He pulled into his underground parking space, got out of the car, and checked his surroundings. Since the attack on him in Lafayette Park, he’d become even more conscious than usual of where he was and who might be sharing his space. Confident that he had a clear path to the elevator, he rode it up to his floor, stepped into his apartment, turned on some lights, and checked his answering machine. The tiny blinking red light said that he had messages, three of them.
He listened to the first two—Mac Smith and Mike Kogan. Then he heard the third caller, a woman, speaking softly as though afraid of being overheard. There was a sense of dread in her voice, hesitation between words, not sure that she should be making the call.
“Mr. Brixton, this is Kamea Wakatake. I’m calling from Maui in the Hawaiian Islands.” She paused, cleared her throat, and continued. “I have been reading about you.… I need help.… I can help you.… Please call me at this number,… Ask for Wayne…; he’s my friend.… Don’t speak to anyone else.… Please hurry.” She recited the phone number and clicked off.
Brixton played the call another three times and wrote the number on a pad. Kamea Wakatake. It took him a minute to remember where he’d heard that name. Will Sayers had told him that Paul Skaggs’s sister, Morgana, had assumed that Hawaiian name after joining Prisler’s cult.
Kamea Wakatake!
He went to the bedroom, where he stripped off his clothes, got into pajamas, a robe, and slippers, then returned to his desk and placed the call.
“Wayne,” the man who answered said.
“This is Wayne?”
“Yes.”
“I’m returning a call from Miss Wakatake.”
“She’s not here right now.”
“This is Robert Brixton. She said it was urgent.”
Like her, Wayne also lowered his voice. “I’ll have her get back to you when she can.”
“Is there somewhere I can reach her now?”
“No, no; you can only call her here. I’ll give her your message.”
“Tell her that she can call me anytime, at any hour. What is it, a five-hour time difference?”
“I have to go. Good-bye.”
“I’ll be damned,” Brixton muttered after hanging up. What was this all about? The frustration he felt was palpable. He paced the floor, stopping from time to time to look down at the phone as though willing it to ring.
He tried to relax, but it was a useless exercise. He flipped through TV channels in search of something to capture his attention, but that too was futile. He took the phone with him to the balcony and sat staring into the black sky. The woman across the street distracted him momentarily as she passed by her window wearing baby-doll pajamas, but after a few minutes she closed the blinds and turned off the light. He thought of Asal and of Flo Combes. But those were fleeting thoughts. Why had Paul Skaggs’s sister called? They were furtive calls, no doubt about that. Who was this Wayne character?
He paced again, inside and on the balcony, checking his watch every few minutes and calculating what time it was in Maui—12:30 in D.C., 7:30 Hawaiian time. One-thirty in Washington, 8:30 P.M. on Maui. He considered calling the number she’d left again, but he didn’t act on the urge. Why had time so dramatically slowed down? The hands on his kitchen clock and watch seemed never to move.
At two he dozed off in a recliner in his living room but had been out for only fifteen minutes when the phone rang. He awoke with a start, kicked the empty glass that was on the floor next to the chair across the room as he made for the desk. “Robert Brixton here.”
“Mr. Brixton, this is Kamea Wakatake.”
“Yes, Kamea. I returned your call earlier and—”
“I can’t speak long. I read the story about you.”
“The one that—?”
“I need help, Mr. Brixton, and I know that you do, too. What my brother did was … Oh, my God … I…”
“Kamea, I do need help and I’d like to help you. Can you come here to Washington?”
“No, no. He would never let me.”
“Who, Prisler?”
“Can you come here, Mr. Brixton? I’m afraid for my life. Please.”
“Yeah, I can come. How will I make contact when I’m there?”
“Wayne. The boatyard. But only call the number I gave you. It’s a borrowed cell phone.”
“I’ll see what I can set up. I’ll call you at that number when I get there.”
The line went dead.
Brixton went to his computer and looked up flights to Hawaii. He called United Airlines and was told that they had a coach seat available on a flight leaving from Newark Airport for Honolulu the following day at 6:00 P.M. He booked it and returned to his recliner, where he grabbed a few hours sleep before showering. As he dressed he turned on the TV, where a breaking news story was being reported. There had been a bombing in London at a pub near the U.S. embassy, and another in Italy, this one in a restaurant across the street from the Australian embassy.
Visions of being with Janet at the café, the explosion, and its aftermath flooded him. The memory pressed him down into his chair as though an elephant were sitting on his chest, like in those TV commercials for COPD. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t make sense of what was happening, but he somehow knew that the answer might lie on the island of Maui.
He couldn’t get there fast enough.
CHAPTER
31
MAUI
Wayne Bates managed a charter boat service in Lahaina Harbor for Samuel Prisler, although he wasn’t a member of the cult. Prisler had businesses all over the island and earned the loyalty of his employees by hiring those for whom opportunities were limited. That morning Bates had taken out a group of tourists to enjoy a fishing expedition on the forty-one-foot Rybovich sportfishing boat. Returning to the dock, he bid the fishing party farewell and entered the cramped office, where Kamea was filing papers and doing other administrative tasks.
“Good trip?” she asked.
“The usual—one seasick woman and one guy complaining about the size of the fish he caught. You saw the gray-haired titan of industry with his young trophy wife, or maybe she was his girlfriend? They spent most of the trip smooching in the cabin.”
Kamea managed a smile. Bates always had amusing stories about his customers on fishing trips, but her smile didn’t reflect what she was feeling.
The Honolulu Star-Advertiser had carried the syndicated story written by Will Sayers about Robert Brixton. Although she already knew about Brixton—the café bombing and Brixton’s shooting of her brother—seeing his photo and reading of his determination to clear his name and avenge the death of his daughter had a profound effect upon her. She’d been on the verge of tears ever since, but her fragile emotional state was nothing new.
“You still intend to do it?” Bates asked.
Kamea swiveled in her chair and gazed out over the harbor.
She had struggled with her decision before calling Brixton.
Since being summoned to the meeting with Sam Prisler where she was admonished for wanting to attend her brother’s funeral in Mississippi, she’d been on edge, paranoid, fearful. She knew that her only telephone was tapped and that any mail she received, which was minimal, was being opened and read before reaching her. Credit cards were never allowed for members of the cult, nor were driver’s licenses or other forms of identification. Cultists were given a token amount of money each month; all the profits of their work went to Prisler and the cult. In return, they were housed and fed and reminded at daily meetings that they were chosen people, blessed to have found each other and to be able to benefit from Samuel Prisler’s wisdom and love.
Prisler’s right-hand man, Thomas Akina, a burly Hawaiian with a mean streak, had paid particularly close attention to Kamea when Prisler went to Washington. After his return the surveillance of her became even more obvious and intrusive. Akina seemed to be everywhere she went, and she wondered if he had the means of peering into her small apartment; the thought sickene
d her.
She was no longer dropped off at her job at the fishing charter service by the usual driver who ferried cult members to work in a stretch van. Akina now personally chauffeured her to and from the compound and frequently showed up at her work to check on her during the day. While others envied her special treatment, Kamea knew better. She was being closely monitored.
Adding to her concerns was Lalo Reyes’s arrival back at the cult. She’d known him when he’d initially arrived on Maui and found him to be charming, albeit naive. Openly gay, his flamboyant personality allowed him to easily fit in with many of the cult members. But his return was not greeted warmly. Instead, he was kept under wraps, housed in one of three rooms attached to the main house. He took his meals there, and the only sighting was an occasional glimpse when he sunned himself on a tiny patio off his room and could be seen from the entranceway at the front of the property. Kamea worried that she would be sequestered the same way.
Kamea’s ambivalence about the cult had been smoldering since Prisler had dispatched her brother to Washington. Until then she’d believed in Prisler and what the cult stood for. She was one of his most loyal followers, feeling blessed that he’d provided a refuge for her from a life that she’d hated. She detested her father, a bombastic, my-way-or-the-highway type, whose life represented everything that she abhorred. When she’d first joined the cult and changed her name from Morgana to Kamea, the congressman had made what she considered sham attempts to persuade her to return home. He was furious with her choice, and words to the effect of “all is forgiven” were delivered with icy inflection. Her mother, browbeaten by her husband for so many years, had made her own feeble approach, but her weakness and willingness to be dominated by her husband disgusted Kamea, who refused to rejoin their loveless household.
And so she’d settled into her new life and reveled in it, basking in the belief that she’d found an answer to what was surely a corrupt world, escaping her father’s hypocritical life as a member of Congress, and the shallow thinking of her peers back home. To her, Prisler was a messiah; Maui was the Garden of Eden populated by loving people who worshipped nature and the human spirit.
She’d found nirvana.
Until now.
“I can’t change your mind?” Bates asked.
“No; I have to leave, Wayne. Don’t you see?”
“I wish I did. I mean I do understand to a degree. After all, I’m letting you use my phone. Doesn’t that count for something?”
“Of course it does.” She touched his arm. “I’m no longer happy here,” she said, “and I’m afraid.”
“Of Sam?”
“He doesn’t trust me anymore. You see how he treats me since Paul went to Washington and was killed. I feel like a prisoner. I never used to feel that way.”
Bates turned from her and carefully folded nautical charts, saying as he did, “What about me, Kamea? What about us? Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”
Since Kamea had been assigned to work at the boat chartering service she and Bates had fallen easily and naturally into a romantic relationship, one that had to be conducted discreetly because it violated the cult’s rules.
“Of course it does,” she said. “That’s why I want you to come with me. Sam treats you like dirt. He pays you half of what other charter captains make. We could leave together and…”
He turned and said, “And do what, Kamea? What do I do back on the mainland? Running fishing charters is all I know, and you know I’m lucky to have this job. I screwed up. I got busted for drugs more than once. Sure, I’m clean now, but with my record, there’s not another charter service in Hawaii that’ll hire me. Sam Prisler did me a favor, and he’s been good to me. Okay, so he’s on edge since Paul got killed, but that’ll pass. Give it some time, and things will be the way they used to be. You loved it here.”
“I don’t want to live in fear again. No, Wayne, I have to leave.”
“What if he won’t let you?” Bates asked.
“I’ve thought of that,” she said. “No one is allowed to leave if they’re not assigned elsewhere. The only ones to get away have had to sneak out like thieves in the night. I’m not naive, Wayne. That’s why I want to call Robert Brixton and see if he can help me.”
Bates’s laugh was dismissive. “He’s the guy who killed your brother, for Christ’s sake.”
Kamea thought before answering. “He’s a man who will help me because I can help him. I know things that he needs to know.”
“About your brother and why he went back to Washington?”
“That and other things too. You have no idea what I’ve learned in the past few days, things that can make a difference.”
“A difference for who?”
“A difference for—a difference for me. You said I could use your cell phone. Don’t let me down now. I can’t take a chance using the phone here in the office or in the dorm, and we’re not allowed to have cell phones.”
“I said I would, Kamea, but I wish you’d think it out before you make the call. But if you insist, let’s go outside. You can use my cell once we’re under way.”
He released the lines tethering the boat to the dock, started the twin diesel engines, and maneuvered the craft away from the dock and into open water. Once away from prying eyes, Bates handed her his cell phone and she made the call, reaching Brixton’s answering machine.
“He’ll call me back,” she said.
“On my phone?” he said.
“You said it was all right.”
Bates’s expression said that he’d reconsidered that decision.
“Can we stay out a little longer in case he returns my call?”
“I have to get ready for a dinner charter tonight,” Bates replied. “Besides, Akina will be arriving to take you back to the compound. What do I say if this Brixton guy calls back?”
“Tell him I’ll try to reach him again.”
As Bates guided the boat into its slot at the dock, he said, “The caterer will be arriving at six. See if you can get Akina and Prisler to let you work it; tell them I’m shorthanded and need you.”
“I don’t know if they’ll let me.”
“You won’t know if you don’t try. I’ll tell Akina when he comes to pick you up.”
When Akina arrived, Bates passed along the message to him.
“I doubt if Mr. Prisler will agree,” the hefty bodyguard said.
“Ask him. I really need her.”
Bates had not heard from Kamea when Brixton returned her call. He considered not telling her about it. Maybe if she thought that Brixton hadn’t responded and probably wouldn’t, she would stop trying to reach him and rethink attempting to leave Maui. But when Akina drove up in his Range Rover, and Kamea hopped out, he decided not to put himself in the position of having her discover that he’d been dishonest.
“What time will you return?” Akina asked.
“Ten. I always bring these nighttime charters back in at ten,” Bates said.
Bates and Kamea said nothing as they watched Akina pull away. When he’d passed from view, Bates told her of Brixton’s call.
“Let me have the phone,” she said.
“Wait till we’re under way,” he suggested.
She busied herself helping the couple from the catering company arrange the food in the cabin. Eight guests arrived and were welcomed by Bates and the young man who served as his mate on charters. Kamea acted as bartender in the cabin as they left the dock and smoothly moved through the calm waters of the harbor. Bates summoned Kamea to him where he stood at the helm. “Call him from here,” he said.
She pressed into a corner and dialed the number. Bates strained to hear her end of the conversation over the boat’s engines but caught only snippets. When she’d finished she handed the phone back to him.
“What did he say?” Bates asked.
“He said he’d come.”
“When?”
“I don’t know. Soon I hope. He’ll call you on your phone.”
Her lip trembled and she wiped away a tear from her cheek.
“Not too late to change your mind,” he said grimly.
“I know, but I can’t stay here any longer. Please try to understand.”
“I’m doing my best,” he said as he slowed the engines in preparation for anchoring while dinner was being served.
“You’d better help with serving and the cleanup,” he said.
What he didn’t say was how deeply he resented her calling Brixton to help her leave the island and the cult. She was putting his job in jeopardy. He didn’t want her to go. He never should have agreed to let her use his cell phone to make those calls. He was suddenly gripped by distrust and jealousy. He brought his fist down hard on the console and began to conjure what he could do to keep her on Maui.
CHAPTER
32
Brixton started his day by returning Mike Kogan’s call.
“Hey, pal,” Kogan said, “how about stopping by this morning?”
“What’s up?”
“I want to ring you in on a meeting I’m having with the staff. Donna will be here, Larry and Luke too.”
“I’m suspended. Remember?”
“And I’m unsuspending you, at least for this morning. Is that a word, ‘unsuspending’?”
“Doesn’t sound like it, but what do I know? I never aced any of my English classes. Sure I’ll swing by. What time?”
“Ten.”
Before heading for SITQUAL, Brixton printed out his boarding pass, packed a suitcase, and booked a flight to Newark Airport leaving at two that afternoon. He placed a call to the airline informing them that he was a licensed handgun owner and would have an unloaded weapon in his checked baggage, secured in a locked metal box. He would also have with him a limited number of rounds for the weapon. He was tempted to lie and to say that he was an agent for SITQUAL, but he knew that wasn’t necessary. Transporting a gun was permitted as long as he followed the rules concerning the locked box and giving prior warning. It annoyed him that he would have to check a bag instead of carrying it on board, but it was a small price to pay for being able to bring his Smith & Wesson with him. All he had to do was remember to place the gun in the box, lock it, and shove it in with his clothing before going through security. The government didn’t take lightly to showing up with a weapon in your carry-on luggage.
Margaret Truman's Undiplomatic Murder Page 27
