Sun-bleached trunks and limbs lay scattered among the black boulders; above them the land rose steeply. Exposed roots protruded from the slope, and beyond was a tangle of fallen trees. Second-growth plants sent tentative branches toward the sky, but they were dwarfed and choked by the heavy mass. I thought of Jillian’s drunken ravings about Hurricane Iniki. How apt were the words “the forest turned to Pick-up Sticks.”
I climbed the slope, clutching at roots and pausing at the top to take out the small flashlight I’d stuck in my back pocket. I shone it around through the deepening shadow. Nothing but the helter-skelter pattern created by the downed trees. There was no movement, no sound, yet it was not a place of peace. My emotional sensors were registering strangeness, unpleasantness. I stood still for a moment, trying and failing to analyze the feelings. Then I climbed over one of the smaller trunks and made my way on a haphazard course toward the distant road.
A cracking and rustling in the brush behind me. I turned, saw no one. “Who’s there?” I called.
The sounds stopped.
Not one of the dogs. It would have bounded over to me.
“Jillian? Is that you?”
Silence.
“It’s Sharon. Everybody’s looking for you. Everybody’s worried.”
A slight noise.
I held a branch aside and began inching in the direction the sound had come from.
Another rustle, and something thumped painfully into my right shoulder. I yelled, threw my hand up, and cradled the spot. Something else caromed off a nearby tree trunk, fell at my feet. A rock the size of a golf ball. I dropped down behind the trunk, and just as I did, I heard another rock whiz over my head.
Jesus! If that last one had hit me on the temple, it might’ve killed me. Given me a concussion at the very least.
I crouched behind the trunk, breathing raggedly. No more rocks flew; the forest was quiet once more. I waited a good ten minutes before I made a slow and steady retreat to the beach. It was deserted, but I ran for the house anyway.
The rock thrower hadn’t been Jillian; of that I was reasonably certain. Who, then? And why? I wasn’t about to wander around in the dark trying to find out.
9:41 P.M.
I found Russ Tanner in his usual place—third stool from the end of the Shack’s outdoor bar. He sat alone, hunched over a beer, a dejected set to his shoulders. When I touched his arm he turned, brightening. “Hey, pretty lady, buy you a drink?”
“Mahalo, I’d like that. White wine, please.”
He nodded and signaled the bartender.
I said, “You looked sad when I came in.”
“I am. You were right about the body: it was Tommy. Rob asked me to fly his dental records to Oahu. HPD made a positive I.D.”
“How’re Rob and Sunny and the others taking it?”
“Hard. Lots of guilt, where-did-we-fail-him. Hell, they can’t blame themselves because he wouldn’t stay off the drugs. Think I told you he’d been messin’ with them since he was eight.”
“Drugs? He didn’t drown?”
“Nope. Autopsy said he OD’d.”
“On what?”
“Heroin. He was a user. I didn’t ask Rob for any more details. He’s hurtin’ enough.”
I thought for a moment. “Russ, did you tell the police or Rob about what I saw at the cane lands?”
“Uh-uh. Just said I heard a rumor that the dead guy might be Tommy. Figured I’d go into it if the cops made an I.D., but then when Rob told me it was an overdose, well, what does it matter? Those kids didn’t kill him.”
Unless they deliberately gave him bad drugs or forced him to shoot up. But that wasn’t a suspicion I wanted to plant in Tanner’s mind. “Appreciate you taking care of this and keeping me out of it. I owe you.”
“No, you don’t. I’d walk—or fly—a lot of extra miles for you.”
We sat in silence for a few minutes, both leaning our forearms on the bar, not quite touching. If only we could stay this way, friends instead of lovers. But there was heat between us, and I was acutely aware of the contours of his body, knew he felt the same about me. He took a sip of beer, set the mug down, and rested his arm against mine. I didn’t move away.
Dangerous, but maybe I want to throw myself into a crisis, resolve this emotional push-pull one way or the other.
Finally he said, “The thing that bothers me, why did those kids toss Tommy in the sea? I can understand them not wantin’ to get caught with a dead body on their hands, but why make him shark food?”
“Maybe I didn’t describe what happened very well. I was uncomfortable telling you about it. They took his body to sacred ground, to a heiau. One man, Buzzy Malakaua, chanted in Hawaiian. Then Amy Laurentz said something, too.” I paused, trying to recall her exact phrasing. “Three words in Hawaiian, and then something about being suspended between fire love and fire terror.”
“Ahi wela maka’u. It’s kind of where you and I are at. Fire can mean either danger or the life force. You’re attracted to it, you fear it. You run toward it, you run away from it.”
The comparison made me uneasy, mainly because it was so accurate. I said, “I think they were holding a funeral service for Tommy.”
Russ nodded. “According to your description, they threw him off at a spot where the spirits typically leave the island for the underworld.”
Again he was speaking as if myth were fact. It served to remind me of our fundamental differences.
“Russ, Peter told me something disturbing the other day. He said that after the shot was fired at the dry cave, he thought he saw his father standing under the ironwoods across the road, smoking a cigarette. There’s no possibility Elson Wellbright could be on the island, is there?”
“God, no. Somebody would’ve recognized him. Don’t tell me old Pete’s crackin’ up?”
“No, he saw someone, but… Does Eli Hathaway really look that much like Elson?”
“Made up, he’s a dead ringer.” Tanner grinned, seeing where this was going. “And he also smokes.”
I nodded. “After the take of his scene, he came out of the cave lighting a cigarette. Then he walked off toward the road. I should’ve put it together as soon as Peter told me what he thought he’d seen, but in the commotion after the sniping I forgot about Eli, only dredged up the mental image while I was driving here this evening.”
“Well, that’s one mystery solved.”
I bit my lip. “I think I may have solved another. After I left you this morning I went to Lihue, to the county clerk’s office and to the public library. I wanted to confirm some suspicions Elson’s journal had raised.”
“We’re back to that again, eh?”
“I want to run a probable series of events by you.”
“Sure, why not?” But his body was tense now. He sipped beer, created a little distance between us.
“In October of 1985, at a time when, as he put it, Elson craved warmth and brightness in his life, he met a woman. It wasn’t a suitable match. He was in his sixties and married. She was much younger, a college student. But the next spring she became pregnant. In order to provide for her and the child, Elson turned to the man who had introduced them. That man married her and, in exchange, Elson settled a substantial sum of money on him.”
Tanner sat very still, breathing shallowly and staring straight ahead. His hands gripped his glass.
“The marriage only lasted four years before the man divorced the woman and got custody of the child. In early 1990 the child’s mother died of a drug overdose, which made Elson realize he should make long-term provisions for the child’s future. He changed his will—”
“Why the hell’re you tiptoeing around this?” Tanner’s voice crackled with anger.
“I guess I want to hear you admit it.”
He swiveled toward me, face set, eyes hard. “You want to hear me admit it? Like it’s something I should be ashamed of? Well, I’m not. But, yes, Elson was Casey’s father. I married Liza Santos and accepted the money from
Elson and started my charter service. I also divorced her. And when she died and Elson got worried about the future, I encouraged him to make the new will, which he was glad to do because he trusted me and knew I’d use the inheritance to raise and educate Casey. So now I’ve broken a promise to the man who treated me better than anyone on earth. And I’d really like to know what business it is of yours to pry into the dead past!”
I moved back from the heat of his anger. “The past isn’t dead, Russ.”
He stared at me for a moment longer, but then his face and eyes softened. “Of course it isn’t. Especially when you know the whole story.” He pushed back from the bar and stood, holding out his hand. “Come on. I can’t do this here. We’ll go to my place where it’s private, and I’ll tell you all of it.”
When I preceded Russ into his house, I heard the mutter of voices on the scanner. Comforting sounds to any pilot, because they mean home or another destination, coffee or emergency help—all within talking distance. The interior of the house was hot and damp; Russ went to open some windows while I stood in the darkness listening to the nighttime air traffic. When he came back I misjudged the distance between us and bumped into him. He put his hands on my shoulders and pulled me close.
“Sorry about the way I reacted back there. I know you’re just doing your job.”
I looked up, saw the indicator light on the scanner reflected in his eyes. Moved on tiptoe and reached for him as he bent to kiss me.
This is insane, McCone! You’re throwing your life away.
I don’t care!
“Six-six-kilo, can you give me an exact location?”
“Looks like the Wellbright property. That deadfall west of the Mori house. Fires all over it.”
Tanner raised his head. “Christ!”
“Six-six-kilo, hold your position.”
“Six-six-kilo, wilco.”
Tanner and I simultaneously let go of each other, and I rocked back on my heels. An odd mixture of relief and confusion washed over me—anger, too—at being interrupted. I shook my head. “Fire?”
“That deadfall’s a disaster waiting to happen!” Already he was pulling me toward the door.
We ran down the steps from the lanai, and he headed for the chopper. “Russ,” I called, “you’re not legal!”
“That was my first beer today, and I didn’t finish half of it. Besides, what we were doing in there kinda burned off the alcohol. Give me a hand, will you, while I do a quick preflight.”
The scattered lights along the crescent-shaped shoreline were faint, but to the west orange flames danced and leaped in the blackness.
Tanner said, “It’s the deadfall, all right.”
I leaned forward, counted at least eight separate blazes. “This must’ve been deliberately set. Sparks from an unattended campfire wouldn’t jump in relatively even spacing like that. Those fires’re intended to burn the whole tract.”
He nodded, his face grim. “Arson.”
Now flashing red lights sped along the road. A fire truck, coming from Hanalei. I pointed the lights out to Russ, and he said, “Hang on, I’m gonna take it down for a closer look.”
The chopper swept to the side and descended off shore by the deadfall. The fires were burning briskly, showers of sparks swirling in the wind. I could smell smoke: acrid, with a faint chemical tinge.
Tanner began an ascent. “If this wind kicks up any more, Stephanie and Ben’s place could catch. Or those properties to the west. We’ll set down at Malihini House, see if there’s anything we can do to help.”
As he turned the chopper I gripped the edge of the seat, peering down. One patch of flames flared as if something had exploded, and another sprang up closer to the shoreline. Yet another moved with demonic purpose toward the road where the fire truck was stopped. More flashing lights appeared in the distance. Through the trees bordering the deadfall I spotted the blue roof of Lani House, and then the aquamarine shimmer of a lighted swimming pool. Figures milled around it. They seemed small and helpless in the face of nature’s rage.
As we ran from the chopper and through the trees past La’i Cottage, a third fire engine streaked along the road, siren wailing and flashers smearing the palis blood red. The cottage was dark, but the Mori house and yard were garishly illuminated. Peter and Ben were using a compressor to wet down the roof with water from the pool; Stephanie and Matthew stood at the edge of the lawn, watching streams from the fire hoses arc through the air. Great hissing clouds of steam rose from the deadfall, but the fires still burned.
Matthew turned when he heard Tanner and me. His hair stood up in spiky points, his face was streaked with sweat, and he was wiping his hands compulsively on his shirtfront. In spite of the heat, Stephanie had thrown a sweater over her shoulders, and her fingers worked at its sleeves, wringing them. When she saw Russ, she burst into tears and ran to him.
“Oh, Russ, everything’s going to burn,” she said between sobs. “Why do these horrible things keep happening to us?”
He put his arms around her and made soothing noises, but kept worried eyes on the deadfall.
Matthew exclaimed, “It’s all her fault!”
“Whose?” Tanner asked.
Matthew didn’t reply, just clawed at his hair and ran his hand over his chin.
I went over to him. “Whose fault is it, Matthew?”
“Nobody’s. I don’t know what the fuck I’m talking about.”
“Have you found Jillian?”
He shook his head.
Russ guided Stephanie over to us, one arm around her shoulders. “When did the fire start?” he asked her.
“Ben and I noticed it maybe fifteen minutes ago. We were sitting on the lanai talking about what we’d say at Mother’s service and… For a while I thought I smelled gasoline. And there was a lot of cracking in the deadfall, but I didn’t think anything of it. The dogs’re always messing around in there. Then we both smelled smoke and ran over and looked through the trees, and we saw fire everywhere, from the beach all the way back to the road. Thank God we bought the compressor in case something like this happened and—” She broke off. “I’m babbling, aren’t I?”
Tanner said, “That’s okay, honey, you’re entitled.”
“Jill’s been missing all day,” she added in a small voice, “and I’m worried about her. She was missing the day of Iniki, too.”
“She was okay then, she’ll be okay now.”
I glanced at Matthew. He stood, shoulders slumped, arms slack at his sides, not listening.
“You say you thought you smelled gas?” Tanner asked Stephanie.
“I did; Ben didn’t, but he smokes, so his sense of smell isn’t very good. Besides, it was kind of intermittent, like when the wind shifted.”
Russ looked at me, and I nodded. Definitely arson.
For a moment we were all silent, watching the streams of water that seemed mere trickles compared to the intensity of the blaze. The night had been dead calm and humid, but now a strong wind began to gust from the east.
Stephanie said, “Oh, God, what if the fire spreads to the neighbors’?”
“It won’t. They’re getting it under control.” But Russ sounded worried.
A stronger gust swept past us. A shower of sparks rose from the deadfall and danced through the air. Palm fronds rattled and the ironwoods bent and swayed. There was a cracking sound as one of their branches sheared off; something crashed against the side of the house. Matthew started and whirled, peering over there.
By the pool, Peter was still working the compressor, but Ben had stopped wetting down the roof. He stood with the hose dangling, staring helplessly at the wind-tossed trees. In spite of the outdoor lighting the night became very black. Stephanie put her hand to her lips, pale under her tan. Russ stood with his face to the sky, as if he were communing with one of the ancient spirits. And Matthew said in an awed voice, “It reminds me of when Iniki started.”
Alarmed, I looked up too. Dark clouds had blown in, swiftly blotti
ng out the moon and stars. Was this the way hurricanes began? But this wasn’t the season, and there hadn’t been any warnings on the radio. Before Iniki, the worst in the island’s recorded history, the residents had had many hours to prepare.
Suddenly rain began to fall on my upturned face. Huge drops that blew slantwise and splatted on the roof and the pool’s flagstone apron. Stephanie closed her eyes, moved her lips as if in prayer. Russ grinned and squeezed her shoulders. Peter gave a jubilant shout and clapped Ben on the shoulder so hard it threw him off balance. And Matthew said in a shaky voice, “Why the hell are we standing here?” Then we all broke and ran for the shelter of the lanai.
Once huddled there, everyone was silent, looking out at the driving rain. Finally Stephanie laughed—a shrill sound edged by hysteria. She said, “I never thought I’d be glad to experience something like that again!”
“Like what?” Peter asked.
“Oh, right, you weren’t here. It reminded me—all of us—of when Iniki hit.”
“I thought that was in the afternoon.”
“It was. One-thirty. The same kind of weather. Oppressive.”
Ben said, “The calm was deceptive. We were up at Pali House, sitting in the patio. When the first winds started, we actually welcomed them, because they eased the heat.”
Matthew added, “Welcomed them because we’d been dreading the hurricane’s arrival since around eight the night before. First civil defense sirens went off at five-thirty that morning. When it did hit, it was a relief because at least something was happening. And it did get dark.”
Stephanie asked Russ, “Where were you?”
“With my daughter, my mother, and some other relatives, trying to get to one of the shelters.” His voice was heavy with emotion. “We never made it. The road was blocked by downed trees, so I ended up pulling my van into one of the dry caves. Other people who couldn’t get through were in there. Man, was it scary when the eye passed over!”
Matthew shuddered. “Why are we reliving this?” he demanded. “Why can’t we just be happy this rain is putting the fire out?”
A Walk Through the Fire Page 16