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206 Kauwa Road, Off Highway 130, Pahoa Town, HI -- 6:00 PM Hawaii Time

Iggy the Apostle’s brutal murder left Dickley Hooper severely shaken. Not the strongest of individuals, Dickley frequently lost control of his feelings, but this episode was extraordinarily acute. Fortunately, he had a release valve.

Since childhood, whenever stressed, he took up pencil and paper, and drew what was bothering him.

Dickley’s father, it seems, had been a mean drunk with a bad temper. Once, in 1976, when Dickley was seven, a neighbor called the police after his drunken father, nude and screaming, had tried to set Mrs. Hooper on fire. Officers arrived, arrested Mr. Hooper and took him away.

Mrs. Hooper found shelter in a Lutheran charity. Her son was made a temporary ward of the court.

While in foster care, Dickley paid several mandated visits to the LA County Bureau of Adolescent and Child Psychiatry. There, an art therapist encouraged him to use finger paints and crayons to express his feelings. At first, he was reluctant, but the therapist finally won him over and Dickley began to draw…prolifically.

His masterpiece was an 18” X 24” domestic scene showing a woman lying prostrate on the kitchen floor. A man stood over her. In one hand was a bottle, in the other, an iron skillet. Peeking from behind a cabinet was a tearful child. Dickley called it, ‘Lunchtime.’

The therapist said she admired Dickley’s drawing. They talked about it for a long time. When they finished, she paid Dickley a compliment.

“You’re very brave to draw this picture, Dickley,” she said. “If you’ll let me show it to some people, I think we can arrange it so your father never hits your mother again.”

Dickley surrendered his work and the therapist made good on her word. His father never hit his mother again. In fact, from that day forward, neither she nor Dickley ever again laid eyes on the despised Mr. Hooper.

“It was your picture that did it,” his mother told him afterward.

Dickley was proud and a little awestruck. He had done magic.

Over the years, whenever troubled, Dickley made pictures. He even had occasion to make a few more pictures showing men hitting his mother. Without the therapist and the courts, however, these latter efforts had not produced the desired effect.

Still, Dickley never lost faith. He kept on drawing.

Today, in his shack outside Pahoa, Dickley held his latest creation up for inspection. It seemed to have everything: two large brown men, a half-naked Hawaiian woman and Iggy the Apostle, with blood streaming from his eyes and mouth.

The artist frowned. Something was missing. His tongue between his teeth, he thought for a long moment, waiting for inspiration.

“Ah,” Dickley said.

He placed the paper back on the table top, picked up his pencil and drew a text balloon with an arrow pointing toward the woman. Inside the balloon he wrote: “Go now. Go and tell them.”

“There,” Dickley said. “Maybe that will keep them away.”

Service Center at Crazy Sally’s, Rosedale, CA – 7:30 PM PST

At half past seven, thirty minutes after the service center usually closed, a tall, slender individual wearing a pair of red mechanic’s overalls, got into Crazy Sally’s silver Lexus and drove it off the lot. The car did not, as one might have expected, turn left on Riverside Avenue and return to Sally’s home. Instead, it headed south, toward I-80 and Highway 99, in the general direction of the California-Arizona border. An astute observer might have wondered at this.

That same person might also have wondered why, although moved from Sally’s home to the service center, the Lexus had not been serviced. Indeed, it had not even been inspected. As it happened, however, no one saw, no one noticed and the silver Lexus disappeared, unheeded, down the highway.

37,000 Feet over Central California Bearing Eastward – 7:35 PM

“I can understand Deborah being afraid of something,” Garrison said, as his plane streaked southward. “I can even understand that she ran. What I can’t understand why she didn’t leave word for me. She must have realized I’d be crazy with worry.”

“Maybe she’s protecting you,” said Frederick.

“How do you mean?”

Inspector Frederick shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said. “I'm just guessing, but everything I’ve heard about your wife so far tells me you’re right. Not leaving word for you is out of character. That being the case, there must be another explanation.”

“And you think she’s protecting me?”

“It’s a possibility.”

“But protecting me from what?” said Garrison, “From who?”

“How much do you know about the FAA?” said Frederick.

Garrison frowned. “The Federal Aeronautical Association?” he said. “I have a private pilot’s license, so I know a little. Why do you ask?”

“Something you said to Lewis earlier. You told him to call the McGoverns and have them file a flight plan, remember?”

“Yeah? So?”

“So what’s a flight plan?”

“It’s a document with all the particulars about a flight. The pilot, the plane, place and time of departure, arrival time. Stuff like that.”

“What’s it for?”

“To ensure that an overdue flight gets search and rescue attention.”

“And who’s responsible for filing a flight plan?” Frederick asked.

“The pilot,” Garrison said. “What are you getting at?”

“Remember that call Wingate found on Deborah’s message tape?” Frederick said. “Not the threatening messages. The other one from...” Frederick took a spiral pad from his inside pocket and flipped through the pages. “…Anthony?”

“Yeah,” said Garrison. “Anthony. The guy who was talking about Kingman Airport.”

“That’s him,” said the inspector. “I’m just wondering: Is it possible that Anthony is the pilot of the plane your wife is trying to catch?”

A light went on behind Garrison’s eyes.

“Oh,” he said. “That’s brilliant! Come on.” The two men stood up and headed for the cockpit. Garrison knocked on the door and opened int.

“Jenny,” he said, going down on one knee behind the co-pilot, “who do you know at Kingman air traffic control?”

“No one. Why?”

“I need to find out if a pilot with the first name of Anthony canceled a flight plan into Kingman within the last two days.”

“You mean closed a flight plan?” she said.

“Right…closed a flight plan. Is there any way to find out if Anthony closed a flight plan into Kingman?”

“You can open or close a flight plan through any airport,” Jennifer said. “Maybe you can check on them the same way.” She looked at her husband. “Is Conard working today?”

“Yeah,” Harry said, “that’s the ticket. Bob Conard runs a flight plan workstation at LA International. He’s also their database guru. If anyone can locate obscure information, it’s him.”

“Can you reach him?” asked Garrison.

“I can try.” Jennifer turned toward her radio console.

“There’s something else we haven’t considered,” said Frederick after a moment.

“What’s that?”

“Noah.”

“What about him?”

“Doesn’t it strike you as strange that your wife took so much cash with her?”

“Not if she’s on the run,” said Garrison. “If she’s running, she’ll need cash, won’t she?”

“She’ll need some cash, sure,” Frederick said. “Ten thousand, twenty thousand, maybe even fifty. But three-quarters of a million? That seems a little…”

Frederick’s voice trailed off. The startled expression on Garrison’s face told him that he had just lost his audience.

“Jesus Christ!” Garrison said. “What in god’s name is that thing doing here?”

Following Garrison’s eyes, Frederick turned to look out the window. Floating in the sky, a few yards from the tip of the Gulfstream’s starboard wing, was an F-16C fighter jet bearing the insignia of the United States Air Force.

“Holy shit!” said Harry, switching his radio to the emergency frequency.

“USAF F-16,” he said into his headset mic. “This is Gulfstream IIB N57181, come in, please.” Hissing and crackling, the radio came to life.

“Roger, Gulfstream IIB, this is USAF F-16 LF63FS. How is everything today? Over.” The pilot’s laconic delivery was not as soothing as he apparently had hoped it would be. On the contrary, under the circumstances, it was infuriating.

“This is Gulfstream IIB, F-16,” Harry shot back. “What the heck do you mean ‘how’s everything?’ Everything was fine until you showed up. What’s the problem? What the fu…I mean, what are you doing over there? Over.”

“Copy your question Gulfstream. We’re here to give you an escort into Davis-Monthan AFB near Tucson. Over.”

Frederick wondered what the man meant by saying “we’re here.” F-16’s only carried one person, the pilot. Just then, coming along the port side, he saw yet another fighter jet. Catching Garrison’s eye he inclined his head toward the window and pointed.

Garrison nodded, then leaned over the console and spoke into the talk back.

“F-16, this is Jim Garrison. I own this plane. We filed a flight plan into Kingman…IGM…not Davis-Monthan. We ask again: What’s the problem? Over.”

“Roger, Mr. Garrison. Sorry to interrupt your travel plans. I’ve been ordered by General Briggs to escort you and your party back to the base. I’d appreciate it, sir, if you’d instruct your pilot to give way and follow me down.” Garrison was angered almost to the point of outrage, but he kept his voice under control.

“Major, my wife and son are missing. We have Inspector Hal Frederick of the San Francisco Police Department on board. We’re on our way to Kingman to follow up a time sensitive lead. I’m sure you can appreciate the urgency. Over.”

“Understood, sir, and I apologize,” said the major, “but I have my orders. I’m afraid I’ll have to insist. Over.”

Garrison gritted his teeth, his jaw muscles twitching. In spite of himself, he still managed to sound cool. “F-16, can you at least tell me why the general wants you to bring us in? Over.”

It took a moment for Major Eads to reply. Frederick guessed he was checking his answer with someone higher up the food chain.

“Roger, Gulfstream. Sorry for the delay. Again, I apologize, Mr. Garrison,” Eads said, “but I’m not at liberty to share that information.”

Garrison motioned to Harry McGovern to switch off the com channel. “Do we have any choice, Harry?” he asked.

“Not unless you want to get shot out of the sky, Mr. G.”

“They can do that?”

“It’s their world,” Harry said. “We’re just passing through. They can pretty much do what they want up here.”

Garrison winced and let out a long, frustrated sigh. “Son-of-a-bitch!” he said. Hand to brow, he took a moment to collect his thoughts. “OK, flip the switch.” McGovern reopened communication. “All right, Major, you seem to be holding the high hand.” Garrison said. “I fold. Take us down.”

Just then, Jennifer adjusted her headphones, grabbed a pen began writing furiously.

“What’s up?” Garrison asked. Jennifer held up her free hand, signaling for silence.

“Thanks, Bobby,” she said. “Drinks are on us next time.”

“Who’s Bobby?” said Garrison.

“Conard,” Jennifer replied, handing him her pad. “The database guy at LAX.”

Garrison looked down at Jennifer’s notes. “This is him,” he said, after a moment. “It’s got to be.”

“Who?” Frederick asked. Garrison read aloud.

“Pilot: Anthony Dudgeons, Aircraft: Boeing BBJ, #N97836, Point of Departure: Hilo, Hawaii, Point of Arrival: Kingman, Arizona. What’s this say, Jennifer? On hair Lota? I can’t read your handwriting.”

“One hour L/O – T/A,” Jennifer read. “L/O for ‘layover,’ T/A for ‘turn around.’ That means they intended to stay in Kingman for an hour, refuel and head straight back to Hilo.”

“Does any of that mean anything to you?” Frederick asked.

“Besides Dudgeons’ name, I recognize Hilo,” Garrison said. “It’s my wife’s hometown.”

“You’re kidding.”

Garrison looked up. “No,” he said. “Why would I kid?”

“No reason,” said Frederick. “It’s just a little weird, that’s all. Hilo is my wife’s hometown. Who’s Anthony Dudgeons?”

“If memory serves,” Garrison said, “he’s an old friend of Deborah’s parents. A sort Dutch uncle, I think.”

“You two better buckle up,” Harry said. “We’re descending.”

The two men walked back into the passenger compartment and took their seats. After a moment, Frederick unfastened his seat belt and went back through the door into the cockpit. A few seconds later he returned.

“What’s up?” Garrison asked.

“That information about Anthony Dudgeon’s flight, Hawaii and all that?”

“Yeah? What about it?”

“I just told the McGoverns to forget they ever heard it.”

“Why’s that?”

“I don’t know,” Frederick replied. “Just a hunch.”

“A hunch?”

“Yeah,” Frederick said. “I mean, who is this guy, Briggs, and what does he want with us? Something stinks, that’s all.”

Highway 58, Kramer Junction, CA – 7:55 PM

It was time to call Anthony Dudgeons. Just ahead, near a row of stores, Deborah spotted a phone booth. She pulled over.

“Deborah!” Dudgeons’ voice crackled over the line. “Thank God. I was afraid we’d lost you. Where are you calling from?”

“I’m at a strip mall on Highway 58. I’d have been in Kingman yesterday, but there was trouble. Everything OK on your end?”

“Yes, but there’s been a change. Where’d you say you are?”

“A place called Kramer Junction on Highway 58, about halfway between Bakersfield and Kingman.” Deborah glanced out the door of the phone booth. A man in the parking lot was swearing loudly, struggling to stretch a car cover over an SUV.

“Kramer Junction, huh? That’s still California, right?” Dudgeons asked. The sound of rattling paper, a map unfolding, came over the line.

“Yeah.”

“Oh, right,” Dudgeons said after a moment of silence. “I see it here. Got a pencil and paper?”

Deborah rummaged through her purse. “Got it.”

“Good,” said Anthony. “Take this down.”

Slowly, Dudgeons dictated a list of exacting instructions. When he had finished, he asked her to read it back.

“Perfect,” he said. “Is there anything you don’t understand?”

“No.”

“Do you think you get there on time?”

“I know I can Anthony, but…”

“But what?”

“Can you do this?” Deborah asked. “I mean, is it safe? Will it work?”

“I can, it is and it will, Deborah,” said Dudgeons. “Don’t worry. Just do your part and I’ll do mine.”

“All right, Anthony,” she said after a moment. “Whatever you say.”

“That’s the spirit,” said Dudgeons. “Do you know what you’re going to do yet?”

“Not yet,” Deborah replied. “I’m too busy getting out of here.”

“I understand. Good luck, Deborah. I’ll see you soon.”

She hung up reassured. Anthony Dudgeons had been a friend to her parents. It had been he who had comforted her on the night they were killed. It had been he who had delivered her to the home of her future guardian. Now he was helping her to return to Hawaii, helping to save her and her family.

Deborah looked around. In less than twelve hours, she had an appointment. She had just over six more hours to drive. There was a motel at the edge of the strip mall. She could stop and rest or she could stay on the road.

The man with the SUV was still tussling with his car cover. Deborah walked over to him.

“Looks like you’re having some trouble,” she said.

“Yeah,” the man answered. “I can’t get this damn thing to fit. My wife knows I like camouflage patterns. She bought it for me, but it’s too small.”

“That’s a shame,” Deborah said. “But it just so happens I could use a camouflage car cover. What do you say I take that one off your hands.” The man stopped fussing and looked up.

“Oh, I don’t know,” he said. “Like I said, the wife bought it for me. She’s kind of touchy. Don’t want to hurt her feelings.”

“I’ll give you twice what she paid,” Deborah said. The man looked up again and smiled, then stripped the cover off the SUV.

“If I’ve told that woman once,” he said, “I’ve told her a thousand times: if I need something for the car, I’ll buy it myself.”

Home of Moses and Alana Pukuli, Pahoa Town, HI -- 6:30 PM Hawaii Time

Alana Pukuli looked across the dinner table at her husband, Moses. His face was rounder now than it had been, and the hair on his head, black and curly as ever, was not as full as it once was. Still, he was a handsome man.

More important than his appearance, so far as Alana was concerned, was the fact that Moses was still optimistic, still cheerful. He had not been beaten down by the pressure and the passage of time. To Moses, the best was always yet to come. He had been that way all his life, even when he’d had ample reason to feel otherwise.

It was hard, therefore, to see him so worried tonight. She racked her brain for a topic of conversation he might find distracting.

“I spoke with your mother today,” she said.

“Oh, really.” Moses nodded and looked her way, but Alana was not fooled. He wasn’t listening.

“Yes. She’s in Hilo for the reunion…staying with your brother.” The mention of his birthplace aroused the congressman’s interest slightly.

“Your mother said she’s doesn’t know if your sister will be able to come to the reunion,” Alana continued. “She’s not sure why, exactly.”

“What’s that, dear?” Moses said.

“Hannah, your sister.”

“What about her?”

“She may not be coming to the reunion.”

“Ah,” Pukuli said. “Hannah…yes…that’s a shame.”

Alana’s attempt to divert her husband's attention was not succeeding. She pressed on. She had an inkling as to what was troubling him and felt certain she could help.

“I’m sure she wants to come, dear,” Alana said. “Why don’t you find out what’s stopping her? Maybe you can help.”

“I’m sorry, dear,” Moses said. “My mind is drifting. What did you say?”

“I said: I’m sure Hannah wants to come to the reunion. Why don’t you give her a call and find out if there’s anything you can do to help? Maybe she and her husband are short of money.”

Moses grunted. “Could be,” he said.

One aspect of his problems to which the congressman’s wife was not yet privy was that, behind the scenes, he and his staff had been mounting a move on Washington. In the next election, Congressman Joseph Chow was going to make a run for the Senate. Moses had been asked to try for Chow’s seat in the U.S. House of Representatives. This outbreak of mayhem on his home turf could not be helping his cause.

The phone rang and Pukuli answered. It was Sgt. Wicks at the Pahoa Police substation. He apologized for interrupting dinner, but felt sure the congressman would want to know.

“Want to know what?” Moses asked.

“Another body has been discovered, sir?”

“Oh, shit. Not again.

“I’m afraid so, sir.”

“Same MO?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Who’s the victim?”

“Edmond ‘Iggy’ Arnold,” the sergeant said. “AKA Iggy the Apostle.”

“Let me guess,” Pukuli said. “He’s a drug dealer.”

“He was, up until about five years ago. Yes, sir.”

Pukuli sighed, asked a few more questions, thanked the sergeant and hung up. Saying nothing to his wife, he returned to the table.

I’m going to have to do something quickly, he thought. At the very least, I’m going to have to appear to be doing something. But what?

Alana picked up the thread of her previous conversation.

“I would think you’d want Hannah to be at the reunion,” she said. “She is your baby sister, after all. And you and her husband have always gotten along so well.”

Moses looked up. For the first time this evening, Alana thought, he at least looks like he’s paying attention.

“Her husband?” he said.

“Yes,” said Mrs. Pukuli. “Hal Frederick, Hannah’s husband. The homicide detective from San Francisco.”

Moses raised an eyebrow. He cocked his head to one side and tapped the tabletop with his fingertips.

“By heaven, Alana,” he said, “you’re right, as always. What have I been thinking? I’ve been so wrapped up in my own concerns, I’ve completely forgotten about the needs of my family. I’ll call Hannah first thing tomorrow.”

For the rest of the evening, Moses Pukuli’s spirits showed marked improvement. Alana congratulated herself on resuscitating his mood.

“It’s amazing,” he said to his wife just before they retired. “For the entire night I thought only of myself, and it was exhausting. But as soon as I turned my attention toward someone else, toward Hannah and her husband, I felt as though a great weight had been lifted from my shoulders.”

“Yes, my love,” said Alana, smiling. “It is amazing, isn’t it?”

Desert Pioneer Hotel Kingman, AZ – 8:30 PM MST

Nachtmann was not as smart or as patient as Franklin, the man he’d replaced as head of surveillance on the Deborah Garrison search team, but he was one thing that Franklin was not. He was lucky.

At approximately 8:00 PM, one of his ground reconnaissance teams reported that Deborah Garrison’s Mustang was headed south on Highway 58. The team was ordered to stay well away, but to keep the car in sight. Twenty minutes later, the Mustang, stopped by a traffic light near Edwards Air Force Base, was approached from behind a man who stole up behind it and attached an electronic tracking device under its right rear fender.

At exactly 8:29 PM, a small pinpoint of light, representing the Mustang, showed up on a monitor screen on the seventh floor of the Desert Pioneer Hotel in Kingman.

Nachtmann relayed the news to his field operatives via the secure two-way radio.

“It’s about time one of you people did something right,” he said. “We’ve got her onscreen.”

“Now what?” one of the operatives radioed back. “Do we take her?”

“Not now,” Nachtmann replied. “You’d be seen. Wait until she stops for the night.”

“Roger that,” said the operative.

The Mustang pulled back out onto the highway followed, three cars behind, by the recon team van. One hundred yards behind them and one lane to the right was a blue Ford F-150 pickup.

Davis-Monthan AFB -- 9:40 PM Mountain Standard Time

Frederick looked over his shoulder just as the Gulfstream’s starboard wing dipped, affording him a view of the nighttime desert skyline.

Harry McGovern’s voice came up over the cabin’s PA system. “Jennifer and I have been directed to remain in the cockpit after we land, gentlemen,” he said. “You two are requested to join General Briggs and his party on the landing strip.”

“That’s beautiful,” Garrison grumbled. “They request that we join the general.”

Garrison’s jet touched down in time to see a dark blue military staff car drive out of a hanger and onto the airfield. Four other vehicles, two unmarked Ford sedans, an Air Police van and an ambulance, followed close behind. As ground crew personnel wheeled a gangway to the Gulfstream’s forward hatch, the procession pulled up alongside.

Harry McGovern came out of the cockpit and threw open the hatch. Inspector Frederick and Jim Garrison descended the steps and waited.

The driver of the staff car bounded onto the runway, sprinted around his vehicle and opened the right rear door, standing at attention as General William Briggs climbed out.

“Mr. Garrison,” the general said, coming toward them, his hand extended. “I apologize for dragging you out of the sky like a common criminal. Security considerations forbade our handling this situation more forthrightly.”

“I beg your pardon?” Garrison said. “What situation? What security considerations?”

“I’ll answer that if you don’t mind, sir.” A tall, ruddy civilian, bald and wearing a seersucker jacket, bow tie and chinos joined the general. “My name is Schmidt, Mr. Garrison, Lawrence Schmidt.” He too, stuck out his hand. “Very pleased to meet you.”

Two burly Air Policemen now flanked Schmidt and Briggs, standing at parade rest just behind them.

Schmidt looked at Frederick. “You must be from the San Francisco Police. I’m Agent Schmidt, Federal Bureau of Investigation. How do you do?”

“Inspector Hal Frederick, SFPD,” the policeman said, shaking his hand and giving Schmidt the once-over. The agent’s glasses slipped down his nose. He grinned and released Frederick’s hand to push them up again, then turned back to Garrison.

“I have some good news for you, sir,” he said. “We know where your wife is.”

“Thank heaven!” Garrison exclaimed. “Is she all right?”

“Yes,” Schmidt replied. “She’s well. My people and I will be meeting with her soon. We’ll take you with us.”

Garrison breathed the deepest sigh Frederick had ever heard. For a moment, he rested his chin on his chest, then looked up.

“What about my son?”

Schmidt hesitated. “That news is not so good,” he said.

“What do you mean?” Garrison asked. “What’s happened? Is he hurt?”

“That’s just it, Mr. Garrison,” Schmidt replied. “We don’t know. We have no idea where Noah is. The worse case scenario is he may have been kidnapped.”

“Oh, god.” Garrison looked at Frederick. “That must be why Deborah took all that money.”

Inspector Frederick stood back and away from the gathering, his expression sour. He shook his head.

“Sorry,” he said. “I don’t buy it.”

“Don’t buy what?” the general asked.

“That this is a kidnapping. It doesn’t track.”

“How so?” said Garrison.

“In the first place, kidnappers are nervous. They’re trying to pull off a high risk crime...”

“Inspector…” Schmidt tried to interrupt. Frederick continued.

“They want to work fast; take the money and run. Flying in and out of international airports, leaving phone messages on answering machines…that stuff just doesn’t fit the profile.”

“Listen, Frederick,” said Schmidt. “There are security issues connected with this case that you don’t know about. I said the boy may have been kidnapped. I didn’t say it was for ransom.”

“Then what is the motive?” the inspector asked.

“I can’t tell you that,” Schmidt replied.

“What’s going on here, Schmidt?” Garrison’s nerves were getting the better of him. “And what’s all this crap about security?”

Schmidt looked at Frederick. “I’m afraid this is where you and I part company, Inspector,” he said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I’m…that is, the federal government…the FBI is asserting jurisdiction in this case.”

“What do you mean?” Garrison asked.

“We’re taking over, sir,” Schmidt replied. “Inspector, you’re free to go.”

“That’s very kind of you, I’m sure, Agent Schmidt,” said Frederick.

“Suppose I don’t want him to go,” Garrison said.

“You don’t have much choice.” It was General Briggs. He waved a hand toward the two Air Policemen. They stepped toward Frederick.

“This case originated on my turf,” Frederick began. “Mr. Garrison filed his missing persons report with the SFPD. The people of San…” The APs seized the inspector, one on either arm. Garrison moved to intervene.

“Now just a god damned minute,” he said, reaching toward the AP standing nearest him. “It’s my wife and son who are at risk here, and if I want…” Three additional Air Policemen materialized from within the van. Two of the men caught Garrison by either arm. He resisted.

“What the hell?” he said, trying to wrench free. “Take your fucking hands off me.” One of the APs released Garrison’s arm, stepped back and placed him in a choke hold. Another hammered at the backs of his knees with a nightstick. He went down hard. A large cut opened up on his cheek.

“Let’s not get into a pissing contest over who has what, Inspector Frederick,” Schmidt growled. “You’ve got yourself and the people of San Francisco, I’ve got the authority of the FBI and the power of the US Air Force.”

The APs who had put Garrison down now had him prone, his hands cuffed behind his back.

“Get him in the truck,” Schmidt said. Then he turned toward Frederick. “As for you, inspector, take it from me, you’re in way over your head. I suggest you get back on Mr. Garrison’s plane and go home.”

Highway I-15 Near Mojave National Preserve -- 10:30 PM

Driving on local roads and connecting thoroughfares was a good deal more difficult than sticking to the interstate, especially at night. Deborah had already lost her bearings and retraced her steps twice. It was reassuring to finally be traveling on a main highway. For the next one hundred miles, all she had to do was drive.

Makaala Mary’s Perfect Burger, Hilo, HI -- 10:45 PM Hawaii Time

Janet Suzuki thought about the conversation she’d had with her policeman uncle all day long. Even late that evening, sharing a plate of French fries with her roommate, she couldn’t get it off her mind.

“It’s all there,” said Janet. “It’s in the numbers. Something is weakening Native Hawaiian scholastic and employment performance...especially among males. Not only that, more of them are winding up in the criminal justice system than ever before.”

“Maybe it’s the CIA,” Sandra replied.

“You blame the CIA for everything.”

“Yeah. Ain’t it interesting how often I’m right.”

Janet ignored her. “Some guy at Hilo PD thinks it’s because of a new kind of marijuana called Puna Pow,” she said, “but my uncle disagrees.”

“Why?”

“Not enough violent crime in the affected community. Like when crack cocaine hit South Central Los Angeles, violent crime skyrocketed.”

“There you go,” said Sandra. “The CIA again.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The CIA’s involvement in crack cocaine. According to Project Censored, it was among the 25 top stories suppressed by the mainstream media in 1987.”

“For god’s sake, Sandra, drop it, already.”

“Hey,” said Sandra, “just because I’m a nut, doesn’t mean everything I say is crazy. Why don’t you talk to that colleague of your uncle’s...the one blaming everything on Puna pot...

“Pow,” said Janet. “It’s called Puna Pow.”

Sandra waved her hand. “Puna Pow, then,” she said. “Ask him. He seems like a straight thinking fellow. See how looney tunes he thinks I am.”

“I just might,” said Janet.

“What did you say his name was?”

“Jacobson,” Janet replied. “Sgt. Bill Jacobson.”

Mo'okini Heiau, Upolo Point, The Big Island, HI -- 11:45 PM Hawaii Time

La`amaomao, the spirit of the wind, howled at the clouds as he pushed them through the night sky over Maui Strait. The woman had returned to the sacred place. La`amaomao looked at her and was pleased. Again, the fervor and dread of the days before had come with her; the mystery of passion and power, of oblation and sacrifice. La`amaomao saw these things swirling around the woman as clearly as if they had been tendrils of fire. He demonstrated his approval with an especially shrill gust of wind.

Eyes closed, the woman raised her arms and stood in the darkness, preparing to walk through the gate to the killing place at Mo’okini Heiau, temple of Ku, the fearsome god of war.

“Forgive me great Ku,” she called out over the gale. “For I bring no bones, I bear no beating hearts to bleed for you. I carry only these pitiful pieces of dead flesh which I offer in your name.”

Slowly, her arms still aloft, she advanced toward the sacrificial stone, the hallowed rock which, for nearly a thousand years had drunk the blood of her ancestors. Reaching its side, she lowered her arms and opened her hands, relinquishing her offering as she chanted:

Fear haunts the pounding surf,

Fear of the passing night,

Fear of the night approaching,

Fear of the coming light.

“Help me great Ku,” she prayed. “Deliver unto me only a portion of your power and I will increase these gifts a thousand fold, I promise you. Harden my heart, inflame my fury, inspire my speech. Do this mighty Ku and your people will praise you…your enemies fear you…your altars will run with red!”

Ku, the deity of destruction, was accustomed to such pleas. He was, as yet, unmoved. Not so his brother, La`amaomao, the wind god. La`amaomao roared his approbation.

355^th Medical Group, Davis-Monthan AFB -- 11:55 PM

Shortly before midnight, a US Air Force ambulance pulled into the emergency bay of the 355^th Medical Group dispensary. From inside the vehicle, the sounds of a highly agitated male voice could be heard. A corpsman testified later that he’d never heard the words “fuck,” “asshole” and “motherfucker” used in so many different ways in a single sentence.

Less than a minute after its arrival, a lieutenant colonel with medical insignia on his lapel boarded the ambulance. For a moment, the outcry from inside the vehicle grew louder. Then it stopped. Then the lieutenant colonel climbed outside and the ambulance backed up, turned its wheels and sped south, down Alamo Avenue, toward the main gate.