Fire Prayer

by Deborah Turrell Atkinson

“I heard she was a sculptor.”

  “No kidding.” Hamlin let a beat pass. “Everyone knows everyone else on that island, right?”

  “If they’ve been around for a while. Hamlin, remember that nice cop who—”

  “Damn, I’ve got a call coming in. It’s probably Liu or his assistant. Sorry, I’ll call you later.” He disconnected.

  Storm let her phone drop in her lap. He hadn’t done much to ease her loneliness. On the other hand, he’d dropped an interesting piece of information. If Jenny had something to do with Brock’s bludgeoning, the investigation could end. She’d have to dig tactfully into how well they’d known each other.

  Storm remembered that Jenny had died of a head injury, too. She wondered what the ME said about that one. What she’d been hit with, time of death, and her blood alcohol level, since Storm had seen her drinking earlier. Lambert had implied she drank often.

  Storm wanted to talk to Lambert again, anyway. Her gut feeling on the guy was that he was smart, and not likely to lash out without careful thought. Storm had the advantage of being a fellow Hawaiian, too. She picked up her phone again, and dialed the Lodge.

  “Aunt Maile, how was the outing to Phallic Rock?”

  “Glad I’m not likely to get pregnant,” Aunt Maile said. “It’s a very realistic likeness. And BIG, goodness me.”

  Storm grinned. She should have called Aunt Maile in the first place. Phallic Rock was an important site for Hawaiian spirituality, and women who had fertility problems still made offerings and spent the night on the soft ironwood needles that surrounded the giant stone phallus. It was supposed to be quite effective; Storm had friends who swore by it. She didn’t want to go within five miles of the thing—not yet.

  “I want to hear all about it. What time do you and Uncle Keone want to have dinner?”

  “He’s napping right now, so not for a couple of hours yet. Where are you?”

  “I’m in Kaunakakai, but I want to drive out to see Lambert Poele. It’s five now; if I’m not back at the Lodge by seven-thirty, come looking for me.”

  “You sure you’re safe?” Aunt Maile’s voice sharpened.

  “That was a joke. He doesn’t seem like a bad guy.”

  “What about the sorcery manuscripts?”

  “He’s got a ton of Hawaiian history and lore. I don’t think he’s doing sorcery.”

  “Keep your cell phone in your pocket.”

  “I will,” Storm said, and hung up. Though Poele had been friendly enough the last visit, she would follow Aunt Maile’s advice.

  She didn’t want to call ahead and give him time to think about all the reasons she might want to talk to him, so she was relieved to see Poele’s rusting old pickup on the lawn and the four-legged greeting committee trotting toward her. The bleating of the goats and bumping noise of her car on the dirt drive alerted him, too. Before she had the car turned off, he’d descended the steps to his home, wiping his mouth on the back of one hand. It looked like she’d interrupted his dinner, and Storm was glad she’d stopped for some pipi kaula and beer before she left Kaunakakai.

  “To what do I owe the pleasure?” Poele asked, but he didn’t sound happy. He wore a tank top and Storm could see the tribal tattoo that banded his upper arm. The colors were deep hued and the skin around it somewhat inflamed.

  “Sorry to interrupt.” She pulled the twelve-pack and package of dried beef jerky out of the back seat.

  He looked mollified when he caught sight of the gifts. “Hey, thanks.”

  “Want me to put this in your ice chest?” She offered the beer to him.

  “Bring it inside. I’ll put it in the fridge.” He turned, gesturing for her to follow. Storm had the sudden feeling other women visited him the same way, and remembered his sly expression when they’d talked about Jenny. Her cheeks flushed. She’d make sure there was no misunderstanding on that front.

  The smell of hot dogs, rice, and ketchup filled the little house, and Storm again got the sense that although he was a bit of a flirt, he led a self-imposed solitary life. He pulled two beers out of the carton Storm had brought. He handed one to her and gestured to the sitting room. “Have a chair. I’ll be right back.” He returned in a moment, carrying the other beer.

  Storm was standing in front of his crowded bookshelves. “Is this hula dancer one of Jenny’s sculptures?”

  “He’s not a hula dancer. You’d recognize it if I hadn’t knocked it over and broken off part of the lasso. That’s Maui roping Kalā, the sun. Remember that legend?”

  “Oh, yeah.” Storm thought of Hamlin’s description of the murder weapon and swallowed hard.

  Poele pointed to the lamp by his reading chair. The shade was bent into a baroque oval. “Had a little too much to drink one night.” He picked up the heavy sculpture and ran his hand gently over it. Regret carved deep lines along the sides of his tanned face. “I don’t care about the lamp, but this really bums me out. She was going to fix it, too.” He placed it carefully back on the shelf and shook his head. “Now she can’t.”

  “That’s really too bad.” Storm watched him carefully. “She gave it to you?”

  “Yeah.” He looked away and sat down in his reading chair. “Someday, maybe I’ll get it repaired, but right now I…well, it doesn’t seem right to have someone else work on it.”

  “I bet.” She wanted to change the subject and gestured to his arm. “Is that a new tattoo?” she asked.

  His dark eyes danced. “Yeah, you like it?”

  “Does the design have a specific meaning?”

  “Did you know the word tattoo comes from the Polynesian term tatau?” He popped open his beer. “These designs have been found on Tongan pottery shards that date back to 1300 B.C.”

  “Really?” Storm liked that idea. “So tattoos really do have a basis in Polynesian history?”

  “Definitely. Hawaiian history, too.”

  “Were they a sign that a person belonged to a certain tribe?”

  “Sometimes. Others were used to signify a person’s ‘aumakua, some to show a life passage.”

  “So is yours an ‘aumakua? Or does it have some other purpose?”

  “Nope.” He took a swallow from his bottle. “You must have driven up here to talk to me about something important.”

  Storm picked at the label on her bottle. “Yes, I’ve got a few questions.”

  “About Hawaiian history, or more recent stuff?” He squinted at her.

  “A bit of both. When Hamlin and I visited you yesterday, I noticed your interest in Hawaiian culture, and you were once a leader in Hawaiian activism.” He winced at this, but Storm kept going. “Keeping Hawaiian culture strong is important to me. A couple days ago, I sat on a bench with the message, ‘Just visit, but go home,’ carved in it. What’s going on around here?”

  Poele rested his beer on his knee. “The push to develop will never stop. There are plans for a luxury residential development, out where we take our kids, go fishing.” He pointed in the direction of the sea and his outstanding view. “Two hundred multi-million dollar homes. Can you see this? A gated community on an island that doesn’t have traffic lights, where no one locks the doors to our houses?”

  Storm nodded sadly. “It would change everything.”

  “It’s not just the fact that it’s in my neighborhood. Did you hear some visitor threw a package at a clerk at Friendly Market the other day?”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “It wasn’t the right brand, whatever that is.” His voice rose. “We don’t want people like that around. We don’t want sewage treatment plants and cell phone towers on sacred land.”

  “I can understand.”

  “You been to Maui lately?”

  “Uh, yeah. Got stuck in a traffic jam, too. But Moloka‘i people, your people, are doing a good job of vocalizing the kinds of changes you’re willing to live with. I heard Moloka‘i Ranch was transferring control of 65,000 acres to the community.”
>
  Poele snorted. “True, but the community doesn’t always agree, does it?”

  “I know,” Storm agreed. “We can’t get our own people together on the issue of sovereignty.”

  “Look at it historically, since that’s why you came.” He gave her a half smile that said he knew better and continued anyway. “Hawaiian chiefs used to rule over huge pie-shaped chunks of land called ahupua‘a. Hawaiians believed land was the gods’ domain, and the chiefs held communion with the gods. But when Europeans came, chiefs began to owe certain powerful commoners for favors. Certain businessmen were given chunks of land as a ‘mark of personal esteem.’ Pay-offs.” Poele shook his head with disgust.

  “Human nature doesn’t change much, does it?” Storm said. “So what can we do? How do you keep your lifestyle, and still live in the twenty-first century?”

  “That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it?” Poele’s voice was rueful.

  Storm got up, went to the fridge and got two more beers.

  “Thanks,” Poele said, and put his empty down with the others collecting on the floor beside his chair.

  Storm took a long pull on her own beer. The issue of progress was one that bothered her. It wasn’t easy to discuss with Hamlin, who considered development inevitable and potentially profitable. Nor was it by any means a local concept, because Storm’s best friend Leila, a fair-skinned redhead originally from the Midwest, was even more resistant than Storm to the idea of development at the expense of culture and environment. Leila recycled everything in her bakery, plus she drove a converted diesel car that ran on recycled vegetable oil. It smelled like fried potatoes.

  Storm pulled herself back to Poele, who also seemed to be lost in his own thoughts. “You led a protest against development ten years ago,” she said softly.

  Poele heaved a heavy sigh. “Yeah, and it haunts me still.” He stared out the front window, though all Storm could see was a handful of grazing goats.

  “You regret the fire or the protest?”

  His eyes, now more focused, came back to meet hers. He tipped back his beer and finished it before he responded. “The fire.”

  “What happened that night?”

  A long moment passed. “I can’t talk about it.”

  “Legally?”

  “Nah, I don’t care about that,” he snorted, and dropped his empty bottle on the growing pile. He got up, went into the kitchen, and came back with two more beers. “You’re a slow drinker, eh?”

  “I’ve got to drive.”

  “You don’t have to.” He gave her a sly half smile.

  “Yeah, I do.”

  “That Hamlin didn’t seem like your type.”

  “He’s a great guy.”

  “Suit yourself.” Poele shrugged.

  “So why can’t you talk about it?” She didn’t have to mention the word ‘fire.’ It loomed large in her mind, and she was certain it was huge in his.

  He took a swallow of beer and burped softly. “I made a vow.”

  “To the person who set it?”

  “No.” The thousand-yard stare had returned to his eyes. “Well, I don’t think so, anyway.”

  Storm frowned. He was the one accused of setting the fire, and he’d given her an unanticipated answer, one that sounded sincere and somewhat puzzled. He didn’t know who did set it? That wasn’t what she expected. And the question seemed to have vaulted him into some distant memory. The muscles in his jaw bunched, and his eyes glazed with what looked like remorse. Not so much guilt, but profound regret.

  Storm watched him carefully. He might also be an excellent actor, and he had a likely murder weapon sitting within arm’s reach. How good was she at reading another person’s feelings? She was having a hard enough time with Hamlin’s, and she knew him intimately. And knowing her own feelings? Never mind.

  The little house was hot; no air stirred the grubby-looking cotton curtains at the front window. Unlike most people, he was immune to gaps in conversation. Several minutes passed, and she was the first to break the silence.

  “How well do you know Makani’s dad?”

  Poele pulled himself back to the present with a lurch and tossed off the question with a shrug. “Never met the guy.”

  “He didn’t see Makani?”

  “What do I know?” His dark eyes glittered beneath half-closed lids. “Sounds like you’re doing background checks on us.”

  “I’m trying to figure out people’s relationships to each other.”

  Poele snorted. “You still trying to find out what happened to Brock Liu?”

  “Yeah. His dad’s going to sue Hawai‘i EcoTours, you know.”

  “Christ.” Poele shook his head with disgust and downed half of his beer.

  “Do you know if Jenny knew him?”

  “Sure.”

  “Sure, she knew him?”

  Poele nodded his response.

  “Did he hit her like he hit Delia?”

  Poele’s answer was so low Storm had to strain to hear him. “I think she was the only woman he couldn’t intimidate.”

  “Good for Jenny,” Storm said, and meant it.

  “Yeah, but I’ve been thinking about this since I got to know her better. Maybe she figured she didn’t have anything else to lose.” Poele sounded sad. “Except for Luke, of course—and she kept Liu away from him.”

  “Did she act hopeless?”

  “Maybe that’s what it was. She acted like she didn’t expect anything from a man.” He dropped his empty bottle next to his chair. “Like she didn’t give a fuck anymore.”

  His last words were nearly a whisper, and Storm had the feeling the conversation was waning. Poele’s eyelids looked heavy and the glazed look was staying in his eyes longer. Sadly, Storm didn’t think it was all due to beer; the questions she’d posed had seemed to take a toll. She needed to ask another big one, though.

  “Do you think there was a relationship between the fire and Tia’s disappearance?” Her voice was soft. She worried the question might shut him down the way it had Dusty, but Poele just shook his head slowly from side to side. Several moments passed before he answered.

  “I’ll never know for sure, will I?” He popped the top on the new bottle, but didn’t look up. “But I think so.”

  “It must have been horrible for you and Dusty,” Storm said.

  Poele looked up sharply, but Storm only took another drink of beer, and he followed suit. “None of us can imagine the loss of a child. I was worried about him for a long time. A handful of us made sure someone dropped by every day, especially in the evenings.”

  “Having Makani around probably helped.”

  “Probably saved him. Makani worships the ground he walks on. At least Dusty felt needed.”

  “He and Tia were close?”

  To Storm’s surprise, Poele smiled wistfully. “He and Tia were a lot alike. Strongly opinionated, so they butted heads.” He took a long pull from his beer. “Yes, they were close.”

  “He talked a little bit about her disappearance. I know he adored your son.”

  Poele paused, and the silence that elapsed told Storm a secret. Makani had told her the truth, even though Dusty believed—or hoped, Storm wasn’t sure which—that Tommy was Poele’s son.

  Poele’s eyes slid to hers, and he took a drink. “Tommy was Alika’s son. Hell, I was trying to adopt him. He was my son as far as I was concerned.”

  No one spoke for a minute, then Poele spoke again. “How strong is blood? Is it stronger than friendship?”

  He took another drink, and dropped the bottle onto the pile with a clank that jarred them both.

  “Brotherhood isn’t built on blood alone,” Storm said softly.

  “You’re right on that one, sister.”

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Rolly handed Luke a full backpack. “I know it’s heavy, little brother. Better you stop and rest than be without food, medicine, or fluids. Diabetics have to take m
ore care than other people.”

  Luke was used to walking, and he was a mile or two out of town in the cool morning air before a rental car stopped to give him a ride. The visitors, a friendly man and woman from O‘ahu, were only going as far as one of the beach parks along the way, but Luke was happy to get farther down the road. They offered to take him the rest of the way in a couple of hours, but Luke didn’t want to wait around.

  He walked steadily and put out his thumb when he saw cars approaching. In places the road was curvy, and he often could hear the vehicles before he could see them, which made him jumpy. Rolly’s advice had resonated with him, and the memory of the man looming over his mother was clearer than ever since their conversation. The image was still faceless, though, and scarier because of it.

  Luke was on a shaded bend in the lane of oncoming traffic when he heard the rumble of an approaching auto, and he walked backward, thumb out, facing its approach. The faded red Jeep Wagoneer was scarcely around the corner when Luke recognized it as Connor Richards’ car. Connor saw him, too.

  He leaned out the window and shouted, “Luke, Jesus! The whole island is looking for you!”

  Luke took one look at the beefy arm in the window frame and the swollen black eye in the florid face and bolted. He jumped onto the shoulder of the road, skidded into a ditch filled with muddy water, and scrambled on all fours up a three or four-foot embankment clotted with thick foliage.

  Connor squealed to a halt in the middle of the road. “Luke! Stop!” he screamed, his voice cracking with effort.

  Luke scrambled faster. In his effort to scale the muddy embankment, he slipped and planted his hand squarely on the broken remains of a beer bottle some reveler had tossed from a car window.

  ***

  Connor saw the flush of vivid blood and heard Luke’s cry of pain before the boy crashed through the giant philodendrons and into bank of trees beyond. The last image Connor had of the boy was of Luke’s hand in his mouth, blood running in two bright rivulets down his arm.

  “Holy shit,” Connor said aloud. Was panic a side-effect of the boy’s illness, or had he just scared the kid away? He slumped in his seat and gripped his head between his hands. He was the reason for Luke’s terror, no doubt about it.