Fire Prayer

by Deborah Turrell Atkinson

  “You mind driving?”

  Storm took the keys. “No problem. You want to drop by the doctor’s on the way?”

  “No, there’s nothing a doctor can do right now. I’ll go see someone when we get home.” He climbed in the passenger’s seat, and got a folded paper out of his jeans pocket and opened it to scrawled directions. “Head toward Kaunakakai, but we’ll turn before we get to town.”

  Storm followed his directions. “Where’s he live?”

  Hamlin looked at his notes. “Ho‘olehua. You know that area?”

  “A general idea. I think it’s Hawaiian Homestead land.”

  Storm bumped down the driveway and out onto the road as gently as she could. Hamlin winced. “I appreciate your coming along.”

  Storm knew it would be hopeless to suggest the doctor again, so she just smiled at him. “So happens I like the company, plus I’m curious about this guy.”

  “Me too, but I wish he didn’t sound like a racist.”

  “He’s probably okay. Wasn’t he the one arrested for that fire ten years ago? Sounds like he had some bad experiences with the law and local land owners.”

  “That’s an excuse?”

  “Course not. But it might be a reason he’s wary.” She remembered when she was picked up for growing marijuana in a sugar cane field on the Big Island. Aunt Maile, Uncle Keone, and Miles Hamasaki, her father’s best friend and her own legal mentor, conspired to send her to O‘ahu for the rest of her high school years. Only much later did she realize how lucky she’d been, and how narrowly she’d escaped a downward spiral of trouble.

  “He was probably very frustrated,” Storm said.

  Hamlin made a snorting noise and Storm glanced at him, worried. Maybe his shoulder was more painful than he was letting on.

  “Remember, back then, the ranch owners didn’t listen—they weren’t local.” The minute the words were out of her mouth, Storm knew they were the wrong ones.

  “You mean they were haole, don’t you?”

  “No, I didn’t mean race,” she said quickly. “I meant they didn’t understand the needs of the people who live here.”

  “That makes it okay to break the law? Damage property? Kill someone?” Hamlin’s voice rose with each question.

  “We don’t know he did that.” Storm kept her voice calm and even.

  “It couldn’t be legally proven, you mean. People knew what happened.”

  “People talked because he was one of the protestors, but they didn’t know who started the fire.”

  “In a community this size, people know. They stick together and don’t discuss it with outsiders, then they ostracize whoever breaks the local code of behavior.” Hamlin flexed his shoulder and winced. “Lambert Poele is probably a very bad dude.”

  He turned his head to look out the side window, and Storm could no longer see his face. What was eating at him? How had the conversation gone downhill so quickly?

  “Let’s wait until we meet him. If he seems hostile, we’ll leave.” She paused. “Maybe your client can tell you why his son went to see him.”

  “I called him when you went to wash up. He said he didn’t know Poele, and asked me to look into why Brock visited him.”

  Storm sighed. That must have been a grim phone call, which might explain part of his black mood.

  “Poele’s not going to shoot us. The guy’s not a maniac.” She tried to sound reassuring.

  “You’re right, he’s smart enough to realize people will know where we are.”

  “Right.” Storm nodded and turned onto a dirt road that was pitted with a series of dusty potholes. They bumped along for several minutes.

  “It’s dry up here, that’s for sure.”

  “This can’t be an easy place to live,” Hamlin said.

  “Especially if you’re being hounded to sell your homestead.”

  “I don’t mean right here.” He finally looked over at her. “I mean the whole island.”

  “Some people wouldn’t leave for all the money in the world. It’s loaded with history, legend, and folklore.”

  “Still, a community this small, without enough jobs. Idle people can be brutal. Imagine the discontent, the judgments, the gossip.”

  “Kind of like where I grew up. The Big Island was—still is—economically depressed. But people there stick together. They got me through my mom’s death.”

  The truck crested a long rise and the two of them looked out over the Kaiwi Channel. The rounded green hills of O‘ahu glimmered across the sapphire expanse.

  “See?” Storm pointed. “Where else could you walk out of your house and see this?”

  “It comes at a price. It’s probably why Dusty’s daughter left. What do you want to bet she had her baby out of wedlock?”

  “She wouldn’t be condemned for that. It’s fairly common here.”

  “She’d leave out of hopelessness.”

  “Hopelessness?” Storm gripped the steering wheel. She was running out of patience. “That’s a point of view, Ian. We don’t know what these families feel. There’s a lot to be said for the support and love of a small community.” He knew her history; he should know better than to make negative comments about people he didn’t know and a place he didn’t understand.

  Hamlin didn’t reply, but the set of his mouth was hard.

  Storm stopped about fifty yards from a small frame cabin that sat on posts about three feet off the ground. Five goats trotted toward the truck, while others lingered at the home’s front steps to watch their approach. She took a deep breath to calm herself, and then opened her door. “Ian, let’s not argue. Please? Let’s see what Lambert Poele is like before we draw our conclusions.”

  They climbed from the truck, and Storm led the way to the simple little house. Hamlin walked stiffly a step or two behind. The goats moved next to them, observing with their cat-like pupils. They jostled to get closer, but didn’t get near enough to be touched.

  Storm and Hamlin were still twenty or thirty feet from the door when a muscular man in his late forties or early fifties stepped from the house. A few inches taller than Storm’s five-eight, he had a red bandana tied around his head, Indian-style. He stopped on the over-grazed tufts of what might have been a front lawn and stood, wide-stanced, with his arms tightly folded across his chest.

  “Hey, whassup?”

  Storm introduced herself and Ian Hamlin, who nodded without speaking. They stopped at a polite distance, not close enough to offer a handshake.

  “Not too many people come up here.”

  “Maybe we should have called first,” Storm said.

  “S’okay.” He leaned to tousle the ears of a goat that nuzzled the pocket of his shorts, and Storm could see that his gray hair was tied in a ponytail that hung to the middle of his back. The black T-shirt he wore had been washed so many times its logo was an indecipherable smudge.

  “I know why you’re here. We need to talk story, figure some things out.” Poele gestured to the front stairs and a tattered folding chair that looked as if it hadn’t been moved from the hard-packed dirt for decades. “Excuse me, I don’t get too many visitors. Only one chair, but please sit. The view’s good, anyway.”

  Hamlin hesitated, then sat on the stoop and cradled his injured arm in his lap. Storm sat next to him. Poele reached behind them into the shade under the house, and pulled out a faded plastic cooler. The goats ventured nearer. There were at least a dozen of them in varying sizes.

  Poele grinned at his visitors. “Cocktail hour.” One of the goats butted his rear end gently when he bent over. He pulled four bottles of beer and a bag of pretzels from the cooler, popped one of the beers, and poured most of it into a battered Frisbee that lay on the ground nearby. He then threw out a handful of pretzels. A half-dozen goats clustered around the Frisbee and the rest went after the pretzels.

  Storm laughed. “They drink beer?”

  “Some of ’em. Funny, yeah?” He handed Hamli
n and Storm their own bottles. “Sorry, no glasses. But I won’t make you drink out of a Frisbee.” He chuckled.

  Storm wondered what tidbits of information had drifted along the coconut wireless to arrive at this remote spot. He seemed to have been expecting them. Local courtesy required the trio to go through a brief ritual of getting to know each other before jumping to business, and she hoped Hamlin would remember this.

  Hamlin looked edgy, and so far he’d refrained from speaking, which was better than being too pushy. Poele either hadn’t noticed his standoffishness or ignored it. The Hawaiian dropped into the old chair, which creaked with his weight, looked back and forth between the two of them, and downed half the bottle. When he lowered it, his smile had disappeared.

  “I heard already,” he said, and his eyes drifted, unfocused, toward the ocean.

  “You heard?” That was fast, even for the coconut wireless. Storm wondered if Uncle Keone and Detective Niwa had reached the body yet.

  “E hānai ‘awa a ikaika ka makani,” he whispered, before his gaze met Storm’s and she saw the shine of tears. “A prayer for the dead. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

  Storm opened her mouth, thrown off balance by his emotion. No one else seemed to like Brock Liu.

  Hamlin finally spoke. “How’d you—”

  Poele ignored him and spoke to Storm. “You local?”

  “Yes. Born on the Big Island.”

  “Hawaiian?”

  “Half,” Storm said softly. “My mother was Hawaiian. My aunt—”

  “Is a healer.” Poele picked at the label on his sweating beer bottle. “She’ll know that prayer.”

  Hamlin tried again. “So when did you see him last?”

  “What?” Poele frowned at Hamlin, his sad expression replaced with one of confusion. “Who?”

  “Wait a sec.” Storm laid a hand on Hamlin’s arm. “Who’s the prayer for?”

  “Jenny. Isn’t that why you drove up here? You knew her, right?”

  Storm felt like she’d been punched in the chest. “Jenny Williams?”

  “Yeah.” Poele got to his feet. “Why are you here? What’s going on?”

  “I just saw her.” Storm could hardly get the words out. God, poor Luke. About the same age she’d been when her own mother had died.

  “Jesus, what time?” Poele stood in the shadow of his house, but his eyes burned as if lit from behind. “Was anyone else there?”

  “Who the hell is Jenny?” Hamlin’s tone cut through their shock.

  Storm stood up and held her hands, palms out, toward both men. “Hamlin, remember I told you about my high school friend? We’re talking about his wife. I stopped to see her yesterday afternoon, around four-thirty.”

  “She’s dead, too?” Hamlin looked back and forth between Poele and Storm.

  “She died sometime last night,” Poele said. “But who are you talking about?”

  “We found a body in the woods this afternoon,” Storm said. He’d hear about it soon, anyway. “It’s not identified, but it’s been there a while.”

  “How long?” Poele asked quickly, and leaned toward Storm. He appeared to be holding his breath.

  “We couldn’t tell. A week or two, I’d guess.”

  Poele sat down in his chair with a soft sigh. “So why you asking me about it?”

  Storm ignored the question and paced back and forth in front of the steps. “I can’t believe Jenny is dead. How did it happen?”

  Poele shook his head sadly. “Head wound, but so far, no one knows how she got it. Could have fallen, I guess.”

  “How did you find out?” Hamlin asked. He sat stiffly, with his arm draped across his lap. His good hand gripped a mostly full beer. Storm downed the rest of hers.

  “I know a guy in the police department. He called me.” Poele handed Storm another bottle and offered one to Hamlin, who shook his head. “Was anyone with Jenny when you saw her?”

  “She called out to her son, but I didn’t see anyone else.” If she told him about the argument she’d overheard, the gossip would spread like a brush fire. “I talked to her from the front door.”

  “She didn’t ask you in?”

  Storm didn’t want to make Jenny sound inhospitable. “She thought I was collecting for a charity.”

  “She was drinking, wasn’t she?” He didn’t say it as if he expected an answer.

  “She didn’t seem drunk.”

  Poele opened another beer and sank lower in his chair. “Hā‘awe i ke kua; hi‘i i ke alo. She was a woman with many burdens.”

  “Do you know Makani, the ranch hand?” Hamlin asked.

  Poele nodded. “Sure, Makani Kekapu. He’s been here since he was a teenager. Helps his uncle on the Ranch.”

  “His uncle?”

  “You know. Dusty Rodriguez, the overseer.”

  Storm sat up straighter. She’d have to ask Uncle Keone about the daughter Dusty had lost. Makani would have been her first cousin.

  “How about Brock Liu?” Hamlin asked.

  “Brock Liu?” Poele kicked a small rock across the dirt yard. “That guy get one chiisai chimpo.”

  “What?” Hamlin’s voice was sharp.

  If Storm hadn’t been so upset at the news about Jenny Williams, she would have laughed. Instead, she mustered up a smile for Hamlin.

  “He’s got a little dick,” she said. “Metaphorically speaking.”

  “Right.” Hamlin didn’t smile. “When did you last see him?”

  Poele took a long pull on his beer. “Two, three weeks ago. I forget the exact date. He left here in his big SUV after he made another offer on my land. I turned him down, of course, and he threatened me. Again. Nothing new.” Poele squinted at Hamlin. “Why? You think that body is Brock?”

  “He’s missing. That’s all we know right now.”

  “I’m broken hearted.” Poele snorted. “Hope he stays that way. Missing, that is. And I’m not alone.”

  “He pissed off other people, too?” Storm asked.

  “He’s a shit. Ask Delia Tsue.”

  “They go out?” Storm remembered Delia’s reticence when she’d asked about Liu.

  “Used to. She kicked his ass out. Had to get a restraining order.”

  “Why?” Hamlin asked.

  “He broke her nose.” Poele popped open another beer. “At least, that’s the part I know about.”

  “What did he threaten you with?” Hamlin asked.

  “Told me I might have a fire. Out here, so far from everyone.” Poele took a big swallow of beer and burped. He seemed about as disturbed as if Liu had threatened him with flat tires.

  “As you may know, I have a rocky relationship with fire. His comment was in bad taste, to say the least.” Poele’s mouth twisted. “Then he told me he’d have my water diverted.” With this statement, his face darkened. Storm had the impression he believed that threat.

  “And then?” Hamlin asked.

  “He left. Slammed the doors of his big truck and sent up a dust cloud that lasted hours.” Poele waved his hand in the air.

  “You haven’t seen him since?”

  “I don’t know where he is. I mean that.” Poele looked over at Storm. “You seen Tanner lately?”

  “No, I was going to try to meet up with him tomorrow.” Storm picked at the label on her beer bottle. “Did he know Brock Liu?”

  “This is a small island and Brock Liu thought of himself as a big shot. Everyone knew him.” Poele’s answer was brusque. “How do you get hold of Tanner? He doesn’t have a phone.”

  Storm pulled a note from her pocket and read what she had.

  “That’s the Hawai‘i EcoTour number,” Poele said. “Not a bad place to track him down. He works for Skelly sometimes.”

  “Do you see him often?” she asked.

  “Hardly ever. Lotta wilderness out there. You can get lost on this island if you want to.” He looked sad. “I wonder if he knows about Jenny yet.
”

  “When did you last see her?” Storm asked.

  “Last week, Thursday.” He finished off his beer and popped another.

  “Did she talk about any fears or problems?”

  “Oh, no.” A sly grin erased his previous expression of sorrow.

  “I take it you two had a relationship?” Hamlin asked.

  “I never kish and tell.” Storm could see at least four beer bottles under Poele’s chair. The conversation was going to deteriorate.

  Storm got to her feet. “Lambert, thanks for the cocktail hour. You mind if I use your bathroom before we drive back?”

  Poele threw a hand in the direction of the front door. “Down the hall to the right.”

  Storm went in and paused to let her eyes adjust to the small, unlit space. The setting sun had thrown the sitting room into deep shadow, but she could see the book-lined shelves that covered the walls. No TV, just books. A small, lumpy sofa and a comfortable recliner with a good reading lamp next to it. That’s where he spent his evenings, she figured—after beers with the goats. No wonder he wanted them to know he had a relationship with another human.

  Storm peered at the book draped over the recliner’s broad arm. Ka oihana kahuna mamua aku, by John Webber. She picked it up to see if there was an English translation. Poele’s facility with the Hawaiian language was impressive. No translation, but a flyer marked Poele’s place in the book, and it was a lurid blue. “Paradise Quest, a development by Liu & Sons.” Scrawled across the top was a phone number. She’d bet a six-pack it was Brock Liu’s.

  On the first trip down the short hall, Storm passed the bathroom and reached a small bedroom at the end. A twin bed and a desk took up the space, and both the bed and desk were covered with newspapers, manuscripts, and more books. Piles overflowed onto the floor. Storm took a step into the room, which looked like an office. She’d find a scrap of paper to record the phone number on the flyer. Just in case the two beers she’d gulped in quick succession on an empty stomach fogged her memory.

  Right. If she was honest with herself, she wanted to find more information about the Lius’ development corporation. A date of the visit would be nice, too. It would also be interesting to see what other books Lambert read in his spare time, considering his past activism.