“Lot of anger building up out here, Jim.”
“The damned police aren't cooperating, Tony. They had George Oniiwah two days before us, and yet they chose to say nothing about him.”
“Wrote him off as a suspect, I'd say, so why bother you with him, Jim. You're overreacting.”
“God dammit, Tony, do you know how long I've tried to get an island-wide task force put together on the Trade Winds Killer?”
“I know... I know...”
“I was told by the commissioner of police of Honolulu— guaranteed, mind you—that whatever they know, we know.”
Tony sat up at this. “And we'd extend the same courtesy?”
“Which I've been damned careful to do.”
“Oh, like you've told Scanlon every single result of the two autopsies on his cops?”
“Fully informed Scanlon, yes.”
Tony nodded approvingly. “And the girl's arm?”
“They've got it, as does the military, thanks to Marshal, and the county, and the state.” Parry's voice began to drag along with the list of need-to-knows. 'This case is turning into a political soccer game.”
“So you've held nothing back?”
Parry thought of the bloodstains found on Kaniola's hands, the blood belonging to Linda Kahala. It was the one item of information he had withheld. “Nothing,” he lied.
“Then I guess those bastards are shafting us, Chief.”
“Wouldn't be surprised if they didn't have a hand with the sledgehammers.”
“Only an off-duty cop on a drunk would be that reckless to risk his job, Chief.”
“Yeah, maybe.”
They were at Parry's house, where they exchanged their good nights, Tony assuring him that he'd pick him up at eight sharp. Parry trundled off to his door, a small ranch home, well manicured and out of the mainstream of Honolulu life in an area between Fort Shafter Military Reservation and the Likelike Highway on a dead-end street named Kiloni. It was quiet and serene here, no bustle or distractions, attractions or madness. He had had opportunities to move into a condo fronting Honolulu Harbor, but he'd never taken the step.
Inside the house there was a friendly emptiness, a solitude and stillness that were both warm and needed for his frayed nerves. The walls were lined with photos and paintings, primarily of mountain scenes he'd collected over the years, which shared space with a few citations.
He tore away his shirt and wandered through the well-furnished living room to the refrigerator in the kitchen, searching for something to quench his thirst and to nibble on. He couldn't decide which was more pressing, his hunger, his fatigue or his need for a shower to wash off the filth of a day that seemed steeped in grime. He gave a thought to Claxton, to George Oniiwah, to the pair of eyes that belonged to the cowboy proprietor of the drug-fronting bar and grill, and then he recalled the slinking rats who'd destroyed his car.
He opted for the shower when he saw that his refrigerator needed re-stocking.
Prices in Oahu for such items as cereal, $6.99 for a twelve- ounce box, $4.00 for a gallon of milk, had become routine for him, acceptable, but keeping his place well stocked had always been a problem. Still, the beer was cold and chilled. He took one into the shower with him and drank as he lathered up.
Once he began to relax, the tension draining from his aching muscles and limbs, he thought of Jessica Coran, thought how wonderful it would be to step out of the shower and find her somehow magically transported here, waiting for him, her arms open, her lips inviting.
“Crazy fantasizing bastard,” he admonished himself, stepped from the shower and halfheartedly toweled off, the muscles of his chest heaving with the effort. It was past midnight. Honolulu was wide awake and Honolulu cops were on the prowl for the Trade Winds Killer, on the lookout for young women who matched the description of those already brutalized by the killer. FBI agents, too, were posted at strategic locations along the strip. Every disturbance call was being taken seriously, at least everyone but those involving an FBI vehicle demolition.
Tomorrow, he'd shift to nights, to help out in the street surveillance operation. Tony would join him, spelling other agents he'd sent out.
The phone rang; he didn't want to pick it up; didn't want to hear any more bad news today; wasn't sure he could take any more. No one but Tony knew for certain that he was home. He let it ring. On the fourth ring, he gripped the receiver, started to pick it up, but cursed instead. When he did pick it up there was only a dial tone.
He had made a lot of mistakes tonight, he told himself, and not answering the call might have just added to them. Suppose there was another disappearance. Suppose a kidnapping had been foiled. Maybe a candidate for the Cane Cutter'd been apprehended. It could have been Kal Haley and Terri Reno calling with good news.
“More likely bad news,” he muttered to himself, trying to shrug off the phone call when the damnable thing rang again. This time he picked it up on the second ring.
“You son of a bitch, Parry!”
It was Dave Scanlon, police commissioner of Honolulu, angry as hell.
“Something bothering you, Dave?”
“You, you bastard! You fucking held out on me. One of my cops has the victim's blood on his hands and you don't see fit to tell me? And now it's going to be all over the goddamned morning papers, thanks to that goddamned kanaka!”
“Kaniola?”
“Who the hell you think called to corroborate the information?”
“How the hell did he get it?”
“You tell me, Mr. FBI. Frankly, Parry, I don't give a mongoose shit how in hell he got it. I want to know why I wasn't informed.”
“No one had that information outside our lab this morning. I was going to alert you when—”
“When! Yeah, when it suited you. And what about this hypothesis that the Trade Winds Killer is a white male between the ages of twenty-seven and forty who's wielding a cane cutter? How did the papers get that?”
“Not from my office.”
“No, I suppose not. I suppose your hands are spotless.”
“Believe me, Scanlon, it didn't come from this direction.”
“Sounds like you've got a leaky valve somewhere, pal. And I understand you're on foot these days.'“
The delight in his voice gave Jim Parry a visual image of the smirk on Scanlon's face. It dawned on Parry that every cop in the city knew about his vehicle.
“Any information withheld from the public and your office, Scanlon, was done for the good of us all, for the sake, god damnit, of peace. Now you're telling me that the headlines in the Ala Ohana are going to read that a white man is stalking Hawaiian women with a cane cutter?”
“And the goddamned English papers'll be running a counter- story, saying that Alan Kaniola was Linda Kahala's murderer!”
“A little information in the wrong hands.” Parry's words tumbled out in a sigh. “Dangerous as a cornered mongoose in a cradle.”
“I had a right to know beforehand, Parry. We had an agreement, I thought. You broke faith.”
“Faith hell, Scanlon! You've been withholding information since day one on this and—”
Scanlon hung up.
“Christ,” moaned Parry. Things were fast getting out of hand.
A half hour later he was sound asleep, but rudely awakened by the insistent phone ringing at his bedside. This time it was the melodic, whiskey-voiced Dr. Coran, her tone tinged with an icicle of agitation as she told him about her earlier meeting with Joseph Kaniola.
He was instantly angry with her. “But why'd you tell him anything, Dr. Coran? It should have occurred to you that you were talking to the most irresponsible newspaperman on the island. One of the most vocal lobbyists for Hawaiian sovereignty, a leader in the nationalist party here.”
“He promised it wouldn't be used in the paper.”
“It'll be all over the island tomorrow. I've already had calls on it. Damnit.”
“I'm sorry, but he is the father. He had a right to know as next of kin, and he promis
ed what we spoke of was off the record.”
“And you believed him?”
“I did, at the time.”
“The man must've been following your movements the whole time and you trusted him?”
“I did what I felt best, under the circumstances.”
“Well now the circumstances have changed, drastically.”
“Thanks to me,” she replied.
He softened his tone. “Look, I suppose it would've had to have come out in another twenty-four hours or so anyway. Don't lose anymore sleep over it.”
“Did you have any luck at the college?”
“We have a lead, but it's going to take time to pursue, learned a few details about the last days of Lina... Linda Kahala's life.”
“I see.”
“Funny, I'd hoped to hear from you,” he managed to say, “but not about this.”
“Oh? And what had you hoped to hear about?”
“About how you enjoyed spending the late afternoon with me, that's all. Listen, you said you used to go deer hunting often with your father?”
“Well, yes,” she said. “I did.”
“I know a place in the islands where deer season is just opening.”
“Here, in Hawaii? You have deer?”
“Imported, but yes, real live deer. On the island of Molokai.”
“Sounds like a great trip. Have you hunted on the island?”
“Yeah, once. I have to warn you: It's a wilderness section.”
“No problem. I love the wilderness.”
“I mean, it might be difficult getting around.”
By her silence, he knew that she understood his concern was with her bad leg and the cane. Finally, she said, “Don't worry. If you can arrange it, nothing'll stop my accompanying you to Molokai. Well, I'd best say good night now. Let us both get some rest.”
“Expect to read about our case in the papers tomorrow,” he warned her.
“I hope I haven't completely ruined things.”
“I hope we don't have a race war on our hands.”Silence for a moment. “Do you really think it could get so... out of control as to—”
“Like L.A., we have our minority held pretty much in economic bondage; these people are very close, very strong in their family ties; it's really all they have. I've already seen evidence of their frustration and anger played out on my car tonight.”
“Oh, no,” she gasped into the phone. “You weren't hurt, were you?”
“My car was totally dismantled and destroyed while I wasn't looking, but otherwise, I'm unhurt.”
“You think that some of Kaniola's well-meaning friends may've been behind it?”
“No, not likely, although who knows for sure...”
“Christ, I wish I'd kept my mouth shut around the man. I hope I haven't screwed things up to the point—”
“I don't fault you, Jessica,” he said. “You couldn't know the depth of feeling between the whites and non-whites here in paradise.”
“Shoulda known better.”
Her deep, breathy voice alone made it all worthwhile, he thought, listening to her every word.
“Forget it. We go on from here.”
“Dammit, Parry, you're being too goddamned nice. I just fried you and all you can say is—”
“Night, Jess.”
He hung up, not allowing her another word, glad to have the last word, pleased to have heard the sound of her voice again, and totally frustrated on learning that the leak Scanlon referred to had indeed come home to roust at his doorstep. As upset as Scanlon was, he knew there'd be a great deal more hell to pay come sunup.
Suddenly, he could no longer sleep. He got up, fixed himself a cup of steaming-hot tea and switched on a tape player that'd remained on his table all week. Once more he listened to the voices of Thom Hilani and Alan Kaniola from the moment Kaniola picked up the “suspicious”-looking, dark or maroon Buick sedan barreling up toward Koko Head at a fairly high rate of speed at 1:43 A.M.
“HPD 12, this is Hilani, Unit 2E, Sector Bravo. I have you and the sedan in sight. Can I be of assistance, since you're such a fucklick?”
“This is Dispatch Officer A312. No can make dat kine talk on dis frequency, Officer Hilani.”
“Friendlies're hard to fine out heah,” replies Thom Hilani.
“Fall in behind me, 2E.” Kaniola's invitation gives no sign of agitation until his next words. “Shit, Dispatch I've lost sight of him off the hairpin just before the Blow Hole.”
Hilani's reply is clipped and angry, a blaring motorcycle horn providing a backdrop to his curses. “Damnit, brah! Whataya doing backin' into me fo'? Almost run my ass over!”
“Call in our position, Hilani.”
“No readin' this mother by no book. HQ, this is HPD 12 and 2E, leaving unit to investigate abandoned suspect vehicle. Our location is the Blow Hole, over.”
“Roger that,” replies Dispatch.
Neither man mentions why he fails to call in a DMV check on the plates. The transmissions simply end. After an uncomfortable amount of time Dispatch tries to hail the two dead cops. There was already much criticism circulating about how Hilani and Kaniola didn't properly execute procedures, that they should have secured the area around the car, got that license plate, called it in, and called for reinforcements up there. But Parry, who'd now listened to the tape sixteen times, was convinced that these two men had not been given an opportunity to respond and had had good reason for their every action, because the plate was intentionally obscured. “No readin' this mother by no book,” Hilani had said.
Hilani, Kaniola and Lina Kahala's deaths were all linked as closely with their Hawaiian blood as with anything else. Hawaiians, by nature, were open and honest to a fault, like the Eskimos, inviting terror into their lives without even recognizing it for what it was, he thought. For now he allowed the tape to replay, but his attention floated away to the book lying next to him on the table, Lina Kahala's book of sonnets.
He lifted it, felt its heft in his hands, squeezed it in a fantastic hope that in doing so some clue would ooze from the damned thing, but the book remained as silent as ever.
In the still of the Hawaiian night, he feels time slow to a crawling, halting stop. He opens the pages and reads as he has each night from the dark passages the young woman, now beyond this life, had once marked for him to find.
Shakespeare's words... her words flow off the tongue easily, like a timeless riddle, and he wonders anew if he hasn't been placed on this earth to unite Lina with her prophet, Shakespeare, whom Jim Parry has never before thought of as a poet of darkness and despair. He wonders, too, what he has missed, what has escaped his eye and his consciousness.
He keenly feels that he is being haunted by Lina, that she pleads with him from every crevice and dark corner of his universe, that she is asking him specifically to untie the twisted ribbon of darkness that somehow links Lina with an embittered, saddened poet and her killer. What is the link that binds a white man who lived hundreds of years before in a place alien to all that Lina knew—England—and an adolescent teenaged girl trying to find herself in modern Hawaii, who instead finds a killer?
Does the book belong to the killer? Whose name, spoiled by water damage, has been all but erased? The killer's? Or someone close to the killer?
Why has he been so reluctant to turn the book over to the lab. to let the analysts conduct tests, to restore the badly damaged ink, to re-invent the name in the dark smudges? Why hasn't he let go of the book? Is it his only connection with the killer, or with Lina? If he loses this connection, does he lose all connection with her?
His tea is gone. He stares into the dregs wishing he could read something into them like some psychic, some fictional sleuth who, in the absence of reason, acts on instinct alone and wins. But heroes often fail, like the song says.
The night offers little more than an empty feeling inside him now—nothing more. He is left to pace, to think of his heavy responsibility, his burden to put an end to this madman.
He paces until exhausted, until he again finds himself staring into the mirror and wondering if the killer, too, is awake at this ungodly hour, if he is pacing and staring at himself through a looking glass, questioning himself, his next step, wondering if he can go on, doubting his resolve to reach seven murders this season. Parry stares longer into the looking glass, and knowing the killer to be out there, he wonders if the killer is staring back at himself, pulling at facial stubble, washing white skin, or rinsing brown skin?
Unable to account for or remember his night's slumber, Parry, stupefied, awakens to the sound of military aircraft beating a thunderous approach and retreat overhead, as if he and his modest home are under siege. It is as if he has not slept at all.
10
O Rose, thou art sick.
The invisible worm
That flies in the night
In the howling storm,
Has found out thy bed
Of crimson joy,
And his dark secret love
Does thy life destroy.
William Blake, “The Sick Rose”
July 16. 9 A.M., FBI Headquarters. Honolulu
“Joe Kaniola's put your shit, my shit, everybody's shit on the street, in print, front page of his rag!” shouted Scanlon at the top of his lungs. “Only good news is nobody reads it and it's in Hawaiian. Course, it's going to be picked up and translated by every paper in the islands and on the fuckin' radio and TV and the mainland anyway, a story like this... Christ, Parry!”
Scanlon was a bear of a man, broad-shouldered and barrel- chested, whose once-hard, chiseled face had collapsed in and was now jowly and square, a near-hidden cleft chin below the folds, and a surprisingly thin nose no longer at ease with a pair of near-closed, squinting colorless eyes. There was a history between Parry and Scanlon, Jim Parry's office having embarrassed the HPD in the past on more than one occasion, but particularly on the Daiporice murders when Parry had, after extensive examination of the facts, quickly linked several island scams which had led to a brutal professional killing. It turned out the hit man was contracted for by a high-ranking city official who was dirtier than most Mafia types Parry had known.
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