by Rob Swigart
“No bet,” Takamura answered. “Pray continue.”
“We had a common theme for the victims, a sugar mill.”
“Except Collins,” Patria said.
“Except Collins,” Chazz assented. “Shelving Collins for now, when did the victims work there? Why, if this is intentional, did someone test this substance on them? It’s almost like a shotgun experiment – blast it at the population and see what happens. We have some effects similar to slow virus; that would mean this thing got out a long time ago, before we had recombinant technology. Not likely, but a possible biological warfare agent. Now, though, what does this genetic material do? What does it code for? I don’t know. Is it a group of dangerous and very unscrupulous people who can call on the resources of the U. S. Government and the cloak of national security to hide the effects of a long-term and very dangerous project? Or a small group of sloppy biochemists who got careless? They’ve killed, kidnapped and threatened; they’re desperate. They got Strachey transferred back to Atlanta. They’ve blocked our appeals for help, I’m pretty sure. Even for sloppy biochemistry, that seems excessive. And it takes clout and people willing to kill. I don’t like that.”
Takamura put on his hat very precisely. “I don’t like it, either. I’m a policeman. The law has been broken, national security or not. ‘Man who fights law always loses; same as grasshopper is always wrong in argument with chicken.’”
“That makes us the chicken.” Chazz smiled. “And I hope you’re right. I can’t help remembering Robert Oppenheimer’s remark after the first atomic explosion: ‘Physicists have known sin; and this is a knowledge which they cannot lose.’ Recombinant DNA is the same kind of double-edged sword as splitting the atom. It can do a great deal of good, but it could as easily be used to kill.”
“Like magic,” Patria said. She touched the bandage on her forearm.
“I don’t believe in magic. But, yes,” Chazz answered. “I suppose like magic, too.” He paused and looked out the window. The sky was dark and gray, though the wind and rain had stopped. Palm fronds littered the ground, and the gardening crews were out, beginning the cleanup.
“Sometimes,” Chazz went on, “I think the world’s aware of itself; that we are its consciousness, its awareness. The world is beginning to attend to its own internal workings, to monitor and control. The world now has remote sensing satellites; satellite communications weave an electronic network around the world, a halo or aura of meaningful information. The planet itself has its physical processes too, of course: volcanic, meteorological, chemical, tides and currents. We are the intelligence informing it all, struggling to understand our own nature as a planet. That’s the purpose of life: to increase in complexity until it begins to know itself. We will not survive unless we understand, and soon, that we are the mind, and the planet is the body. It is a great responsibility.”
“Perhaps,” Patria said with a smile, “you’re not such a materialist after all.”
“Thanks. And from that distant but vital perspective, this project is a life-threatening virus in the body of the world, a disease of the brain, an error in the code, a misread enzyme. It must be corrected, of course. We have to be the body’s defenses and eject the invader.” He looked at Takamura. “It must be purged.”
52
“Come on,” Takamura said, pushing his chair back. “I’ll drive you back to your condo. Someone’ll bring your van over later. Meantime you have Patria’s rental, don’t you?”
He drove slowly through the litter. Broken cane had blown across the road, and the air was thick with sugar scent. In front of the complex, he parked the car and got out. As Patria walked away, Takamura took Chazz’s arm.
Takamura looked sheepish. “You will be glad to know you are no longer a suspect,” he said.
Chazz stared. “A sus— Well, I’ll be damned, of course. And the Subaru, I suppose that could have looked like a setup?”
Takamura was embarrassed. “Well, it did seem as if you arrived here just when all these things began to happen. And you were at a biological research center. ‘Good fisherman, like clever merchant, knows lure of bright colors.’ Kauai is a sleepy place, perfect for some unauthorized research, perhaps.”
Chazz grinned. “Don’t worry. There may be lots of bright colors here, but I didn’t come to buy, or to bite.”
“Then maybe ‘Each man think own cuckoos better than next man’s nightingales.’ Professional jealousy is a powerful motive sometimes. But not in your case, Dr. Koenig. I apologize for suspecting.”
“You were doing your job, that’s all. I should have thought of it myself. I hope Sammy makes it, Cobb.”
Takamura nodded.
He got back in the car and drove away.
Patria was waiting by the pool. “A real mess,” she said.
“Yes,” he said, not knowing whether she meant the storm damage, the deaths on the island, or their relationship.
“What did Takamura want?” she asked, not looking at him.
“He wanted to apologize.”
“Ah. So do I.”
“What?”
“This is hard, Chazz. Don’t make it more difficult. I’m sorry.”
“What for?”
“I don’t know. For not being honest. For leaving you. For coming back when I knew you wanted a family and I didn’t. For making love with you under false pretenses. For being unfaithful.”
He stared at the back of her head. A soft gray light shimmered on her hair. He realized she was shaking.
“Don’t,” he said at last. “Don’t say anything.”
“No,” she said. Her voice was strained. “You saved my life. I owe you.”
They sat by the desolate pool; its surface reflected nothing; only the dull, flat leaves of blown palms drifted aimlessly there. Later she said, “It was good, the other night, after I got here. I had forgotten how good it could be with us. Perhaps I have too much ambition.”
“Never mind,” he said. “Perhaps I don’t have enough.”
“Something happened up there, though. In the swamp.”
“I know.”
“I think it was something good.”
“Perhaps.”
“Then why do I feel so awful?”
“Come on,” he said, standing. He offered his hand. She took it, and they went inside.
He tried to arouse her then, to touch her in the secret places he thought he knew. But she lay cold and numb beside him, staring up without moving, lost in some Alakai of her own where the ground pulled down her feet and kept her from moving toward him.
Finally he moved back and gazed at her in the twilight.
She looked at him then, started to speak, to apologize once more, but he stopped her. Instead he touched her body where the bruises showed; he traced the edges of the bandage on her forearm; then he kissed the soft dark places. When he said, “I didn’t mean to bring you into this,” she put her finger against his lips. “You came for me up there,” she said. “That’s what mattered, that you came for me.” She was crying. That was when he discovered that he was, too.
Then they slept as if drugged while night fell on the island. She awoke in the dark, and from his breathing knew he was awake. “Who’s doing this?” she asked, partly of her dream.
He said, “I’m afraid I know,” and she didn’t ask again. They got up, both naked and frankly admiring of each other’s shapes, and rummaged in the refrigerator. They sat cross-legged on the living room carpet with a towel between them covered with crackers and sliced mangoes and papaya, a bowl with tuna salad thick with mayonnaise and black pepper. They ate with their fingers until their mouths and hands were greasy with juices and sauce. He reached out and dabbed her lips with mayonnaise, and she pushed a slice of mango into his mouth, squeezing juice down his chin.
So he leaned forward to clean her lips and chin with his tongue, and soon they were lying together on the carpet. Their need rose together and they satisfied it together.
This time it was sho
rt and fierce and there was no river, no languid drift, only the sharp earth smells of the two of them lost in the gray filtered moonlight after the storm, with a wind blowing intermittently. He approached her as if she were no longer water flowing together, but was instead a fire burning somewhere deep in the forest, and she approached him the same way; and though this time there were two of them and not one, as before, it was the sweeter because the pain was so clear. It seemed they had never made love before, that all their years of marriage had been a charade of intimacy, a show they watched between school and lab and field trip; or that it had been something they did to each other, a ritual greeting without substance.
This time, though, it was something they did for each other, a dance of mutual give and take. When he approached, she moved back, accepting; and when she moved against him, he listened with his body, then answered; they spoke together with fingertips and tongues, with flames that merged without consuming. When she soared, he gripped her fiercely, soothing against the intensity of her pleasure, and when his turn came and all his muscles were tight before release, her fingertips fluttered over his flesh so sparks flew into the darkness, twirled and winked out.
They awoke much later, still on the floor. He leaned on one elbow to watch her breathe, so naked and vulnerable and open in the shadowed light, her breast rising and falling with each breath, and he thought that this was all there was in the world that mattered; that tomorrow would certainly be soon enough to think of the sugar mill and viroids, of what might have been done in a laboratory not far from here that should never have been done. Tomorrow would be time enough to face those things. For now, this was all there was.
“What are you thinking?” she asked.
“You are very beautiful,” he said. “Breathing. That’s all. Come to bed.”
Standing, she hugged him, hiding her face against his shoulder. “It worked, you know,” she said. He could hear the undertone of humor in her whisper.
“What worked?” he asked.
“The spell. I had the kahuna put a spell on you. A love charm. For us.”
“Yes,” he said, pulling the sheet up over them and cradling her against his side. “It worked.” After a pause he added softly, “Be careful what you see.”
She murmured something as she put her head against his shoulder and slept.
53
Renfrew plunged the mud-clotted blade of his shovel into the cleared spot. The soaked soil turned with a wet sucking sound.
Beside him on the ground was a package tied up in thick black plastic. Overhead the clouds moved lazily, as if satisfied at the extent of the damage their storm had done. Leaves and branches covered the dirt road, hid the deep ruts and pooled water where already the mosquito larvae were quick in the thin gruel of the roadway.
Renfrew was preparing for burial.
He was taking this simple precaution; the failure of his plan was going to cause difficulties downstream. He’d managed Collins, but he smelled trouble. The Koenig matter had not gone well, and Renfrew had been involved in enough covert operations to know who the fall guy was when things went wrong.
So Renfrew was now preparing for his own CYA operation. CYA meant Cover Your Ass. Team A cover, Team B run, Team B cover, Team A run. Problem was, Renfrew was both teams.
That was okay with Renfrew. He was used to running. He was used to cover, too.
But this was not just defensive. Renfrew wanted revenge.
Water welled up in the bottom of the hole, reflecting his head haloed in cloud. He had turned the bill of his hat around backwards, and his eyes glittered darkly in the water. He unrolled a sheet of plastic and lined the hole. Then he gently placed the package inside and folded the excess over the top. It was only money.
Then he removed the doll from his pocket; this was his insurance. He would turn the weapons of kahuna on the kahuna; who knew, maybe it worked. If the old man believed in that nonsense, it just might kill him. This was the way of the world. Renfrew must prove what he had learned, and there was only one adversary worth proving it to, only one person at the heart of this power: his master.
He would honor his master by killing him.
So he performed the rituals; he sent the prayer of darkness to pull away the old man’s mana. It shouldn’t matter whether he believed in it himself, he thought. It was important that he do the rituals, that’s all. He had to convince the old man that he had done them, that the curse was in effect. He was going to apply the suggestion when he saw the old man. He knew how to do that. And he would see the old man, he was sure of that.
The doll lay on the dirt; an invisible thread of smoke rose from it; the feathers curled, shriveled, burned with a tiny flame. The shell face blackened, the wooden body charred. The doll died.
Renfrew buried it.
“You will burn, old man, and then you will choke.” He threw dirt into the hole. It was fitting to bury the poison god with the money the Navy had paid him.
He liked the sound of the heavy wet dirt striking the plastic; he liked they way it was soon muffled as it fell. In moments he was patting the top of the mound with the flat of his spade. He tossed some storm debris on top, scattered it around.
He sat down on the wall. Just a few tens of meters to the north, the ruts in the road dwindled to nothing, and the road itself was overgrown, though it could still be walked. He wondered where it led. From the maps, there should be some kind of structures a few miles that way.
The spindly trunks of the head-high shrub blocked the view in every direction. It was an utterly private place here despite the mess of footprints in the mud.
The flattened toad bodies annoyed him, and he kept his new Thinsulate Campo Guide boots off the road.
When he stood on the wall, a clear view of Koenig’s condominium presented itself. He’d spent time nearby watching the fat cop watch Koenig’s place. Now the fat cop was dead, most likely.
He had shot the cop. A second failure. How could Renfrew know? It was dark, the man had a gun. Renfrew responded instinctively. How had this happened? How had the mission gone wrong? The poisons were one thing; they were discreet. He was protected. The arrow was something else. It would point straight to him.
The tops of the windows and the door in the west corner apartment were visible over the gently swaying branches of this weird shrub. He could see the big palms in the courtyard: one was leaning precariously. He doubted the others would survive.
He’d been thinking. Digging in the thick clay, turning the lumps, burying the doll, he’d been thinking. The police knew who he was now. His name was out. Renfrew. Koenig had eluded him. Renfrew had pushed the plan, the kidnapping, and the plan had failed. Koenig had escaped, Koenig had started the fire. Koenig had driven Renfrew from the cabin. Renfrew had shot Sammy Akeakamai because of Koenig.
Therefore Koenig was the primary danger now. He was an affront to Renfrew’s professionalism and a threat to his safety. It was not only a matter of honor: it was business.
Renfrew’s position was not good.
First, he had shot a police officer. Renfrew himself was now quarry, the hunted, not the hunter. The police would be after him.
Renfrew could handle that. But Kalaipahoa would be after him now, as well. He wasn’t going to let himself be prayed to death without a fight. Renfrew thought he was stronger, but the old man was good. He had needed time to think this out.
And, finally, now he was a liability to the very mission for which he had killed, which would mean his employers were probably after him as well.
So Renfrew was under pressure; his time was running out. Operations like this had time constraints. Either they were successfully concluded or you cut your losses and got out. It was clear, when all those cops showed up at the cabin, that time was extremely limited and success unlikely. When he loosed his arrow at the fat cop, the time nearly ran out.
Renfrew didn’t panic. He had slipped into the wilderness and vanished. He was still gone. Renfrew knew how to survive. He had b
een trained as a survivor, and he’d learned from Kalaipahoa. He could live on this island unnoticed, for years if need be. But that was not a first-choice option. Renfrew planned to cut his losses.
To do that, he needed Koenig. Because, when this operation ended, Renfrew planned to be on whatever transportation went out.
That was good. Renfrew jumped down. The toad bodies yielded unnoticed under his camouflaged boots.
Renfrew slung his bow over his shoulder, folded his spade and hitched it to his pack. Then he trotted north, up the old weed-choked road, away from the highway, toward whatever the old buildings might be. He needed to do something unexpected, something strange and dangerous. He needed to strike and then escape. The road was there. This was as good a time as any to find out where it led.
54
The man in camouflage fatigues haunted Chazz. The arrow in Sammy Akeakamai haunted him.
Renfrew.
Takamura was examining his hat intensely.
“What are you thinking?” Chazz asked.
“I’m thinking, ‘Talk will not cook rice.’ What is the connection among the victims? Why were they stricken? I’m thinking that the poet William Blake has said that the tigers of wrath are wiser than the horses of instruction.”
“Don’t forget the German proverb,” Patria put in. “Anger without power is folly.” She smiled at Chazz. “There is a certain kind of culture.”
Takamura was attentive. “What do you mean?”
“A culture of ghosts. Ghosts of fear, remorse, anger. We know this culture; it hides inside our own, pretending it’s ours, disguised as ours. But it is not ours, because it’s ruled by ghosts: dead fears, old angers, vague, displaced remorse. Guilt.”
“About whom are you speaking?”
