Fire Prayer (17 page)

Chapter Twenty-eight

Storm got four words out before the Emergency Room crew whisked Niwa away. “He threw up blood.”

Goldbaum's brown eyes, sharp behind the thick lenses, focused on her face. “I'll bet he did,” he said softly, and marched down the hall into his own private head wind, his white coat like a sail.

Storm stood for a few seconds, then wandered into the parking lot, where she'd left the car with the engine running and both doors open. If she did that in Honolulu it would be in a chop shop inside ten minutes. The car still sat there, but someone had turned the engine off and laid the keys on the roof. No one was around, though, so she couldn't thank the person, let alone apologize for her rude arrival.

Storm dropped into the front seat and sagged. Now that her role in getting Niwa to the hospital was over, she was drained. The fact of his collapse and the urgent reaction of the hospital staff sank in, too. Up to this point, she'd hoped it was the flu or something he ate. But no, whatever he had was bad, and she was troubled.

She barely knew the guy, and she liked him. Liked the way he worried over Luke like a dad would, and the way he put Luke's welfare before his own. Storm was concerned about Luke, too. How could Tanner take a group of tourists out when his son was missing? He was the real dad, and he didn't seem to put his sick son's wellbeing first, dammit.

Jenny's tired demeanor came back to her, and Storm wondered if she'd borne the responsibility of parenthood alone. Storm wanted to be angry at Tanner; it would have given her more energy. But she just felt sad and lonely, and she wanted to talk to Hamlin.

During the frantic trip back from Halawa, her handbag had slid under the front seat, and she leaned over to retrieve it and her cell phone. He answered after the second ring. “Ian? I'm so glad you're there.” She let out a pent-up breath she didn't know she'd been holding. “How's the shoulder?”

“You should see the sling the doctor's got me in.”

“Does it make your arm feel better?”

“Yes, and he told me the numbness will go away. But I may need surgery to keep it from dislocating again.”

“Oh, no. When will you know?”

“In a few weeks, I guess.”

“Did you get some rest this afternoon?”

He sighed. “I wish. Sergeant Niwa called Devon Liu around noon. The body was Brock's.”

“Poor Mr. Liu. He called you when he found out?”

“His assistant did. I guess the old guy is taking it hard.”

“It's too early to have a cause of death, isn't it?”

“Not if you're Devon Liu. He sent a private helicopter to pick up the body and take it to Maui for the post-mortem. Looks like he died from blunt trauma to the head.”

“Is he dropping the lawsuit against Hawai‘i EcoTours?”

“Not yet. He's still convinced they're involved.”

“Could the head wound have been caused by a paddle?”

“Not unless it was metal. The ME found something embedded in his skull, and they think part of the weapon broke off. It's bronze with traces of other substances. Wax was one of them.”

“Bronze?” Storm was quiet for a moment. “Like a sculpture?”

“Could be. Wax is used as part of the casting process.”

“Did he and Jenny Williams know each other?”

“Why Jenny?”

“I heard she was a sculptor.”

“No kidding.” Hamlin let a beat pass. “Everyone knows everyone else on that island, right?”

“If they've been around for a while. Hamlin, remember that nice cop who—”

“Damn, I've got a call coming in. It's probably Liu or his assistant. Sorry, I'll call you later.” He disconnected.

Storm let her phone drop in her lap. He hadn't done much to ease her loneliness. On the other hand, he'd dropped an interesting piece of information. If Jenny had something to do with Brock's bludgeoning, the investigation could end. She'd have to dig tactfully into how well they'd known each other.

Storm remembered that Jenny had died of a head injury, too. She wondered what the ME said about that one. What she'd been hit with, time of death, and her blood alcohol level, since Storm had seen her drinking earlier. Lambert had implied she drank often.

Storm wanted to talk to Lambert again, anyway. Her gut feeling on the guy was that he was smart, and not likely to lash out without careful thought. Storm had the advantage of being a fellow Hawaiian, too. She picked up her phone again, and dialed the Lodge.

“Aunt Maile, how was the outing to Phallic Rock?”

“Glad I'm not likely to get pregnant,” Aunt Maile said. “It's a very realistic likeness. And BIG, goodness me.”

Storm grinned. She should have called Aunt Maile in the first place. Phallic Rock was an important site for Hawaiian spirituality, and women who had fertility problems still made offerings and spent the night on the soft ironwood needles that surrounded the giant stone phallus. It was supposed to be quite effective; Storm had friends who swore by it. She didn't want to go within five miles of the thing—not yet.

“I want to hear all about it. What time do you and Uncle Keone want to have dinner?”

“He's napping right now, so not for a couple of hours yet. Where are you?”

“I'm in Kaunakakai, but I want to drive out to see Lambert Poele. It's five now; if I'm not back at the Lodge by seven-thirty, come looking for me.”

“You sure you're safe?” Aunt Maile's voice sharpened.

“That was a joke. He doesn't seem like a bad guy.”

“What about the sorcery manuscripts?”

“He's got a ton of Hawaiian history and lore. I don't think he's doing sorcery.”

“Keep your cell phone in your pocket.”

“I will,” Storm said, and hung up. Though Poele had been friendly enough the last visit, she would follow Aunt Maile's advice.

She didn't want to call ahead and give him time to think about all the reasons she might want to talk to him, so she was relieved to see Poele's rusting old pickup on the lawn and the four-legged greeting committee trotting toward her. The bleating of the goats and bumping noise of her car on the dirt drive alerted him, too. Before she had the car turned off, he'd descended the steps to his home, wiping his mouth on the back of one hand. It looked like she'd interrupted his dinner, and Storm was glad she'd stopped for some
pipi kaula
and beer before she left Kaunakakai.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Poele asked, but he didn't sound happy. He wore a tank top and Storm could see the tribal tattoo that banded his upper arm. The colors were deep hued and the skin around it somewhat inflamed.

“Sorry to interrupt.” She pulled the twelve-pack and package of dried beef jerky out of the back seat.

He looked mollified when he caught sight of the gifts. “Hey, thanks.”

“Want me to put this in your ice chest?” She offered the beer to him.

“Bring it inside. I'll put it in the fridge.” He turned, gesturing for her to follow. Storm had the sudden feeling other women visited him the same way, and remembered his sly expression when they'd talked about Jenny. Her cheeks flushed. She'd make sure there was no misunderstanding on that front.

The smell of hot dogs, rice, and ketchup filled the little house, and Storm again got the sense that although he was a bit of a flirt, he led a self-imposed solitary life. He pulled two beers out of the carton Storm had brought. He handed one to her and gestured to the sitting room. “Have a chair. I'll be right back.” He returned in a moment, carrying the other beer.

Storm was standing in front of his crowded bookshelves. “Is this hula dancer one of Jenny's sculptures?”

“He's not a hula dancer. You'd recognize it if I hadn't knocked it over and broken off part of the lasso. That's Maui roping Kalā, the sun. Remember that legend?”

“Oh, yeah.” Storm thought of Hamlin's description of the murder weapon and swallowed hard.

Poele pointed to the lamp by his reading chair. The shade was bent into a baroque oval. “Had a little too much to drink one night.” He picked up the heavy sculpture and ran his hand gently over it. Regret carved deep lines along the sides of his tanned face. “I don't care about the lamp, but this really bums me out. She was going to fix it, too.” He placed it carefully back on the shelf and shook his head. “Now she can't.”

“That's really too bad.” Storm watched him carefully. “She gave it to you?”

“Yeah.” He looked away and sat down in his reading chair. “Someday, maybe I'll get it repaired, but right now I…well, it doesn't seem right to have someone else work on it.”

“I bet.” She wanted to change the subject and gestured to his arm. “Is that a new tattoo?” she asked.

His dark eyes danced. “Yeah, you like it?”

“Does the design have a specific meaning?”

“Did you know the word tattoo comes from the Polynesian term
tatau
?” He popped open his beer. “These designs have been found on Tongan pottery shards that date back to 1300 B.C.”

“Really?” Storm liked that idea. “So tattoos really do have a basis in Polynesian history?”

“Definitely. Hawaiian history, too.”

“Were they a sign that a person belonged to a certain tribe?”

“Sometimes. Others were used to signify a person's
‘aumakua,
some to show a life passage.”

“So is yours an
‘aumakua
? Or does it have some other purpose?”

“Nope.” He took a swallow from his bottle. “You must have driven up here to talk to me about something important.”

Storm picked at the label on her bottle. “Yes, I've got a few questions.”

“About Hawaiian history, or more recent stuff?” He squinted at her.

“A bit of both. When Hamlin and I visited you yesterday, I noticed your interest in Hawaiian culture, and you were once a leader in Hawaiian activism.” He winced at this, but Storm kept going. “Keeping Hawaiian culture strong is important to me. A couple days ago, I sat on a bench with the message, ‘Just visit, but go home,' carved in it. What's going on around here?”

Poele rested his beer on his knee. “The push to develop will never stop. There are plans for a luxury residential development, out where we take our kids, go fishing.” He pointed in the direction of the sea and his outstanding view. “Two hundred multi-million dollar homes. Can you see this? A gated community on an island that doesn't have traffic lights, where no one locks the doors to our houses?”

Storm nodded sadly. “It would change everything.”

“It's not just the fact that it's in my neighborhood. Did you hear some visitor threw a package at a clerk at Friendly Market the other day?”

“You're kidding.”

“It wasn't the right brand, whatever that is.” His voice rose. “We don't want people like that around. We don't want sewage treatment plants and cell phone towers on sacred land.”

“I can understand.”

“You been to Maui lately?”

“Uh, yeah. Got stuck in a traffic jam, too. But Moloka‘i people, your people, are doing a good job of vocalizing the kinds of changes you're willing to live with. I heard Moloka‘i Ranch was transferring control of 65,000 acres to the community.”

Poele snorted. “True, but the community doesn't always agree, does it?”

“I know,” Storm agreed. “We can't get our own people together on the issue of sovereignty.”

“Look at it historically, since that's why you came.” He gave her a half smile that said he knew better and continued anyway. “Hawaiian chiefs used to rule over huge pie-shaped chunks of land called
ahupua‘a
. Hawaiians believed land was the gods' domain, and the chiefs held communion with the gods. But when Europeans came, chiefs began to owe certain powerful commoners for favors. Certain businessmen were given chunks of land as a ‘mark of personal esteem.' Pay-offs.” Poele shook his head with disgust.

“Human nature doesn't change much, does it?” Storm said. “So what can we do? How do you keep your lifestyle, and still live in the twenty-first century?”

“That's the million-dollar question, isn't it?” Poele's voice was rueful.

Storm got up, went to the fridge and got two more beers.

“Thanks,” Poele said, and put his empty down with the others collecting on the floor beside his chair.

Storm took a long pull on her own beer. The issue of progress was one that bothered her. It wasn't easy to discuss with Hamlin, who considered development inevitable and potentially profitable. Nor was it by any means a local concept, because Storm's best friend Leila, a fair-skinned redhead originally from the Midwest, was even more resistant than Storm to the idea of development at the expense of culture and environment. Leila recycled everything in her bakery, plus she drove a converted diesel car that ran on recycled vegetable oil. It smelled like fried potatoes.

Storm pulled herself back to Poele, who also seemed to be lost in his own thoughts. “You led a protest against development ten years ago,” she said softly.

Poele heaved a heavy sigh. “Yeah, and it haunts me still.” He stared out the front window, though all Storm could see was a handful of grazing goats.

“You regret the fire or the protest?”

His eyes, now more focused, came back to meet hers. He tipped back his beer and finished it before he responded. “The fire.”

“What happened that night?”

A long moment passed. “I can't talk about it.”

“Legally?”

“Nah, I don't care about that,” he snorted, and dropped his empty bottle on the growing pile. He got up, went into the kitchen, and came back with two more beers. “You're a slow drinker, eh?”

“I've got to drive.”

“You don't have to.” He gave her a sly half smile.

“Yeah, I do.”