by Debra Bokur
Elvar seemed to sense her thoughts. “Yes, that’s right. Birta was Mrs. Doctor. For a long time, in fact.”
She took a deep breath. “But . . . ?”
Elvar didn’t seem offended. “Well, I guess we’ve all been friends for some time now, haven’t we?”
“Longer every day,” she agreed. “But you don’t need to tell me . . .”
“Well, I’m going to. And I’ll tell you why. I know you’re scared to death of her, and I know she can come across as, well, a little grim sometimes. But she’s not, you know. She’s wonderful and caring and funny.” Elvar corrected himself. “Okay, maybe not funny. But she’d do anything for anybody, regardless of any inconvenience or cost to herself.”
Kali began to protest. “Scared of her? I’m not—”
“Oh, of course you are.” He grinned. “It’s okay. You don’t need to be embarrassed. Most women have the same reaction. Most men, too, come to think of it. It’s just that the good doctor took off with a pretty, much younger intern at the hospital when it turned out that Birta couldn’t have children. Didn’t seem to matter to him at all that it was every bit as devastating for her.”
He looked up at Kali and smiled. “It’s why she’s such a great teacher. She really loves kids. They can tell she cares about them.”
Kali’s face must have registered the combination of skepticism and surprise she felt. “That’s nice,” she said, then quickly corrected herself. “I mean, it’s nice that she likes kids and gets to work with them. But it’s a sad story. That’s what I was trying to say.”
Elvar nodded. “Well, our mother was obsessed with Hawaii, with all the similarities between your warm islands and our cold one. Volcanoes, legends, isolation. The divorce gave Birta a great excuse to move here and explore some of the stories we’d grown up listening to. I thought I’d come along and keep her company. It was a good idea. And she’s happy enough, I think.”
Kali thought about his words as they made their way slowly down the mountain path in the growing heat. Happy enough. Is that all that we should hope for, to be happy enough? Perhaps.
This morning, she thought, I am exactly that.
CHAPTER 21
Pele stood on a pile of lava rocks jutting out of the sand. She towered above Kali, at least twelve feet tall. Her fierce eyes were slits of sparkling black against her skin.
Kali knelt, dropping her gaze. It would do no good, she knew, to challenge a goddess of this stature. She stayed as still as she could while Pele balanced on her bare feet and swayed gently from side to side, her thick dark hair glinting in the moonlight.
“Speak,” Pele roared, and the waves rose and crashed against her.
Kali remained motionless. She’d forgotten why she was here. The presence of Pele was overwhelming. Her body trembled, and her lips refused to form the words to her forgotten question.
“Have you dared to summon me?” Pele asked, her voice rising above the sea, above the wind.
Kali tried to gather her thoughts. “Why did the shark god kill the boy?” she finally managed to ask, but even to her own ears, her voice sounded faint and muffled.
Pele threw back her head, and flames rose behind her, framing her in the darkness. Kali shook. She realized too late that she had accused Ka-moho-ali’i, the shark god brother of Pele, whom even the volcano goddess knew to fear.
Again, Pele spoke. But the wind drowned her voice, and Kali couldn’t make out the words. Then she was gone, the rocks empty, the sea a tumult of spray, the moon revealed full and without shadow. There was another figure there now: a man with a shark’s head, standing knee-deep in the sea, holding something in both arms. It was the still figure of a boy, who seemed to be sleeping. Kali knew the boy’s face. The shark man turned away from the shore and slowly waded deeper into the water until he was submerged, lost from view, the sleeping boy clutched close against his breast as they disappeared together.
Kali sat bolt upright, suddenly fully awake. The moon was high, just like the one in her dream, and a wide path of light broke the darkness, spilling across the sofa and the gleaming wooden floor. She tried to swing her legs over the edge, but her feet were asleep, and she could see by the moonlight that Hilo was lying across them. She lay back, not up to the task of shifting Hilo from his position. She needed to shake off the night terror brought on by the dream.
She lay there for hours, falling fitfully in and out of sleep, until the pale waking dawn began to lift the night. Through her open window, she could smell the faint scent of a wood fire burning somewhere not too far away, most likely on the beach. Campers, perhaps, who couldn’t afford the astronomical hotel and resort room prices, or teenage lovers, wrapped in one another’s arms.
The scent was plainly that of driftwood, an unmistakable and oddly comforting aroma of old wood melded with salt and bits of seaweed, all blending perfectly to stir a series of familiar memories. Not one perfumer in all the world, she thought, had been able to replicate it, to pour it into a bottle.
For several more minutes, she lay quite still, savoring the scent and trying to decide what had woken her. It was the dream, of course. She pushed at Hilo, rubbed the sleep from her eyes, remembering in vivid, sudden detail the dream image of the shark god. She slipped off the sofa, shaking the numbness from her feet and ankles, and walked to the kitchen. She switched on the low light over the counter and filled the coffee press with some ground beans from the day before, kept in a small ceramic pot that was stamped with the clear message COFFEE, a gift from one of Walter’s daughters.
She switched the kettle on to boil, then waited for the soft whistle that always preceded the automatic shutoff. She poured the steaming water over the ground beans in the coffee press, a trendy glass object that seemed far fancier and much more unnecessary than a standard automatic coffeemaker. Mike had brought it home one day, had enthusiastically told her how it would always brew the perfect pot of coffee, and she had found herself unable to part with it.
She poured the fragrant coffee into a mug and carried it to the lanai to watch the day come fully into focus. A small breeze moved the already warm air. Her thoughts turned, ever so briefly, to how she’d considered moving to Colorado following Mike’s death. She’d shown Walter a Web site of the Rocky Mountain countryside near Denver, with its line of tall, craggy mountains to the west of the city, nearly always topped with snow. Some of the photographs on the Web site had shown people in the city bundled up in heavy boots, wool hats, thick gloves, and fur-rimmed jackets. Walter had been appalled at the idea and had offered to take her to see a psychiatrist.
Maybe she needed one now—someone to help her decipher her disturbing dreams. She drained her mug and went inside to dress. Time to start the day.
CHAPTER 22
Kali checked one last time to make sure Hilo was securely anchored to the front deck in the shade of Elvar and Birta’s house, and made her way to the small airfield several miles outside of Hana. She wasn’t especially fond of air travel, though she’d always liked the idea of planes and the long-faded romance of airports—the kind portrayed in old movies, where everyone was elegantly dressed for the excitement of an air journey. Those were the days, she thought, when flying still carried an air of excitement and possibility, rather than stress and inconvenience.
At least she didn’t have to go through the song-and-dance routine required of passengers at the main airport in Kahului, where the combination of tourist throngs and convoluted—and, in her professional opinion, mostly useless—security procedures usually resulted in an intense migraine that lasted for days. Larry Mahuka, a retired Hawaiian Airlines pilot and longtime friend of Kali’s, kept a private plane in Hana and made several trips each month to the other islands. Today he was headed to O‘ahu and had agreed to let Kali tag along for the ride.
She parked and made her way to where Larry was doing a final exterior check on his blue-and-white Cessna. He looked up and waved, his weathered face splitting into a welcoming smile beneath a shock of t
hick silver hair.
“Making sure everything’s still attached to whatever it’s supposed to be attached to?” Kali asked, her voice clearly indicating that this was of major personal concern.
Larry grinned. “Appears to be, but don’t worry, Kali. I’ve got an extra roll of duct tape, in case a wing comes loose. Of course, I’ll be busy keeping us level, so I’ll have to send you out with the tape to make repairs.”
Kali narrowed her eyes, an unbidden image flashing through her mind, one of her clinging to a piece of wing as the roll of tape plummeted toward the surface of the Pacific far below. She shook her head and followed Larry as he checked the air level in the tires and ran his hand over the lower part of the struts. He turned to Kali, gestured that it was time to board.
“Where’s that half dog, half rhinoceros of yours? I wondered if you were going to try to pass him off as a colleague.”
“Last I saw of him this morning, he was pretending he’d been abandoned and was howling at the top of his lungs about being left behind. The neighbors are babysitting him for me.”
Larry shook his head. “Spoiled right down to his giant feet. You need some kids. Take your focus off that dog.”
Kali grunted. “No thanks. I think I prefer the howling.”
“Really? No secret longing for dental bills and college funds?”
“Not a single one. You always know where you stand with a dog.”
They strapped themselves in and donned their headsets, and Larry proceeded with his instrument check. Satisfied that all was well, he started the engine, then smiled at the steady purr.
“Just giving you a hard time. It’s how I feel about planes, I guess. Everything straightforward and simple. Not like relationships.”
Kali said nothing, remembering a rumor she’d heard that Larry’s wife had left him years ago, taking their kids and moving to the mainland. Somewhere in New Jersey, if she remembered correctly.
The plane’s somewhat bumpy taxi down the runway turned suddenly smooth as the Cessna lifted into the clear, brilliantly blue sky. Larry seemed content to fly, and Kali relaxed against the seat and let her gaze drift out the window. They’d been in the air for about ten minutes when he gestured downward and turned the plane in a wide, lazy circle. Below, a pod of whales was moving south. She watched as a young whale pushed through the surface, arced through the air above the waves, then dove out of sight. Larry smiled, as did she.
The flight was short, and soon the coast of O‘ahu was plainly visible. Kali wasn’t looking forward to the traffic of Honolulu, an unavoidable nuisance given that it was one of the largest cities in the United States. Her first destination was right in the thick of the Waikiki Beach scene. Traffic central, in fact.
She’d timed the trip to O‘ahu to coincide with an alternative-energy conference being held at the Hawaii Convention Center, in the hope that it might arm her with some useful information before she visited the solar companies on her O‘ahu list. It was still early by the time she’d picked up a rental car and made her way from the airfield to her hotel adjacent to the convention center. She checked in for two nights, planning to meet up with Larry on Wednesday for an early lunch and the flight home. This afternoon she’d talk to a solar power expert at the conference. The next day had been set aside to visit the local O‘ahu solar suppliers on her list.
Since none of the exhibits at the conference center could be accessed until after ten o’clock, she had a few hours on her own. She followed the curving sidewalk of Kalakaua Avenue to the corner where it intersected with Saratoga Road. It was about quarter past nine by the time she’d strolled the distance, and already the sidewalk at a popular restaurant across from the Waikiki post office was lined with tourists, who sat on the edges of curbs and walls, waiting to be seated by the cheerful, smiling staff in their handmade aprons.
Bemused, she made her way through the throng and down the street, then turned the corner and walked to where a small, less advertised coffee shop was tucked between a day spa and an insurance office. She’d come here often with Mike, and as she pushed through the door, the older woman who owned the café and who waited on tables looked up and smiled.
Once she was seated, she waved away the menu and ordered coffee, juice, a stack of coconut pancakes, and a side of Spam. Two young men sitting at the next table heard her as she placed her order, and snickered when they caught the mention of tinned meat. Kali turned, and the neckline of her loose T-shirt slipped down her shoulder, revealing her tattoo. She raised an eyebrow, making deliberate eye contact with one of the boys. He was probably only eighteen or nineteen, Kali decided, eyeing his casually hip clothing and expensive haircut.
There was an unmistakable air to privilege, she’d learned long ago. The boys’ deep tans and the bleached streaks in their hair suggested that they were spending time relaxing at their mainland family’s vacation home or had embarked on a post–high school, precollege surfing adventure. Probably both, Kali thought, scowling involuntarily. A boy like Kekipi Smith was worth a thousand of them, she decided. She caught herself before the thought went any further, realizing its unfairness and assumptions.
Her reactive scowl, however, had been ferocious enough to make the boy facing her jerk in his seat, look away, and mumble something under his breath that might have been an apology. Or not.
Kali nodded at him, deciding to give him the benefit of her doubt.
“Ever try it?” she asked.
The boy looked back, still a bit nervous. Kali was usually oblivious to the effect her appearance had on other people, but today she was secretly pleased that the bands of traditional tattoos on her lean, muscled upper arms seemed to have a subduing effect.
“Try what?” the boy responded, his voice cautious.
“Spam,” answered Kali.
The boy shook his head.
Kali swung around in her chair, considering the often dismissive attitude of the young toward anything they hadn’t directly thought of themselves.
“Do you even know what it is?” she asked.
Both boys shook their heads, looking slightly repulsed at the very idea.
“Some kind of fake meat?” ventured one.
“Back when the islands were crawling with servicemen in World War II, Spam was part of the food rations given to soldiers,” she said. “It’s pretty much just pressed seasoned pork. And as far as I’m concerned, it’s pretty damned tasty.”
The two boys looked supremely uninterested, which just served to spur Kali on.
“You’ve heard of World War II, right?”
The boy facing Kali rolled his eyes. “Of course we know about it. And we know what Spam is.”
“Or isn’t,” offered the second boy. “Like, it isn’t food. And it’s not organic.”
Kali shrugged, losing interest in her game. Her juice and coffee had arrived, and she turned her attention away from the boys and toward the selection of sweeteners available to her on the tabletop. As she was stirring sugar into her mug, the boys pushed back their chairs and got ready to leave. On their way out, they stopped beside Kali, who looked up, waiting for them to speak.
“Are you, like, a real Hawaiian?” asked one of them, his voice a bit hesitant.
Kali tilted her head, considering. “You bet,” she answered. “Just like Elvis Presley.”
Again, the two boys looked completely blank.
Kali sighed. “The singer? Blue Hawaii? G.I. Blues?”
“Yeah, sure. Whatever,” said the boy who had asked the question. They continued on their way toward the door, shaking their heads.
As they disappeared into the sunshine outside, the waitress returned with Kali’s food. The Spam had been fried on the grill, and steam was rising from it. She leaned over her plate, breathed in the familiar, slightly sweet fragrance.
“Enjoy,” said the waitress, smiling.
“That I will,” said Kali, picking up her knife and fork. “Every single bite.”
CHAPTER 23
Hara h
ad been assigned the task of researching the conference host, a group called Green World America, and had prepared Kali with a wealth of information for her trip. The group had turned out to be part of a larger world-wide network of environmentally sensitive businesses organized by country—besides Green World America, there was also Green World Germany, Green World Portugal, and Green World Australia. It was a dice role that wandering through the displays and speaking with the exhibiters might add any useful information to the investigation, but she knew that too much information was always better than too little.
More information came as she walked along the waterfront back to the hotel after her breakfast: an unwanted text from Walter. Grace Sawyer had died that morning, without ever having a chance to tell her story. An autopsy had been scheduled. Kali shoved the phone back into her bag, filled with a combined sense of anger and sorrow.
When Kali arrived at the conference center later that morning, events were well under way. The lobby entrance was jammed with earnest-looking individuals dressed in Hawaii business casual—jeans, open-neck cotton shirts, sandals and loafers, and the occasional linen jackets or Hawaiian shirts. She found her way to the registration desk, where a young woman was handing out badges and name tags, checking them against a list of registrants. Kali explained who she was and why she wanted entrance. The woman at the desk looked interested and suggested that Kali would probably save herself a lot of time if she went directly to the exhibit being hosted by NREL, the National Renewable Energy Laboratory. She got directions, pinned her temporary badge to the shoulder of her shirt, and began weaving through the crowds milling about on the exhibit floor.
The exhibit being presented by NREL was made up of a lot of high-tech computer screens displaying an assortment of images and data. On the walls of the main booth, charts and graphs were on view, along with photographs of wind turbines and solar arrays that showed installations at famous locations. A series of poster-sized images showed fields of wind turbines in California and Germany. Kali paused in front of them, amazed by the scale of the tall towers with their spinning blades and by the variety of designs.
