A Walk Through the Fire

by Marcia Muller

  “No, thanks. I’ll use the time to make some calls.”

  First to Peter. The KPD, he told me, had assigned two officers to look for Glenna. They’d covered the hospitals, hotels, public beaches, and campgrounds without finding either her or the Volvo. Tanner and some of his pilot buddies had organized an air search, but with no results.

  “This is looking very bad,” he said. “Wen Yamashita told me the first few hours after a person disappears are the most important to finding her alive.”

  “I’ve heard that too, but I think the statistic applies more in the case of child abduction. You’re going to have to hang in there. By the way, have you seen Matthew?”

  “He left a while ago to drive over to Princeville Country Club for a meeting with Michael Blankenship, our attorney. Why?”

  “Just wondered if he’s heard how Jillian’s doing.”

  I ended the conversation and pressed the automatic dial button for Mick’s condo. He wasn’t there, but I tracked him down at the office. “Working late, aren’t you?”

  “Couple of new skip traces, and besides, Lottie’s still showing her girlfriend the sights.”

  “Did you manage to get to the check on Glenna?”

  “Yeah. I left you a message at RKI.”

  “I haven’t been back there. You can recap it in a minute, but right now I’d appreciate it if you’d pull the Elson Wellbright file, see if there’s any mention of this name: A. Carew, or a variation.”

  “You know, I think there is. The name’s familiar.” Keys clicked. “No, no, no.” More clicking. “Yeah, here it is. National Geographic article on Bali, published in 1989. Photographer’s Abigail Carew. Funny, though, I could’ve sworn I saw the name someplace else. Damn! It was—Oh, sure, the check on Glenna. Her mother’s name is Abigail Carew.”

  For a moment I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Then the full impact of his revelation hit me.

  I loved my mother, but she was never home. She was a photojournalist and traveled a lot, so I was raised by nannies and then shipped off to boarding school in England. When I was at UCLA, Mom ran off with another man.…

  A photojournalist: Abigail Carew.

  Another man: Elson Wellbright.

  So that was Glenna’s hidden agenda.

  “Shar?” Mick said.

  “Thanks, you’ve been a big help. Good luck with those skip traces.”

  I broke the connection, looked up Mona Davenport’s number, called her. When I identified myself she sounded subdued and reluctant to talk.

  I said, “I have only a few questions for you, Mrs. Davenport, and then I’ll leave you alone. Am I correct in thinking that in September of 1992 Elson Wellbright intended to move to the mainland with a photojournalist named Abigail Carew?”

  Silence. Then: “So you found out about her. May I ask how?”

  “Please just answer the question. This is urgent.”

  “Well, yes, he did.”

  “Tell me about her.”

  “She was from Australia. Married, with grown children, and out of love with her husband. She and Elson met on assignment in the late eighties, arranged to work as a team whenever possible. He lived for the time they spent together in various places, but after several years both of them wanted a more settled arrangement.”

  “She came to Kauai that September?”

  “Yes. I warned Elson it was unwise, that Celia might find out, but he badly wanted Abigail to see the island before he left forever. So I kept Celia occupied for most of the visit.”

  “When did Abigail and Elson leave?”

  “The day before Iniki. There was a hurricane east of the Big Island that looked threatening, but Elson had been tracking a smaller storm—Iniki. Knowing our weather system as he did, he was more concerned about it, so they decided to spend the night on Oahu before flying to the mainland the next day.”

  “They were going to New Mexico?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “He didn’t tell you their destination?”

  “He said Abigail had business in New York City and planned to deliver his manuscript to the literary agent who had agreed to represent it, but he was going to their new home. She was to join him there in a few days.”

  “I find it hard to believe you had no address, no way to get in touch with him.”

  “That was how Elson wanted it. He said cutting all ties was the only way he could disappear completely.”

  “And they needed to do that? Disappear?”

  “Abigail’s husband was a very powerful and possessive man. And Elson…”

  “Yes?”

  “Elson had appropriated large amounts from the family’s liquid assets. He was afraid Celia would come after him and take legal action.”

  “I see.”

  “He wasn’t committing a crime, Ms. McCone. What he took was far less than he’d inherited from his father, and it isn’t as if this is a community-property state.”

  “I realize that.”

  “Is there anything else?” Her tone was clipped and defensive.

  “No, Mrs. Davenport, you’ve told me what I needed to know.”

  9:41 P.M.

  As I watched the neon high-rise glare of Oahu disappear into the distance, I thought about the events of September 1992. Put all the things I’d learned since I’d been in the Islands into a coherent, unshakable order. Then I began thinking about the police search for Glenna, ruling out various possibilities on a logical basis.…

  APRIL 8

  Kauai

  10:57 P.M.

  Dark here among the cane fields. Only the misted lights of the missile range and the green-white-white wink of the airfield’s beacon.

  No headlights behind me, none ahead. That’s good.

  Park behind the trash dump like before?

  Drive in and risk being trapped there if he returns?

  Time. Time is precious.

  Drive in.

  Mill looks the same, all tumbled in on itself and silvered by the moonlight. No sound except the sea and the rustling of some night creature in the brush. No car—where would it be stashed? Smell from that refuse is stronger. Or is it…?

  No, not that.

  Not that!

  Funny, the wall wasn’t pulled away like this when I searched the place last Friday night. Where’s my flashlight? Bottom of my purse, as usual. Got it.

  And here inside we have the car. Peter’s Volvo.

  And Glenna…?

  She was lying on the backseat, and only the fact that she’d been bound and gagged gave me hope she might be alive. I yanked the door open, put a hand on her neck, feeling for a pulsebeat.

  She flinched, pulled away violently.

  “Easy, Glenna, it’s Sharon.” I turned her on her back so she could see me. Her eyes were huge and terrified, but soon the fear leaked from them in a trickle of tears.

  “Let’s get you out of here.” I began working on the knot of the cloth that covered her mouth, a filthy rag that had probably been left behind by the squatters. My thumbnail tore; I cursed but kept working till the knot yielded and I could pull the cloth free.

  She tried to speak. At first nothing came out; then in a hoarse whisper she said, “Water?”

  I’d seen a half-full bottle of spring water on the backseat of the Datsun. “Hold on, I’ll be right back.” I hurried out there, found it. Took it back, propped her up against the door, and held it to her mouth. “Only a little at first.”

  She drank, some of it dribbling over her cracked lips.

  I felt around in my purse for my Swiss Army knife and went to work on the ropes that bound her wrists and ankles. When they were free she still couldn’t move them.

  “Numb,” she whispered.

  “They will be, for a while.” I gave her more water, then looked over the seat back to see if the keys were in the ignition. They weren’t. “D’you know if there’s a spare key anywhere on this car?”

  She shook her head.

  I backed out of the
door, inspected the glove box and the ashtrays, felt around for a magnetic container under the bumper. Nothing.

  “Let me massage your feet and legs,” I said to Glenna. “I’ll have you out of here in no time.”

  “Scared.” Her voice was stronger now.

  “Don’t be. I’ve got things under control.” I gave her more water, then began trying to get her circulation going. After a few minutes I asked, “Any feeling in your feet?”

  “Some. Don’t think I can walk yet. Got to get out of here, though. He said he’d be back tonight.”

  “I know you ran into Matthew at Honolulu International. How’d he get you here?”

  “Said he wanted to talk, since I’d probably be marrying Peter. Thought I should see the family’s other properties. Stupid me, I was flattered, bought into it. What he wanted to do was offer me a lot of money to leave the Islands. He knows who I am, what I’m after.”

  As soon as she spoke the last words, she looked as if she wanted to take them back. I said, “I know about your mother and Elson Wellbright.”

  “How?”

  “We’ll talk about that later. You refused the offer, of course.”

  “Didn’t want money. Wanted to know what happened to my mother. Wanted Peter.”

  “So Matthew left you here to think it over. He say what time he’d be back?” She shook her head. I let go of her and got out of the car.

  “Don’t leave!”

  “I’m not.” I shone my flash around the mill. There was room to pull the Datsun in here, transfer her to it. “Be right back.”

  “Wait!”

  “Quiet, Glenna!” Now I heard a car gearing down on the highway. I slipped outside, saw its headlights turn off into the cane fields. “Christ!”

  The car was coming too fast for me to load Glenna into the Datsun, much less drive out of there. I ducked back into the mill, yanked open the driver’s door of the Volvo, found the trunk release, pulled it. “Glenna, can you put your arms around my shoulders?”

  “Think so.”

  I got hold of her, pulled her from the backseat. Dragged her to the rear of the car and propped her against the opening. Then I lifted her legs and rolled her into the trunk. Her eyes were huge with fright.

  “You’ll be okay in here,” I said. “Just keep quiet.”

  I slammed the lid before she could protest and raced out of the mill. The headlights were slicing along the dirt track. I plunged into the brush.

  Okay, what now?

  Call 911.

  I yanked the cell phone from my bag and punched in the number. Gave my name and location, said I’d found Glenna Stanleigh and that someone was trying to kill us. Twenty feet away a dark-colored Buick was pulling up on the Datsun’s bumper.

  “Keep the line open,” the dispatcher told me.

  “Can’t.” I broke the connection.

  Matthew got out of the Buick. Stood looking at the Datsun, then stared at the mill.

  He wasn’t armed, at least not with a gun, but that didn’t make him any less dangerous. I suspected he’d thrown the rocks at me when I went into the deadfall in spite of his insistence that Jillian would never hide there. He’d killed Tommy Kaohi with a hot shot—easy enough to lay hands on when your brother’s a major distributor. He might have brought another lethal dose with him tonight.

  Matthew went to the front of the Datsun, raised the hood, and disabled it, as he had Friday night. Then he turned around and scanned the shadows. I remained still, barely breathing. A mosquito landed on my upper arm. I ignored the sting, concentrated on Matthew.

  His stance was alert, every sense primed for danger. He began moving slowly toward the mill.

  How long before the police could get here? Not soon enough, if he thought to check the Volvo’s trunk. In a crouch I began moving through the brush till I was only a couple of yards away from him.

  He stopped, looking around again. I froze. His senses were too keen; I wouldn’t be able to take him by surprise, and surprise was my only advantage against a large, strong man.

  I’d have to create a diversion. Lead him away from here until the police could arrive from Waimea.

  He reached into his shirt pocket and took out an object that at first looked like a large marking pen. Uncapped it. The moonlight shone off the hypodermic needle as it had shone off Tommy Kaohi’s earring during the improvised funeral service.

  He stepped into the mill, moved toward the rear of the Volvo.

  I raised my arm and let my cell phone fly at his head.

  I whirled and ran through the brush, dodging and weaving. Behind me I heard a startled cry, and then Matthew began running after me.

  Heart pounding, adrenaline flooding my limbs. Up the rise, past the heiau, a quick jog to the right. Across barren moon-bathed ground toward the shelter of the wind-rippled cane on the adjacent acreage.

  Thrashing and grunting behind me. He stumbled, fell. Cursed and scrambled. Started running again.

  I burrowed deep into the cane. Crouched between the stalks, sucking in warm, damp air. Listened.

  Nothing but the pulse of the sea.

  A minute. Still nothing.

  He had me trapped here. Playing statues, waiting me out. Listening for a telltale breath or rustle.

  Well, I could play statues too.

  I know what happened in September of 1992. Enough of it, anyway, and the rest I can surmise. The story’s there, in what I’ve found out about the Wellbrights. In the note in Glenna’s mother’s briefcase. But mostly it’s there in Jillian’s disjointed monologue after I found her at La’i Cottage the night she set fire to the deadfall.

  It was Jillian who had written “Please forgive us” and tucked the note into the case. I should’ve realized that as soon as I saw it. Hadn’t I seen the beginning of the same message written on the sand in her childish back-slanting script? Jillian, still consumed by guilt, still asking for forgiveness.

  Don’t know if she was living in the present or the past when she set fire to the deadfall. Probably the present. She wanted the truth to come out. But when she went to the cottage, drenched by the storm that was so like the beginning of Iniki, she was back on September 11, 1992—the night she took shelter in Elson’s cottage and found Abigail Carew’s briefcase—

  A cracking sound. A rustle. Silence. Matthew, close by now. I couldn’t see him, but I felt his presence.

  Moonlight bathed the top leaves of the stalks, but it couldn’t penetrate below. If I stayed still, he wouldn’t spot me.

  Silence again, except for the ripple of cane, the crash of the surf.

  Jillian and Abigail. What happened to each is tied to the other.

  Abigail came to Kauai on September 6. In spite of Elson’s efforts to keep the visit a secret, Jillian, the wanderer, found out. Perhaps the two women struck a rapport. At any rate, I can’t see Jillian deliberately giving Elson and Abigail away. But I can see her letting something slip accidentally. And that was when, as she said during her crying jag after the party at Pali House, everything ended.

  On September 10, before Elson and Abigail could leave the island for Oahu, someone killed them. Most likely shot them during a confrontation, with one of the guns from the cabinet in the cottage—

  Matthew was moving again. Moving with the wind, thinking it covered the rustling and snapping. Passing me now, only yards away. Going deeper into the cane, toward the sea.

  I held my breath and suffered the sting of insects. Dust tickled my nose and I choked back a sneeze. Listened to more rustling and snapping. More movement of the stalks, and then he was gone.

  A trick, or was he disoriented too? Whichever, I didn’t dare move yet. He might be waiting right out there with that deadly syringe.…

  September 10, 1992. The bodies were in the cottage, they had to be buried, and Elson’s forest was safe and convenient. It would take two people, though.

  Matthew and Jillian. No one else he could trust to help him.

  While other islanders mobbed the stores
for emergency supplies, Matthew and Jillian worked to conceal the crime. Worked into the night, with only the light of the harvest moon to aid them. And in the morning Jillian was driven from Pali House by guilt and revulsion. Went wandering in spite of the hurricane alert.

  In the confused aftermath of Iniki any remaining traces of the crime and cover-up were lost. By the time the family hired detectives to trace Elson, the trail that had never existed was presumed to be cold. Would have remained cold if Jillian hadn’t secreted the briefcase away and later mailed it from Waimea to Abigail Carew’s home address in Australia. Still, it was nearly six years later, when Glenna arrived on the island, that discovery became a real fear and Jillian’s guilt became a real threat.…

  I’d been hiding in the cane for what seemed like hours but in total couldn’t have been more than five minutes. Time to double back to the mill, be there when the police arrived. I began crawling between the plantings, trying not to bump the stalks. The earth cut into my palms, lacerated my knees, but I gritted my teeth against the pain and kept going.

  At the edge of the field I hesitated, facing the barren moonlit area between there and the trees that ringed the heiau. A run across it would expose me.…

  Dammit, I needed a weapon! But I’d stuck to the letter of Hawaii’s law, had left Peter’s gun at Malihini House. I had my Swiss Army knife, but it wasn’t any use at a distance, and not much more in combat with a large man carrying a lethal syringe. My purse held many other objects, though. Could I simulate a weapon with one of them?

  I felt through it. Wallet, checkbook, lipstick, sunglasses, small long-handled flashlight—

  It was the right color, would gleam like gunmetal in the moonlight. And if I positioned my hands on the bulb end in a certain way, it might resemble a handgun.

  I slipped it out, extended it in two hands.

  Yes!

  Still I hesitated, palms clammy, body cold in spite of the balmy night. I took a deep breath, let my adrenaline surge to a higher level while I listened to the sounds around me.

  Whisper of cane, crash of surf. Deceptively quiet, but time was running out.

  I told myself I was playing a role. Use the prop well, and it’d come off. I grasped the flashlight in both hands as I would my .357 Magnum and ran across the open space, sweeping it at the shadows. The moon was my spotlight.