A Walk Through the Fire Read online

  “I always have, when I’m home alone and neither of the cats is around to talk at. Anyway, I’m glad you finally agree with me about the Cessna.” Hy’s old Citabria had been totaled a month before in an incident for which I still felt partially responsible. We’d been trying to replace it, but hadn’t found a used plane we both liked.

  “You know,” he said, “after tonight I’m leaning more toward that Warrior we test-flew last weekend. I’d forgotten how much I like a low wing.”

  “Low wing’s fine with me, but that Warrior’s got its drawbacks.” I sent a lacy bra sailing toward the pile on the bed.

  He caught it, looked it over speculatively. “Pretty sexy. I thought this was supposed to be a working trip. What’s wrong with the Warrior?”

  “I don’t like the rudders. And the interior’s kind of grungy. There’s no reason we can’t work in a little romance over there.”

  “A little—or a lot—suits me fine. I know what you mean about the interior. It’d take over ten grand to bring it up to snuff. But what’s wrong with the rudders?”

  “Too stiff for my liking. Catch!”

  “You are thinking of romance. Yeah, you do have to kind of animal the controls around. And it really could do with a prop overhaul, maybe a fire-wall forward treatment, too.”

  “So what’re we looking at beyond the purchase price?”

  “Thirty, forty grand. You know what, maybe we should be considering a new plane. When you factor in the expense of making a used one right, there’s not a hell of a lot of difference.”

  “There’s a difference. And new planes depreciate very rapidly. Should I take my gun along?”

  “Nope. I checked with our Honolulu office, and it’s okay for you to work under our umbrella, but they tell me carry permits there are as rare as hens’ molars. If I registered the plane to RKI, they could insure it under the company policy and take the depreciation in exchange. That would defray some of the expense.”

  “So talk to your partners. The expression’s ‘hens’ teeth.’”

  “I could’ve sworn it was ‘molars.’ I’ll do that when we get back.”

  “Good. And it is teeth.”

  “Guess you’re right.”

  “I’m always right.”

  “’Most always. C’mere, McCone. Why wait for Hawaii for the romance?”

  APRIL 2

  Kauai

  4:00 P.M.

  “So what this adds up to is that somebody’s willing to go to extreme measures to stop you from making the film.”

  I was perched on the edge of the backseat of the old red Datsun, my elbows propped on the bucket seats that Glenna Stanleigh and Hy occupied. The car, on loan to her along with the house, wasn’t air-conditioned, and moisture coated my body beneath the too-heavy jeans and tee that had seemed flimsy in San Francisco that morning. I slid my right hand off Hy’s seat back and pulled the cotton fabric away from my torso, then lifted the hair off my damp neck.

  “It would seem so.” Glenna took her big, expressive gray eyes off the one-lane bridge we were crossing and glanced at me in the rearview mirror, her distress plain. Then she returned her gaze to the line of vehicles waiting at the other end, raising a hand in thanks when we passed.

  We’d been driving north from Kauai’s Lihue Airport for nearly forty-five minutes. Although I’d made many trips to Hawaii, I’d never before visited the Garden Island, the state’s oldest and fourth largest in size, some seventy miles northwest of Honolulu. At first we’d passed resort complexes and shopping centers, new housing developments and cane fields. At Princeville, once a sugar plantation, an expensive-looking planned community spread for miles on the north shore; then the road narrowed and wound through hill and valley, forest and farmland, taking us back a century or more.

  A river lay to our right now, placid and brown, with trees whose branches trailed in the water lining the opposite bank. To our left a flat plain spread toward distant cloud-shrouded peaks; dirt roads cut across it among wetlands and what I recognized as taro patches. Glenna braked abruptly to let across a pair of weather-beaten fishermen who had parked their equally weather-beaten sedan on the shoulder, and I nearly slid forward between the seats.

  “Sorry about that,” she muttered.

  I pushed back onto the seat, anchoring my feet more securely on the floorboard. All around them was a litter of soda pop cans and crumpled take-out wrappers, and the seat on either side of me was piled with clothing, a still camera, notebooks, and clipboards. It reminded me of Glenna’s office at Pier 24½. She could function in chaos that would sink the average person and, if anything, seemed proud of it.

  “Okay, let’s go over what you’ve told me.” I held up my hand and began ticking items off as I spoke. “We’ve got a sound guy who broke his ankle when he fell into a leaf- and branch-covered hole that he swears wasn’t there the day before. A tape recorder that disappeared from a room at the bed-and-breakfast where some of your crew are staying. A vandalized rental car. A hit-and-run accident involving one of the vans. And a stolen camera.”

  “An Arri SR3 that the rental house in Honolulu is going to charge me a bloody fortune for. We had to come up with a huge cash deposit before they’d let us have another.”

  “That camera wasn’t yours?”

  She shook her head, the ponytail into which she’d tied her long light brown curls brushing my forearm. “It’s much cheaper to rent than to own. A package like the one we’re using here—meaning the camera and various lenses—would be way out of my price range. I really feel bad about the first camera being stolen, since the owner of the rental house is an old school chum of Peter’s.”

  “That’s Peter Wellbright, your partner in the venture?”

  “And the man whose father, Elson Wellbright, wrote the manuscript the film is based on.”

  There was an odd, guarded tone in Glenna’s voice. I glanced at Hy; he shrugged and looked out the side window at a pair of kayakers on the river. Although he hadn’t involved himself in the conversation—after all, as he would say, this was my case—I knew he was making careful mental notes.

  “All right,” I said, “I can see how what happened to your sound man might be taken as an attempt on his life. The accident with the van, too. But what about this idea that somebody’s trying to kill you? Where did that come from?”

  She slowed for a town that was coming up. “I suppose I might’ve been making too much of it.”

  “Let me be the judge of that.”

  We were passing small businesses, a mission-style church, a couple of shopping centers, a school. Hanalei, population around 500. Glenna seemed preoccupied with the traffic and pedestrians, even though there was very little compared to what we’d encountered near the airport and in the resort area at Kapaa. She waited till the road narrowed and the trees closed in over it before replying.

  “Here’s what happened. It was yesterday morning, around five. I’ve taken to rising early, walking along the beach to where it’s blocked by an ancient lava fall. The path that takes you there winds through thick vegetation—ironwood and papaya trees, mostly. It looks wild, but the Wellbrights employ a staff of gardeners who keep the property in good shape. Yesterday…” At the first of two one-lane wooden bridges that formed a dogleg over another river, she slowed to let a pickup cross from the other side.

  “Yesterday,” she repeated as we began rumbling across, “I was walking along the path when I heard rustling and cracking in the underbrush. Thought little of it. The Wellbrights’ve got at least five dogs that have the run of the place. But next there was a sighing sound and—wham! A small papaya tree came down nearly on top of me. Just missed, but I got badly scratched up by the branches.” She held up her arm, which was webbed with bloody lines.

  I looked to my right, saw a sand beach and turquoise sea through wind-whipped trees. “Was it blowing this hard yesterday morning?”

  “Not at all. It was still.”

  “So for the tree to fall—”

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nbsp; “Someone had to’ve pushed it. When Peter went to investigate, he found signs of digging around the roots.”

  “But you didn’t see anybody?”

  “No.”

  “Hear anything, other than the sound the tree made?”

  “No.” She hesitated. “D’you think I overreacted?”

  “Not given the other incidents you’ve described.”

  “Thank God. For a while after you called back and said you and Hy would be coming, I was afraid I’d created a tempest in a teapot. It’s just that this film is really important to me. The subject is legends and myths told from the viewpoint of a missionary descendant who deeply cared for the Hawaiian people and their heritage. This state is troubled both racially and politically; the Hawaiians feel they’ve gotten the short end of the stick, and they have. Peter and I hope that my interpretation of Elson Wellbright’s work will give other groups more understanding and empathy.”

  If there was a common theme among the diverse subjects of Glenna’s documentaries, it was in her intent. She firmly believed that contemporary society’s many ills stemmed from people’s inability to get inside the minds and hearts of those who were different from them, and her films were made with the hope of involving viewers to the extent that they would put their fears and prejudices aside, if only momentarily. Her work was serious yet entertaining, and she’d completed a surprising number of projects for someone only twenty-six. Her career had begun with a short on the Vietnamese refugee community that had won a Student Academy Award in the documentary category while she was still in college at UCLA. I knew her well enough to recognize that a steely resolve and ambition lay beneath her pretty, perky exterior.

  As if aware of what I was thinking, she went on, “Of course, the film’s also important to me from a commercial standpoint, and with Peter’s backing I don’t have to skimp. He’s given me a budget of three-quarters of a million dollars, and then there’re things such as the loan of the house. If it turns out as well as I think it will, I could get a major TV sale to a network like HBO.”

  “Well,” I said, “then we’ll just have to ensure that nothing more happens to interfere with your progress. I noticed when we were talking about the tree incident that you hesitated when I asked if you’d seen or heard anything. Why?”

  “… You’re going to think this fanciful.”

  “Try me.”

  “I felt something. A presence.”

  “A presence.”

  “I can’t put it any other way. Could’ve been human, could’ve been something else entirely.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You will. After you’ve been on this island a few days, you will.”

  The town of Waipuna, some ten minutes along the road, was really more of a hamlet: pastel houses, many of them on stilts, lining dirt lanes that meandered off toward the palis or the sea; pizza parlor and deli; small shopping center; video rentals, T-shirts, surf shop, organic foods, chiropractic. The mission-style church was weathered and in poor repair, not of guidebook quality. The other buildings were mainly one-story, of board or shingle, with rippled iron roofs. Banana trees and coco palms and flowers of stunning hue grew everywhere. The blossoms spilled over railings and latticework and gave off a wonderful sweetness.

  “‘Waipuna’ means ‘spring water,’” Glenna told us, jockeying the car into a narrow space in front of the small cinder-block supermarket. “The land around here was taro patches planted by the ancient Hawaiians. What you’re smelling is mainly ginger that grows wild around the springs.” She motioned at what I’d taken to be a roadside drainage ditch, where plants bearing white and red flowers grew.

  Hy got out of the car and took my hand to pull me from the backseat. I stepped out into the hot parking lot, glad of a chance to stretch. The supermarket had plate-glass windows plastered with signs advertising specials on everything from beer to ahi tuna. To one side of the store stood a prefab shed with a banner proclaiming it the headquarters of Ace Tanner’s Helicopter Tours and Flight Instruction.

  Glenna saw me looking at it. “His real name’s Russell Tanner,” she said. “He’s famous, in a way. A lot of photographers and film companies, including me, use him to get to places that’re otherwise inaccessible. The road ends a few miles beyond the Wellbright property, and there’s no way to go farther unless you hike, take a boat, or fly in.”

  Hy was eyeing the shed with great interest. He possessed a helicopter rating, although, as far as I knew, it wasn’t current.

  I said, “If you’re thinking of flying one of those things—”

  “You’ve got an unreasonable prejudice against them.”

  “—I won’t go along.”

  “Want to bet?” He grinned wickedly.

  When I looked around, Glenna had grabbed a cart and was pushing it toward the store. “Come on,” she called. “You’ll have plenty of time to get to know Russ later. He might even be at the party at Pali House tonight.”

  I hurried after her. “What party?”

  “Oh, I forgot. Celia Wellbright, Peter’s mother and the grande dame of the Wellbright clan, is giving a cocktail party at eight, in honor of the arrival of my security team.”

  “Security team?”

  “That’s what Peter and I decided to call you. I also let it out that Hy’s a partner in RKI. They’re well known in the Islands, and I’m hoping that his presence will discourage whoever’s been doing these things. Anyway, Celia took it as an excuse to throw a party—any excuse for a party. So let’s go buy some gin and tonic. I’ve a feeling we’ll need a tall cool one before we traipse up the pali.”

  Of course Hy disappeared on us, and when we came out of the market we found him by the shed, in conversation with a tall man in aviator’s sunglasses and a camouflage jumpsuit. His face was deeply tanned, with high cheekbones, a straight nose, and full lips—a handsome combination of East and West. His jet-black hair hung nearly to his broad shoulders. I glanced at Glenna, and she said, “Russ Tanner.”

  At the sound of his name, the man turned and called, “Hey, Sweet Pea, you got something in that bag for me?”

  She took out a bottle of beer and made as if to throw it to him. He waved his arms, fending her off, and turned back to Hy. “So the guy says to me, ‘But how do I know you can put this thing down there?’ And I say to him, ‘Man, I can put this thing down on the head of a pin without disturbin’ any of the dancin’ angels.’ That shut him up. He’s probably still tryin’ to figure it out.”

  “You get a lot of passengers like that?”

  “Fair amount. Can’t leave it to the pilot, got to prove how much they don’t know. What d’you expect from shirts?”

  “Shirts?”

  “What I call ’em. They wear those knitted shirts with little emblems sewn on ’em. Probably order ’em from some preppy catalog, like Bean. Shirts, shorts, boat shoes. Glasses—usually graduated bifocals. Blow-dried hair. You know the kind. They’re why I prefer my film people, like Sweet Pea here. Film people, they’re all nuts.”

  Hy glanced at me, smiling faintly. That was a sentiment I’d often expressed about helicopter pilots.

  “So who’s this?” Tanner asked, motioning to me and taking off his sunglasses. His eyes were a striking shade of blue.

  Glenna introduced us, adding, “Sharon’s a private investigator. And a pilot.”

  Tanner looked me over, his eyes lively with curiosity. “You as good a pilot as this guy?” He jerked a thumb at Hy.

  I said, “Less experienced, more by-the-book.”

  Hy said, “She’s better.”

  “Ever fly a chopper?”

  “No.”

  “Come on over to my helipad while you’re here. I’ll give you a free lesson.”

  “Uh, thanks.”

  Hy was now stifling a grin.

  Glenna said, “Will you be at the party tonight, Russ?”

  “At Pali House? Forget it. I may be a distant relative, but I haven’t set foot in the place for yea
rs. Tonight I’ll be holding down my regular stool at the Shack, and if you folks’ve got any brains, you’ll join me.”

  The phone in the office rang. He glanced its way, then winked at me and said, “You take me up on that free lesson, pretty lady.” As he hurried to pick up, he called to Hy, “As for you, man, we’ll get you current, and then we’ll have us some fun!”

  My first sight of Glenna’s borrowed house nearly took my breath away. Not that it was opulent; if anything, its appearance was unpretentious: white, one-story, raised a foot or so above the ground, with a red shingle roof that sloped on all four sides and a wraparound porch, or lanai, as they’re called in the Islands. Magenta plumeria twined up the support posts and cascaded over the rain gutters, and the lanai was surrounded by flowering shrubs to which I couldn’t put a name.

  The house was set well back from the road on a rise above a lawn nearly the size of a football field, a lawn screened by a thick stand of palm and papaya and bamboo and banana trees. As we drove in on the gravel track, I spotted chickens pecking at the grass and again smelled the sweet scent of ginger. Glenna pulled the car up beside a detached garage, and I glimpsed a patch of sea, waves breaking on a reef.

  When I got out and turned to survey the lawn, my gaze was pulled upward to a backdrop of ancient wrinkled palis that dwarfed everything else and seemed close enough to touch. A flock of egrets flew in formation past the peaks, where black rock stood out in sharp contrast to the deep green vegetation clinging to the crevasses. Purple-veined clouds draped the palis, poised to release a torrent. In spite of the place’s natural loveliness, the air was charged with a sense of potential violence that immediately made me edgy.

  Glenna didn’t seem to feel it. “Spectacular, isn’t it?” she said. “It’s called Malihini House—‘Malihini’ is the Hawaiian word for ‘newcomer to the Islands.’”

  “Quite spectacular,” I agreed, glancing at Hy. His face was still, wary.

  “And quite a change from the city,” she added. “No sounds but the sea and the silence.”