A Walk Through the Fire

by Marcia Muller

  Someone close to Glenna?

  The discovery unsettled me, took away the possibility of sleep. I told myself I had to rest, shut my eyes. They felt gritty, and there was a throb above my right eyebrow. My stomach growled; I hadn’t eaten since my sandwich and Coke. I wriggled around, searching for a comfortable position. Grabbed a sweater from the backseat and bunched it up under my head. Warded off the advances of mosquitoes.

  When I finally dozed off, I dreamed of a sea cave where violent waves dashed a man’s limp body against the rocks, their phosphorescent foam turning blood red in the darkness.

  APRIL 4

  Kauai

  10:29 A.M.

  Malihini House slumbered peacefully in the sun against a backdrop of sparkling sea. Hens pecked on the lawn while a rooster strutted nearby, crowing proprietarily. It wasn’t till I got out of the Datsun that I noticed an odd stillness.

  I ran up the steps to the lanai, calling out for Hy and Glenna. No one answered. The screen door was pulled shut, the inner door locked. I took out my key, let myself in, called again. No response.

  For an instant I felt a flash of panic—perhaps something had happened in my absence? Then I remembered the shoot on the Na Pali cliffs. I’d been so preoccupied with what I’d witnessed at the cane lands last night and my problem with the disabled Datsun that I’d totally forgotten Tanner was to begin picking up and transporting people at first light. By now everybody was on location, Russ was out on his charter, and I was stuck here.

  It had taken me forever to hitch a ride on the highway, even longer to get a mechanic out from Waimea to tend to the car. Once the Datsun was running, I thought of going straight to the police with the story of what I’d seen, but decided it would be an exercise in futility. The man who had been thrown into the sea was probably food for sharks by now, and even if the police could find the squatters, it would come down to the word of a visitor from the mainland against that of four locals. In the light of day, the scene on the bluff seemed surreal even to me; to the police, it would sound like an okolehao-induced delusion.

  I went to the small desk in a corner of the kitchen to check the answering machine and spotted a note in Hy’s handwriting: “McCone—Hope you’re okay. Call me as soon as you read this.” Quickly I dialed his cellular number, was told by an electronic voice that the unit was outside the service area. Of course, on those remote cliffs; Hy hadn’t counted on that. I hung up and stood there, feeling deflated and at loose ends. What now?

  A walk on the beach to clear my head and think things over.

  The path to the beach wound through ironwood, papaya, and banana trees, flowering shrubs crowding in beneath them. A pile of branches and a cut-up trunk lay beside the trail, indicating the place where the tree had nearly fallen on Glenna. I went around and looked at the indentation where it had once stood, but could see no evidence of digging. Of course the gardeners who’d been working here had obliterated any signs.

  Around a curve, a series of steep steps formed by gnarled roots led down to white sand that was littered with driftwood. Shiny-leafed morning glories trailed toward the water. I left my rubber flip-flops there and continued on bare feet, turning west at the tide line and splashing through the cool surf. To my left the land rose sharply, thick vegetation screening the Wellbright property. The ironwood roots clung precariously to the eroding soil—near casualties of Iniki—and only the peaked roofs of the houses were visible.

  As I walked, the beach became rocky and the coral reef curved in to meet it. A stream cut through the sand beyond Lani House, clear and fast, spilling into the sea. On its other side black boulders cascaded down the slope from the tangled deadfall—the ancient lava field, and what remained of Elson Wellbright’s forest.

  I stepped into the stream, was startled by its iciness. Bent and cupped up some water in my hands and tasted it. Pure and fresh, straight from the wettest peaks on the face of the earth. I waded across, and a rustling in the deadfall brought me up short.

  A dog bounded out, a husky, its beautiful fur wet and muddied, wearing that smug expression they get when they know they’ve just cost their owners a trip to the groomer’s. It was followed by a brown Lab, no more than a puppy and equally damp and dirty. They wagged their tails as they cavorted toward me.

  I squatted down, bestowing pats and checking the tags on their collars. The husky was called Sitka, the Lab Belle Isle—tropical-dwelling dogs named for their cold-weather origins. The address on the tags simply said “Wellbright Estate.”

  “Hey!” a man’s voice shouted.

  I straightened, saw Matthew Wellbright coming along the beach in a tight, fast stride. His face was red and scrunched up in anger, but when he recognized me he relaxed and slowed down.

  “Sharon! I didn’t realize it was you. I thought some stranger might be harming the dogs.”

  If the dogs sensed his concern, they didn’t show it. Sitka gave him a bored look and ran off in the opposite direction; Belle Isle yawned and sat down at my feet, her tail thumping on the sand.

  I said, “Why would anybody harm them?”

  “Well, given what’s been going on lately… I don’t suppose you’ve seen my mother or Jillian?”

  “No, neither.”

  “Damn! Mother’s been missing since early this morning, and it isn’t like Jill to take off without telling me. Stephanie and Ben’re gone, too.”

  Did he usually keep such close tabs on his family members? Or was he prompted by the same kind of concern he’d shown for the dogs?

  “Well, I’m sure everybody’ll turn up eventually. If I see them I’ll send them your way.”

  Matthew nodded his thanks but made no move to leave. “How come you’re not at the shoot?” he asked.

  “Business to attend to elsewhere,” I replied vaguely.

  “You found out anything?”

  “I’ve got a few leads.”

  “Oh?”

  “Nothing I care to discuss yet.”

  He frowned but didn’t press me. “I stopped by Malihini House last night to apologize, but nobody was there.”

  “Apologize? For what?”

  “Our behavior at the party Friday. We weren’t ourselves. Haven’t been, since Peter returned.”

  “You mean, because of the problems with the film crew?”

  “Let’s just say that his being back has raised a lot of old issues.” He glanced down the beach, where Sitka was heading into the deadfall, and bellowed for him to come back. The dog ignored him.

  “I wouldn’t worry about anything happening to him in there.”

  “Maybe you wouldn’t, but I do. There’re drifters camping out all over this island. I caught a pair of them building a fire in there just last month.”

  “That area does look like an attractive nuisance. Why not clear and landscape it?”

  “No.” He shook his head emphatically. “That was my father’s forest; it contained over fifty different native plants and trees. I want it left that way, as a memorial to him.”

  What was it with the Wellbright sons and their memorials to Elson?

  As if he knew what I was thinking, Matthew added, “Peter’s trying to immortalize him on film. I have my own way of preserving his memory.” He paused. “So where were all of you last night?”

  I opted for a half-truth. “At the Shack with Russ Tanner.”

  He pursed his lips, eyes narrowing behind the thick glasses. “Ah, good old Ace.”

  “You don’t care for him.”

  He shrugged. “It’s more that I don’t care for the way he’s insinuated himself into my family.”

  “Isn’t he a relative?”

  “Distant. His great-grandmother was a Wellbright missionary daughter who scandalized the congregation by running off with a full-blooded Hawaiian. That’s not enough of a connection to require us to invite him to Sunday dinner. The Tanner surname comes from another missionary family on Maui, but you don’t see him flying over there to suck up to them. Anyway, I don’t want t
o talk about Russ. He’s been a serious source of aggravation his whole life.”

  Again Matthew called for Sitka. This time the dog wandered our way, looking as if it was his own idea. Matthew’s expression grew defeated and somewhat wistful. If he couldn’t convince his dog of his authority, how was he to police his family? Then his eyes brightened with relief. I followed his line of sight along the beach to where a slender figure in a loose white dress was walking. Jillian, her long light hair trailing out from under a straw sun hat.

  “Well,” I said, “there’s one of your missing persons.”

  “About time, too. Maybe she knows where Mother’s gone.” He waved to his wife and she waved back. “Oh, while I think of it,” he added, “why don’t you and Hy stop by Pali House this evening? We’d like a report on the security arrangements, as well as one on your investigation.”

  The request surprised me and put me off. “It’s not my practice to make reports to anyone but my client.”

  His lips twitched in annoyance. “It’s Wellbright money you’re being paid with. That makes us all your clients.”

  Jillian had stopped a few feet away from us, was bending over, writing something in the sand. “Jill?” Matthew said.

  She ignored him, erased the writing with her foot, started over.

  “Jillian!” He went to her and took her hand. She straightened. To me Matthew said, “Eight o’clock, and casual.” Then he began leading her away.

  No, I thought, I wasn’t going to spend another evening watching the Wellbrights drink and bicker. And I wouldn’t share my findings with anyone but Glenna. It was her signature on the bottom of my contract.

  Out of curiosity I went over and looked at what Jillian had been writing. Only one word was legible: “Please,” in a childish backhand. Well, I could imagine the damaged woman had any number of things to ask for.

  After a moment I started off in the opposite direction, the dogs following. The lava fall extended into the water, and I waded out onto the flat, smooth rocks. Waves sloshed around my ankles, and in the tide pools I saw small crabs and shells. I reached down for a spiral of purple and white, examined it, and then began to hunt for others.

  Not that I was a serious beachcomber or even had much interest in shells, but it struck me as a good way to focus my thoughts on my investigation. Both activities required you to examine small segments and look for details you wouldn’t notice at first glance; both forced you to go slowly, not get ahead of yourself. Unfortunately, I soon realized I was doing far better with the shells than with the thoughts.

  12:38 P.M.

  The four-engine plane banked low off the coral reef, its landing lights turning the water to quicksilver. I straightened, adjusting my balance on the lava rock. The day had become overcast, hot and muggy; before I shaded my eyes against the glare I wiped moisture from my forehead.

  Although it was a big plane, I hadn’t heard it approach, as sometimes happens, depending on flight path and wind direction. I watched as it headed out to sea, blending into the murky gray of the sky. For the past five minutes or so I’d been aware of an increase in offshore helicopter traffic but thought little of it. Tanner had told me that the tour aircraft followed the same route we’d taken past here yesterday, and I assumed business was brisk because it was Saturday. But now I saw a veritable swarm of choppers homing in on the cliffs to the west.

  Something unusual going on there.

  The plane was coming back at around 500 feet above the surface, in slow flight, looking for something. A C-130, I guessed, military transport. I squinted at its fuselage, trying to read the insignia.

  U.S. Coast Guard.

  Search-and-rescue mission.

  My stomach prickled with anxiety. A drowning off one of those isolated beaches I’d seen from the air? A hiker falling from a high trail? Or…?

  “Okay,” I said, “don’t go jumping to conclusions.”

  The C-130 neared the reef, its engines droning and chattering. Again it headed out to sea and looped back, farther to the west now. It was searching the water in segments, much as I’d searched the tide pools for shells. More choppers had joined in the effort, which centered near the cliffs. The cliffs where Glenna and her trouble-plagued crew were filming. The cliffs where Hy was…

  I scrambled off the rocks and ran along the sand to the path to Malihini House, the Wellbright dogs yelping at my heels.

  Tanner and his chopper weren’t at the helipad, but the scanner muttered inside his house and the door was unlocked. I stepped into a simple white room furnished in rattan, spotted the unit on top of a low bookcase, and went over there. It was tuned to 118.9. I turned the volume up and heard the unmistakable calm, clipped tones of an air traffic controller’s voice, probably at Lihue.

  “… taxi into position and hold, expect one-minute delay for wake turbulence.”

  “Five-eight-tango will waive the delay.”

  “Five-eight-tango, cleared for takeoff.”

  I didn’t want to monitor the airport. I wanted to hear the traffic near the Na Pali Coast.

  Dammit, why didn’t Tanner have a sectional lying around here so I could check the frequency? Well, why would he need one? He was as familiar with Kauai airspace as I was with that between Oakland and Mendocino County.

  122.7

  That was it. I’d noticed yesterday that the frequency was the same as at Mendocino County Airport, near Hy’s and my property on the California coast.

  I tuned the scanner, at first heard only static. Then a man’s voice said, “Three-two-five, say again, please.”

  “Four-niner-niner, I have the floater. I’m, ah, half a mile southwest of Makaha Point.”

  “Three-two-five, do you need assistance?”

  “Negative. I have it covered, will hold for the cutter.”

  “Roger, Three-two-five.”

  “Mahalo.”

  As he spoke his thanks, the pilot’s voice was flat, lacking in urgency. Someone had drowned, the body had been located, and now the Coast Guard would recover it.

  Outside I heard the flap and drone of a chopper. Tanner, returning. I ran onto the lanai, watched as he set it on the pad with a featherlight touch. He saw me and waved as he shut it down.

  As I started over there the door opened and two middle-aged couples spilled forth.

  “… awful, just awful!” one woman was exclaiming.

  “Damn fool, if you ask me,” the man behind her said. “Should’ve stayed off those cliffs.”

  “Well, we’re not going up on them,” the other woman announced. “No way, not us!”

  The second man nodded. “Why should we, when we’ve got a world-class golf course at our doorstep?”

  The kind of customers Tanner called shirts.

  Russ got out and came toward me, arms outstretched, concern etching his forehead and muddying his blue eyes. He took both of my hands in his. “You hear?”

  A chill washed over me, set my limbs to tingling. “Only that somebody drowned and a body’s been recovered. Was it—”

  “Hey, Ace!” one of the men called.

  Tanner looked at him, mouth pulling tight in annoyance. “What d’you want?” he snapped.

  The man took a step backward. “Uh, just to thank you for the tour, even if it was cut short.”

  “Sorry, man, the lady and I are upset about the accident, is all. Come on back tomorrow, we’ll finish the trip.”

  The four exchanged looks that said it was the last thing they wanted to do, and beat a hasty retreat to a convertible that was parked nearby.

  I clung to Tanner’s hands, asked, “What happened up there?”

  “I don’t know much more than you do, just what I could get over the radio. Guy I know, flies outta Lihue, spotted somebody go over the cliff at the location where Sweet Pea’s filming. Current took the body right away. Pilot got on to the Coast Guard—”

  “Jesus!”

  “Okay, cool head, main thing. We’ll fly up there, find out.”

  The
bottle-shaped area on top of the cliff lay flattened and foreshortened as Tanner guided the helicopter in on a shallow approach for a quick-stop landing. Setting it down was complicated by the presence on the ground of another chopper.

  I said, “Police?”

  He nodded, the set of his mouth grim as he manipulated all four controls with quick, consistent movements. I remembered what he’d said about helicopters being basically unstable in any mode of flight, and swallowed hard, fighting the tension that infected me.

  As we neared the ground, the space assumed its natural configuration and I could see people. They were unrecognizable at this angle, but I stared hard anyway, trying to pick out faces. Tanner hovered briefly, set it down, and then I spotted Hy standing a few yards away and peering anxiously into the bubble.

  Tanner reached across me and opened the door. “You go on ahead. I’ll catch up with you.”

  I undid my seat belt, slid out, ran to Hy with ducked head.

  “McCone! I was worried!” He pulled me close.

  I hugged him, felt his warmth and the steady thump of his heart. Realized how truly scared I’d been that he might’ve been the one who went off the cliff. After a moment I stepped back and scanned the crowd. Glenna and Peter were over by the police chopper, talking with a uniformed officer. She looked drained; Peter was pale and stone-faced. Jan Lyndon and Bryan O’Callaghan stood by the heiau with Kim Shields, the camerawoman. They were whispering and glancing at Hy and me. All the other members of the crew seemed to be here, and two men and a woman in tropic-weight RKI blazers patrolled near the cliff’s edge.

  “Who…?”

  Tanner came up to us. “Ripinsky,” he said, “what the hell happened here?”

  Hy motioned us toward the neck of the bottle-shaped area, where the valley seemed to spill forth between the palis. In a low voice he said, “Celia Wellbright fell off the cliff.”

  Tanner’s face went slack with shock, then flushed, as if he’d had some complicity in her fall.

  I exclaimed, “Celia? What was she doing here?”

  Russ said, “She called me this morning after I’d brought everybody up here, demanded I bring her too. I couldn’t check with Pete to see if it was all right, and Celia… well, she can be imperious as hell. So I brought her.” He glanced at the sea. “Wish I hadn’t.”