Interesting that Pryor should mention her. It led me to further question why Senator Chang, the National Marine Fisheries Service, and Pryor should be so concerned about my poking around if nothing was wrong.
“Are you saying that one senator is powerful enough to dictate policy to Fish and Wildlife?” I needled.
Pryor massaged his temples, as if to calm himself down, before forced to give yet another explanation.
“Listen, Porter. There’s more that goes into the fishing industry than you obviously realize. So let me give you a quick reality lesson. A number of those boats out there—just where do you think they come from?
I looked at him blankly.
“They’re built and purchased from shipyards in Biloxi, Mississippi. Except most of them probably aren’t fully paid off yet. Now you put those boats out of commission, and what do you suppose is going to happen to that state’s economy? If you don’t already know, I suggest that you call their senators and congressmen and find out,” he snarled. “For the last time, people at National Marine Fisheries have assured me that no illegal shark finning is going on. And you know what? We’re going to take them at their word, and that’s the end of it.”
I spent the rest of the morning commiserating with the sitting-duck poster in my office. If I listened closely enough, I could almost hear the bullets whizzing past my own head.
This must have been exactly how Sammy had felt, I mused. Funny thing. I was beginning to believe him even more now that he was dead.
A tremor shot through me. Is that what it would take before someone believed me, as well?
The hours crept by as I tried to do paperwork. However, my attention kept wandering to the window. I watched the planes fly in and out of Honolulu, attempting to guess how many boxes filled with illegal reptiles were probably on them. But nothing could completely take my mind off Sammy.
By mid-afternoon, I’d decided enough was enough. The least I could do was to track down his mother and pay my respects. Sammy had said that she lived somewhere near Makaha. I dragged out the phone book and looked up her address. Then, grabbing my bag, I shut the door to my office and left, without so much as a good-bye to Norm Pryor. As far as I was concerned, he could go screw himself.
I flew by the docks with their boats bobbing up and down. Most likely, they carried bags filled with illegal shark fins. I didn’t stop at the airport or slow down as I approached Pearl Harbor, which was crying its daily allotment of tears. Instead, I continued on Route 90 until it merged into Farrington Highway. Then I headed up the coast road, past the posh condos, toward what many locals consider to be the real Hawaii.
One little town dissolved into another, until even these began to disappear. Soon my Ford traveled between wild ocean and scrub-covered mountains as civilization receded into the distance. The land became increasingly isolated and rural, its beauty marred by just one thing: all the homeless that were camped along the beaches. Although I’d heard about it, the sight had still taken me by surprise. Hundreds of people were living like squatters in paradise.
Their population appeared to be a mixed bag of druggies, nonconformists, criminals, and those who were just plain down on their luck. Many had the same story to tell: they’d lost their jobs, landlords had raised their rents, and they couldn’t afford to live anywhere else. Seventeen hundred people camped on the west side of the island—three hundred of which were children—having fallen on hard times. Some resided in tents made of bright yellow and blue tarps, while others lived in ramshackle wooden huts. A bumper sticker on one of the cars seemed to sum it up: DUE TO RECENT CUTBACKS, THE LIGHT AT THE END OF THE TUNNEL HAS BEEN TURNED OFF.
Equally heartbreaking was that most were native Hawaiians. But then their community was a troubled one. Comprising less than twenty percent of the state, they have the highest rate of unemployment, welfare dependence, and drug abuse. Factor in that Hawaiians also have the lowest life expectancy, and are the worst educated group in the nation, and it was yet one more reason why they consider their homeland to be paradise lost.
I pulled off the road and stopped at what appeared to be a neighborhood store, no longer certain of where I was going. I walked inside to spy an array of fried foods that must have been sitting on the counter for too long. It’s always a bad sign when not even the flies will land on them. Leaning against the register was a handwritten sign that read CASH ONLY. Two elderly women turned in unison to stare, as though I’d just landed in the parking lot on a ship from outer space.
“Hello. I’m wondering if you can tell me how to get to Ellen Kalahiki’s house?” I politely inquired.
Neither spoke for a moment. Then the woman closest to the door broke the silence.
“She must mean Auntie Ellen, one of the local kupunas,” she said, as if interpreting for me.
I’d heard the word before, but wasn’t quite sure what it meant.
“A kupuna? I’m sorry, what’s that?” I questioned.
“It’s an elder who’s considered to be a source of traditional knowledge and wisdom. They’re called Auntie or Uncle, as a term of respect,” she explained, peering curiously at me over the rim of her glasses.
The store owner then began to clear her throat, as if determining whether I was worthy of such information. When she finally spoke, her voice came out in a wheeze.
“If you want to find Auntie Ellen, you still have a ways to go. Look for a skid mark on the mountains, and make a right turn there. Then continue on that gravel road. You’ll eventually reach her house,” she instructed, beginning to gasp for breath.
“Thanks,” I replied and turned to leave.
“Wait!” the first woman called after me. “You don’t plan to go empty-handed, do you?”
“Why? Should I buy something?” I asked, wondering if I’d been expected to purchase the information.
“Of course,” she answered, and tugged on her flowered blouse as though adjusting an arrangement. “No one ever pays a visit without taking a pu’olo.”
“A pu’olo?” I repeated, having no idea what she was talking about.
“A gift,” she responded with a sigh, as if speaking to a dim-witted child.
Of course. To show up without one would have been thoughtless and a sign of disrespect. I glanced around the store, wondering what might be appropriate. The store owner seemed to sense I needed help, and graciously came to my aid.
“Here. Take a can of Spam. She can always use that,” the old woman advised, her words carried on top of a whistle.
I would have considered the suggestion crazy, had I heard it anywhere else. But here in Hawaii, Spam made perfect sense. Residents consume 7 million cans of the gelatinous pink pork brick each year, making it more than a staple food; it’s become part of the island culture. After all, what’s not to like? It’s cheap and it never spoils.
There’s Spam fried rice, Spam sushi, and Spam McGriddles, which is served every morning at McDonald’s for breakfast. Should there be even the slightest hint of a hurricane, people immediately rush to stock up on it. And woe to the grocery store that runs out of the canned luncheon meat. That’s been known to cause riots.
“What the heck. Give me three cans,” I replied, opting to go for broke.
My decision made the two women smile.
I took the supply of Spam and continued my drive up the coast.
White sand beaches stretched on my left, seeming to claim the land for their own. To my right, the ground was strewn with large black boulders, as if a game of checkers were being played by giants. I kept looking for some kind of skid mark, all the while wondering if the old woman had actually known what she was talking about.
I finally spotted a deep vertical groove that slashed its way through the mountain like a scorch from a lightning bolt. Sure enough, a gravel road appeared on my right and I took it. My Ford bounced along a path that eroded into a potholed track, as I headed for a vista dotted with green, scalloped cliffs.
Yap! Yap! Yap!
A little red puff ball shrilly barked and, jumping in front of my vehicle, forced me to slam on the brakes. Having put me in my place, the Pomeranian then turned on its scrawny legs and bounced along the trail, as if springs were attached to each of its paws.
I crawled along behind the brazen sucker until a house came into view. Then I zipped around the walking, barking mound of fur, proving not only who was boss, but that size really does count.
Auntie Ellen’s cottage stood on stilts, like an old plantation house. The frame was painted sea-foam green, offset by tidy white wooden shutters. Flowers and vegetables were neatly planted in prim little rows inside a fenced-in garden. But that wasn’t the only thing that was sprouting in her yard. A collection of shiny silver CDs hung from wooden poles, modern-day versions of scarecrows, their purpose to frighten the birds away.
I gathered up the cans of Spam and walked up the steps, only to feel myself hesitate. Though I wanted to pay my respects, I was equally tempted to turn and run. I’ve always hated death and anything to do with it. It was one of the reasons I worked so hard to try and keep critters alive. Taking a deep breath, I screwed up my courage, climbed the last step, and tapped on the front door.
My knock was answered by a hefty Hawaiian woman dressed in a shocking pink muumuu. A red hibiscus fluttered like a tropical bird in her hair. The flower matched a pair of red-rimmed eyes, marred by hours of endless crying. It looked as if all the world’s sorrow had gathered together and welled up inside her. That same sadness flowed into me, as I felt myself begin to choke up.
“I’m so sorry about Sammy,” was all I could manage to say.
She gazed blankly, as though uncertain that someone was really standing there.
“Who are you?” she softly questioned.
“I’m Rachel Porter, the woman that found your son.”
A strand of wavy white hair fell out of its bun, and her stubby fingers dutifully brushed it from her face.
“Then you’re partially responsible for my Sammy boy’s death. You’re the one that he went to see,” she quietly stated.
Her voice was as flat as the sea just before it’s whipped up by a storm. I could only imagine the pain she must have been feeling.
A sharp prick nipped at my skin, as if to let me know. The Pomeranian had obviously made it home. I knew, because the canine was biting my leg with its sharp little teeth. Auntie Ellen bent down and scooped up the dog in her arms. The pooch nestled against her neck and licked her face.
“Sammy had called and asked for my help. That’s why I went to meet him,” I tried to explain, not knowing what else to say.
“I’m aware of that. I warned him there would be trouble if he dealt with outsiders. But he insisted on trying to live with his feet in both worlds. That was a mistake. You see for yourself what happened,” Auntie Ellen replied, refusing to release my eyes from her gaze.
“Once again, I’m terribly sorry. It was a horrible accident,” I mumbled, wishing I was anywhere else but there.
That seemed to bring some life into her.
“What accident are you talking about?” Auntie Ellen sharply retorted, her eyes flashing in rage.
The anger in her voice grabbed me around the neck and gave me a hard shake.
“The fact that Sammy fell off the cliff and was killed by a shark,” I responded, beginning to feel somewhat off-kilter.
I hadn’t come all the way out here expecting to be attacked.
“That’s pure rubbish. No such thing ever happened,” she brusquely snapped.
At first, I was taken aback. Then I finally admitted what had been eating away at me all along. I didn’t really believe that Sammy’s death was an accident, either.
“What makes you say that?” I asked, wondering why she felt the same way.
Auntie Ellen scrutinized me so closely, it was as if she could see beneath my skin. What in the hell did the woman possess? Some sort of X-ray vision?
“If you know anything about Hawaiian culture, it should be that sharks are sacred to us as a people. They’re the greatest aumakua, or guardian spirit, that we have. In Western terms, it’s akin to a guardian angel watching over you.”
I tried to shake off the feeling that she could read my every thought.
“But why sharks? What makes them so special?” I pressed, curious as to why Hawaiians viewed them so differently from the rest of the world.
Auntie Ellen nodded, as if she understood why I would ask such a question.
“It’s because sharks display many of the same attributes as humans. They’re fierce and stealthy, graceful and magnificent, just as in the best and worst of man.”
In a sense, that made me all the more wary. Humans and sharks are both perfect predators, each lethal in their own way.
“It’s also believed that sharks embody the spirits of our departed ancestors, which is why it’s their job to protect each family,” she continued. “The Kalahikis have a very powerful aumakua. That’s another reason why no shark would ever harm us.”
If true, it was one hell of a family god to have looking out for you.
“Then how do you explain the bite marks that were found on Sammy’s body?” I questioned.
A dark cloud came over her face, and I immediately regretted having asked.
“I don’t know,” she softly replied. “But that’s why Sammy boy chose to meet you at Ka’ena Point. It’s the legendary home of the Sharkman. That’s the place where he felt most safe.”
I had heard tales of the Sharkman, a creature that was human on land. However, the space on his back turned into the mouth of a shark upon entering the ocean. It was a story that I didn’t find terribly comforting.
“There is one thing I am curious about, though,” Auntie Ellen wistfully remarked.
“What’s that?” I asked, anxious to help in any way that I could.
“Will you tell me exactly where the two of you were supposed to meet at Ka’ena Point?” she questioned.
“Sammy was very specific about the spot,” I replied. “It was the same place that we’d met the day before. A huge coral rock along the north side of the point.”
Auntie Ellen sharply exhaled, as though the wind had been knocked out of her, and her complexion turned visibly pale.
Then it’s almost as if he knew,” she responded in a whisper, causing chills to run down my spine. “That coral rock is the leaping-off point.”
“Leaping-off point for what?” I asked, the words sticking to the back of my throat.
“For Hawaiians when we die. It’s believed that the soul leaves the body and travels along the ridges to the west side of the island. Once there, it goes to that large coral rock that you found. The spirit stands on top and then jumps off into the afterworld. Only your soul can sometimes end up there before you die.”
“How does that happen?” I questioned, caught up in her tale.
“Your spirit can wander away if you fall into a deep sleep or lose consciousness. Then it’s up to your aumakua to guide you back home. Otherwise, the soul will have no choice but to leap into the abyss of endless night,” she explained.
I tried not to let her see how much the legend affected me. I also knew that it was time to reveal the reason for my visit.
“I assume Sammy must have told you why he asked for my help,” I began.
Auntie Ellen wordlessly nodded, but offered nothing else.
I took a deep breath and plunged in.
“He was supposed to bring evidence to our meeting that night. Sammy said it would support his claims that sharks were being illegally slaughtered for their fins. The problem is that I never found anything. Do you suppose that he might have left those papers here?” I fished.
But Auntie Ellen didn’t so much as blink.
“Maybe he took evidence with him and maybe he didn’t. But he left something of far more value at Ka’ena Point. Sammy boy gave his life for what he believed in. What are you willing to give?” she responded, with a question of her own.
> There were those eyes again, looking straight through me. I had no choice but to answer truthfully.
“Whatever is necessary.”
Auntie Ellen’s lips twitched, and I knew she believed me. It opened the door for another important question.
“Sammy told me that he’d received threatening phone calls. Do you know anything about them?”
“No,” she said, with a shake of her head. “But then he wouldn’t have wanted to worry me. What I do know is that he came home very late two nights ago. He must have been somewhere unusual, because his clothes smelled bad and were dirty.”
That would have been the evening before his death. Our first meeting had taken place earlier that day. It was also when I had pressed him to get more evidence.
“Have you washed them yet?” I asked, trying not to seem too eager.
“Why? Do you want to see them?” she asked, with a puzzled expression.
“Yes, as long as they’re still dirty.”
I remained standing outside the door as Auntie Ellen went to fetch them. She came back with a pair of jeans in her hands. Even from this distance they retained a strange odor. Whatever it was, the pants reeked to high hell. She held them toward me, and I realized that I still had three cans of Spam in my hands.
“Here. These are for you,” I said, and awkwardly exchanged them for the jeans.
“Thank you,” Auntie Ellen murmured, seeming to be pleased.
I took a whiff of the pants. A pungent aroma that was oddly familiar raced up my nose. Either a cat had peed on his leg, or Sammy had been hanging around a New York City subway station in his off hours. His jeans held the distinctive stench of urine.
My hands proceeded to travel down along the pants and discovered the fabric was sticky and stiff. Something clicked, and I realized what I’d been smelling all along. The odor was that of ammonia. Even so, it didn’t help to explain the glutinous substance on the legs. Not only that, but I now saw that the bottom of his jeans were stained. I licked my fingers, rubbed them against the denim and examined my hand. A dull red matter came off, staining my fingertips. It was the same color as that of dried blood.
Restless Waters Page 17
