Sleeping Dogs: The Awakening

by John Wayne Falbey

  As he walked over to the stand, the aroma of the food hit him. He realized he was ravenous. A solid looking man who Whelan judged to be about five ten and two hundred fifty pounds was cooking ribs on a portable gas grill. He looked authentically Polynesian. Whelan wondered if guests staying at his bed and breakfast in Dingle thought that he and Caitlin looked authentically Gaelic.

  “Ho Brah,” the man said. “You lookin’ hungry to me. Better get somethin’ to eat.”

  “Whatever you got, and a lot of it.”

  “You got it, Brah.” The man heaped a paper plate with a mound of ribs and handed it to Whelan. “Don’t need no more sauce, Brah, but that’s for you to say.” He motioned toward a couple of unlabeled bottles containing a reddish brown sauce.

  “I’ll take your word for it.” Whelan spent the next several minutes in silence. These were the best ribs he had ever eaten.

  When he finished, the man said, “You still lookin’ hungry, Brah. You want some more?”

  Whelan shook his head. “No, that was just right.” He wiped his hands and face with some moist towelettes from a small basket on the rough wooden plank that served as a countertop. “I’m looking for someone, an old friend. Maybe you can help me.”

  The man had turned away to dispose of the plate and bones in a garbage can next to the grill. “Maybe. What’s his name, Brah?”

  “He goes by the name of Brett Lange.”

  The man spun around sharply. “Never heard of him.”

  An odd reaction for a laid back islander, Whelan thought. Like he’d hit a raw nerve.

  “I understand he lives near here. Past the end of Pink Lokelani Lane off Highway 330, maybe two miles south of here.”

  “Don’t nobody live there, Brah and don’t nobody go there either.”

  “Well, if nobody lives there and nobody goes there, what’s the harm if I have a look around?”

  The man shook his head. “That’s a bad place. You go there, past the end of the dirt road, you don’t be comin’ back.”

  “What’s to keep me from coming back?”

  “Maybe monsters, maybe demons. Don’t matter, Brah. You don’t be comin’ back.”

  The ribs had been incredibly good. Whelan laid a generous amount of money on the makeshift counter top and walked back to his car. He allowed himself a smile now. Monsters, demons—the man seemed sincere enough. But Whelan knew better. The Irish had a lock on the supernatural—banshees, wizards, witches, leprechauns, and more.

  He drove in a southerly direction along the Hāna Highway. Not far past the point where the Haneoo Road looped back into the highway he saw a small sign identifying Pink Lokelani Lane. It was a narrow unpaved road that wound upward for about a mile and a half. He passed a variety of houses along the way, some clearly the luxurious vacation homes of the affluent and some quite humble. Eventually he came to a point where the road ended and what appeared to be a little-used trail snaked upward from there. At the trailhead there was a hand painted sign on an old post that said, “Stay out. Trespassers will be shot.”

  Whelan locked his car and started hiking.

  29 J. Edgar Hoover Building

  Christie left Nishioki’s house, drove back to the airport in San Francisco, and turned in his rental car. On the drive to the airport, he called Charlotte and had her cancel his hotel reservation. He would fly back to Washington, D.C. on a red-eye that night. He also arranged for Agent O’Connor to meet him before his flight.

  He nodded as he approached O’Connor near the United counter in Terminal Three. “You got that sketch for me?”

  “Yes, sir,” O’Connor said and once again handed him a manila envelope.

  Christie tore it open, removed the sketch, and studied it for several moments. The sketch was detailed—the artist had done a pretty good job of creating a current likeness from a twenty-year old photograph that had provided little to work with. Suddenly, Christie broke into a cold sweat. “Wait a minute…no…I don’t believe it!”

  Startled, O’Connor said, “What is it, sir? You recognize this guy?”

  “Shit!” Christie said. He continued to stare at the black-and white-sketch. There was a definite familiarity about its subject. The facial features, the muscularity. And the eyes, there was something about the eyes. What had Nishioki said about their eyes—glacial, very cold? The sketch artist had captured those eyes from the old photograph. If the artist had colored them glacial blue, they could be Mike Murkowski’s eyes.

  “I’m not positive, but—despite the years and the absence of a moustache—this looks like the guy I sat next to on the flight out here. The resemblance is close enough that we need to get on this right now.” He paused, still staring at the drawing. “What the hell was he doing on that plane? Was the sonofabitch taunting me?”

  “What do you want me to do, sir?”

  He looked at O’Connor. “Get the sketch artist to fill in the eyes in an icy blue color, then get this sketch to all agencies, federal, state and local. Turn this country inside out until we find this guy. The usual sources—transportation, lodging, charge cards.” He paused for a moment or two, then said, “I think his name…the name he’s using is Murkowski. Mike Murkowski. Get on that right away. We got off the plane around eleven this morning; he may still be in the Bay area.”

  After O’Connor left, Christie spoke to his office and checked his email. Then he found a bar near his departure gate and had a double bourbon with an antacid chaser. He caught a United flight and slept all the way to Chicago, where he connected to Reagan National. He went directly from the airport to his office and was at his desk before ten.

  * * *

  Christie gathered the members of his team and briefed them, then they spent the next several hours on the phones talking with members of various law enforcement agencies, and studying films from security cameras at West Coast air, bus and rail terminals.

  Eventually, someone in the Bureau’s San Francisco field office, who had been checking hotel security tapes in the airport area, came up with a lead. It was a video from the security cameras at the Airport Crown Plaza Hotel. It showed a man who matched Christie’s description of Murkowski making a phone call in the hotel lobby. He never faced the cameras while on the phone, so the Bureau couldn’t get a lip reader to assist. Another camera in the porte-cochére caught the man getting into a late model navy blue Ford Focus. The Bureau was able to zoom in on the license plate and enhance the resolution enough to read it. Christie ordered the issuance of an all points bulletin. The car was found a short time later abandoned in a mall parking lot in Sacramento. It eventually was determined that it had been stolen from long-term parking at the airport. It had been wiped clean of any prints, as well as hair, body fluids or other potential DNA evidence.

  Christie was meeting with the members of his team when he learned this last bit of information. He slammed his fist on the conference room table and said, “Dammit! Who is this guy?” He stared at the ceiling for several moments as he fought to regain control of his temper. No one said a word. Other than the soft hissing of the HVAC system, the room was quiet.

  He could feel himself starting to lose it. He desperately wanted another swig or two of antacid, but knew it would be a sign of weakness to do it in front of his team.

  At last he leaned forward, rested his elbows on the table, and said, “Look, this guy is too slick. He’s no crazed killer. He’s not like any professional hit man I’ve ever encountered. He moves too quickly. Changes directions on a dime. Has more identities than Lon Chaney. He’s almost better at this than we are. There’s got to be somebody helping him.”

  Antonelli, the veteran, said, “Got any idea who that might be?”

  “Maybe,” young Rickover said, “it’s one of us.”

  All heads swiveled to look at him. “What are you suggesting?” Christie said. “That someone in this room or in the Bureau is working with a killer?”

  “Well, I…no…what I mean is…” Rickover tried desperately to crawl out fr
om under his last statement. “It could be someone in government, not the Bureau. No, I never meant the Bureau.”

  Christie continued to stare at him. The young agent’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he swallowed repeatedly. He had pushed himself as far back in his chair as he possibly could.

  “Someone in government,” Christie said. “That’s interesting. Hadn’t thought of that. It could explain the impressive access to resources; how he seems to always be a step ahead of us.” He thought some more, shook his head and said, “What the hell am I doing? All these years with the Bureau and now I’m going to start spinning conspiracy theories?”

  30 Hāna, Hawaii

  Whelan enjoyed the exercise he was getting hiking up the steep trail on the southeast flank of Haleakala. It was strenuous work, but the heavy foliage of the rain forest shielded him from the direct glare of the sun. Beneath the natural sunshade, the temperature was cool and the air was strikingly fresh. He was glad he was wearing only shorts, a tee shirt and running shoes.

  After about ten minutes, he came upon another hand-painted sign that said, “This is your final warning. Turn back or die.” He smiled and continued hiking. Has to be Nick Stensen, he thought. A few minutes later he came upon a third sign. It said, “Stupid bastard. Too late. Now you die.” This time there was the skull of some kind of animal on top of the signpost. He continued climbing, but now he sensed the nearby presence of someone else.

  Eventually he emerged into a clearing amidst a grove of tall, mature tropical trees. There was a small cottage at the far end that looked as if it had been built by hand. He realized that whoever did it had to have hauled the materials up here without any mechanical help. The trail was too steep and narrow for heavy equipment to pass. Whelan turned and looked behind him. The trees at the front edge of the clearing had been trimmed so that anyone in the cottage could see the Pacific. The trailhead also was in view and so was his car.

  He turned back around and was startled to see a huge black Rottweiler sitting on its haunches ten feet from him. Its baleful black eyes were fixed unwaveringly on him, jaws dripping with saliva. A steady growl began to rumble from its thick throat. Because it hadn’t yet attacked him, Whelan assumed it was waiting for a command from someone unseen.

  He had two options. He’d always had some mysterious bond with dogs. It was something he had inherited from his father. The man could have the most vicious cur licking his hand in no time. That was option one; attempt to calm the dog, try to win it over as a friend. Or he could anticipate the attack; in which case he would have one chance – and a slim one at that – to cripple the animal with a technique he’d learned in training twenty years earlier.

  He had to get down to the dog’s eye level to communicate effectively. Never taking his eyes off the Rottweiler, he slowly sank to his knees. He spread his hands out in front of him, palms out and began talking softly. The dog just sat there, the growl rumbling from its chest.

  “Nice try. And when it doesn’t work and he attacks you, you’re gonna throw yourself to the right, try to grab his left foreleg and snap it out of joint with enough force to keep him from twisting his head around and biting you. Then, if you’re lucky enough to do that, you start running, looking for a blunt object to hit him with or a tree to climb, all the while hoping you can outrun a three-legged dog.” The voice came from behind him.

  “Nice to see you too, Nick.”

  “Am I to assume Irishmen can’t read English?”

  “Would have been easier in Gaelic.”

  “Doesn’t matter. I’m sure your sorry ass would have come up here anyway.”

  “Mind if I stand up?”

  “That’s between you and the dog.”

  “Fuck the dog,” Whelan said and stood.

  The dog never moved. It was very well trained and sat waiting for a signal from Stensen. After a moment, Stensen made a sideways motion with his head and the dog stood and trotted off into the rain forest.

  “In spite of the cute dog tricks, I knew you were expecting me. Levell spoke to you,” Whelan said. He looked into the other man’s pale blue eyes and saw the familiar red dots deep in the center of each. They were not much more than pinpricks. Stensen’s madness was almost dormant. For the moment.

  “Yeah? Doesn’t mean I want to see your sorry ass.”

  “Refer to me as sorry ass one more time, and I’ll feed your sorry ass to your own dog.”

  “That’s what I always liked about you, Whelan. You’re a genuine hard-ass.”

  “Goes with the territory. We Irish had a hard time for centuries. Tends to give a man an attitude.”

  “I don’t know about Irish, but I like being crazy.”

  “If you’re crazy enough to claim you’re crazy, you’re not crazy. Except in your case.”

  Stensen stepped forward and embraced Whelan in a tight squeeze. Stepping back, he said, “I hate to admit this, but it’s good to see you. Gets lonely on this mountain with just a dog.”

  “Might have more company if you took the signs down and lost the dog.”

  “Nah, when I want company, I go to town…well, if you can call Hāna a town. Hey, you want a beer?”

  Whelan followed Stensen into the cottage. It was surprisingly comfortable for a hermitage. And it was wired with electric current, as evidenced by the small refrigerator and lamps. Stensen brought out two Fire Rock ales, a beer brewed in New Hampshire for a brewery headquartered in Kona. Even the suds industry has gone global, Whelan thought.

  Back outside they sat on a low bench, really nothing more than a two by twelve plank nailed to two tree stumps. They gazed at the vastness of the Pacific and drank their beers. Stensen’s cell phone rang. He looked at the number and said, “This will just take a minute.”

  He hit the connect button and said, “Yeah?” He listened for a minute then said, “Nah everything’s fine. Just an old friend stopping by for a visit.” There was brief pause, then he said, “Hell, yes, I have old friends…some, a few, one or two. Look, I appreciate your concern.” He disconnected and put the phone back in his pocket.

  “Neighbors worried about you?” Whelan said.

  “No. Worried about you.”

  “Your neighbors seem to be on a friendly basis with you, Nick. What’s up with that?”

  Stensen smiled. “I have a good life here. I keep the peace. And the locals look out for me.”

  “Yeah? I passed the cop shop on the way into Hāna. So what do you do that they don’t?”

  Stensen reached his arm out and pointed into the distance. “You see all those big, expensive homes on the way in? The owners can go mainland for months at a time and leave the places unlocked if they want. Nobody will mess with them. In return, I have unlimited access to their pantries, freezers, cars.”

  “How’s that work?”

  Stensen stretched and took a drink of his beer. “When I first got here, there was some crime…B and E’s, vandalism, you know the litany. I made it a point to ambush the bastards in the act. They disappeared. Anyone who complained about that also disappeared. The guy that just called, he lives in one of those big ol’ houses near the trailhead.”

  “The local cops don’t have a problem with you exterminating the citizenry?”

  “Why should they? I’m like a janitor. Just taking out the trash. The only things the cops have to worry about these days are traffic violations. I handle everything else. Which, anymore, is the occasional belligerent drunk tourist trying to pick a fight with a local or coming on too strong to one of the girls in town.”

  “So, if I have this straight,” Whelan said with a grin, “shit happens and the police shine a big spotlight in the sky with the stylized outline of a bat, then you come running?”

  “Something like that.”

  “And the dog’s name is Robin.”

  “Right again,” Stensen said with a grin of his own.

  “I asked about you in Hāna’” Whelan said. “The locals seem to be terrified of you.”

&nb
sp; “Should be. But they like having me around. Bring shit to me, food and such. Leave it at the trailhead. Nobody comes up here.” He took another swig from his bottle. “Hell, you’re the first human who’s been up here in years.”

  Whelan smiled. “Lady friends?”

  “Plenty of that in town. I’m something of a legend among the ladies. I am, in fact, nothing less than the master of all I survey.” He swept his outstretched arms across the horizon.

  Whelan said, “Kinda tall for a Napoleon complex, aren’t you?”

  Stensen turned and stared at Whelan for a moment. Whelan knew he had touched a raw nerve. The ever-present tiny red dots deep in the center of Stensen’s pupils seemed slightly larger than they had been only moments ago.

  “What do you say we go into town and get a real drink?” Stensen said.

  They hiked down the mountain to Whelan’s rental car and drove back into Hāna. Stensen directed them to a small, rundown bar on an unpaved side street. It was little more than a Quonset hut with a couple of window shaker air conditioning units stuck in the front panel of the building. It was rusty and dented, and badly in need of some maintenance efforts. There were no windows that Whelan could see.

  Entrance was through a battered wooden door that sagged on its hinges. The inside smelled of cigarette smoke and stale beer. It was dimly lit by a couple of bare bulbs suspended from the ceiling. The inside resembled the exterior: old, beat up, but serviceable. There was a scattering of mismatched tables and chairs, an old jukebox, and a battered wooden bar. The bar stools, like the tables and chairs, were an eclectic mix. Some were shorter than others. Some had backs, some didn’t. Some had bare wooden seats, some had padding that had been taped and retaped many times with gray or blue duct tape

  It was mid-afternoon on a Friday and the bar already was crowded. Most of the patrons were Polynesian with a few Haoles scattered about. Two bulky native Hawaiians were behind the bar. It got quieter for a moment when Stensen entered. Everyone looked up and most nodded, smiled, or waved. A few applauded. One Haole man yelled, “Welcome O’ Protector of the Realm!” That drew a few laughs.