by Rob Swigart
The book was Poisonous Plants of Hawaii, by Harry L. Arnold, M.D., 1944. Seriously out of date. Besides, the signs were wrong: no emesis and no catharsis. Paradise concealed an enormous amount of violence. The victims were not eating poinsettia, though.
A traffic death, an old woman, a derelict and a diver, Chazz typed. The letters hung before him, phosphorescent green. He backed up and typed:
A SENSE OF FOREBODING ON THE HORIZON
Again he erased it, called up the telecommunications access program, logged on to SCINOTE, an electronic mail and computer conferencing system for scientists, and sent a message to Patria.
-> MAIL EX TBM876
-> .DA 13 Feb
-> SUBJECT:ANTHRO
-> ENTER TEXT: Can you do search Hawaiian kahuna.
Need soonest for vital research, esp. poisons or killing techniques. Wish you were here. How are you? Love, BCIA98.
-> .AR-Acknowledgment Requested Soonest
-> Quit
The screen went blank.
12
Later that afternoon Chazz sat on his feet, a position called seiza, knees apart. Opposite, a few feet away, an older man faced him in the same position. Their hands rested on their thighs, fingers inward. They wore white karate gis and black-skirted hakama.
Shinawa was small, baldly brown on top, with a fringe of white hair fluffing over his ears. His face was very wrinkled, with deep smile creases at the comers of the eyes. Neither man moved.
The large quonset hut that housed the Hanalolo Aikido Club was empty and dim; the windows on each end were not only very dirty, but obscured by chicken wire as well, and the lights were off. Chazz could hear light rain trickle down the grooves in the round metal roof, and the slight creak of his own breathing as it pushed his belly against the stiff knot of his belt and the cords of his hakama.
Shinawa made no sound; he sat absolutely motionless. Chazz couldn’t see him breathe. This was, of course, an illusion. Shinawa was calm, but he was certainly breathing. Chazz hoped his breath was even half as quiet. It was up to him to attack.
He waited. The mat beneath his knees was gray in the dim light. The walls curved overhead. A rack of wooden weapons: wooden staffs, bamboo and wooden swords, hung opposite him. A desk with a telephone and a record player sat near the entrance. The rest of the hut’s floor space was taken up by an elevated mat covered with canvas. The two men were seated in the center.
The attack would have a slow start since Chazz was sitting on his feet. Any movement would telegraph his intentions, any preliminary tension. He would have to spring from seiza.
He waited.
Suddenly the telephone on the desk rang; the sound was explosive and loud in the hut. Chazz, as if switched on by that sound, sprang to his feet and glided toward the old man, ready to strike.
Shinawa did not appear to move, did not rise to meet the attack. He appeared distracted, as though hesitant whether to answer the telephone or not. Chazz thrust the blade of his hand toward the old man’s face in a vicious, totally committed strike.
Shinawa shifted slightly on his left knee, at the same time joining the wrist of Chazz’s striking hand with the back of his own left wrist, resting gently there, riding the motion of the strike, lowering and leading Chazz, at the same time almost lovingly placing his own right hand on the back of his neck.
Automatically Chazz bent his knees to keep his center of gravity beneath him, yet propelled past and led down, his strike passing the old man harmlessly. His own left arm shot out and curled as Shinawa pivoted once again, this time taking a small step on his knees as he brought Chazz’s attacking arm in a vertical circle, using the leverage of the shoulder itself to send Chazz rolling at a slight angle away from him. It was not a throw, this smooth kaiten nage: Chazz felt no pressure or conflict. He rolled swiftly and came, twisting, to his feet, reaching to grab the hand he found in his face.
The movement of his own hand found only empty air to grasp. Shinawa was beside him, leading him down once more, then smoothly reversing his direction so that Chazz found himself first sprawled face toward the mat, and as he started to straighten, flipped back. Shinawa was seated calmly beside him, arms extended, one hand in Chazz’s face, the other over his knees. Chazz had drawn himself into a ball and turned slightly away, a motion he continued, twisting away, springing once more to his feet. He turned for a third attack.
Suddenly he stopped and smiled. Shinawa was seated seiza still, but his hands were slightly extended toward Chazz, ready, as he knew they would be, for anything Chazz might choose to do. There was no opening for an attack.
Chazz floated to his own knees and bowed as the telephone rang for the second time.
Shinawa returned the bow and rose jointlessly to his feet. His hakama swished as he moved to answer the phone.
Neither man had said a word since they had bowed in to each other. Now Chazz could hear Shinawa’s heavily accented English as he spoke. He was giving a training schedule to a new member. A class would begin in half an hour.
Chazz waited. He felt very happy.
So he was surprised when he sensed Shinawa behind him and turned to face the naked steel of a live sword, not the wooden bokken he would have expected. It moved toward his throat relentlessly, and Chazz rose, moving backward, as the needle tip advanced. He realized with a sinking sensation that he had never faced a live blade before. The humor was gone from Shinawa’s eyes. Chazz backed up, struggling for calm, feeling fear.
The sharp side of the blade, facing down, gleamed dully along the temper line. As Chazz backed, Shinawa advanced, keeping the tip poised at the soft hollow of Chazz’s throat. A short thrust could kill him; the tip was inches away. What did this old man have in mind? This was a good way to scare off students.
Chazz did not consider himself a student any longer, not really. It occurred to him that the truism that one is always a beginner, always just starting from wherever one is, was not just words. He was about to learn something.
He was not sure it was something he wanted to learn. He felt the edge of the mat under his heel. He couldn’t back any farther. The sword tip jerked slightly, as if Shinawa were going to raise it over his head to strike, and Chazz twitched back.
“Wait calmly,” the old man said quietly. “You must be ready to die.”
Chazz had heard those words before; he had even spoken them from time to time when teaching. But Shinawa meant to kill him, and he could feel the adrenaline rush of fear sweep through him. He read commitment in his face even as the blade turned sideways and thrust toward his throat.
Shinawa smiled and bowed. Chazz bowed to the sword and returned it. It wasn’t until the old man was by the desk sheathing the sword that Chazz felt the weakness in his knees. Five of Shinawa’s students were standing by the door, watching.
Shinawa laughed and smacked Chazz on the back. “That was fine,” he said. “Your technique is very strong. But the spirit, ah” He shook his head.
“I’m not sure I’d want to do it again,” Chazz told him.
“As long as you are ready, you may not have to,” Shinawa said. “But there are always dangers. It is agreeable to have choices, is it not? To protect even those who attack you. To know the harmony there is in the universe and to be in harmony with it. We always say these things, but we seldom live them. You have taken up aikido to learn how to not kill, I hear. Very good. You must also not be killed, eh? Spirit. You need spirit. With spirit the sword can stay sheathed. But your teacher was very good.”
“I thank you for him,” Chazz said. “He would be honored.”
There was a pair of curtained alcoves for changing. While Chazz was getting dressed again, one of Shinawa’s students said quietly, “That was something.”
Chazz nodded, pleased. It was something.
Shinawa walked with Chazz to the door. “Give my greetings to my friend Takamura. He is a man of great spirit; you can learn from him. But tell him for me he watches too many of those terrible old racist Charlie Ch
an movies.”
13
His wound still hurt. The ugly tear in his side ached continuously, though the red-eyed kahuna had told him it was healing well. He could live with pain; it reminded him of Nam, lying wounded in the rain. He’d been in shock then, and after a time had come to love the shock; it was a high, the floating, the absence of pain. He embraced it.
Renfrew liked the work, the sense of mission. Renfrew, running, or crouched as now in hiding, felt the rush of purpose, the calm effective power of competence and control. And this new one might be more of a challenge than the old woman. At least the target was not old and feeble.
It had begun to drizzle, but Renfrew didn’t mind. He watched the girl through his binoculars. She’d been rummaging in the trunk of her car, but now was leaning against the hood with her pack slumped on the yellow metal. When she took out her cigarettes, he could see the brand clearly. His information was correct. He glanced at his watch. Twenty minutes. Plenty of time. He watched as she stamped out a cigarette, then rose in one fluid motion and jogged down the trail to the road below the parking lot.
A few minutes later he reached the road. He slowed before rounding the last bend, noting the litter of flattened toads. He shifted his pack and sauntered into view.
The girl looked up; a smile twitched at her lips, then vanished in disappointment. He was not the one she was expecting.
“Hi,” Renfrew said.
“Hi.”
The misty rain had settled in her hair so it glistened. Water roared quietly in the distance. The Slide was a mile upriver and the trail would be muddy, a strenuous walk. That was good. It would keep her blood moving.
“I hiked up the road,” he said. “Thought I’d go down the river, that way. See the falls.” He pointed at the trail away from the Slide. They would be going upriver. “You ever been down that way?”
She shook her head. “I’ve only been here a week,” she said.
Renfrew sighed and leaned against her car for a moment, shaking out a cigarette. Her brand. “Smoke?” he offered. She started to shake her head; then, to Renfrew’s relief, changed her mind and took the cigarette. He lit it for her, lit one for himself.
He glanced at his watch. Eight minutes. They’d be letting her boy friend through now. She only had to take three or four drags. Of course, the more she took the better.
Renfrew watched as she inhaled deeply. Her breasts, under her blue work shirt, were small and firm. Like the Vietnamese girls, Renfrew thought. Thin, boyish girls, tight-muscled bodies. Good metabolism.
“Where you from?” Renfrew asked finally.
“Montreal.”
“Ah.” He nodded. “Canadian, eh?”
“Yeah.” She didn’t look at him.
Renfrew finished his own cigarette, stepped on it and shifted his pack again.
“Well,” he said. “Guess I’ll get going.”
She was looking at her own watch. Her hair fell across her eyes when she tilted her head down. She nodded. Renfrew waved and started off. She waved back, looking anxiously down the road. Hers was the only car in the lot. Renfrew hiked diligently into the woods. Behind him he could hear tires on the gravel of the car park. He walked two hundred meters and stopped. Give them time.
It was incredible, he thought. They knew so much. She was just a tourist, only been here a week, a drifter with no family, a real loser, yet they had known this couple was coming here. They must have her room bugged or something. A good intelligence network, for sure, whoever they were. This haole girl had gotten herself a native boy friend. They liked to do that. The boy friend must have done something to be on the list. Why did not interest Renfrew. He didn’t much care who he was working for. He’d figured they were either from industry, organized crime or the government. Since Nam, to Renfrew they were all the same.
He moved back toward the car park. The two cars were there, but the couple was gone. He moved swiftly. There was a high chain-link fence across the old trail. A sign indicated that the Slide was closed to tourists, but a visible track led around the fence. Natives ignored the sign.
The trail was even worse than he expected, water standing in it deeper, the rocks slicker. He kept to the sides where tough sedges held the soil together, but his Adidas were soon soaked. It didn’t matter. He was hunting, though the quarry was already dead. It just didn’t know it yet.
The couple’s tracks were clearly visible. They were having a tougher time than he was, especially the girl, so he slowed down. He didn’t want to overtake them.
It took nearly an hour to get to the top of the bluff overlooking the Slide. They were at the very edge of the swamp here. Water collected from all over the high slopes, found the smooth volcanic channel that had formed here and funneled through it, making a series of three chutes in a quarter-circle arc, perfect for sliding down to a small pool. From here the river flowed through a set of small rapids and a mile or so of jogs before it reached the falls below the car park.
Renfrew settled into the muddy trailside and pulled out his glasses.
She was turned slightly away from him, stepping out of her jeans.
The boy friend appeared from behind a bush. He was naked, with a slight beer gut. His hair was tied in a ponytail halfway to his waist.
He took her hand and led her to the top of the Slide. They were going to do a little recreational sliding. That was fine with Renfrew. He settled back and propped the binoculars on his knee.
He slipped a minirecorder from his pack and spoke into it very quietly. Not that they could hear him at this distance over the noise of the Slide.
“Eleven twenty-five. Female has taken the bait. The subjects are using the Slide. He weighs around eighty-five kilos, heavy build. She took six drags on the cigarette. That was at ten-oh-three. She’s armed and ready, a real bomb.”
A real bomb. Renfrew’s little joke.
14
“What have you got there?” Dr. Silver was behind him. Chazz swiveled in his chair. Silver gestured at the television screen of the electron microscope.
“Looks like seed fragments. Microstructures are right. But of course they’re much too small. Why?”
“Oh,” Silver said. “I’m just curious. A primitive plant disease?”
“No.” Chazz frowned. “It looks like murder.”
“Murder? You can’t be serious.”
Chazz lifted a shoulder, a faint shrug. “People are dying, Ben. This stuff was found on the first victim. It could be a new disease, but if so it’s pretty odd. Is it a poison carried by a plant, an alkaloid or a resin? A microorganism? “I’m looking.” He gestured at the video screen of the electron microscope, which glowed with the false-color display of what looked like a mound of slightly flattened spheres. Chazz had electronically colored them red for the moment.
“Really,” Silver said. “Seems more like police work than DNA research.”
“Unofficially, I suppose it is.” Chazz turned back to the controls. The view on the screen moved, as if he were flying swiftly over an exotic terrain.
“Is that so?” Silver said more thoughtfully. “Well, that explains why you asked Dewilliter about poisonous lobelioids, doesn’t it. He was quite mystified. Of course, he’s quite ftattered when anyone expresses interest in his specialty. He had to come tell me you’d asked.”
Chazz grunted. The image was puzzling. It didn’t feel right.
“They look like Abrus precatorius seeds,” Silver offered, tapping the screen. “Red seeds. Of course, that’s false color. And as you say, they’re far too small.”
“Mm.” Chazz leaned back in his chair and stared at the screen. He moved the controls, and the image swept in on one of the spheres, which expanded as he approached. He twisted a switch, and the magnification jumped. The surface of the sphere took on a rough, pocked look. He adjusted the view once more, moving into a hollow in the surface. Again he jumped the magnification, and entered the hollow. Ridges appeared, eroded valleys, lunar ramparts shading to violet, a fracta
l landscape. “It looks like a topographic map of the island, doesn’t it?” Chazz said. Then he sat up. “Look at that,” he muttered to himself.
Then he realized Silver was still behind him. Abruptly he flicked off the microscope and turned around again. Silver was watching him.
Chazz shrugged. “I dunno,” he said. “It’s probably nothing.”
“Hm, well, I won’t detain you. Have some things to clean up myself before we go tramping in the muck. Hope you’re ready for the swamp. Wear old shoes.” He waved good-bye and sauntered out the door. Chazz, hands clasped behind his neck, watched him leave. Then he reached for the phone and called Takamura.
Chazz frowned at the empty screen as he waited, tapping the edge of his desk with a fingernail. Finally Takamura came on.
“Cobb, Chazz Koenig here. Listen, I’ve spotted something. I don’t know what it is, but I think you should contact the Centers for Disease Control in Atlanta.”
“What should I tell them?” Takamura wanted to know.
Chazz rubbed his forehead. “I don’t know yet for sure. Just tell them what’s happening, that we have a possible epidemic. And have Dr. Shih look at the brain tissue. I think it’s neurological. A lot of plant poisons and bacterial toxins have neurological effects; the tissue samples might show something. There’s some kind of agent at work here.”
“Okay, Chazz. I’ll call.”
Chazz took a deep breath, suppressing anger.
It was almost noon. He pushed back his chair and stretched. Then he carefully removed the specimens from the vacuum chamber, leaving it open for the next user.
