Thrillers in Paradise

by Rob Swigart

  After a moment Hirogawa said, “Yes?”

  “The Ocean Mother,” Vincent said shortly. “Registered out of Vancouver.”

  Hirogawa nodded with understanding. “Coast Guard. Nawiliwili Harbor office. They take care of ships.” He started to raise the magazine again.

  “There was some kind of trouble,” Vincent persisted. He couldn’t yet say anything about deaths. Not aloud. He still couldn’t believe it. Jacquie. Jeff, Tracy Ann, Clarence. The others he did not know, but the report said they were all dead.

  Hirogawa said nothing, Newsweek halfway elevated. “An accident?” The first hint of uncertainty crept into Vincent’s voice. “Your interest in the matter?” Sergeant Hirogawa asked, putting the magazine down deliberately and dragging a pen and yellow legal pad toward him on the otherwise empty surface of his desk. The magazine slid to the floor.

  “Vincent Meissner. I am the director of the Gaia Foundation.” Hirogawa wrote that down, looked up expectantly. “We own the vessel, the Ocean Mother.”

  Hirogawa shook his head. “Better talk to the Coast Guard. They’re towing her to the harbor. Some question the ship might have been derelict. I don’t know much about it. Lieutenant Takamura’s handling the investigation.” He laid the pen down very carefully, aligning it with the edge of the pad. He reached down for the magazine again. Vincent cleared his throat. “This, uh, Takamura…? Is he here?” Hirogawa shook his head. “Went out, oh, maybe an hour ago. Day shift went home.” Newsweek rose before his face.

  Vincent waited, patiently, he thought. The sergeant said nothing further. Finally, he turned and walked briskly to the door.

  “Oh…” Vincent turned. Sergeant Hirogawa had lowered his magazine. “They’re all meeting at the harbor. Around eight. Tonight.”

  Vincent nodded. “Thanks.”

  The sun gilded the skimpy clouds hovering near the top of the crater with a peculiar greenish light Vincent found repellant, like the early signs of disease. He climbed in the car. “Hotel,” he said, not looking at the young woman.

  She stopped in front of a three-story stucco building. The sign indicated this was the Prince Kuhio Hotel. “It’s where the Hawaiians stay,” she said apologetically. “Not a tourist place.”

  “It’ll do,” he said shortly, climbing out. He got his bag and went inside, leaving the girl to figure out what to do next. She parked the car and followed him into the hotel.

  The lobby was deserted. She called his room from the house phone. “You should eat something,” she suggested.

  “Why?” Vincent asked. He’d eaten on the flight over — they had direct flights to Kauai from Vancouver now. The airline chicken sat in his stomach and complained.

  Carrie shrugged, a gesture Vincent on the other end of the phone could not see. She almost hung up when he said, “You go eat something. We will go to the harbor at eight. There’s a meeting. You know where the Coast Guard is?”

  “I can find it.” She hung up and went next door to a tiny coffee shop. At seven forty-five she was back in the lobby, waiting. She did not call Vincent again, but he appeared a few minutes later. His pale hair was damply brushed back over his ears, framing his heavy face. Somehow the damp hair gave his features a coarse texture.

  They were coming down the hill off Rice Street toward the sheltered harbor at Nawiliwili when he said, “Stop.”

  She pulled over and looked at him.

  “They’re all…”

  “I heard they were all dead,” she said finally. “That’s what I heard, but I don’t know. I tried calling the hospital, but they wouldn’t give out any information.”

  Vincent gestured for her to shut off the engine. The hood clicked as it cooled. From time to time a car passed, rocking her small car with its passage. “Damn,” he said at last. “What happened?” But he was not asking her. How could she know? She was just a volunteer.

  “They got fabulous coverage,” she said after a moment. “It was even in the local papers. They sailed right up to the reef at Moruroa. Television footage, even, from very far away. They were brave people.”

  “Stupid,” Vincent muttered. “They weren’t supposed to do that. They were supposed to stay outside the legal limit. Like all the others.”

  She said nothing. The darkness began to gather along the cut on the opposite side of the road. Beyond that cut was the new resort hotel, $400 million worth of bad taste. Vincent knew about that, too. He’d studied this island in the plane’s in-flight magazine.

  What the hell was Ocean Mother doing in Kauai? She had been en route back from Tahiti to Vancouver. Hawaii was as far off course as any place short of Asia even if it was the only land between Tahiti and the continental United States. He said it aloud. He could not be sure why. Perhaps he thought she would have an answer, perhaps it pushed away the growing shadows.

  She shrugged. She was still miffed— after all, she was putting herself out to do this, pick the fat slob up at the airport, take him to his chintzy hotel, chauffeur him around the island at night. “I don’t know,” she said, voice carefully neutral after all. Then she turned and smiled at him. “Maybe they needed a vacation? Or maybe the ship was running low on fuel. It’s a long trip from down there to Vancouver.”

  “She had extra tanks,” Vincent said thoughtfully. “There was no word of trouble on board. Hell, she has all the latest navigation equipment, Satnav, that sort of thing. We’re a professional organization, Carrie. A professional, militant…” He stopped. He had her attention and some of the old rhetorical flare crept into his voice. She waited for him to go on, for the end.

  But he said nothing. His eyes grew hooded, distant, lost in shadows, and suddenly he was a fat old fool again, a major pain in the ass.

  “Perhaps the meeting…?” she suggested, turning the key.

  Vincent waved his hand for her to drive on. As she shifted into gear, she noticed for the first time the medical bracelet he wore, the thin red caduceus on silver. She wondered briefly what it was for. Heart? Diabetes? Hemophilia?

  The harbor opened up before them, a narrow inlet with steep hills on the other side. A cruise ship was docked.

  She drove past it to the Coast Guard station. There were four cars parked beside the building: an ancient white VW van, two white government vehicles, and a police car. Vincent frowned as he heaved himself out of the tiny car. This was going to be difficult.

  The first stars appeared overhead, small white spots against the velvety lavender. A dank smell arose from the harbor water— the exhalations of disease, not the salty tang of the changing tide.

  “Where’s this road go?” he asked as she locked the car.

  Carrie looked up. “There are some fish ponds up there, real old. They’re supposed to be from before the Hawaiians came here from Tahiti or wherever, made by these mysterious little people called menehune.”

  “Great. Little people.”

  The door opened, throwing a yellow trapezoid of light onto the gravel, and Cobb Takamura appeared, adding the distorted shape of his shadow to the light.

  “Mr. Meissner?” he said.

  Vincent paused a moment beside the car, then stepped forward aggressively. “Yes. I just got in. What the hell is going on?”

  Cobb smiled, an expression almost lost in the shade except for the hint of his teeth that showed. “A very good question, Mr. Meissner. Sergeant Hirogawa told me you might be coming.”

  The meeting went badly from the start. Vincent saw he had gotten off on the wrong track, but was unable to change course. Commander Shafton was a militaristic popinjay with a chip on his shoulder, and the Japanese policeman was as bland as the airline food. The biologist had said nothing, merely looked out from beneath shaggy graying eyebrows at him, as if he were a microscope slide. The other Coast Guard officer looked bored and made no pretense otherwise. The conversation kept slipping away.

  He did learn the ship had been full of dead bodies, and that one of the bodies had come back to life: Tracy Ann was not dead. But then, it c
ould not be said that she was alive, exactly. She had respiration. She had a heartbeat, after a fashion. That was all.

  “Your vessel entered United States waters,” Commander Shafton said, for at least the third time. “Without permission, without notification, without passing through customs. The Coast Guard is responsible for patrolling and protecting these waters. Your ship is a derelict, and we don’t know where it’s been.”

  Vincent did not answer. If the fool did not know why Ocean Mother was in Tahiti and what she had done there, Vincent Meissner was not about to enlighten him. It had made international headlines; this bozo must have his head buried in a dark place. “No need to go over this ground again, Commander,” Vincent said with an air of such feigned understanding that his impatience waved its hand for recognition in the background. “Tell me, where is the ship now?”

  Commander Shafton flicked an imaginary foreign particle from the immaculate crease in his white trousers and looked thoughtful. “The ship is under tow. There was a problem with her engines we couldn’t diagnose down the coast. She will be here soon. I thought you knew this.”

  Vincent moved his bulk forward and pushed his heavy jaw at Shafton. The others in the room, Lieutenant Commander Whipple, the policeman, and the biologist, said nothing. They appeared like the audience at a tennis match, looking from one to the other. “It was my understanding Ocean Mother was already here in this harbor,” Vincent said in a heavily even tone. “Sergeant Hirogawa at the police station told me it was due to arrive before this meeting began.”

  “Yes, yes. The tow is taking a bit longer than anticipated.” Shafton glanced over at Carrie, who seemed left out of the conversation. “Would you like some tea?” he asked her.

  She smiled and shook her head.

  “Look, this is getting us nowhere. I’m here to take back possession of our vessel. We’ll file the necessary paperwork and be on our way.”

  “I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” Shafton said softly.

  “And why not?”

  “I’m afraid we’ve had to impound her.”

  Vincent was out of his chair in a surprisingly fluid movement and had his hand wrapped around Shafton’s collar and tie, pulling the smaller man part way out of his own seat. “You what?” he thundered.

  “Uh·oh,” Cobb Takamura said softly. “Mr. Meissner, please sit down. This will gain you nothing.”

  Vincent did not seem to hear. He pulled Shafton out of his seat and lifted him sideways, where he could get a good angle of attack. “You what?” he repeated.

  Chazz Koenig raised his eyebrows and stood up almost languidly. He stretched once and tapped Vincent on the shoulder. “Excuse me,” he began, but just as suddenly Meissner dropped the officer and spun around on Chazz. They moved together almost as if they were dancing, Meissner stepping forward with his left foot as Chazz stepped back with his right. Vincent’s reaction brought him around the corner of the table, his right hand swinging. Somehow the fist, instead of connecting with the wistfully smiling face he wanted to hit, was trapped in a snug nest made of Chazz’s shoulder and right hand, and an unbearable pain was going up his arm. Vincent couldn’t believe how quickly the pain had come. He fell back with a cry, and the pain eased some, although his hand was still trapped. Chazz still looked a little dreamy.

  “Perhaps you didn’t hear the lieutenant, Mr. Meissner. What he said was that assault is not a good idea, and it would be better if you sat down.”

  Vincent found himself reaching back for the edge of the closest empty chair, and Chazz moved forward. Vincent’s arm was zigzagged in front of him, bent at the elbow and wrist. The biologist was relaxed and poised, Vincent’s hand still trapped, the wrist bent toward the inside of the forearm. Whenever he struggled, the pain increased. Vincent sat down.

  “Who the hell are you?”

  Chazz shrugged. “I’m just a researcher on the island,” he said. “We’re a little concerned about whatever it was that killed your crew.”

  “Dr. Koenig is something of an expert in aikido,” Lieutenant Takamura said softly. “He claims it is nonviolent.”

  “Well, it isn’t.” Vincent suddenly laughed. “All right, I got a little out of control there. I’m sorry Commander, I apologize.”

  Shafton finished straightening his tie and nodded shortly. “Your vessel drifted into our waters carrying a dead crew. Since we don’t know what killed them, it seems best we investigate. I must ask you if you know of any substance or material on board that could have caused the deaths.”

  “Aside from normal operating fuel and food and crew personal effects and so on, the ship carried printed matter and some scientific equipment. That’s all.”

  “What kind of scientific equipment?” Chazz asked. “It could be important. If something got loose, or some chemical substance— even something innocuous, some household product, mixed with something else, maybe — spilled…” He shrugged.

  “Sampling equipment. Mainly for testing seawater. Radioactivity, salinity, turbidity, some organic chemistry. We were interested in the ecological effects of underground testing in the Tuomotus. The ship was taking regular samples, both of the water and some marine life.”

  Chazz raised his eyebrow again. He was standing now, back to the wall, arms folded across his chest. Vincent, subdued and still breathing hard, shook his head. “What’s that look?”

  “I was wondering what kind of marine life they were collecting.”

  “I don’t know. They didn’t tell me. They weren’t trained scientists, anyway, just people with a belief in stopping the rape of our planet. We are poisoning our own home, and someone has to make a scene or it won’t stop.”

  “You are saying they weren’t trained scientists, but they had scientific equipment on board, and were collecting specimens of marine life and taking radioactive measures and so on?”

  Shafton’s tone held an iron undercurrent that made Vincent bristle. “Advanced degrees aren’t everything.”

  “There were some tanks in the lounge,” Cobb said. “They had marine life in them.”

  “I’m sure,” Vincent said. “Fish, snails, that sort of thing. Small, innocuous life, endangered by governmental recklessness, not to say cynicism.”

  “No need for rhetoric here, Mr. Meissner. We are only trying to find out what killed everyone on board your vessel.” Shafton looked at Carrie again. “You’re a member of this group, are you?”

  She flushed “I don’t see what’s wrong with that. Gaia is a highly respected planetary rights advocacy group. You don’t have to be a scientist to know there’s something horribly wrong with nuclear testing, especially in the South Pacific.”

  Shafton smiled “Of course,” he murmured. “I believe I hear the engines of our tow craft, which means the vessel should be arriving soon.”

  It was fully dark out, so the confusion of lights and engines was profound. Two small craft were manhandling the larger Ocean Mother to a berth against the metal military pier inside the passenger docks. Here a wire fence of the most perfunctory kind was intended to keep unauthorized personnel out. At least that was what the sign said.

  “By the way, Mr. Meissner,” Cobb said in a low, confidential voice. “How many lifeboats does Ocean Mother carry?”

  “Two, of course. Why?”

  Cobb shrugged. “There’s only one there now,” he said, nodding to the empty davits.

  “Maybe they lost one,” Vincent suggested. “There was a storm.”

  He seemed shrunken out here, somehow smaller, and Carrie stayed close to him, drawn to his position and reputation while repelled by his presence. Two sailors clambered onto the pier and saluted. Shafton and Whipple had a brief conversation with them, and the lights and engines gradually died away to relative darkness and silence. Only the one powerful light at the end of the pier cast a harsh monochrome glare over the rusted side of the Ocean Mother.

  The small group stood in the warm Hawaiian night and looked at the Death Ship, a name that the local pape
r would give her the very next morning.

  SEVEN

  ANALYSIS

  Patria Koenig threw down the paper. “Death Ship! Really. They ate bad shrimp, that’s all.”

  Orli lifted her head from the blanket on the floor and started to fuss. Patria swept her daughter into her arms. “Lunchtime,” she crooned. Orli smacked her lips, rolling the lower one in and out with small grunting sounds. “Lunchtime, lunchtime.”

  Patria pulled up her tank top and offered Orli the breast. “Ooh, ooh, hoo, is that a tooth coming in there, Kiddo?” Orli rolled her deep brown eyes up at her mother and sucked vigorously.

  Her mother leaned back in the battered easy chair with a sigh, snuggling the baby to her. “What it’s all about, Orli, is family structures. Kinship organization,” Patria began. Orli was busy and paid no attention.

  Patria’s hand dropped to the floor, where a book displayed its title: Polynesian Family Patterns. Her fingers caressed the spine absently. “Traditionally, children are raised by grandparents, leaving the parents relatively free for work, travel, or sociability. Children so raised were considered especially lucky, you see.”

  Orli murmured something indistinct. It could have been assent.

  “Ah. You, on the other hand, will no doubt consider yourself fortunate to have such a devoted set of parents, who must do without the aid of grandparents.”

  Orli looked up at this. Her eyes squeezed shut. She took a deep breath and sneezed. Then she spit up on her mother. Patria jumped up with a sharp cry and paced restlessly for a moment, fuming, but she held the child carefully, patting her back absently. “Damn, damn, damn,” she murmured, gradually allowing it to move from a curse to a croon. Orli smiled and made tiny gulping sounds.

  Finally Patria sat down again and let her daughter feed some more. But Patria’s face was dark when Chazz came in.

  “What’s up?” he said. Then he saw her face. “Uh-oh.”

  “It’s nothing,” Patria assured him without conviction. “She spit up on me. I can’t get any work done. Et cetera. Damn, I’m complaining again. I hate this.”