Thrillers in Paradise

by Rob Swigart

  “Sure thing,” she said. She and Corinne walked away, the toddler moving in gyres around her mother.

  Cobb called after her, “By the way, what’s your friend’s name, the one in the hospital?”

  “Elliot,” she called back. “Elliot Propter.”

  CHAPTER 16

  GRANT WELTER WAS trapped.

  “I can’t stay here,” he said. His voice shook. His hands, too, were trembling. He pushed one down on the other to stop the visible movement. “You don’t understand. I’ve got a family!”

  Ueda said nothing.

  “I can’t stay,” Welter repeated. The lights in the room seemed intolerably bright. Where it sprayed out above the lampshades the flare was white heat. His eyes were half-closed against the glare. “I can’t.”

  “What choice have you, Mr. Welter? All transportation off this island is either canceled or full. No planes are available. No boats are available. Perhaps you would care to swim? I understand it is approximately one hundred and three miles from here to Oahu.”

  “I can’t stay.”

  Ueda shrugged his heavy shoulders, a gesture that seemed odd, as if it were foreign to him, a translation from another body language.

  Welter got to his feet and began to pace. His hands reached out to touch furniture, walls, the knob of the door. “I told the policeman you were gone,” he said, looking at Ueda, who stood with his hands clasped behind his back, gazing out the window at the empty dark wilderness. “I swear I told him you were gone.” He stopped beside Ueda. His voice still shook.

  “We were gone, Welter. Okitsu and Fujiwara are still gone.” He turned slightly in Welter’s direction without looking at him. “We are strangers in your country. We have traveled a long way. Mr. Makeda is made unhappy. Mr. Makeda is my president, my… father? If Mr. Makeda is unhappy, then I am unhappy. We have come here, put ourselves in your hands, trusting in your assistance. Such assistance, alas, has proved inadequate. We have been forced to go out and to look for ourselves. What we have discovered is disturbing.”

  “How could I know this was going to happen? I couldn’t, could I? The deal was moving through the system. We don’t have a complicated system here, Mr. Ueda, really we don’t. There were permits, zoning, financing, things like that, of course, but there were no real problems. Sure, there was some opposition to the development, but it wasn’t organized, wasn’t effective. Everyone knows what this development can do for the economy here— jobs, taxes, sales, that sort of thing. Better than sugar, better than pineapples. Everyone knows that. The Mayor is in favor of it, the council is in favor. Even the governor’s office has come out in favor, publicly.”

  Ueda was looking at him now. He seemed to smile, a gesture that revealed only the very lowest tips of his upper teeth. “This is most strange, Welter-san. You are discussing property development at Kapuna Shores.”

  Welter was taken aback. “What do you mean?”

  Ueda turned away again, a movement so small as to be nearly beneath notice, but for the subconscious chill it produced. He seemed to be looking into the dark and very damp forest and some unseen threat. “Things have happened here, Welter. A satellite has fallen. We have heard people say that it was a Soviet satellite, that it somehow poisons the air. We have thought, if this is Soviet, this satellite, then this is a problem for American authorities. Now this satellite, this poison satellite, is causing much disturbance.”

  Welter snorted, a harsh barking sound that stopped just short of rudeness. Ueda did not move, offered no protest, though the sound, derisive and frightened at the same time, certainly was at best impolite. It was not atypical of Americans to make such sounds.

  “That’s what I’m talking about, Ueda. I can’t stay here. The air is poisoned. It’s only a matter of time, don’t you see? People are dying.” He stared wildly at Ueda’s jogging suit, spattered with red mud to the knees. The sleeves, too, were dirty.

  Ueda did turn then, his face impassive. “Are they?”

  “Well…” Welter faltered. “Of course they are.”

  “If this is a Soviet satellite, we have no problem, Mr. Welter. None. We may die, of course. Such things are always possible, always inevitable. That is not our concern. Our concern is Makeda. What you do not understand, perhaps, is that this satellite is not Soviet but American.”

  Welter’s hands began to twitch. “What are you talking about?” His voice rose in pitch at the end of the question. Ueda walked away from the window. He moved slowly across the room. As he did Welter noticed the heavy muscles of his shoulders and back under the soft gray velour, the silent gliding walk he had. He suddenly felt once more the sense of panic. He was trapped. The menace from this man was a tangible thing.

  Ueda stood beside a table, looking up at a scroll of Chinese characters. “Mr. Kano bought this house?” he asked, as if on a garden tour.

  The question caught Welter by surprise. “I suppose so,” he muttered after a moment.

  “Ah, so.” Ueda nodded. “You live here, Mr. Welter; you are secretary of Kapuna Shores. Yet you do not know who owns this house. Such a man, though, whoever he is, is to be congratulated. This is a fine piece. Mi Fu, late eleventh century. ‘We live a life of illusions,’ Mi Fu has written. Most appropriate, do you not think? Su Shih compared Mi Fu’s calligraphy style to ‘a sharp sword cutting through a battle array or a strong arrow shooting across a thousand miles, piercing every obstacle in its way.’ Notice the balance of strokes, the vexation and anger expressed through the angular and severe brush work. A lovely piece, indeed.” He stood for some moments in contemplation.

  Welter fidgeted; his eyes darted to the calligraphy he had seen every day for years and never noticed. The door of the trap was firmly closed and locked. There was no escape.

  “I have a family,” he said in despair.

  “So?” Ueda smiled. “I, too, Mr. Welter, have a family. My wife, my two children Yukiko and Joro. You have children as well?”

  “A son,” Welter said.

  “You live here, though. Without your wife and your son.”

  “We are… separated.”

  Ueda’s smile did not falter. “Then you have no need to leave us. Your family has been able to get along without you, of course. Mine also can get along without me. I am often traveling, often away. Yet I, as you perhaps, yearn to return to them. But we live a life of illusions, do we not? At times it is not possible to do that which we most long to do.”

  “I don’t understand,” Welter said. He shrank back fractionally from the man he had come to regard as his tormentor.

  “If the satellite is American, then there are people here to investigate it, does it not seem so?”

  “They’d investigate any satellite, ours or theirs. Anyone’s.”

  Ueda shook his head. “You misunderstand. The satellite that has descended on this lovely island and filled so many people with fear is American, but not a weather satellite or a spy satellite. It does not handle the traffic of intercontinental communications, either.”

  “So what?” Welter had lapsed into a sullen despair.

  “Does the designation ‘347D 6-1987 VFB’ mean anything to you?”

  “No. Is it a satellite number or something?”

  “Let me say that earlier today— this morning— Fujiwara, Okitsu, and myself went out. We were curious, naturally, about this satellite. We knew there was something of importance here. Peter Linz called us. He thought we ought to come to Kaua’i because of this satellite. Someone in your government warned him. Because he suggested it, we came. You understand this was not official Makeda business. Such a thing would be intolerable: Makeda does not seek publicity. Soon we were discovering things. So many people were leaving the island. So much single-minded fear. Panic is an ugly thing, Mr. Welter. It is offensive. It causes many to lose face, to become without honor. Yet such panic is useful for someone wishing to investigate a matter without notice or interference.”

  “Really, Mr. Ueda. I’ve got to get off the is
land. I can’t listen to this…”

  Ueda held up his hand. “Please. It is not polite to interrupt a train of thought, Mr. Welter.”

  “But I’ve already packed. See? I’m ready to go, I just have to find a way off the island.”

  “Really. There is no way off this island, Mr. Welter. I am getting to the interesting part, too. You see, we— Fujiwara, Okitsu, and myself— we found a group of people looking at the satellite. It is quite muddy up there, where this satellite has come down. But finding them, we, too, have found this satellite. It was not a Soviet satellite. Therefore it must be American. We do know about these things, Mr. Welter, even if you claim you do not.”

  “I swear, I don’t know…”

  Ueda was looking at the calligraphy again. “Fujiwara and Okitsu are still observing these people, Mr. Welter. Perhaps you have seen them too? No, well, no matter. Do you see the first characters, Mr. Welter? ‘I, Fu, escaping summer heat…’ Does it not seem so with us? We have a different kind of summer heat, do we not? The pressure is on us, and we wish to escape…”

  “I swear I know nothing about Sandstone.”

  “Ah.” Ueda raised an eyebrow, still gazing at the calligraphy. A slight smile seemed to play around his lips, as if he were enjoying this letter Mi Fu had written in 1093. “I said nothing about Sandstone, Mr. Welter. You have mentioned Sandstone. I understand from that you do know something of the designation 347 6-1987 VFB. The prefix would have been Sandstone, no?”

  “No. I don’t know. I heard the name somewhere, that’s all.” He began backing away from Ueda, toward the archway to the foyer.

  Ueda kept his back to him for some time, gazing up at the writing. “He wrote this letter when he was subprefect of Yung-ch’iu district just as his official fortunes were declining,” Ueda said softly. “He was a naive man, Mr. Welter. He did not understand the political realities of his time. A pity. He was a great artist, and would, I am sure, have been of considerable use to his government. I would suggest you remain here. We still have much to discuss.”

  Welter ran.

  Ueda, standing near the painting, watched him go. Welter, propelled by a fear he had never known before, moved swiftly. Yet when he reached the arch, Ueda was there, waiting for him. Welter dodged to the side, fending Ueda off as he pushed around him. His arm, he discovered, was bending in a peculiar direction, yet Ueda seemed barely to be touching it. It appeared to take seconds for the pain to reach his shoulder, his neck, his mind. When it did, he screamed.

  As he screamed, he lashed with his right hand, twisting toward the man now holding his forearm in both his thick hands. His fist struck Ueda’s cheek, the class ring leaving a furrow across the smooth skin. The cut slowly welled up and wept blood. Ueda, his face devoid of expression, pressed his fingers deeper into Welter’s forearm. He said nothing. Welter struggled against his grip, and once again swung at him.

  Ueda released the arm he was holding, leaned back enough to let the blow go past, then caught Welter’s forearm smoothly with his own, not gripping right away, but moving with it.

  Then, with a swift twist, he grasped Welter’s arm, turned, and using the momentum of Welter’s panicked attack, he threw the taller man across the hallway.

  Welter sat up slowly. “I don’t believe this,” he said. He sounded more surprised than pained. He cradled his forearm in his left hand, the throbbing of Ueda’s finger pressure lost in the grand design of pain that flowed from his bruised head and arm to fill the universe.

  “Yes,” Ueda said sadly. He sat down slowly in a straight-backed chair near the arch and looked at Welter. “You really must remain here for the moment, Mr. Welter. I have trained hard for many years, since university days. This is something many Japanese do, you see. Judo, mostly. Please don’t try to leave again until we discover what is going to happen. Makeda has extensive interests in this matter, the satellite. You know about such interests now, and I must be sure you will not talk about them.”

  “I wouldn’t talk about it,” Welter said, but there was little force in the words. It sounded like a memorized speech without meaning.

  “Of course not. Remember the poison in the air. You would not want to travel to the east side of the island now, I think.”

  Welter started to climb to his feet, but the effort seemed to exhaust him and he leaned back against the side of the arch. “I had forgotten about the poison,” he said. “How do you know so much about it?”

  Ueda smiled thinly. “You mentioned Sandstone. That should be enough.”

  Welter did not speak for some time. A sly look came into his eyes. Then he repeated that he knew nothing about Sandstone. He worked for Kapuna Shores. He was to extend every courtesy to Mr. Ueda and the others.

  “Soon,” Ueda said after a time. He seemed to be speaking mostly to himself. “Soon we will know.”

  Silence fell. Somewhere a clock was ticking, an old-fashioned clock that made a sound, that had hands and small brass weights that moved inside glass. It began to chime, telling some fraction of an hour, marking some important boundary in the fabric of time itself. Welter heard it and wondered what it could mean. He lived here. He knew all the walls, all the times. The images, the sounds, he knew it all, yet he understood none of it.

  Ueda might be asleep, but he was seated in the chair behind Welter, who could not see whether he slept or not. Perhaps he only meditated or something. They did that. These men were strange. He had told the policeman that Ueda had gone out the morning Victor Linz was killed. Did Ueda know this? Was he angry? Would he kill him now if he tried to leave?

  Welter thought he cared less and less. One moment a thought of death would rise up from the surface of his mind like a whale breaching, and he would tense his body, ready to run, to get into his car and drive to the airport. The next minute it would be gone, leaving only the memory of a gust of breath, a distant image of spray on the horizon. The humpbacks came in January. Sometimes they came in December. They would not be here now. Toxins blew out with each breath; they were breathed in again. He had mentioned Sandstone. That was bad, he should not have done that, there would be trouble. Mr. Linz would be very angry with him for that. Mr. Linz was dead. He had mentioned Sandstone. He was going to die. There was poison in the air. The humpbacks would not come again. Someone was coming, there was the sound of the door. Opening and closing.

  “What happened to him?” someone asked.

  “He will be all right,” another voice said. “We had a small moment of misunderstanding.”

  “I see. That where you got the cut?”

  Ueda walked past Welter’s feet. There was a mirror in the hall. His voice came back. “This cut. Yes, it must have been his ring. I did not know.”

  Feet moved through the arch past Welter. He raised his eyes. A young man who looked so much like his father. Welter tried to smile. “I’m fine,” he said. “A little out of breath, that’s all.”

  Peter Linz bent down. “Welter,” he said. His face came close; showed no concern.

  “Look, I don’t know anything. We had some problems with a local group, that’s all. You know? They didn’t want us to build the resort.”

  Peter looked at him a moment without understanding what he was talking about, then stood up. “The woman’s outside,” he said. “I have to take care of her.”

  Welter looked around when the door opened again, then closed. She was standing in the foyer, a small girl’s hand in hers. Her face was pale but composed. “Please come in,” Peter said, holding out his hand, steering her with his hand on her elbow. The woman and child entered the living room. They both breathed in deeply, inhaling the rich scent of sandalwood. Welter saw them and remembered the paneling. He had lived here for years, and no longer noticed it unless someone pointed it out to him. He closed his eyes.

  “We want to ask you about Elliot,” Peter said to her, indicating a sofa.

  “It’s late,” she answered. “I thought we were going to have dinner.”

  “Yes,” Peter
said, chopping the air with the edge of his hand. “Of course we are. But first things first. You do know there is an emergency here? We need to find out, quickly and thoroughly, what the emergency is, so we can deal with it.”

  “Elliot can’t have anything to do with it.”

  “Elliot is a journalist. He is in a coma at the hospital. Vomiting, diarrhea, lesions on the skin. I’d like you to tell us, as completely as you can, what he was doing, up until he went into the hospital.”

  She looked down at her nails. They were square, clean, neatly filed and without polish. “How would I know? I was working, then I was at the market. I didn’t know about Elliot until they got hold of me. He was already in a coma. I told you all this.” The Japanese man sat against the wall, near a scroll of Chinese writing. He said nothing.

  Peter stood before her, facing the back of the house with the ornamental fireplace on his right. Who would need a fire in Hawaii? He had his hands clasped behind his back, and when she spoke he leaned forward without releasing them. The movement was curiously awkward. “Think, Lianne. Think. This is very important. You must know why he was here.”

  She shrugged. “I really thought he was here to see me. He did a story a couple of years ago about my husband’s death at the shipyard in San Diego. It was an industrial accident, and he thought there might have been negligence. He was very… supportive. It was a hard time for me. We’ve been friends since then.”

  “Where was he staying?”

  “A motel in Lihu’e. I have the number at home somewhere.”

  She stopped as though finished.

  “Go on,” he urged.

  She shrugged, hugging Corinne to her. The toddler looked up but said nothing. “There’s not much to tell, is there? I don’t understand why you came to my house and asked me to come here to tell you this. You could have asked these things there.”

  He frowned. “Certainly. But you don’t live far away, and this gentleman is waiting for his associates, who are a little late returning. So you see, we had to come here. He needs to know what happened to Elliot. It would help if he could also learn why Elliot was on Kaua’i.”