Nina Lynn Brody smoothed her hand over the glassy surface of the tiny metal coffin.

It seemed too small to hold all the joy and energy, the magic and mayhem of her son. Surely he'd been bigger than this? Only nine, so of course he was small, but he'd always felt so much larger than life, a bundle of smart comments and endless questions, scraped knees and freckles, temper and smiles. How had they crammed all that into a tiny box?

She remembered him from just weeks before, a towel tied at his neck like a cape, swooping around the house and jumping from couch to table. He'd have to stop when his father came home, of course. Find a quiet spot. Work on homework or one of his art projects. But, before then, he could be himself.

"I'll be your hero, Mom," he'd told her proudly. She still had the picture he'd drawn of him "saving her" folded up in her purse. Mikey her superhero and she a damsel in distress. How could she have guessed it would be his own undoing?

The tears wouldn't come. She felt like she was made of tears, that, if she released them, there'd be nothing left of her, just like there was nothing left of her son except some useless bits they could cram into this minuscule box.

The casket had had to be closed.

They hadn't let her see him again, not after the ambulance had taken his broken body away, not after the funeral directors had put it back together as best they could. She didn't need to. She'd seen that piquant face shattered to unrecognizability on the kitchen floor.

They'd told the police he'd fallen from the railing above the stair. He hadn't been beaten all over, just his face crushed by a single blow, his neck broken as he fell. No one had argued. No one had investigated. A tragic accident.

They didn't know the monster that had killed her son.

Her eyes glanced at the purple marks on her wrist where her long sleeve had ridden up. They matched the marks on her neck beneath the turtleneck where he had nearly killed her for killing their son. The bruises on her ribs and her legs where he'd kicked her. The punches at her kidneys where he'd pounded his fury into her. Only her face was spared, was always spared, though he often lifted her by her hair. No one must know. That was the mantra spoken over and over, day after day. No one must know.

Her son had known. He'd spent too many hours in his closet, curled around his little sister where Nina had taught them to hide when he beat her. He'd known.

How could she not have known he would come to her rescue, would come to protect her, would want to be her hero rather than let her be battered one more time?

"You killed him," Randy had said, his hands around her neck. After the cops had come and gone, after her hero, crushed to lifelessness, had been spirited away. Randy had choked her on her bed and told her so she'd know who the monster was, who had really killed their son.

"Who taught him to defy his father? Who taught him to interfere between a husband and wife? What kind of monster sacrifices her son to save herself?"

The tears hadn't come then either, just like now, blocked by guilt at the horror she'd created, the senseless loss to the world she'd orchestrated.

Her son.

She wanted to throw herself on the coffin and weep, beg Mikey's forgiveness, beg for one more chance where she would find a way to protect her baby.

But there could not be a God, or Mikey wouldn't be dead instead of her.

She did not deserve the solace of tears.

"Are you coming?"

She straightened. Turned.

Behind her, the huge bulk of Randy stood in the bright doorway, silhouetted as he held their daughter's hand. "Well? Are you going to take all day? I want supper."

"Yes," she said. "I'm coming."

Faber-Brady Trust Executive Offices, Hilo, HI – 8:05 PM Hawaii Time

Kane relaxed behind his desk. A more perfect conclusion to his troubles was hard to imagine. It may have been slightly more desirable to have secured the boy, Noah, in lieu of Nachtmann. Children are more complaisant, after all, and acting as the boy’s regent would have given Kane absolute power over the trust for many years. Still, disposal of the child’s parents may have been messy. On balance, therefore, Kane felt quite satisfied with the day’s outcome.

He was rising to depart when his eye fell on an unfamiliar sheet of bright goldenrod stationery. The headline said ‘Urgent.’ He picked up the sheet, sat back down and began to read.

“Trask!” he shouted after a few seconds. “What’s the meaning of this?”

Trask hurried in from the outer office, crossed to Kane’s desk and plucked the page from his boss’ fingers. “Ah, yes,” he said. “This thing. I forgot to mention it.”

“Mention it now, damn it. How am I supposed to run this place if I’m not kept abreast?”

“It came from Mr. Devlin, sir,” said Trask. “You two have been in such close contact, I assumed you knew.”

“Well, I didn’t,” Kane snapped. “This is most irregular. The FBT building has never been closed. Ever.”

“I realize that, sir. The way Mr. Devlin described it, one final round of structural tests are required...vibration and frequency resonance or some such thing...and having the building unoccupied is the only way to effectively complete them.”

The explanation was unsatisfactory. “Why not conduct the tests at night, then?” he asked. “It’s a damn sight cheaper to evacuate a few security guards than to pay the entire workforce to loaf for three hours.”

“That’s just it, sir,” said Trask. “Expense. It seems it’s very costly to rent the testing equipment, particularly during off hours. Mr. Devlin showed me the numbers. As it turns out, evacuating the building between 8:00 and 11:00 AM actually saves $20,000.”

Kane grumbled. If Devlin said it was necessary, it probably was, and Trask’s rationale made sense. Still, the executive director was a creature of habit. Unpredictability upset him.

He pushed away from his desk. “All right, then,” he growled. “Eight to eleven it is.” Heading for the door, he stopped at the threshold.

“What about the Garrison woman?” he said.

Trask raised an eyebrow. “What about her?”

“Do we have to evacuate her, too?”

Trask pondered. “One woman and two men in the basement of a 24 story building?” he said. “I shouldn’t think that would interfere much with Devlin’s tests.”

Kane paused. “You’re right,” he said finally. “Probably not.”

1776 Wailuku Drive, Home of Puhi Okaoka Kapono, Hilo, HI -- 8:15 PM Hawaii Time

The rambling homes along Wailuku Drive date mostly from the early 20^th century, though some are older. Primarily white, built off the road and hidden behind tropical landscaping, they overlook the sparse traffic below, evoking the languid indolence of a bygone era.

Seated in a wicker chair on the broad veranda back of one such dwelling, Jim Garrison stared out at the gathering darkness, listening to the crickets along the bank of nearby Wailuku River. A screen door opened and closed behind him.

“May I offer you some herbal tea?” It was Kailikane Kapono, silhouetted by light from the room beyond, a frosty glass in either hand. Garrison took one.

“Your home reminds me of places I used to see as a kid in LA, where I grew up.”

“It’s been in my family forever,” said Kapono. “It belonged to my grandfather.”

Garrison remembered now of whom she spoke; the man who had died so dramatically on the steps of the Faber-Brady Trust building.

He took a sip of tea. Its flavor was rough and dark, redolent of roots and tubers. Swallowing, he inadvertently sucked a drop down his windpipe and coughed.

Kapono leaned forward in her chair. “Are you all right?” she asked.

“I...I’m OK,” Garrison said haltingly. “It’s just...”

“The tea is strong, I know.”

“I wasn’t expecting it, that’s all.”

“It’s good for your nerves.”

Garrison took another sip. “I’ve had kava before,” he said. “I can taste that flavor. What else is in here?”

“Nothing special,” Kapono said. “Just old family recipe.”

Kapono’s houseman opened the screen door. “Dinner is served, ma’am.”

“Drink up,” said Kapono. “After dinner we’ll discuss my proposal.”

ITO, Hilo International Airport, Hilo, HI -- 8:20 PM Hawaii Time

No one aboard Aloha Airlines flight 32 raised an eyebrow at the sight of an Asian man and a 4-year-old white child traveling together. Neither had anyone aboard flight 15 from Maui to Hilo. This was Hawaii, after all, the most all-inclusive racial melting pot on earth.

Just now, the pair were boarding a rent-a-car shuttle.

“Are we going to find my mommy now, Uncle Lewis?” the boy asked.

Lewis helped the boy up the steps. “Not tonight,” he said. “But soon.”

Decades ago, Foo had believed that the fate of his country hinged upon the political gesture he had been sent to make. Was that still true?

As decision time drew near, Foo’s ambivalence intensified. Like Shakespeare’s Hamlet, he faced a terrible choice and couldn’t make up his mind.

Home of Moses and Alana Pukuli, Pahoa Town, HI -- 8:30 PM Hawaii Time

Beyond the deck, outside Pukuli’s living room, the tempo of the drums escalated. Against their frenetic cadence, a troupe of professional dancers whirled, gyrated and spun, telling, via movement, the tale of the heroic ocean voyage that had brought the first people to Hawaii.

Inside, Inspector Frederick was still waiting for an answer to his question.

“To understand the great secret, the ‘nui huna,’” Katherine Stanford was saying, “you must first understand ancient Hawaiian concepts of position and status. As in all cultures, rank was important to Hawaiians. Highly placed individuals, after all, got the best food, the best land, the best fishing...the best of everything.

“Status was achieved in two ways: prowess in battle and marrying well. Fighting skill is self-explanatory. A good Hawaiian marriage, however, requires a bit of clarification.”

“Meaning?” Frederick said.

“Like ancient Egyptians, Inspector,” Stanford replied, “Hawaiians believed that the greatest status in marriage was achieved by the union of siblings. This was especially true in ali’i families...the nobility.”

“You mean they practiced incest,” said the inspector. Stanford nodded.

“But the practice stopped, didn’t it,” Janet said, “When American missionaries arrived?”

“For the most part, yes,” said Dr. Stanford. “So did hula and nudity...for the most part. By 1832, however, King Kamehameha’s last remaining son, Kauikeaouli, now calling himself Kamehameha III, had developed deep resentments against the missionaries, especially against a Honolulu minister, Hiram Faber and his two sons, Asa, and Andrew.”

“Faber?” said Frederick.

Dr. Stanford nodded. “Deborah Garrison’s direct ancestor, several generations back. Kamehameha III believed, and not without some justification, that Reverend Faber was conspiring against the monarchy.”

“In what way?”

Stanford waved her hand dismissively. “Democracy, democratic ideals, reforms...something like that. In any event, by way of undermining Faber’s influence, Kamehameha III issued a royal edict rescinding the ban on adultery. He also reinstated the hula and is even said to have forced alcohol on a group of Hawaiian Christians.”

“That must have ruffled some feathers,” said Moses.

“It did,” said Stanford. “So much so that, in 1835, Christian ali’i, the Hawaiian nobility, forced Kamehameha III to revoke his edict. Afterward he returned to the Christian fold. Before he capitulated, however, the king committed an act that, had the Christian ali’i known about it, might very well have cost him his throne.”

“What was that?” Joe Chow asked.

“He slept with his sister,” Stanford replied.

“Is that it?” said Frederick. “The king committed incest? Is that the nui huna?”

“Part of it, yes,” said Stanford.

“What’s the other part, then?”

Stanford stared at Frederick for a moment. “Their union had issue,” she said at last. “There was a child...a girl.”

The room fell silent. Outside, even the drums and dancing, having reached a climax, came to a sudden stop.

“Fearing that his daughter would generate political complications,” Stanford continued, “yet unwilling to have her banished or killed, Kamehameha III secretly gave her to a Big Island ali’i family. Concealing her true identity, that family raised her as their own.

“In time, the girl grew to womanhood. Defective in neither mind nor body, gifted, graceful and well-spoken, her charms became the stuff of legend. Suitors from all over the islands competed for her hand. At nineteen, she met and fell in love with a young American man from Honolulu and, in 1855, they married.”

Stanford fell silent. Frederick cleared his throat. The doctor looked at him. “Yes, Inspector?”

“I’m still waiting,” he said.

“For what, exactly?” Stanford asked.

“For the other shoe to drop,” Frederick replied. “What’s the punch line?”

“You mean you haven’t heard it yet?” Dr. Stanford said dryly, “Really, Inspector, you do surprise me. I was under the impression you were a detective.”

Frederick frowned. His eyes narrowed. For a long moment he appeared deep in thought. Then he looked up. His eyes locked on Stanford’s.

“Do you have it?” Stanford asked.

“The king’s daughter,” Frederick said. “Her name was Kailani?”

“Very good Inspector,” said Dr. Stanford. “Kailani Kanae. Now fill in the blanks.”

“The king’s daughter married one of Deborah Garrison’s ancestor’s sons.”

“Exactly. Kamehameha III’s daughter married Andrew Faber, the youngest son of the king’s enemy, Hiram Faber.”

“And it’s her children,” said Frederick, “Kailani Faber’s children who sit on the board of the Faber-Brady Trust?”

“Yes,” replied Stanford. “It’s her royal children who sit on that board.”

“Meaning,” Frederick said, “that the Hawaiian monarchy, had it survived to the present day, might very well have crowned another queen.”

“Precisely,” said Stanford. “Deborah the First.”

At that moment, commotion erupted outside. “Stop him!” someone shouted. A woman screamed.

Moses leapt from his seat and rushed to the window, the rest of the room close behind. Outside, Joshua Keona, fleet of foot for one his size, ducked and ran over the lawn, eluding three uniformed policemen. Then, on the stage, the Hawaiian band scattered as his brother, Caleb, vaulted up, scampered across and disappeared into the undergrowth beyond it.

Sergeant Wicks of Pahoa PD appeared at the living room entry. “Sorry about this, sir,” he said. “We were trying to do this discretely, but they saw us coming.”

“Who saw you, Sergeant?” said Moses. “What’s going on?”

“We found Dickley Hooper’s body, sir.”

“His body? Where?”

“In the tank of a MOPS truck, sir. It had been signed out to Caleb and Josh.”

Pukuli could not have looked more thunderstruck had he been hit by lightning. That guests, let alone ohana, would knowingly bring dishonor into his home was shocking.

But the Keona boys’ betrayal would not be the final bombshell of his evening.

Moving past Sgt. Wicks, came four others, led by a raw-boned man in a seersucker jacket.

“Congressman Pukuli,” he said. “I’m Agent Schmidt, FBI. Special Agent in Charge of Pacific Rim Security.”

“Schmidt?” he said. Moses glanced at Frederick.

Schmidt held up a freezer bag, bulging with Puna Pow. “Several kilos of this drug were found in a minivan parked nearby, sir. The vehicle belongs to you.”

“Several kilos...in my van? Now, hold on just a....”

A fifth man joined Schmidt and his team. He too, carried a bag of dope. “Sir,” he said to Schmidt. “This was in a drawer in the congressman’s study.”

Agent Schmidt took Pukuli by the arm. “Please come with me, sir.” He began leading Moses toward the door. Frederick and Congressman Chow dashed after him.

“I’ve known Moses Pukuli for over twenty years,” said Chow. “He’s no more a drug dealer than I am.”

Schmidt talked over his shoulder, never losing a step. “If I were you,” he replied, “I’d choose my friends a little more carefully. Not only have substantial quantities of a dangerous substance been discovered in this man’s possession, this afternoon, two of his employees brutally murdered a known supplier. If that’s not evidence of drug dealing, I don’t know what is.”

“Is that how Iggy Arnold would see it, Schmidt?” said Frederick. “Or Dickley Hooper?”

Schmidt stopped and eyed the inspector, then turned and continued outside. He put Pukuli in back of a car and came around to the driver’s side. Frederick was waiting for him.

“You and I both know Moses Pukuli had nothing to do with that dope,” he said.

“Really, Inspector?” said Schmidt. “How do I know that?”

“Because you planted those bags in Pukuli’s van. You set up those four dead distributors. You blew up Dickley Hooper’s shack. You tried to blow me up, too.”

“Those are pretty serious charges, Inspector. Got any proof?”

“I’m still looking.”

“Well,” said Schmidt, stepping closer, “while you’re looking, keep one eye on your back. You never know what might be coming up behind you.”

“You’ll never get away with this, Schmidt.”

Schmidt looked around. Moses Pukuli sat in the rear of his car. Caleb Keona was being led through a crowd. His brother, cuffed and ringed by agents, was right behind.

“Not going to get away with it?” said Schmidt. “Looks to me as though I already have.”

1776 Wailuku Drive, Home of Puhi Okaoka Kapono, Hilo, HI -- 9:45 PM Hawaii Time

Inside a paneled dining room, partially lit by candles, Kapono and Garrison sat opposite one another over dinner. Several times, Garrison questioned his hostess regarding his wife and child. Each time Kapono evaded the issue, Garrison became more restive.

His fingers began to tingle. He looked down at them and squeezed both fists tightly.

“Problem?” his hostess inquired.

Garrison shook his head. “It’s nothing,” he said. “Listen, I really must insist on hearing what you have to say about Deborah now.”

“Of course,” Kapono said.

“Where is she? And where’s my son?”

“As I said before, Mr. Garrison, I can’t say for sure. However, given recent events, I think I know who can.”

“Please, Ms Kapono. For the past week I’ve been dealing with one riddle after another. Talk plainly.”

“I’ll be as direct as I can, then. How much do you know about the Faber-Brady Trust?”

Garrison sighed. He was going to have to wade through some verbiage, whether he liked it or not. “Not much,” he said. “it’s some kind of charity my wife’s parents ran.”

“No, Mr. Garrison,” Kapono said. “It’s not a charity. It’s the last vestiges of the all the wealth that’s been stolen from the Hawaiian people.”

“What’s that got to do with me and my family?”

“Your wife and son are empowered to sit on the board that controls that fortune.”

Garrison’s hands continued to trouble him. He flexed them and wiggled his fingers.

“I didn’t know that,” he said. “But then, except for a few isolated facts, Deborah’s never said much about her family. If she and Noah are two out of three, who’s the third?” he asked.

“A man named Hubert Nachtmann, your wife’s cousin.”

“And if one of those three are not there, what happens to the board of directors?”

“They are legally dissolved.”

“And the money...”

“Becomes the responsibility of the Council of Kahunas.”

Until that moment, Garrison had not been aware that there was a rat in the room. Now he began to smell one. “Correct me if I’m wrong, Ms. Kapono,” he said, “but wasn’t your grandfather the head of an organization by that name?”

“Yes, Mr. Garrison,” she said, “and now I am. What of it? Don’t you think it’s proper that a resource owned by Hawaiians should be controlled by Hawaiians?”

Garrison paused, massaging an increasingly prickly piece of flesh on his forearm. “But Ms Kapono,” he said. “Deborah is Hawaiian. That much about her family, I do know.”

“No!” Kapono snapped. “She’s not Hawaiian.”

Garrison shook his head slowly. “She is, Ms Kapono, whether you agree or not. She has ancestors who were 100% Native Hawaiian. She loves this place.”

“How your wife feels, Mr. Garrison, is of no consequence. It’s what she is that matters. At best, she is a mongrel...a mongrel whose distant Hawaiian ancestors had the misfortune of being raped by predatory white people. She’s a haole, Mr. Garrison, just like you.”

“Ms. Kapono,” said Garrison, “you’re beginning to piss me o...” Garrison stopped short. A blaze of light flared before his eyes. “I’m feeling…strangely.”

“With all the tea you drank,” Kapono said. “I’d be very surprised if you weren’t.”

Garrison’s hands now refused to obey his commands. He was having difficulty distinguishing the arms of his chair from the arms of his body.

It was then that he came to a disturbing realization. “I can’t move.”

Kapono smiled. “I know,” she said.

Home of Moses and Alana Pukuli, Pahoa Town, HI -- 10:30 PM Hawaii Time

The Pukuli household was in uproar. Among their guests were scores of influential people eager to help Moses, but none had sufficient clout in the appropriate quarter.

The congressman’s attorney, too, was powerless. “FBI custody is to ordinary jail what the Gulag Archipelago is to high school detention,” he said. “And this isn’t just a simple drug charge. There’s a murder under investigation.”

Alana turned to her in-laws. “Surely, there must be something we can do,” she said.

Hannah placed her arm around Mrs. Pukuli’s shoulder. Frederick stood away, his face grim. “I have to go,” he said, turned and went.

Hannah called after him. “Hal?”

“Don’t worry, Hannah.”

He took Moses’ keys from the hall table and left. The Jeep Grand Cherokee was facing the road in the Pukuli’s drive. Frederick hit the keyless entry and reached for the door just a pair of passing high beams swept over the front of the vehicle and into his eyes. With a squeal of rubber, the beams stopped, pinning him in their glare.

Hand in front of his eyes he called out. “Who’s there?”

“Inspector?” It was a male voice.

“Maybe,” Frederick answered.

“Can we talk?”

“Only if you’ll turn those god damned lights off.”

Darkness.

Blinded, Frederick heard the slam of a car door followed by the crunch of advancing feet. Squinting, Frederick finally recognized a face.

“Wicks?” he said.

“Yes, sir.”

“What’s going on, Sergeant?”

Wicks came very close. “You left something back at the station,” he said quietly.

Frederick frowned. “There must be some mistake, Wicks,” he said. “I’ve never been to your station.”

“All the same,” said Wicks. “You’d better follow me.”

Pahoa Police Substation, Puna District, The Big Island, HI -- 10:50 PM Hawaii Time

There was just one 10 X 12 lockup in Pahoa Substation. Only once, when a busload of hard partying college students were arrested for disturbing the peace, did it ever hold more than four people. Tonight, however, holding but one man, it looked more crowded than ever.

Seated on a bunk, battered and bruised but big as ever, was Joshua Keona.

“What’s he doing here?” said Frederick. “I thought Schmidt had him.”

“For a while,” Wicks replied. “He broke free and we had to fetch him back. Took six guys to bring him down.”

“OK,” said Frederick, “Fine. Now, what am I doing here?”

“He wants to talk to you. Said he’d go quietly if he could see you first.”

“What does Agent Schmidt say about all this?” Frederick asked.

“Fuck Schmidt.” Wicks pulled a ring of keys out of a lock box, strode to the cage and opened it. Frederick walked in. The main source of light in the cell was behind the prisoner, and largely hidden by his bulk. The inspector’s head poked up out of the gloom. The rest of his body stayed in Keona’s shadow.

“You wanted to see me?” the inspector said.

Keona looked up. “Yeah,” he said. “I want to tell you something.”

“I’m listening.”

“I wanted to tell you that you were right.”

“That’s nice,” said Frederick. “What am I right about?”

“Everything you said in the van...when we were coming back from the airport...all that stuff was dead on.”

“Like?”

“Like about somebody with clout keeping those drug dealers out of trouble.”

“No kidding,” said the inspector. “Who was doing it?”

“Schmidt. He’s the one.”

“And you know this how?”

“Kailikane Kapono.”

Frederick’s brow furrowed. “OK,” he said. “I’ll bite. How does she know?”

“She just does, that’s all. The FBI’s one of her things. She used to say that all Hawaii’s problems could be spelled out in six letters: FBI and FBT.”

“The Faber-Brady Trust?”

“Yeah,” said Joshua. “That’s why she picked us...me and Caleb...because of the Trust.”

“Say that again, slowly,” Frederick said. “I’m not from around here.”

“My brother and I…when we were sixteen we planted a homemade bomb in the FBT building. We never set it off. We got cold feet and called the cops.”

“And?”

“Old man Kane put on pressure to get us tried as adults...wanted to set an example. When we were sent up for fifteen years, everybody went nuts, crying miscarriage of justice and falling all over each other to help out. That’s when Kailikane Kapono started coming to see us in Youth Correctional.”

“I’m not quite with you.”

“It took ten years for me to see it. While all the other people we knew, our family, our teachers, the Pukuli’s...all those people were trying to get us out, Kailikane wanted to keep us in....to be a symbol for oppressed Hawaiians.”

“She actually said that?”

“Not in so many words, but she blew a lot of smoke. She said other things.”

“Like?”

“Like what big heroes we were. Like how there were grown men too scared to do what we did. Like how there were thousands of Hawaiians looking to us to fight for sovereignty.”

“And you bought it?”

“We were kids. She was a grown-up.”

“Not to mention a babe,” said Frederick.

“Yeah. And she convinced us. So whenever the parole board asked if we were sorry for what we did...”

“You said ‘no?’”

Joshua nodded. “That kept us inside.”

“And you figure you were set up as martyrs, is that it?”

“Of course we were, and we knew it, even then. But we believed in Kailikane. We were willing to do what she said. We thought she was a freedom fighter…like Che or somebody.”

“You don’t think that anymore?”

“Look at me, brah. I just got out of jail and now I’m going back. She used me. She used Caleb. And she’s not finished.”

“What do you mean?”

“She’s got something up her sleeve, that’s all I know.”

“Then you don’t know enough,” said Frederick.

“It’s the press conference tomorrow.”

“What about it?”

“Before I came to the airport to pick you up, she called me. She told me she was holding that press conference. She said Caleb and I had to be there.”

“Did she say why?”

“No, but it was creepy, man. She was talking the same way she used to talk when we were inside. She’s up to something. I know it.”

Sgt. Wicks came to the cell door with three uniformed officers. Wicks himself was wearing tennis shoes, jeans, and a black t-shirt. Over his shoulder, was a nylon rucksack. “Time’s up,” he said. “We gotta get him to Hilo.”

Keona took Frederick by his sleeve. “Do something,” he said. “Caleb and I already spent ten years inside for nothing. She’s gotta pay.”

“Maybe,” the inspector said, “but what’s right and what happens aren’t always the same thing, Keona. You might want to give that a little thought over the next couple of decades.”

Frederick stepped outside, giving Wicks’ civvies the once-over. “Going home, Sergeant?”

“No,” Wicks replied. “I’m going with you.”

“Where am I going?”

“I don’t know,” said Wicks, “but if I hadn’t stopped you, you’d be there already.”

Frederick scratched his head. “OK, Sergeant,” he said. “But first, I need a favor.”

“What’s that?”

“Tell your men to keep Keona here for another half hour before heading to Hilo.”

The sergeant’s frowned for a moment. “All right,” he said, nodding toward his men. “Where are we headed?”

“Us?” said Frederick. “Oh, we’re going to Hilo, too.”

Highway 130, near Old Cemetery Road, Pahoa, HI – 11:30 PM Hawaii Time

The Pukulis’ Jeep rolled up to the intersection of Pahoa Village Road and Highway 130, slowing briefly before turning left. Wicks was behind the wheel.

“Where to?” he asked.

“Hilo.”

“I know that,” he said. “Where in Hilo?”

“I’ll tell you later.

“Look,” Wicks said, “I’m not interested in picking your brain, Inspector. All I want to know is, what’s going down when we get there?”

“Hard to say.”

“Are we going to need firepower? Yes or no.”

Frederick studied the sergeant’s profile. “Couldn’t hurt,” he said.

“All right, then.” Wicks pointed a thumb over his shoulder. “Rucksack. Back seat.”

The nylon carrier bag was a good deal heavier than it looked. Frederick grunted as he hoisted it onto his lap. He unzipped the sack and whistled. Two PX4 Storm Berettas gleamed in the dashboard light. Alongside lay two extra clips and eight boxes of hollow point 9mm ammo. “Holy crap,” said Frederick. “You declaring war?”

“Better to have it and not need it than the other way around,” Wicks said.

Frederick picked up one of the weapons and checked the safety. “These suckers loaded?”

“Seventeen plus one apiece,” said Wicks.

The inspector made a sputtering sound with his lips. Most Berettas carried fifteen rounds, many only ten. “That ought to do it,” he said. “Seventeen in the mag and one in the chamber. That should do fine.”

“Do what?”

Frederick looked across the front seat. “I thought you didn’t want to pick my brain.”

“That was before you started talking to yourself. Now I’m worried.”

“You seem like a well-informed individual,” said Frederick. “Tell me something. Where’s the FBI field office in Hawaii?”

“Honolulu.”

“Right. And how many satellite offices does Honolulu oversee?”

“In the state?” Wicks asked. Frederick nodded. “Two, I think,” he said.

“Right again. Each satellite is manned by three agents. Where’s the closest one to Pahoa?”

The sergeant’s features grew wary. Frederick could see his eyes darting around. When he spoke again, he spoke slowly. “It’s in Maui,” he said.

“Yes,” said Frederick. “It’s in Maui. On another island.”

Frederick yawned. They rode along in silence for almost thirty seconds.

“All right,” Wicks said. “You got me. So it’s in Maui. So what?”

“Call me paranoid, Wicks,” said Frederick, “but doesn’t it strike you as odd that the nearest three-man FBI office is over a hundred miles away, on a whole other island, and yet Agent Schmidt was still able to mount a spur-of-the-moment six-man offense against Moses Pukuli’s house?”

Wicks hesitated for a beat or two. “Fuck...shit...piss...god damn it!” He slapped the steering wheel for emphasis with each curse. “I thought there was something screwy about those guys. They aren’t FBI, are they?”

Frederick shook his head. “Uh-uh,” he said. “They sure aren’t.”

“But Schmidt is. I saw his badge and ID.”

“No matter. Whoever he is, it doesn’t change what has to be done.”

“What?”

“We gotta get Moses out of there, Sergeant. Caleb Keona, too. Otherwise, they’re as good as dead. Problem is, I have no idea where they are.”

Wicks said nothing. Frederick turned sideways in his seat. “That leaves just one question, Wicks: Knowing everything you now know, are you willing to take me where I need to go?”

Wicks swallowed hard. Doing as the inspector asked meant putting his career on the line. As armchair speculation, Frederick’s theory sounded good, but it wasn’t a sure thing. If Wicks took a chance and lost, it could cost him everything.

“I’m a third generation cop, Inspector. I’ve got twelve years on the force. I just passed my exams. I could make detective any day now.” A long pause. “I’m married, too...I’ve got kids, for Christ sake.” Wicks took a deep breath and blew it out with a groan. “Shit,” he said. “All right, god damn it, all right. I’m in. I’ll take you.”

Frederick looked away, then reached across the seat and patted the sergeant’s shoulder. “You know, Wicks,” he said. “I’ve got to hand it to you. When you make detective you’re gonna be one hell of an interrogator.”

“Just shut up, will you?”

“No, seriously. When we first started out I did not want to tell you where we were going. It’s amazing how you got it out of me.”

Wicks rolled his eyes. “Fuck you, Frederick.”

Forty-five minutes later, on the outskirts of Hilo, the Jeep slowed. Off Highway 11 lay an uneven dirt road. Wicks turned onto it, immediately disappearing beneath the overhanging trees and onto a jarring patch of rough road. Twice, Frederick’s seatbelt was all that kept him from ramming into the headliner.

He shouted to make himself heard over the rattling undercarriage. “Did you know about this road before coming out here tonight?” he asked.

“Oh, sure,” said Wicks, also shouting. “A buddy of mine used to live around here.”

“And you actually believed an FBI facility was located here?”

Wicks looked sheepish. “They said it was a safe house,” he said.

“Right,” the inspector said. “How much further?”

“A couple of hundred yards, around the next turn.”

Frederick pointed toward the roadside. “Douse your lights and pull over.”

Wicks came to a stop and killed the engine. Silently, the two policemen checked their weapons. Frederick stuck an extra clip in his pocket. Wicks did the same.

“Listen up, Wicks,” said Frederick. “Put Schmidt’s badge out of your mind. He may be FBI, but as far as we’re concerned, he’s just another bad guy. You good?”

“I’m good.”

“All right, then. One: stay alive. Two: keep the hostages alive. Three: neutralize the bad guys.”

Wicks’ grunted.

“What kind of neighborhood is this?” Frederick asked.

“Old time islanders,” said Wicks. “Blue collar, but not many of them. About one house for every three acres.”

“What kind of structures? Big? Little? Wood? Stucco?”

“Little...one bedroom,” Wicks replied. “Wood frame bungalows.”

“OK,” said Frederick. “Here’s how it’s going to go: we reconnoiter, locate the hostages and identify points of entry. If there’s one entry, we go in together. Two entries, front and back, means I take the front.”

“If you’re in front and I’m in back, how will I know when to go?”

“Don’t worry, you’ll know,” said Frederick. “One more thing: the odds going in are three to one against. I’m not looking for a bloodbath here, but when I say neutralize...”

“Don’t worry,” Wicks said, raising his Beretta. “I understand. Shouldn’t we take some extra rounds?”

Frederick shook his head. “If seventy-two slugs won’t get this done, a thousand more won’t make any difference.” He reached for the overhead switch and disabled the dome light, eased his door open and stepped out on the dirt.

The moon had begun to rise. Still, under the heavy foliage, darkness hung heavily.

Frederick tapped his chest and signaled that he would take the point. Wicks nodded and waved him forward, following a few feet behind down the path.

As they rounded the bend, window light began appearing through the bushes ahead, outlining the low-lying roof of a small, cottage. Frederick signaled to Wicks. Wicks advanced north, through the brush and toward the near end of the house. Frederick remained on the road, heading northeast to its far side.

Coming to within 75 feet, the inspector could just make out the shape of the building. Not quite square and fronted by a long, narrow porch, it sat dead center of an unkempt clearing. Frederick turned off the road, approaching it slowly, checking his footfalls lest he snap a twig or brush an overhanging branch.

Drawing closer, he began hearing noises from within; voices, laughter and the occasional clink of a glass. A radio played quietly.

At the edge of the clearing, Frederick stopped behind a clump of ferns. From there, twenty feet from the bungalow’s northeast corner, he could see four windows. One faced east, three south.

Two of the windows looked out of a corner dining area. Through the glass, Frederick saw the backs and arms of two men wearing shoulder holsters, leaning over a table top. One wore a blue shirt, the other green. They were playing cards. From their positions, he guessed that at least two other players were sitting out of sight, opposite them.

The card player in green was talking to someone across the room, saying something about a ukulele. Of the prisoners, nothing could be seen, nor was Agent Schmidt in sight.

To Frederick’s left, leaves rustled faintly as some tiny creature broke cover and scurried deeper into the underbrush. The inspector turned and looked toward the sound.

Twelve yards away, Wicks stood near the opposite corner. He held up two fingers and pointed toward a window on the far side of the building. He had located Moses and Caleb.

Frederick held up a hand, signaling “wait,” then hunched over and duck-walked six paces to the left, rising near the trunk of a coconut palm. He peered up and over through the first of the southern facing windows. He’d been right. Two more card players sat at the dining room table. Cigarette smoke rose over the head of the third man. The fourth man poured himself a shot of something and knocked it back.

“Aaaa-chooo!” A loud, belly-busting sneeze exploded nearby. Startled, Frederick turned as a figure emerged from the edge of the bungalow, just eight feet away. The man stopped to sneeze again. Had he not, the inspector would surely have been seen. By the third sneeze, Frederick was in the dirt.

Across the lot, Wicks froze.

From his new vantage point on the ground, Frederick squinted through the underbrush as the sneezer kicked around in the weeds near the bungalow’s foundation, then stomped up the steps and opened the door.

“Hey, Flip,” he said. “Were you bullshitting me? I can’t see no ukulele out here.”

Raucous laughter broke out around the card table.

“Ukulele?” someone whooped. “What a dumb ass.”

“There’s no ukulele, you stupid fuck.”

The sneezer grumbled something, banged the door closed and tramped over the porch to the far corner. Jerkily, he fished a pack of smokes from his shirt pocket and lit up. For almost a minute, he stood there, leaning on the rail, blowing smoke and muttering under his breath.

Then, abruptly, he flicked his cigarette into the yard and stormed back into the bungalow, throwing back the door to stand just inside the entry.

“Apologize for that,” he said.

“Oh, Christ,” someone said, “now you’ve done it. You’ve hurt his feelings.”

Between the sneezer’s legs, Frederick could see straight through the interior. On the far wall was a rear entry. He slid backward on his belly in the dirt, stood up and signaled to Sgt. Wicks: “Go. Circle around.” Wicks was gone before his hands stopped moving. Frederick gave him a five count, then made his move.

More nimbly than age would seem to allow, he bounded up the steps and through the doorway, raised the Beretta and hammered the back of the sneezer’s head. The man’s legs buckled under him. He fell forward, caromed off the table and collapsed.

“Police! Freeze!” The green shirted gambler dropped his cards. “I said freeze, god damn it.” The man’s hand flinched. Frederick’s Beretta swung toward him. “Don’t do it!”

“Do it, Flip!” said a voice in the next room. “Do it now!” It was Schmidt.

For a moment, time stopped. Then, from outside, Wicks kicked open the back door. The spell was broken.

Flip went for his gun, overturning the table in front of him. The three others scattered. Wicks and Frederick opened fire, the sound of their shots like one long roar.

Flip’s body instantly vanished beneath a pile of kindling that used to be furniture. Two of his comrades withered where they stood. The third man fired two random shots before multiple hits from both Berettas ploughed him into a corner.

Bullets from the next room tore chunks of plaster from the wall near Frederick’s head. He hit the floor, scrambling for cover.

“God damn you, Frederick!” Schmidt shouted. “I told you to stay out of this, but you wouldn’t listen. Now four FBI agents are dead!”

From where he squatted, hunched behind a bookcase beside the entrance to Schmidt’s stronghold, the inspector could see Wicks’ reaction. Flattened against the opposite wall, his head jerked in Frederick’s direction, his face twisted with shock.

“You said these guys were fakes, Frederick.”

Frederick winced and held up his hand, silently trying to calm the sergeant with gestures and facial expressions.

“Who’s that?” Agent Schmidt called out. “Wicks? Is that you?”

Wicks said nothing, his eyes still on Frederick.

“Sergeant?” said Schmidt.

Frederick shook his head and placed a finger over his lips.

Wicks hesitated. “What?” he said.

“Listen to me, Sergeant,” said Schmidt. “Don’t be a fool.”

Schmidt was stalling for time, but why? Out of the corner of his eye, Frederick saw a moving reflection cross a pane of glass in the dining room window. Before he could look up, it was gone. When he spoke again, the tone of his voice seemed to have changed.

“This man Frederick...he’s a loose cannon. His own commanding officer says so.”

A long shadow fell across the floorboards from the room beyond. Frederick suddenly realized that it wasn’t the tone of Schmidt’s voice that had changed, but its location.

“Don’t let him destroy your career, too.”

At the first of two brittle clicks, Frederick sprang from behind the bookcase.

“Down, Wicks! Down!” he shouted.

Wicks dropped to the floor, but not before a bullet from Schmidt’s single action revolver ripped through the wall behind him. Frederick dove at the doorway, his Beretta blazing. Schmidt spun around and cocked his weapon. That was as far as he got. Four of Frederick’s hollow point slugs pounded into the agent’s chest. He hit the wall and slid downward, smearing the plaster behind him like a broad, bloody brush.

Frederick lay still for a moment, then regained his feet, replacing his hat and brushing dirt from his trousers and shirtfront. Wicks, holding his arm, emerged through the smoke to stand beside him.

“Inspector,” he said. “I don’t know what to say.”

Frederick reached out and pulled Wicks’ hand away from his injury. It was slight. “Not counting this one,” he said, “how many fire fights have you been in, Wicks?”

“None,” the sergeant replied.

“Don’t worry about it, then,” he said. “You did good.”

From outside came the oscillating red, blue and white flash of a light bar and the crackling honk of a bullhorn. “You! You in there! This is the police. Put down your weapons and come out with your hands up.”

The inspector glanced over his shoulder. “Not only that,” he said, “but you’ve taught your men the most important element of law enforcement.”

“What’s that, Inspector?”

“Timing,” said Frederick. “Go give them the all clear. I’ll get Moses.”

Pukuli and Caleb Keona lay side-by-side on the floor of an adjoining room, bound and gagged, their heads wrapped in pillowcases.

Frederick pulled his brother-in-law into a sitting position and began cutting him loose. His hands free and gag removed, Moses massaged his wrists.

“Thank God you came. They were gonna kill us and make it look like an escape attempt.”

“I knew there was something hinky about those guys the first time I laid eyes on them.”

“You did?” said Moses. “Why in heaven’s name didn’t you say something?”

“Take a look in the next room, Mo,” Frederick replied, “then ask me that.”

Sgt. Wicks and another officer appeared in the doorway. “You were right,” Wicks said. “None of those guys had FBI ID. They did have these, though.”

Frederick reached out and took a plastic card from Wicks’ hand. On it was a photograph of the green-shirted gambler, identifying him as Phillip Crandall, security consultant. On the reverse side of the card was a magnetic stripe and the words “Property of Faber-Brady Trust.”

“If I remember right,” Frederick said, “one of those goons is still alive.”

“Yeah,” said Wicks. “The one you clocked on your way in. Still laying there like a lox.”

“Get him some medical attention, will you Wicks? I’ll be in touch.” He looked down. “Come on, Moses,” he said. “We’ve got stuff to do.”

Chapter Seven
Wednesday, April 14, 1993

Trade Wind Towers Apartments, Hilo, HI – 1:30 AM Hawaii Time

The scales were falling from Nachtmann’s eyes. Within the past few hours, dreams he had nurtured most of his life had begun withering under the ruthless glare of reality.

More painful than losing the fantasy, however, was the reason for its loss: Deborah Garrison did not love him. Among her finest feelings for him was pity; among her basest, revulsion. Neither did she share his ambition, as he had persuaded himself she did. Of that, he was now convinced.

In short, virtually every idea he had ever harbored about Deborah Faber Garrison had been either exaggerated, ill-conceived or just plain wrong.

Worst of all, to his everlasting shame, he had allied himself with the enemies of a woman he idolized and, through that alliance, had caused her untold misery and unhappiness.

It was for all those reasons, just seconds before the late night knock at his apartment door, that Hubert Nachtmann came to a decision which was to alter the lives of so many. It was upon answering that knock, moreover, that a means of acting on his decision began to take shape.

A slightly puffy man carrying a brown paper bag stood on Nachtmann’s doorstep. “How do you do?” he said. “I hope you’ll forgive the lateness of the hour.”

Nachtmann squinted into the darkness. Not much in the habit of receiving visitors at any hour, he hesitated. He knew he’d never seen this fellow before, yet there was something oddly familiar about him.

The stranger smiled. “I understand your uncertainty,” he said. “We’ve never actually met, but we have spoken on the phone a number of times. May I come in?”

It was at that moment that Nachtmann recognized the man’s reedy drawl. It was the blackmailer, the man whose photos had secured him his job at FBT and at whose request he had assassinated Dr. Crockett. He stood aside and held open the door.

“Of course, Devlin,” he said. “Come in.”

“From what I hear on the news, Mr. Nachtmann,” Devlin said, taking a seat on a sofa, “it seems that congratulations are in order.”

“Congratulations?” Nachtmann said, sitting down in an armchair opposite.

“Why, yes,” the man said, “on your appointment to the FBT board of directors.”

Nachtmann shrugged dismissively. “Oh,” he said, “that.”

“An unexpected turn of events,” said Devlin. “Most surprising.”

“You’re surprised?” Nachtmann said. “It isn’t exactly what I had in mind, either.”

Devlin nodded sympathetically. “Fortunately though, it doesn’t affect your ability to complete our transaction,” he said. “In fact, it rather enhances it.”

Nachtmann blinked several times before coming to understand. He’d completely forgotten that he owed his guest one final favor in accordance with the terms of their agreement.

Devlin placed the paper bag he’d been carrying on the coffee table between them. Nachtmann opened it. Inside was a small electronic device, a green circuit board. Dangling from its back were two electrical wires, one red and one black.

“What’s this?” Nachtmann asked.

“The business end of a wireless switch.”

“To what?”

“A detonator, Mr. Nachtmann,” said Devlin “wired to a series of explosive devices on the superstructure of the Faber-Brady Trust.”

In his present state of mind, the fact that Devlin had just announced his intention to destroy Hilo’s largest building hardly made a ripple in Nachtmann’s consciousness. He went right past it, to the next logical question. “What am I supposed to do with it?” he said.

“Why, what do you think?” Devlin replied. “Help me set it off, of course.”

“Why me?” Nachtmann said. “You said yourself, it’s already wired to detonate the explosives. Anyone could activate it. You don’t need me.”

Devlin smiled slightly. “You don’t understand,” he said. “What I’m looking for, in this instance, is a bit of poetry.”

Nachtmann only stared. Poetry, he thought. What in God’s name was the man talking about? Devlin seemed to anticipate his confusion.

“Let me explain,” he said. “While, as you say, it would be possible for anyone to flip the switch that destroys the Faber-Brady Trust, my associates and I have become sentimentally attached to the notion of reserving that honor for a particular person.”

“Really?” said Nachtmann. “Who?”

“Kane.”

Nachtmann’s eyes narrowed.

“Kane is dedicating a fountain tomorrow morning at FBT plaza,” said Devlin. “What we have in mind is wiring the device to the switch that turns it on. In your capacity as head of security, no one would think twice about your taking a moment to inspect the switch prior to the ceremony, would they?”

Nachtmann’s heart began to race. He took a deep breath to calm himself. “No, you’re right,” he said. “No one would give it a second thought.”

Devlin smiled. For one or two minutes more, he remained seated. His lips moved and sounds came out. Occasionally, he muttered in agreement or nodded as if following what Devlin was saying. But he wasn’t following along. Not at all.

In all his life, nothing so beautifully fortuitous had ever happened to him. The serendipity of the thing was breathtaking. Without so much as lifting a finger, Nachtmann had stumbled upon a means of accomplishing the most difficult of the two Herculean tasks he’d just set for himself. It was an astonishing turn of events.

When Devlin excused himself and stood to go, Nachtmann did not bother getting up to see him out. He was too busy ruminating.

I imagined it and it happened, Nachtmann thought. It’s a sign, an omen. I’m on the right track at last. This is what I was born to do.

1776 Wailuku Drive, Home of Puhi Okaoka Kapono, Hilo, HI -- 2:00 AM Hawaii Time

Jim Garrison lay helpless in a bed in on the top floor of Kailikane Kapono’s home. He was unbound yet, however much he tried, he was powerless over the effects of the drugs. He still couldn’t move.

At 2:00 AM, Kailikane came into the room. She placed an arm behind his head and held a glass to his lips. “Drink this,” she said. Garrison complied. It was impossible to do otherwise.

“Why are you doing this?” he asked afterward, his voice cracking.

“Still curious after all you’ve been through, Mr. Garrison? You must have a remarkable constitution.”

“What do you expect to gain, keeping me here?”

“Besides preventing you from going to the aid of your wife, I haven’t given the matter much thought. Still, I suppose there might be some propaganda benefit to be gained. I could have you renounce her.”

“I’d never do that.”

“Under the right circumstances, Mr. Garrison, you’d be surprised what people will do. No one who knew my grandfather, for example, would have ever thought he might someday commit suicide. Certainly he didn’t think so, right up until the moment he actually did it.”

A look of horror crossed Garrison’s face.

“You’re surprised, Mr. Garrison?” said Kapono. “What shocks you? That I would sacrifice a member of my own family for this cause?”

Garrison stared.

“I see it does,” she said. “Good. You can imagine, then, how comparatively easy it would be for me to sacrifice members of someone else’s family...yours, for instance.”

Kapono’s houseman came to the door. “Mr. Devlin is here, ma’am,” he announced.

“I’ll be right down.”

Garrison listened to Kapono’s receding footsteps.

The drink he had just taken was different, sugary and medicinal. He began feeling drowsy. In spite of himself, he drifted off to sleep.

Then, suddenly, he jerked awake, rolling his head from side to side and gasping. If I stay asleep, he thought, I will never see my family again.

He looked at the clock. It was 2:15. Unconscious for only a short time, he’d awakened feeling changed. Though sluggish and languid, he felt nonetheless, freer. Could it be that, while plunging him into sleep, the sedative was also suppressing the effects of Kapono’s other drugs?

Testing the theory was the work of a moment. He swung his legs over the bedside. While it was painful and slow in the doing, he could move again. He put his feet on the floor.

Unsteadily, Garrison made his way to the door and tried the knob. It turned. So confident had Kapono been in her concoctions, she had left it unlocked. He opened the door a crack, then closed it quickly. From outside, a man’s footsteps ascended the stairway and passed down the hall.

The houseman.

He held his breath and waited. A few seconds later, from the opposite direction, the same footsteps passed again, this time, by the sound, descending stairs. Garrison opened the door, looked around and, weaving slightly, stepped out.

An Oriental rug ran down the center of the hallway toward the staircase to his left. Muffled voices drifted up from the lower floor. Leaning on the wall for support, Garrison tip-toed toward the sound. At the head of the stairs, he stopped.

Below him was the central hall of the first floor. The entry to the parlor, where Kapono now entertained her guest, was just barely visible. Light from within spilled out onto a small square of carpet. The muffled voices grew more distinct.

Garrison took few cautious steps down the staircase. When he reached the third stair, the houseman, carrying an empty tray, suddenly appeared in the hallway. Garrison froze. The houseman passed just a few feet below, never looking up.

At the foot of the stairway was a coat closet. He broke for it, ducking inside just as the houseman emerged from the pantry, bearing two glasses and a decanter.

From the parlor came the gurgle of pouring wine and the clink of glassware.

“To Jericho,” said a male voice.

“May the walls come tumbling down,” Kapono replied.

Through some freak of acoustics, their voices rang clear.

Garrison heard the houseman speaking. “With your permission, Ms. Kapono,” he said, “I’d like to retire.”

“Of course, Steven.”

Footfalls passed nearby. For a few moments thereafter, all was quiet.

Kapono broke the silence. “It’s amazing, isn’t it?” she said.

“I know,” Devlin replied. “Things couldn’t have worked out better if we’d planned them this way.”

“You’re sure it was Deborah Garrison being locked in that basement room?” she asked.

“As sure as we’re standing here,” said Devlin. “And, less than eight hours from now, when the FBT building collapses, she’ll be underneath it.”

“Not only that, Nachtmann’s fingerprints will be all over the switch that made it happen.”

“Two out of three,” said Devlin.

“And one to go,” Kapono replied.

As their glasses clinked, Garrison choked with rage. He would have given almost anything for the satisfaction of bursting from the darkness and avenging their arrogance, then and there.

Almost anything.

He eased the closet door open and looked down the hallway, then slipped through the kitchen and out the back door.

Hawaii Belt Road, Hilo, HI – 2:10 AM Hawaii Time

Frederick pulled off the road near Makaala Street, glancing at a map briefly before driving on. Moses yawned beside him.

“Can’t we at least find some coffee?” he said.

“Later.”

“What’s the hurry? It’s the middle of the night, for Christ’s sake.”

The inspector checked the rear view mirror, then signaled a left turn at Molana Place. “I don’t get it, Mo,” he said. “A couple of hours ago, you were a bullet hole away from death. Now you need a nap.”

“I don’t get you, either,” Moses replied. “When’s the last time even closed your eyes?”

Frederick slowed beside an apartment complex, squinted at the sign out front, then threw the Jeep into reverse, backing down the street toward the driveway. “It’s a little thing called adrenalin, Mo. I’m on the scent. I don’t need sleep.”

Pukuli gazed skyward, addressing the gods. “Two billion men in the world,” he grumbled. “My sister falls in love with a hunting dog.”

Built courtyard-style with entries facing a central parking lot, the complex rose four stories, sixteen units per floor. Lights shone from a few scattered windows. Most were dark. Even through the gloom, the property showed its age.

Moses looked around as they rolled through the lot. “What a dump,” he said. “Are you sure this is the place?”

“513 Molana Place,” said Frederick. “Trade Wind Towers Apartments.” He nodded his head to the right and pointed. “And it looks like the tenant in 115 is up late.”

“It may not be him, you know,” Moses said. “He could have moved. The last time old man Kapono contacted this guy was over two years ago.”

Frederick swung into a space between an old van and a Chevy station wagon. Sixty feet to the rear, the lights inside 115 shone through the curtains. “I don’t think so,” he said, cutting the engine. “From what I read in his file, Nachtmann’s a man on a mission. Guys like that don’t move around much. It’s a waste of their time.”

Pukuli peered over his shoulder. “Don’t be so sure,” he said. “If that’s him, he’s moving pretty good now.”

The entry to 115 now stood open. Directly opposite the doorway, in the nearest parking space, a tall, red-haired man inserted a key into the passenger-side door of a Pontiac Firebird. Over one shoulder hung a rifle sling. He laid it on the seat, closed the door and went back in the apartment. The lights went out. Moments later, the man came out again, closed and locked the unit door and got into his car.

The Firebird backed up, cut its wheels sharply and headed down the row of parked cars toward Moses’ Jeep. Frederick put his hand on his brother-in-law’s shoulder.

“Get down,” he whispered. Hunched over, he angled for a look at the plates. “JGX 740,” he said. “John, George, X-ray, 7, 4, 0. You got a phone, Moses?”

“No, damn it.”

Frederick puffed out his cheeks and looked down the line of cars toward the exit. The Firebird was just pulling out.

“Nothing else for it, then,” he said. “We’re gonna have to follow him.”

“Hope it’s the right guy,” said Moses.

Frederick pulled away, keeping his headlamps dark.

Kamehameha Blvd at Kalanikoa, Hilo, HI – 3:15 AM Hawaii Time

He still wasn’t wearing socks, his trousers were torn and he hadn’t shaved for a week. Fortunately for Garrison, homelessness was not entirely unknown on the Big Island. So long as he kept moving, he remained invisible.

For the past hour he’d trudged steadily eastward, down the palm-lined streets leading away from the Boiling Pots Area toward Hilo Bay. With every step, his head grew clearer. With every breath, his anger intensified.

He had done nothing to Kailikane Kapono, to Agent Schmidt or the Faber-Brady Trust. He had hurt no one. Neither had Deborah. Certainly Noah was innocent. And yet all three of them were being persecuted. He no longer cared why. He was determined to make it stop.

Now, at the intersection of Kamehameha Blvd. and Kalanikoa, he could finally see his destination. A little over a mile in the distance, lit from above and below, stood the granite and glass premises of the Faber-Brady Trust.

Stop ‘n Go Gas, Kinoole Street near Haili, Hilo, HI – 3:45 AM Hawaii Time

The Firebird meandered back and forth across Hilo. Its first port of call was a fast food drive-thru. Then it cruised down Saddle Road to Mohouli Street, crossing on Kilauea, finally winding up on Saddle Road again. Presently, its driver was filling the tank at a self-serve gas station.

Moses leaned his arm out the open window and stared across the street, drumming his fingers on the door frame. “Do you think he made us?”

The inspector paused before answering. “Who knows?”

Moses nodded. “Yeah, right. This time of night, two cars on the streets of Hilo is practically a parade.”

Frederick’s head swung to the right. “Hey, Mo,” he said, pointing toward a small motor lodge. “There’s a phone on that motel wall. Go call Pahoa PD. Get them to run a make on those plates.”

Pukuli opened his door while peering across the street.

Meanwhile, the driver finished filling up and went inside the attendant’s kiosk. Frederick watched.

By the time Moses hung up, the red-haired man had finished paying and returned to his car. The Jeep swayed as Moses climbed inside and slammed his door.

At the station, the Firebird rumbled to life. It rolled forward, looking, at first, as if it were returning to the street. Then it stopped, turned and headed for the tunnel of the station’s automated car wash.

“What’d you find out?” Frederick asked.

“It’s not Nachtmann...at least it’s not his car.”

“Whose, then?”

“Belongs to someone named Dudgeons...Anthony Dudgeons.”

Frederick whistled. “Holy shit.”

The nose of the Firebird was just entering the car wash tunnel. Looking over, Frederick could just see another vehicle, still dripping, leaving the tunnel by means of a narrow side street behind the station. In anticipation of the Pontiac’s departure, he threw the Jeep in gear and pulled into the mouth of the alley. Within a minute, the Firebird rolled back into sight.

Thirty seconds later, it hadn’t moved.

“Taking his time, isn’t he?” Moses said.

Frederick pulled up next to the Firebird and squinted inside. No one was behind the wheel. It was empty.

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Consulate of the People’s Republic of China, San Francisco, CA -- 3:15 PM PST

If traffic around Japantown was congested, parking was worse. Wingate circled the block twice and was heading around for a third time when he saw a space open up on the north side of Geary. He wheeled around and grabbed it, then got out and fed the meter. Perfect, he thought. The Chinese Consulate is right across the street. He went to the crosswalk, pressed the ped-xing button and stood at the curb, waiting for the light to change.

Making enquiries into an off-limits investigation in full view of the entire precinct had been nerve-wracking. Wingate was also getting hungry. He’d decided to combine his lunch break with an on-site visit to the consulate. The light changed, he crossed Geary and went inside the building.

A guard directed him to the office of public affairs. Seated facing the far wall, his back to the door and staring into a computer screen was a Mr. L. Kwan, or so said the sign on his desk. Mr. Kwan was deeply engrossed in something and evidently unaware that he had a visitor. Wingate cleared his throat. Kwan leaped straight up and spun around like a man on a tilt-a-whirl.

“How can I help you?” Kwan said, his voice unsteady. Wingate glanced over the man’s shoulder, toward the computer screen. Kwan was checking his stock portfolio.

“I’m looking into a request for a vehicle tow that came from here early Sunday morning,” Wingate said, flashing his ID. “Do you happen to know who might have called it in?”

“Uh, no, actually,” Kwan replied, speaking English with just a trace of an Oxford accent. “Ordinarily, there is no one in the building at that time of day. Only security guards. Perhaps one of them?”

“Perhaps,” said Wingate. As a CSI, he didn’t do a lot of interviewing. What should he ask next, he wondered. He took a wild stab. “Do you know of anyone connected to the consulate by the name of Lewis Foo?”

“I do not,” said Kwan. “Is this an American man?”

“Yes. American.”

“One moment,” the official said. “Perhaps he is a contractor or a civilian employee. Let me check with personnel.”

Kwan picked up his phone, dialed a number and, after a moment spoke a few Chinese phrases into the mouthpiece. Wingate knew a little Cantonese, but that did no good. Kwan was speaking Mandarin. He looked up from the phone.

“You did say ‘Foo,’ correct?” Kwan asked.

“Yeah,” said Wingate. “‘Lewis Foo.’” Kwan repeated the name into the mouthpiece and waited. “I’m sorry,” he said after a pause, “There is no American connected with the consulate by that name. Is there anything else you require?”

Kwan was still on the phone with personnel. Wingate thought about his question. Was there any thing else? Perhaps he should get a complete list of Americans who worked there. Who knew? Maybe one of them might have some useful information. He asked Kwan for a list. Kwan relayed his request to personnel and hung up the phone.

“Just a moment, sir,” he said. “I’ll go fetch the document.”

Kwan returned shortly with a single sheet of paper. As Wingate had asked, it was a list of names and telephone numbers on letterhead from the consulate.

At that moment, the door to the office flew open. A slightly older Chinese man, perhaps forty, with one gold tooth and a scar through his upper lip burst inside, screaming at the top of his voice. He was very excited.

Oh shit, Wingate thought. This doesn’t look good.

Trade Wind Towers Apartments, Hilo, HI – 2:10 PM Hawaii Time

Nachtmann dropped his bags beside a wilted palm plant, then made straight for the wet bar. He’d managed to get an hour or two of sleep on the flight from the mainland, but it hadn’t been enough. He was still reeling from a two day bender on pep pills. His nerves were shredded.

To make matters worse, his hands were shaking badly. Only half the tequila he was pouring came anywhere near the rim of his glass. He brought the bottle to his lips.

Drinking hard and swallowing fast, a rivulet of liquor went down his windpipe. He coughed, hacking and retching until his eyes grew red. Gasping for air, he came around to the front of the bar and leaned heavily on a stool. There he stood, seeing spots, for several minutes.

When, at last, he began to think with something like clarity, Nachtmann realized, yet again, how much needed doing. Deborah Garrison must be found, and soon. To L. David Kane, Nachtmann knew, her fate was of little consequence. Whether she lived or died scarcely mattered to him. There were others, however, who felt differently. To those people, only Deborah’s death was satisfactory.

Nachtmann shuddered. Without Deborah by his side, even Iolani Palace would seem bloodless and uninspiring. He reached into his bag and pulled out her framed photo.

“Don’t worry, baby,” he said.

The phone rang. Nachtmann pulled himself together and picked it up.

“Hello?”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Nachtmann. I trust this call finds you well.”

Nachtmann hesitated. “Uh...well enough,” he said.

It had taken a moment to recognize the caller’s peculiar whiney tone, perhaps due to the fact that, except via telephone, Nachtmann and he had never actually met. He was, nonetheless, the source of the blackmail photos Nachtmann had used to gain employment at FBT.

“If you recall, sir,” said the voice, “several months ago, in exchange for certain information, you agreed to perform two tasks, the first of which falls due, this evening.”

“Oh, Jesus,” Nachtmann said. “That thing is tonight?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Christ. I just got back from the mainland. I lost track of the date. What time?”

“Get there at six. There’ll be less chance of being seen if you arrive early.”

“Right.”

“Everything is in place. Take a cab and get out a couple of blocks away. Understand?”

“Of course.”

“And Nachtmann?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t miss.”

Faber-Brady Trust Executive Offices, Hilo, HI -- 2:15 PM Hawaii Time

Just seconds after opening the letter from Kidwell & Perk Detective Agency, a droplet of perspiration formed on L. David Kane’s brow. A fastidious man, he would normally have produced a handkerchief and dabbed it away immediately. This time he did not. Hence, rolling down his face as he read, the bead of sweat grew steadily larger until it hung, fat and tremulous, near the tip of his nose.

The document contained news...good news. And not just ordinary good news, but news that was almost unbelievably first-rate. Kane’s eyes, by turns widening and narrowing as they darted across the page, now lingered over a particularly gratifying passage.

“Investigations indicate,” it read, “that on December 16, 1960, an office worker in the employ of the late Reverend Dr. Faber Heath gave birth to a child. Evidence, which has only recently come to light, strongly suggests that the child, a boy, may well have been the son of your late colleague, Reverend Dr. Faber Heath.

“In an effort to resolve the truth of these findings and to determine the identity of the child in question, this office is currently endeavoring to locate and unseal the pertinent social services records.

“Inasmuch as official bureaucratic prejudices against disclosure of such information have proven an impediment, we appeal to you to bring your influence to bear on behalf of our efforts.

“Please be assured that we will keep you informed of our findings, whatever they may be.”

The drop of sweat, at last overcoming both surface tension and gravity, fell heavily from Kane’s nose and plopped down on the page in front of him.

“Trask!” he shouted to his assistant. “Trask! Get Kidwell & Perk on the phone, at once!”

206 Kauwa Road, Off Highway 130, Pahoa Town, HI -- 3:00 PM Hawaii Time

The memory of watching Iggy’s brains getting pounded out made concentration difficult. Exhausted, Dickley nodded off. When he awoke he was achy, parched and hungry.

He got up and stretched, then drank three glasses of water. That took care of the aching and the thirst, but he was still hungry. That was a problem: he was out of food and he didn’t feel like walking to get some.

A young widow and her 12-year-old son lived next door. Dickley peeked outside. The coast was clear. He strolled across the yard, helped himself to the kid’s bike and pedaled away.

Within minutes, he arrived at the Long Branch Saloon. Dickley was a regular here. People at the Long Branch knew him. They didn’t particularly like him, but they knew him.

The joint was jammed; every table full. Dickley found a stool at the bar, sat down, ordered beer and a burger, then sipped his brew and eavesdropped.

The words “Puna Pow” fairly leapt out at him. He was shocked. Puna Pow was Iggy’s name for the ultra potent pot he never sold. How did anyone else even know about it?

Dickley glanced over his shoulder. The blonde man who’d said the name was talking to three others. Dickley scooted back in his chair and leaned toward them.

“Genetic engineering, I guess,” the man was saying. “It makes it super strong and, get this, the shit is addictive. It’s supposed to be as bad as crack.”

The man’s friends were impressed. “Whoa,” they said.

“Puna Pow?” said one of them. “Never heard of it.”

“I’d like to try it,” said another.

“No can do,” the blonde man replied. “From what I hear, Kanakas got it free, but no one else could get any...at any price.”

“What? They got comped and we get squat? Why’s that?”

“Beats me,” said the man. “But I’ll tell you this, I wouldn’t have anything to do with that shit, even if it was free.”

“How come?”

The man lowered his voice. Dickley leaned in so far, he nearly tipped over.

“Because those four dead guys,” the man said, “the one’s who got all chopped up? I hear they got wasted because they were suppliers.”

“Damn!”

“Yeah,” said the blonde man. “Damn.”

Dickley was thunderstruck. Iggy the Apostle had not been, as Dickley had supposed, the only victim. In all, four people were dead. And if this blonde fellow had it right, they’d all died in the same way, and all because of Puna Pow.

Suddenly, the words that had eluded Dickley for nearly two days, echoed through his head.

“For now,” she’d said. “This is the last of four. Should more poison find its way to my people, more deaths will follow. Do you understand?”

Dickley hadn’t understood any of it before. Now, he did, at least partially. In no particular order of importance, the woman’s message contained the following four points:

1. Iggy the Apostle had been the last of four cautionary killings.

2. Puna Pow was the poison to which she referred.

3. If any more of it fell into Native Hawaiian hands, heads would roll, quite literally. And finally,

4. First among those heads would be Dickley’s.

Potrero Hill, San Francisco, CA -- 4:15 PST

Wearing a thin layer of dust and dragging a battered suitcase, Frederick emerged from his basement just as Paul Wingate’s BMW rolled up the drive.

“Are they still letting that thing on the road?” Frederick said,.

Wingate climbed from behind the wheel. The ’82 Beamer was his pride and joy and he was touchy about it.

“What do you mean ‘they?’” he said. “We work for the police department, Hal. We ARE ‘they.’ ‘They’ are us. Remember?”

“Oh, right,” the inspector replied. “I forgot.”

Wingate had something on his mind. Frederick could tell. The two of them had worked together often enough and he knew the signs. Petulance was one of them.

“So, what are you doing here?” Frederick asked. “Haven’t you heard I’m on vacation?”

Wingate glanced up and down the street. Two cars were passing, one north, the other south. The northbound car, a black Lincoln, stopped two houses away. Wingate frowned.

“Let’s go inside,” he said.

“You’re kidding, right?”

“No. I’m not kidding.”

“What’s up?” Frederick asked, casting a glance at the stopped car. “You auditioning to be the new James Bond?”

“I said, I’m...not...kidding.” Wingate bit off each word. “Let’s…go…inside.”

Frederick reached down to pick up his bag. “All right,” he said. “Let’s go.”

Once indoors, Wingate was still jumpy. “You got any liquor, Hal?” he asked. “I need a drink.”

The inspector looked at his friend. Wingate was not a teetotaler, but using alcohol to steady his nerves was not his usual style. “In the den,” he said. “Through there.”

Hannah looked out from the kitchen as they passed, eyeing her husband warily.

“Are you packed yet?” she said.

“That’s why Paul’s here, honey,” Frederick replied. “He my consultant.”

“Hal, you’d better pack.”

“I will, Hannah. I swear. Just as soon as we’re done here.”

The two men entered the den through sliding doors. Frederick went to the sideboard.

“OK,” he said. “I’ve got expensive scotch and I’ve got cheap gin,”

“As long it’s booze and it’s big.”

“Gin it is,” Frederick said.

He poured a large one into an old-fashioned glass and handed it over. Then he dribbled out a small scotch for himself and sat.

“OK,” he said. “What’s going on?”

“Look outside.”

“What?”

“You have a view of the street from here, don’t you?”

“You know I do.”

“Well then, look at it. Look outside.”

Frederick put down his drink and went to the window and pried open the blinds.

“See that Lincoln Town Car out there?” Wingate asked.

“Uh-huh”

“Can you see what’s on the bumper?”

“Yep,” Frederick said. “License plates.”

“What kind?”

“I can’t see that far.”

“Here. Try these.” Wingate stepped toward him and held out a pair of opera glasses.

“Since when are you an opera fan?” Frederick said.

“Just look at the damned car, will you?” The inspector peered through the lenses. “Can you see them?” Wingate asked. “Can you see the plates?”

“Yeah. They’re...”

“I’ll tell you what they are,” Wingate said. They’re special diplomatic plates and they say ‘Consul Corps 569-706.”

“Right.”

“And the driver is a Chinese man with a gold tooth.”

“I can see that he’s Asian,” said Frederick. “I’ll concede that he’s Chinese and take your word about his teeth. You win the prize for best eyesight. What’s going on?”

“That guy has been on my ass...all...afternoon, Hal.” Wingate was rattled. “When I first saw him I thought I was imagining things, so I shook him off. Then he showed up again. Then...”

“All right, Paul, all right. Settle down.” Frederick steered his friend back to a chair. “Does this story have a beginning?”

“Yeah,” he said.

“Start there.”

Wingate recounted his suspicions regarding Lewis Foo and learning about Garrison’s Mercedes getting towed from the Chinese Consulate. Then he hesitated.

“You’re not going to believe this part,” Wingate said.

“What?”

“This is wild.”

“What is?” Frederick asked.

“Remember when you asked me to check out Lewis Foo’s phone activity?”

“Yeah.”

“Remember me telling you that his doctor’s number was a fake?”

“Didn’t you say it was the number of an embassy or someth...oh, shit. You mean the number Foo gave us was the number of the Chinese Consulate?”

Wingate bowed his head and pointed at Frederick. “Bingo,” he said.

“Holy crap,” said the inspector. “What happened when you called? You did call them, didn’t you?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“You mean you paid them a visit?”

“Yes, I did.”

“And you picked up a tail?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Why?” Frederick asked. “I mean what happened? Why are they following you?”

“I asked some flunky if he knew anyone by the name of Lewis Foo,” Wingate replied. “He said no. I showed him a copy of the tow order for Garrison’s car and asked him if he knew who called it in. He said no. Finally, I asked if I could have a list of US citizens who worked for the embassy. I figured I’d canvass them...find out if any of them knew anything.”

Frederick nodded. Wingate reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a single sheet of paper.

“Here’s the list,” he said. “As soon as I got my hands on it, things got weird.”

“How so?”

“That guy out it the Town Car, the guy with the gold tooth...maybe he’s the first guy’s boss. I don’t know. Anyway...gold tooth boy comes in and starts yelling in Chinese...he’s giving the flunky hell. Then he turns to me and says he wants his list back.”

“What did you say?”

“Nothing. I just folded the thing up and put it in my pocket.” Frederick laid out his hand and Wingate slapped it.

“for a bald guy,” Frederick said, “you’ve got steel.”

“You may not think so you hear what happened next.”

“Why? What happened?

“Gold tooth boy started screaming for the Red Guard.”

“You mean security?”

“Yeah.”

“What did you do?” asked Frederick.

“What do you think I did? I ran.”

“You ran?”

“Like a kid stealing candy.”

The inspector had a way with words. He was a good storyteller and his friends found him funny. Frederick himself, however, smiled infrequently and laughed even less. At Wingate’s revelation, he howled himself hoarse. It was a full minute before he could speak.

“Let me see that list,” he said finally, wiping his eyes on a shirtsleeve. Frederick took the page and scanned it, chuckling occasionally. Most of the names were either European or Hispanic, along with a sprinkling of ABCs, American born Chinese. It was a simple roll call of US citizens who worked at the consulate.

“See what I mean?” Wingate said. “There’s no one there. There’s nothing out of line on that list.” Frederick didn’t answer. He was staring at the Chinese characters beneath the consulate’s address on the letterhead.

“Maybe it’s not the list that got the tooth fairy’s drawers in a twist,” he said. “Maybe it’s something else.” Frederick went to the desk, picked up the receiver on his fax phone and punched in a number. “Let’s see what the Asian Languages department Berkeley makes of these ideographs.”

Near Peach Springs, AZ -- 5:30 PM MST

Ruth Yellowhawk was not pleased. As if it wasn’t enough of a burden to be the single mother of an absent-minded son who did foolish, inexplicable things, now she had to suffer the same behavior from the boy’s grandfather. At least Quentin had the excuse of youth and inexperience. An old man should know better.

Returning home from her shift at the convenience store, tired and achy, she was in no mood to receive company and the sight of the white man Quentin had found in a hole in the desert did little to help.

As recently as two weeks ago, Federal Marshals had come through Peach Springs, leaving brochures and warning people about the rise in survivalist activity along Highway 40. Authorities suspected that domestic terrorists might take advantage of the broad desert wilderness to hide weapons and build bombs. Who could say? This fellow, this stranger, now staying under her roof, he might be such a person.

“What were you thinking, bringing that man here?” she asked her father-in-law. “You don’t know anything about him.”

“Quiet,” Joseph said. “He’ll hear you.” The two had gone outside, near the chicken coop, to talk. Even so, the air was still and the cottage walls were thin.

“What if he does?” Ruth Yellowhawk demanded. “Do you care more about an outsider than you do about your own family? He could be a dangerous lunatic, like the marshals said. I have half a mind to call them right now, and find out if they’re looking for anyone named Jim Garrison.”

“For all I know, the marshals are looking for him,” Joseph said. “That is not the point. All I know is, Jim Garrison is not dangerous. He is not crazy.”

“How do you know?”

“Quentin told me.”

“Quentin?” Ruth Yellowhawk was incredulous. “Quentin told you? Now you’re blaming this nonsense on your grandson?”

“It’s the circle,” the old man insisted. “The circle of events. Quentin reminded me of all the things I have told him. About how everything is not always as it first appears.”

“You’re talking foolishness, old man.”

“No! It’s not foolishness! Listen to me. Quentin lost the chickens but he found the man. The man lost his wallet but, when Quentin returned it to him, he found his memory. This man has lost his family. Now, he must find them and, when he does...” Joseph Yellowhawk paused.

“When he does, what then?” his daughter-in-law said.

“Not for me to say,” the old man replied. “Events must unfold as they must. I only know what I have to do.”

With that, Joseph turned and went back inside the cottage. Garrison and the boy were sitting together at the kitchen table, looking at a map.

“Jim Garrison,” Joseph said. Garrison looked up. “I have something to attend to in town. I know you must leave soon. Please don’t go until I return.”

Garrison nodded. “OK, Joseph,” he replied. “Whatever you say.”

Potrero Hill, San Francisco, CA – 6:30 PM PST

The telephone in Fredericks’ den rang. The inspector picked it up.

“Hal Frederick,” he said.

“It’s Ed Wong over at UC Berkeley, Hal.”

“Hey, Ed. What do you have for me?”

“The Chinese characters on the consulate letterhead are names.”

“I thought they might be,” said Frederick. “Anything else there?”

“Yeah,” Wong said. “Job titles. Chief consulate, deputy chief consulate. Stuff like that. I’ll fax over my translation and you can take a look.”

“Excellent,” Frederick said. “Thanks.”

“If you have any questions, just give me a holler. I got another call. I’m gonna push the ‘start’ button and go. Bye, Hal.”

There was an electronic hissing followed by what Frederick always thought of as the sound of a constipated robot, then Wong’s fax started coming through.

“What do we have?” Wingate asked.

“Ed says it’s names and job titles,” Frederick replied, pulling the fax out of the tray. There were six lines of type. He held it up.

1. Leung Ku Li – Chief Consulate

2. Chin Do Kin – Deputy Chief Consulate

3. Lee Ho Binh – Educational Liaison

4. Jo En Ke – Military Attaché

5. Fiu Tse Liu – Cultural Attaché

6. Wan Lee Taw –Industrial Liaison

“Well,” Wingate said, “there’s another good theory, shot to pieces.”

“You think so?” Frederick asked.

“I sure as hell don’t see anything, do you?”

“Suppose I give you a pop quiz?” said Frederick.

“Do you have to?”

“I’m going to say the name of a famous Chinese leader.”

Wingate sighed. “OK.”

“Mao Tse Tung.”

“OK,” Wingate said. “Mao Tse Tung. So what?”

“So what was the man’s last name?” Frederick asked. “Tung or Tse Tung?”

“I don’t know,” Wingate said. “Tung, I guess.”

“Neither. His last name was Mao. In Chinese, the last name goes first, then the given name, then the chosen name.”

“What’s the chosen name?”

“A nickname,” said Frederick. “Everyone gets to pick their own. That’s why it’s called a chosen name.”

“OK,” Wingate said. “So what?”

“So,” said Frederick, “now that you know all there is to know about Chinese names, do you want to take another look at Wong’s list?” Wingate ran his finger down the page.

A moment later he looked up, his finger poised over item #5: Fiu Tse Liu – Cultural Attaché. “Fiu,” he said. “That’s pronounced ‘Foo,’ isn’t it?”

“Yep,” Frederick replied.

“And ‘Liu?’ Is that the same as ‘Lew?”

“Yep.”

“And the first name goes last?”

“You got it,” said Frederick. “Six to four ‘Fiu Tse Liu, cultural attaché’ is Lew Foo... Lewis Foo.”

Wingate hesitated. “I don’t know,” he said. “Foo ain’t exactly ‘Smith, but it ain’t exactly ‘Eisenhower,’ either. There are a lot of Foos. How do we know Lewis Foo and Fiu Tse Liu are the same person?”

“Fair question,” said Frederick, glancing out the window, “Let’s wait till it gets good and dark, then we’ll go ask the tooth fairy out there.”

Hualapai Nation Tribal Hall, Peach Springs, AZ -- 7:30 MST

The Hualapai people, the People of the Tall Pines, are few. Less than 1600 now live within a day’s journey of Wikahme, Spirit Mountain, where the world began.

Joseph Yellowhawk knew all of the Hualapai, if not by their own names, then by their family names. He also knew all twelve members of the tribal council. He had once been a member himself.

On this evening, at so late an hour, all twelve council members could not be found. Joseph could only contact nine of them. Nine was enough.

In the days of Joseph’s grandfather, many council members had arrived at meetings on horseback. In the gathering place they had sat on blankets. The nine men and women in the Tribal Hall this evening had driven there in SUVs and pickup trucks. They sat on sofas and folding chairs. Still, the spirit of the Pai was in the room. The essence of the original people, the ones who had come here nearly fifteen centuries before, was here. How it had arrived or what it sat upon was of no consequence.

Joseph rose from his chair and walked to the front of the Tribal Hall.

“There is a man who needs our help,” he said. “My grandson, Quentin found the man. If you want to know his name, I will tell you.” One of the council members stood.

“What kind of help does this man need, Joseph?”

“Money,” Joseph replied. “Five thousand dollars.”

“For what reason?”

“He needs it to find his family. I ask the council to loan the money on my word.”

The council members looked around the room at one another. One of them spoke.

“If you will withdraw, the council will consider what you have said.”

Potrero Hill, San Francisco, CA -- 7:45 PST

Because it is only seven miles square, San Francisco is a city in which Easy Street often runs perilously close to the poor side of town. At 7:30 PM, Wingate’s black Beamer backed out the drive. Within minutes, it had left the vicinity of Frederick’s middle class neighborhood and entered Potrero Projects, one of the most violent neighborhoods on the West Coast. The two men in the BMW had already attracted some hostile stares from passers-by, but Frederick and Wingate were more interested in who was following them.

Wingate looked into the rear view mirror. “Is that him?” he said.

The Town Car had a pair of amber fog lights that were hard to miss.

Frederick glanced back. “Yeah. About a half a block back.”

“Tell me when.”

“It’s the next block,” Frederick replied. “When you get to the corner, cut your lights and turn right. Then make a fast, hard left into the alley, go two car lengths and stop.”

“OK. Lights, right, left, stop.”

“That’s it,” said Frederick. “Take your foot off the brake when you stop. He might see the tail lights. And when you go, go. Put your foot down and drive like you mean it.”

“Right,” Wingate said.

They approached the intersection. Wingate stopped behind the sign.

“OK, Paul,” Frederick turned his head to look out the back window. “Slow down at the sign but don’t stop...wait for it...wait...wait...Now! Go! Go! Go!”

Wingate switched off his lights and jammed down the accelerator. The Beamer squealed around the corner toward the entrance to a narrow backstreet.

“This is it, Paul!” Frederick shouted. “Turn here! Turn! Turn!” Wingate rounded the corner wide, taking down trash receptacle. Garbage spilled all over the street.

“Shit!” Wingate said, stopping quickly and taking his foot off the brake. “Did he see the trash can? Is he going by?”

“Shhh!” Frederick waved for silence. Out the back window, he could just make out the amber fog lights as they passed the mouth of the alley. “He bought it,” Frederick said. “Back up! Back up.”

Wingate’s car screeched out onto the street, stopping just inches before ramming into the side of a parked VW. The Town Car, stopped a few feet away, was facing a brick wall. It had been lured into a blind alley and trapped.

Frederick leapt out the passenger door, taking the safety off his 9 millimeter SIG on the way. The Town Car’s big engine was revving. Its back up lights flashed on. Frederick smelled rubber. He jumped aside, took aim at a back wheel and pulled the trigger. The tire exploded and the rim began to spin. The wheel lost traction, but not enough to stop the Lincoln from banging loudly into the side of Wingate’s Beamer.

“You son-of-a-bitch!” Wingate shouted. He was on the street in a heartbeat, screaming like a washer woman and diving for the Town Car’s door handle. It was locked. An instant later, the mild mannered CSI put a brick through the driver’s side window. A second after that, the gold-toothed driver was flat on his back and Wingate was sitting on his chest, a fist full of shirt collar in either hand.

“All right, cocksucker,” he bellowed. “Right fucking now: Fiu Tse Liu, is he the same guy as Lewis Foo? Answer me! Yes or no!”

“I have diplomatic immunity,” Gold Tooth began. “You are violating...”

Wingate posed his question again, punctuating each word by bouncing the man’s head off the pavement.

“YES...OR...NO?” he shouted.

A shabby curtain drew away from a nearby window. Wingate looked up and the curtain fell back into place. Gold Tooth was silent but sweating.

“I’m going to count to three,” Wingate growled. “If I don’t get an answer, my friend here is going to blow your fucking head off. One.”

Frederick’s weapon still stank of cordite. He pressed the muzzle against the downed man’s nose.

“You can’t do this,” Gold Tooth protested.

“Watch me,” Wingate said. “Two...”

“Someone will hear the shot.” He was putting on a brave front, but he was scared. Wingate brought his face within an inch of his eyes.

“Look around you, asshole,” he said. “If you think a gunshot is going to raise any eyebrows in this neighborhood, you better think again. Two and a half...”

Frederick pulled back the hammer. It ratcheted into place like a knuckle crack. Wingate took a breath and put his tongue behind his front teeth.

“Thr...”

“Yes!” Gold Tooth said, throwing his arms up over his face. “Yes! Yes!”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, they are the same. Lewis Foo and Fiu Tse Liu. They are the same.”

Wingate was not finished. He grabbed the man’s right thumb and bent it backward. Gold Tooth cried out. His arm came away from his face, his eyes full of fear and pain.

“All right,” Wingate said. “That’s a good start. Keep going. What’s he doing with the Garrisons?”

The man bit his lip. Wingate twisted harder. “Talk, damn it.”

“I don’t know.”

“I think you do,” he said, bearing down even more. Gold Tooth was in agony. The tendons in his neck stood out like bungee cords.

“No,” he said. “It’s the truth. I swear it. I was being paid to find that out. I thought you might know. That’s why I followed you.”

“You’re being paid?” Frederick said. “By whom?”

“I don’t know.”

“Bullshit,” Wingate barked, again twisting harder.

“I don’t know. I don’t know. It’s a drop. I get the money from a PO box.”

Then, split lip, gold tooth and all, the man began to sob.

“I think he’s telling the truth, Paul,” Frederick said. Wingate thought it over.

“Yeah,” he said at length. “I guess he is.” He released the man’s thumb, got to his feet and dusted off.

“Jesus, Paul,” Frederick said quietly. “What the hell got into you? The son-of-a-bitch is crying like a little girl.”

“God damn right he is,” said Wingate, brushing the knees of his trouser legs. “Motherfucker hit my car.”

Faber-Brady Trust Building, Hilo, HI – 6:30 PM Hawaii Time

It had been a good day, a banner day. After seventy-two nerve-wracking hours, it appeared as though the fates were smiling again. Detectives at Kidwell & Perk were on to something. On their behalf, Kane had made a number of calls to friends in state government. They had promised to grease the wheels of the detectives’ inquiries; to help them get around any pesky confidentiality laws that might otherwise interfere with their work. By tonight, or at the latest, tomorrow morning, things should begin to come right. Kane heaved a great sigh. There was no need to spend another grueling night in the office, thank god. He could go home and rest.

His assistant, Trask, knocked briskly before entering. “One thing more before you leave, sir,” he said. “I’ve just spoken with the contractors installing the memorial fountain.”

I really must be in good spirits, Kane thought. Even that blasted fountain fails to annoy me. “And?” he said aloud.

“They want to know if you’d like to turn on the waterfall yourself, or if you’d prefer to give them a signal.”

“I don’t know, Trask,” said Kane. “Which is cheapest?”

“There’s no difference, sir.”

“In that case, I’ll do it,” Kane replied. “What’s that saying about getting a job done?”

“Yes, sir,” said Trask. “Absolutely. You should do it yourself.”

The executive director smiled, drew his walking stick from its place at the door, turned and left.

As the elevator doors slid open near his underground parking space, Kane heard loud voices from inside the garage. No one except executive officers and upper management should have been on that level of the building, especially at that hour. Moreover, the voices he was hearing sounded coarse; working class. Kane headed for their source, bent on making enquiries.

In a corner of the parking garage he came upon a small group of men. One of them was leaning on some kind of pneumatic tool, of the kind used to dig up roads.

“What’s the meaning of this?” he said. “What are you people doing?”

A man in a white suit and a hard hat looked around. It was Devlin.

“Oh, hello Mr. Kane,” he said.

“Devlin. What’s going on here?”

“The inspection, sir. The sooner we get started, the sooner we’ll be done.”

“Yes, of course,” Kane said. “But what’s the jack hammer for?”

“It’s a drill, sir,” Devlin replied. “We just have to make a few holes, that’s all, to check the strength and flexibility of the steel. Don’t worry, though,” he continued, gesturing toward a cement mixer. “We’ll patch the holes. No one will even know we’ve been here.”

“I see,” Kane said, nodding. “I must say, I’m impressed with your efficiency, Devlin. You’re quick to get at it, aren’t you?”

“You know what they say, sir: ‘Idle hands are the devil’s workshop.’”

“Yes, quite,” said Kane. “How long do you reckon all this is going to take?”

“Your building will be finished by Wednesday, Mr. Kane,” Devlin replied, winking. “We wouldn’t want hold up any necessary retrofitting, would we?”

The executive director chuckled and turned to walk away. He decided he’d been entirely wrong about this Devlin fellow. At first, he’d found him odious. Now he quite liked him. In a way, Kane thought, he rather reminds me of myself as a young man.

FBI Field Office, Honolulu, HI – 7:10 PM Hawaii Time

What the fuck was going on, Schmidt wondered. He’d only been off island for two days and already, an operation he’d been running for years, some of the best field work he’d ever done, was coming unraveled.

Ordinarily, he didn’t make direct contact with in-place operatives. It spooked them and besides, it was risky. Telephone records, after all, were a simple trace and far too attainable.

Iggy Arnold, however, was not easily rattled. He also hid himself behind a cloud of cloned cell phone numbers, a convenience which not only made security a non-issue, it virtually assured Iggy’s easy accessibility.

It surprised Schmidt, therefore, that he’d been unable reach Iggy the night before. It surprised him further when, upon trying Iggy’s number earlier, a woman’s voice came on the line.

No, she’d said, Iggy was not available. He wouldn’t be available ever again. He’d been murdered. The police said it was the work of a serial killer. Why did they say that? Because, the woman said, within two days and five miles of each other, three other people with backgrounds similar to Iggy’s had been murdered in exactly the same way.

Stunned, Schmidt hung up the phone and made three more calls. They were all brief and to the point and all yielded the same information. The party you are trying to reach is not here. The party you are trying to reach is not available. The party you are trying to reach is dead.

It wasn’t hard to find background information on the killings. Serial murders are strong stuff, the kind of thing that drives up ratings and sells papers. It was all over the news. Ten minutes after first learning of Iggy’s death, Agent Schmidt had the whole story.

On the one hand, he was troubled. That all of his ace distributors had been wasted within 48 hours by the same person or persons unknown could mean only one thing: someone was on to his operation. On the other hand, the operation itself was coming to a close. Perhaps this unknown entity had done him a favor. Had those four sleaze balls not already been murdered, he might have had to do the job himself.

Still, Schmidt was a thorough man. He didn’t like comebacks. Some sanitizing was definitely in order. First thing tomorrow, he’d do a little island hopping.

Home of Moses and Alana Pukuli, Pahoa Town, HI -- 7:00 PM Hawaii Time

At 2:00 o’clock that afternoon, Moses Pukuli received a call from his assistant, Janet Suzuki. “It’s about your speaking engagement at Pahoa High this morning, sir,” she said.

Moses winced. “Yes?”

“The remarks you made about Hawaiian sovereignty were recorded.”

“Oh, god. And?”

“They’ve been edited, and they’re being broadcast on radio,” said his assistant. “They’re not very flattering, sir.”

Pukuli’s stomach fluttered. For the congressman, nausea often preceded a headache. “Shit!” he said. “I mean...drat. Excuse me Janet.”

“No problem, sir,” she said. “I don’t blame you, but I haven’t told you the worst of it.

“I’m afraid to ask.”

“Well, sir, that teacher? Kailikane Kapono?”

“What about her?”

“Evidently, she’s not the simple school marm she pretends to be.”

“No?”

“No, sir. I checked up on her. She’s a real sleeper.”

“How do you mean?”

“Remember the attempted takeover of Iolani Palace last summer?”

“How could I forget it?” he said.

Honolulu’s Iolani Palace, now an historical monument, had been the home of the islands’ last ruling monarch. A potent symbol to members of the Hawaiian sovereignty movement, it had been the target of an attempted sit-in on Kamehameha Day in 1992.

“Remember the protest leaders who were arrested?”

“Yes.”

“Guess who bailed out them out.”

Moses was beginning to feel dizzy. “Don’t tell me.”

“Yes, sir, Kailikane Kapono. Not only that, she appears to have been involved in any number of other civil disruptions, one way or another.”

“So what are you saying?” asked the congressman. “What’s your take on her?”

“She’s a separatist, sir, with ties to practically every fringe group in the state.”

“You mean I was a set up?”

“It appears that way, sir.”

He’d been sandbagged by a schoolteacher. Not very complimentary, especially for an experienced pol like Moses.

“There’s something else, sir,” his assistant said. “It’s about the research I’ve been doing on Native Hawaiian males 13 to 30. I had a meeting today with...”

Suzuki’s voice began to disappear beneath waves of noise inside Pukuli’s head. He pinched the bridge of his nose and leaned on the desk for support. This was it; a migraine.

“Can this wait until tomorrow?” he asked.

“Well, sir, I...”

A series of curving lines began clouding Pukuli’s vision. Feeling faint, he sat down hard. Once an attack began, he was helpless within seconds. “I have to go, Janet,” he said, and hung up.

* * *

That evening, at the desk in his study, Moses Pukuli heaved a deep sigh. Tense and tired, he rubbed his eyes, then pushed against his jaw until his neck cracked. The hall door opened. It was Alana.

“I wish you’d stop that,” she said, crossing to him. “It’s not good for you. Here.” She stepped behind the chair and squeezed his shoulders. They were like rocks.

“What’s troubling you, sweetie? Is it the publicity around those killings?”

“It’s certainly not helping.”

“Talk to me.”

“I don’t know, babe,” Pukuli said. “For twenty years, we’ve worked our butts off...the company...politics...public service. And what do we get? Mockery and scorn. People think we’re fat cats living off the workers’ sweat. God damn it, some of that sweat is ours.”

“I know,” Alana said. “It doesn’t seem fair.”

“And everything new just fans the flames. If I could only put these killings behind and concentrate on...”

“On your run for Congress?”

Moses looked over his shoulder. “That was supposed to be a secret. How’d you know?”

“Sweetheart, after all this time, there’s not much I don’t know.”

“If only you knew who did those murders,” he said. Moses turned in his chair and pulled his wife toward him, resting his head against her stomach while she stroked his hair.

“That’d take a lot of pressure off, would it?”

“I’ll say.” He sighed again. “I wish Hal was getting here sooner.”

“I thought you might feel that way,” said Alana. “That’s why I changed their reservations. He and Hannah are arriving tomorrow morning at 9:30.”

Shanga Hall, Hilo Buddhist Temple, Hilo, HI – 8:30 PM Hawaii Time

Michael Crockett, LLD, doctor of international law, Oxford University, England, stood before five hundred people in the auditorium of Hilo Buddhist Temple. His appearance tonight had been widely publicized. Dr. Crockett was an expert on matters of global diplomacy with a message of particular interest, so the ads said, to Native Hawaiians.

There was even a television crew covering the occasion for public access news.

The hall itself was full to overflowing. Outside in the entryway, something over a hundred additional people were listening over a small PA system. Both crowds were spellbound. Crockett had them in thrall. He could feel it.

He was also feeling a bit dizzy, though not unpleasantly so, and he’d begun noticing something strange about the way a candle was flickering at the back of the room. Such sensations had dogged him for the last hour, beginning shortly after he’d eaten some mushroom canapés at the reception preceding his talk. So far, however, his speaking abilities had not been affected.

The title of his presentation was “The Legacy of Lili'uokalani.”

Queen Lili'uokalani’s tragic tale was well known to Native Hawaiians. From birth, their mothers had told them of the queen’s unhappy marriage to a white man, of her overthrow by the grandchildren of American missionaries and of her betrayal at the hands of the US Congress. Many of them had been rocked to sleep listening to melodies composed by their musician-monarch. She had been a saint, many of them thought, and much maligned.

Dr. Crockett told Lili'uokalani’s doleful story beautifully yet, even though Hawaiians love to hear their folklore recounted, that was not the reason these people had come tonight. It was not what they knew Dr. Crockett was going to say that had attracted them, it was something they thought he might say.

The lawyer glanced again at the candle in the rear of the hall. The flame had begun oscillating and changing colors. He blinked and took a breath before continuing.

He had just reached the point in his narrative at which American troops were being illegally summoned by the US minister to confront the queen and the royal court.

“From Honolulu Harbor,” he said, “four boatloads of Marines came ashore. They were armed with Gatling guns. They carried thousands of rounds of ammunition. They carried cannon. They came prepared to make war on a defenseless people.”

At that moment, Crockett had a strange and wonderful experience. While his brain and upper body skyrocketed into the stratosphere, everything from his stomach to his toes plummeted toward the center of the earth. All at once, he knew everything, he understood everything. Moreover, there and then, and right before his eyes, time warped.

A phalanx of 19^th century American soldiers in full battle dress, came marching eight abreast, straight toward him. He heard their footfalls. He smelled the dust swirling up from the street. He felt the breeze on his face and saw the people of Honolulu craning their necks for a better view.

Then, as suddenly as he had left it, Crockett returned to the present. The soldiers, the dust, the people and the street disappeared. But for the candle, which still pulsated, the room itself returned to normal. As for the audience, they remained seated and silent, waiting for his next word as though nothing had happened, as indeed, nothing really had.

Crockett shivered and looked down at his notes, taking a moment to compose himself and his thoughts. What should he do? What could he do? He wasn’t ill. He wasn’t especially confused or disoriented. There was only one thing to do. He cleared his throat and carried on.

“As the queen watched from Iolani Palace,” he began again, “six platoons of armed combatants marched through the streets of Honolulu.”

At that, Crockett’s visions returned once more. The soldiers, the streets, the people, the palace, even the queen materialized before him. This time, however, the illusion appeared to float overhead, somewhere in the middle distance, hovering between himself and his audience. He felt himself to be in two places at once, both watching the past and addressing the present. He was suddenly exhilarated.

I am chronicling history, he thought. I am an oracle.

He continued his tale. As he pronounced the words, his visions acted them out.

“At the palace, they lowered their flags, saluted the Queen and rolled their drums,” he said. “The message was clear. Lili'uokalani was being deposed, not by her own people, but by an overwhelming show of force from a powerful nation she had thought her friend.”

He paused. The mirage, now immobile and, of course, invisible to everyone but the speaker, hung over the crowd. Crockett stared at it and began to pronounce judgment.

“This was a shameful act,” he said.

“Olelo, brah!” someone called out. “Speak, brother.”

“It was an act of international freebooting, unparalleled in American history.”

“Amen, kumu,” said another. “Right on, teacher.”

A chill passed through Crockett’s body. The hair on his arms stood and his skin tingled. This was how he imagined a crowd of Hawaiians might respond. The reality was thrilling.

Making an effort to keep his voice under control, he continued.

“I would like to read you a passage written by President Grover Cleveland,” he said. “This is something which many of you already know. It is from a memorandum delivered to the US Congress on December 18, 1893, only months after the Hawaiian monarchy was overthrown. It was of great significance to the Hawaiian people then. It is of even greater significance today. President Cleveland said, and I quote:

‘By an act of war, committed with the participation of a diplomatic representative of the United States and without authority of Congress, the Government of Hawaii, a feeble but friendly and confiding people, has been overthrown. A substantial wrong has thus been done which we should...” I would say, must... “endeavor to repair.’”

The audience murmured restively. True, many of them had read President Cleveland’s words while at school, but few of them had ever heard them expressed with so much feeling.

“I put it to you today,” Crockett went on, “that President Cleveland’s message to Congress was neither an appeal to the national conscience nor a plea for political moderation. As a doctor of international law, I propose to you and to the rest of the world that it was a statement of policy on the part of the US government vis-à-vis the Hawaiian monarchy.”

Dr. Crockett broke off ever so briefly to assess his own feelings. Had he put it too forcefully? Was he still on solid ground? He thought so, if only barely. He might better have stopped there, but the flickering candlelight urged him on.

“I put it to you,” he said, “that the President’s statement of policy constituted a declaration of intent, a promise to the people of this land. I put it to you that the subsequent annexation of Hawaii by the United States was, therefore, an illegal act.”

Crockett’s voice had begun to rise with more and more feeling.

“Tell it, Bruddah,” someone shouted.

“I put it to you, finally,” Crockett said with fervor, “that today, right now, at this very moment, Hawaii is, and always has been...a free...and independent...nation!”

By the end of his final denunciation, Dr. Crockett’s voice had reached a fever pitch. He was shouting. The crowd was stunned, not just by what he had said, but by the force with which he’d said it. For a few seconds, they remained still. Crockett looked out over them, his chest heaving.

At the back of the hall, near the candle flame, a lone audience member began to applaud, then another, then three more. From the other side of the room an old woman with tears on her face called out.

“Aloha aina Hawaii!” she said. “Blessings on our land.” At that, the crowd exploded. They stood and cheered. They threw things in the air. They hugged one another.

In the midst of the uproar, a beautiful Hawaiian woman in traditional dress, bearing a lei of tropical flowers, approached Crockett, who leaned in and down as she began to drape the garland over his shoulders. At that moment, two shots rang out.

The crowd watched in horror as Dr. Michael Crockett, LLD, Oxford University, England, bleeding from the head and throat, fell dead into the woman’s arms.

TV news cameras captured every moment.

Near Peach Springs, AZ – 11:00 PM Mountain Time

Jim Garrison lay across three sofa cushions placed end-to-end on the floor. But for his coat and shoes, he was fully dressed. Joseph Yellowhawk sat on a wooden chair beside him, waiting. A few moments later, Garrison opened his eyes and looked up.

“Joseph?” he said.

“Yes.”

“Why are you sitting in the dark?”

“Waiting for you.”

Garrison sat up rubbing his eyes. “What’s going on?”

Joseph held out an envelope for Garrison, who took it and looked inside. It contained sixty-five $50 bills.

“Oh, my god,” Garrison said. “What’s...I mean, how...?”

“I tried to get more,” Joseph said, “but that’s all the cash there was.”

“I don’t...”

“Get up, now. Tomorrow morning I must help my daughter-in-law with the goats. Tonight I will drive you to the airport.”

Garrison took a breath, intending to express his thanks. The old man stood and went in the kitchen, where he began boiling water for tea.

There was much Garrison wanted to say. Now, however, was clearly not the time.

As he rose from his bed, a band of light appeared beneath Ruth Yellowhawk’s bedroom door. A moment later, the woman herself came into the room.

“You’re leaving?” she said. Garrison turned.

“Joseph is taking me to the airport.”

Ruth nodded but said nothing, although it was clear that something was on her mind.

“Before you go,” she said at last, “I want to tell you that I’m sorry for being so suspicious. For not welcoming you into our home.”

“That’s all right,” said Garrison. “I’m just grateful you didn’t call the US Marshals.”

“The Marshals?” Ruth was shocked. “Oh, no. Did you hear what I said before?”

Garrison nodded. “And I agreed with you,” he said. The woman blushed deeply. Garrison could see she was ashamed. “No, I mean it,” he said. “You just wanted to protect your family.”

“Of course I did,” Ruth said, “but how much should I protect them...and from what?”

“As much as you can from whatever you can,” Garrison said.

“And how do I protect my family from my own fear?” said Ruth. “Because I was afraid, I was prepared to sacrifice your safety and that of your family. Who does that help?”

“But you didn’t know,” Garrison said. “After all, it’s a big world, full of selfish people.”

“Yes,” said Ruth, “and that’s exactly how I was behaving...as though no one mattered but me. I’m ashamed of myself. My father-in-law was right. Only Quentin’s instincts were reliable.”

“Quentin?”

“All he saw was someone who needed help,” Ruth said. “That was the real truth, regardless of who you were. That’s the kind of people I want in my world, and if I can’t act in that way, how can I expect it of anyone else?”

Garrison stopped. Then he smiled. “Anyway,” he said. “Thanks for not calling the Marshals.”

Ruth smiled back. “That’s OK,” she said. “Thanks for not making me wish I had.”

Potrero Hill, San Francisco, CA -- 10:15 PST

Frederick took a card from his wallet and scribbled a number across the back. “Here’s my number in Hawaii,” he said to Wingate. “If you get any more urges to beat up on foreign diplomats, call me, OK?”

“I will,” said Wingate.

“And stay on top of things. Let me know if either Garrison or Foo turn up. I left my voicemail turned on. Check it. Anything important, you know where I am.” Frederick squeezed his eyes shut, trying to think. “I guess that’s all. You got anything?”

“Just bon voyage, old buddy.”

Inspector Frederick waved a hand, slid out of Wingate’s beamer and walked up the steps to his flat. From the living room, Hannah heard the front door open and close.

“Hal?” she called out. “Is that you?”

“No, sweetheart,” Frederick said. “I was having too much fun to come home. I sent my stunt double.”

“Oh,” Hannah replied, still talking from a room away. “Is this person the same size as you?”

“Of course he is. That’s why he’s called my stunt double.”

“Good,” said Hannah. “In that case, tell him to get busy and pack some of your clothes. I’m taking him to Hawaii tomorrow.”

“That’s funny, babe. Very Funny.”

“I found something for you to read on the plane,” Hannah said.

“Something to read?”

“Yeah. It’s right there on the sideboard in the hallway.”

Frederick looked down. A slender paperback with two Hawaiian dancers on the cover lay next to the mail tray.

“A Brief History of Hawaii?” said Frederick.

“Yeah,” Hannah said. “It’s very good, actually. I forgot I had it. There’s a section devoted to the Faber-Brady Trust. I thought it might be useful.”

“Yeah. Hey, thanks, babe,” he said, flipping through the pages.

Frederick slipped the book under his arm, made his way to the kitchen, and checked out the refrigerator, finally coming away with a carton of buttermilk and a chunk of cornbread.

Hannah appeared at the door, barefoot and wearing a terrycloth bathrobe. Small beads of water clung to the dark curls tumbling over her shoulders. “Having some Arkansas cornflakes?” she said.

“Nothing like it,” Frederick answered, crumbling his cornbread into a coffee mug and covering it with buttermilk. “M-m-m,” he said. “Food of the gods.”

His wife wrinkled her nose and shuddered. “I can’t really criticize, I guess,” she said. “My favorite snack is Spam sushi.”

“You and every other Hawaiian on earth,” Frederick said.

“Although Moses and Alana are doing their best to convince people to swap out the Spam for the stuff they make, LuauKalua.”

“Do you think they’ll succeed?”

“I don’t see why not,” said Hannah. “Their stuff is similar to Spam. It’s the seasoning that’s different. Spam is made to taste like baked ham, LuauKalua tastes like kalua pig.”

“The kind they serve at a luaus?”

“That’s it,” Hannah replied. “By the way, we’re going to a luau tomorrow night.”

“No way,” Frederick said. “We’re not leaving until one in the afternoon. We won’t get into Hilo until 5:00 PM. We’ll be exhausted.”

“Wrong, love of my life,” said Hannah. “Our flight has been changed. We leave at 5:30 tomorrow morning. We’ll be in Pahoa by 11:00 AM Hawaii time.”

“What? When did all this happen?”

“About an hour ago,” said Hannah. “Alana called. Seems Moses had an ulterior motive in buying our way over there. She says he needs you there yesterday.”

Rosedale, CA – 10:30 PM PST

At age 59, it had been a long while since Lewis Foo had tested his burglary skills. Fortunately for him, tonight he caught some lucky breaks.

First, the moon would not rise for several hours. In a remote location like Rosedale, that meant that darkness was going to be very dark. Second, security in Sally Hank’s home consisted of motion sensors only. So long as its occupants were inside, the system could not be activated.

In short, environmental conditions were perfect and Sally’s house was a cracker box.

Still, it never paid to take chances. Foo was dressed in black. A black ski mask covered his face, black crepe sole shoes muffled his footsteps. A black utility belt around his waist held chemical mace, a black handled screwdriver, black matte duct tape and a set of lock picks.

The lock picks were a back up. The rear door appeared to be secured with a cheap privacy lock which he could shim with the celluloid strip in his back pocket.

Since 8:10 pm, Foo had been watching Sally’s home from behind a clump of bushes. A little less than an hour later, the downstairs lights had gone out. Forty-five minutes after that, at around 9:50, the upstairs lights did likewise.

It was now 10:30. Time to go.

Crouching, he crept from the bushes to the back door. Its lock was as cheesy as he’d hoped. He slid his celluloid strip through the doorjamb, manipulated the spring-bolt into an unlocked position and pushed. With a soft click, the door swung open. Foo stepped inside.

By a process of elimination, while watching the lights, Foo had determined that a corner room on the second floor was where Noah slept. From the rear of the house, he stole through the kitchen to a central stairway and made his way upward. Turning left at the top of the stairs, he made his way down a hallway to the room and let himself in.

He’d guessed correctly. Noah Garrison, wearing Spiderman pajamas, lay asleep in the glow of a nightlight. Foo pulled off his mask and looked at him. He’d seen him only a few days before, still the boy seemed to have grown.

Noah turned over, whimpering softly and Foo hurried to the bedside, ready to cover the child’s mouth with his hand. Noah’s eyes opened. “Lewis?” he said. “Is that you?”

“Shhh. You’ll wake everyone.”

The boy reached out and clasped his hands behind Foo’s neck. Foo straightened and the boy clung tighter.

His voice, small and sleepy, grew muffled as he buried his face in Foo’s neck. “I missed you,” he said.

Lewis Foo’s orders regarding Noah Garrison were explicit. He knew what must be done he was prepared to do it. The timing of the thing, however, was discretionary. He could accomplish it when and wherever he deemed most appropriate. For a moment, Foo considered his options. Should he do it now or later?

Later is better, he thought to himself. Yes, later.

I hate hospitals. Most people do, I know, but with a family prone to cancer, hard drinking, hard smoking, and other forms of self-destruction, I'd spent far too many hours in hospital waiting rooms. Bad enough when it was an aunt or a cousin or my parents.

But it was Suzie, strong, beautiful, unfailingly healthy Suzie who was supposed to live another eighty years, who was under the knife not for cancer but for riding home with a drunken friend. It wasn't fair, I'd told myself through many an endless stretch in hospital waiting rooms. It wasn't fair. Suzie should have had the devil's own luck, not mine, not theirs. "Internal bleeding," they'd told me. "Broken ribs. Concussion." This couldn't be happening. She couldn't actually die, no, I couldn't think it or I'd lose my mind and pound the floor with my chapped hands, scream with my tired throat. Not Suzie. Not Suzie!

A part of me, the part of me that had already spent too many tragic nights in hospitals, knew that my anguish and torment would accomplish nothing. She was in the doctors' hands. Some would say God's hands, but not I. My religious relatives, cousins and aunts, both sisters, my parents, even the drunken lout I once married, each had breathed his last in a hospital just like this one, trusting God. Now there was just Suzie and me. I couldn't stand the thought that I would be the last one, left all alone, in another hospital. But I wouldn't expect God to save her.

I needed to knit, focus on the stitches, and disengage my brain. My chest ached with worry, but that would do nothing for Suzie. I had to be strong. Her fiancé was coming, too. Smart man, working so he wasn't at the party. I'd feel better when he was there and so would she. Suzie knew how to pick 'em.

It was Friday night, so the surgical waiting room was crowded. The accident my daughter was fighting her way back from had involved half a dozen cars, many filled with equally-drunk graduation partiers, so the room was packed.

Two women wailed, faces slimed with tears and snot, gripping each others' hands with white knuckles. Two men, red of face, wrangled near the door, each blaming each other's child for the near death of the other. Children and quieter parents draped on uncomfortable vinyl chairs as sleep tried to reclaim the stolen hours, while others stared sightlessly in shock, overcome by fear. The room reeked of misery, fear, and rage. I couldn't sit next to any of these heartsick or angry people without losing my mind, giving over to noisy, angry despair.

I couldn't even get angry at the parents of my daughter's driver. I didn’t know them. I never got out into the social world. Who had time to attend parties and functions when working two jobs to take care of one fantastic kid? And if some of my scribblings had helped to house her as she went through college, even better. But it didn't give me more time. Suzie's the one who needed more time.

In a quiet corner, a lone man sat, an empty chair on either side of him. He did not seem disturbed or angry, frightened or aggrieved, but calmly scrolled through something on his smart phone, paying no attention to anyone else. I approached him and asked if I could sit in one of the empty chairs, hoping they weren't taken.

With a gesture, he offered me the seat next to a corner table (the one I would have preferred if asked) and then returned to his cell phone. For just a moment, the man had looked up with the kind of heart-stopping smile that even an old woman like me could fall for. His eyes were dark brown, and his clear beautiful skin was light brown like caramel, and his dimples were pronounced and added charm to a slim goatee. His black hair was glossy and curled in waves that fell to his shoulders. Without his smile, he was very handsome. With his smile, he was entrancing. Never really appreciated that term until that moment. This was the kind of man who could sweep someone off their feet with a smile.

Just the kind of man my late father would have warned me against, but I regretted I hadn't met him twenty years prior. Maybe thirty. As for my father's judgment, my ex-lout was proof positive my father had never had any business choosing men for me. Well, romance was out of the question—he was too young to contemplate—but he was worth sneaking glances at as I readied my yarn. I'd never seen anyone so beautiful up close.

He made no sign he saw me ogling him, but his well-curved mouth, just touched by his neat mustache, lifted at the corner as if he were amused, his cellphone providing muted music, show tunes it sounded like. Calm amusement seemed out of place in an ICU waiting room. But I said nothing, pretending to be focused on my needles. He was a mystery, though, and my curiosity just kept growing the longer he pretended I wasn't staring.

When he suddenly burst out laughing, the room went still and stiff with disapproval. Not just a chuckle, mind you, a chortle that the man could cover up by pretending to cough. No, the man threw his head back and laughed, long and loud, the sound rolling through and around this room steeped in anguish and anxiety, stilling the furious shouts of the two purple-faced men and the raucous sobs of women gripping hands in grief and even catching the attention of sleepy children who'd been dragged there in the wee hours. The laughter stilled the noise and grief and replaced it with a sound of unabashed joy instead.

As the sound faded, bright as the sun in this cold fluorescent room, no one said anything to him, but their grim faces and shocked gasps made it clear they resented his happiness amidst their fear and pain. I know my aunt and my father, even my lout of an ex-husband would have been equally censorious, but I felt cheered by his devil-may-care attitude, hopeful even, and it pushed my curiosity to the breaking point. "What are you watching?" I asked.

He answered in a warm baritone every bit as beautiful as his laughter and his face. "Community production in my home town. Really, they've outdone themselves." He offered his cell to me unprompted, and I took it with eager hands, yarn forsaken.

I watched a scene from a play, complete with stunning sets and costumes that would not have shamed Broadway, let alone a local theater. Unwilling to monopolize his device (with stunning picture and sound), I limited myself to the one scene. "That's amazing," I said, with complete sincerity. "They sound professional. That's a community theater? They're really, really good."

The man smiled his half-smile again and it struck me that his smile, now and before, spoke of a secret joke. "We have an unusually large concentration of talented people where I live. It makes for lively shows, and ones of great production value." He lifted a brow as if challenging me to ask more.

I knew I shouldn't. He was a stranger, but the knitting was not enough distraction from obsessing over Suzie. Here was a spot of happy and I wanted more of it. "I'm Sandy Markham. You seem interesting and I need to talk to someone. Would you talk to me?"

"I would. So, what makes me interesting?" I took a moment to drink in more of him. In addition to his obvious charm and beauty, he was dressed like a vibrant pimp in shocking red, his tie a slick slash of black. On anyone else, it would seem vulgar or even ridiculous, but it was so natural on him, I hadn't even noticed it. It was like he was in brilliant saturated color, superimposed on a black and white movie with the rest of us faded and colorless.

I shrugged, tucking the yarn back into my bag. "People in hospitals never seem friendly or happy or calm. That's pretty interesting. You're a handsome devil, that's pretty interesting. You're cheerful and full of life. I don't see that in hospitals. It makes me curious."

"Does it make you happier?"

I considered the question carefully, rolled it around in my brain. The fear and anxiety for Suzie still waited to pounce and overwhelm me, but I was holding it off, so I wasn't happy. But happier? "Yes. It's so easy to fall into panic and despair in places like this, and I'm not in despair."

"Good," he said, his smile as warm as his voice. "My name is Lucifer B. Satan. Charmed."

I couldn't answer. I was chortling, then choking as I tried to cover it with a cough. Not convincingly, as I had quite a few dark stares aimed at me. I dropped my voice lower to hide the laughter it shook with. "Lucifer B—you must be joking. That's hilarious!"

"Well, I like laughter myself. I'm glad you're amused. Have you been frequenting hospitals, Sandy?"

"Hmm? Oh, I suppose. Not for me, mind you. I've always been healthy, but my family dropped like flies for the past twenty years. Accidents, cancer, cirrhosis, food poisoning, you name it. But my daughter..." I couldn't bring myself to say it as the fear swarmed up my throat and tried to choke me. Saying it made it real. I cleared my throat. "Are you waiting for someone, too?"

"I am, but I have every expectation she'll leave with me."

I lifted my own brow at that. It sounded almost smug. "Does she have something minor or is that just your faith talking?"

The wattage of his smile never flickered. "Oh, she has quite a serious condition and I'm not much for faith. Consider it a logical conclusion based on what I know about her."

I tried to squelch my envy at his sense of assurance. It flavored my tone. "You seem confident."

His grin widened and his eyes danced. "Indeed. One might even say it's one of my defining characteristics, though it doesn't usually make the top five."

A sigh slipped past me and I muttered, "I wish I had your confidence."

"My confidence wouldn't do you a bit of good. Better to create your own."

"But how can I—? I don't even know—"

He waited calmly as I stuttered, then asked, "What is your daughter like?"

"You don't want me to talk about her condition?"

His eyes seemed amused. "Do you know her condition?"

"No," I admitted, deflated.

"No sense talking about it, then. But what is she like? Who is she? That's often where you get the best answers. Is she like you?"

"In some ways. She's stubborn, maybe a bit more than I am. Smart as hell, sharp, witty, clever. She fought with me all through high school, scraping grades, then managed to get herself through college on scholarships and grants with nearly straight A's. Once she's decided on something, nothing stops her. She impatient, but kind, thoughtful, honest to a fault. Makes great friends. People love her. She has a good man who loves her. Beautiful. You wouldn't know it looking at me, but she's a beautiful girl."

The warmth crept back into his eyes and I felt it seep into me somehow. "Oh, I don't doubt it for an instant. If you want confidence, seems like you have reason enough. She doesn't sound like the girl who would give up on life easily."

"No." And the thought did cheer me, but hellish panic was still there, licking at my consciousness, making it hard to breathe. I needed to keep talking or I'd lose it. "So, what is your name really?"

"Just as I told you."

I had to bite down on another burst of laughter. "Seriously? Your parents must have been sadists to name you Lucifer with a last name like Satan. What were they thinking? You must have been teased terribly, if not worse?"

"Oh, I'm not named after the Devil. I am the Devil." His dark eyes flashed briefly with orange flames and his smile took on quite the dangerous cast.

"That's not funny," I hissed, trying hard to tell myself not to be silly. Obviously, I was being teased.

"I'm not laughing. Tell me, Sandy," he said, looking in no way offended. "Would you sell your soul to me to save your daughter's life?"

"Yes!" I barked without hesitation and a trifle too loudly. Ignoring more of the angry glances, I reiterated at a whisper, "Yes, of course I would."

"Of course you would. That's why so many stories about me are obviously false."

I felt my head spinning and grabbed the arm of the chair so I didn't slide from it. "What?"

"Well, don't they say dealing with the Devil gets you anything you want in return for your soul? If I wanted to bargain for souls, I could just hang out in children's hospitals. Parents would be flinging their souls at me in desperation faster than I could catch them. Anything to save their children."

There was a logic to that, but it seemed too glib and there had to be a catch. "But you can't take their souls if there's a sacrifice, can you?" I wasn't sure at what point I had accepted the possibility that he was the actual Satan, but why not go with it? This might be the most interesting conversation I'd ever had. I had some terrible heartburn suddenly, and speaking helped me think past it. Shouldn't have had Chinese for lunch.

"Why? Wouldn't you think someone with a soul slated for heaven would be the only type of person worth pursuing? If I needed souls. Most of the ones in stories are consumed by greed or power or fame or glory. Wouldn't they be already headed to hell without my overt involvement? That hardly seems worth my precious time."

That made sense, too. I'd always wondered about that. If you were willing to sell your soul for selfish reasons, it didn't exactly argue you were heaven-bound. "It does seem like a lot of trouble. And I've always thought it odd that you have a reputation as a liar and a fraud, but you always play by the rules while they try to cheat you of their souls after you've fulfilled your part of the bargain."

"See, no effort at all to keep such yahoos out of heaven."

Even beyond the irreverent logic, I found it odd that he was repeating back my own thinking, the kind of thinking I'd always been careful to keep to myself. Still, seemed callous to target frightened parents. I felt a little disappointed. "So, you do that? Ask scared parents to sell their souls to you?"

For the first time, his smile dimmed and he sighed. "Really, Sandy, I expected more from you. Why would you think that?"

"Well, if you're the Devil, aren't you always trolling for souls any way you can get them? And I don't mind giving you mine for Suzie. She's all I have in the world and she's got a full life in front of her. I wouldn't mind at all."

"Don't be stupid." He looked disgusted. "And call me Lucifer"

I felt a little crushed. Lord knows I had plenty to worry about with Suzie. And, yeah, I didn't know this guy and he was actually claiming to be the Devil himself, but I was enjoying his company. For some reason, I didn't want him to think I was stupid or to hate me. But then he couldn't hate me and want me to call him by his first name, right? Maybe the heartburn was a little more distracting than I'd thought. "I'm confused," I said.

Lucifer gestured broadly to the room full of miserable, angry, and offended people. "Who needs to troll for souls? There are plenty of bad people around if I wanted them." He offered me a handkerchief, patterned in black and red, and I wiped the sweat off my forehead without thinking. Weren't hospitals usually cold?

"Well, these folks are not at their best—what do you mean 'if' you wanted them?"

Lucifer sighed. "Of what possible use would be crowding up my corner of the afterlife with phalanxes of the most miserable and obnoxious people? With the hordes of assholes crowding hell already, why would I seek out more? What's my incentive? Do you think I get a discount per soul? Fifty more souls and I get a free ice cream?"

I didn't say anything but I remember thinking that before, too. Weren't there plenty of souls headed toward eternal damnation? Didn't seem like the Devil had to work that hard and he was always getting credit for being more involved than God.

"Or maybe you think I have a running bet with God? If so, why isn't he walking around down here trying to get converts? Seems like there's more incentive for him to save good people from me and win the bet than I have to double down on the already damned."

"I guess I never thought about that. I always assumed God waited for the faithful to find him." I'd never been much of one for church, though my parents had certainly pushed for it and even my ex-husband, when the bastard wasn't beating me in a drunken rage, told me my soul would be forfeit if I didn't find the Lord. Sometimes, as he was beating me. Just didn't seem all that convincing from a greasy neanderthal with a streak of cruel that spilled over into every other aspect of life, spilling on to me and, eventually, Suzie. That was when I left. I might keep a commitment with a monster, but I'd be damned if she was going to pay for it.

"Sandy?"

Seemed harder than it ought to be to keep myself focused. My lousy ex was the last thing I wanted to think about it. "So, God leaves us all to our own devices?" I was feeling unusually tired, but I wanted to see where this led.

Lucifer cleared his throat, "Oh, well, no actually he does his own legwork, too, but it's not like what you think."

"No?"

"What do you think happens after you die?"

Well, that stumped me. I hadn't really thought about it. I mean, I think we have souls, probably. Suzie came into the world with personality to spare, more and better than me or her father. But heaven and hell, even before Lucifer started shooting down notions, never seemed to make sense either. "I don't know. They say that those who are bad, or even those who are good but don't go to the right church or commit the wrong sin or are gay or won't believe all go to hell."

"So they say. Is that what you think?"

I sighed. "I don't like to think it. I know too many nice people that are gay or pagan or don't believe anything, good kind people, who are often nicer than the most religious people I know. Doesn’t seem right to me that any decent person, let alone God, would let them be tortured forever when they were good people." I frowned. "It doesn't make any sense."

"Exactly. What would be the point of a place where people were forever tortured, not just for heinous acts but inconsequential sins or philosophical differences? Even if they were horrible criminals, why would you do that? To teach them a lesson? What for, since they're there for all eternity? To punish them? Why waste your resources doing that forever?"

It made too much sense. Maybe I was confused. "So what are you saying?"

"That hell, the way they tell it, doesn't exist. If your soul is beyond redemption, better to destroy it back down to the original essence and let it start again. Maybe as a germ. Or an amoeba."

"So, no billions of the dead being burned in flaming pits or stabbed with pitchforks?"

"Um, no." Well, that was a little better. Come to think of it, that made the notion of selling my soul to Lucifer to save Suzie a bit more palatable.

"Heaven's not what many people think either," he said as I ruminated over how best to offer my soul to him again.

"No?"

"First, think of the sort of people who think they are going to heaven. Even the ones who are nice, decent people in many ways, aren't they a little too pleased that people who don't agree with them are going to be tortured for eternity? Don't many of them seem far too focused on condemning others and congratulating themselves on their faith?"

Maybe he was reading my mind. I'd thought that many times, with my parents, my husband, my neighbors, the preachers on television. "Seems petty and small-minded to me," I said, trying not to feel guilty as so many people I grew up with flashed across my mind. "Not evil, not the kind of horrible thing where I'd want 'em tortured or turned into amoebas or anything. Just not the kind of thing that makes you think they deserve an eternal reward."

I could barely hold my head up I was so tired. Age was probably catching up to me. Lucifer, who clearly did read minds, took my craft bag and purse from my limp fingers and placed them on the little table, like a pillow. I leaned on it gratefully, but then was confounded when he sat back down and wrapped his arm around me so I could lean on his shoulder. Why would I do that? I wondered then snuggled up as if my mind were not my own. Maybe I'd leaned against my father once or twice that way, maybe my mother, but I couldn't remember. I was more comforted than I could possibly express.

"You're very kind." I said, finding the position unexpectedly comfy, perhaps because I felt less alone. He smelled wonderful, spicy and warm. Probably the brimstone. "Too bad you're the Devil. I could fall in love with you."

"Don't let that stop you. It's not like I'm taken." I wished I could see his face. I bet he'd flashed his dimples

I laughed and I was convinced he wanted me to. I felt so much better since I'd curled up next to him, no more pain or fatigue. Maybe that bag had been bothering me. It was a bit heavy. "What were we talking about?"

"You were saying, quite rightly, that small-minded people had no business in eternal luxury. But maybe you haven't thought things through. Say that, for those who are really selfish and grasping, who actively manipulate people for power or gain or hatefulness, they go off to start existence at the beginning. That leaves a large population, far more than those who are truly evil, who aren't bad so much as easily led and not very imaginative or good at thinking."

"There are more good people than bad," I said, with decision. "The bad get far more press." I lifted my head and then my body. I wasn't tired at all any more. I wanted to see his face, his smile.

"Indeed, but it's the sheep and the closed- or small-minded that enable the evil, so it's really not something to encourage. So they go to what they think is heaven."

"Doesn't seem fair," I repeated. Perhaps I thought he'd forgotten.

"Really? What's heaven like, according to those same people?"

I sighed. "No strife, no hardship. An eternity of peace and prosperity with no struggles or hunger or need."

"An eternity of, in fact, nothing, no challenges, no movement, no growth."

"Actually, that sounds dull as hell. I'd be bored in weeks."

"Only you have eternity and you can't die."

I shuddered involuntarily. "The devil really is in the details."

Lucifer rolled his eyes. "Really? You're going with that?"

"Hell is sounding better and better."

He laughed again and I checked the room but no one seemed to be paying any attention anymore. I couldn't smell the scents of fear and anxiety, or hear the sobbing. It was like we were in the room alone. "Well, in all fairness, that's not really heaven. People down here talk as though it were but it's not. It's limbo, someplace for the limited of mind to get a full dose of what it is they think they want. God even installed pearly gates to comfort them. Eventually, for many, they realize that 'heaven' isn't all it was cracked up to be, and, once they have that realization, it's generally time to let them live a new life and hope they're wiser this time. God was really struggling with humankind. No matter how often he suggested people do their own thinking, too many of them kept confusing his helpful suggestions with unbreakable laws that were worth killing over, either using it for their own power or following those leaders blindly while forgoing any independent thought. So, Jesus suggested using limbo to wise 'em up. Jesus got saddled with oversight of the place, but I think he's going to turn it over to the archangels to take turns. There's only so much of that a soul can take."

"Hmm. So, what are you here for? Don’t tell me you're not recruiting because I don't believe it."

His smile flashed. "Just so. You see, Sandy, while most of the world is peopled by sheep and those evil enough to use them, there are people who are neither. And those of us who have our realms on the next plane come and choose from those more advanced souls that fit best in our worlds so they can continue their journey."

"'Those of us?' You mean, you and God? That makes you sound like buddies."

"More like colleagues. And there are more than just the two. But we're not all looking for the same thing. God, for instance, likes the philosophical and philanthropic. Those who can't be corrupted and do true good, making real change."

I shook my head. "Seems odd you'd call him God, somehow."

"Well, anyone would want an alternative to Godwin."

I couldn’t argue that. But I was scared, suddenly. "Are... Are you here to get my daughter?" There was no doubt my daughter was something extraordinary. My fear made me stumble over my words as I rushed. "I know you mean well, or at least some sort of well, but she has so much ahead of her! Please, please, don't take her."

"I'm not going to. She's coming out of surgery now. She'll be fine."

His arm was still about me and I gripped his lapel, weeping. "Thank you, thank you!" I turned for a tissue from my purse and only then realized that another me was slumped over the bags, sleeping very quietly. "Oh." I turned back to him, tears forgotten. "Are you taking me instead?"

"I never came for your daughter. You had a heart attack, Sandy, but you don't think about yourself, so you didn't even notice."

"You want me?" The notion seemed outlandish, more so now that I realized it was a compliment, not a sentence. And I knew it. I was sure. If Lucifer was a flimflam man, I was well and truly bamboozled because I believed every part of it.

"Very much."

I tried to wrap my mind around it but I couldn't. Suzie I could see, she was smart and kind and remarkable. But me, I was no one special. "Why? I'm not a philosopher or a saint."

"I know. But that's what God's looking for in his realm. From the very beginning, I've favored the creative, those who think beyond what they're taught, who question authority, who aren't satisfied with an empty paradise and want to know more."

"The original sin."

"Sin is so strong a word. It's not a sin to think and act on your own, to make your world better than it was when you got there, to raise others to think and feel and learn, just as you did with Suzie, giving her so much more than you were ever offered. Those are the people I like to invite into my little corner of the afterworld. Care to join me?"

"What about Suzie?"

"It won't be easy. She'll have a long recovery and she'll miss you. Can't exactly blame her. But you gave her the tools to thrive. She'll be fine. Her fiancé just arrived. He'll help her." Lucifer stood and held out a hand. "What do you say? You're already dead so you need only choose. Hecate has a particular fondness for crafty, strong-willed women. But I'd rather you danced with me."

"Dance with the Devil? Sounds wonderful!" I looked into his eyes, then smiled, feeling joy, for Suzie's life to come, for whatever lay ahead of her. I placed my hand in his and felt his music, then let him lead me astray, stepping right through Suzie's frantic fiancé with no more than a passing thought.

*******

In "heaven," Archie Markham shook his head and spat,missing his chewing tobacco. "I knew it. I knew it!" he told his wife, gesturing to the screen as their difficult daughter, Sandy, was led off by the Devil. "I knew she'd be seduced by logic. That girl always thought too much for her own good."

"Well, Archie," Deena offered. "'Tain't your fault. Some people just cain't learn for nuthin'."

[First published in the anthology "Legacy"]