Thrillers in Paradise

by Rob Swigart

  “The lifeboat!” Chazz exclaimed as the door opened. Patria pushed the stroller in, shaking water from her hair. Orli’s white cloth sun hat was dewed, but she was smiling dreamily. Her arms jerked out when she saw her father.

  “What about the lifeboat?” Patria said. She bent down to remove Orli’s hat.

  “It was missing. Someone got on board, killed the crew, and left in the lifeboat.”

  “How’d they get on board? Why take the lifeboat?” She folded the sun hat and put it in the big cloth diaper bag hanging from the back of the stroller.

  “I was afraid you’d ask that.” Cobb was peering into the inside of his porkpie hat. Nothing in there but questions.

  “They were already on board,” Patria suggested. She lifted Orli from the stroller and sat down with the child on her lap facing her. She started to make funny faces. Orli laughed.

  “No mention in the log. The whole crew was present and accounted for. And dead. Except one, and she’s not talking. Doesn’t seem to know who or where she is.”

  “Sounds like black magic to me. Someone put the hex on her. ’Ana’ana, someone prayed them all to death.” She put her nose against Orli’s and made chuffing sounds. “With a little help, maybe?” she added between chuffs. Orli rewarded her by blowing a big saliva bubble that burst against her face.

  “Okay.” Cobb went to the window and stood beside Chazz, looking out. Patria smiled, seeing them there, the large bear of her husband next to the small, neat Japanese detective. “We have many puzzles and few answers. Kimiko found them; they all seemed to be dead. They all seemed to die at around the same time, reason as yet undetermined, though the proximal cause of death was respiratory failure. It now seems likely someone killed them. We don’t know who. We don’t know how. We don’t know why.”

  “All we know is what and when?” Chazz murmured. It was only a half-question.

  Sy stood up. He seemed somewhat bored yet still intrigued by the conversation. “We may know how. Partly, anyway,” he said.

  “Powder?” Chazz turned back and sat in his chair, which creaked alarmingly as he leaned back and clasped his hands behind his neck. He would play Dr. Watson to Sy’s Sherlock.

  “If there’s something topically active in the powder, then they could have been killed by it on the deck. They walked over it and got it on their feet. Bingo, poisoned.”

  “Except that the captain, for one, was wearing shoes.” Cobb did not take the powder seriously as a cause of death.

  “Oh, yeah.” Sy was depressed. “I forgot about that.”

  Cobb turned back to Patria. “What was that about magic?”

  “Black magic, I said. A bit like ’ana’ana, the old Hawaiian kahuna who would pray an enemy to death. It was part of the cultural belief system, that’s why it would work. No good if you don’t believe. Perhaps the powder was a sign, a warning of some kind, not really a poison.”

  “These were Europeans, mostly. American, Canadian, Tahitian, French. Why would they be subject to some weird primitive magic?” Sy was a scientist, a rational man.

  Chazz shrugged. “This isn’t getting anywhere, is it? And I have a class to teach in an hour. Somebody did something weird, some spooky magic nonsense with ground-up bones and junk. That somebody is gone, probably left the islands by now, especially since everyone on the ship is dead. My guess is the answer is wherever the ship came from, not here.”

  “Tahiti?” Patria asked, looking up from her interplay with Orli. “Don’t know about any dark arts from Tahitian history. Mostly a sunny place, despite the white man. It sounds more like Haiti or someplace. Voudun, zombies, that sort of thing.”

  That stopped him. “What?”

  Patria pursed her lips and looked up at the ceiling. “Mixtures of African animism, Christianity, folk medicine. My specialty, remember? We should go to Tahiti, check out any recent visitors from the Caribbean. Of course,” she added thoughtfully, “it could be Southeast Asian…”

  “No way. We don’t need to go to Tahiti. Cobb, tell her.”

  “Not me, my friend. I don’t know yet. But if these people were killed, and it was because of what went on in Tahiti, it might be a good idea. Sammy won’t like it, of course.”

  “What does Sammy have to do with it?” Patria asked.

  “He has to pay the bill. Already he’s complaining about the airplane ride from the Big Island. A trip to Tahiti is going to blow his budget.”

  “That alone might make it worth going,” Patria suggested with a laugh.

  “Don’t even think it,” Chazz said seriously. “I’d better go to class. Want to come watch or anything?”

  “No,” she said. “Orli and I will stay here. Look, the rain’s stopped.”

  Chazz Koenig, yondan in aikido, nidan in iaido, the art of sword drawing, assistant instructor at the small dojo on Kauai, bowed to his chief instructor, Shinawa Hiroshi-shihan, seventh dan master teacher.

  Shinawa allowed a thin smile to touch the corners of his lips. He had recently promoted his assistant instructor to fourth degree and was pleased. Already Chazz ran the classes while he was away, and he was more and more away recently. Certain arts he had not had time for when younger, the Way of Tea, for example, and Ikebana, now occupied much of his time. He was growing old, and certain things are appropriate for those who are growing old.

  Not that he was losing his skill. He was a small, white-haired man who weighed perhaps 150 pounds, but his thin arms contained amazing strength. His will, he would say, was strong, and the body must follow.

  “What is most important, Chazz,” he said, straightening from the bow, “is to have right intent. It is not enough to be strong. It is not enough to have technique, not enough to have great spirit. Your ki is strong, your body is strong. You have technique. You must have intent.”

  “Right mindfulness,” Chazz said.

  “Yes, yes,” Shinawa said impatiently, though he smiled his thin smile. “Right view, thought, speech, behavior. The Buddha’s teachings are still useful in this world. But what is your intent?”

  The students were lining up along the edge of the training mat behind the two men, who did not seem to notice. Their voices were low, their heads bowed in thought. The students would settle into their own meditation before the class.

  “To protect,” Chazz said after some thought. “That’s why I took up aikido in the first place, to control my temper, to protect others. From myself as much as anyone else.”

  Again Shinawa gave his bleak smile. Chazz knew it was a sign of favor, despite the sense that he was not doing well in this little exchange. “Buddha says there are four kinds of people,” Shinawa said gently. He raised his voice slightly, so the eleven students present could hear. “Buddha says, there are those who, because they were taught the wrong things, cause themselves to suffer. They are too hard on themselves, Chazz. Worse are those who, because they are cruel, cause others to suffer. And of course there are those who cause others to suffer as well as themselves. Perhaps that is most people. Finally, there are those who cause neither themselves nor others to suffer. What is your intent?”

  “To create a world in which no one has to suffer.”

  “No!” Shinawa slammed his hand on the mat with a sharp crack. He closed his eyes for a moment, as if contemplating the insides of his eyelids. “There are three kinds of men in the world,” he said softly. “Three kinds of people, women as well as men. The first are those who are like letters carved in rock. They give way to their anger and hold on to their angry thoughts.” He shook his head. His sparse white hair fringed around the large, wrinkled bald area on his crown seemed to whisper with the movement. “Once you were like those people. Then there are those who are like letters carved in sand. They give in to their anger, but let their angry thoughts pass quickly away. Now, perhaps, you are like those.”

  Chazz said nothing.

  After a time Shinawa concluded. “Then there are those who are like letters written in running water. Anger and provocatio
n pass by unnoticed. You are not there.”

  He rose to his feet in one swift, fluid motion and struck Chazz hard on the breastbone. Chazz felt the breath rush from him as he instinctively went backwards into a roll, rising so quickly the students, seated spellbound on the other side of the mat, leaned back as one in alarm. Chazz roared and struck out.

  His technique was good, even flawless. But he missed Shinawa altogether. The old man seemed to melt to one side without moving, and Chazz Koenig found himself flying. He took a high back fall, slapped the mat and was up and charging again. His face flushed with anger. This was too much! He raised his left hand and struck in a swift yokomen strike with the blade of his hand to the side of Shinawa’s head. Again the old man was not where the blow landed. Instead he stepped softly inside the curve of Chazz’s attack, smoothly picked up its motion, pivoted on the balls of his feet, and again Chazz was flying, forward this time. He somersaulted in the air, landed with only the sound of a slap on the mat, sprang to his feet, and stepped forward for another attack.

  Suddenly, he stopped. The old man had not moved. He was standing quietly, watching Chazz with his slight smile, his eyes narrow but twinkling. His hands were extended slightly before the knot in the strings of his black-skirted hakama, and Chazz saw no opening anywhere for an attack. The old man was relaxed but totally aware.

  The two men stood facing one another for a long moment. No one moved. There was no sound in the dojo. Chazz let his own awareness settle. His eyes went soft, taking in everything through a peripheral sensitivity. He could feel the energy flow through his body, out through his fingertips. His breathing became the breath of the room itself, the breath of everyone in it.

  There was no rush, suddenly, no hurry to do anything. All he had to do was wait. Shinawa’s attention would waver first. He was certain of that. The suki, that momentary lapse in concentration that created the opening, would appear.

  Chazz saw, as if he were inside the legendary moment when two swordsmen met on a narrow bridge in Japan, that neither one would back down. They stood facing one another, hands near the hilts of their swords, ready to draw as soon as the opening appeared. After five minutes of motionless waiting, the two men bowed to one another, turned, and walked away. Neither one had left the opening.

  But there it was! Chazz moved forward, ready with his strike, and found Shinawa’s hand in his face, a fraction from his nose, which, if the old man’s timing had not been so precise and his movement so meticulous, would now be broken. He stopped himself too, and leaned back slightly, to allow the right amount of room to prevent injury.

  Chazz smiled.

  Shinawa smiled too, a broad grin. He shook his head, still smiling. “You are still written in sand, but it is getting better, isn’t it?”

  “The sand is getting wet,” Chazz said softly.

  Shinawa held up a finger and shook it. He turned slightly to take in the class. “The sand is getting wet. But the anger was there for a moment, too. The anger is an attachment. It must flow through like water, giving energy without controlling action. So now, Koenig-san, what is your intent?”

  “Not to suffer and to save others from suffering.”

  “What is your intent?”

  “To not give way to foolishness or greed or anger.”

  “What is your intent?”

  “To live a life of wisdom and kindness.”

  “That is the highest ethical goal of aikido. To protect yourself and the one attacking you. Do not forget, though, that the first goal is to protect yourself. What else is your intent?”

  “To teach this class.”

  Shinawa bowed and stepped off the mat.

  Chazz took his place in front of them, seated on his heels in the Japanese style. When he felt the calm gather, he turned to face the kamiza, the heavy wooden frame containing a picture of O’Sensei, founder of aikido, who in the photograph was a good twenty years older than Shinawa. Chazz placed his palms together and bowed his forehead to the mat. The students, lined up at the edge behind him, followed as one. When he straightened again, Chazz placed his palms together and gave two rhythmic claps, which the students matched precisely: two sharp cracks that echoed off the curved metal walls of the Quonset hut in which they trained. They bowed again to O’Sensei, Chazz turned, and he and the students bowed to each other.

  Class had begun. Shinawa went to the desk near the door and concerned himself with paperwork. The class went well. Some of the students were ready for promotion, and afterwards Chazz and Shinawa discussed scheduling their exams. With the administrative matters out of the way, Shinawa tipped his head and looked at Chazz with his penetrating gaze, as intently as he had looked at him before the class. “Something is on your mind, Koenig-san.”

  Chazz said nothing for a moment, considering. He was used to Shinawa’s surprising insights, which seemed to be based on no visible clues and appeared from nowhere. If Shinawa said something was on his mind, then something was.

  “I’m not sure,” he said slowly. “But I think this ship has been bothering me. Six people were dead.”

  “Yes,” Shinawa nodded. “Our friend Kimiko Takamura found it, I heard. She was very brave to investigate alone like that.”

  “Brave, or foolish? There was a strange powder on some of the victims’ feet. Like some kind of poison or something.”

  “And something else, yes?”

  “I know there’s no connection, but a tourist, a woman, was murdered too. I keep getting the feeling that there is something on the island, some… evil. I don’t know how to say it, exactly. I’m uneasy. I worry about Patria and Orli.” He looked sheepish. “I have no… facts. It’s just a feeling. Could you… I don’t know, keep an eye on them or something. No, never mind.” Chazz shook his head. Being foolish.

  Shinawa was silent for a time. Finally, he spoke. “I don’t think you should ignore this. You have had experience of those who are like letters carved in stone.”

  “Yes,” Chazz agreed. “I was one of them.”

  “There is no shortage of such people. For desire, or fear, or anger, or pride, people may act to increase the suffering of the world. They may steal or kill and feel no remorse. The results of that kind of action, certainly with that doctor’s wife, perhaps with the seven on the ship, are with us. You may be right to fear for your family. As long as the fear does not control you, it might be a good idea to be more than usually… vigilant.”

  NINE

  MISSING PIECES

  “Vigilance,” Vincent Meissner was saying, “is our watchword. The Gaia Foundation has stopped tuna fishermen from killing dolphins and the Army Corps of Engineers from raping the Columbia River. We can stop the United States Coast Guard from stealing our ship!”

  He leaned over Shafton’s desk, his hands splayed on its polished surface, his face purple. He wheezed, and Shafton, whose glacial calm grew firmer with each word, made note of the medical bracelet chattering softly on the man’s wrist. This outburst could have consequences. He was not at the moment alarmed at Meissner’s threats.

  “We’re following procedure,” he said quietly. “Ocean Mother will be returned to you when and if this investigation comes to a satisfactory conclusion. Until then she is under the protection of the Coast Guard, and I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do. I have my orders.” He folded his small neat hands together on the polished surface of his desk and lapsed into studied silence.

  Meissner was trembling. “You have your orders,” he sneered. His voice turned ominously quiet. “I lost friends and colleagues aboard that vessel. I have an interest in finding out what happened. I do not think the Coast Guard is competent to handle this investigation. We will file suit. Today, in Federal Court in Oahu. You won’t get away with this.”

  “That is your privilege, of course, Mr. Meissner,” Commander Shafton said. “But you are not a citizen of the United States, and that strategy may not be as effective as you would wish. There’s evidence that a crime was committed aboard your vessel, an
d the French government claims she was herself engaged in illegal activities back in Polynesia. They have filed a diplomatic protest. It all looks like a complicated international problem… You might be better advised to cooperate.”

  Vincent glared at him for a moment, turned without a word, and stomped out of the small office.

  The sunshine was intense, bathing the lush island vegetation with a sharp brilliance he found painful after the dim office. He opened the door of his rental car and stepped back as a gust of heat poured out.

  He sighed and climbed in, adjusting his back carefully away from the hot vinyl. Carrie had proved something of a liability, awed as she was by that pompous ass inside, so he’d sent her back to the beach where she belonged. Now he had to drive himself around in this cheap rental, but at least he didn’t have to answer her endless questions.

  Mentally he ticked it off: Shafton first. No satisfaction, so he would approach Takamura next. After that, the Foundation attorneys in Vancouver. Nothing about this would be easy.

  Takamura also thought there was nothing easy about this peculiar case. He sat on a bench beside the County Building eating his bento lunch. Beside him Sergeant Handel wolfed down a dripping cheeseburger.

  “How can you eat that stuff?” Handel asked around a generous mouthful. He gestured with his half-eaten sandwich at the neat wooden box with its square compartments. Cobb snipped a small morsel of rice and fish with his chopsticks and chewed thoughtfully.

  “Easy,” he said after a time. He laid the chopsticks inside the box and closed it with a soft snap. He looked at his partner. “It is delicious.”

  “Oh.”

  “And who do I see approaching us?”

  Scott looked up. “Meissner.”

  “Yes. Good afternoon, Mr. Meissner. I’m glad you came. I was about to call you.”

  Vincent was in no mood for courtesy. “What the hell is happening with this case, Takamura?”

  “Your people were poisoned, it seems.”

  “What?” Meissner seemed distracted, his voice was so soft, but the color had left his face. “What do you mean?”