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Chapter Four
Sunday, April 11, 1993

37,000 Feet over Central California Bearing Northwest –12:35 AM

“Now what happens?” McGovern asked. The pilot had joined his passenger in the cabin of the jet as it headed west. Frederick shrugged.

“Now we go back home,” he said.

“What’s going to happen to Mr. G?”

“I’m not sure,” Frederick replied. “A lot depends on what the FBI’s got on him.”

“They don’t have anything on Mr. G,” McGovern said. “He’s a music promoter, for crissake, not a white slaving drug lord...just a guy trying to take care of his family.”

“Don’t worry, McGovern” Frederick said. “We’re on the same page, you and I. I’m not going to just drop this. I’ll make some inquiries tomorrow. If I don’t like what I hear, I’ll do something about it.”

“I can’t believe you’re being so calm,” McGovern said. “I saw the way those MPs were manhandling you down there. Aren’t you pissed?”

“Of course, Harry,” Frederick said. “But getting all bent out of shape isn’t going to change anything. Just get us home. I have a couple of ideas I want to follow up.” Frederick paused. “And take it easy. I’ve been here before. Believe me, given the proper management, these things have a way of working themselves out.”

McGovern stared outside into the darkness. “All right,” he said at last. “I’ll take your word. But promise me something.”

“What?”

McGovern pulled a business card out of his shirt pocket. “Mr. G has been a rock to Jennifer and me. If you need anything, if we can help in any way, you call us, all right?”

Frederick took the card. “Absolutely,” he said.

Valley River Motor Lodge, Needles, CA -- 1:10 AM

Nachtmann’s reconnaissance team switched on the two-way radio. “Recon One to Big Dog, over.” Nachtmann’s response was immediate.

“This is Big Dog,” he said. “Go ahead Recon one.”

“The Mustang just pulled into a motel near Needles,” said Recon One. “The woman is getting out and going into the office.”

“Don’t fuck it up,” Nachtmann said. “Wait until she comes out. Then follow her to her room. Take her before she gets inside.”

“Roger that.”

The two men in the van could see the blonde woman’s back as she talked to the motel clerk. The clerk gave her a registration card. She filled it out. Then the clerk slid a key across the counter and pointed east, out the window, presumably in the direction of a vacant room. The woman nodded her head and exited the office.

“All right, Big Dog,” said Recon One, “she’s getting back into her car.”

“Stay where you are,” Nachtmann radioed back. “Wait until she parks.”

“Roger.”

The Mustang began to roll across the parking lot, heading for the easternmost line of guestrooms. There was only one other car parked nearby.

“The Mustang has come to a stop,” Recon One said. “Looks like she’s picking stuff up from the seat...OK...she’s opening the door...she’s flipping back the driver seat to get into the rear of the car...she’s taking a kid out of the safety seat...OK, she’s got the kid...”

“Move out, Recon One, move out!” Nachtmann barked into the microphone. “Go get her.”

Seconds later it was over.

As Recon One’s van headed back down the now nearly deserted highway, a blue Ford F-150 pickup rumbled to life and pulled out of the motel parking lot. Keeping its headlights dark, it followed, some 200 yards behind.

Potrero Hill - San Francisco, CA – 3:20 AM

When Inspector Frederick returned home, his wife was asleep. Keyed up, he sat in the living room, thinking.

Agent Schmidt had warned him off, but to Frederick, that meant nothing. He was SFPD. Schmidt was FBI; a dog in a different dump. He put Schmidt out of his mind and turned his attention to the facts, which were simple; the wife of a local man had skipped town with a large sum of money. As Wingate and Simon had both said, the story was routine; an every day occurrence.

True, Jim Garrison was prominent and yes, the amount of money was large, but those were surface differences. At bare bones, the Garrison case was commonplace.

But Frederick couldn’t accept that. He’d been convinced that Mrs. Garrison was in danger even before Wingate uncovered the threatening telephone message.

Now that he knew Agent Schmidt was nosing around, he was more convinced than ever: marital problems couldn’t be the central issue. The FBI did not operate a division of domestic discord. Mrs. Garrison’s disappearance had to be related, in some way, to one of the Bureau’s core priorities, otherwise, legally, Schmidt could not get involved.

Frederick ticked through the list.

Kidnapping? He’d dismissed the idea that Noah had been kidnapped earlier in the day and saw no reason to think differently now.

How about drugs? In spite of McGovern’s protests, was Garrison a drug trafficker? Not likely. When drug dealers have problems, they don’t call the cops.

White collar crime? Civil rights violations? Terrorism? Revolution? Each succeeding option seemed less likely than the last.

He let his mind wander. Was there a pattern, a common thread running through what he already knew? If so, what was it?

“There’s always a pattern,” Frederick’s first partner, Jake Carter, had once said. “The problem is, your brain only wants to see the ones it already understands. Remember that. Consider everything.”

Frederick took out his notebook and flipped through the pages. What person, place or thing, however random, had persisted throughout this investigation?

On the first pass, he thought it must be his own preoccupations, tricking his brain into seeing what wasn’t really there. After checking everything for the fourth time, however, he knew what the communality was.

Hawaii.

Deborah Garrison was from Hilo. Garrison and his wife had met on the Big Island. The pilot, Anthony Dudgeons, had filed a flight plan that both began and ended in Hilo. There was another connection, too: the news item that had upset Deborah Garrison so much; the story about the man who’d burned himself alive.

Frederick picked up the telephone and dialed. A woman’s voice answered.

“KDCT, Radio 93.” KDCT was a 24 hour news station which relied heavily on the SFPD for up-to-date police blotter news. Hence, it was their policy to provide information on demand to any San Francisco policeman requesting it.

“This is Inspector Frederick, SFPD. Can I have the news desk?”

“You’ve got it, Inspector. This time of night, me and the guy talking are the only ones here. What can I do for you?”

“What do you have on a public suicide in Hawaii in January of this year?”

“Public suicide? What flavor? A jumper?”

“Self-immolation,” the inspector said.

“Ouch,” the woman said. “Let me check.” Frederick could hear tapping on a computer keyboard over the line. “Hmmm. I don’t see anything...Oh, wait. Yeah...Here it is. On January 17?”

“That sounds right.”

“The headline threw me. I almost missed it. Want me to fax it over to you?”

“Yeah. Attention Hal Frederick at Central Station. You need the number?”

“No. I’ve got it. Anything else?”

“Yeah,” said Frederick. “I’m not at my desk. Do you mind giving me the highlights?”

“Sure,” she said. “On January 17 of this year at approximately 8:00 AM local time, Puhi Okaoka Kapono, 83, a resident of nearby Pahoa, doused himself with gasoline and set himself ablaze on the steps of the Faber-Brady Trust building...blah...blah...blah...The Faber-Brady Trust is some kind of charity...blah...blah...There’s a statement by the director of the charity...quotes from some eyewitnesses, etc., etc. I’ll fax it over, OK?”

“Yeah,” Frederick said. “Thanks.” Frederick started to hang up, then stopped. “Oh, wait,” he said. “One more thing.”

“Yeah?”

“You said you almost missed this because the headline threw you,” said Frederick. “What was the headline?”

“‘Grim Tribute To Hawaiian Queen,’” the editor replied.

“Does it say what that means?”

“Hold on.” The editor murmured under her breath while scanning. “OK, yeah...it refers to the last queen of Hawaii. January 17th marked the 100th anniversary of the overthrow of her government. Seems the old guy killed himself in protest of ‘a century-long foreign occupation of the Hawaiian nation.’"

IGM Kingman International Airport, Kingman, AZ – 4:00 AM

Dudgeon’s plane was almost completely refueled. His scheduled take-off was less than two hours away.

While making his approach three hours earlier, he had purposely loosened the cable to his transponder. This had had the effect of hampering airport radar’s ability to “see” the aircraft. Air traffic control had noticed. Dudgeons had known they would.

“Tower to niner 7836, over,” ATC said.

“Yes, tower. Niner 7836. Over.”

“What’s up with your transponder? It’s intermittent. Over.”

“Not sure, tower. Is it out now? Over.”

“Not at the moment niner 7836,” ATC replied. “But I’m starting a trouble ticket. You’ll have to get that checked out before you take off again.”

“Roger that, tower.”

The electronics technician was just now finishing his inspection.

“Everything seems OK now,” he said. “but you’ll have to get a thorough diagnostic when you get back home.”

“Right,” Dudgeons said. “I’ll do that.”

Highway 40 East Near Yucca, AZ -- 4:15 AM

Mother and son sat in the rear of the Recon One van, the boy on the woman’s lap. Softly, as if comforting the child, the woman spoke in his ear. The boy nodded. The woman kissed him.

Desert Pioneer Hotel Kingman, AZ – 4:30 AM MST

By this time, coffee was not enough for Nachtmann. He needed more. He felt inside the pocket of his khaki jacket, checking his supply of pep pills. The bottle’s weight was reassuring. It was well over half full. From his original supply of 42, over half remained.

Jim Garrison was in custody. Deborah and Noah were aboard one of his reconnaissance vans, heading toward Kingman. Within two hours, Deborah Garrison would be here and Jim Garrison would be gone. Until then, he had plenty of pills.

The two-way radio squawked to life.

“Recon One to Big Dog.”

Nachtmann’s hands jerked from his coat pockets to the arms of his chair, his body taut, His nerves were jangling.

“Recon One to Big Dog. Come in Big Dog.”

He snatched the mic from the desktop. “Big Dog to Recon One.” he snapped. “What is it?”

“We’re still en route, Big Dog. Over.”

“Still en route? You should be here by now. What’s going on? Over.”

“Flat tire,” said Recon One. “No spare. We’re heading into a service station in Yucca, about a half-hour from you. Be there soon. Over.”

There was a high, piping voice in the background of Recon One’s transmissions. Whose voice? Is that he kid, Nachtmann wondered? Noah Garrison?

“How soon is soon?” he said. “Over.”

“It’ll take fifteen minutes to replace the tire, then another 30 to finish the drive. An hour tops, Big Dog. Over.”

The child’s chattering had continued. Something about it sounded false; out of place.

“How far out is Yucca from IGM?” Nachtmann asked. “Over.”

When Recon One came back online, the child’s voice rang out in the foreground, loud and clear, well before Recon One said anything. Nachtmann’s guts tied themselves in a knot. He scarcely heard his operative’s response.

“I make it about 34 miles, Big Dog. Over.”

“Recon One,” Nachtmann said, “is that the boy I hear talking in the background? Over.”

“Affirmative, Big Dog. That’s him. Over.” Nachtmann winced like a man in severe gastric distress. A few seconds ticked away before he switched the microphone back to transmit mode.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, Recon One,” Nachtmann said, “but it sounds to me as though that boy is speaking Spanish. Over.”

“Of course he is, Big Dog,” Recon One replied. “They’re both speaking Spanish. Why? Do they speak English? Over.”

Circle 6 Mini-Mart and Filling Station, Yucca, AZ -- 4:32 AM MST

The van came to a stop in front of the filling station. At that moment, the woman in the rear of the Recon One van shouted to her son. “Pronto, chico!” (Quickly, boy!). The child scrambled to the front seat and onto the driver’s lap, grasped the steering wheel in both hands and pressed the horn ring with his stomach. The horn was especially loud. The woman began screaming, reached across the seat and dug her nails into the face of the heavy set man seated beside her. Inside the Circle 6 Mini-Mart, the cashier and two truckers peered out the window at the van. A motorist at a nearby gas pump began walking toward the vehicle.

From the highway, a blue Ford F-150 pickup squealed up beside the van. A tall woman and a short man leapt from the truck. The man opened the driver’s door. The woman snatched the boy from the driver’s lap. The sliding door on the van banged open. The boy’s mother vaulted outside. The boy, his mother and their two rescuers, bounded back into the pickup and roared back down the road.

Near Peach Springs, AZ -- 5:15 AM MST

A mile and a quarter from the tiny speck of civilization called Peach Springs, a Peregrine falcon floated over a lonely strip of concrete on the desert floor. The April sun would not show itself for nearly an hour. There was no moon. A faint glow on the edge of the far horizon provided the falcon with barely enough light to spot its prey.

Unfortunately for a mother woodcock, up early to fetch grubs for her chicks, barely enough light was plenty. With blinding speed, the falcon swooped down and, with his half-closed foot, dealt a crushing blow to the woodcock’s spine, killing her instantly.

The woodcock’s body tumbled toward earth and the falcon followed it down. Microseconds before her tiny corpse would have crashed into the manmade surface below, the falcon snatched it from midair and flew away.

The concrete strip over which this drama had unfolded was not long, barely four miles from end to end and, unlike the nearly deserted Historic Highway 66 which ran nearby, this thoroughfare had never borne traffic. Years ago, before the men who built it could complete their work, some other men, three-thousand miles away, decided it was not needed.

For over a half century, the little roadway had borne up under weather and time, waiting for a day when it might be of some use.

Harris, AZ – 5:17 AM

Deborah Garrison slithered between the tautly drawn nylon fabric of the camouflage cover and the steel frame of the Lexus’ doorway, finally making her way out into the morning air. The night before, the snug fit of the car cover had made getting back inside difficult. It had been almost as difficult getting back out.

Spending a night in the car was not Deborah’s idea of luxury, but at only seven miles away from Kingman, a hotel would have been too risky.

She’d elected to get back on the road before the sun came up. That was good. The night before had been dark and she’d parked well off the road. At the time there had been no signs of people. Now, she could see lights burning in nearby houses. At daybreak, she might have been spotted.

It was early. Dudgeons’ plane would be taking off soon and timing was critical. Deborah gathered up the car cover and threw near where Noah’s child safety seat would have been. A lonesome pang stabbed at her heart. She shook it off.

In the package well was a hairpiece Deborah had borrowed from Sally. She took it out and placed it on the front passenger seat, then got behind the wheel and drove back onto Arizona 66.

Desert Pioneer Hotel Kingman, AZ – 5:20 AM

Nachtmann could feel his heart pounding, hear his synapses firing, even smell his own sweat. Snarling and snapping, he barked out one order and countermanded it with the next. Never mind that he was only creating more confusion. He couldn’t help himself.

He fought to clear his mind, to give his brain some room to maneuver; to strategize. It was hopeless. Try as he might, Nachtmann was unable to focus on solving the problem at hand. He was too busy figuring out a way to blame it on someone else.

“Sir?”

Nachtmann didn’t hear the voice. The sound of his grinding teeth drowned it out.

“Sir?...Sir!”

Finally, he looked up. It was Franklin. Now, as ever, civility was beyond Nachtmann’s ken. “Well?” he said. “What do you want, Franklin?”

“Sir, as you know, there is a back up plan for this contingency.” Nachtmann did not know but he did not say as much.

“So?” he said.

“One of my colleagues has been monitoring air traffic control.”

“And?”

“Well, sir,” Franklin said, “the jet that was scheduled to transport Mrs. Garrison to Hilo is preparing for takeoff.”

“What?” Nachtmann said, his head snapping around. “God damn it, Franklin, how long have you known this? Is she on board? Can we stop her?”

“She’s not on it, sir. We’ve been covering the airport. There’s no way Mrs. Garrison could have gotten past us...especially with a child.”

“Well, then what the...? Jesus Christ, Franklin, can’t you see I’m busy?”

“Sir, Mr. Dudgeons’ plane came into IMG unloaded, carrying neither cargo nor passengers. It’s leaving now, right on schedule, flying all the way back to Hawaii, exactly as it arrived, with no passengers and no cargo.”

Nachtmann’s eyes widened as he took Franklin’s meaning. “Shit! Shit! Shit! He’s picking her up somewhere else!”

“That is my assessment, sir. I...”

“Fuck your assessment, Franklin. Where’s Dudgeons now?”

“Follow me, sir.”

Franklin led Nachtmann to an enclosed area between the two bedrooms. Inside, a technician sat before a radar screen. He looked over his shoulder as the two men entered.

“There’s nothing onscreen yet, Mr. Franklin,” the radar man said. “He’s just now lifting off.”

“Do you have radio contact?” Nachtmann said.

“Do you mean can I hear him?” the man asked.

“Yes, goddamn it,” Nachtmann spat. “Of course that’s what I mean. Can you hear him?”

The radar man flipped one of several switches. The voices of Dudgeons and IGM ATC came through a speaker.

“We’re at 4000 feet,” Dudgeons said. “Activating transponder.”

“Roger that,” said local control. “I’m giving you to TRACON.” TRACON was the departure control center that serviced Kingman International. It was their job to track arriving and departing air traffic lanes.

“I’ve got you onscreen, niner 7836. Maintain altitude for one minute and give me 15 degrees right.”

“Maintaining at 4000, turning 15 right degrees,” Dudgeons repeated.

For Nachtmann’s benefit, the radar man pointed to the blip on his radar screen that corresponded to the Boeing BBJ. Just as he pulled his finger away from the screen, the blip disappeared.

“I’ve lost you on radar, niner 7836. Do you copy?” said TRACON.

“Copy that, TRACON,” Dudgeons said. “I’m having trouble with my transponder.”

“Stand by niner 7836,” said TRACON. “Let me review your status.”

“Having trouble my ass,” Nachtmann’s radar man said. “He pulled that cable himself. The son-of-a-bitch is hiding.”

800 Feet Over Highway 40 Western Arizona – 6:30 AM

Including Nachtmann’s pilot, Block, and the still unconscious James Garrison, there were five people in the cramped cabin of Schmidt’s rented Bell F2-Twinstar helicopter. His legs were cramped and so was his sense of style. Had he known that, on Nachtmann’s orders, the pilot, Block was, even now, deliberately delaying their arrival in Kingman, he would have been sorely put out.

At the moment, a headwind was keeping the craft below its top airspeed of 115 knots – roughly 130 MPH, and Kingman lay 40 miles due west.

“Agent Schmidt!” Block had to shout to be heard over the sound of the engines. Schmidt, seated in the rear of the cabin, leaned forward. Block handed him a headset.

“Mr. Nachtmann needs to talk to you, sir.” Schmidt pulled a face, hesitated, then reached for the phones and put them over his ears.

“What is it Nachtmann?”

Back at the Desert Pioneer Hotel, Nachtmann was poring over a computer printout, comparing the data on it to the coordinates on a topographical map.

“We’ve got a situation, Schmidt,” Nachtmann said. Nachtmann’s tone was peremptory, arrogant. Schmidt did not like it.

“I repeat,” the agent snapped, “what is it?”

“Look out the window,” Nachtmann replied. “Just ahead and to the right.”

Schmidt turned his head, then made an involuntary choking sound in the back of his throat.

“What the hell is that?”

The question was rhetorical. It was obvious what ‘that’ was: a small jet, shimmering like a mirage amid the sand and scrub of the desert below. An aluminum stairway was just then receding inside its rear hatch.

“It’s Dudgeons’ jet,” Nachtmann said. “It dropped off radar and we tracked it to that abandoned roadway by triangulating the emergency signal.” Nachtmann was using the royal ‘we.’ In this instance, ‘we’ meant Franklin. “It just so happened that your chopper was nearby,” Nachtmann continued. “I radioed the coordinates to Block and he steered you there.”

“Why, for God’s sake?” said Schmidt.

“Why?” echoed Nachtmann. “Because Deborah Garrison is on that plane, that’s why. You’ve got to stop her.”

Schmidt glanced out the window of the Twinstar. The jet had powered up and was beginning to taxi down the roadway.

“That’s not possible,” Schmidt said. “It’s taxiing out now. If Mrs. Garrison is aboard, it’s too late to stop her. They’re already taking off.”

“Are you there, Block?” Nachtmann said.

“Yes, sir.”

“Can you come around and hover in the flight path?”

“Yes, sir,” Block said.

“Then do it,” Nachtmann ordered. “Don’t let that plane off the ground!” Block began maneuvering the Twinstar in the direction of Dudgeon’s jet.

“Stop! Don’t do that, Block!” Schmidt’s voice cracked from strain.

“This is my operation, Schmidt,” Nachtmann said. “Stay out of it.”

“Are you out of your mind, Nachtmann?” he shouted. “If we collide with that plane, we’ll all be killed.”

“You won’t,” Nachtmann said. “Dudgeons will stop.”

“What if he doesn’t?” Schmidt said. “What if he can’t?” Nachtmann ignored the question.

“Are you in position, Block?” he said.

“Almost, sir.”

Schmidt drew out a Smith & Wesson .38, pressed the barrel against Block’s temple and pulled back the hammer.

“Back off, Block,” he said.

“What now, Mr. Nachtmann?” Block said into his microphone. “There’s a gun at my head.”

“Stay where you are, Block, or so help me God, if Schmidt doesn’t kill you, I will.”

Schmidt roared in frustration. “Damn you, Nachtmann!”

“Shut up, Schmidt,” Nachtmann shouted back. “Shoot Block and you’re dead for sure. Sit tight and you might make it.”

The commotion had drawn the attention of the others in the cabin.

“What’s going on?” said the man nearest Schmidt. Another, who had been dozing bolted awake. Full consciousness was not long in coming.

“Holy shit!” he said.

Everyone in the Twinstar now had a chilling view of the nose and wingspread of the BBJ. At sixty feet away and closing, it was almost all they could see. It was certainly all they could hear. The turbines thundered, pounding the men’s chests like drums. The whine of the rotor vanes drilled into their eardrums.

“He’s coming at me,” Block cried out.

“Back off, then,” Nachtmann said. “Back off and stay down. Stay in his way!” The outline of the hulking aircraft grew ever larger, looming nearer with mounting speed. One of the men crossed himself.

Block adjusted the foot pedals, changing the angle of the main rotor's wings. The Twinstar skittered backward as the jet surged ahead.

“What’s happening?” Nachtmann shouted. Block could scarcely hear his own answer.

“He’s still coming!”

“Stay with him, Block.”

Block faltered. His left foot slipped off the pedal, The chopper sank sharply. He moved to counter the misstep but overcompensated. The cabin bucked sideways. To a man, the pilot and the passengers made their peace. Surely, they were going to die.

Then, as if suddenly popping into the eye of a storm, the chopper righted itself. At the same moment, Dudgeons braked the jet and decelerated her engines. He and Block had been in an airborne staring contest and Dudgeons had blinked. The jet came to a stop. The chopper drifted down onto the roadway.

Immediately upon touchdown, Agent Schmidt, angry and shaken though he was, mustered the men and boarded Dudgeons’ plane. Even the pilot, Block, lent his support. Minutes later, Agent Schmidt returned to make his report. Poised at the hatch, with one foot in the chopper and one on the ground, he glanced around the cabin. His face contorted with frustration, he slapped the hull of the Twinstar.

“Shit!” shouted Schmidt. “God fucking damn it.”

He took a moment to compose himself before switching on the radio.

“What do you want first,” he asked, his jaw rigid, “the bad news or the very bad news?”

In the span of time between stopping the plane and completing the search, Nachtmann had allowed himself to hope. Too late, he realized how foolish that had been.

“What’s the very bad news?”

“Mrs. Garrison is not aboard.”

“And the bad news?”

“Mr. Garrison isn’t here either. He’s escaped.”

IGM Kingman International Airport -- 6:46 AM

The reservations clerk at the America West counter considered himself something of a ladies’ man. He seldom missed an opportunity to flirt with pretty passengers. That the tall brunette in front of him was more than merely pretty had put him off his game. Busying himself with verifying her credit card and using the time to recover his confidence, he was about to say something coy when he noticed something on her drivers’ license.

“1946?” he said with surprise. “You were born in 1946, Miss Hank?”

“Yes,” the woman said. “I’m 47.”

“Do you mind, ma’am? I’m afraid I need another ID to corroborate this...airline policy.”

“No problem,” the woman said. “I’m flattered.” She reached in her bag and pulled out a National Auto Dealers’ Association membership card. “There I am,” she said, “Sally Hank, Automotive Retailer.” The clerk checked the name and picture, then noted the card number on the credit draft.

“I must say,” he said as the reservations system began printing her ticket, “you’re amazingly youthful for a woman of 47.”

“Why, thank you,” she said. “and thanks to modern science.”

“Plastic surgery?” the man said.

“Among other things, yes.” Her ticket had finished printing. The clerk was slipping it, ever so slowly, into a pouch envelope.

“Well, you look wonderful, I must say.”

“Thank you again.” The envelope rested between the thumb and forefinger of the clerk’s upturned hand, just out of reach. A ambivalent expression played around his eyes. Arizona was retirement heaven. He’d seen lots of face lifts, but nothing to compare with this. He was about to call his supervisor when the woman spoke.

“Well,” she said, “tempus fugit. Time flies and so must I.” Smiling, she reached across the counter, plucked the ticket from his hand, turned and walked away. It was not until she’d put a hundred feet between herself and the counter, however, that she breathed a sigh of relief.

The airport PA announced that her flight for Phoenix’ Sky Harbor Airport was now boarding. Deborah Garrison quickened her step and sent up a silent prayer. God willing, in a little over an hour and a half she would be on a connecting flight bound for Honolulu.

Hanga Roa, Easter Island -- 6:50 AM

Among all lost cultures of the past two thousand years, the most mysterious is the vanished civilization of Easter Island. Already a shadow of its former self by the time the first Europeans arrived in 1722, this once vital society was further decimated by succeeding incursions of disease, forced labor and oppression.

Twenty-one wooden tablets, each carved with rows of tiny hieroglyphic symbols, constitute the last remaining vestiges of Rongo-Rongo, the long dead Polynesian language of Easter Island’s Rapa Nui people. So little of the written language exists, in fact, that modern scholars have largely given up hope of ever discovering what any of the symbols mean.

Katherine Stanford, however, was not a modern scholar.

A throwback to the aristocratic academics of the late 19th and early 20th centuries, Stanford had devoted years of her life, not to mention a good deal of her personal fortune, to the task of translating just one of those twenty-one tablets. Toward that end, she had lived on Easter Island with a Rapa Nui family since the summer of 1988.

The first challenge Dr. Stanford’s project faced was one of the most fundamental difficulties in any linguistic study, namely, determining where on the page to begin reading.

Chinese is written top to bottom, Hebrew from the right to left, English (and most other Indo-European languages) from left to right. In Rongo-Rongo, however, such predictable consistencies are unheard of. In Rongo-Rongo every other line is arranged back-­to-­front and upside­-down.

It had taken Katherine Stanford a good deal of time and effort to acclimate her brain to this peculiar circularity. Once succeeding, she made it her business to remain in that mind set for much of the ensuing four-plus years. She spent, therefore, precious little time leafing through newspapers and magazines.

It was only because the household in which Dr. Stanford lived included a precocious and talkative eleven year-old schoolboy who read Oceana Magazine, that she became aware of the death by self-immolation of Puhi Okaoka Kapono, high priest of the Hawaiian Council of Kahunas.

It was only because Oceana Magazine was published bi-annually that it also included news of the subsequent death of the Reverend Dr. Faber Heath, member of the board of directors of the Faber-Brady Trust.

Dr. Stanford’s brow grew ever more furrowed as, while drinking her morning coffee, she scrutinized reports of these two shattering events. For several moments after finishing, she sat, her lips puckered into a tight little ‘o.’

“Oh, dear,” she said, again and again. “Oh, dear. Oh, dear.”

Near Peach Springs, AZ -- 7:30 AM MST

At the edge of the abandoned roadway, some 500 feet from where Dudgeons’ jet had come to a halt, a row of flattened boulders, each three to five feet in diameter and each half buried in the loamy soil, drew a northerly stripe across the desert. Eons in the past, a glacier may have thus arranged the stones, or perhaps molten liquid, heated by the ceaseless movement of the Earth's crust, had oozed upward and cooled in this curious pattern.

However it had happened, the rocks now stood in a long row, each less than three feet from the next, for a distance of nearly two hundred yards, end-to-end.

If an able man, fit and alert, wished to move over the dusty landscape surrounding this string of monoliths, leaving no tracks or other signs of passage, he could do no better than tread the tops of the rocks themselves. True, some of them were oddly shaped, slippery and stark, some even treacherously so, but for a clear-headed fellow they posed little danger. Only a person weak from fatigue, stupefied by drugs or otherwise hampered would be in any real peril, and then only near the end of the formation, where a deep ravine fell precipitously away from the base of the final stone.

Had any such person traversed the line of rocks on this day, he was not now in evidence. Had he lost his footing on the stone over the gorge, slipped and fallen, no one had witnessed it. Were he now lying, injured and unconscious at the bottom of the ravine, he could not, at this moment, be seen.

If he were visible, surely the men flying in the helicopter overhead would have noticed him. Surely they would have landed, gathered him up and taken him away. But they had not.

Instead, their aircraft hovered over the desert for perhaps a quarter of an hour, slowly crisscrossing the terrain as though searching for something or someone. Then it turned west and flew away.

Potrero Hill, San Francisco, CA -- 6:40 AM PST

Hannah Frederick was an early riser. Tuesday through Saturday she arrived at San Francisco’s Flower Mart at 6 AM, delivered merchandise to three street vendors by 7:15, and opened her Union Street flower shop at eight. Cleaning the kitchen in her robe and slippers at half past six on Sunday morning was, by comparison, wanton indolence.

She glanced at the clock. Her husband had pulled a Sunday overtime shift. It was almost time for him to get up. Hannah padded back through their bedroom to a walk-in closet. She’d dress first, then wake Hal.

Though it wasn’t a workday, Hannah faced a busy morning. She slipped into khaki slacks and a sweat shirt and sat down to pull on her tennis shoes.

At 48, Hannah Frederick retained much of the radiant good looks which had first attracted her husband’s attention. Her eyes were the same dark green, her thick hair just as long and lustrous. Her skin was clear and youthful, her cheekbones high. Her figure, too, was well-nigh as it was twenty-seven years before. Still, Hannah was modest about her appearance, putting it down to good genes.

“It’s just hybrid vigor,” she said. “I’m what you get when you put a Portuguese and a Polynesian together after centuries of out breeding,” The Portuguese came from her father, whose grandfather arrived in Hawaii late in the 19th century. Her Polynesian mother could recite the Hawaiian ancestry back twenty generations, two hundred years before the arrival of the Captain Cook.

An alarm clock began to chirp in the next room. Hannah smiled. Alarm clocks never worked. She went to the bedside and switched it off. Only two things wakened Hal Frederick: a ringing telephone or brewing coffee. He’d retired late, so Hannah Frederick decided upon a variation of the coffee ploy to rouse him.

Ordinarily, allowing the enticing aroma to drift in from the kitchen would have done the trick. Since he’d had so little sleep though, Hannah upped the ante. She brought the pot into their room, placed it on the nightstand and plugged it in. Minutes later, Frederick’s left eye popped open. His wife was at the bedside, adjusting an earring.

His face still half buried in his pillow, his voice came out comically muffled. “You are an evil genius, madam,” he said.

Hannah laughed. “And you are an shameless night crawler.” she replied. She sat down to stroke the worry lines on Frederick’s forehead. “What time did you get in last night and why aren’t you still in Phoenix?”

“Kingman.”

“What?”

“Kingman,” Frederick said. “Kingman, Arizona. That’s where I was going, not Phoenix.”

“OK, Kingman, then. Why aren’t you still in Kingman?”

“Because I never got there,” Frederick replied. “Some hotshot Air Force pilot forced us to land in Tucson.”

“He did what? Why?”

Frederick sat up in bed, stretched and rubbed his eyes. “Is that coffee ready?” Hannah poured a cup and handed it to him. He took a sip.

“You’re already dressed,” Frederick said. “How come?”

“I figured since you’ve been working Sundays, I’d use the time to improve my karma. I’m volunteering.”

“Volunteering where? Doing what?”

“Two or three different places, different stuff at each one,” she said. “Stop stalling. Talk. Tell me what happened in Tucson.”

Frederick took another sip of coffee. “I’m still trying to figure it out,” he said. “All I know is that the FBI showed up, told me I was off the case and took my guy prisoner.”

Hannah wrinkled her nose. “I don’t get it,” she said. “Your guy? Isn’t he the victim?”

“He reported his wife and child missing. We were on our way to Kingman to follow up on a line of evidence.”

“And you were forced to land in Tucson?”

“At an Air Force base. Yes.”

“And your guy...what’s his name?”

“Garrison.”

“Mr. Garrison was taken in by the FBI?”

“That’s right. I had to come back in his plane.”

“His plane?” Hannah said. “He owns his own plane?”

“Yeah. Didn’t I tell you all that on the phone?”

“You said you were flying out of Hayward. You didn’t say whose plane you were taking. I thought it was a commercial fli...” Hannah frowned. “Hey, wait a minute,” she said. “What’s this man’s name? Did you say Garrison?”

“Yeah. Jim Garrison.”

“Not the Jim Garrison?” Hannah asked. “Are we talking about Jim Garrison, Deborah Garrison’s husband?”

Frederick mugged a sleepy double take. “What is it with these people?” he said to the wall. “Does everyone know who they are except me?” Hannah laughed. “How do you know about Deborah Garrison?”

“She’s from my home town,” Hannah said. “Deborah Garrison used to be Deborah Faber, Isaac and Rebecca Faber’s daughter. In Hilo, the Fabers are famous.”

The name Faber rang a very loud bell. Why was that, Frederick wondered. Then he remembered. It was part of the Radio 93 news story about the Hawaiian holy man who’d burned himself alive. Frederick was now infinitely more alert than he was ten seconds earlier.

“So the Fabers are famous,” he said. “What for?”

“For being good guys,” Hannah replied. “You’re not going to do what they say, are you?”

“What who says?”

“The FBI. You’re not going to drop the case are you?”

“Maybe,” he said.

“You can’t do that.”

“Why not? Maybe Agent Schmidt is right. Maybe there are issues which make my involvement inappropriate.”

“But the Faber family has had so much bad luck,” Hannah said. “This sounds like it could be more of the same.”

“The same what?” The doorbell rang. Hannah stood up.

“That’s my ride,” she said. “Gotta go.”

“Hey...wait a minute.” The doorbell rang again.

“I can’t now. It’s my day to serve breakfast at St. Anthony’s.” She leaned over her the bed, kissed her husband’s cheek and headed for the door.

“But I have some questions,” Frederick protested.

“All in good time, Inspector,” she said from the hallway. “Don’t go back to sleep.”

“Yeah, right,” Frederick muttered as he heard the front door close. “Like that’s going to happen.”

The inspector swung his legs over the edge of the bed, rubbed his eyes and sat, thinking. Hannah wanted him to stay on this investigation for the sake of Deborah Garrison’s family. Frederick was not overly immodest. He had a healthy respect for his own abilities, but if the feds had good motives and were committed to the case, there was little meaningful assistance he could provide.

The FBI was not among the most forthcoming organization in the world, still, if he was going to find out the nature and level of their involvement, the first he was going to have to do was ask. He picked up the phone and dialed the San Francisco Field Office.

Near Peach Springs, AZ -- 9:00 AM MST

Had his mother not been cross with him, Quentin Yellowhawk reflected, he might never have noticed the turkey buzzards circling over the chain of rocks near the abandoned roadway. Likewise, if he hadn’t been so sleepy and forgetful the previous night, if he hadn’t left the door to the chicken coop open, the three hens wouldn’t have escaped, and his mother wouldn’t have gotten mad in the first place. Finally, if he hadn’t accidentally freed the chickens and his mother hadn’t sent him out to find them, he certainly would never have gone to edge of the ravine and looked down.

At first he saw nothing. He might have simply gone on his way, had he not seen something lustrous and brown beneath the leaves of a desert holly plant on the other side of the chasm. He ran to the end of the gully and jumped across to where the thing lay. It was a wallet. There was money showing along its edge.

Quentin stooped down to pick it up. That’s when he heard the groaning. That’s when he saw something moving in the shadows at the bottom of the ravine.

This was what his grandfather called a circle of events. “Everything happens for a reason, Quentin,” he always said. This must be what he means, the boy thought.

Quentin Yellowhawk stuffed the wallet into his trousers pocket and ran toward home as fast as his nine year-old legs could carry him. Even if the hens were lost forever, he said to himself, certainly his mother would forgive him now. She must. Plainly, the life of the man he saw lying at the bottom of the gorge was worth more than the lives of three chickens.

FBI Field Office, Tucson, AZ – 9:10 PM MST

Agent Schmidt returned to the FBI Field Office in Tucson aboard the Twinstar. Rattled from his game of airborne chicken and uneasy with the day’s outcome, he fidgeted restlessly, casting about for some mindless distraction. He had just decided to reorganize his collection of business cards when the phone rang.

“Agent Schmidt?”

“Yes?”

“This is Agent Carmichael at the Strategic Information and Operations Center in DC.”

Schmidt paused, unable to remember the name. Oh, yeah, he thought. JT Winslow’s flunky. “What do you want, Carmichael?”

“I just fielded a call from an Agent Southwell in San Francisco, sir, inquiring about your interest in a man named Jim Garrison.”

Schmidt winced. Caught off guard, heated denial was the best he could do. “God damn it, Carmichael, I’m busy here. I’ve never heard of anyone named Garrison, for Christ’s sake.”

Schmidt banged the phone back into its cradle and swore.

There had been no defensible reason to take Garrison into custody in the first place. It had only been part of a potentially convenient ploy to entrap the Garrison woman. Now Garrison had escaped. That could come back to bite Schmidt on the ass. He thought for a moment, then picked up the telephone and dialed Carmichael’s number.

“Hello, Carmichael?” he said. “It’s Schmidt. Listen, I’m sorry I blew up at you. It slipped my mind before so I thought I’d better get back to you. As far as I know, Garrison’s never been in our hands but I do recall the name. Yesterday, there was a Jim Garrison on a private plane heading out of Davis-Monthan. He was in the custody of a San Francisco cop named Frederick...that’s right...Inspector Hal Frederick.”

That should do it, he thought.

Schmidt went back to the task of putting the contents of his billfold back in order. As he slipped the final calling card into place he remembered something: a comeback, a loose end. For a moment or two, he agonized, considering his options.

“Better safe than sorry,” he muttered. Again he picked up the telephone, this time dialing the main number at Davis-Monthan.

“Hello,” he said. “Let me have the officer of the day at air traffic control.”

A few seconds later, he was connected.

“Who am I speaking with, please?...Hello, Captain Frasier, this is Lawrence Schmidt, Special Agent in Charge of Pacific Rim Security with the FBI. I need some particulars about a civilian aircraft that landed there yesterday....the names and addresses of the crew members...No, you can’t call me back. This is urgent. Get the information now.”

Within five minutes, Captain Fraser returned to the line. “I have two names and one address,” he said, then read them off.

“Thank you, Captain,” Schmidt said. “You’ve been most helpful.”

Schmidt reached for his billfold and extracted the newly rearranged business cards. Congratulating himself on his organizational skill, he found the right card in a matter of seconds, then dialed the number. It was while waiting for his party to answer that he noticed the ironic inscription on the card: ‘D & J Associates,’ it read. ‘Pest Control.’

Central Police Station - San Francisco, CA – 8:15 AM

Paul Wingate was sitting on the edge of the inspector’s desk, reading from a folder marked ‘KDCT Radio – News 93’ when Frederick arrived in the squad room. Hal took a seat, leaned back in his chair and waited, his chin resting on his fist.

“Back so soon?” Wingate said, glancing over. “I thought you’d still be in Kingman. What happened?”

“I’ll tell you later.”

Wingate turned back to the page, squinted, and re-read a section of the fax document. After a moment, he grunted and looked up.

“This is wild,” he said. “Have you seen it?”

“Not yet,” replied Frederick, “but I am grateful to you for screening my inbox.” Wingate ignored him.

“Burning yourself alive...that’s not something you hear about everyday.”

“No,” said Frederick, “but when you do, it’s major.”

“Yeah,” Wingate said. “I still remember that Buddhist Monk in Viet Nam...torched himself and brought down an entire regime.”

Wingate handed the faxes to Frederick.

Grim Tribute To Hawaiian Queen

Self-Immolation Suicide by Hilo Kahuna

Hilo, HI–Reuters – January 17, 1993 – In a press conference held on the steps of city hall, Captain Raymond Suzuki of the Hilo police called the self-immolation death of a well-known kahuna (holy man) Puhi Okaoka Kapono, 83, of Hilo, a “politically motivated suicide.” Suzuki was quoted as saying that Mr. Kapono chose to take his life on January 17 because this date “...marks the 100th anniversary of the overthrow of the government of Queen Lili'uokalani, the last monarch of an independent Hawaiian nation.”

According to eyewitnesses, at 7:45 AM, local time, Mr. Kapono, wearing the feathered cape and headdress of Hawaiian ali’i (noblemen), seated himself on the steps of the Faber-Brady Trust Building in downtown Hilo and began chanting “aloha aina,” an Hawaiian term which translates, roughly, to ‘patriotism.’ Then, at approximately 8:00 AM, as horrified passers-by looked on helplessly, he doused himself with gasoline from a container in his backpack, lit a match and set himself ablaze.

Said an unidentified eyewitness: “He just sat there and burned. It was awful.”

Also present at the press conference was L. David Kane, chairman of the board of the Faber-Brady Trust. Commenting on his organization’s policy of providing a forum for divergent points of view, Mr. Kane said: “This is a great tragedy. I regret that, in our zeal to insure Mr. Kapono’s freedom of speech, we did nothing to protect him from his own imprudent passions.”

Kapono is survived by his granddaughter, Kailikane Kapono, 33, a high school teacher and resident of nearby Pahoa.

At the bottom of the page, the KDCT editor had scribbled a note: “Check this out. Some of the same cast of characters. This came in Friday.” Frederick flipped the page.

Reverend Dr. Faber Heath Dies

Attacked by Venomous ‘Sea Wasp’ Jellyfish

Kihei, Maui, HI–Reuters – April 10, 1993 – The body of Reverend Dr. Faber Heath, 74, was found floating in the surf at a beach near his Maui home last night, apparently the victim of an attack by a venomous jellyfish.

A bachelor, Dr. Heath was a direct descendent of two of the original American missionary families who settled in Hawaii in the 1820’s. He was also the spiritual leader of the Hawaiian Evangelical Church of Jesus Christ and an inheritor/trustee of the Faber-Brady Trust.

Changes in Faber-Brady Trust May Ensue

It is in his capacity as a Faber-Brady trustee that Hawaiians may feel Dr. Heath’s passing most keenly. Informed sources indicate that, pursuant to the death of Reverend Heath, changes in the funding and charter of the Faber-Brady Trust may be imminent. It has even been rumored that the powers of the current trustees and those of the board of governors may be terminated and transferred to an as yet unnamed organization.

Chairman of the FBT board of directors, L. David Kane, however, issued a statement in which he sought to minimize the impact of the rumored changes in the trust. The statement said, in part: “While we mourn Dr. Heath’s passing and acknowledge that his absence will be a hardship, we want to assure everyone connected with the Faber-Brady Trust that we foresee no fundamental changes in our charter or our directorship.”

Controlling assets of over $8.5 billion, the Faber-Brady Trust is thought to be one of the richest charitable organizations in the world

“Eight and a half billion,” said Frederick. “That’s a lot of puka shells.”

Wingate nodded. “What’s this all about?” he asked. “Why did you dig this stuff up?”

“The Garrison case,” Frederick replied. “Jim Garrison told me that his wife had been upset by the news of Kapono’s death.”

“That’s the fried guy?”

“Right,” said Frederick. “But what he didn’t tell me was that Deborah Garrison’s maiden name was Faber.”

“How’d you find that out?”

“Hannah,” Frederick said. “She and Garrison’s wife both grew up in Hilo.” Frederick tapped his fingers on the desk and frowned. “Hm,” he said. “Take the Faber-Brady Trust, put it alongside Deborah Faber’s disappearance and Reverend Heath’s death...” Frederick’s voice trailed away.

“And what?”

“I don’t know,” said Frederick. “Something.”

“What happened in Arizona?” Wingate asked.

Frederick gave him the bullet points - what he and Garrison had learned about Anthony Dudgeons, the forced landing at Davis-Monthan, Agent Schmidt and Garrison’s detention by the FBI.

“Jesus,” said Wingate. “The Air Force, the FBI, a forced landing, this multi-billion dollar trust; whatever is going on here, it sounds big.”

Frederick’s telephone rang. “Hal Frederick,” he said.

“Hal, it’s Bob Southwell.” Southwell was Special Agent in Charge of the San Francisco Field Office of the FBI. “Per your request, I ran a check on Agent Schmidt and James Garrison,” he said. “Before I tell you what I found out, let me first double check my facts, OK?”

“Fire away.”

“You say that you and Garrison landed at Davis-Monthan, that Garrison stayed behind and you returned to San Francisco in Garrison’s jet. Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“And Agent Schmidt indicated he was investigating the possible kidnapping of Noah Garrison?”

“Right.”

There was a long pause. “OK, well something’s screwy,” said Agent Southwell, at last.

“Oh, yeah?” Frederick said. “Why? What did you find out?”

“The word I got was that there is no pending investigation involving Noah Garrison and that James Garrison did not remain at Davis-Monthan, but returned to San Francisco with you.”

The inspector paused. Once again, the voice of Jake Carter, Frederick’s first partner, rang in his head. “Keep your mouth shut,” Carter had said. “Never say the first thing that crosses your mind.”

Frederick checked his thoughts. His opinion of Agent Schmidt was unchanged. The man was a snake. Southwell’s report had only confirmed that. Although his instincts were screaming cover-up, he said nothing. When dealing with the feds, Frederick had learned, it was best to keep your cards close.

“Did Agent Schmidt tell you all this?” he asked.

“No,” Southwell said. “I didn’t talk to Schmidt. My information came from an Agent Carmichael in DC...Strategic Operations.” Southwell hesitated. “It’s possible this is just a misunderstanding; some kind of paperwork snafu. If you want, I can take another look-see. Maybe I can dig up Agent Schmidt for you.”

“I’d appreciate that, Bob.” Frederick said. “Garrison’s a stand-up guy. Before I close the book, I want to make sure he’s in good hands.”

“Not a problem, Hal,” said Southwell. “I’ll let you know what I turn up.”

“Thanks. By the way, Bob, what does Schmidt do?”

“His job title?”

“Yeah.”

“Special Agent in Charge of Pacific Rim Security,” Southwell said. “He works out of the field office in Honolulu.”

There it was again. Hawaii...about as far out on the Pacific Rim as you could get.

“Thanks again, Bob. I owe you.” Frederick hung up the phone. “Strike one,” he said.

“What’s that?” Wingate asked. Frederick ran his hand over his face and sat with his eyes closed for several seconds.

“That was Southwell from the local FBI,” he said finally. “The feds in DC deny that there’s any investigation involving Noah Garrison. What’s more, they say that Garrison is not in their custody. They say he came home with me.”

Wingate cringed. “Yikes.”

“Yeah,” said Frederick. “Yikes.”

Wingate stared at Frederick for several long moments. “So,” he said, “were you serious about that?”

“About what?”

“What you said...about closing the book?”

“Are you kidding?” said Frederick. “After that raft of bullshit? Not a chance.”