Dark Wave (A Troy Bodean Tropical Thriller Book 4) Page 4

  Ricky turned toward them. “Oh, that’s Jack. He’s been out here for twenty years looking for gold. Never found any that I know of. But he knows the country better that anyone.”

  Becky whistled through her teeth. “Lotta crazies out here, am I right?”

  Ricky shrugged but didn’t reply. Darryl picked up his snowboard and started walking. Becky followed.

  “Hey,” Ricky called. “I’m back in six hours, got it?”

  “We’ll be here,” Darryl called over his shoulder.

  Becky could not believe how beautiful the snow was around the lake. Glittering white, with prisms of rainbow flashing off the dew-covered leaves. The air was crisp and cold, but their gear was designed to trap body heat and she was soon sweating as they hiked.

  The hills surrounding the lake were soft and rolling at the bottom, but became steeper and more jagged as they climbed higher and higher. Trouble comes when the fresh snow that falls and packs together becomes dislodged from the land beneath it, and shears off in massive sheets or slides. They rush down the mountainside so fast that there is no chance to outrun it.

  Experts tell you that you can hear the slides start to happen… Becky knew that sound now. She would never forget that sound.

  They’d hiked up to the top of a beautiful hill with untouched fresh powder that was so clean it looked like whipped cream. Racing down this slope was going to be amazing. At the top, they had stopped to scan around for the most interesting slope to take down. Becky was staring out over the picture-postcard landscape that stretched out to the north. She had taken out her sketchbook and made a quick drawing of it. Her drawings were beautiful, but they couldn’t do justice to the real thing. She stood staring out at the vista when she realized Darryl wasn’t talking at all. She turned around to find him kneeling. He had his hands outstretched, and in them was a box, the kind of box that held rings, a purple velvety box with some gold inlaid writing on the top. He opened it to reveal a small and simple, single-stone engagement ring.

  “Rebecca Kimberly Patton,” he said with moist eyes, “will you be my wife?”

  As much as she wished now that she could take back what happened next, it was all in the past. What was done, was done.

  She laughed… loudly.

  “Are you freaking kidding me?” she blurted. “Who put you up to this? I’m not falling for that, dude.”

  She continued to chuckle until she realized Darryl was not laughing. He actually looked a little shocked.

  “I’m serious, Becky,” he said. “I want to marry you.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Darryl,” she sputtered through another laugh. “I’m only sixteen. My parents would kill me!”

  “I don’t care,” he said, now sounding more hurt than shocked. “I love you and you love me and…”

  “I absolutely do love you,” Becky interrupted, “but like a brother, Darryl.”

  She reached down and closed the velvet box.

  “But not like this,” she said, her hand still touching his.

  “But, Becky,” he stammered, “I thought that—”

  “Look,” she said, cutting him off, “let’s just forget all about this. You return the ring. I won’t say a word to anyone. It’ll be like it never happened.”

  “Like it never happened?” Darryl raised his voice as he stood. “Damn, Becky, I really got you wrong, didn’t I?”

  “Darryl,” she started, “It’s just not the right time. I mean… we’re so young, and we have so much ahead of us. People change and we’ll probably change and…”

  “Screw that!” he yelled. “I might change, but my love for you is something that will never change.

  Oh, brother, Becky thought, he’s got it bad.

  “I’m sorry, Darryl. I never meant you to feel that way or lead you on. But I’m not in love with you… like… ya know… in love with you.”

  Darryl said nothing. A tear slid down his cheek.

  “C’mon, man,” Becky said, slapping his back. “Don’t be like that. It’s an incredible day. Let’s get in some serious boarding while the snow is fresh.”

  Experienced climbers of snowy locations describe the sound as a whumph. It’s the sound of a million tons of snow breaking loose from the ground beneath. As soon as Becky had slapped Darryl’s back, they heard it. The whumph above them was loud, like a distant burst of thunder. That whumph was followed by the rumbling.

  Becky looked at Darryl. “Slide.”

  “Yup,” he said.

  They grabbed all the gear they could hold and began to run sideways.

  “Get out of the way,” Darryl yelled over the growing freight train of sound, “the middle moves the fastest. If you get caught in it, swim. Stay on top of it as long as you...”

  The snow hit them like a tsunami rushing down the mountainside. Becky thrashed her arms like a swimmer, straining to stay as close as she could to the top of the snowy maelstrom. She lost sight of Darryl, but hoped he was able to stay upright too. She couldn’t see anything in any direction but white. If she hit a tree at this speed, it was crush her. After what seemed like a lifetime, she came to a stop, buried beneath the snow. Feeling herself slowing down, she’d cupped her hands around her mouth, giving her a small open space to breathe in… likely about twenty minutes of air. Amazingly, she saw light, meaning she’d been able to stay near the surface.

  Digging slowly, she began to excavate the snow around her face and soon burst through what was only a foot or so of snow. She pulled herself free and looked around.

  Nothing. No sign of Darryl, his gear, or her gear. Unbelievably, her snowshoes were still strapped to her feet. She plodded around on top of the snow.

  “Darryl,” she screamed, “where are you?”

  Nothing. Darryl was gone… and he would never come back.

  They never found his body.

  Alaska was never the same without Darryl. Becky closed herself off from the outdoors, never again hiking or skiing after his death. She never told anyone that he had proposed… or that she had said no. It was ridiculous to think she had anything to do with his death, but she felt guilty that her last conversation with him had been to tell him she didn’t love him.

  When she did finally go out and about, she wandered around the Air Force base where her mom and dad both worked. She knew a lot of the people stationed there, and called many of them friends. Exactly a month after Darryl’s death, she bumped into his father – also an Air Force pilot. He didn’t say anything at first. He couldn’t. He just hugged her as they both began to cry.

  “Coffee?” he finally asked through a constricted throat.

  “Sure,” she’d answered.

  They walked in silence, their shoes clicking on the industrial tile floor. He ushered her into the break room and motioned toward an instant, single-cup coffee maker.

  “Choose your poison,” he said, smiling.

  “Hmmm, Vanilla cappuccino sounds good.”

  Darryl’s dad popped a pod into the machine, placed a coffee mug under the spout, and pushed the start button.

  “So,” he said, but didn’t turn around, “how’ve you been?”

  Becky paused for a second and then spouted the typical response.

  “I’m fine.”

  “Yeah,” he said knowingly. “Me too.”

  They talked for a few awkward minutes about Darryl and how much they missed him. The conversation never edged toward Darryl’s marriage proposal, but after his death the details of him buying the ring had emerged. Thankfully, no one asked her about it.

  “So, what’s next for you?” he asked out of the blue. “College? Work?”

  Becky was taken aback by how little she’d been thinking about that lately. She’d been so focused on how depressing losing Darryl was that she hadn’t thought about what was next at all.

  “I… I don’t know.”

  “You should think about an art college, or something like that,” he said, pointing at several of her sketches on the wall. “You’re really
good, you know?”

  She opened her mouth to answer, then closed it. It wasn’t a half bad idea.

  She raced home and began researching art schools, and soon found SCAD. Figuring that Savannah, Georgia was about as far away from Alaska as she could get, she applied. Her parents were fully supportive of her decision, aware how hard Darryl’s death had been on her and hoping this would be a new, positive direction for Becky, and shipped her off with little more than a suitcase… and her snowshoes. She’d said she wanted to hang them on the wall to remind her of Alaska… and Darryl.

  “I can’t believe that just happened,” Becky said, leaning back and taking a deep breath.”

  RayRay was grinning from ear to ear. “Congratulations, Becky-san,” he said, kind of looking in her direction. “You have defeated the shape-shifter troll and the townspeople are so grateful. You have earned one-thousand in gold and one-hundred experience points.”

  “Hot damn,” she exclaimed, “that’s awesome!”

  “Yeah,” Alain said, crumpling his character sheet, “soooo awesome that we all died but you.”

  “Not cool, RayRay.” Samantha was shaking her head. “I mean, how the hell were we supposed to know that Sir William was actually the shape-shifting troll?”

  “Did you not notice that they both only had one eye?” RayRay asked incredulously.

  “Are you freakin’ kidding me?” Alain stood up. “Dude, I’m outta here. I’ve got a painting to finish.”

  “Yeah, me too,” Samantha said, and stretched her arms high above her head and yawned.

  “I gotta hit the gym,” Becky said, jumping up and clapping her hands together. “See ya later, losers.”

  “The gym,” Alain asked. “What’s that all about?”

  “I didn’t tell you guys?” she asked, surprised. “It’s official. I’m going to be on the U.S.A. Ninja Challenge show!”

  “What the hell?” Samantha arched an eyebrow. “You ain’t no ninja.”

  Alain snorted.

  “That is fantastic, Becky-san,” RayRay said as he began putting away his campaign-master gear.

  “I’ve been training hard,” Becky retorted, and jutted her chin toward Alain and Samantha. “You watch, I’m gonna hit that buzzer.”

  “Uh huh,” Samantha said, “I’ll believe that when I see it.”

  “Hey, I’m pretty strong. I used to hike, climb, and ski the mountains up north of Anchorage all the time, and that takes a lot of strength.”

  “This is true, Becky-san.” RayRay stood up and found his cane. “You’ll be a good warrior.”

  “Thanks, RayRay,” she said. “You guys can all catch up to me when I’m on TV.”

  7

  Outta Sight

  RayRay Tishomura’s name was not actually RayRay. He went by an Americanized version of his real name, Leiko, which, with the unfortunate mispronunciation of the L sound, became Reiko, which was then made into the endearing RayRay. In what might’ve been the greatest example of irony ever known to humankind, RayRay was introduced to Play Doh at the age of five, which was coincidentally the same year his eyesight began to degrade.

  His parents didn’t notice any difference in his ability to see until he began school. The tell-tale signs of squinting at the blackboard at the front of the room, and the headaches he would come home with at the end of every day, led them to finally seek out an eye doctor.

  The optometrist immediately suggested RayRay wear glasses, and all was well for about a year. Then the strength of his prescription doubled. And the year after that, it doubled again. Soon it became clear RayRay was not only losing the ability to see details, he was also losing the ability to pick out color and contrast. Everything was going gray.

  As the world in front of him began to fade away, he found he enjoyed working with the Play Doh, as well as modeling clay, and also enjoyed ceramic pottery making. His hands became the source of his primary sensory input.

  When he turned ten, his folks began to provide more and more tools for RayRay to develop his skill at sculpture. His creations became increasingly more detailed and expressive. By the time he was thirteen, his work was being commissioned through an agent who falsely reported his client’s age as fifteen. He made thousands and thousands of dollars on statues, sculptures, and various other works… until the I.R.S. figured out what was happening. They agreed not to send RayRay to jail as long as the funds were turned over to them. Unfortunately, his parents had already spent over ninety percent of what he had made.

  RayRay’s parents and his agent went to jail, and RayRay’s only living relative, his Uncle Michael (also not his real name), lived in Japan. He would either have to become a ward of the state, and be sent to an orphanage or a foster home, or be shipped to Japan.

  His uncle basically disavowed him as a damaged human being, and left RayRay bouncing around from foster home to foster home. Dealing with a blind kid was more work than some were able to handle.

  During this time, RayRay was completely cut off from his art. Not one home offered to provide the clay or sculpting materials… in fact, no one even asked RayRay if he wanted anything of the sort. His skill began to fade as quickly as his sight had. His social skills faded too, as he was relegated to home-schooling and had little or no contact with other kids. And finally, he discovered role-playing games.

  The fateful day that his Medieval Studies teacher had mentioned he would be late for his Thursday night campaign, RayRay had asked what he meant.

  “I run a Dragon Reign game for myself and three other professors,” he’d said. “We all played when we were younger and found a common interest. So, we collected all of our old gaming dice and manuals and started a new campaign.”

  “Is any of this available for,” – RayRay hesitated – “for the blind?”

  “Hmmm…” His professor scratched his chin, which RayRay couldn’t see at all, but could hear the sound of his stubble. “I’ll check into it and let you know.”

  Three weeks later, his professor had come to their lesson with some gifts for RayRay; a braille edition of the Dragon Reign campaign module, a portable braille typewriter, a cup full of gaming dice with braille numerals, and a twelve-inch-tall figure of a dragon.

  “I’m guessing you’ve got about four hours,” his professor had said.

  “Four hours?” RayRay asked. “For what?”

  “To get your character sheet prepared for later.” The professor was clearly smiling.

  “Excuse me, sir,” RayRay said, “but my foster parents surely won’t—”

  “I’ve already checked it out with them,” his professor said. “I’ll be by at six-thirty to pick you up. Oh, and I’d suggest you start with a thief. Nobody wants to be one, but we always end up needing one.”

  RayRay was stunned. He spent an hour going over the dragon figurine, tracing every carved scale and every embedded jewel with his fingertips. The artistry was divine, clearly handmade. He kept it nearby and began to study the manuals. Making a thief character was pretty simple. They didn’t start with much, but by their nature, they would acquire the things they needed quickly.

  RayRay spent the next couple of years attending the Thursday night gaming sessions, even when he had moved on from that professor’s class. He bought new manuals, upgraded his characters, and began to map out campaigns of his own.

  For his sixteenth birthday, his foster parents had purchased the one and only thing he had asked for: a sculpture kit. It came with two pounds of professional grade clay that could be used over and over, two acid brushes, a wide fine brush, a small fine brush, two gauges of armature wire, four cuticle pushers, one double ended wire-wrapped rake, one double ended saw tooth rake, one kemper W21 combo wire and wood tool, black beads (for eyeballs), reticulating foam, and a couple of pre-drilled six-by-six MDF sculpting boards. In short, everything he needed to get going on his sculpture again.

  His first sculpture had been a model of what his thief character would look like, a short, wiry little fellow with anim
e styled hair and – naturally – narrowish, Japanese shaped eyes. He had thought it was good, but the people in his campaign group were stunned. They said that the level of detail was unbelievable and that they had never seen anything so good. His professor mentioned that he should check out an art college since he was nearing graduation. Another said he’d heard about a college in Savannah, Georgia that was top notch.

  RayRay wrote to them and found they were ridiculously expensive. Disheartened, he returned the next Thursday night somewhat down in the dumps.

  “I cannot go,” he had told them, “as it’s too expensive. My fosters would love to send me, but they can’t afford it.”

  “But RayRay,” one of them had asked, “have you checked into any scholarships? I gotta believe there’s something out there for bli— er, for sight impaired students.”

  “That absolutely has to be true,” his former professor said. “I’ll send some emails, see what I can find out. Meantime, let’s get some pics of your sculpture up on the Dragonshoppe website. Lots of gamers will spend big money on commissioned statues of their characters.”

  “Really?” RayRay asked. “How much money?”

  “I paid two-fifty for mine,” one of the other players said.

  “Wow!” RayRay exclaimed. “That is a lot.”

  Later that night he did some math based on the money he thought he could earn on sculptures, and found that he would need to complete four-thousand, two-hundred and forty-seven of them… per year… to be able to afford the school in Savannah.

  He immediately fell back into despair. His dreams were being crushed again. And that’s when his professor called.

  “RayRay,” he said, “good news. I just got an email from SCAD. I’m sending you some paperwork to fill out. You’re gonna shit a brick when you read it.”

  The email dinged into his inbox and he printed it on his braille printer. Running his fingers across it, he did indeed nearly shit a brick. The offer from SCAD was for a fellowship grant that would pay his entire tuition for at least the first year. The only thing RayRay would be responsible for would be room and board, books, and incidental supplies. With a few more calculations, he figured he’d need approximately just two-hundred commissions to pay for those things.