by Chip Hughes
“Same job still,” she says. “But I get one teenager. Imagine dat!”
“Nah,” I say. “You stay so young.” She’s filled out a little since then and her still pretty face shows the passage of time.
“You get keiki, Kai?” she asks. “You marry?”
“Nah.” I shake my head. “Working too much.”
“So why you hea? Anoddah investigation?”
“Holoholo,” I say. I can’t tell her why I’m really at the Volcano House. “Can fin’ my reservation?”
“Shoots.” She types on her ancient keypad and peers at the yellowed monitor. “Mr. Kai Cooke—fo’ two nights. Lucky you get one reservation. We bin sold out. Turn lots of customahs away. Dey all come to see da eruption. Pele at work again!”
“She da boss ovah hea,” I joke. “Don’t mess wit’ Pele.”
“Fo’ sure,” she says. “I afraid fo’ one hotel guest—afraid Pele gonna get ‘em. He check in awready. He old man now, bent n’ walk wit’ one cane. But I rec’onize ‘em. He da guy dat drill in Pele’s rainforest. She gonna get ‘em.”
“You really t’ink so?” I didn’t expect that time-ravaged Rex Ransom would be so easily recognized.
She nods. “He come for da funeral,” Pualani says. “But he bettah watch out or his own funeral gonna come bumbye—jus’ like da oddah two.”
“So you t’ink Pele make da oddahs?” I wonder if she’s pulling my leg. “And she gonna make dis old guy too?”
Pualani gives me a room key, a map of the hotel, and a wink—a wink that seems as mysterious as the goddess herself.
“T’anks, eh?”
I step away from the desk and glance at the map. About half of the rooms in the hotel have crater views, some in the main building, some in an adjacent addition. I did my homework, so I know that Donnie and her husband are staying in the main building on the first floor in room one, the largest crater-view room. My room also overlooks the crater but, as Donnie explained on the phone, is in the addition on the second floor at the other end of the hotel. Close enough to watch over Ransom, but far enough to keep out of his sight.
I walk from the registration desk through the main building to the addition. On the way I pass the Ransoms’ room. The door is slightly ajar. I hear voices. I stand against the opposite wall out of view and listen. Donnie is talking to her husband.
“What about me?” Her voice rises in irritation. “I’m your wife!”
“You have nothing to worry about,” Rex Ransom replies.
“That’s easy for you to say!” she shouts.
The door bursts open. Donnie stalks out. I start walking again toward my room.
“Kai?”
I hear my name called in a stage whisper and turn around.
Donnie closes the door and steps gracefully toward me, her lustrous black hair shimmering even in the dim hallway. “Did you check in?” Her tone sweetens. She smiles.
“Yes, just now,” I say. “Howzit going?”
“Fine,” she says, her red lipstick punctuating her smile. “We’re having a wonderful time—never mind my worries about Rex.”
I let that one pass. “Did Mr. Ransom see me on the airplane?” I know the answer, but at this awkward moment I can think of nothing else to say.
“I doubt it,” Donnie says. “Even if he did, to my husband you’d be just another coach passenger hiking to the back of the airplane.”
“That’s good, I guess,” I say. “I better go—in case he comes looking for you.”
“Oh, I don’t think we have to worry about that.” Her mascaraed eyes sparkle.
“Aloha—for now.” I start walking.
“I’ll be in touch, Kai,” she says and moments later the door to the Ransoms’ room snaps shut.
I walk the passageway to the addition, hike the stairs to the second floor, and step to the end of the hall. The door to room thirty-three opens with my key to a flowered carpet, Hawaiian quilt on a double bed, small bath, and a koa desk and rocker. That’s about it. No TV. No Wi-Fi. No minibar. But there’s something better: serenity.
The room has good vibes—and two windows overlooking the crater. I open them. Cool air wafts in—expected at four thousand feet—and that omnipresent smell of sulfur. I gaze down on Kīlauea Caldera, the collapsed but still active volcano nearly three miles long. Fifteen Aloha Stadiums, they say, could fit inside. Smoke twirls up from vents in the charred and cracked floor. The mottled surface resembles the scorched remains of a wildfire.
Far in the distance at the southern end of the caldera gapes the half-mile wide Halema‘uma‘u Crater. The view from the hotel of the fire goddess’s home is obscured by spiraling smoke. Yet the crater looks majestic, haunting, and huge. Pele.
The air suddenly feels cooler and I get chicken skin.
I leave my bag in the room, shut the windows, and head downstairs to the hotel’s famous fireplace. I walk past the Ransoms’ room again. Their door is closed now, but I can still hear voices. Can’t make out words, but I can hear tone. It’s the tone of a couple disagreeing. Though there’s no screaming, I find myself wondering about the picture of devotion I saw earlier at Honolulu Airport.
A brusque word now and then, a crisp exchange, might not be all that unusual in a marriage—especially if one spouse persists in doing something the other believes is dangerous. Donnie Ransom fears for her husband’s life at the Volcano House. He insists on coming anyway. Wouldn’t she be upset? Wouldn’t she feel ignored, hurt, and angry? Wouldn’t she naturally speak out? Not to mention that she’s a bit haughty anyway.
I walk on. What do I know? I’m just a guy who has a lot to learn about women. Otherwise, Maile would return my calls.
I head for the fire. The Ransoms obviously don’t need my services at this moment. Especially as a marriage counselor.
eight
At the registration desk I see the olive trousers, khaki shirt, and smoky-the-bear hat of a park ranger. I remember the white Expedition in the hotel’s lot and wonder again if he’s here because of Rex Ransom. The ranger turns from the desk and walks toward me. His brass nametag says DOUGLAS CRISP.
“Aloha, Ranger Crisp,” I say, hoping to test my theory. “What brings you to the Volcano House?”
“Escaped mental patient,” the ranger says. “She may be hiding in the park. I just left a BOLO at the front desk.”
“Be on the lookout?”
“Right,” he says. “We’re warning hotel guests. She’s a grey-haired old woman who wanders around half naked. She appears harmless, but she’s unstable and should be considered dangerous. Her name is Serena Barrymore.”
“Serena Barrymore?” I repeat. “Sounds made-up.”
“It may be,” Ranger Crisp says. “Another name she uses is Goddess Hi‘iaka. Hi‘iaka, in Hawaiian myth, is Pele’s youngest and favorite sister—keeper and protector of the rainforest and flowering ‘ōhi‘a tree. Barrymore took that identification to the extreme and actually killed a man for chopping down one of those trees.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I wish I was,” the ranger says. “Barrymore shoved him into the path of a Hilo bus. When she was apprehended she claimed to be above human law. Her victim was in a coma for months until his family decided to remove life support. Barrymore was indicted for second-degree murder. She never stood trial, though. She was evaluated and deemed unfit.”
“Sad case,” I say.
“Back when they were drilling Wao Kele O Puna she threatened people involved in the project. We’ve increased our presence in the park because Stan Nagahara’s funeral tomorrow will bring back some of those same people. She might target them.”
“I’ll keep my eyes open.” I head for the fireplace.
I’m right. The ranger is concerned about Rex Ransom. I add another potential threat to my list—this one embodying the all-too-real impact of the legendary goddess—as I walk to the Volcano House’s famous fireplace.
The koa-paneled room where the celebrated embers glow look
s like the lobby of an Old West inn. Two saddle-leather sofas and a log table between them sit on a wine-colored carpet. The room is dim except for those eternal flames and sconce lights on the paneled walls. Two koa rockers flank the hearth. One is already occupied by an aloha-shirted local man rocking slowly like he’s in no hurry. I take the other and say, “Howzit?”
“‘Kay, brah.” He smiles.
I smile back and gaze at the fire. Those hundred-year-old flames lick up the chimney and radiate warmth into the room, taking the chill out of my bones. I move closer to the fire. Above the mantel a likeness of Pele herself, carved in bronze-hued lava rock, peers down on me imperiously. No soft, gauzy, delicate angel, this woman. She’s a broad-featured, large-breasted, tough-love goddess whose huge hands reach out to either side of the mantel, embracing and dominating the flames. Here’s another reminder of her power.
“Das Pele,” says my fellow rocker who sees me gazing at her. “She da queen, brah.”
“She da real t’ing,” I reply.
“You like study her, or somet’ing? Serious kine?”
“Nah, jus’ looking.”
“Sure, brah,” my companion says. “Me, I jus’ waiting. Limo drivah, you know. Deliver my passengers awready. Jus’ waiting fo’ drive ‘em aroun.’”
“Who dey?” I ask.
“Not suppose to say, brah.”
I suddenly realize why he’s not saying. “Black limo? You drive from da Hilo airport one hour ago? One couple in da car?”
“Yeah. How’d you know, brah?”
“I recognize ‘em. Dey famous, eh?”
“Not famous anymo’. I know ‘em back when. Da wahine wuz one beauty queen, brah. And she still look pretty good! And da guy, he wuz da geothermal king.”
“You mean da guy dat drill on Pele’s lan’?” I want to keep him talking.
“Yeah, brah,” he says. “Lots of people dey talk stink ‘bout him, but he always treat me good. Da protestahs dat fight geothermal bin all pakalolo growers. Dey no like him drilling in dere pakalolo patch. Das all.”
“Really, brah?”
“Is true,” he says. “One protestah get jail time fo’ pakalolo and firearms.”
“Whatevahs,” I say.
“You no hear ‘bout dat?” he continues. “Da geothermal king jus’ follow da example of King David Kalākaua. Da King talk wit’ da guy Thomas Edison, dat invent electricity, ‘bout making power from da Kīlauea Volcano. Dat was mo’ den one hundred years ago, brah! ”
“Fo’ sure? Kalākaua and Thomas Edison?” It sounds improbable.
“Is one fact of history,” he says. “Happen in 1881.” He keeps talking. “Geothermal not all bad. Get da power outta da groun’, brah, so we nevah depend on foreign oil. Plus da geothermal king make jobs for da people.”
“You know ‘em long time?”
“Yeah, brah. Maybe twenty years. Use to drive ‘em when he da boss. Know his firs’ wife too. But dey divorce now. Ho! She hūhū. Really hate ‘em, brah. Try stab ‘em once.”
“Da firs’ wife? She stab ‘em?” I recall Googling the same information. Small world.
He nods. “Mr. Ransom nevah press charges. No like his wife fo’ go to jail—even though they getting one divorce.”
“Da ex-wife here for da funeral?”
“Dunno, brah,” he says. “I no drive her anymo’.”
“I’m Kai.” I offer my hand. “Maybe buy you one drink sometime?”
“Shoots,” he says and we shake local-style. “Cannot drink on da job.”
“Maybe latah?”
He nods. “I’m Kawika.”
“Aloha, Kawika.” I rise from my rocker and leave behind the everlasting flames. And the everlasting gaze of Pele.
nine
I pass the Ransoms’ room again and this time nothing’s shakin’. Door closed. No voices. I cross to the addition, climb the stairs to my room, and check the phone. No messages. My cell isn’t ringing either. All I can do is wait.
I’m not what you’d call a patient person. Since there’s no TV in the room, I crack a glossy book on the desk about Hawai‘i Volcanoes National Park and flop on the bed. I fluff the pillow behind my head and gaze at the full-color plates of craters, caverns, fissures and vents. It feels good to get horizontal after the flight to Hilo, the drive to Volcano, and the busywork of checking in and getting settled. The park, the book says, was established in 1916 and includes more than five hundred square miles of land and two active volcanoes, Mauna Loa, the world’s most massive, and Kīlauea, one of the world’s most active. Little wonder Pele has such a lively following, since her volcano just keeps on keeping on.
My cell phone rings. RANSOM.
“Kai,” Donnie says in a whisper when I answer, “we’re going to walk the Crater Rim Trail to The Steaming Bluff.”
“Steaming Bluff?” I say. “Did you see the warning at the hotel desk?” A picture of the almost mystical steam vents comes to mind: wisps of vapor floating up from dozens of openings in the lava rock and hovering over the trail. Eerily beautiful. But the super-heated underground water that rises in misty beauty can carry potentially lethal fumes, such as the Park Service sign warned about. Fumes that may make breathing difficult for even the most robust tourist.
“There’s no stopping Rex,” she says. “If there were, we wouldn’t be here. And you wouldn’t either.”
“Okay, I’ll follow you.”
I hop off the bed, head downstairs, and step outside onto the Crater Rim Trail, where it passes in front of the Volcano House. I move around the corner of the hotel and wait for the Ransoms to show.
Five minutes pass, and finally they come hand-in-hand, working their way across the lawn to the trail. She’s steadying him as they step onto the path. Rex Ransom looks no more healthy than he did on the airplane. He’s bent and his eyes point down. He hobbles along, a cane in the hand that isn’t held by his wife. Stroll is too elegant a word for how they walk. It’s more like a crawl. But the picture of the two together looks like devotion, despite the harsh tones coming from their room earlier.
The Ransoms head in the westerly direction, toward the steam vents and Halema‘uma‘u Crater. The trail by the hotel is more like a sidewalk, asphalt and a yard wide. A lava rock retaining wall, about waist high, stands between the cliff and the Kīlauea Caldera, hundreds of feet below. It’s late afternoon and the smell of sulfur hangs in the cool air. Aside from the sulfur, I can spot no immediate threat to the former geothermal king. I give the Ransoms a minute to clear the hotel before I come out of hiding.
Just as I emerge, a middle-aged man also steps from the hotel and onto the trail. He’s got a touch of grey in his sideburns and is talking on his cell phone. He shuts the phone and heads in the same direction as the Ransoms.
This is good. If the man stays on the trail between them and me, he will provide concealment. But the more I consider this, the less likely it seems. The man looks fit and should easily overtake the toddling couple. I follow him, not expecting to see him for long.
Ahead of both of us, the Ransoms are barely moving.
To my surprise the man with a touch of grey travels as slowly as they do. And it’s not because he’s stopping at every turn to gawk at the caldera below. He’s just ambling along, eyes ahead, keeping pace with the Ransoms. I maintain the same pace, at a distance. The trail loses the asphalt and the lava rock wall upon leaving the Volcano House and turns to gravel, bordered by tree ferns. The caldera side of the trail sprouts guardrails. The tree ferns called hapu‘u climb high overhead like giant green umbrellas. They look primitive and Jurassic. I might expect a dinosaur as much as a human assailant to jump out around the next bend.
The air warms as we approach the steam vents and smells increasingly like rotten eggs. The sun tries to burn through the sulfur-infused vapor, but manages only a pale wafer in the sky.
Ahead on the misty trail I can barely make out the red blooms of the native flowering ‘ōhi’a, the tree that mad woman Serena Barrymore, a
.k.a. Goddess Hi‘iaka killed for. As I get closer I see a bird hovering above the ‘ōhi’a, whose breast and head are also red—the Hawaiian honeycreeper called ‘Apapane. The man with a touch of grey isn’t noticing the tree or the bird. He’s watching the Ransoms. I’m thinking this is no coincidence. I know what to look for. And this guy is a professional. Or an amateur masquerading as a professional. Is this another foe to add to my list?
The man keeps pace with the Ransoms. He walks by the pale-yellow and red berries of the ‘ōhelo plant—a traditional favorite of Pele—growing about waist high on the side of the trail. He doesn’t seem to notice the berries. It’s a little early in March to harvest the ‘ōhelo, but already the plants have clusters about the size of blueberries. Donnie Ransom could pick the berries and offer them to the goddess, if my client truly believes Pele plans revenge on her husband. A ritual offering thrown into the fire pit might just do the trick. Or at least make Donnie feel better.
But the Ransoms walk by the ‘ōhelo. And so does the man following them.
The trail keeps meandering, and I keep losing the Ransoms and then picking them up again. At one turn when they stop, the man stops too, and glances back at me. I see him make what appears to be a mental note. Does he think I’m following him? Does he think I’m following the Ransoms? He pulls his cell phone again and makes another call. He’s done within twenty seconds. Strange.
We all start moving again—the Ransoms, the man between us, and me. The trail twists and turns, emerges from the overgrown jungle, and then weaves along the cliff to The Steaming Bluff.
The Ransoms stop at the first vent along the trail, a gaping hole in the earth the size of a compact car. Steam wafts up thicker than chimney smoke. The fumes can’t be good for Ransom, who looks every bit the candidate for another heart attack. The only thing between the former CEO and the smoldering abyss are two slim guardrails on the edge of the trail. But a man of his size could easily slip through them. He leans over the top rail to get a better look. Mrs. Ransom is a half step away from becoming a widow. She scolds him.