by Rob Swigart
The road wound in a broad rising S-turn along the hills that marched eastward from a promontory called Sinner’s Head. The highway then flew straight for six or seven miles.
As he swung out of the final S-turn, he came up behind a yellow Datsun sedan moving steadily at 35 m.p.h. It was some time before he began thinking there was something odd about the Datsun; from his height in the rented VW van he could not see in, of course, but the car seemed to be moving too rigidly. The driver ought to be adjusting to the minor variations in the roadway.
He wasn’t. He was going absolutely straight despite a series of gentle turns. Koenig honked to get his attention. He must be dreaming. If he kept driving like this there would be an accident.
There nearly was an accident. A silver BMW sedan approached from the east. Chazz could see the driver, an elderly woman, lean on her horn, a look of horror on her face as the Datsun bore down on her. She swerved onto the shoulder, passed and was gone. In his rearview mirror Chazz saw her come to a stop. Then he topped a small rise and she dropped from sight. The Datsun bore on, relentless as a wave.
They passed a road sign indicating that Pua’ahala was four kilometers ahead, where the Koloa Road branched off to the right. Chazz dropped back to give the driver of the Datsun room. He was probably drunk.
Sugar fields crowded the road edge. From time to time the red gash of a sugar cane road cut into the tall stalks. A truck hauling a sagging open iron bed that resembled a pregnant metal dinosaur bearing a forty-ton fetus of cut cane rattled across the highway fifty meters ahead. The Datsun neither slowed nor swerved, and for a moment Chazz thought there would be a collision; but the cane truck made it and had vanished into the green stalks to the south by the time the Datsun got there.
As the hill descended, the Datsun picked up speed, kicking dirt from the shoulder of the road one moment, crossing the yellow line the next, until finally, at a gentle right turn, it crossed the highway and plowed several meters into the sugar cane, crushing the thick stalks before it came to a halt. Steam spouted from the radiator, clouding the car. Chazz could not see the driver as he pulled to a halt on the shoulder and walked across the highway.
It wasn’t a particularly serious accident. The Datsun hadn’t been going very fast and the sugar cane had cushioned the impact. Certainly the hood was sprung, and the radiator was obviously ruptured, but the driver ought to be all right. Drunk, but alive.
He was quite close by the time he saw what had happened. There was no way to soften the horror.
The Datsun’s windshield was gone, a ragged mouth with shards of glass teeth. Wedged through the windshield on the driver’s side was an automobile wheel; a bald tire formed a small arc over the steering wheel. As Chazz looked in through the window, he saw that the driver was still there, and that his head was pulp smeared across the tire that bristled with spines of broken glass.
Chazz noticed that the air was thick with the over-sweet smell of crushed cane.
4
As he emerged from the cane, a Toyota pulled up behind the van.
“There’s been an accident,” Chazz told the driver. “We’ve got to call the police.”
Cobb Takamura climbed out of the Toyota. He took off his porkpie hat and brushed the beads of sweat under his receding hairline with the back of his hand and tossed the drops away. “Is it so? An accident?”
Chazz nodded. “We’ve got to call the police. The driver’s dead. His head-”
“They’re here,” Takamura said, distracted. “Sammy. Another problem. This is not my favorite day,” he told Chazz.
“What do you mean, they’re here?”
“Oh, sorry. Cobb Takamura. Lieutenant. Sergeant Akeakamai. We are police. Anyone injured? A passenger? We’ll need an ambulance?”
Chazz shook his head. “There was only one person in the car.” He led the way to the Datsun, tipped into a shallow furrow inside the cane.
“Yes,” Takamura said. “He is most assuredly dead. This seems to be a day for dead ones. A rental.” There was a Hertz sticker on the back window.
“I saw the truck. Carrying a load of wheels. Back in Hanapepe. I came up behind him… this one, I mean, not the truck.” Chazz was talking too fast. He took a breath. “He went on a few miles, never swerved. It was weird, thirty-five miles an hour. His foot must be wedged in there. The wheels were spinning in the mud.” He looked down at his slacks, red to the knees. “I turned off the engine.”
“Sit down for a moment,” Takamura suggested, taking Chazz’s arm. There was nothing to be done for the driver of the Datsun.
“Yes.”
Sammy was on the radio when they got back to the Toyota. “Yeah,” he said and remounted the microphone under the dash. “Traffic is on the way,” he said. “Meanwhile we have another one.”
“Another accident?” Takamura asked.
Sammy shook his head. “Body. A diver over The Slip. B.C. full, but he was dead. Still is.”
Takamura shook his head. “The Kukui Nut,” he told Chazz. “Still is. Ha ha. ‘Trouble rain over many already wet.’ A floater?”
“Looks that way. A couple of Navy divers found him.”
“Shouldn’t be our problem, should it,” Takamura said. “They take him to the morgue, hah. Dr. Shih will be busy tonight. Three autopsies. Hasn’t been this much work for the medical examiner since the Kapa’a pileup last fall.”
“Excuse me,” Chazz interrupted. “Do you need me? I’d like to get…”
“Ah, so sorry. I’ll take your name and address, please. In case we need you again. For the statement, you understand.”
“Yes, of course. Charles Koenig. Chazz. I’m staying in Koloa, Kapuna Road. Number forty-seven.”
Takamura nodded, writing it down. “What is it you’re doing in Kauai, Mr. Koenig?”
“Research. I’m a biologist.”
“A biologist?” Takamura was unfailingly polite. “You are a doctor, then.”
“I’m a research fellow at the Douglass Research Center. I just got here a few days ago. This…” He gestured at the patch of yellow in the cane.
Takamura smiled. “Not a good welcome to our island, Dr. Koenig.”
“No.” Chazz smiled back.
“I understand Douglass Research is a botanical garden. Dr. Koenig. You are a botanist. perhaps?”
Chazz shook his head. “Microbiology, viruses, though now I concentrate mainly on molecular biology. Genetics. Douglass Research is no longer exclusively botanical. Why do you ask?”
“I don’t know. A hunch, perhaps. Are you interested in diseases?”
Chazz shrugged. “It’s part of microbiology. Human pathogens used to interest me.”
“Used to?”
“I’ve been looking for a change. Professional burnout. I think it is. Bored with routine lab work, that sort of thing. I was invited here. so I came. I thought it might refresh my interests. I’m also on the research ethics committee for Triple-A-S.”
“Excuse, please, but I am not familiar with Triple-A-S.”
“My fault. American Association for the Advancement of Science.” He shrugged. “A professional association.”
“Ah, I see.” The radio crackled for Lieutenant Takamura. “Excuse me,” he said, moving to answer.
Chazz asked the sergeant what Takamura meant. “He said something about trouble raining on people already wet or something…”
Sergeant Akeakamai chuckled. “When you get to know the boss, you know he quotes an old movie detective named Charlie Chan all the time.”
“I see.”
Takamura returned. “Routine.” He shrugged. “I see you enjoy hiking in the desert, too.” Takamura indicated Chazz’s dusty hiking boots.
Chazz nodded.
Takamura laughed softly. “Ah. I also like to hike. Dr. Koenig. Perhaps we could go together sometime. I do know some interesting trails hereabouts.”
“I’d like that.”
“Wonderful. We needn’t detain you anymore. Here is my card in case y
ou think of anything more regarding this unfortunate accident. But I may well take the liberty of calling you first. I’ve a hunch, Dr. Koenig, that this meeting was not entirely accidental, if you understand what I mean. Fair warning.”
5
Chazz, isolated amid the buzz of the party, contemplated Douglass’ portrait over the carved pecan mantel, subtly lit by an inconspicuous fixture set into the ceiling. Frederick McCobbell Douglass – stated a small framed plaque near the portrait – had been stranded one year by a hurricane, long enough for him to think he would like to stay. It was considerably warmer in Hawaii than in Chicago, and his blood was thinning. Varieties of hibiscus diverted him in his declining years.
Mr. Douglass was very old and very pale in the portrait. From beneath lowered lids he contemplated a bloom held just below the bottom of the picture frame. Possibly he was inhaling hibiscus fragrance, although plumeria was a more likely candidate. Mr. Douglass had lived well, but it had not prevented his passing.
“The old man,” someone said behind him.
“Mm? Oh, yes.”
“A wonderful man.” It was the director of the Douglass Research Center. “Vigorous old age. What I would hope for.” The director was in his early sixties. “I came here as a young man just out of graduate school: horticulture.” He shook his head. An overlapping series of wattles undulated beneath his chin. “Mr. Douglass took me under his wing, son. Under his wing. Always planning, he was. Formal English gardens, Italian gardens, Chinese gardens… and Japanese, of course. Gathering tropical plants, Mr. Douglass was, from all over the world. Of course you know all this.”
“Yes,” Chazz agreed. “I had the tour Monday.”
“Right. Right.” The director nodded and his wattles collapsed and expanded. His name was Morgan. “You’d be Koenig. Microbiology, isn’t it?”
Chazz nodded. “What about your line of research, Dr. Morgan?” Chazz hid his face in his virgin pina colada.
The director surprised him. “I’m just a gardener, Dr. Koenig. This is not false modesty, I assure you. I am very good at growing plants. But I have very little aptitude for research. I am a fair administrator, and that is what Mr. Douglass bequeathed me, an administrative job at this well-endowed and well-equipped research center. Some good work gets done here, Koenig. We have patents for improved agricultural strains with increased disease resistance. The tropics are rich in diseases, you know. Fungi, rots, viruses. In the past fifteen years we have moved into your area more and more. You’ve seen the equipment? The latest technology, scanning electron microscopes, sequencers, computers, access to advanced data bases, all of that, electrophoresis, anything you need for recombinant DNA. I seem to recall you were interested in recombinant DNA? Of course. I know very little about such things, but I can administrate, Dr. Koenig. Frankly, though, I like plants best. Now let me introduce you to some of the others. A center like this provides opportunities for the crossfertilization of ideas to produce new hybrids, more vigorous knowledge.”
He took Chazz’s arm.
“You know Dr. Silver, of course.”
“Of course.”
The director addressed a stork of a man. “Perhaps you could introduce Dr. Koenig around, Ben. I see our three new graduate students are at the door.” Dr. Morgan excused himself.
“Yes.” Dr. Silver peered fondly at Chazz from under very bushy brows. “You’ll like it here, Chazz. Amazin’ freedom. No academic committees, no department meetings, no student papers. Wonderful facilities.”
“It was always the meetings I liked, Ben. The give and take, the hammering out of issues.”
“Ah, yes, of course. Asilomar. You were very vocal at Asilomar, weren’t you?”
“Ethics, Ben. They were important issues, what kind of controls to put on recombinant DNA research. Human problems with human answers.”
“Yes, yes. But that was more than ten years ago now, Chazz. Water under the bridge. None of those terrible scenarios developed. The research poses no threat.”
“Because we limited ourselves, Ben. Scientists made a choice. The right one, I believe.”
“I’m old-fashioned, Chazz. I believe scientific inquiry should be unfettered.”
“Of course.” Chazz smiled. “I remember your position at Asilomar, Ben. We were on opposite sides of that aisle.”
“Well,” Dr. Silver said negligently, waving away their differences, “I’ve learned to live with your rules, Chazz. But you were an arrogant young graduate student even before Asilomar.”
“Yes, sir, I guess I was,” Chazz agreed.
“I still say you are going to like it here. This is paradise. Lovely weather, beautiful beaches, exotic plants. For instance, you may find a few bugs of interest up in the crater, and in the swamp. But be careful,” he hissed suddenly, winking. “Kahunas are still at work up there. Ha!”
“Kahunas?” Chazz was used to Silver’s conversational swerves.
“Witch doctors, that sort of thing. You’ll run into them some time or other. I believe young Dewilliter has been consulting one. Knowledge of local botany is said to be quite remarkable. Healing or killing. Very interestin’. It’s been said they can pray a man to death. One of these overweight Hawaiian kings died of it, they say. In a hotel in San Francisco. Rubbish, of course.” He grinned engagingly. “It was probably the water.”
“I always liked your sense of humor.”
“And I,” Dr. Silver said, leading the way to a small group gathered around the punch bowl, “always liked men who like my sense of humor. I’d better discharge Dr. Morgan’s commission for me and introduce you around, though. This is Dr. Thomas.”
Before Dr. Thomas could do more than nod, Dr. Silver was on to the next. “Dr. Bradlow, genetic evolution of the arborescence of the koa forests. Dr. Dewilliter, viruses that prey on the lobelioids. Dr. Cutter, entomologist. Bugs, hah! Little bugs among our lovely leaves.”
Cutter nodded, smiling. “Hawaiian bugs grow to enormous size. Dragonflies, grasshoppers. Very important for all those lovely leaves, Ben.”
Silver slapped him in the upper arm. “Oh yes, oh yes. Very important. And you remember Andrea Silver, perhaps? My wife. Sedge tussocks. Very humble, the sedge tussock, but its molecular structures show extraordinarily subtle variations. Difficult as hell to analyze, but oh so vital.”
She was short and sturdy. “Ben is an idiot, Chazz. Sedge tussocks are not vital at all. To me they are moderately interesting and not particularly difficult to analyze. If he bothers you, tell him to fuck off. As I do. Fuck off, Ben. Fill you in on a secret, Koenig. He snores!”
Silver laughed. “A sign of intelligence. More awesome than the sedge. As for this woman, I can point out, as in remark, that she is a bit competitive. It keeps us on our toes, and that’s a fact.”
The jocular malice of this couple reminded Chazz of Patria, now off scrounging the forests of Yucatan, learning tribal medicine among the Lacandon Maya; she had some of Andrea’s spice. Perhaps they would like each other.
“Did you hear about the diver?” It was Dewilliter, viruses of the lobelioids.
He was youngish. Not young. Not old. More young than old. Youngish. Chronologically mid-thirties, but with a broad, open face. Full of trust and innocence. Chazz found himself disliking Dewilliter. Something about that trusting face seemed dishonest.
Chazz knew what Dewilliter was talking about. But he asked, “What diver?”
“The dead one. Off the west side. He was just bobbing around on the surface, dead.”
“Drowned?”
Dewilliter shook his head. Sparkles of chandelier light flashed off his rimless glasses. “Doesn’t look that way.”
“Oh. Shark attack?”
“Not a mark on him. Funny look on his face, I heard.”
“Where’d you hear? I mean, where does one get news like that.”
“Oh,” Dewilliter laughed, “this is a small island. Hell, the whole place is no bigger than a small town on the mainland. Thirty, forty thousand people. N
ews travels fast in a small town. February is a slack time for tourists, too. You’ll see, when you’ve been here a few weeks. Personally, I think he saw something down there. Scared him to death.”
“Monsters from the deep? Atomic testing in the nineteen-fifties? Mutants patrolling our waters? Come on.” Chazz did not want to be intrigued by Dewilliter’s morbid pursuits. “Or witch doctors, perhaps?” he asked.
Dewilliter took him seriously. “Perhaps. They can do that, you know, from a distance. Scare a man to death.”
“Is that so?” Chazz asked with exaggerated politeness, knowing he was being unpleasant. To make up, he said, “Actually, I saw something weird today myself. An accident, a real freak.”
Dewilliter nodded vigorously and his drink spilled a little. He scuffed the drops into the carpet with the ball of his foot. His shoes were formal, with little leather bells. “That’s what I’m talking about, weird things. For instance, you saw the guy with the tire through his windshield, right? Believe me, there’s more to this than meets the eye. Wait’ll you meet Paul Ulana, hm? Reads your mind, he does.”
Chazz knew why Dewilliter annoyed him: a conspiracy nut. “I bet you know who killed Kennedy,” Chazz said.
Dewilliter looked at him. “No,” he said shortly and turned away.
6
Renfrew was running. The trail wound along the red dirt ridges, slick mud sucking at the rubber soles of his lightweight camouflaged guide boots. His breath was harsh and tasted of rust.
Renfrew loved running. He loved the mission, the slap of the quiver against his back, the sharp line of bowstring, the splat and suck of mud.
He loved the solitude of the hunt. It was other people Renfrew disliked.
A mile back he had seen the pig-sign, the trampled and eaten fern, trotter prints in the mud – a hefty boar, by the size of them. This trail, a barely discernible track along Ki’ikolu Ridge, was a favorite of the feral pigs.
