Most of the people were asleep. Even the moon was going to rest when the tired runners returned. None of them could look at Tamai, but one crept close to her and in a half whisper said, “It is done.” Tamai rose and disappeared into her stone shelter.
In the morning, when the people awoke, the happy days before the rumblings seemed to have returned. A gentle breeze blew over Tamohana. The mountain was still. Small puffs of white clouds clung to its sides, gently moving up the slopes. There were whispers of thanks among the people, but no one went near Tamai’s stone shelter.
The first to notice the sea change was a young boy who had gone down to the lagoon at daybreak to find some shellfish to eat. But where, the last time he had come down to the beach, there had been a long stretch of white sand, now the sea was lapping at the base of the coconut palms. Some heard his cries and rushed to the beach in time to see the ocean water hugging the tree trunks, moving past them, slowly rising up and covering circle after circle on the bark.
By noon the villages were threatened by the inexorable tide. Canoes were pulled up to escape the flood, and stores moved to higher ground. The people murmured among themselves, and the old man who had spoken of Pali spoke once more, this time of Tumu. “We have given our most precious gift to the god of the mountain, but we have also taken much from the ocean and never once given back in return. Tumu is telling us he too has been neglected.” Voices rose in the crowd, asking what should be done. The answer, “Another child,” came swiftly.
No other mother was as willing as Tamai to sacrifice her child for the good of the people, but one baby was torn away. The same young man who had thrown the girl child into the smoking crater, stood on the edge of a boulder not yet flooded and hurled this new offering out into the foaming water. But the ocean continued to advance. “More, more.” The cries mingled with the wailing of infants and the screams of desperate mothers, but nothing could halt the rising waters.
The crowd became a mob. In fear and despair, some of the people sought more sacrifices for the encroaching ocean. Others banded together to fend off the attackers. More and more, groups turned to the canoes and paddled out over the waters they could not defeat in search of yet another Tamohana. The sea continued to rise until finally only Tamai and a cluster of her relatives were left clinging to the mountainside. Soon her kin, after much persuasion, convinced her to board the last canoe stocked with provisions and fresh water. Even then, she insisted they stay near the island to watch the White Mountain disappear beneath the ever-advancing tide.
Moments before the waves submerged the last of the land, a small wooden canoe no larger than a cradle emerged from the crater and drifted on the swells. Tamai signaled for the paddlers to approach it. Lying in a bed of ferns was a child, a boy child, not much older than the infant sacrificed to Pali. Still engorged with milk, Tamai’s breasts welcomed the newcomer. The crew heaved sighs of relief, turned the prow toward the rising sun and drove the craft forward with quick slashes of their paddles.
The days went buy. The efforts of the paddlers and the friendly wind, caught in their tapa cloth sails, moved them ever eastward. Tamai found comfort in her foster child, but something was amiss. Despite its greedy nursing, the child was becoming smaller, not larger. And at night, when only one of the crew stayed awake to guide the sail, the old man who had lectured the people had found the child could speak. Far from the one alert crewman on the long canoe, the two of them whispered to each other, the old man telling the sprit boy/man the legends of the Ocean People, the small creature passing on secrets of the White Mountain in return.
Every day, as the canoe’s occupants strained their backs and shaded their eyes searching for land, the child became smaller and smaller. Every night his whispered revelations to the old man became softer and softer. The day the prowman shouted news of land, the child had disappeared.
The land was Tonga, the island Tongatapu, and it was empty of people. For many years, Tamai and her kin felt they had found another Tamohana. The people again prospered, and the land provided food and clothing and shelter in abundance. Tamai had many children, most of them daughters, and the people rejoiced. Then, one day, war canoes approached over the horizon. Tamai led her peaceful people to the beach, only to be greeted by a shower of spears and by fierce warriors crashing through the surf with war clubs.
The attack stopped abruptly when spears thrown at Tamai rebounded short of their target and each found the chest of an attacking warrior. The white waves turned red with their blood. Bodies rose and fell on the swells. In terror, the survivors reversed their canoes and paddled frantically toward the far horizon whence they had come.
It was night when the old man explained to Tamai what had happened, the small boy they had rescued from the disappearing mountain had been the incarnation of mana, and she was now the repository of the force. He went on to teach her the incantations which would make it possible for her to pass it along to the eldest of her sons, and it was her first son who took over the chieftainship of the Ocean People.
DEAD AND ALIVE
Even as he was hoisting the weighted body over the side, Allan Turning was amused at how difficult the fiction writers made murder seem. It had all been very easy for him, and the chances of his being discovered were virtually nil. Might as well say they were nil. No one had seen them leave the shorefront house and, even if they had, it would have made not one iota of difference.
What wasn’t going to be easy was to have Jay Milner McNeil alive as well as dead. It would require considerable doing. Nonetheless, good old McNeil was now off to a watery grave. Allan heaved him over the side and, by the light of a near-full August moon, watched the bubbles rise in the calm sea.
Good old charming, fun-loving, shrewd, vindictive, multi-billionaire J. M. was going down some 2000 feet, just a few miles off of Oahu. Good old J. M., who had been spending his declining years traveling the world, doing as he pleased, dressed in what looked like castoffs, while staying in the fanciest hotels and eating in the most exclusive restaurants. He’d once been denied service in an ultra-exclusive establishment. The manager had insisted, “No tie, no jacket, no service.” J. M. immediately called his attorney, negotiated the purchase of the entire chain in a matter of weeks, then personally fired the manager.
It was also good old J. M. who had formed the two-billion-dollar Dorothy McNeil Foundation in memory of his wife. Its philanthropic gifts were legendary; its seven-person board of directors—which included Allan—was the envy of executives of less prestigious charitable organizations. And, if he hadn’t had a run of bad luck at the Vegas gambling tables, Allan would have been more than happy to settle for the six-figure income—wouldn’t have needed J. M. both dead and alive.
Yes, the first goal had been easy. And the second part should go without a hitch, given his advanced consideration of all possible contingencies. Absolutely—without a hitch.
The first step toward accomplishing both purposes had been when he moored his cruiser at the dock of J. M.’s waterfront home on the North Shore. He’d been expected. The reason he’d given for the visit had been well rehearsed. He’d known J. M. would go along. Would be amused at Allan’s proposal. Would have already made up his mind how the shifting of the Foundation’s reserves from safe treasury notes to risky Pattson, Inc. bonds was nonsense, but he would definitely get pleasure from playing along. He made it even easier for Allan by accepting the invitation to a late evening sail on the glassy-calm Pacific waters.
Allan had brought a blank proxy voting form with him, and the penultimate act of the evening had been J. M.’s signing and dating of the document. As anticipated, good old McNeil, totally amused at the suggestion, had risen to the challenge. Allan would now be given the opportunity to try convincing him to vote yes on the only matter to come before the board at their meeting the following month.
After a flamboyant signing and dating, J. M. laid down the pen, grinned and said, “You know as well as I do Allan, I’m going keep the reserve
fund in safe and sane treasury notes, no matter what you say. You’ll never get to turn any McNeil Foundation money over to any private corporation, nevermind con artists like the Pattsons. So, go ahead. I’m waiting.”
The ultimate act followed. The old man’s skull must have been thin, since the blow of the sap crushed it so easily.
***
Now, for keeping J. M. alive.
While the Board meeting was always scheduled for J. M.’s convenience, there was never any guarantee he would actually show. His vote, as often as not, came in to the meeting by a last minute phone call or by fax from strange and exotic regions of the world—or sometimes not at all. None of the directors had ever dared to challenge this unorthodox attendance or absence. There was no reason to think matters would be different this year.
Allan went over his plan in detail as he checked the box endorsing the fund transfer. First and foremost the plan then involved feeding the document into a fax machine in a rented apartment in Dubuque, with the time delay carefully tested and retested. But Allan was leaving nothing to chance and still preparing for all contingencies.
Of the remaining five board members, he could be sure of a supporting vote from two, should J. M.’s fax somehow go astray. And Kohler Feingold, a multi-millionaire in his own right, was always a possibility. The directorship, with its attendant munificent honorarium, meant little more for him than a prestige item on a long list of philanthropic activities. He’d be impatient to leave. Since the rotating chairmanship had now devolved upon Allan, there would be plenty of opportunity to make Feingold even more impatient, to stampede him into voting for the transfer just to get the meeting over.
Yes, all bases were covered. Once the decision was made, Lloyd Pattson would hand Allan a dispatch case packed with $250,000 in hundred dollar bills, Jimmy Kofax from Vegas would be there with his hand out for half the amount—since Kofax had become tired of promises and had now made no bones about what would be done to Allan’s bones if the money weren’t available immediately after the meeting. Then, finally, the payoff would leave Allan free, clear, with a sizeable sum in his bank account and the McNeil honorarium yet to arrive on the first of the coming year. Careful planning could indeed work wonders.
***
Unfortunately, the September first Honolulu meeting had not even come to order when a phone call from Isaac Ferrari indicated trouble ahead.
“What’s going on there, Turning? Why can’t I get a fax to you?” The tone was angry, the hoarseness indicated Ferrari was still tied to an oxygen tank. Allan knew the invalid wouldn’t have been able to make the meeting, knew also how he was inflexible, and would be unalterably opposed to moving the reserves out of their guaranteed safe location in treasury notes. Not receiving his fax would be all to the good, but not getting J. M.’s fax could mean relying on an alternative part of his planning. Fortunately, Allan had fully intended to check out the machine long before the vital message was due to arrive.
Hotel management was effusively apologetic. “I’m very sorry sir. We have new machines in the warehouse and will have one there immediately, along with a technician to set it up.”
Allan wasn’t reassured by the technician’s appearance, a black man with a “Kevin” name tag who showed up with a compact package under his arm. His quick slashing open of the carton and efficient setting up of the pristine new machine helped to allay anxieties, however. Within moments, a test sheet was spewing out. A message to the desk brought an immediate reply.
“She’s all set to go,” Kevin said, after pointing out the simple steps needed to transmit, “If you’ve got any questions, here’s my cellphone number. I’ll be around all day.”
Within minutes, Ferrari’s fax appeared, along with an angry note describing in detail what he considered to be a dire threat to the Foundation’s solvency. The secretary passed it along to Allan, who smiled at the futile ire, returned the document to her, then welcomed the first of the directors and the Foundation’s attorney.
Surveying the three directors seated around the table, Allan totaled up their apparent age as somewhere over two hundred and fifty years. They would be easy to manipulate, even without J. M.’s expected fax. Feingold, just now showing up, was already checking out his Rolex. The meeting then opened at four-thirty on the dot. It would definitely be over before five. Discussion was desultory. Allan’s two supporters contributed little. The vote would certainly be three for. It would not be enough to carry the motion if the expected fax didn’t arrive, since a four vote majority was always the minimum needed for passage, but Feingold’s vote could and would make the difference. Allan kept watching the clock. The fax would arrive by four-fifty-one. He was hardly listening to the chatter.
The machine burped to life at exactly four-fifty-one. Allan smiled. The secretary lifted the document from the feed tray, glanced at it, frowned and passed it along to the attorney. Allan’s smile faded. The attorney conferred with the secretary before announcing, “This fax is from J.M., but there’s no indication of where it came from. I’m not sure it can be considered valid under those circumstances.”
Allan recovered quickly. “I’m certain that’s just a defect in the printing. At any rate, we can have a vote to accept. Do I hear a motion to effect?”
Impatiently, Feingold took time from checking his watch to say, “I so move.” The motion was seconded and unanimously approved. The attorney passed the paper along to Allan.
Silence followed, since Allan was speechless. Not only was the vote against the transfer, the appended note in J. M.’s unmistakable Spenserian hand was a detailed and devastating argument against it. The date next to the signature was September 1.
The storm broke. The vote, which immediately followed, unanimously opposed the transfer, Allan having given his nodding assent when faced with the futility of any opposition. The room quickly cleared, there were perfunctory goodbyes: “Cheers.” “See you again next year, Allan.” “Gotta catch the 7:12 to Frisco.” The secretary was the last to leave, handing the semi-paralyzed Allan her draft of the minutes on her way out.
Even in his dazed condition, Allan managed to phone the technician. Kevin arrived promptly.
“Can you tell where this message came from?” Allan asked, as he pointed to J. M.’s signed message.
“Sure thing. It’s no fax. Just a copy. Someone fed the original into the machine right here in this room.”
“But it couldn’t be. It just couldn’t be. I was here all the time. No one touched the machine, except to take faxes out of it. It had to have come from somewhere else.”
Kevin grinned. “No way. For one thing, every fax from this piece of equipment will show it as an incoming call…if there is one.” He guffawed, then added, “For another, all the phone lines in the hotel have been out since 4:30. They just came back on, about a minute ago. So, if one of you folks didn’t make this copy, there has to be a ghost in the machine.”
As he spoke, he picked up the document and a puzzled expression crossed his face. “Hey! What you been doing here? This thing’s all wet. Looks like it’s been dumped in the ocean.”
The phone interrupted as a white-faced Allan groped for words. A very contrite hotel manager identified himself. “Sorry about the phone interruption, sir. I hope you weren’t expecting any important messages.” Without waiting for a reply, the voice went on. “There’s a Mr. Kofax who has been waiting for you at the desk. Shall I send him up? Oh—never mind—I think he’s already on the way.”
A FAMILY MATTER
“God knows best,” Maria said, hugging Louise, while her own tears flowed in torrents. Louise’s husband—Maria’s brother—Giovanni Bianco, had just been reported as being on the plane which had crashed outside New York City in the early morning. There had been no survivors. As a representative of California contractors, Giovanni had been attending a meeting of the parent organization, Construction Companies USA.
By some mystical intuition, the Biancos had begun to gather at Louise’s home w
ithout being asked, without a second thought, the moment they heard of the crash and of Giovanni’s death. Maria, his sister, had been the first to arrive. His parents were only moments behind, their almost all-encompassing grief still leaving room to console their daughter-in-law. The older brothers, Sergio from Los Angeles and Luigi from Reno had called and were on the way to Truckee with their families. Nothing could bring the Biancos together more quickly than disaster.
Louise felt an instantaneous comfort in the presence of her Italian in-laws, in their tears mingling with her own. She almost smiled as Mama Bianco rushed off to the kitchen, saying, “Luigi will be here any minute and he’ll have left without eating breakfast, I know.” Even a sudden death demanded the living be fortified with food.
“Have you told Serena yet?” Maria asked.
Horrifying as the news had been for her, Louise knew it would be even more so for her eight-year-old. She shook her head, glad Serena had probably another hour of untroubled sleep before finding out what had happened to her beloved father. The thought of what it would mean to her daughter helped her to regain some element of composure. Every bit she could muster would be needed to help Serena over what she would suffer when she heard of her father’s death.
An added comfort was the arrival of Angelo Freita, Maria’s husband, and their three children. Younger than Serena, they would be relatively unaffected by the tragedy and might provide occupation and distraction for the young girl who loved to take care of the Freita brood. Massive Angelo, even taller and heavier set than her own Giovanni, gave Louise a bear hug. “We are all going to miss him,” he said.
By noon, the house was full of cousins, nieces, nephews and assorted other relatives. Mama Bianco gave Louise no time to think, having put her in charge of the inevitable bread baking, while she scoured the refrigerator for sauce ingredients and the cupboards for the right pasta to prepare what was now about to turn into an enormous feast.
Expect the Unexpected Page 5
