by Tony Bulmer
Hurrying faster now, down the thin, metal corridor, Kellerman took hold of her spinning thoughts and closed her eyes. As the turbulent images of the past careened away, she suddenly remembered that the L/E chest was located on the wall next to the captain’s cabin. It was almost inconceivable that such a fact could have escaped her, but she had never had the need, or the relevant orders to break out a weapon before. What the hell would she do with all those guns anyway? She couldn’t fight off those skeletal maniacs from the Korean ship by herself, could she? They were hardened criminals most likely—or soldiers, with years of military training behind them—they certainly looked like they knew what they were doing with their weapons when they stormed aboard the ship.
Kellerman looked up at the grey metal ceiling, covered in a network of pipes and cables.
From the deck above there came, the sound of gunfire and scampering feet. They were coming. Rounding up the crew now, shooting anyone who put up a fight. How long would it be, before they came below decks, their machine guns, blazing— hosing down every narrow corridor in a hail of bullets? Her mouth went dry, those belts the men were wearing—they probably had explosives— hand grenades too. What would they do when they found she had killed their inside man? Torture her, rape her, or murder her—carve her up with a hail of gunfire, as soon as they got sight of her? Kellerman listened, cocking her head to one side to hear any further sound of movement. Nothing. An aching silence accentuated by the slow rise and fall of the becalmed ship. Suddenly, directly above her, the sound of hard, guttural commands, given in a foreign tongue—then, more gunshots, followed by the harrowing, pitiful screams of a dying human—a hellish cacophony that chilled her flesh to the bone.
Kellerman crept forwards, hardly daring to breathe. Any minute they would come. She had to get the guns, like Captain Álvares had told her. But what would she do when she got them? She couldn’t carry all of them, nor could she fire more than one at a time. Perhaps she could hide them, or disable them somehow, so the hijackers couldn’t use them—strip out the bolts and firing pins, that way the guns would be no use to anyone. That would stop those bastards from using American weapons to kill more Americans.
As she reached the crew’s quarters, the gunshots above were sounding out rapid fire. Perhaps they wanted to kill everyone—butcher the whole crew and cast the ship adrift on the ocean
currents, to send some kind of sick message to the Government? Terrorists were capable of anything. There was no humanity left anymore; no kind of deviant behavior they wouldn’t consider to promote their sick ideas. She had to get a weapon and fast. When they came down the gangway, she would have a gun in her hands, no doubt they would kill her—but she would hurt them first, blast a hole in every ugly little face that came running towards her.
As she reached the L/E cabinet Kellerman saw it was locked, held fast with a thick metal hasp and a giant industrial padlock that looked like it would need a C-‐4 charge to pop it off. Perhaps she could use bolt cutters, but where in the hell would she find those, downstairs in Buchanan’s little kingdom perhaps? But there was no time. The hijackers would be upon her any moment—and she was totally defenseless. What in the hell was she going to do?
28
Oahu, Hawaii The crowds at the cemetery thronged to the graveside of Governor Geryon. In life, the governor might have been a blustering loudmouthed boor whose questionable sexual antics and endless capacity for graft had tainted his governorship with disgrace, but in death, very many of the people he had held in such high contempt turned out to bear witness to his final interment in the dry volcanic soil of the National Memorial Cemetery of the Pacific. It would have been a spectacular send off for any man. The great and the good from the very highest echelons of society had turned out to pay their respects. There were so many floral tributes, that it seemed as though every florist in the district had been stripped bare. Then there was the marching band of the United States Navy Pacific Fleet Band, in their full dress uniforms, playing somber tribute. They stood immaculate, as though they were paying a final farewell to a great hero of the nation. The governor had seen service, in Indio-‐ China mostly, but his reputation as a parade ground petty officer was well known, and the chest full of medals he had picked up as thanks for his service was a tribute to his skills as a great political manipulator, rather than a mark of his contribution to the world of frontline service.
The eulogies from local dignitaries and family members were in turn both somber and perfunctory. Karyn watched from the periphery of the crowd. She paid close attention, noting every
face she saw. All the local bigwigs were in attendance, including Chief of Police Donald Mālama.
The widow Geryon it turned out, looked very far from upset. In fact, judging by her chi-‐chi funeral outfit, a hot little number that looked like it had been shipped in from Milan or Paris; the former Mrs. Geryon appeared to have been preparing for this, the most somber of occasions for some time. Sure, she dabbed crocodile tears with a Kleenex tissue, and let her voice waver half an octave when she was paying tribute to her husband’s stellar record as an all-‐singing all-‐ dancing man of the people. But Karyn could tell, even from a thousand paces, that this greedy little socialite was lapping up every minute of her new found widowhood. Probably counting the seconds until she could break into the inheritance most likely. And if the numbers in the HPD file Donald Mālama had passed on were anything to go by, Widow Geryon would have several fortunes to spend her way through, once the grieving process was over.
Melding into the background, Karyn watched as the very genuine grief of the governor’s adult children was directed center stage. No way these poor souls were related to the widow—they were a product of one of the other marriages for sure. Karyn struggled to call up the details from the file. Geryon had been married how many times, three or four? Did that include the current Mrs. Geryon or exclude her? On balance Karyn figured the chi-‐chi blonde in the low-‐cut designer number, just had to be number four. She wasn’t much older than the kids for Christ’s sake. And she looked like
she had never done anything more strenuous than swimsuit modeling. But that was a good thing thought Karyn—a real good thing—because it made Priscilla Geryon the weak link in the Tex Johnston murder suicide case. There was no doubt at all in Karyn’s mind, that this super-‐manicured gold-‐digger would have the inside dirt on her poor dead husband’s business dealings. Biographical leverage was stock-‐in-‐trade to the trophy wife community. Poor little Priscilla probably had a team of corporate lawyers riding her bench already. Just waiting to leap forward onto the field of play and screw every last dime out of this tragedy, and make sure that the other living relatives were financially sidelined. On the other hand, there was always a chance that young blondie could be a cat-‐cuddling charity freak, with a taste for magnanimous gestures. O
utside chances were always a possibility, thought Karyn, but she wasn’t going to throw money against the idea of Priscilla being a big-‐hearted philanthropist, any time soon.
When it came to making big plays, Karyn was an old hand too. She had the strategy down. So when Priscilla Geryon climbed inside her
limousine, expecting to be ferried off for a reviving round of cocktails and a sumptuous lunch at Oahu’s most fashionable restaurant, there was a surprise waiting for her.
At first Priscilla Geryon was lost for words. When she found them again the words that crawled out of her mouth were as unpleasant as anything a warf-‐rat sailor could utter after a full night of rum and debauchery.
Karyn looked up at her from the backseat and gave her a pleasant smile. “Get inside the car.”
“I don’t know who you are but you are making a big mistake.”
A mans face peered inside the limousine, “This is a private vehicle, have you no respect? You damn press people are all the same.”
“Take a hike bozo.”
“How dare you, talk to me like that, I am Mrs. Geryron’s Lawyer. Either you get out now, or I will have you dragged out and thrown in jail.”
Karyn nodded. “Impressive speech Poindexter. Now bug off and find another corpse to feed on. I got things I want to say to the lady.”
“You aren’t the press?”
Karyn looked over the top of her designer sunglasses, “Let me ask you something Sparky. Do I look like the press?”
Priscilla Geryon threw an uncertain glance at her lawyer.
“Whoever you are, you are not welcome. Now, I will ask you to leave one more time. If you refuse, I will have an injunction for harassment slapped on you.”
“An Injunction? You must really know people huh? Unfortunately you are speaking to the living embodiment of the United States
Government, so put those cute little guns of yours into reverse, or I will have a whole team of Federal investigators tramping all over your personal space, before you can say billable hours.”
The lawyer turned to Priscilla Geryon. “This is bullshit harassment. You don’t have to speak to her, you know that don’t you?”
Priscilla Geryon looked doubtful. “I don’t want any trouble Thurston.”
Karyn sniffed. “You hear that Thurston? The lady doesn’t want any trouble. Now back up and close the door would you? There’s a good boy.”
“Any statements will be inadmissible, you know that don’t you?” choked Thurston, his face red with anger.”
“If that’s the case, you have got nothing to get all twisted up about do you?” said Karyn.
As the door finally closed, and the Limousine inched forwards Priscilla Geryon said, “You are from the Government?”
Karyn nodded, made a brief introduction, then said, “But that is the least of your problems isn’t it?”
My husband was murdered, what would you know of my problems?”
“I know plenty. Take your husband for example, he got just a little too greedy for his own good didn’t he?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Come, come. Let’s not get defensive. I know everything about your husband’s sordid little business dealings—the exact nature of his relationship with Tex Johnston for example, all I need is for you to fill in a few details.”
“I’m not telling you a damn thing. I’m used to people making insinuations about my marriage and I am not going to take it anymore, not from anyone.”
“Uh-‐huh. The only reason you are talking to me at all Priscilla is you are scared witless that if you fail to cooperate with the Federal Government they will take a magnifying glass to your financial
affairs. Well, guess what honey. The magnifying glass is all ready out and a whole bunch of bug-‐ eyed men in suits are poised to rifle through every private part of your life. And trust me when I say, they are going to want receipts for everything. You do have receipts, don’t you Priscilla?”
The widow Geryon pouted. Up close her face was troweled heavy with make up, like she was getting ready to attend a cosmetics counter convention. She gave Karyn a recalcitrant look.
“Yeah? I am taking that as a no,” said Karyn. “Screw you. I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“You don’t have to do anything to hook yourself up with a murder rap Priscilla. You ever hear of a little word called conspiracy?”
Priscilla Geryon pulled an unpleasant face. “You think you are pretty smart don’t you Kane. But Tex Johnston didn’t kill my husband, or that nasty little hooker either.”
“How do you know?”
“That spineless little creep didn’t have the balls.”
“You don’t need balls to kill people. All you need is a gun and a motive—some folks don’t even need that. Something you would do well to remember.”
“Tex Johnston was a degenerate, he deserved everything he got.”
“If you got some kind of constituency on seeing political degenerates get what they got coming, you got your work cut out. There are a hundred more like that in Washington, every one of them dirtier than the last. But it isn’t the boys in
Washington you are really worried about is it Priscilla?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“That money your precious husband was screwing out of Johnston wasn’t political money, at least not in the conventional sense of the word. Tex Johnston was in the pay of the Tao Corporation, but you knew that didn’t you Priscilla?”
“You got no evidence.”
“You got the evidence written all over you face. But that isn’t your real problem, not by a long way. Your husband was on the take too, wasn’t he? Filling his pockets with the Tao Corporation’s money, then rubber–stamping every rotten little planning application and permit they needed for that power-‐station project they are working on. Am I right?”
“I have no idea. I never got involved with my husbands business dealings.”
“You don’t have to tell me that.”
“I don’t?”
“Of course not. But you will have to tell it to Deng Tao’s people when they come to get his money back. Only you might want to work on your delivery, because I am guessing from what they did to the senator and your husband they don’t take too kindly to getting screwed over.”
“On the contrary, Mr. Tao is a very generous friend, which is more than can be said of the Federal Government, Miss Kane.”
Karyn nodded. “I can understand why you would say that right now. You are sitting on a fat pile of cash and a hall pass to do whatever the hell you want. But that won’t last forever. By the time the congressional investigation into this little affair
is over, you will be the subject of an IRS audit so far reaching you will be lucky if you have the bus fare back to town from the penitentiary, after they are through jailing your manicured little ass. Now, I ask you, are you going to wait around for Deng Tao’s people to pay you are a visit, or do yo
u want to play hardball with the Justice system?’
“I might know some things, but if I told you anything, it would get back to them—they are everywhere. You have no idea how powerful they are.”
“I could get you out of here, protect you,” said Karyn.
“What, in the witness protection program? You have got to be kidding, they would find me in two days at the most.”
“They?”
Priscilla Geryon paused, gave Karyn a quizzical look. “You thought this was about Deng Tao didn’t you? You thought it was all about him? And here you are saying you will protect me. You have no idea do you?” Then she laughed, but it was a cold, unsettling laugh, edged with contempt.
Karyn looked into Priscilla Geryon’s eyes, but there was no bravado, just the lonely flicker of pure, unadulterated fear.
29
Big Island, Hawaii Kāeo stood looking out over the rock promontory that had been mangled in to a twisted and alien form, by unimaginable and hellish forces from the very center of the earth. “The Moku`aweoweo caldera. See how the ripples of magma glisten like a black ocean. Is it not a beautiful sight?”
Ted Congo held his collar closed against the onslaught of the merciless wind and nodded, as though in agreement. “These cliffs are pretty high— like the grand-‐canyon or something.”
“They are four—maybe five hundred feet, even higher in places.”