Fire Prayer

by Deborah Turrell Atkinson

  The conversational buzz at nearby tables was dropping.

  Keone was scarlet to the roots of his grey hair. “Hey, I didn’t know what it was ’til I got in there. Dusty took us there on a trip to Honolulu.”

  “Blame it on Dusty.” Storm shook her head. “Naughty boys in the big city.”

  Keone pointed at his wife. “She was there, too.”

  Storm peered over at her aunt. Was that a blush blossoming up her neck, across her cheeks and forehead? She was nearly as red as Keone.

  “I didn’t know, either.”

  “Is that place still open?” asked Keone.

  “No, it closed down years ago,” said a man at a nearby table.

  A new waiter brought the tray with their entrées. Storm figured he’d hijacked the food from their waitress on the way out of the kitchen. “I heard there’s one in Pearl City now. You know anything about that?”

  Aunt Maile’s eyes were the size of her bread plate. “Not!”

  “I just wondered,” said the waiter. He scooted back to the kitchen with the speed and dexterity of a slalom racer.

  It was more than Storm could take. She choked on the effort of swallowing her laughter. Uncle Keone was making some pretty interesting sounds, too, a cross between a cackle and a squeak. But it was Aunt Maile threw back her head and let rip with a hoot that resounded through the room.

  The other tables might have chuckled along and gone back to their meals, except that Aunt Maile knocked her glass of ice water into Uncle Keone’s lap and his amusement turned into a gurgled yelp.

  People at the tables around them were either laughing outright or gazing into each other’s eyes. The man on the other side blotted his face with a napkin while his female companion slowly licked chocolate from a strawberry.

  “Ahem!” Keone cleared his voice and anyone who was still leaning their way went back to eating. Fastidiously. “What do you two want to do tomorrow?”

  He had already piled both Storm’s and Maile’s napkins onto his wet lap. Their first waitress, who glared a squinty stink-eye toward the kitchen, arrived with clean, dry napkins.

  “Any chance of another ride?” Storm asked, trying to help Keone turn the conversation to a more acceptable topic.

  “I was thinking the same thing. I mean, no offense to Hamlin or anything, but we could cover a bit more ground than we did on Friday and see a different part of the island.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Aunt Maile said, and borrowed a napkin to blot at her forehead.

  “Dusty will let us trailer them if you want to ride somewhere else than here on the west end.”

  Storm perked up. Even through the silliness of the last several minutes, thoughts of Luke had teased at the corners of her mind. Nor had Tanner called, although he not only knew she was on the island, the coconut wireless had probably informed him that she’d visited Jenny not long before she died. And that bothered her.

  Had Jenny’s death put him in a mental state where he didn’t want to be around other people? Granted, she’d only asked a few people, but the ones she’d talked to said he was out with tourists. This sounded cavalier for the day after his wife was killed. Unless he had something to do with it.

  “Could we trailer them to Halawa Bay, where the road ends?” she asked.

  “I suppose,” Keone said. “I’ll have to check on where the private land is, so we don’t trespass. There are some traditional kalo terraces back there.”

  “I’d like to see that,” said Aunt Maile. “People don’t often grow taro the old way anymore.”

  “You’re thinking about Luke Williams, aren’t you?” Keone asked.

  “A bit. I wouldn’t mind getting a look at where Tanner has his place.”

  “If we can find it, or get to it.”

  “I understand,” Storm said. “Say, this lobster paella is to die for. Anyone want a taste?”

  “Sure, I’ll swap you a bite of my blackened ahi,” Aunt Maile said.

  “I already finished my lamb chops,” Keone said, and the women began to laugh again.

  After dessert and coffee the three meandered out of the restaurant and paused in the great room to say goodnight. Right before they split to go separate ways, Storm stopped.

  “I almost forgot. Aunt Maile, you were telling me something about your friend, the sex therapist.”

  “Not a sex therapist, a pregnancy kahuna. I thought she would be a safe person to ask about the manuscripts you saw at Poele’s. So I asked her about sorcerers who could pray someone to death. She not only knew about it, she told me there was a local family whose members were said to be kāhuna kuni.”

  “Fire prayers?”

  Maile nodded and dropped the level of her voice. “The family’s name was Kekapu.”

  A chill crept over Storm. “That’s Makani’s last name. But ten years ago, he was just a teenager.”

  “She told me a hand-picked young man would study with an older kahuna to learn the chants. Sometimes they needed an item that belonged to the person to whom they directed the chant.”

  “Does the sorcerer have to be at the site of the fire?”

  “Not necessarily. And they often had to chant over a period of time to bring about a change.”

  “I need to call Hamlin,” Storm whispered.

  Maile and Keone dropped Storm at her room and walked on to theirs, a few doors down the sidewalk. Once inside, Storm turned on all the lights. The maid had folded what clothes she’d left around and laid them on the neatly made bed, and the room looked empty without Hamlin’s things. A rush of loneliness filled her.

  Hamlin had said he’d call back, and Storm dug out her mobile phone to check. Sure enough, there was a message from him. Bothered by static on the phone, she walked out onto the small lanai off the bedroom and reclined on one of the lounge chairs to listen to it. She got better reception, plus she could see the brilliant dusting of stars in the sky.

  Hamlin’s voice was professional. “Storm, call me. Liu’s assistant called, and she said Brock Liu knew who started the fire.” She could hear him draw a tense breath. “There’s no statute of limitations on murder, you know.”

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Just in case Mrs. Olivetti stopped to watch, Luke walked across the sand to the boat house. Bob Crowder had closed up for the day, and Luke lingered on the far side of the structure for a few minutes. Then he made his way back across the beach, to the same path Storm and Niwa had taken twenty-four hours earlier. Like them, he turned inland from the bay, but where they headed up the embankment to the road, Luke kept going deeper into the valley, where trees blocked the trade winds and the air hovered like a physical presence, muggy and still.

  For over an hour, he sweated and picked his way over tangled roots and small streams. The path was often muddy and he slipped and grabbed at tree trunks to keep from falling. Often he had to use both hands, and he punctuated his progress with grunts and an occasional cry of pain. His injured hand throbbed in time with his footsteps. Or maybe it was the other way around and he stepped to its beat, because when he stopped, the wound kept its own tender percussion.

  Over time, the trail became harder to make out. The dense foliage grew quickly, and the path was rarely used. With an eye to the future, Tanner had cut tiny notches into certain tree trunks to guide Luke if he ever needed to make the trip alone. This was Luke’s first time, and he now questioned his earlier confidence. It had seemed easy when Tanner had been there. Maybe he should have let Mrs. Olivetti take him back to the hospital, where he could have talked to Detective Niwa.

  Luke’s eyes ached with the effort of seeking the inconspicuous marks, which were five or six feet apart in the thick jungle. Knowing his dad’s need for seclusion, this was an act of trust meant for Luke alone, and the boy was proud and grateful. But between every mark, he had to stop and check his route. If not for the notches, he would have been lost long ago.

  Luke was tiring quickly. He had to stop a
nd eat, drink, and test his blood sugar several times along the way. When his blood sugar dropped, he became weak and lightheaded. If he pressed through this, he began to stumble over even the small roots that twisted over the trail. At one point, his vision darkened, and he sat down in the mud to eat an energy bar from Rolly’s supplies.

  Without realizing it, he dozed off for a while. He wasn’t sure how long he was asleep, but he felt a bit better when he woke up. But the nap didn’t stop the throbbing in his hand. It didn’t help that the shirt he was using as a bandage was bulky and made the wound hot and sweaty. Still, Luke figured it was better than getting dirt in the cut.

  The walk took Luke over two hours. By the time he got to the cabin, he was thirsty and exhausted. The sun was an oblique shimmer that poked shafts of light through holes in the thick canopy of trees. While droplets of moisture danced in the beams, the leaves alongside the rays lost their individual nature and melded into green-black tarpaulins.

  Stumbling, Luke made it to the far side of the building where his father hid the key to the front door in a specific crack in the wall. Holding himself up against the side of the cabin, he slipped his fingers into the split between the boards. He could scarcely respond to the sound of footsteps behind him.

  “Luke, thank God you’re here.” Tanner drew the boy to him. He wore a flannel shirt over a T-shirt, as the setting sun had begun to take back its warmth from the forest floor. Luke snuggled to him, weak with relief.

  “How you feeling, son?” Tanner asked.

  “Tired.”

  “I’ve got soup heating. Let’s get you warmed up.”

  Tanner helped Luke take off his shoes before he stepped into the little house. It had been months since Luke had been at the place, and it seemed tidier than ever. Tanner had laid some kind of ceramic tile throughout the cabin’s front room and kitchen. It was white, as were the immaculate rugs that he’d placed with careful symmetry in relation to the two chairs and low coffee table.

  “Sit down,” Tanner said, and knelt before Luke to remove his socks and put some cleaner, warmer socks on his feet.

  Luke leaned back. “Where’s my backpack? I need to check my blood sugar.”

  “It’s a little muddy, so I left it outside on the steps. You want it now, or can you have a bit of soup first?” Without waiting for an answer, Tanner walked into the kitchen to give the pot a stir. One burner on the gas stove was turned up high. “It’s almost ready,” he said.

  Luke watched through half-open lids.

  “What happened to your hand?” Tanner asked.

  “I fell and cut it.” Luke was so tired he could hardly speak, and his words were a little slurred. He let his eyes drift closed in the warmth and comfort of his father’s home. He’d made it, and he could let go of all his worries, at least for a few hours. Maybe he’d even tell his dad about the shadow in the living room.

  “I’d better take a look at that.” Tanner rummaged in a cupboard and came up with a bottle of hydrogen peroxide and some cotton balls. He took off the flannel shirt and sat before his son.

  Tanner removed the bag, unwound the gauze, and grunted. “How’d you do this?”

  Luke didn’t bother to open his eyes. “Fell on a hill. I was trying to get away—” He yelped at the sting of the peroxide Tanner had poured over the cut and opened his eyes to watch the injury foam.

  “Sorry about the sting,” Tanner said. “We’ve got to disinfect it, though.”

  But Luke had gasped again, and didn’t answer. A tattoo peeked from the sleeve of his father’s T-shirt, and Luke could see a geometric design like the one he’d seen on the shadowy figure in the stripes of moonlight.

  “That still hurt?” Tanner looked up at him. “You okay? You look kind of queasy.”

  “Yeah.” Luke’s voice came out in a rasp. “I’m okay.” He cleared his throat. “When did you get that tattoo?” He pointed at his dad’s arm.

  “Oh, that. A few days ago.” Tanner looked a little embarrassed.

  “Why?”

  Tanner kept cleaning Luke’s wound. “It’s a friendship thing. I made an oath not to talk about it, though. You know about oaths? They’re even stronger than a promise, otherwise I’d tell you.” He spread ointment on the cut, and glanced up at Luke, who had shrunk back into the chair. “Sorry, I bet that hurt.” Tanner unwound a swath of sterile gauze from a roll. “About the oath, though. You’ll understand when you get a little older.”

  “It’s like a vow.” Luke’s voice was strong and drew Tanner’s attention.

  “Right, good for you.” Tanner squinted at his son. “You ever made one?”

  Luke nodded.

  “Can you tell me about it?”

  “No.”

  “Good boy,” Tanner said, but Luke saw regret flutter through his eyes. Tanner concentrated on gently wrapping the gauze around Luke’s cut hand.

  Luke didn’t speak, either. It was to his mother that he’d made the vow, and it had happened only a few months ago, when he’d found a postcard from Chicago on the kitchen table. Grief for his mother filled him with a rush, and it threatened to overflow, but he could not let that happen, not in front of his dad.

  The situation came back to him as if it had occurred that morning. He’d asked where Chicago was, and the People magazine Jenny had been reading slid from her hands.

  “Please, love, don’t ever tell anyone about it.”

  “Okay, Mom.” But she’d heard the questions in his voice.

  “Will you promise from the bottom of your heart?”

  “Okay,” he’d said, and he meant it. Now he thought about his words. From the bottom of his heart, that was a vow, wasn’t it? And even though she was gone, he knew he’d keep it. Especially now.

  His dad was wrapping a bandage around the cut with tender care, and hadn’t seemed to notice that Luke’s reaction was to the tattoo and not the pain of his injury. Luke closed his eyes and forced himself to recall the figure silhouetted in his living room. It scared him still. It was all he could do not to pull his hand from his father’s grasp.

  Luke’s heart beat so hard and fast, it seemed to flutter his eardrums. He could hardly believe his father hadn’t noticed. A tear slipped from beneath Luke’s right eyelid, and he stopped himself from wiping it away. Instead he turned his head.

  “This really hurts, doesn’t it?”

  “A little,” Luke lied. It didn’t. If it did, it was surpassed by the emotional restraint he was using.

  The figure that had bent over his mother was big and strong, he knew that. Was it shorter than his dad? He wasn’t sure. Tanner seemed taller than most of the men Luke knew. He cracked open his eyes to check. He couldn’t tell.

  But his dad would never have done this. Would he? Luke hated himself for even letting the thought enter his mind. He watched the care with which his father tended his injury and felt shame redden his cheeks.

  But apprehension wouldn’t leave him alone, and it prodded him until he faced an awareness he’d tried hard to ignore. What Tanner had told him about the vow had revealed something. His father had made a promise to at least one friend, and Luke believed one of them killed his mother. Tanner didn’t have that many close friends. Luke guessed he knew them all.

  Nasty suspicions again tapped at his mind. Had Tanner’s vow something to do with his mom’s death? His father wouldn’t protect her killer, would he?

  Luke shivered. Even if his dad didn’t know it yet, he’d made a vow of friendship and silence with Jenny’s murderer. So what would his father do when the man came for Luke? Who would Tanner believe if it came to Luke’s word against an adult’s, an adult who was a sworn friend?

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Jenny Williams reached for someone out of sight. She leaned toward this person, her mouth open and eyes wide. Storm sat in Jenny’s living room, on the worn sofa with her feet up on the big stone and glass coffee table. It was a party, and a pile of beer bottles was growing besid
e her. She wasn’t drunk, but she was laughing. And she wasn’t reacting to Jenny’s plea for help. Instead, she observed the others who were there, talking and interacting with each other. No one responded and Storm wondered why this was, but she didn’t do anything about it. She even looked around for Luke, who didn’t seem to be in the room. Storm knew that Jenny, though she was surrounded by people, was alone and terrified. And Storm took another drink of her beer.

  She woke with a start, drenched with sweat. A soft bird call sounded. Storm peeked at the clock by the bed, which said two forty-five. Birds shouldn’t be up yet. Yet she recognized the ‘alae’s call.

  The idea that the mudhen was sounding a warning again bothered her, but Storm had been raised at the knee of a kahuna, in this case a teacher of Hawaiian myths and lore. Aunt Maile, hopefully snoring peacefully in her own room, would advise Storm to go back to the dream. She needed to find the reason for it, both from within herself and from any outside forces. Aunt Maile would tell Storm her subconscious was trying to pass along information, something she needed to know.

  Storm shivered. Don’t move, she told herself, or you’ll lose the connection to the dream. She took a breath, closed her eyes, and placed herself back on the sofa in Jenny’s living room. Poele sat in a chair across the room, next to the sculpture of Maui, which sat on the bookshelves next to him. His eyes were glassy with grief. Makani sat next to him, crying, while someone popped a beer open in the kitchen.

  Tanner sat close to Storm on the couch, but acted like he hadn’t seen her. He didn’t look at anyone else, either. Instead, he frowned down at the cluttered surface of the coffee table and twisted his hands together as if he were holding them under a faucet.

  There was a beautiful woman across the room who wore hospital scrubs like the ones Jenny had been in when she’d come to the door on Thursday afternoon. So long ago. Storm’s mind fled the dream to figure out what day it was. It was Sunday, very early, three days since Jenny had died.