Down In The Valley

by James Strauss

  Arch knocked on the Koa wood door with his undamaged right hand. Koa was so rich, rare and expensive it would only have been used years earlier for something as plain as a door leading into a military officer’s cottage. The door opened but no one appeared to have opened it. Arch stepped in with Matisse crowding behind him. Arch looked behind the door but there was nobody there or anywhere in the great room. He looked back at the door latch as he swung it closed. Electrically operated. The door clicked shut with a slight but distinctive electrical sound.

  The general’s visiting quarters were as Arch had seen at other bases but much more opulent, and there was certainly no other set of quarters with a similar view of such tropical magnificence. One set of great room windows faced the other windward side of the island, taking in the full view of Lanakai, all the way to where Kaneohe Marine Base lay if you knew it was there. The other wall of windows gave a full view down Bellows Beach all the way past Waimanaolo to Makapuu Point where an old lighthouse now attracted photographers and tourists of all kinds. Rabbit Island sat placidly offshore, brilliantly lit up by the morning sun. The island was too far away to note any activity or the presence of any of the Hawaiians occupying it.

  The general’s view was like no other on Oahu.

  A Marine Officer appeared from around a hidden corner near the back of the room. He was a captain, wearing a Class B uniform, tropical attire (short sleeve khaki shirt with green trousers without stripe), sporting a leather belt with cross belt running over his shoulder. A pistol holster swung gently from the belt as he walked. Because he was under arms he also wore a piss cutter green cover (narrow hat running from forehead to the back of his neck). He carried a file over to a broad table near the window overlooking the Lanakai facing side of the home. He set the folder down and then looked up, as if noticing Arch and Matisse for the first time.

  “Gentlemen, I’m captain Star and I’m the general’s aide. The general will see you forthwith. I will ask you not to touch the materials I’m leaving for his attention as I make my own exit.” The aide walked out of the room the way he’d walked in. Arch noted the Corfam (crummy artificially polished black shoes instead of the real spit shined ones) with nearly silent rubber soles and the man’s West Point ring that had flashed in the early morning sun.

  “Stuffy prick, with the name star to go with the general’s, no doubt,” Arch murmured, walking toward the table.

  “Haole prick,” Matisse whispered at about the same time. “Sorry,” he followed up with to Arch, almost immediately.

  “For which part?” Arch returned, absently, as he took in the NSA folder with his own name on it. He stood staring down at the half-inch thick file, trying to decide whether to open it or not. He had little doubt that he and Matisse were under full surveillance but what did it matter at that point.

  A man’s deep voice spoke before his hand could reach the table.

  “Gentlemen,” the voice said. Matisse and Arch turned as one.

  A tall, nearly gaunt man of middle age walked toward them. He wore the same uniform as his aide but without the armament, belt or cover. The only mark of his rank was a single gold star pinned to the exact center of his khaki shirt collar tips. The front pleats running up and down each side of the shirt looked so sharp they could cut skin if not handled gently. He also wore a West Point ring, although where the captain’s had been gold with black onyx, Point colors, the general’s was white gold with a huge diamond in the center.

  He sat down without saying anything else and opened the file to its first page, which had the word SECRET slanted across it in large red letters.

  “General DeWare, I presume,” Arch said, taking a seat across from the Marine Officer. Matisse leaned against the back of a couch just behind him.

  “And who or what you are is, apparently, not to be known, unless you are going to be kind enough to enlighten me,” the general said, beginning to leaf through the NSA file. Arch could not help but stare. He’d never seen a real honest to God NSA file in his career, much less his own file. How a hard copy file from that secretive agency came to be in the general’s possession all the way out on Oahu was a complete mystery to him, but it again caused him to think that something vitally serious was going on that nobody outside the mission had any clue about.

  “You’re a general yourself,” DeWare said, “or maybe not. You’ve been a lot of Marine Corps ranks, I note. In fact, you were a major before you were a captain, and that’s not really possible…but here it is. No Command and Staff College. How can you be a general without that? You can’t, but here it is and here you are.” DeWare closed the file. “It doesn’t matter, I suppose. What you, and your local trash friend, are is trouble.”

  “Trouble?” Arch blurted out. “You think you’re the only one here sleeping with Virginia Westray? Talk about trouble.”

  The general simply stared across the table, first at Arch and than at Matisse. His face, then his whole head, turned a beet red and his right hand began to tremble slightly.

  The general’s movement reminded Arch of the pain in his own hand. Without saying anything further he slipped his left hand into his pocket, took out a few Ibuprofen tablets and popped them into his mouth. He looked up at the general. Mr. Perfect came to his mind. The man was totally in the moment and wearing everything, including his role, to perfection. General Perfect.

  “Get out and stay out,” the perfect general said, his voice low, his words delivered with a near hiss. “You get involved in this and nobody will be able to save you. You were called in to do something and you did it. Now go home. Haiku has nothing to do with you, and as far as Virginia is concerned, and we have talked about you, you are nothing more or less than an aged child, and not a good child at that.” General DeWare stood up, put Arch’s file under his right arm and started to walk toward the back of the room.

  “You’ve got Virginia tied up in something she’s not ready for and you need to let her go if you care about her,” Arch said to the general’s back, knowing the words were probably futile.

  “You’re out of here. These men will take you back to town. Sit there, drink there, stay there and then fly out. If your local scum friend goes back to Rabbit Island he’ll be snuffed out like his pals, never to see the light of day again.” General DeWare stopped and turned, “and you general, major, warrant officer or whatever the hell you are, gave us all we need to make that happen.”

  Two men came around the panel’s edge, as the general disappeared. “Hey guys,” one of the men said, waving a Taser toward them. Lorrie and Kurt were back.

  Arch stood up and backed toward Matisse until his back was against the couch too.

  “Oh, don’t look so surprised, we’re in and you’re out,” Lorrie noted. “Simple, really. Kurt here would love to get even for his hand. He gestured toward his injured companion.

  “Get even, get even?” Arch asked, holding up his bandaged hand.

  “He nailed my hand first. You broke bones,” Lorrie noted. “You spilt blood. There was supposed to be no blood, if you will recall overhearing. But never mind. We’re not here about that. We’re here to escort you to your carriage, that more resembles a pumpkin than a carriage.” Lorrie motioned with the Taser. Kurt glared but said nothing, his damaged hand splayed and stretched with wires held together using little nuts and bolts. Lorrie approached Arch and Matisse until he was standing only a few feet away. Kurt held back, his good hand noticeably positioned behind his back. Suddenly, Lorrie smashed the Taser down on Arch’s injured hand that lay resting gently on the couch back.

  Arch almost crumpled to the floor in pain, letting out a strangled moan. He pulled the hand close to his body, feeling the bleeding begin to seep through the light bandage. He struggled to control himself as Kurt spoke for the first time.

  “How’s that feel, Mr. hot-shot tough-guy international man of mystery?”

  Matisse grabbed Arch around the shoulders and eased him back the way they’d come. Sitting on the other side of the open g
ate at the bottom of the final set of steps was Matisse’s Pontiac.

  “Found this pumpkin down the way a bit, and thought you’d be more at home than the Caddy,” Lorrie said, standing well in front of Kurt just back from the gate. “Hope to see you soon. Kurt doesn’t talk much but he’ll be most happy to see you if you turn up again.”

  Arch eased slowly into the front seat of the Bonneville and then went to work trying to re-position the bloody bandages wrapped around his damaged hand.

  “Moana. Head for the Moana,” Arch ordered Matisse, barely able to speak.

  “You think you going to bring that Haole woman to the Moana?” Matisse asked. “I know what you thinking. You going to trust her again? Those guys who keep hurting you work for your Agency. For her. Not for the scarecrow general. I don’t think she be much of a good woman, and you don’t have that many hands.”

  Arch finished working on his hand before he responded. “You can drop the local Wahini stuff. You don’t know a thing about Virginia, or me for that matter. I don’t want some woman that takes my crap all the time. I want intellect, independence and some kind of equal partner. Virginia has always stood up for me, not matter how she seems to act or what she says. Somehow, she works on my best behalf even when it looks like she isn’t.”

  Matisse looked over at Arch for too long to be driving the way he was. “You in love with that woman. You got it bad. Shaka brah. She’s dangerous. I’m afraid of her and I haven’t even met her. But you my brah and I back my brah.”

  They drove without speaking to downtown Waikiki. Matisse put some oldies station on the ancient single speaker radio. “Sherry, Sherry baby, Sherry can you come out tonight…” played with surprising strength, with Frankie Valli belting it out and the cavernous car interior with the top up magnifying his voice. Matisse parked free at the Royal Hawaiian, not far from the Moana, where the doorman was part of his sovereignty group. The hotel was painted an awful pink but the interior breathed with a quiet old island style of quiet class as they walked through the lobby.

  Kalakaua, the main drag through Waikiki, was packed, but then it was always packed unless it was three in the morning. They walked straight through the Royal and shopping complex toward the Moana. What was left of the International Market Place was their first destination just across from the Moana. About every product in the jammed space was sold from wheeled sales carts. It was like a hugely wide alley in downtown Hong Kong. And every cart sold the same tourist junk, from phony jade to Zippo lighters and cheap bangle bracelets. An old drug store still functioned, with only Japanese characters to give away the fact that it dispensed anything but the other local crap around it. Arch loaded up on bandages and used two hundred in cash to convince the old man behind the counter to give him some codeine powder; the kind Japanese people could buy for a song in Tokyo without any doctor’s permission.

  Matisse guarded the door to a lobby bathroom while Arch went inside to do the best he could on his hand with the materials they’d purchased. Finally, he had to call the Hawaiian in because he couldn’t wrap the hand effectively without help.

  “Let’s go get a drink,” Arch said, wading through the crowd with Matisse trailing behind, carrying the bag with the rest of the medical supplies. The Moana had been redone some years back. They walked through the elegant lobby and out onto the back veranda. Arch stared up at the huge banyan tree that had been a fixture of wonder ever since his childhood. At one time there’d been a brass plaque indicating that Robert Lewis Stevenson had penned Treasure Island under it but no one could recall what happened to the plaque or whether what was written on it was true.

  They got lucky and found an empty table near the sand. The small gentle waves of Waikiki Beach lapped pleasantly nearby. Arch looked at the bar Pupu menu but didn’t get far before one word came back to his mind. A waiter came over and Arch ordered two Mai Tai drinks. He knew they’d cost almost twenty bucks apiece but he intended to dust his own liberally with the codeine powder.

  “Haiku,” Arch said, off a sudden. “Our perfect general mentioned Haiku. What could Haiku be?” Arch said the words aloud, more to himself than to Matisse.

  “Haiku Plantations or Haiku Gardens on the other side,” Matisse answered, checking out the PuPu menu for himself. Then he stopped and put the menu slowly down. “Haiku Stairway,” he said slowly, his tone low and serious.

  “What’s Haiku Stairway?” Arch asked, when Matisse failed to supply anymore.

  “It’s called the Stairway to Heaven, but it’s not. It’s the Stairway to Hell,” Matisse answered, as he slid his eyes over to look at Arch’s damaged hand.

  X

  Stairway to Heaven?” Arch said, looking intently into Matisse’s eyes.

  “I don’t like the way you said that. What heaven or what hell are you talking about and what does it have to do with the word Haiku DeWare mentioned?”

  Matisse waved the waitress away when she approached. “There’s a metal stairway built during WWII up to the highest peak of the Koolau range. Over two thousand rungs going up as many feet. The rusted remains of those metal stairs remain to this day. People have died trying to climb them. Something about them involved in all this?”

  “Oh,” Arch replied. “I don’t know, but there must be. What else could the word refer to? Where are the stairs?”

  “Haiku,” Matisse responded. “The steps start where H3 comes through the mountains on the windward side just up from Haiku Plantations and Gardens. There’s a graveyard there that leads to path under the freeway and up to the base of the mountains. With your hand we can’t even think about what you’re thinking right now.”

  Arch held his hand in front of him, splayed as flat as he could make it on the tabletop. The wound no longer caused him agonizing pain, only a dull sort of throbbing ache. He tried to flex his fingers but could only get them to curve a small bit before grimacing and opening his hand again. He thought about the valley where the stairway base had to be. Near or possibly the same valley where it had all begun. Somehow he and Matisse were going to end up back down in that valley. The thought was anything but pleasant.

  “We don’t know anything for sure,” Arch said, knowing he wouldn’t be climbing any two thousand-rung ladders anytime soon, if ever. “We’ve got to find out more and I can see only one way since our assault on Bellows was such a blatant failure.”

  “Blatant?” Matisse inquired, waving the waitress over.

  “Apparent, obvious, right in front of our faces,” Arch replied, his tone acidic.

  “How we get more to know?” Matisse asked before whispering some order to the waitress who bent down to hear him. He looked up into Arch’s eyes when he was done ordering and his facial expression changed.

  “Virginia the bitch,” he whispered, almost sub vocally.

  “What else can we do?” Arch said. “We’re at a dead end. Bellows is closed off and we can’t exactly go exploring the valley and climbing thousands of feet in the air without finding out what’s going on. The big plane is only a clue. There’s something bigger. Your own people are going to be wiped out or sent off to Guantanamo or some place like that for a long time unless we figure this out.”

  “How you know the bitch doesn’t know?” Matisse responded.

  “Don’t call her that anymore,” Arch ordered

  “Okay, brah, but you know what I mean. Where we going find the Haole white cold woman?”

  “North Shore,” Arch answered, ignoring Matisse’s sarcasm. “She’s taken a vacation rental at Sunset Beach on one of those small back roads that parallel Kam Highway. Spending a pretty penny for luxury junk the Agency has not one clue about, I’m certain.”

  “Never done that sort of thing yourself, huh,” Matisse said, not putting it out as a question.

  “That’s how I know,” Arch shot back, absently, watching Matisse wolf down kabobs of teri steak and pork rib meat. Drinks were a fortune at the Moana, or at any of the hotels along the Waikiki shore except the Sheraton, and food was e
ven more. Arch didn’t even what kind of balance he had left on his credit card. In the old days he’d have carried an Agency American Express made out to some phony company with no employees, no real address and no assets but unlimited credit. He waved at the waitress more to put a stopper in the eating and drinking open hole of Matisse’s. Virginia wouldn’t return to the house for anything but sleeping if she kept true to her workaholic “sleep only when absolutely required” regimen.

  “Can’t you call her and make an appointment over here on this side? It’s an hour and a half across the Pali to Sunset. My friend Ahi is a Kuhuna over there though so maybe we can picnic in the park with him. Did you know that a man can walk across the sandy bottom of the bay offshore of Ahi’s land and climb up on Chinaman’s Hat at low tide?” Matisse finished his pile of meat and began licking his fingers.

  “Not calling her,” Arch concluded, doubting Matisse’s comment about the offshore island simply because the tidal differentials weren’t that great on any of the Hawaiian Islands, except maybe in Hilo Bay on the Big Island. “They’ll just locate us using the phone. We need some throwaway phones from an ABC store. We’re going to encounter her and get some details so we can help her and your people too. Unless you have something way better than threats to offer the Agency will find a home for your people somewhere in the middle of deepest darkest Africa.”

  “ABC’s all over,” Matisse complained. “Koreans run them all. Like Kim chi disease, or something. Samoan’s took over the limo business and Tonga has a lock on security, which leaves singing and dancing for tips to real Hawaiians.”

  “You sing and dance?” Arch asked, starting to get a little bored by Matisse’s never-ending comments about the Hawaiian Islands being taken from real Hawaiians by absolutely everyone else.