Primitive Secrets by Deborah Turrell Atkinson Page B

channel. She stretched forward.
    Under her arm, she could view the stealthy approach of a tall, dark-skinned man in khaki pants and boots. Her heart thumped throughout her whole contorted body. For a split second, Storm considered diving into the cramped back seat for protection. But then she’d be bottoms-up and ass-backward. An octogenarian could mug her.
    The man walked to a pickup truck in the next aisle. Storm let go of breath like a leaky balloon. She was dizzy with relief. Or hypoxia, she wasn’t sure. A rivulet of sweat trickled down her temple. The last couple of days were getting to her. She needed to get her feet on the ground again. In more ways than one.
    She backed out of the car. If anyone really had been watching, she would have heard howls of laughter. Her derriere, the only visible body part, had been bouncing around during the entire struggle to dig the pen out. She had probably looked like a one-woman volleyball game in a bushel basket.
    Storm heaved a sigh and steadied her weak knees. Okay, all she had to do was get on the plane. In the commotion, Lorraine’s list had fallen out of the purse and down beside Hamasaki’s leather case. Storm crammed it into one of the zipper pockets on the outside of her duffel because her handbag was filled so haphazardly that she couldn’t close it. Then she locked the car and bolted for the ticket counter with the duffel, the laptop, her purse, and Uncle Miles’s briefcase flapping on her thighs. She felt like a camel loaded for a Sahara crossing.
    Storm was the last one on the plane, but she made it. Like buses, the inter-island flights had open seating. The only remaining seat was in the last row by the window, next to a toddler. With a sigh of relief, she crunched her duffel into the overhead bin, clambered over the kid and woman in the outside seats, and since bending over in the tiny space was impossible, shoved her purse and laptop case under the seat with her feet. She buckled her seat belt and wiped her face with the back of her hand. It came away streaked with grit. She kept Uncle Miles’s briefcase clasped in her arms.
    The child next to her stared, then offered a gummy graham cracker without cracking a smile. The mother, who sat like a boulder on the aisle, faced stonily ahead. Her eyes darted, probably trying to catch the attention of the flight attendant in order to report a grimy, suspicious passenger.
    A flight attendant advanced, checking seat belts. She turned toward Storm and the frowning mother and tilted her head with a puzzled look. “Storm Kayama, right?”

Chapter 12
    â€œBecky?” Storm did a double take, then grinned. She and Becky Allegrino had shared the same homeroom throughout high school. They’d sat next to each other in chemistry and passed notes about the professor, who was also the football coach. They agreed that he’d probably banged his head against too many goal posts. Though they’d shared giggles then, Storm hadn’t seen Becky since graduation. “I’ve wondered what you’ve been up to.”
    â€œYeah, me too. How are you?” Becky’s smile faltered. “How’d you get those black eyes? And you’ve gotta stow that briefcase. I’ll do it for you, if you want.”
    Storm held onto the case. “Can I put it under the seat?”
    â€œSure, if it fits.” Becky looked around, then lowered her voice. “Have you got time when we land to go get dinner and catch up on things? I’m off duty until tomorrow.”
    The mother on the aisle glared at the two women. “Sure, that’d be great,” Storm said. People were less rushed on the rural neighbor islands than in Honolulu. Old friends and family were important there; it would be rude to refuse her old friend. Plus, this would be a good beginning to a relaxed weekend.
    â€œI’ll meet you at baggage claim, then.” Becky left to prepare her passengers for