozing.

  Twice, a man clad in white entered the room, put food in the air lock of the seamless Plexiglas box, and left, without uttering a word.

  Eventually, hunger overcame them, and they ate.

  Then, a while ago—Josh had no way of knowing exactly how long it had been—someone tried to turn the knob on the door to the room beyond their Plexiglas prison.

  This time, though, the door didn’t open and the white-clad man with food didn’t appear. Josh realized what the brief movement of the doorknob meant—someone who had no key was trying to get in.

  “Help!” he shouted. “Help us!” But even as he yelled the plea, he had the feeling that whoever was outside the room couldn’t hear him, that the Plexiglas and the walls of the room beyond composed a soundproof barrier. If they didn’t want them to see outside, or to know where they were, or even what time it was, surely they wouldn’t allow them to be heard, either.

  Still, he’d tried again.

  “Please!” he called out. “Please let us out!”

  The knob had wiggled one more time, but that had been it.

  Whoever was out there had gone away.

  Since then, Josh had been slumped on the floor, staring at the door, waiting.

  Something, he sensed, was about to happen, although nothing in the room had changed; the light was as glaring and shadowless as ever, the walls as featureless, the haze inside the box the grimy brown that he’d become so accustomed to that he barely noticed it anymore. He knew that Jeff Kina could sense the tension, too.

  Like him, Jeff was on the floor, his back against one of the walls, his legs drawn up so his knees were pressed against his chest.

  His eyes, like Josh’s, were watching the door.

  Time slowed; silence hung over the room.

  Josh’s eyes never wavered from the door.

  When the knob moved—barely a fraction of an inch at first—Josh noticed it immediately. Shifting into a crouch, he felt the muscles in his body tense and the heat of adrenaline stream through his body.

  The doorknob turned, the latch clicked, and the door swung open.

  Two men came in, neither of them the white-clad attendant who brought them their food.

  One of the men was a haole, the other Japanese—the same two men who had appeared outside the cage a few hours ago.

  Both were dressed in suits, and though Josh had never seen the Japanese before, there was an aura of power about him that told him who the man was, now that his mind was clear enough to think.

  Takeo Yoshihara.

  Josh’s eyes narrowed and his muscles tightened even more.

  “Are they dangerous, Dr. Jameson?” he heard Yoshihara say. Even through the heavy panel of Plexiglas, he could hear no nervousness in the man’s voice, only casual interest.

  “It doesn’t appear so,” Stephen Jameson replied. “They both seem nervous and wary, but except for this morning, neither of them has shown any true signs of aggression. It’s more as though some of their senses have been heightened.”

  “Interesting,” Takeo Yoshihara mused. He circled the box, and Josh’s eyes followed him, his body turning as he tracked the man’s path. “Very interesting,” Yoshihara remarked when he’d completed his circle. “I saw a tiger in a cage in India a year ago. He watched me with the same intensity.” He smiled, but there was no warmth in it. “I suspect he wished to eat me.” His eyes fixed on Josh. “I wish we had more time to do psychological studies,” he went on. “But perhaps the researchers will be able to learn as much from the dissection. Instruct them to pay particularly close attention to the brain structures.”

  As the words penetrated his mind, Josh felt a shiver jolt through him. His whole body began to shake.

  No! He must have heard wrong!

  But then he caught sight of Jeff Kina, and knew he’d heard perfectly. A look of fury contorted Jeff’s face,
and his muscles had corded into tight knots. A howl of rage erupted out of Jeff Kina’s throat, and he hurled himself at the Plexiglas with enough force to make the entire structure shake. Collapsing to the floor, his nose bleeding from the impact against the plastic wall, Jeff lay still for only a second before gathering himself and hurling himself again against the transparent barrier.

  “No!” Josh yelled as a gout of blood erupted from Jeff’s mouth. “Jeff, don’t!”

  Jeff, too caught up in his rage even to hear Josh, crashed to the floor once more, only to attack the wall a third time. His fingers, stiffening into claws, raked across the surface of the Plexiglas, but barely left a mark. An eerie screech of frustration bubbling from his throat, he kicked at the wall with his bare feet, his howl ascending to a shriek of pain as the agony of his smashed toes crashed through his rage.

  “Stop it!” Josh yelled, throwing himself on Jeff, trying to pin him to the floor.

  Jeff knocked him away as if he were no more than a yapping puppy, and returned to his attack on the Plexiglas wall.

  Outside the plastic cell, Takeo Yoshihara and Stephen Jameson watched Jeff Kina’s attack.

  Yoshihara spoke. “Flush the enclosure.”

  Josh, the wind knocked out of him by Jeff’s casual blow, lay on the floor, trying to catch his breath. And then, as Jeff kept smashing at the wall, leaving reddish brown smears everywhere his bleeding hands struck the greasy surface of the plastic, the atmosphere inside the chamber began to change.

  The brown haze cleared away.

  And Josh Malani felt his chest begin to hurt.

  He tried to struggle to his feet, but couldn’t. Scrabbling across the floor, he instinctively stretched a hand out toward the two men who stood safely beyond the confines of the Plexiglas. “Help us,” he pleaded. “Please? Just help us …”

  Jeff Kina, writhing on the floor now, was clutching at his chest as he struggled to breathe the oxygen-rich air that was quickly replacing the noxious fumes with which the box had been filled only a moment ago. Josh crawled toward him, his hands closing on Jeff’s wrists.