A Walk Through the Fire

by Marcia Muller

  “Kind of tough talk.”

  “Especially for people like Elson Wellbright who were born here and treasure the Islands. Or people like me, who’re Hawaiian, but basically American. And then there’re the nuts, like this faction I’m thinkin’ of, who use the movement as an excuse to cause trouble.”

  “You know any of them?”

  He shook his head. “Only by reputation.”

  “So why did what Joey said about Drew make you think of them?”

  “Because I’ve heard they’re squattin’ in the old sugar mill on the Wellbright cane lands east of Waimea, where Drew stayed.”

  It was a lead worth checking out. “Tell me how to get there.”

  “Uh-uh. No way. You’re not goin’ there, not alone. Wait till tomorrow. I’ll fly you.”

  “No, I need to be at the shoot tomorrow. Besides, if it was one of them who shot at Glenna, it means they’re stepping up their activities. I need to check them out tonight.”

  “Take you a couple a hours to get there. Be dark by then.”

  “Mo’ bettah.”

  He grinned at my use of pidgin. “You’re the pro; guess you know what you’re doin’.” He reached over the bar for a napkin, and I provided a pen so he could sketch a map.

  “You follow Route Fifty outta Lihue. At Eleele you go west on the Kaumualii Highway. Take it all the way past Waimea and Kekaha and the Pacific Missile Range installation. There’re a lot of cane roads out there, but the one you want’s marked by a grove of papaya trees, only one of any size along there. Follow it for maybe half a mile, you’ll see another road on the left. Take it, half a mile more, you’ll see the old mill.”

  “You know the way well.”

  “Ought to. Those cane fields were in production till the eighties, but the mill was shut down years before. When we were sowin’ our wild oats, Pete and I used to take girls there.” Suddenly his face went somber and he put his hand on mine. “You go there, you watch yourself, pretty lady. Those people’re tough and stupid. It’s a bad combination.” Then his eyes moved past my shoulder and he added, “Well, well. Here’s Pete, Sweet Pea, and Ripinsky, come lookin’ for us.”

  I swiveled, slipping my hand out from under his. Glenna and Peter waved, and Hy nodded. His eyes were neutral, calmly assessing Tanner and me. The three came over to us and, after some initial confusion about seating places, we decided to move to one of the tables on the sea side. As the others headed for it, I drew Hy aside.

  “Did you all come in one car?”

  “No. I drove the Datsun; Glenna and Peter came in his car. Why?”

  “I’ve got a lead I want to follow up, and I need transportation.” Briefly I outlined what Tanner had told me.

  Hy said, “It’s worth checking. You sure you want to go down there tonight?”

  “I don’t think I should wait.”

  “Want me to come along?”

  I hesitated. “Yes, but one of us should stay with Glenna and Peter, just in case. Better you, since you’re carrying.” I’d seen the outline of the gun concealed under his loose shirt when he came in.

  “Is it that obvious?”

  “Only to somebody who’s looking for it. After what happened this morning, I expected you’d get hold of a weapon.”

  “Peter loaned it to me, from his father’s collection at the cottage. Nice Colt Government Model forty-five.”

  “You could get in a lot of trouble, carrying in this state.”

  “Let me worry about that.” He took a set of car keys from his pocket and pressed them into my hand, then closed my fingers over them. “I’ll mind things here; you go on. But, McCone, from here on out, I want you to be very careful.”

  His words held a level of meaning that I immediately identified. Dammit, why could he so easily read me?

  9:53 P.M.

  It was full dark by the time I reached the Pacific Missile Range facility. Clusters of low buildings lay to my left; the airfield’s rotating beacon flashed green-white-white, green-white-white against the sky. The naval weapons testing installation occupied many acres along the shore, but soon it was behind me and walls of cane screened the highway. I met with no other cars, saw nothing but a road-killed chicken. Finally the grove of papaya trees loomed up on the right.

  The old cane road was just beyond the trees—narrow, rutted, and overgrown. I checked the odometer, then turned and followed the road up a gradual rise. The Datsun’s headlights showed red dirt dotted with hummocks and scrub vegetation; the near full moon shone down, silvering cracks and furrows.

  After close to a mile, I spotted the secondary road that led to the mill, a flat, straight track that disappeared into the undergrowth. I stopped the car and grabbed a pair of binoculars I’d found on the littered backseat, trained them along the road till I caught a glimpse of faint flickering light. I’d driven almost as far as I dared, would have to continue on foot.

  Several yards farther along the main road I came to a dumping ground: doorless refrigerators, dead washers and dryers, a burned-out truck, tattered mattresses. I pulled the Datsun behind it, shut off the engine and lights, and got out. The night was so still that I could hear the wash of distant surf; the moon laid a path to the foot of the secondary road, but its light couldn’t penetrate the thick underbrush.

  I took my small flashlight from my purse, fumbled around till I found my Swiss Army knife, grabbed Glenna’s binoculars. Then I locked the purse in the Datsun’s trunk, stuck the knife in the pocket of my shorts, and moved quickly toward the road. The flashlight beam revealed recent tire tracks in the red dirt.

  A stand of stunted trees with three tall palms sticking up from it lay to one side. I burrowed into it, and something with thorns raked at my arm. A buzzing noise, then a sting. The mosquitoes were out in force. There had been relatively few at the Wellbright property since, Glenna said, it was frequently sprayed. But here in this wasteland the little pests were hungry for a feast of wild McCone.

  I tried to ignore them and kept burrowing on a course parallel to the road. The lights were close now—

  Somewhere ahead of me an engine started. Tires crunched on the ground, and headlights washed over the brush. I crouched as a dark vehicle rushed past. It drove quickly along the road, bumping in and out of potholes, stopped, and idled at the intersection.

  The Datsun! What if whoever was leaving the mill spotted it?

  I started back the way I’d come, angling toward the dumping ground where the car was hidden.

  Too late. The dark vehicle turned that way. I drew deeper into the thicket; there was too much barren land between there and the car to chance running for it. Besides, even if I reached it, where would I go?

  I heard the other vehicle idling again. Then its door opened. Footsteps slapped on the hard-packed ground. The Datsun’s door squeaked.

  He or she must be looking to see who it belonged to. Was there anything inside that would identify Glenna or Peter? I couldn’t recall.

  After a bit the door slammed and something else creaked open. The trunk, where I’d put my purse? No, I’d locked it. About thirty seconds passed, and then there was a clang.

  The hood. Damn! Whoever it was had done something to disable the car.

  After a moment the other vehicle moved, its transmission whining in reverse. Then it turned and headed back toward the highway. I tried to catch sight of it, but I was too deep into the thicket, and by the time I emerged, its sound had faded. I ran to the Datsun, slipped inside, tried to start it. Nothing, not even a click.

  Great! I was stuck in the middle of a cane field in the dark of night with a dead car!

  I pulled the hood release, got out, and raised it. Turned my flash on the car’s innards. I know a fair amount about the internal combustion engine—you have to, when you’re sister to two automobile nuts and you’re also a pilot—and what I saw told me the person had pulled enough wires to seriously damage the electrical system. The Datsun wouldn’t run again without the aid of a mechanic. And where wou
ld I find one at this hour, when the nearest town of any size had been closed up and asleep at nine o’clock?

  Well, at least I had my cell phone. I could call Hy, ask him to borrow Peter’s car and come get me.

  I liberated my purse from the trunk, dug for the phone, pressed the power button.

  Nothing. Dead battery.

  I resisted the urge to hurl the phone to the ground. It wasn’t the fault of the manufacturer or the cellular provider that the instrument’s owner repeatedly failed to check its charge.

  Okay, McCone, what now?

  Might as well press on toward the mill.

  The underbrush ended at a cleared area where an old sedan nosed in to a corrugated iron wall that leaned at an angle. Other walls slanted toward it, and the roof was tipped back so the structure was partially open to the sky. The flickering light I’d glimpsed earlier came from inside.

  To the right of the cleared area was a second mound of trash. I sprinted toward it and squatted down in its shelter. Smells assaulted me: rotten fish and what was probably human waste. I pulled a tissue from my shirt pocket and pressed it over my nose so I wouldn’t gag.

  Voices came from inside the partially collapsed mill—the low rumble of at least two men and the high-pitched stridency of a woman. Due to some acoustical quirk caused by the angles of the walls, I could make out tone, but not words.

  The charged emotional climate inside the mill quickly communicated itself: the men were hostile and agitated, the woman derisive and insistent. As she spoke, they grew silent. She went on for some minutes, ending in a crescendo of scorn. For a moment no one spoke, but then a man said something in conciliatory tones. The others muttered, obviously defeated.

  A spate of activity now: footsteps, bumping, scraping. The motion was reflected in the firelight that bounced off the rippled surface of the canted roof. I remained where I was, very still, gritting my teeth when a mosquito planted its proboscis deep in my shoulder. Twitched my arm futilely against another.

  After several minutes a figure came through a gap between the front and side walls. Man? Woman? I couldn’t tell. Glenna’s binoculars hung around my neck, so I raised them for a closer look, but there were too many shadows here and everything came out a blur. Rather than try to fool with the focus, I let the glasses drop and stared intently as four more figures emerged. One was supported between two others—drunk, probably.

  I expected the people to go to the sedan and drive away, but instead they skirted the mill and disappeared into darkness, the drunken person and his supporters bringing up the rear. After a moment I followed, moving slowly and cautiously, feeling my way on the uneven ground. The little procession was perhaps twenty yards ahead of me, and now I could make out what they were saying.

  A man’s voice: “Damn, Amy! Why we gotta do this?”

  “We’ve been over that before.”

  Another man: “What it mattah now?”

  “One’s beliefs should always matter. That’s what we’re all about.”

  After that they were silent, climbing a rise that was covered in scrub vegetation. At its top they stopped, silhouetted by the moonlight: four men in jeans and T-shirts and the woman they called Amy, featureless and clad in a voluminous garment that moved with the breeze. The sound of the sea was louder now.

  I moved as close as I could, crouched behind a fragrant shrub.

  One of the men said, “We wastin’ time, Amy. We got big trouble.”

  “The gods will protect us.”

  “Bullshit!”

  “Quiet! This is sacred ground. We’ll begin now.”

  Silence. The drunken man swayed between his supporters. I could make out little about him except for a silver earring shaped like a scimitar that dangled nearly to his shoulder and glinted in the moonlight.

  Amy said, “Buzzy?”

  One of the men cleared his throat and began a melodious chant in what I assumed was Hawaiian. His words drew the others forward, into a close circle. As the cadence rose and fell, the branches of trees that ringed the clearing cast eerie moving shadows. A strong breeze caught Amy’s clothing, making it billow like the wings of a giant dark bird.

  Suddenly for me they were no longer a group of argumentative, ragged squatters but a gathering of ancients performing their magical rituals. In spite of the night’s balminess, my flesh rippled as the chant rose to a climax, then fell off into silence.

  The squatters remained in their circle, heads bowed. Finally Amy said, “Ahi wela maka’u. We are all suspended somewhere between fire love and fire terror. When one strays too close to either extreme, he is burned.”

  Then, as if by prearrangement, they all turned and moved slowly toward the far side of the rise. Disappeared over it. I waited a moment, then scrambled up there, lay flat, and peered after them. The land sloped steeply and ended in a cliff above the sea. The people were turning away from its edge, coming back.

  I slid down the rise and took shelter behind the shrub again. Soon they passed by in single file, close enough that I could make out the rustle of Amy’s clothing. I noted four shadows, four pairs of feet.

  A cold suspicion settled on me, and I parted the leaves and stared at their departing backs. Three men, one woman. No drunken man.

  As soon as the darkness had swallowed them, I scrambled up the rise and slid down its other side to where they’d stood at the cliff’s edge. The ground dropped away sharply, and I felt a flash of vertigo as I looked at the boiling surf hundreds of yards below. It smacked hard on the jagged rocks, sprayed high.

  No one could survive in such surf. Especially one who was drunk on his feet.

  Or dying.

  Or perhaps he was already dead.

  I crouched down, scanning the water. No body. A skittering noise nearby made me pivot in alarm. Some night bird, settling in the branches of—

  A breadfruit tree. The moonlight showed the peculiar scalelike pattern of the fruit’s skin.

  A breadfruit tree. A leaping-off place.

  A desolate ghost, taking a forced plunge into the sea.

  As I crept back toward the mill I heard doors slamming and an engine starting. The squatters were leaving, their dreadful ritual over. I waited till the night was still again, then moved to where the group had stood earlier. Stones lay there: great slabs of lava rock, arranged in a platform of sorts.

  A heiau, similar to the one Tanner had shown me from the air on the Na Pali Coast. But for what sort of ritual?

  Given what I’d seen here tonight, human sacrifice was a good guess.

  I stepped up to the altar and touched one of the stones. It was smooth from the passage of time. I imagined the intense heat that had formed it, drew my hand away.

  Fire love, fire terror.

  I knew both extremes well. Had strayed toward terror and nearly been paralyzed. Had strayed toward love and nearly been burned.

  For a long time I remained there beside the ancient altar, listening to the crash of surf below the leaping-off place. Feeling the magic in this sacred spot. Imagining myself pushed and pulled between the extremes that fire creates in the human heart.

  The mill smelled smoky and musty. I peered cautiously through the gap between the front and side walls, ready to retreat if someone had remained behind. Embers glowed in an old galvanized tub that served as a makeshift fireplace, and some crates that looked as if they might have been used to sit on were arranged around it, but otherwise the place had been cleared out.

  Hastily cleared out. Trash that hadn’t made it to the heap outside drifted in the corners, and some foodstuffs—dried fruit and ramen noodles—sat in a carton by the gap in the walls. A pot hung over the steel tub on a device improvised from a coat hanger.

  The squatters weren’t coming back here.

  I stepped inside, took out my flashlight. Then I began my search.

  Wine bottles—a cheap, sweet brand. Several unlabeled jars that smelled of okolehao, the potent home brew that I’d sampled on a previous visit. Take-out carto
ns from McDonald’s and KFC. Newspapers: the Honolulu Advertiser and Kauai’s Garden Island. A used syringe, lying in the middle of the floor. A ruled pad covered with childish writing that was mostly scratched out in a different color ink. That I’d take with me.

  I continued prowling, locating a flimsy blouse whose flame-like hues resembled the dress Sue Kamuela had been wearing at the shoot that morning. I put it with the ruled pad. A used condom was stuffed into a crack between the wall and the rotting floor. That gave me an idea, and I examined every crack in the place—a time-consuming task that paid off: I found a postcard mailed to Ms. Amy Laurentz at a post office box in Waimea, a scrap of paper with a phone number scribbled on it, another giving an address in Honolulu, and something resembling a campaign button that said, “Out of Union Now!”

  When I was sure there was nothing left to find, I gathered my treasures and went to pass the night in the Datsun. There I settled into the passenger seat, my legs propped up on the driver’s side, and examined my discoveries.

  The blouse I’d show to Sue Kamuela; perhaps she’d made it and could tell me something about Amy Laurentz. The phone number and address I’d ask RKI’s people to check out for me on Monday. The “Out of Union Now!” button probably had to do with the secession movement. I’d show it to Tanner.

  The handwriting on the ruled pad was difficult to decipher. I held the flashlight over it, made out a few words through the strikeouts and scribbles: “the ’aina,” “listen to the Hawaiians,” “self-rule,” “decolonization.” The phrases hinted at a political tract that the writer was having difficulty drafting.

  Next I held the card in the flashlight beam. It was plain, postmarked Lihue, dated last Tuesday. The address and message were typed: “Friday, 9:00 A.M. Dry cave.”

  I’d heard someone refer to the place where the sniping had taken place as a dry cave. And the shoot had started at 9:00 A.M. Someone who had access to the shooting schedule had notified Amy and her ragtag band of the time and place.

  Someone who had hired them to disrupt the filming?