Thrillers in Paradise

by Rob Swigart

  An enormous lava tube twice the height of a man extended at an angle into the cliffside off to his right. The man who had summoned him would be in there. It was the only visible shelter. Cliffs rose precipitously into the cloud. The cove was at the mouth of a shallow and very narrow valley. A small, intermittent stream flowed down the point of the valley and spread out across the beach. The lava tunnel was across the stream.

  Smitty, hunched in the rain, said, just loud enough to hear, “This is called the Valley of the Lost Tribe.”

  The beach had been pounded by rain, and there were no footprints. They had to be inside the tube. Unless this was a wild-goose chase to keep him occupied.

  He cursed himself under his breath for twenty solid seconds as the rain plastered his clothing to his skin and his hair to his head. Then he realized Smitty was talking to him.

  “The tunnel goes through,” he was saying. “There’s another cove, no beach. We can’t stay here long; the storm’s getting worse. I don’t believe your friend is here.”

  “Any way to climb out?” Chazz asked, pointing up the valley.

  Smitty shook his head. “I don’t know any. People don’t try it often. Couple of years ago, two kids tried coming down from Koke’e. They had ropes, climbing gear, everything. They got stuck on a ledge and had to be rescued.” He shrugged. “There may be goat trails up there, or maybe old Hawaiian paths no one remembers anymore. These cliffs are bad, though. There aren’t many ways up to the top from this side, if any.”

  Chazz stared into the tube, but the darkness was complete and rain slanted into his eyes. He turned away and sat on the edge of the boat, hunched with his back to the rain.

  “There are stories, of course,” Smitty said. Chazz noticed that his teeth were chattering.

  “Stories?”

  “You know, legends. Supposed to be a royal Hawaiian trail over the top. I don’t think anyone’s ever found it, though. Not that I’ve heard. The sort of thing people talk about at night, you know?” He shrugged again, but it turned into a shiver. “How long do you want to wait here?’

  “I’ll check the cave. They can’t be anywhere else. If they’re not there, we’ll go back.”

  A hooded figure wrapped in rain gear appeared at the mouth of the cave. He cupped his hands and shouted. His words were torn by wind and the sounds of rain, but came through distinctly.

  “Koenig!” he called. “This way.” He gestured to Chazz. Then he shouted at Smitty, “You’d better get on back. We’ll be fine.”

  Smitty looked dubiously at Chazz, who nodded.

  As he crossed the stream he could hear the Zodiac sliding down the sand, and finally the sound of the motor starting up over the breaking waves. The sound faded away. It was gone by the time he reached the tunnel. The figure had vanished back inside.

  41

  The temperature had dropped a good fifteen degrees in the past hour and a half, but Renfrew didn’t care. He loved the lashing rain, the torn palm leaves turning end over end along the trail or wrapped around the wet trunks of ohia lehua, flapping.

  At this altitude he was well into the clouds; dense gray-white turbulence still thrashed, moisture condensed out of the cloud onto his clothing in large droplets, but he was above the worst of it.

  Soon he would get to the cabin. This meant that he’d have to unpack his new Jennings bow, expose its exotic woods and alloys to all this bad weather; Renfrew really didn’t like that, but there was nothing he could do about it. The plan required it— his plan.

  The trail, barely visible under the best of conditions, was nearly invisible by now: the fog, the rain and wind and blown leaves and debris, the overgrowth of a wet winter, had nearly obliterated it. Renfrew knew the trail, though. He barely glanced down, moving at a jog through the ferns that touched across the trail so they swished and left glistening streaks of fresh damp along the knees of his fatigues. His bow, cased, slapped his shoulder.

  Renfrew touched the small aerosol canister through the cloth of his trousers. The handwritten label had read “Lolo Four: Collins.” The vial, sealed into his patch pocket along with his small shell, straw, wood and feather effigy of Paul Ulana, slapped his thigh. So small.

  He wondered distantly why he never thought about death.

  He assumed it was because he was moving. Because he liked to run. As long as his body was moving, he was not dead, and as long as he wasn’t dead, his own death was no concern of his. To have the power of it, that was enough.

  It was cold now; his breath plumed out his nose when he breathed, and he liked that sensation, the cold moving in and warming, hot by the time it hit his lungs, heavy and damp and warm when he exhaled and it condensed into lovely clouds that were tom away by the wind of his passage and the scudding of the clouds until they were part of the clouds too, moving on, eastward, blown on out over the Pacific to swirl and dance and rain onto the sea.

  The trail, which followed a ridge northeastward, fell away to his left as he ran. Below was a shallow, narrow valley, and ahead, invisible and down four thousand feet, would be the ocean, heaving at the flank of the island as it always had, eating at it endlessly, endlessly patient. Someday the ridge he ran along would collapse into the sea; someday the valley would be swallowed up; someday this would be cliff dropping straight to the surge, and the surge in turn would eat at the bottom of the cliff until it collapsed into a slope again, with a valley chiseled by stream runoff and wind and the limitless working of the water.

  This was paradise to Renfrew, this moment, moving, legs moving, chest rising and falling with each breath drawn in and pluming out again, arms working, muscles smooth as oil, even the puckered flesh of his side where the boar had hooked him tugging when he breathed, reminding him he was alive in a dangerous and impermanent world, that he was dangerous and impermanent and now he moved, he ran, and the ridge was there for him to run on, and the moisture-heavy air was his to breathe, and the staghorn ferns were there to slap their own freight of water onto him.

  He thought briefly about the old man, about Kalaipahoa, the poison god. He’d know what Renfrew was doing, and had done nothing to prevent it. Why? Renfrew had not wanted to kill him, not yet. He had the effigy, and he wanted to test his own power. The old man had power; the way he had called in those sharks! But Renfrew had power too. He wanted to test it. That would come.

  Renfrew ran on.

  Soon, though, too soon, the cabin appeared out of the mist, heaved up a timbered bulk, not large, but large enough to square the riot of life, impose its own reminders. So Renfrew slowed, and slowed his breath, and changed his posture in the world, separated himself from the elements, unslung the bow case.

  He stood under a huge twisted ohia lehua, a ubiquitous plant with endlessly varying form but with unvarying gloom in the wet upland forests. This one was old, its limbs gnarled, leaves dark, bark wet gray, and tall. The trunk was Laocoön – twined with knotted roots matted into ridges and gullies. Here and there seedlings sprang from the roots themselves, and their leaves, also dark, tossed restlessly, as though tormented by the persistent cloud and rain.

  He slipped the Jennings from its case; effortlessly he assembled and strung it. He notched an arrow. With his left hand he pulled his scarf over his lower face.

  He paused for a moment at the door, going over his checklist. Today he had Koenig’s wife. Soon he would have Koenig. That was the end of his job.

  Tomorrow he would do Collins. There would be no problem. It was routine. If all went well with those two jobs, he’d finish his education with Kalaipahoa. He would graduate and take the old man’s place. Hell, the old man was fading already. His knees were bad, he could hardly walk, he couldn’t even cure himself. Renfrew would take his place, have the kahuna power on this island. He would be feared, respected, obeyed. He would be the kahuna ana’ana, the poison god. He would be Kalaipahoa! Then he could go hunt pig if he wanted. He could do anything. Just keep moving.

  Renfrew smiled behind his face covering. Then he opened
the door and went in. The group in the cabin looked up when he entered. Their expressions gratified him.

  42

  The sudden absence of rain and wind inside the lava tube, where the man’s words echoed and rebounded, disoriented Chazz.

  “Dr. Koenig,” he said. “I’m so glad you could come.”

  “I didn’t have much choice,” Chazz replied. As his eyes adjusted, he could make out a faint impression of the rough rock wall ahead, though he couldn’t tell whether the light fell from behind him and he was in a cave, or came from the other end of a twisting passageway. The figure retreated. He was apparently confident that Chazz would not attack.

  Of course, they had Patria; that guaranteed his safety. Chazz followed.

  The floor was damp and rough. A small stream flowed down the middle back toward the beach; they were ascending. The stranger spoke without turning; Chazz had to strain to make out his words.

  “These tubes are quite interesting,” he was saying. “They’re formed by a kind of lava called pahoehoe which cools more rapidly on the surface than inside. The surface solidifies and the hot central flow continues, leaving tubes like this behind. Just up ahead, now.”

  Chazz said nothing. The tube opened to daylight again, a daylight filled with rain. The figure stopped just inside the tube and turned back to Chazz. He pushed back his rain hood and held out his hand.

  “Dr. Koenig. Ward Freeman. I’m an admirer of yours, you might say. Your work on ribosomes is very impressive.”

  “I don’t recognize your name,” Chazz said. He didn’t take the proffered hand.

  “Oh.” The man flipped his hand over, dismissing the comment. “It’s not my real name. Security. Ridiculous, but they insist.” He uttered an amused sound.

  Freeman was pale, with a narrow angular face and short-cropped, almost white hair. He was in his late forties, from the deep lines alongside his mouth and the creases in his forehead. Yet it was the kind of face it would be difficult to dislike. He smiled; it was an engaging smile that expressed admiration and respect.

  Suddenly, in the warmth of that smile, Chazz realized how tired he was, how long it had been since he had eaten or slept. He’d been up all night. “Who are they?” he asked.

  This conversation had a curiously disconnected and unreal air, so calm and rational, so offhand, even fatigued.

  Freeman frowned briefly. “We have to wait a few minutes; you’re late, you know, but they’re later. The storm has screwed up the schedule.”

  He gestured at a pile of rocks and they sat. Chazz slumped as the weariness he’d been keeping at bay swept through him.

  “You’re tired,” Freeman observed. “Of course. You’ve been up all night, and you’re worried about your wife. Of course. I had nothing to do with that. I objected, but of course they don’t listen to me. I’m a scientist.” His tone was earnest.

  Chazz said nothing.

  “She’s all right, though, your wife. I do know that. She’s all right. Well taken care of. We’ll be going up soon, don’t worry. If you’re worried.” He seemed genuinely concerned.

  “Of course I’m worried,” Chazz snapped.

  Freeman held up his hands. “Of course. Of course. It’s just… complicated. I told them this wouldn’t work.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “No.” It was a statement. Freeman lapsed into sudden gloom.

  Outside the entrance, rain fell. Chazz could hear waves crashing on rock. There was no beach visible, and he couldn’t see the water, just jungle and rain.

  After a moment Freeman brightened. “Did you notice these stones?”

  He patted the pile of rock they were sitting on. “They were built this way by the natives. They’ve been piled up like this for seven or eight hundred years. The tiny valley out there was terraced. It’s all overgrown now. You can hardly tell anymore. There’s a little stream, and they used to grow taro here and in the other valley, the Valley of the Lost Tribe. You can still find a taro plant if you look hard. I love this island.” He had both hands palm down on the stone on either side of his thighs. It was a curiously naive gesture. It opened his coat. Chazz could see his gun.

  “You’re quite the tour guide,” Chazz said.

  “What? Oh, I guess I am, aren’t I? Well.” He looked at Chazz expectantly. Chazz said nothing.

  Freeman shook his head. “This isn’t easy, you know. Not at all. But they’ll be here soon, so I should begin. We have a project. I suppose you know that by now. A project.”

  “No.”

  “No? Oh, I see. You don’t know. You’ve been working in the dark, as it were. It’s a recombinant DNA project. They tapped your phone. I tried to tell them you were a responsible scientist; that you were a patriot, too.”

  “Strachey is, too.”

  “Who? Oh, the CDC doctor.”

  “He was recalled. Because of this project.”

  “You can’t mean you think they did that? No, they couldn’t have.” He leaned forward, frowning. “Unless—” He sat up. “No, it couldn’t be. If he was recalled, it was the Centers for Disease Control. This project doesn’t have anything to do with diseases.”

  Chazz barked a laugh.

  “No, seriously.” Freeman dismissed the notion. “What we’re doing, it’s simple. Dolphins.”

  “Dolphins?”

  “Cetaceans exude an oil from their skin. All over. It leaves a sort of oily ghost in the water when they swim, reduces friction. They swim faster, see?”

  “Okay.”

  “We’ve been developing a strain of E. coli that sticks to hulls and expresses the dolphin genes for the oil. Same principle. The boats go faster. This is classified information. The other side got wind of it somehow. You understand, some kind of a security leak. It’s created a real mess. How far do you go to stop the information from getting back to the other side? One thing leads to another. Pretty soon the mess is worse, not better.”

  “It doesn’t sound like a secret worth killing for. Or kidnapping for.”

  “No one’s been killed, Dr. Koenig. The kidnapping, well, let’s say they are trying to be more persuasive. I don’t think it’s really kidnapping, you see. It’s national security. Submarines could gain a ten- to twelve-percent increase in speed. That’s a secret worth keeping, Dr. Koenig. They won’t know where our subs are, so we have an advantage. You see? But then, we want them to know we have an advantage; then it’s called deterrence. It’s complicated, and it goes on all the time.”

  “Are you trying to tell me the old woman in Hanalei was Russian spy? Or that pathetic junkie from Pittsburgh? Or Delarota? He was nineteen years old!”

  “Of course I’m not trying to tell you that. No, no. That was all a mistake. An accident. They weren’t killed. Not deliberately.”

  “The bugs got out? What have you people done, Freeman?”

  “I can’t say any more. We’re hoping you’ll help us, Dr. Koenig. We have something on the order of an emergency. Here are the others. We still have a two-hour hike ahead of us, I’m afraid.”

  Two men gestured from the back. Freeman led Chazz, and the other two fell in behind him. His three escorts said nothing.

  They hiked through the rain up a hidden switchback trail into the clouds.

  43

  Despite her fear, Patria took careful mental notes. She tried to consider this as just another field experience; dangerous, perhaps, but no more dangerous really than her three weeks with the Jivaro, or the brief side trip she had made in the Yucatan when her guide had mistakenly led her into a small group of his own mortal enemies.

  The two neat men had appeared at the apartment and gestured her outside. They spoke quietly and politely, telling her that Lieutenant Takamura had sent them to bring her in to town. They drove toward Lihue, stopped at the shopping center and changed to an International Harvester Scout. By then she knew it was not Lieutenant Takamura they were going to see. The two neat men had driven west again, turned up the canyon past Koke
’e onto a twisting and very rutted dirt road. These other two men had met them, and they had hiked for an hour or so until they got here. The Scout drove away.

  The big one had a gun and she had asked no questions.

  It wasn’t clear what they wanted. The pudgy one seemed ill at ease. He did not appear immediately threatening, and had smiled at her nervously a couple of times.

  The other, the big one, never changed expression, never smiled, and seemed in some indefinable way to contain an abnormal indifference to other people. She thought if there was tangible danger it would come from him, because he was not normal. Yet he had done nothing overtly threatening either; he had never drawn the gun. Patria simply knew she had to do what he told her to do.

  He was now sitting on the other side of the cabin, arms folded across his overdeveloped chest, his enormous biceps bunched into hard ridges. His wide chin grew down into a thick neck, and although his eyes were quite close together, she thought it would not be a good idea to conclude from that evidence alone that he was stupid. His eyes were wide awake and watching.

  Outside the clouds drizzled steadily.

  The light in the cabin was bad. There was no electricity, and the daylight was a faded gray filled with dancing spots of darkness; it was right on the edge of a shift from day to night vision. Patria tried to consider what kind of culture she was in just now, that avoided light, kidnapped people, had vague and menacing purposes, waited.

  They didn’t want her, that was certain. They had her, but she was a means, not the end. They weren’t interested in having an anthropologist on their team. So they wanted Chazz. They were waiting; she presumed they were waiting for him. Which meant they must have contacted him, which in turn might mean that he had somehow contacted others— Takamura or the other one, the Hawaiian. Yet they seemed to be, if not clever, at least well prepared; and it was certainly possible they could have prevented that.