She didn’t dare turn on a light, but the titles that were in large, bold print were easy to read even in the fading light. They all seemed to be about Hawai‘i. Treatises and newsletters from the Office of Hawaiian Affairs were anchored against the breeze stirred by the ceiling fan with George Cooper’s and Gavin Dawes’ excellent book Land and Power in Hawaii, Samuel King’s and Randall Roth’s Broken Trust, and a few others. There were also stacks of well-worn sheaves of papers. They were manuscript-bound, like college term papers, only thicker. Storm didn’t have much time to explore, nor did she want to leave Hamlin and Poele together alone for long. The rumble of male voices drifting through the room’s open window seemed sociable enough right then, but leaving the combination of testosterone, beer, and Hamlin’s bad mood to foment without her intervention seemed about as safe as barbequing in a fireworks factory.
Storm ruffled through a stack of typed manuscripts. Some were old enough to have been done on a typewriter. She looked around the room. No notes and no computer, but that could be in his bedroom—if he even used one. On her way down the hall, she’d counted only two rooms and the bath, so there weren’t many places to search.
Storm pulled a document from the middle of the stack. Pahulu was typed on the title page, followed by Li‘i Kekapu. They were names, and Pahulu sounded familiar, though the other meant nothing to her.
Nor did she have time to think about it. Hamlin’s voice had risen in volume, and she heard Poele’s deeper tones in response. Time to go.
Storm darted toward the door and knocked over a stack of unbound papers that had been sitting on the floor. Damn. Quickly, she bent to right the stack, and in the process noticed the first line of one of the pages. Kāhuna ‘anā ‘anā, Kāhuna kuni. She didn’t speak Hawaiian like Poele, but she knew certain words. Kahuna was a broad term meaning teacher, priest, magician, wizard, or expert in just about any profession. The words ‘anā ‘anā and kuni were modifiers, and they rang a warning bell in the recesses of her memory.
Storm righted the papers, making sure as well as she could that they were stacked as they’d been before she tripped. Now the name Pahulu came back to her, and Storm felt a wave of dread. Pahulu was a goddess of sorcery, though people rarely mentioned her name. Storm had only heard it because some children on the Big Island once threatened another playmate with her dark magic—until a set of parents put a swift end to the bullying. The kids had precipitated a bigger reaction by uttering her name than by spewing variations on the F-word, another popular playground activity.
Storm backed away from the manuscripts and covered the six or eight feet of space to the bathroom in two seconds. She didn’t have time to use the facilities, so she flushed the toilet and hoped that the noise would reach—and distract—the men. Out in the hall again, she took two deep breaths, the first one shaky, the second deeper and more controlled, and sauntered through the sitting room and out the front door.
Chapter Sixteen
Tanner Williams asked old Mr. Yamaguchi, who’d picked him up not far from Halawa Bay, to drop him about a mile down the highway from Kaunakakai Wharf. He told Yamaguchi he was going to visit a friend who lived nearby, but in truth he needed time alone. Yamaguchi had heard about a local death on the radio, and blurted the story soon after Tanner got in the car. The old fellow had called his daughter-in-law, who lived in Kaunakakai, to get more information. It turned out that she lived two blocks from where the cluster of police cars and a silent ambulance had gathered. Tanner recognized the address Yamaguchi mentioned. The news caused him to hyperventilate, and he gasped for Yamaguchi to pull to the side of the road. Tanner stumbled from the car and threw up.
The gentle octogenarian felt so bad about Tanner’s reaction he wanted to take him to a doctor, but Tanner mumbled that what he needed most was to get to Kaunakakai. After several miles of silence, Tanner borrowed Yamaguchi’s cell phone and called the police station, but Niwa wasn’t there and Tanner didn’t want to talk to anyone else.
He knew his thoughts weren’t hanging together. It was all he could do not to shout them aloud, which was his way of working out distress, kind of like discussing problems with himself. But that would really freak out old Mr. Yamaguchi, who was already glancing nervously at his passenger. After the call to the police, Tanner called Skelly, who wasn’t there, either. He left a message, though. Nice and bland, so that Connor, if he intercepted it, wouldn’t hear Tanner’s angst. At least Tanner hoped he wouldn’t—he wasn’t sure how he sounded right then.
By the time Yamaguchi got his aging sedan to within a few miles of Kaunakakai, Tanner was beginning to twitch. Both men were relieved when Tanner climbed out of the car and mumbled his thanks.
He watched Yamaguchi drive off, then scurried through the long grass of a vacant field toward the ocean. He needed to sit and think, gaze out at the calm water and reflect on the news he’d received. He wanted to believe the radio had it wrong, that the report was a case of mistaken identity. Two doors down from the Williams house, the neighbors frequently had knock-down, drag out battles with shouts, crashing dishes, and slamming doors.
It could be that woman, Tanner thought. And Luke? Tanner’s heart froze in his chest at the thought of Luke in a house of danger and death. When Yamaguchi related the news, Tanner had gasped out a question about a boy, but Yamaguchi said the radio mentioned only a woman, nothing about a child or even another person.
His medication was making his hands shake and his brain fuzzy. The pills had induced a deep sleep last night, though he’d risen at the pre-dawn hour he’d told himself to awaken. That system always worked for him, though four hours of sleep weren’t enough. He’d drunk an extra cup of strong coffee that morning to mask the sensation that his brain was in slo-mo and his synaptic network had dead spots. As in memory blanks. Unfortunately, he didn’t feel much better twelve hours later.
He remembered having part of a beer while Skelly had a few. Skelly was accustomed to it, though. His old friend asked questions about the past, too, but Tanner couldn’t quite recall what they’d been, yet he knew they’d made him uncomfortable. Or was he confusing that disquiet with the distress brought on by the news of Jenny’s death?
There had to be a mistake. Jenny was too young. And Luke needed her. Thoughts of Jenny stirred up strong, conflicting emotions in Tanner. Though he had tender memories of her from the time they met to a couple of years after Luke’s birth, anger lay just below the surface. She’d changed from a gentle wife and mother to a complainer, one of those people who relish their victimhood and seek a target for their hostility. He was the target, and it pissed him off.
Tanner sank onto the beach a few feet from the ocean. The tide was coming in, lapping a little higher with each wave. He focused on the grains of sand, distinguishing the ridges of shell fragments, and the gentle hues of sea glass.
He was forgetting something, whatever had triggered this sense of foreboding. It seemed as if it came from an incident last night, when it had been so dark that his senses couldn’t make out what had nudged him toward consciousness. A movement or a noise, perhaps. He wasn’t sure. It could have been a nightmare, the rustle of a stray cat, Skelly’s apneic snores. He was having trouble discerning imagination from reality, though he’d taken his medication. It was probably due to lack of sleep and the shocking news he’d received, but he thought the cloud hanging over him preceded Yamaguchi’s bombshell. It might concern one of the Richards brothers. That or the questions Skelly brought up, the ones Tanner tried to keep buried in the past, and which crept into his dreams.
He dug in his pocket for the amber vial with his pills and swallowed one dry. It would gather his scattered thoughts, though it would also blunt his insight. Tanner sat for a minute more, then stood to make his way to Kaunakakai Ball Park. He wanted to see Luke so badly, he vibrated with yearning. Finding his son and talking with Dave Niwa about the circumstances of Jenny’s death were now his top priorities.
Chapter Seventeen
“Most cultures are like that. Who wants to admit their lives are dictated by superstition?” Hamlin slid down in the truck’s passenger seat and slumped back against the headrest.
“No, I mean some people wouldn’t utter the words.” She looked over at him. “Are you all right?”
“I’m okay. What words?”
“The sorcerer’s name. It’s a Hawaiian goddess.”
“‘In revenge and in love woman is more barbarous than man.’”
Storm hit a pothole. “I can’t believe you said that.”
“I didn’t. Nietzsche did.”
“What’s wrong with you?”
“Sorry, I guess I’m hungry.” He looked at his watch. “No wonder, it’s 7:45. You think Maile and Keone will wait for us?”
As in answer, Storm’s mobile phone rang. One hand on the steering wheel, she dug the phone out of her handbag.
“Why don’t you stop to answer that?” Hamlin asked. “How many beers did you have?”
She gave him a poisonous look. “Uncle Keone? How’d it go?” She slowed down and stopped at the trail’s intersection with the paved road. Not another car was in sight, and the night was as dense and opaque as black velvet. The moon hadn’t come up yet and Moloka‘i had little ambient light. Storm knew if she looked out the truck’s windows, the sky would be filled with stars thick as falling snow.
“I stayed where we waited for you and Maile,” Keone said. “The cops went into the woods, and they came out pretty fast to call for help. A couple of the younger ones looked downright green. Glad I didn’t have to go in there.”
“It was not a pretty sight.”
“I can imagine. Where are you two? We’re getting hungry.”
Storm grinned into the phone. “Get a table and order drinks. We’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
When they got back to the Lodge, Storm dropped Hamlin, then parked the truck and stopped at the front desk, where she was told that Dusty had found a ride home and would pick up his keys in the morning. Her stomach growled loudly as she made her way to the table. Hamlin had already gone into the dining room, so that he could tell Aunt Maile and Uncle Keone to call for menus.
Maile had one of Hamlin’s hands in hers. As Storm approached, she could hear Maile ask, “Can you feel this? How ’bout here?”
Hamlin mumbled his replies, and Maile wore a frown. “Where do you feel the most pain?”
Storm took the empty chair across from Hamlin and picked up a menu, though she listened for his answer.
“It’s a general ache, kind of hard to pin down, but my shoulder and elbow feel weak and this hand is getting so numb I can hardly use it,” he said.
Storm couldn’t help but look over the menu at him. “Why didn’t you tell me? We should have had your shoulder packed in ice.”
“It’s okay, Storm,” Maile said. “He’d still have the symptoms, though his arm and shoulder are swelling, and that makes the ache worse. I think when you fell, you stretched your brachial plexus, the nerves that run down your neck into your arm. We need to get you back to Honolulu to see a specialist.”
Hamlin looked alarmed, and Maile laid her hand gently on his. “It’s reversible. The symptoms will go away over time, but you do need to have it looked at.”
Keone closed the menu he’d been reading. “The last flight left at 6:30, but we’ll get you on an early one tomorrow morning.”
Hamlin sighed. “Not before seven, okay? I’m going to have a stiff drink and try to get a good night’s sleep.” He caught the eye of a waiter and waved him over. “A dry martini with onions, please.”
Storm waited for the waiter to leave before she leaned inward. “Do you know anything about sorcery?” she whispered.
Uncle Keone sputtered on his beer. “I haven’t heard anything about that since I was a kid.” He looked at his wife. “How ’bout you?”
Maile looked about as happy as if Storm had announced she’d uncovered a stash of pornography. “Not lately. Though Moloka‘i is known for its powerful sorcerers. Why do you ask?”
“Poele has manuscripts on the topic.”
“Those tales are almost always passed on orally. It would be almost unheard of for someone to write that kind of thing down.”
Hamlin lowered his drink. “He’s probably just interested in Hawaiian history. People don’t believe in sorcery any more, do they?”
“Some do.” Maile raised one eyebrow in his direction. “There are things we grow up with that never leave us. Many of us believe our ‘aumakua protect us. Others believe priests turn wine into the blood of Christ.”
She looked back and forth between Storm and Hamlin. Storm suppressed a smile. ‘Aumakua were a tradition that even mainland-born Hamlin bought into. He’d checked to make sure she was wearing her pig charm before they left for Moloka‘i. He’d also been the one to present the gold necklace with its mischievous emerald-eyed pig to Storm on Uncle Keone’s and Aunt Maile’s behalf for her thirtieth birthday.
“Hawaiian leaders used sorcery,” Keone added. “Kamehameha made sure all the strongest sorcery gods were aligned with him and his chiefs when he organized to unite the islands. He built god houses and keepers for their worship.”
“I thought those were for his ‘aumakua and those of his warriors,” Storm said. “To protect his rule.”
“That’s true, but it went beyond than that.” Maile looked at Storm. “The ancient Hawaiians, before the language was written, established ‘aumakua by dedicating the bones of an influential family member to a powerful god, like that of the shark, owl, pig, or another animal. They believed the dead person was transformed into that animal, and if the animal was then worshiped by the family, it would protect that family.” She took a sip from her wine glass. “Conversely, if the animal’s worship was neglected or its sacredness forgotten or ignored, the ‘aumakua would seek vengeance on the family.”
“But certain people abused this belief,” Uncle Keone said.
“I’ll bet, considering how brutal some of those chiefs were.” Storm might argue with her aunt about the role these stories played in her present life, but she loved hearing the old folklore.
Hamlin flagged down the waiter for another martini, and Aunt Maile waited for the young man to get out of hearing range before she quietly resumed her tale.
“Kamehameha and other ali‘i believed that gods could possess a living person. Those people were called keepers, and they were sent to harm people who were seen as a threat. Kamehameha allegedly used sorcerers’ power to gain control of the islands.”
“How were these spirits supposed to get to their victims?” Hamlin asked.
“People kept pieces of keepers’ bodies, or relics. Even an image, object, or parts of an image could be charged with the spirit’s power, or mana,” Maile said. Storm’s fingers crept unconsciously to her charm.
Maile continued. “They directed the spirits’ mana through chants. Eventually, people in the general population began to use this power, and the chiefs became very concerned.”
“So they made laws against it, which just pushed the practice into secrecy,” Keone said. “By this time, everyone suspected everyone else. People began to hide their family ‘aumakua, because even those were feared. Others claimed to have the ability to use sorcery to combat sorcery. It got very complicated.”
“To answer your question, Ian, there were kāhuna a‘o, or teaching sorcerers. There was also someone known as a kahuna ho‘opi‘opi‘o, who could inflict illness—and there were others.”
The waiter showed up to take their orders and all four of them had to take another look at the menu. Storm’s stomach had growled all through Maile’s and Keone’s tale, but she’d barely noticed. Now it let ou
t a grumble that turned Hamlin’s head, and he flashed his first grin in several hours.
As soon as the waiter left, though, Hamlin asked, “What others?”
Maile gave a little sigh. “Before we go on, I want to know a thing or two. What did you talk about with Lambert Poele? And where were these manuscripts?”
“We mostly talked about Jenny Williams’ death and when he’d last seen Brock Liu.” Hamlin looked over at Storm.
“Then I had to go to the bathroom,” she said, and she related her detour into Poele’s office.
Keone’s eyes widened and Maile sat back as if she’d been pushed. “He’ll know you snooped.”
Storm shrugged. “I just peeked. And he wasn’t trying to hide anything.”
“He wasn’t expecting visitors, dear.”
“Ask them, Storm,” Hamlin said.
“Ask us what?” Keone asked.
“What’s a kāhuna ‘anā ‘anā, and a kāhuna kuni?”
Uncle Keone leaned back in his chair. “I’m losing my appetite.”
“I haven’t heard those terms in years, and I’ve never seen them in print.” Aunt Maile was pale, but she spoke after carefully looking to make sure no one could overhear. “A kāhuna ‘anā ‘anā is an expert in praying someone to death. A kāhuna kuni has the ability to burn someone to death.”
“And who is Pahulu?”
“Oh, my,” Aunt Maile said.
“She was the most powerful sorcerer of all,” Uncle Keone whispered. “The chief of evil beings, the akua. She lived here, on Moloka‘i.
“And some people say her descendants are still here.”
Chapter Eighteen
Haley’s game was the only thing David Niwa had looked forward to all day and he was more than a half hour late. Christ, what a day. Two suspicious deaths in a twenty-four-hour period might be a first for the island. Hell, for the whole Maui Police Department, even if one victim had been dead for a week or two. Niwa felt like he still stank from that one, but he had a hunch he smelled worse from the fact he’d been on the run ever since his five a.m. shower. That was more than twelve long hours ago, and the temperature was still about eighty degrees. For April, that was hot—and they said global warming was a myth. And who were they, anyway?
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