Molokai Reef

by Dennis K. Biby

  To offset the extra supplies, he had cleared unnecessary clutter – including a live-in woman. With a woman on board, the waterline disappeared and expenses rocketed.

  Gybe was not a misogynist. Not at all. He loved women. He loved to touch them, inhale their scents, feast on their beauty, and seduce them. For four of the five senses, excluding hearing, they were wonderful. But, like files on a computer disk or storage boxes in a garage, they expanded to consume all available space.

  When he wanted one, he could find one. Never lease or buy what you can rent. As the proverb suggests, if it flies, floats, or fucks –rent it. Ferrity was his exception to the rule.

  Alongside Ferrity, Flyn lifted the supplies from the dink and handed them to Gybe in the cockpit. Once the supplies were aboard, Flyn went to the foredeck, peeled off her sleeveless top and jogging shorts, then laid down on her front to catch some rays.

  Anticipating Gybe’s juvenile sense of humor, she twitched not a muscle when he touched her lower back with the sweating glass of ice tea.

  “You’re no fun. Here’s some tea.”

  “Mahalo.”

  To say that there was no reaction to Flyn’s nude body on his foredeck would be like saying that the grizzly ignored the spawning salmon.

  Gybe had explored her body on several occasions and found nothing lacking. Flyn was comfortable with her body and her sexuality. Like many women, she knew what she wanted and how to get it. If she wanted Gybe, she would take him.

  Most important though, Gybe and Flyn were best friends. Friends that were not destined to romance – they had discovered that incompatibility early in their relationship. Friends that did not allow possession or jealousy interfere with the special kinship they felt.

  Yeah, they still had sex, Gybe thought as he walked aft. But not today.

  When Gybe finished stowing the supplies, he and Flyn burbled the dinghy over to Makani and settled into the cockpit. Ever the gracious host, the ‘goose set forth a round of drinks, a basket overflowing with green tortilla chips, and a bowl of red salsa.

  “Man, I love these chips.” Gybe hoisted a salsa-laden triangular chip to his mouth. “Got many left? The Hotel Moloka‘i is almost out of them.”

  “There’s still one large unopened bag below, and I think I have a line on some more.”

  Gybe changed the subject. “I heard you cracked SynCorn’s server. What did you find?”

  53

  Before Mongoose discussed what he had found on the SynCorn server, Flyn repeated her discoveries from the Internet for Mongoose’s benefit.

  “How did you get into the server? I thought that you said they had a tight security system requiring frequent password changes and so forth.”

  “They do. It is one of the better ones that I’ve seen.”

  “And?” Gybe prompted.

  “Let’s just say that a telecommunications technician was involved.”

  Once Mongoose penetrated the server, he networked to the director’s personal computer. To limit his exposure, he had written a small program that harvested every data file on the computer and transmitted them back to Makani where he could analyze at his leisure. While he was in the system, he planted a Trojan horse that would transmit updated files over the Internet daily.

  Mongoose hadn’t analyzed all of the files. He concentrated first on the correspondence documents and spreadsheets. The technical documents would take longer to decipher. Because of the technical jargon and the lack of his expertise in biotechnology, he had forwarded these to a genetic engineer acquaintance on the mainland. “My friend will send an abstract of the technical files.”

  From the letters and memos, he confirmed Flyn’s findings that the recent cash transfer came from a Swiss account. “There were several e-mails with a company called Tonto Group, Ltd. before the wire transfer. It looked like they were negotiating a trade, but Les never specified what he was trading.”

  “Tonto? As in Lone Ranger?” Gybe asked.

  “Yes, but in Spanish it can mean fool or blockhead.”

  “Who are they? What do they do?”

  “I don’t know yet. But, I’ve traced their IP address to a server in Bogotá, Columbia.”

  “What? There isn’t any clean money in Columbia. Why would a drug cartel invest in SynCorn?” Gybe exclaimed.

  “Stereotyping, are we?” Flyn chided.

  Mongoose ignored the exchange and continued his report. He had found e-mails with details of the Bahamian bank to Swiss bank wire transfer. “The Swiss account was Les’s. Once the money arrived in Switzerland, he transferred most of it to SynCorn.”

  Flyn chimed in with more news. “After ‘goose told me about the Tonto Group, I looked for them on the net. Tonto Group, Ltd. is a shell corporation based in the Bahamas. I e-mailed a friend who sails out of Eleuthera. Since she is in The Bahamas, she may be able to find out who is behind the company.”

  “And she will do this how and why?” Mongoose asked.

  Gybe knew the answer, but let Flyn reply. “She has shall we say persuasive assets. As to the why, she’s my friend.”

  Flyn waited two beats then added, “And I transferred two thousand dollars to cover her yard bill.”

  Gybe, Flyn, and the ‘goose knew all about yard bills. Any boat owner who hauled his boat in a boatyard had faced the tab – the yard bill – at the end of the haul-out. Boatyards would not drop the boat into the water until they had received payment. No cash no splash.

  “It will take her a day or two to get the information we need. I may have to send her some grease money for the officials.”

  “Back to the e-mails, did you get any clue about what the company – Tonto was it – was getting in return for their money?” Gybe asked.

  The e-mails were vague. They referenced telephone conversations when talking about the trade.

  While in the system, ‘goose had downloaded the data files from Ray Wilson’s computer. Although it had been more than one week since his death, his computer was still turned on and on-line. Such a waste of electricity, he lamented.

  Like Gybe, Mongoose was an ardent conservationist. Both men had rigged wind generators and solar panels on their vessels to generate their electric needs. Each sailboat was equipped with an auxiliary diesel engine, but unlike so many boats, especially those anchored or cruising away from the dock, you never heard the diesel growling out electricity for refrigeration and other onboard electrical needs. Flyn’s feelings were similar, but she had yet to add the solar panels. Her boat sported twin wind generators, which satisfied most of her electrical requirements.

  The wasted electricity offended Gybe. Hawai‘i had plentiful quantities of every known form of renewable energy – solar, wind, wave motion, geothermal, deep ocean thermal. They could produce biomass on abandoned pineapple and sugar cane fields.

  You didn’t see coal barges on their welcome to paradise posters. But, Hawai‘i imported coal to generate electricity. Unbelievable!

  “Mongoose, keep looking through Les’s files. I’ll check back in the morning. This may have nothing to do with the murders, but I want to pursue it. First the drug brothers, now Les’s tie-in with the cartels. We’re seeing too many connections to drugs.”

  “Tomorrow, I’m paying another visit to my good buddy Les at SynCorn.” Gybe added.

  “By the way, “ Mongoose responded, “I found files from Dr. Splicer’s computer on Les’s machine. It appears that either he tapped into her computer or someone was feeding him the files.”

  54

  It was too early to return to their boats so Gybe and Flyn walked to town and straight to Humpies Bar. A slab of rare koa wood in the rough shape of a humpback whale with the word Humpies in bas-relief hung over the front entrance. The bar occupied the former location of a Moloka‘i based brewpub. The brewpub found out the expensive way that island tastes ran more towards dollar Bud drafts than four-dollar craft brews.

  The bar was divided into three sections. Because of a local ordinance, a wall with l
arge windows sectioned off the dining area. In the bar area, the bartender worked inside a rectangular surround bar. Six barstools sat along each of the three sides of the bar. On the fourth side, a window serving station penetrated the wall into the game room. Gybe counted two pool tables, three video machines, and at least two dartboards. A jukebox owned the corner beyond the far pool table.

  A sign above the window to the game room stated that happy hour was from three to seven. The bar clock showed that they were two hours into happy hour. Like paper clips on a magnet, the regulars were stuck to their barstools. The only unoccupied seats in the bar were two stools near the cocktail server’s station.

  Flyn guided Gybe to the empty seats. As any professional pub-goer knew, these were the least desirable seats in the house.

  The culturally sensitive Gybe ordered a Bud longneck, Flyn ordered a Cuba Libra. For the puzzled bartender, she translated and asked for a dark rum and coke with a squeeze of lime.

  The barkeep slid the drinks in front of them and asked if they wanted a complimentary pupu tray. “Sure,” they said in unison.

  “Kanpai!” Gybe tipped the longneck towards Flyn.

  A paper plate landed in front of Flyn.

  Gybe and Flyn looked at the plate, then at each other. Neither struggled nor extended a boarding house reach for the pupus. Quietly, so that the bartender wouldn’t hear, Flyn asked, “What is it?”

  Certain that the food was nothing that had ever graced the tables of the great Ali‘i – the royalty of Hawai‘i –Gybe pointed to the small pinkish round tubes smothered in a dark sauce. “Vienna sausage would be my guess - Swedish meatball style.”

  “And these?”

  “Those are fried chunks of the Hawaiian national food.”

  Flyn arched her brows.

  “Spam.”

  One advantage to sitting near the server’s drink station was the trashcan. Gybe could feel it against his left leg. He didn’t want to offend the bartender or the locals so while he downloaded his first beer, he discreetly relocated several items from the pupu platter to a paper napkin and then into the trash.

  He signaled for another round and declined the offer of a second pupu tray.

  The guy sitting on the other side of Flyn ignored Gybe and started flirting with her.

  Rude, very rude, Gybe thought. Suppose Flyn were his wife? … his girlfriend? … his sister?

  It turned out that the guy was just a friendly drunk. He was curious about the out-of-towners. Everyone in town had known about Gybe’s arrival less than two hours after Ferrity’s anchor touched bottom. Similarly, they knew to the hour when Flyn had arrived.

  Gybe joined the conversation. Flyn made the introductions and Gybe learned that the man’s name was Gark. At least that was his handle here on the island. The man worked for a pest extermination company based on Maui. He owned the Moloka‘i territory. Termites, cockroaches, and centipedes were his targets.

  “Gark? I assume there is a story behind the name.” Gybe asked.

  “Why?” said Gark looking puzzled.

  Suspecting that Gark may have sprayed without a respirator one too many times Gybe switched the subject. “So what have you heard about the murders?”

  The barkeep brought another round of drinks. Gark was drinking schooner size mugs of Bud Lite.

  Everything he told them about the murders of Jean and Ray and the follow-on arrest of Susan could have been gleaned from a newspaper. His account was more colorful, but the facts and suppositions were the same.

  In Gark’s account, concrete encased them up to their bellies. “When the coroner chipped away the concrete, the man had a big…” he glanced at Flyn, “ you know?”

  Flyn reached for her drink to break eye contact.

  “Do you know Susan​? The accused?”

  “Aye matey, that one be a bad un.” The flooding alcohol had topped another levee of neurons.

  Gark leaned close to Flyn and whispered “she was a devil worshiper, that she was.”

  Flyn and Gybe glanced at one another with a ‘this will be good’ eye-roll.

  “I’ve heard she and her friends hike into the valleys during a full moon. They get nekkid and dance around the trees. They’re witches and…” Gark launched a search through his brain cells looking for the word that described the male counterpart to a witch.

  “Warlock?” Flyn helped. She knew that if there were any truth to Gark’s tale, then Susan might be a Wiccan. During the PPC (Pre Political Correctness) eras, Wiccans would have been called pagans. Almost two millennia of church propaganda and spin had brainwashed their followers into equating paganism to devil worship. Paganism, worship of nature and her elements,w as unfamiliar with the devil concept. It took the church to define an opposite, or evil, to their Christ or good. They, the church, knew that one can’t have a good without its opposite, a bad. No white without black, no up without down, no left without right.

  “Gark,” Gybe goaded, “you look like you lived during the age of the hippie and love generation? What’s wrong with dancing naked in the woods?”

  He had struck a chord. Gark eyes rolled back searching for the videotape of his youth. “That was different. We didn’t worship no Satan. Love, love was our god, man.” He replayed the quip in his mind. “Maybe we worshiped a few chemicals too.” He chuckled.

  Caught up in his analogy, he continued. “Yeah, you could say we worshiped at the church of love. In our communion, bongs were our chalice and Toklas’ fudge was our sacrament. We worshiped anywhere and baptized in hot tubs and fountains. The other guys with their flesh and blood rituals are downright creepy.” He shuddered.

  Flyn turned to Gybe as Gark rambled along and whispered. “I think our friend has spun out of orbit. You ready to leave?”

  Gybe scanned the bar before answering. The first digit on the bar clock was a one; the other three were zeros. Happy hour had passed and several barstools awaited the next shift. Two twenty-something couples drank and shot pool in the back room.

  One regular had his head on the bar near the cash register. This was a small town, so sleeping at the bar drew less wrath than say San Francisco’s image conscious North Beach. An argument between two other regulars loudened.

  Gybe nodded.

  Flyn paid the tab, tipped the barkeep with a five, and followed Gybe out the door.

  As they walked down the causeway towards the harbor, Gybe inventoried their surroundings. No clouds floated overhead, but the intense lights atop the lampposts washed several stars from the sky. No trade winds tonight. Brief chunks of silence erupted between the cruising automobiles with their overloud radios. Exhaust fumes and cigarette smoke defiled the ocean air. “Humans and huwomans have fouled the nest.”

  Flyn glanced to her companion. “Oooohkay.”

  Midway out the causeway, a car sat idle on the shoulder. Inside a two headed, five-limbed alien life form writhed in the front seat. Or, it may have been two teenagers practicing the reverse amoeba split. “It’d take a jumbo pack of condoms to protect all those orifices.” Gybe mused.

  They were about thirty yards from the pier when Gybe spotted the man lying in the shadows of the ferry terminal. “Flyn, look.” He pointed to the body. “At least in the tropics, the drunks won’t freeze to death on the sidewalks.”

  The man was lying on his back. As they got closer, they saw the trembling and convulsing. There weren’t any fishermen in the area, but the usual parade of cars cruised the causeway and around the pier parking area. Gybe doubted that the people in the cars could see the downed man.

  What was wrong with him?

  55

  Flyn retrieved a flashlight from her backpack and splayed its beam on the man. He looked to be in his mid-twenties, was very thin, and of island ancestry. Blood covered most of his shirt, but she could just make out the shirt’s message – Just Say No. Fresh blood bubbled from his mouth and nose with each attempt to breathe.

  Gybe had dialed 911 and returned to her side. They heard the siren a
nd stepped back from the victim who was now thrashing his arms and legs. Neither felt inclined to offer CPR or comfort to the convulsing man.

  The police officer had finished collecting their names, when the ambulance drove onto the causeway with lights flashing and sirens wailing. Gybe and Flyn hadn’t witnessed anything so there was little information for the officer to collect. He closed his notebook and tucked it into a shirt pocket.

  “What do you think happened?” Gybe asked, but knew the answer.

  “Drugs would be my guess.”

  Gybe dropped Flyn at her boat then angled towards Ferrity. Before he touched the hull, he sensed the violation. Someone had been on his boat. Adrenaline purged the alcohol from his system. His body and mind went to full alert.

  Aboard the boat, he found that someone had cut the lock on the hatch and removed the hatch boards. Gybe grabbed a flashlight from a bracket near the companionway. In the other hand, he grabbed a stainless steel winch handle. The five-pound handle had a good heft. Like a TV detective with a gun, Gybe stood to one side and aimed the flashlight into the saloon. “Anyone there?”

  He heard no gunfire, no noises, and no response to his query.

  Below decks, Ferrity was divided into three compartments. His stateroom or main berth occupied the vee of the bow. Just aft of the stateroom, on the port side, was the enclosed head. The rest of the living space included the saloon, galley, and navigation station. No one was aboard. But, someone had been. Spices, jars, cans, and pans were strewn about the galley. In the saloon, books lay on the cabin sole and the settee cushions were overturned – some sliced open. In the head, medicine bottles were piled in the sink. Cleaning supplies, normally stowed beneath the sink, were heaped in the toilet. Forward, the stateroom was intact. Nothing seemed to have been disturbed there.

  Gybe returned to the saloon and sat down at the nav station across from the galley.