by Dan Simmons
“Yep,” said Briggs.
“The local cops will shit bricks.”
“Yep,” Briggs said again, obviously not interested in how the local cops would react He shifted the sledgehammer from his left shoulder to his right and looked at Dillon. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
Dillon raised a thick eyebrow.
Briggs nodded toward a six-cell flashlight “I figure it might be best for one of us to hold the light while the other knocks down the wall.”
Dillon picked up the flashlight. “OK.”
Briggs lifted some plastic goggles from the desk, put them on, shoved the desk aside with one massive hand, set the sledgehammer appraisingly against the widest section of the crack, and said, “You’d better stand back.”
There was not much room to stand back in, but Dillon moved to the far wall and raised the flashlight.
“Pull your piece, too,” said Briggs.
Dillon looked at the other man. “Why? Do you think whatever got Wills is going to come out of that crack to get you?”
Briggs did not smile. “Keep your flashlight and the Glock aimed on the hole as I widen it,” he said.
Dillon did not like taking orders, but he shrugged and pulled the 9mm pistol from its holster. The overhead lights were bright enough in this small room, but he aimed the flashlight at the hole, holding it in his left hand directly above the pistol in his right hand just as he had been trained, both flashlight beam and barrel swiveling together. “Ready,” he said.
Pete Briggs raised the sledgehammer and swung it full force against the wall.
Eleanor had watched the sun set into the ocean from the beach near her hale and then walked to the Shipwreck Bar for a drink. There were a scattering of guests sitting around, occupying only a few of the many tables set out under the thatched roof of the bar or on the flagstone terrace overlooking the beach. Eleanor sat by herself at the edge of the terrace, ordered a gin and tonic, and sipped it as the sky to the west shifted through pink to purple to a dying violet. Palm trees cut serrated silhouettes against the sky. Eleanor could see the glow to the east as the volcano light illuminated the ash cloud, which had shifted direction again, bringing an overcast to the Kona Coast. The beach and walkways were empty until a single Hawaiian runner, clad only in a traditional loincloth, ran down the path carrying a long torch with which he lighted the many gas braziers and torches that lined the walkways. The flames whipped and sizzled in the rising wind.
She was lost in thought—about the day, about the dog and its grisly toy, and about her strange quest here, when she looked up to find Cordie Stumpf standing over her with a bottle of beer and a glass in her hand. “Hey, Nell, mind if I join you?”
“Of course not,” said Eleanor, thinking, Nell? She rather liked it. Each generation of spinsters in her family had acquired a nickname by which she was known through her later years—Aunt Kidder, Aunt Mittie, Aunt Tam, Aunt Beanie—Eleanor thought that she could live with “Aunt Nell.”
“That was quite a runaround this afternoon, wasn’t it?” said Cordie, sipping her beer.
Eleanor nodded, still watching the fading sky.
“Trumbo definitely wanted to sweep the whole thing under the rug,” said Cordie. “The cops haven’t contacted me. Have you seen ’em?”
“No,” said Eleanor.
“I bet Trumbo hasn’t even called them.”
“Why wouldn’t he?” said Eleanor. Far out to sea, a sailing ship was a triangular silhouette against the fading violet on the horizon. Despite the wind coming up, the ocean seemed perfectly calm, waves hardly breaking against the sand fifty feet away.
Cordie shrugged. “Probably trying to avoid the publicity.”
Eleanor shifted to look at the other woman. “How can he do that? We’re bound to tell someone soon. We could call the local police tonight…right now.”
Cordie poured more beer, drank, and licked foam from her thin lips. “Yeah, but we won’t. We’re on vacation.”
Eleanor did not know if Cordie was joking.
“Besides,” said Cordie, “I think Trumbo’s trying to sell the place. Maybe he’s just trying to hold off the news until he unloads it on those Japs I saw him driving around this morning.”
Eleanor winced at the word “Japs.” She said, “How do you know about Byron Trumbo?”
“The National Enquirer and A Current Affair,” said Cordie. “Haven’t you heard about his wife and girlfriend troubles?”
Eleanor shook her head.
“It’s worse than old Donald Trump a few years ago with whatshername. Trumbo’s in the process of divorcing a wife who was smart—she helped him build his empire—or at least that’s what her lawyer says. And then he started running around with this supermodel…”
“Maya Richardson,” said Eleanor, and drank the last of her gin and tonic.
Cordie grinned. “You do read the National Perspirer.”
“Just scan the headlines when I’m in line at the supermarket.”
“Yeah,” said Cordie. “Uh-huh. Well, A Current Affair says that Trumbo is having a new affair with a younger model. One that Maya hasn’t found out about yet.” She waved at the waiter. When the young man came over, Cordie showed him the card entitling them to free drinks for the rest of their stay and said, “We’ll try one of Mr. Trumbo’s favorite drinks. Pele’s Hair.”
“You mean Pele’s Fire,” said the waiter. He was blond, handsome, bronzed by the sun.
“Whatever,” said Cordie. “Bring two.” She watched the waiter’s rear end as he retreated.
“I’m not sure I should mix my drinks,” said Eleanor.
Cordie’s eyebrows went up. “Oh, did you want one?” She waited a moment and smiled. “Well, do you have an appetite after what we saw today?”
Eleanor hesitated. “I’m beginning to doubt what we saw today.”
“Oh, don’t doubt it,” said Cordie. “We saw what we saw. And I’ve seen weirder things.”
Eleanor started to ask what weirder things, but Cordie spoke up again, “And did you notice the dog?”
“Only that it was black,” said Eleanor. “And large. Like an oversized Labrador.”
Cordie leaned closer. “I saw it early this morning. Just as it was getting light. The same damn dog was running down the beach.”
“Oh, yes,” said Eleanor. “You asked me if I’d seen a black dog. I’d forgotten until now.”
Cordie nodded. “Did you notice its teeth? That’s why I asked you this morning if you’d seen it.”
“Its teeth?” Eleanor tried to remember. The dog had stood in front of them for only a few seconds before bolting off into the lava fields. She remembered the shock of realizing what was in its jaws, and the sense of something wrong about the animal, but nothing specific about the teeth. She shook her head. “What about its teeth?”
Cordie leaned back as their drinks were set down. When the boy was gone, she said, “It had human teeth.”
Eleanor blinked.
“It did,” said Cordie Stumpf, and pulled the tall drink closer to her. It was red, with a slice of orange floating in it. “As God is my witness, the damned dog had human teeth. Like dentures. The critter smiled at me this morning on the beach.”
“You must be mistaken,” said Eleanor.
“Uh-uh,” said Cordie. “I’ve had me as many dogs as I’ve had men in my life, and I know what they look like. This thing didn’t look right the first time I saw it. When it grinned at me this morning, I saw why. I might not have noticed this afternoon—what with that guy’s hand hanging out of its mouth and all—but I knew what to look for, and I did, and they were human teeth all right.”
Eleanor felt slightly dizzy. She liked Cordie Stumpf and did not want the other woman to be proven crazy. To hide her confusion, she pulled the tall drink to her, removed an umbrella and sprig of mint, and sipped it. “It’s sweet. I wonder what’s in it.”
“Everything,” said Cordie. “It’s like a Long Island Iced Tea with cherry flavoring an
d about four more kinds of alcohol thrown in. Two of these and I’ll be dancing naked on the bar.”
Eleanor tried to picture that, then quickly put the image out of her mind.
“Speaking of dancing naked,” said Cordie, “what do you think about that Paul?”
Eleanor swallowed. “What about him?”
Cordie smiled. “He’s got the serious hots for you, Nell.”
No one had ever used that phrase in Eleanor’s presence to the best of her recollection. She took a few seconds to reply. “You’re mistaken.”
“Uh-uh,” said Cordie.
“I have no interest in Dr. Kukali,” said Eleanor. She heard how stuffy it sounded—a professor reprimanding a student—but she could not help it.
“I know,” said Cordie, still smiling slightly. “I can tell. But I’m not sure Dr. K. can. Men are as dense as bricks sometimes.”
Eleanor decided to change the subject. “Anyway, Dr. Kukali said that he was driving back to Hilo this afternoon. He only lectures at the Mauna Pele once a week.”
“I don’t think so,” said Cordie. “I think he’s still here tonight.”
Eleanor took another sip of the drink. It was too sweet, but rather pleasant. “Why do you say that?”
Cordie nodded her head toward the entrance to the terrace behind Eleanor. “Because he just came in the bar and is coming over to our table.”
June 14, 1866, Kilauea Volcano—
When the Reverend Haymark broke through the crust of dried lava, my first thought was—“He will volatilize, and the resulting flames shall consume us all!” It was an unworthy thought. And the hypothesis remained untested, since the portly cleric fell through only to his outflung arms.
“Do not move to save me!” cried Reverend Haymark. His altruism was obviously much more evolved than that of either Mr. Clemens or myself, as neither the correspondent nor I had made or considered the slightest move to save our guide. Indeed, I doubted at that moment if I was capable of taking another step.
The cleric extricated himself with a great amount of heaving and wheezing, and crawled away from the hole on hands and knees. The glow of magma shone up through the jagged aperture. Rising carefully to his feet and relighting the lantern he had dropped, Reverend Haymark said, “Look around for the path. It is harder and more dried than this surface.”
Mr. Clemens and I cast around wildly, without moving our feet on the treacherous surface, but as far as the lantern light extended, the surface looked to be the same. Whatever different surface the path had offered, it was invisible in lantern light. We were lost without hope on this thin crust above a bottomless lake of lava.
“Quickly,” cried Reverend Haymark, “douse the lanterns.”
The correspondent looked as dubious at this suggestion as I felt, but we followed our portly guide’s example. A moment later, all was darkness except for the hellish glow from the lava lake we had departed and from the many cracks and fissures around us.
“I did not notice that we had strayed from the path by the look of the surface,” explained Reverend Haymark, his voice hushed, as if any loud noise would send the three of us hurtling through the rotten surface. “It was the sound.”
“How do you mean?” asked Mr. Clemens.
“The path was worn smooth. The untraveled areas retain these fine lava needles. Listen.” He moved his boot along the surface and we could hear a fine rasping as these tiny needles were crushed under his boot. “It was this sound that made me realize we had gone astray.”
I looked around in the darkness. Perhaps the path would be visible once we had found it again, but it was invisible now.
“Close your eyes!” cried the Reverend Haymark and did so himself, swinging his boot in small circles while he kept his weight on his left leg.
Mr. Clemens and I immediately saw the wisdom of our guide’s maneuver, and we closed our eyes and began searching out the telltale crunching sound with our boots. If anyone had been watching, it would have been a humorous sight—the three adventurers each standing on one leg in the hellish darkness, each moving a single leg in slow, cautious, ballet-like movements, eyes closed, each with an indelible expression of fear each time we took a step to increase the range of our searching. I expected to break through with each step and was certain that I could hear a general creaking, as if the entire surface was preparing to collapse under us like a shield of rotten ice.
“I’ve found it!” cried Samuel Clemens. The Reverend and I opened our eyes to see the correspondent with his right leg fully extended, his boot scraping an area far to our left. I did not see how he managed to keep his balance in such a comical pose.
“It sounds different,” he said. “I will have to take another step to see if my ears are trustworthy. It could be a thinner layer.”
“Please be careful, Mr. Clemens,” I said, realizing the absurdity of the statement even as I spoke.
The correspondent gave me a look, his eyes bright under those heavy brows. The red glow made him look like a mischievous demon.
“Miss Stewart,” he began earnestly.
“Yes?”
“If the crust does not hold me, would you carry back a message to California?”
My heart lurched. “Yes, Mr. Clemens.”
His voice was doleful. “Would you please look up all the young ladies I have ever wooed and tell each that her name was upon my lips when I went to my fate?”
There was no answer to such impertinence, so I said, “Take your step, Mr. Clemens.”
The correspondent took a long hop and landed on both feet, like a child playing at a game of leapfrog. The surface held. Mr. Clemens crouched, felt the surface with both hands, and announced, “This is the path. I can see where it leads from this angle.”
The half dozen or so paces it took for the Reverend Haymark and myself to join Mr. Clemens on the solid surface constituted the longest voyage of my life. Eventually, after we had ascertained that it was indeed the path we had followed to the lava lake and we had gotten our breath back, we lighted our lanterns and proceeded more carefully than before. The final few hundred yards across the hot surface and narrow fissures, seemingly so frightening during our voyage out, seemed child’s play after the terrors of Hale-mau-mau and our subsequent misadventure.
It was almost sunrise when we climbed the last of the thousand-foot staircase and emerged on the crater rim. Hananui was waiting there, coming awake at our approach like some loyal dog happy to see its masters. I had thought that our guide had stayed by his post out of professional loyalty, but it seemed from his excited babble that something extraordinary had occurred at Volcano House in the middle of the night.
“Easy, easy,” said Reverend Haymark, laying his large hands on the Hawaiian’s shoulders as if he were calming a child. “Tell us slowly.”
“Missionaries, they came up from Kona,” panted the little man, his eyes wide in the lantern light. “They running away.”
Mr. Clemens was in the process of lighting a cigar, as if he had waited until we were safely out of the crater to celebrate. “Running away from what?” he said.
“From Pana-ewa!” gasped Hananui. “From Ku and Nanaue!”
Reverend Haymark took a step back with a look of dislike, if not outright disgust on his florid face.
“What?” said Mr. Clemens, puffing his cigar alight. His face bore an expression of what may have been professional interest.
The cleric waved one hand in dismissal. “These are local gods,” he said, his voice contemptuous. “Demi-gods, really. Monsters.”
Mr. Clemens stepped closer to the guide, who was obviously terrified. “What about these fellows?” he said.
Hananui shook his head. “Loose. All loose. They kill many people below Kona village. Kill most of missionaries. Those at Volcano House, run away. Run to Hilo Town.”
Mr. Clemens’s cigar jerked upward and his eyes gleamed with the eager mischief I had seen earlier in the crater. “You say there are missionaries who’ve been murdered
on the Kona Coast?”
Hananui nodded but such a fact was obviously not the cause for his distress. “The gate to Milu is open,” he muttered.
Reverend Haymark turned his back on the smaller man. “I believe that Milu is their god of the Underworld,” he said. “A sort of Pluto.”
Hananui was both nodding and shaking his head in alternate motions. “Milu place. Milu Underworld. Milu land where ghosts live.”
Reverend Haymark sighed and lifted his lantern. “We should be getting back. If something has happened to the Kona missionaries, we should hear about it.”
Thus we trudged the last few hundred yards to the waiting hotel, Reverend Haymark and I in the lead—too exhausted to speak—and Mr. Clemens bringing up the rear with the babbling Hananui, the correspondent with his arm around the little
Hawaiian, asking more questions and listening to our guide’s babbled responses. I was too tired to care.
Byron Trumbo and his people were halfway through a long, relatively formal dinner—formal meaning that Trumbo was dressed in “Aloha Wear” of clean Hawaiian shirt, chinos, and high-top sneakers—with Hiroshe Sato and his people when the bad weather and bad news started flowing in.
The weather evidently came from the east, sliding in on brisk winds under the volcano plume that had filled the sky since early evening. By nightfall, the palm fronds were dancing wildly below the seventh-story level of Sato’s dining lanai and it began to smell like rain. The rain was not a problem—the dining area of the lanai was covered with a roof and sturdy awnings—but the wind made conversation and serving complicated.
Then Will Bryant’s assistants began filtering in with more bad news, most of it also coming from the east. Bryant would listen to the assistant, wait for an opportune moment in the general discussion, and then dab at his lips with a linen napkin and come whisper in his boss’s ear.
During the shrimp course, the whisper was, “Mrs. Trumbo and her lawyer want to talk to you. They’re in the Ali’i Suite. Mrs. Trumbo insists that you meet with her tonight.”