Primal Instinct

by Robert W. Walker

  “Place swallows you whole. Got to know your way. People get lost in those mountains every year. Children mostly. They're like... swallowed up.”

  “I used to hunt all the time with my dad,” she'd assured him. “I wouldn't get lost.”

  “I know the territory, Jess. And I'm telling you, anybody— anybody—can get lost in there.”

  He hadn't been talking about the damned mountains; he'd been talking about something darker, something scarier, but she hadn't heard. Then it was too late.

  She had managed to forget about Jack Westfall and Chief Zanek and everyone else here, just allowing her eyes to intermingle with the world of light and dark below the planet, a world ruled by the same instinct for survival as that of the land animals; yet here even the struggle between hunter and prey for life and death took on softer, subtler hues.

  She caught sight of the sentient spindly polyps, their full length searching for food and lodging among the coral. The rainbow of colors that extended from so many forms of sea life dazzled her.

  Amid the brain coral and the fire-red coral, the fish sped, dipped, rose and fell as if birds in flight, so at ease within their coral wood. A tubular, sleek trumpeter—a loner—swayed just above the bottom, so Jessica went down for a closer look. Near a bevy of sea fans an invisible flounder, buried in the sand, suddenly lifted and moved off, disturbed by the trumpet fish or her nearness, she could not tell. Like a leaf in an ocean wind, the flounder found a new home on the floor and bore into the sand and disappeared again.

  A pair of sea turtles wafted into view, and she turned her attention on these playful creatures. They balleted about one another in perfect harmony, their movements synchronized like a pair of dolphins.

  Jessica became part of the life of this new environment, allowing her body to be gently rocked in the ebb and flow of the surf as it spilled into and out of the crater reef.

  The ocean here was a sunlit world even at forty feet below where the coral picked up the light and radiated a warm myriad of colors in return. The great crater, outlined in sunlight and shadow below her, seemed a cosmic symbol of life's unending cycle, a circle without beginning or end, and yet always there was a new beginning and a new end, ceaselessly and forever.

  Maybe if Jack had been a scuba diver instead of a backpacker. Maybe if he'd not internalized so many of the unsolved cases of children disappearing. A world full of maybes waited for her on the surface.

  The world caught up to Dr. Jessica Coran the moment she returned to her hotel room at the Wailea Elua Inn, where the desk clerk handed her a cryptic message that read:

  Urgent. Call 1-555-1411

  She recognized it as the local number for the FBI. She knew instinctively that something was up. She had purposefully avoided TVs and radios. She had no idea what the message might portend, but she guessed that Paul Zanek was somehow behind it. She took her time in the shower and leisurely dried her hair, and then dressed in casual white slacks and a baby-blue pullover before calling. Zanek, the FBI, and the rest of the damned world could wait another hour. She still had several days left on her leave, so why couldn't they leave her the hell alone? Unless it wasn't Paul Zanek but Alan Rychman trying to locate her, to tell her that he was on a plane, on his way to her at this moment. Could it be?

  Delight and dread chasing her, she finally made the call and was put on hold. She cursed and almost hung up before she heard a series of clicks. She was patched through to the main Federal Bureau of Investigation building on Oahu in Honolulu, a gruff voice breaking the long silence, announcing himself as Chief Inspector James Kenneth Parry.

  Chief, she thought, impressed that the bureau chief should be calling. “So what can I do for you, Inspector Parry? You called me, remember?”

  “We were informed of your presence in the islands some time ago, and when you failed to respond—”

  “I just got your message today.”

  “Well, be that as it may, we'd given up on you.”

  “Good, then I'll get off and return to my peaceful and much needed R & R, if that's okay with you, Inspector.”

  “Two Honolulu cops were murdered last night,” he said starkly.

  She drew in a deep breath. “Reason or random?”

  “It would appear random at first glance, but something tells us differently.”

  “Oh?”

  “Radio dispatch had the two officers in pursuit of a suspicious vehicle. Both officers were shot outside their vehicles and tire marks indicate a third. Any rate, our most experienced forensics guy is in the hospital with a triple bypass, and when we began searching files and asking Washington for assistance, well, they came up with your name. Said you were nearby.”

  “But you just said you were leaving messages for me for days. Which is it, Inspector?” Zanek, she mentally muttered, angry that he'd put Parry onto her whereabouts.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I didn't make myself clear. I've been seeking your kind of assistance for a long time. Dr. Coran.”

  “Never mind,” she said, inhaling deeply. “Look, it'll take me some time to get there. A two-hour drive to the airport on the other side of the island, and God knows what the flights are like, but with my badge, I suppose I can get aboard a plane for Oahu. Will you have someone meet me at the airport?”

  “We can do better than that. We can have a plane at Kahului Airport when you arrive there.”

  “No, listen. I've got a return flight booked to Honolulu anyway and may's well use it. I won't be much longer and it'll save the taxpayers some jet fuel.”

  “If you like. Any rate, there'll be someone to meet you in Honolulu, and thanks, Dr. Coran.”

  “Meantime, no one's to touch the bodies. Understood?”

  “They're at the morgue, under guard.”

  “See you when I arrive, then.”

  “I'm sorry for having to intrude on your vacation, Dr. Coran, but we've no one else to turn to.”

  “In all of Oahu and Honolulu? What about the Navy?”

  “No one with your specialized expertise, Doctor, no.”

  “What about the state cops? They must have a good forensics man.”

  “We're trying to keep this in-house, as much as humanly possible.”

  “I see.”

  She thought him a bit cryptic until he said, “And cop-killers piss me off big time.”

  “Ditto to that much. See you then, likely at dawn sometime.”

  She was about to hang up when he added, “We've another problem plaguing the city and the island here you may've heard about?”

  “No, I haven't heard anything. I've shut down: no TV, no radio, no newspapers... mostly just diving and shopping and tuning out.”

  “Well, Doctor, we've had a couple of unusual disappearances.”

  “Disappearances? What kind of disappearances? You mean children?”

  “You might say... some were no older than children.”

  “Girls?”

  “Local press is calling him the Trade Winds Abductor. Although nobody believes he's collecting them, so some have concluded that he's actually the Trade Winds Killer.”

  “Impossible to keep such news secretive, even for the purposes of an investigation, I know.”

  “It happened like this before, same way. Strange thing is, we've not recovered a single body.”

  “Then you don't know for certain that they are in fact dead, and even if you caught the guy, you'd need some damned strong circumstantial evidence to indict without a body.” He fell silent long enough for her to realize that she'd just told him all that he already knew.

  “I think it's safe to assume that the missing in this case are also dead, Doctor. Any rate, this man is extremely thorough. Leaves no trace of himself or his victims, for that matter, whatever... until recently.”

  “Then you've got something to work with, good.”

  “We think that Hilani and Kaniola's deaths may be related.”

  “Your two cops? What makes you think so?”

  “I'
d rather not say on an open line.”

  “All right, understood. So, what's this until recently he's left not a clue? You've got something on him?”

  “As I said before, I'd rather not discuss sensitive information over an unsecured line, Dr. Coran.”

  A little paranoid, are we, she thought. “Soon then, Inspector Parry.”

  Island-hopping was tedious, and lugging baggage and the hours spent traveling instead of enjoying the precious hours of vacation weren't her idea of fun, but then she was no longer on vacation. It was only fortunate that she loved to fly and the old birds of Aloha Airlines, like the 737 Jessica was now aboard, rattled and bounced in the updrafts so much that you knew—at all times—that you were flying. Parry's jet was likely a Lear, and while she enjoyed them for what they were, she much preferred something closer to a barn-burner ride than the feeling of being a well-sealed canned ham inside a Greyhound bus in the sky.

  The plane came in low over Oahu from the east, the same pattern she imagined Japanese bombers used to strafe Schofield Barracks and Pearl Harbor. Long before finding the patchwork that was Pearl Harbor with its rows of naval ships so far below, she had seen the enormous, sprawling city of Honolulu, lush with the most opulent of high-rise hotels fronting the beaches. She saw miniature surfboards, yachts and sailboats off the Waikiki shoreline. Diamond Head looked from this straight-over angle no more special than any of the other mountain craters; there were huge mountain ranges on two sides of the island, its center a lush, tropical valley, the coastline, like that on Maui, the prime land upon which all Western investment had been heaped.

  Two million years before Oahu had become the pearl of the Pacific, playground to the world's millionaires, it had been two separate islands focused on the Koolau volcano in the east and the Waianae volcano in the west. Now these two turbulent volcanos were serene mountain ranges, known only to U.S. forestry officials, a handful of hikers, a few soldiers and air personnel engaged in military maneuvers, and maybe the Trade Winds Killer.

  Like all of the Hawaiian islands, Oahu had been settled over a thousand years before by the Marquesans, who sailed the Pacific in huge outrigger canoes fitted with thatch rooftops. Tahitian immigrants followed, and as they mingled with the Marquesans, a distinct Hawaiian culture with its own language, traditions and ritual emerged.

  As in all cultures there evolved gods of darkness who controlled much of village life and death. There was a complicated system of kapus or taboos, with intricately fashioned kahillis—made of bamboo poles with circular featherwork at the top, carried by bearers on special occasions—and elaborate leis whose design symbolized strict divisions in society, just as the elegant, feathered headdresses of the Ali'i, or royalty, symbolized the monarchy of each island. There was continual warfare between and among the islanders, skirmishes and human sacrifices, as the various chiefs sought to extend their power.

  Since arriving in the islands, Jessica had learned much of the rich history, which was forever touted as colorful and splendid, spoken of by the bus driver, the porter and the waiter as well as the tour guides. She'd learned that in the 18th century, King Kame- hameha, a chief from the big island of Hawaii, began an ambitious campaign to conquer all of the islands. He took Oahu in 1795 in one of the last and bloodiest of battles. All along, the king had been conducting a healthy business in firearms with Western ships arriving in Hawaii. Gunpowder and flintlocks were the King's new black magic.

  When the islands were consolidated, the traders discovered a wealthy bounty in Honolulu Bay, the largest deepwater harbor in the islands. Ships began to arrive from all over the world, particularly Europe and America, and by 1820 New England missionaries were disembarking, eager to civilize and convert the native population to Christianity. Soon after came the great whaling ships, filled with randy, roughish seamen. By 1840 King Kamehameha III decreed that Honolulu on Oahu—the gathering place—would be the permanent residence of the up-till-then- nomadic royal court.

  It was not long before Hawaiian women of nobility were wearing bustles, and the men were sporting epaulets. Palaces and summer retreats, the size of Georgia mansions, were built in the humid island capital. On the greens these same Hawaiians played cricket and held musical soirees.

  As with all such pasts, time had erased everything but a few passing evidences of that life, so that Honolulu today was virtuous in a much different fashion. It looked for all the world to be Miami, Florida, if you could ignore the sweeping grandeur of the volcanic mountain ranges rimming it while the plane swept around the island and found the pattern, facing due east now, having come a full 180 degrees about. They were on final approach.

  Jessica's ankles throbbed with the sudden drop of the plane, the sensation reminding her of the scars to her ankles, each Achilles heel having been severed by a maniacal killer she'd come here to forget. For a year now she'd had to use a cane, but thanks to remarkable reconstructive surgery, she leaned less and less on the damned inhibiting thing. In fact, secretly she believed it time to lose the cane.

  Still, she carried it along with her on the trip as something of a crutch, expecting the old wounds to flare. Besides, she'd become somewhat attached to the cane, knowing that it kept men at bay, giving her an extra edge when coming into a new situation, like today. The cane gave her a more doctorly look, and it most certainly made her feel more like what people had come to expect, having learned of her accomplishments in previous serial killer cases, most of them looking for someone who might appear psychic, which she certainly was not. And not that she needed a crutch, she assured herself, but otherwise people looked at her and they saw only the superficial: a tall thin woman with flowing auburn hair and an hourglass figure, instead of an expert medical examiner whose victories with the FBI had already gone into the academy casebook files. Besides, the cane had become something of a comfort and a friend; it'd taken on a character of its own, and after all, it had been a gift from all those who appreciated her most, back at the crime lab in Quantico.

  The plane landed with several shuddering bounces, a near- constant surge of wind over the runways here, but they were soon taxiing rather brusquely toward the terminal. Jessica waited for all the other passengers to deplane before she got up and started for the exit.

  She wondered what King Kamehameha would've thought of air travel. Just as she got to the exit, lugging her carry-on and tapping her cane, the pilot stepped from his cockpit and offered her a warm smile and an apology.

  “Sorry for the rough landing.”

  “Don't be silly,” she replied. “I loved every second of it.”

  The pilot watched her go out of sight along the ramp, wondering about her and her cane.

  3

  There is no more trusting in women.

  Homer, The Odyssey

  The Honolulu Airport was enormous and bustling, filled with travelers from all parts of the globe, giving credence to Hawaii's reputation as the Midway of the Pacific. Save for the leis being placed around tourists arriving from the mainland and the many “alohas” all about her, she might have been in a terminal in O'Hare Airport in Chicago, but a single glance at the window and the towering, cascading, green mountains reminded her of the island paradise outside. A large corridor of the terminal which she now passed was also open-air, so that the traveler passed outdoors in order to locate the baggage-claim area. It was a delightful airport for this reason. She passed a McDonald's along the way, and was wondering if she had time for a quick bite when she heard a male voice shout her name. “Dr. Coran! Dr. Jessica Coran?”

  She turned, expecting to find Bureau Chief Jim Parry in suit and tie. Her caller instead wore a flowered Hawaiian shirt, his face a deep ochre, his features those of a Hawaiian national creased with worry lines which seemed uncharacteristic of the race as a whole from what she'd seen on Maui.

  “My name is Joseph Kaniola. My son was killed along with Officer Hilani.”

  “How did you know I—”

  “I'm a newsman. It's my job to know.
What I wanna know now is, are you gonna get the bastard who killed my boy, Alan, and left my grandchildren without a father?”

  “I'll do everything in my power,” she said, gripping her cane more tightly.

  “From what I hear, that's a lot; that's all I ask.”

  “Kaniola!” shouted a second man, recognizing the bereaved father. “I told you to let us do our job.” The more officious-looking man with suit and tie stuck his hand out to Jessica and firmly shook hers. “I'm Parry.”

  “Well, Inspector, so we meet.”

  “Parry,” interrupted Kaniola, “you promise you won't let the Honolulu cops dust this under the rug?”

  “Not a chance, Mr. Kaniola. Now, please, allow us the time and space we need to get under way.”

  “My boy was onto something up there at Koko Head. He was a smart boy, and he wasn't involved in no drugs like some are saying.”

  “We know your views, Mr. Kaniola... now, please.” Parry, with a slight movement of his eyes, had two men intervene and usher Kaniola away. The aged Hawaiian's protests fell on deaf ears save for a few curious onlookers passing by.

  “I'm not—goddamn you—here as a newsman! I'm here as a father!”

  “He's hardly had time to get over the shock, I'm sure,” she said to Parry. “I'd like to hold his hand longer, but who's got the time? Besides, we need to talk privately.”

  She glanced around. “What'd you have in mind?”

  He ushered her into an area marked private where a number of airline stewardesses were having coffee and chatting. He flashed his badge and asked them to give him the room, and they complied with only a few veiled looks and mutterings. “We got some political problems here, like any big city. I just want you to know about the kind of pressure we're getting and will continue to get from the kanakas.”

  “Kanakas? The Hawaiians, you mean?”

  “They've become quite vocal about the double standard they perceive—”

  “Perceive?”