Silversword

by Charles Knief

  “Police,” said Kimo.

  “You have to have a warrant. Unless you have a warrant, you’ll have to leave.”

  “I have reason to believe that a felony is being committed on the premises. The law gives me the right to search the place.”

  “Not our law, Lieutenant,” said Bumpy Kealoha, coming around the corner of the building. “You two are trespassing. Get out.” I noticed that Bumpy carried a .45 in a holster on his belt.

  “Can’t do that, Bumpy,” said Kimo.

  “Why are you here?”

  “I want the girl back,” said Kimo. “Give me the girl and we’ll go without causing you any trouble.”

  “What girl?”

  “Donna Wong.”

  Bumpy shrugged. “Ain’t got no Pake here, Lieutenant. Aside from your haole sidekick, we’re all pure Hawaiians here. This is our land. Here we’re sovereign.”

  “If we leave without her, the FBI will come in and burn this place to the ground.”

  Bumpy smiled. “Turn this into another Waco? I don’t think so. I think those guys have been tamed a little bit, you know what I mean?”

  “Don’t count on it, Bumpy. They’ll come in here and level this place. The only thing that’ll be left standing is your headstone.”

  “I’m through talking to you, Lieutenant. Leave now or my boys will have to make you go.”

  Kimo turned and looked at the men behind us. “You up to shooting a Honolulu police officer in the line of duty?” he asked. “They’ll hang you out to dry in one of the mainland prisons for the rest of your lives. You’ll never see this island again. You up for that?”

  I kept my eyes on the riflemen. They started to show disinterest in the game after Kimo’s speech. All the same, I was happy to have Kimo’s little pistol in my pocket.

  “Why don’t you just send her out,” said Kimo. “Whatever happened can’t be changed now. But we can make things go easier for you, Bumpy. All we’re looking for right now is the two lolos who took Donna. And we want her back safe and sound. You turn them over to us you’ll probably skip any charges. You can say you didn’t know she had been kidnapped. Whatever, you’ll probably be all right.

  “But if you don’t, then this whole place, every man, woman and child, will be targets. The feebees don’t care who they kill, you know what I mean? This is a nice place. It’s peaceful. You want them to burn it to the ground?”

  Bumpy looked at the ground. Kimo had given him few options. Fight us, fight the State of Hawaii. Kick us out and the FBI comes in. Kimo had caged his argument exactly right, feeding the fears of a separatist like Bumpy. If he feared anything, he feared those who had participated in the Waco disaster. And Ruby Ridge. In both places, children had been killed.

  Bumpy looked up. We were still there, on his property, in his face. We would not go away. I saw his face when he reached the decision. All the iron drained out of him.

  “I’ll take you,” he said softly, “but you’ve got to promise me no bloodshed.”

  Kimo said, “That’s why we’re here. Caine and I don’t want bloodshed. We just want Donna.”

  Bumpy sighed. “Follow me. And remember your promise.”

  “I’d feel better if you hung up your pistol and sent your boys with the deer rifles back to wherever they came from,” said Kimo.

  Bumpy took off his gunbelt and handed it to one of the riflemen. “I’ll be back,” he said. He turned and walked toward a small house on the far edge of the clearing. Kimo followed. I took one look back toward the riflemen and went after them.

  Taro patches surrounded the little frame house. Two women worked the muddy patches, wading up to their knees in black water. Bumpy ordered them back to the main house. They left without a word.

  It bothered me that no one questioned his authority.

  “You there on the porch,” said Kimo. “Come down here.”

  A man moved in shadows. As he passed the window, sunlight glinted off of the barrel of a long gun.

  “Put the gun down,” said Bumpy. “Things are under control.”

  The man on the porch stood in shadow watching us. He didn’t threaten us with his weapon, but he didn’t move either.

  “Put the gun down,” said Kimo, his voice carrying the weight of authority. It also carried something else, something I did not recognize until the man stepped forward into the sunlight and I recognized the face of his son.

  James came off the porch and leaned the shotgun against the wall. “It’s okay,” he said. “I cannot shoot my father.”

  “You are coming with me,” said Kimo.

  “Yes sir.”

  “Stand over there until this is done.”

  “Yes sir.” James walked slowly to where his father had pointed and waited. I was surprised at his docile attitude.

  “Who’s in there?”

  “Ricky and Donna. Fred and Barney, too.”

  “Who?”

  “Fred and Barney. That’s their real names, and they look like the Flintstones. One’s big, the other short. They’re brothers.”

  “They dangerous?”

  James shrugged. He knew his father. Dangerous was a relative thing.

  “You there when they took her?”

  “Yes sir.”

  Kimo nodded. “You’re in big trouble. You know that?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “You’re going to be all right, son. We’ll take care of you.”

  “I know.”

  “Ricky’s armed?”

  “Might have a pistol. I doubt it, though. He doesn’t like firearms. He says he’s better without them.”

  “What about the Flintstones?”

  “Shotguns,” said James. “They also have a M-16 and a lot of ammo.”

  Kimo glanced at me. The little pistol hadn’t seemed very effective in the first place. If they wanted to make it into an OK Corral I’d be heavily outgunned. “I’ll take the shotgun,” I said.

  “Okay, James. Where in that house is Donna? Exactly?”

  “He locked her in the bathroom. It’s in the back of the house. Near the back door.”

  “Which window?”

  “That one.” James pointed to a small window that a mouse might have trouble getting through.

  “Caine, you want to take the back door?”

  “Sure.”

  “James, you and Bumpy go back with the children and stay with them.”

  “Dad? What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to talk to Ricky. If he talks nice and hands Donna over to us, he’ll be okay. Now go where I told you, and Bumpy, call the police station and tell them we’ve got three felony suspects in here and we’re getting them to surrender right now.”

  Bumpy blinked.

  “Go,” said Kimo.

  They went. He watched them for a moment, then turned to me. “You feel okay?”

  “Never better.”

  Kimo trudged to the front door and pounded on it while I slipped around to the back and waited for the door to open.

  “Open up, Ricky Lee!” shouted Kimo on the other end of the small structure. “I know you’re in there. Open up!”

  The lock snapped with an audible click and the knob twisted. I backed away from the hinge side, waiting, the shotgun held low, pointed toward the grass.

  The door opened a crack.

  A young Polynesian man put his head out.

  I held the shotgun like they taught me, one hand on the foregrip, one hand near the trigger. I could use it for shooting or for clobbering, either way would work. It made no difference to me now, as long as we got Donna safely out of here.

  The door opened wider.

  “Hey!” I whispered.

  I kicked the door with all of my strength, catching the kid as he turned to look in my direction. The door bounced off his skull and rebounded back at me. I dodged the door, reached around, and pulled him by the hair out into the sunshine.

  He lay silent, his hands at his sides. I rolled him over and checked him f
or weapons. He was clean.

  “Hey you!”

  A huge man charged from the back door. “You killed my brother!” It was like facing the charge of an Indian elephant.

  I stepped aside and butt stroked him in the kidney. He roared and turned on me, swinging one huge fist as he turned. Fred Flintstone was light on his feet for a big man.

  I ducked the swing and hit him again with the butt of the shotgun, striking him behind the ear.

  He went down.

  I reversed the shotgun again and put the barrel in his face, pressing the cold steel against the bridge of his nose.

  “Don’t. Move.”

  He rolled his eyes, bright with pain, but he didn’t move.

  “I’m going to back away,” I said. “You stay like that you’ll live. Hear me?”

  Fred Flintstone said nothing, but his eyes communicated his acceptance. He had no wish to die here on this beautiful day.

  Ricky Lee flew out of the back door just as Kimo broke down the front.

  “Stay,” I said.

  Ricky ran around me and headed toward the trees, running like O. J. Simpson on one of his good days.

  Kimo came lumbering over.

  “Cuff these two!” I shouted, handed him the shotgun, and took off after Ricky Lee.

  He had the advantage of youth, conditioning, and a head start. And he had not been banged around as often lately. But he was a city boy, not used to the ways of the jungle, and he tripped over a root about twenty yards in and sprawled into a muddy pit along a stream beneath an ohia tree.

  “Easy, Ricky,” I said. “I want to see your hands.” I pointed the little revolver at him.

  “You gonna shoot me? I’m unarmed.”

  “You’re an asshole, Ricky. It would be easy to shoot you.”

  He sighed. And raised his hands.

  “Get up,” I said, backing away. “Carefully.”

  He did as he was told, keeping his hands away from his body. I had him walk ahead of me until we reached the clearing and I could turn him over.

  Kimo put handcuffs on Ricky Lee and left him facedown on the lawn, next to the Flintstones. I stood over him while he went in and brought Donna from the bathroom. She seemed dazed but unhurt. She smiled when she saw me.

  “I knew it would be you two. Thank you. How’s David?” she asked.

  “Fine,” said Kimo. “We’ll take you to him. We’re going to have you checked at the hospital anyway. You two can share a room overnight.”

  “This creep locked me in the bathroom because I kept asking to go. I do that when I’m scared.”

  “You’re okay now.”

  She looked around. “Where are we?”

  “North shore.”

  Sirens wailed in the distance. Kimo turned and listened to them getting louder. “That would be the cavalry,” he said.

  “You have another set of handcuffs?”

  Kimo looked stricken. “James.”

  “No, me. I’ll bet you that Detective Henderson will be here, along with the troops. Kind of embarrassing if you’ve got an armed prisoner, and without cuffs.” I handed over the little revolver.

  “Consider yourself under arrest, Caine. And thank you. Thank you very much.”

  “Glad I could help.”

  “The main thing,” he said, “is that nobody got hurt.”

  “Except for Ricky Lee.”

  “He don’t count,” said Kimo. “And he’s oh for three with us.”

  “So far,” I said, remembering the little man’s temper.

  Shirley Henderson did ride along with the troops. So did a couple of FBI agents who looked disappointed when we handed over four prisoners. All four were charged with a variety of crimes. The US Attorney would add still more when their cases were reviewed.

  Henderson saw me standing apart from the group, walked right up to me, spun me around and threw the cuffs on my wrists.

  “You are under arrest,” she said, her voice angry. “I am adding the charges of flight to avoid arrest, resisting arrest, and evidence tampering to go on top of the murder charge.”

  I didn’t expect to be treated like a hero, but I didn’t expect the wrath with which she greeted me. I stood among the FBI field guys, with their dark blue jackets and baseball caps and their stubby little submachine guns, my hands cuffed behind me, and hoped they wouldn’t think I was any kind of threat.

  “And you,” she said to Kimo. “I am lodging an official protest about the way you treat felony suspects.”

  “He needs medical attention,” said Kimo.

  “He’ll be checked out before we go and afterward. There’s just enough time so we won’t miss our flight tonight.”

  “He saved me,” said Donna Wong.

  “I’m sure he’s charming, but he’s going back with me. Can we have a ride to the hospital here? I’ve seen Oahu and I can go home now. As soon as possible.

  “Come on, Mr. Caine,” she went on, tugging on my handcuffs. “They’ve got to out-process you and I don’t know how long that’ll take.” She stared at Kimo, who remained silent, but she spoke to me. “Maybe you should take a good look around. I think it’s going to be a long time before you get back to Honolulu.”

  42

  I didn’t think about other people’s worries over the course of the next three weeks. I forgot about Kimo’s problems. I forgot about Donna Wong. I damn near forgot about my wounds. I didn’t think about my boat. I didn’t think of Hawaiian history, nor did I concern myself with the fallout resulting from angry young men filled with enthusiastic venom and the vigor of youth. Even though I spent the majority of my time lounging in a holding cell with three other once-and-future felons, and even though I seemed to have a lot of time on my hands, my mind didn’t roam. I focused on the issues. I knew that my future lay in the tasks set before me. What happened now determined the rest of my life. I could only concentrate on what they’d laid out for me. Whoever “they” were. Whatever “it” was.

  And besides, thinking of home was too painful. I didn’t think I was tough enough to go there. I didn’t need to be that tough. Not just yet.

  Even though Chawlie provided an excellent attorney in California, I wished that Tala was at my side. I trusted her, and I knew how she approached the trial. But Tala was busy defending James Kahanamoku in Honolulu. I didn’t know anything about Clifford Smith or his partner Andrew White, except that they were white-bread, white-shirt and Gucci-tie attorneys, who seemed to have been stamped from a mold at some Ivy League law school. They appeared competent. And smart. And very organized. I wondered how they would stand up in front of a local jury whose majority would most likely be from the same minority as the woman whose death I stood accused of causing.

  I should have known better. Smith and White were the front men, the fine-edged lawyers who talked to judges, who filed motions, who papered the case with endless pleas and prayers. In military terms they were the artillery. Their job was to soften up the opposition to make certain that the other side kept its head down before we engaged them in battle.

  It wasn’t until I’d been a guest of the City and County of San Francisco for more than a week that I met the litigator.

  He was a small, wizened man of no particular age. He wore a bright red tartan tie and a threadbare suit in gray glen plaid. His shoes were old, but polished to a high sheen, and they did not have lifts. He stood flat-footed, and walked with certain steps. His eyes were small and dark and he wore thick, gold-rimmed glasses that shone like his shoes so that he sparkled top and bottom. His hair was thin and plastered against his freckled skull almost as an afterthought.

  “How do you do, Mr. Caine?” he asked, extending his hand over the interview table. We were in one of the tiny rooms set aside for counsel and client. Everything was gray. The floor was gray painted concrete. The walls were cast concrete, finished and unpainted. The door and frame were painted gray. In this world the color of fog his bright red tie stood out like a rose in an ash heap.

  “I am Al
bert Chen.”

  “Mr. Chen,” I said, standing to shake his hand.

  “Please sit, Mr. Caine.” When I sat he adjusted his glasses and opened his notebook and read a paragraph of notes. He nodded to himself, closed the notebook, and looked up at me, his eyes made enormous by the correction of his lenses.

  “It says here that you wish us to file a motion for a speedy trial. Would you please explain?”

  “I’m tired of sitting around here.”

  He nodded. “Yes. So you would like to travel up the Sacramento River to a place where they will keep you for the rest of your life. Where will you go if you then tire of the state prison?”

  He didn’t expect an answer. He merely smiled. “You are not a criminal, Mr. Caine, despite what the prosecution says. You saved two people’s lives that day at considerable risk to your own. They do not have much of a case, and I have spent a great deal of time trying to convince the District Attorney that this will not be one of those cases that he will point to with pride when he next comes up for reelection.”

  He smiled to himself, as if relishing the thought. “The district attorney is an old friend and adversary. We view a lot of things the same way. I am pleased to inform you that he has familiarized himself with your case and he made me an offer that I am obligated to put in front of you.”

  I nodded.

  “The prosecution has agreed that they will not press first-degree murder charges if you plead to a lesser offense. They stipulated that you must agree to serve six months in the San Francisco County jail in return for a guilty plea to the lesser offense. You will be given credit for time served, both here and in Honolulu, and you will most likely be granted an early release. All considered, you would only serve three months, and you will have paid your debt to society. It will, however, still be a felony, with all that implies. I told them that I would report their most generous offer to you and ask for your opinion in the matter.”

  “They want to drop the murder charge?”

  “Yes. In return for a guilty plea of involuntary manslaughter.”

  “That’s a felony.”

  “That is correct, Mr. Caine. You would be a convicted felon. You would lose your private investigator’s license. You would lose your firearms and your license to carry them. Your retirement status as a United States naval officer would be jeopardized. You would not be allowed to enjoy many of the freedoms you previously enjoyed with equanimity.”