Mana

by John A. Broussard

  By any standards, the sight she saw would have been considered a strange one. A stark naked Bill was crouching about three feet from the tape recorder, which was still sitting on the coffee table. A crumpled wad of paper was in one hand, and he was poised to throw it at the machine. His other hand held a large cushion up in front of his face like a shield. Before Lehua could say anything, he had completed the toss. The paper flew through the air, came within inches of the recorder, stopped, then flew off again at a right angle. Bill looked up, caught sight of Lehua and grinned at her.

  “Scientists have to take chances.”

  Lehua let out her breath. “You could have been killed,” she said, trembling with a mixture of fear and exasperation.

  “Now we know where it is,” he said, “and, just as I suspected, when it takes a new form it’s relatively benign. Let’s take advantage of it and store it someplace until we can decide what to do with it.”

  The final decision was to carefully wrap the recorder in a soft terry towel and to place it in a safe corner of the bedroom closet.

  “Maybe Tessa would like to have it,” Lehua said as they climbed back into bed. “On second thought, that’s too close to home. Maybe we can convince that Tongan to come and get it. The one thing I know for sure is the sooner I get rid of it, the better I’m going to feel.” “Oh, c’mon, Lehua. This is too important to just dump.

  “Think of the possibilities.”

  “I am, and I don’t like any of them.”

  “That’s the problem with the average nonscientist. It isn’t the scientific discoveries that do harm to mankind, it’s the way the discoveries are applied. Nuclear physics has changed the face of diagnostic medicine. It’s not the scientist’s fault if politicians want to make hydrogen bombs.”

  “Bill. do you really think it will make any difference, when someone pushes the button, whose fault it is? All I know is I’ll be only too glad if mankind doesn’t get a chance to do anymore tampering with mana.”

  Chapter 15

  Lehua arrived at the newspaper office at the same time Cy was approaching the front door of the building. She smiled a greeting. “I’m ready to go back to work,” she said.

  “You sure you’ve recovered from that last assignment?” Cy pushed his glasses up on his nose.

  “Yes, and I’m willing to settle for something less adventurous. Maybe I should stick to human-interest stories for a while. In any case, the Angel Tong doesn’t seem to be our kuliana anymore.”

  “That’s for sure. The FBI has moved in full bore. Even the Taiwanese government has cracked down, now that we have evidence the Tong was functioning as an international organization.”

  “So, what have you got on the front burner for me?”

  “Some of the coffee growers claim there’s price fixing going on. Come to my office and I’ll give you the details. Seems the prices the buyers are willing to pay have become all the same almost overnight, and there are rumors a big Colombian coffee cartel is behind the sudden uniformity. Maybe the best place to start is to go out and talk to some of the growers, but that’s up to you.”

  * * *

  The day went by quickly. The growers she had interviewed were unanimous in their conviction they were being taken for a ride by the buyers. After going over bundles of receipts, Lehua had to admit they seemed to have a case. A story was shaping up.

  At noon, she called the Geology Lab, only to find Bill was out in the field.

  By the time her day was over, Lehua was dusty from driving down dirt roads, tired from the unaccustomed climbing in and out of her car, and ready for a long warm shower. A quick call to the Lab got her connected to Ed Tanaka.

  “Any word from Bill?” she asked.

  “He’s out checking the gauges and was due back by four. He must have run into some problems.”

  “You mean he hasn’t called in?”

  “Uh-uh. His phone may be on the fritz, though. The budget’s so tight this year we’re having a tough time keeping them repaired.”

  “Well, if he calls in, would you have him phone me right away? I want to know when I should put supper on.”

  A laugh came over the phone in response. “Hey! Bill’s sure lucky. June cooks supper so it’s ready by six. If I’m not there by then, her and the kids scarf it down. I get the cold leftovers.”

  After hanging up, Lehua again checked the answering machine to make sure she hadn’t missed a message. It wasn’t like Bill to not try to get in touch with her if he intended to be out late in the field. On the other hand, she decided, he does get engrossed in what he’s doing sometimes and forgets everything else.

  A long, hot shower; a change of clothes into comfortable shorts and shirt; a glass of wine; and the evening newspaper from Honolulu—all combined to mark a comfortable end to a tiring day. Lehua sat with her paper at the end of the couch waiting for Bill’s call. She had barely settled down when the phone rang. Without waiting for the end of the first ring, she picked it up.

  A strange, synthesized voice said, “Turn on channel 2.” Then the phone went dead.

  * * *

  It never occurred to her to do otherwise. Channel 2 was an empty one on the cable. The screen registered the same clear blue as the playing of a blank VCR tape. Suddenly, a seated figure appeared. A form tied to a chair. It was Bill! The synthesized voice cut in.

  “Don’t bother to try phoning out. The line’s been cut. I want whatever you used to kill Cheng’s men. If you don’t get it to me immediately, your boyfriend’s going to die uncomfortably. As soon as this picture fades, answer the knock at your door.”

  Things were happening too fast. It was Bill lashed to the chair. His eyes stared at the camera from out of a bruised face. The only thing she could be sure of from their expression was that he was angry—ragingly angry. A sudden thought flashed through her mind as the image faded and a sharp rap sounded at the door. Quickly she ran across the room, removed the cat picture from the wall and placed it sideways on the sill of one of the windows facing out on the street. The knock came again, this time more loudly and more impatiently.

  Lehua crossed the room and opened the door to find a short man, someone no more than two or three inches taller than her, staring out of an impassive face which seemed incapable of expressing emotion. The man was Asian, but his eyes had no racial qualities. Instead, they reminded her of a gecko’s eyes, eyes like the one in the small lizard she had suddenly surprised only inches away from her own eyes on top of the refrigerator one morning. Though she was certain she had never seen him before, there was something strangely familiar about the figure standing in the doorway. He moved his head in a gesture unmistakably motioning her back into the apartment.

  The man’s overall appearance was that of a laborer. Work shoes, grey work pants, a khaki shirt under a thin camouflage jacket, and—topping it all—a baseball cap with Kona Fun Fair written across it. “Get goin’,” he said. His accent was clearly Chinese, but there was no mistaking his words. “You’ve got ten minutes to get together whatever you got to get together. Then you come with me.” A snub-nosed automatic removed from his jacket pocket reinforced the command.

  Her mind raced. She knew she had to make rapid decisions, and Bill’s life depended on those decisions being the correct ones. “I…I have to get something out of the bedroom.”

  The man waved the gun to indicate she was being allowed that much freedom of movement. Going into the bedroom and opening the closet door, she could feel his presence behind her. He seemed particularly concerned about the bundle she took out of its resting place.

  “Open it!” he commanded.

  Slowly and carefully, she unwrapped the recorder. Looking closely at it, he shrugged and waved her back into the front room.

  “Is that all you need?”

  Her mouth was so dry she made no attempt to reply but merely nodded her head.

  Again, the man looked at the small recorder and his eyes narrowed in suspicion. Then, shrugging, he said, “OK,
c’mon over to window.”

  Obediently, she followed him, grateful he’d chosen the window without the sign for whatever he intended. He pulled back one side of the drape and nodded toward the stop sign at the end of the street. Lehua moved the drape at the other side of the window and looked in the direction he indicated.

  “See that red van at end of street?” He waved the automatic toward the intersection with the highway.

  No one was out on the street except for a young boy jogging down from the direction opposite to where the man was indicating. Swiftly and skillfully dribbling a basketball, he trotted down the sidewalk toward the van. Lehua immediately recognized him as the boy who had thrown the basketball to her the day she and Millie had walked by the court.

  “Hey!” The man’s voice rose. “You hear me? See that van?”

  Lehua nodded and watched in fascination as the boy lost control of the ball, which bounced off the sidewalk and slipped under the van. The boy followed it, retrieved it, then continued his effortless dribbling to and around the corner. While she was looking out the window, the man was continuing with his instructions.

  “We’re going out of here together. I’ll keep hands in pocket. We’ll go behind van and walk to driver’s door. I want you to climb in on that side, and I’ll follow. Understand?”

  Lehua again made no effort to speak but merely nodded to indicate she understood.

  “Let’s go,” he said, waving the gun for the last time before replacing it in his pocket.

  The street was deserted when they emerged. The sun had set, and the short tropical twilight was fading rapidly. They walked to the van. Leilani opened the door and awkwardly climbed in, sliding across to the passenger side while cradling the recorder with one arm. The man started the van and steered slowly away from the curb. He turned at the intersection and headed north when he reached the Queen Kaahumanu Highway.

  Lehua said nothing, certain that questions would go unanswered. She held the tape recorder on her lap and watched the needle on the speedometer crawl up to fifty and hold there. It was evident the driver was going to risk no encounter with traffic officers.

  The miles passed. They continued beyond the turnoff to the airport. Cars and trucks, traveling at and over the speed limit, pulled up behind them, waited for an opportune moment, then streamed by. A patrol car, its light’s flashing, came roaring past from the opposite direction. At the Waikoloa turnoff, the driver swung into the right turn lane and headed east.

  Lehua was swiftly arriving at conclusions she wasn’t happy with. Since her captor was making no attempt to hide where they were going, it seemed all too evident he was not much concerned about her retracing the route. The lack of a mask on him and the absence of a blindfold on her were both ominous signs. The implication of these omissions was obvious.

  The van continued uphill. Its powerful motor ate up the miles. At the Belt Road, they turned left, then right at the Saddle Road. From there it was a roller coaster climb up to six-thousand feet then back down another few hundred feet. Traffic was virtually non-existent. At the access road to the summit of Mauna Kea, the driver turned and the van again took the steep climb in its stride.

  A few miles along, the van turned again on to a less familiar road, an unpaved one. Lehua could vaguely remember having traveled this road back in carefree high-school days. Three couples had rented a big four-by-four to make a day’s trip around the old road girdling Mauna Kea at the six thousand foot level.

  From what she could remember of that very different trip, there were two or three campgrounds, some archaeological sites, a few roads off to old and abandoned ranch houses scattered along what had originally been an access road to timber stands halfway up the mountain. What she remembered most clearly from the earlier trip, however, was the absence of any other vehicles on the road during the eight-hour ride. There was no reason to believe today would be any different in that respect, especially since night was beginning to fall.

  Lehua kept her eyes on the odometer. One mile, two, three—the van continued on, now pushing its way through a drizzle that had begun shortly after the last turn-off. After almost six miles of the wet and rutted road, the driver turned once more toward the summit of Mauna Kea, this time on a gravel road posted with signs saying “Private. Kapu. Keep Out.” A chain, intended for blocking access to the road, lay on the ground at the entrance.

  Again, Lehua watched the odometer. A mile and a half along the road a dim light appeared through a jungle maze of trees smothered by banana poka vines. The driver pulled into an open space in front of a barn-like house. He didn’t bother to tell Lehua to get out, nor did he again threaten her with his pistol, though he had now again removed it from his pocket. It was obvious she could go nowhere from here on foot.

  After a careful descent from the van, and still cradling the recorder, she followed the man who had merely gestured toward the house. Once in the house, he prodded her with the automatic and moved her down a hall toward the dim light she had seen from the road. She had difficulty comprehending the scene in the large room at the end of the hall.

  At the far end of the room a kerosene lantern was swinging slowly back and forth on a long cord hanging from the open-beam ceiling. A fire blazed in the room’s fireplace to one side of the room. For the first time, Lehua realized she was shivering, and not just from fear. At seven-thousand-plus feet, in a rain that had turned from a drizzle to a downpour, her thin shorts and shirt afforded little protection. Her predicament had given her no time to think of the cold.

  A reed mat covered most of the room’s expansive floor, and floor-to-ceiling windows were covered with heavy drapes. Several pictures lined the walls, but the light was too dim for her to be able to tell anything about the subject matter. Furniture, mainly overstuffed chairs and a long couch, lined the same walls.

  Only two persons occupied the room. At one end, to the right of the door through which she had entered, Bill sat, still bound to the chair she had seen him sitting in on the TV screen. He was gagged, but Lehua could almost read his mind. His eyes were still full of anger, but now she could also see concern for her. Knowing him, she was almost certain the anger was directed at himself for having brought her into this hopeless situation.

  She wanted desperately to turn and rush to him. To assure him it was not his fault. She also knew their only hope, if there was any hope at all, was for her to keep her cool. The gecko eyes of the van driver reinforced her conviction.

  He pushed her roughly toward the room’s other occupant, who looked familiar even though his back was turned to her. As though only now being aware of her presence, Attorney General Kerry “Kimo” Page turned to face her. A trace of a smile flickered across his face. His voice was soft and expressionless. “Sorry to trouble you. I do apologize for the lighting, but the utility lines don’t come up this far, and I couldn’t see much point in turning on the generator. After all, we shouldn’t be here long if you’re willing to cooperate. I do take it you’re ready to deliver?”

  Lehua’s mind raced, but simply kept stumbling over questions she couldn’t answer. Why was Page here? Why had he kidnapped Bill? What did this sudden nightmare have to do with anything?

  She didn’t wait for answers. At the moment, she knew only one thing for sure, that Bill had to be freed from his bonds. “I’ll deliver nothing until you untie Bill.” Her voice was firm and uncompromising.

  The smile on Page’s face was now more than a flicker. “You’re hardly in a position to bargain.” He paused, shrugged, turned to the van driver and said, “What the hell! Cut him loose, Lee…and kill him if he acts up.” It was evident Page was in a hurry, willing to compromise in order to achieve his goal as soon as possible.

  Turning to Lehua, Page added, “You may be interested in knowing Lee is the brother of the man you killed with that acid. I don’t think he’s going to be too sympathetic to anyone who would do something like that. Though, come to think of it, Lee has never been exactly the sympathetic type toward
anyone.”

  Lehua stood near the middle of the room. The Attorney General was standing some six feet in front of her next to the swinging kerosene light. Behind her and to her right, a dozen feet away, Lee was cautiously leaning forward and sawing away with a razor-sharp knife the rope that bound Bill, all the time holding the automatic at the base of his captive’s skull. The rope frayed, then popped apart. Slowly, the seated figure moved his hands forward, raised them to his mouth and pulled the gag loose. Before he could speak, Page snapped, “If he starts talking, give him another tap on the skull, Lee.” Bill said nothing, leaned forward and rubbed his calves. After a moment, he began to rise. Since Page made no objection, Lee stepped back a foot or so but kept the gun aimed at Bill’s head. The tableau froze at that point and Lehua turned to her captor.

  If there had been any doubt in her mind before, there was none now. With both Bill and her knowing the identity of the person who had ordered their kidnapping, clearly the intention was to make sure they didn’t live long enough to reveal what they knew. If her convictions needed any further confirmation, Page provided it with his next words.

  “OK. We don’t have any more time for fooling around. I want to know what you have, and I want to have it. Right now! In case you’re wondering, I’m not as naive as Phil Cheng. When he told me what happened to his hired guns, he assumed it was just a string of bad luck. I knew better, right from the beginning. They were some of the best in the business. One, I could understand, but three? Never! Of course, the clincher was something Phil couldn’t appreciate. Whatever it is that got him and Lester Liu, I’m now absolutely positive you were behind it. Somehow or other, you had something defending you. I want it.”

  Lehua began to see a glimmer of hope, a glimmer which died as soon as Page answered her question. “What makes you think you’re immune?”