Fire Prayer (20 page)

A chill crept over Storm. “That's Makani's last name. But ten years ago, he was just a teenager.”

“She told me a hand-picked young man would study with an older kahuna to learn the chants. Sometimes they needed an item that belonged to the person to whom they directed the chant.”

“Does the sorcerer have to be at the site of the fire?”

“Not necessarily. And they often had to chant over a period of time to bring about a change.”

“I need to call Hamlin,” Storm whispered.

Maile and Keone dropped Storm at her room and walked on to theirs, a few doors down the sidewalk. Once inside, Storm turned on all the lights. The maid had folded what clothes she'd left around and laid them on the neatly made bed, and the room looked empty without Hamlin's things. A rush of loneliness filled her.

Hamlin had said he'd call back, and Storm dug out her mobile phone to check. Sure enough, there was a message from him. Bothered by static on the phone, she walked out onto the small lanai off the bedroom and reclined on one of the lounge chairs to listen to it. She got better reception, plus she could see the brilliant dusting of stars in the sky.

Hamlin's voice was professional. “Storm, call me. Liu's assistant called, and she said Brock Liu knew who started the fire.” She could hear him draw a tense breath. “There's no statute of limitations on murder, you know.”

Chapter Thirty-one

Just in case Mrs. Olivetti stopped to watch, Luke walked across the sand to the boat house. Bob Crowder had closed up for the day, and Luke lingered on the far side of the structure for a few minutes. Then he made his way back across the beach, to the same path Storm and Niwa had taken twenty-four hours earlier. Like them, he turned inland from the bay, but where they headed up the embankment to the road, Luke kept going deeper into the valley, where trees blocked the trade winds and the air hovered like a physical presence, muggy and still.

For over an hour, he sweated and picked his way over tangled roots and small streams. The path was often muddy and he slipped and grabbed at tree trunks to keep from falling. Often he had to use both hands, and he punctuated his progress with grunts and an occasional cry of pain. His injured hand throbbed in time with his footsteps. Or maybe it was the other way around and he stepped to its beat, because when he stopped, the wound kept its own tender percussion.

Over time, the trail became harder to make out. The dense foliage grew quickly, and the path was rarely used. With an eye to the future, Tanner had cut tiny notches into certain tree trunks to guide Luke if he ever needed to make the trip alone. This was Luke's first time, and he now questioned his earlier confidence. It had seemed easy when Tanner had been there. Maybe he should have let Mrs. Olivetti take him back to the hospital, where he could have talked to Detective Niwa.

Luke's eyes ached with the effort of seeking the inconspicuous marks, which were five or six feet apart in the thick jungle. Knowing his dad's need for seclusion, this was an act of trust meant for Luke alone, and the boy was proud and grateful. But between every mark, he had to stop and check his route. If not for the notches, he would have been lost long ago.

Luke was tiring quickly. He had to stop and eat, drink, and test his blood sugar several times along the way. When his blood sugar dropped, he became weak and lightheaded. If he pressed through this, he began to stumble over even the small roots that twisted over the trail. At one point, his vision darkened, and he sat down in the mud to eat an energy bar from Rolly's supplies.

Without realizing it, he dozed off for a while. He wasn't sure how long he was asleep, but he felt a bit better when he woke up. But the nap didn't stop the throbbing in his hand. It didn't help that the shirt he was using as a bandage was bulky and made the wound hot and sweaty. Still, Luke figured it was better than getting dirt in the cut.

The walk took Luke over two hours. By the time he got to the cabin, he was thirsty and exhausted. The sun was an oblique shimmer that poked shafts of light through holes in the thick canopy of trees. While droplets of moisture danced in the beams, the leaves alongside the rays lost their individual nature and melded into green-black tarpaulins.

Stumbling, Luke made it to the far side of the building where his father hid the key to the front door in a specific crack in the wall. Holding himself up against the side of the cabin, he slipped his fingers into the split between the boards. He could scarcely respond to the sound of footsteps behind him.

“Luke, thank God you're here.” Tanner drew the boy to him. He wore a flannel shirt over a T-shirt, as the setting sun had begun to take back its warmth from the forest floor. Luke snuggled to him, weak with relief.

“How you feeling, son?” Tanner asked.

“Tired.”

“I've got soup heating. Let's get you warmed up.”

Tanner helped Luke take off his shoes before he stepped into the little house. It had been months since Luke had been at the place, and it seemed tidier than ever. Tanner had laid some kind of ceramic tile throughout the cabin's front room and kitchen. It was white, as were the immaculate rugs that he'd placed with careful symmetry in relation to the two chairs and low coffee table.

“Sit down,” Tanner said, and knelt before Luke to remove his socks and put some cleaner, warmer socks on his feet.

Luke leaned back. “Where's my backpack? I need to check my blood sugar.”

“It's a little muddy, so I left it outside on the steps. You want it now, or can you have a bit of soup first?” Without waiting for an answer, Tanner walked into the kitchen to give the pot a stir. One burner on the gas stove was turned up high. “It's almost ready,” he said.

Luke watched through half-open lids.

“What happened to your hand?” Tanner asked.

“I fell and cut it.” Luke was so tired he could hardly speak, and his words were a little slurred. He let his eyes drift closed in the warmth and comfort of his father's home. He'd made it, and he could let go of all his worries, at least for a few hours. Maybe he'd even tell his dad about the shadow in the living room.

“I'd better take a look at that.” Tanner rummaged in a cupboard and came up with a bottle of hydrogen peroxide and some cotton balls. He took off the flannel shirt and sat before his son.

Tanner removed the bag, unwound the gauze, and grunted. “How'd you do this?”

Luke didn't bother to open his eyes. “Fell on a hill. I was trying to get away—” He yelped at the sting of the peroxide Tanner had poured over the cut and opened his eyes to watch the injury foam.

“Sorry about the sting,” Tanner said. “We've got to disinfect it, though.”

But Luke had gasped again, and didn't answer. A tattoo peeked from the sleeve of his father's T-shirt, and Luke could see a geometric design like the one he'd seen on the shadowy figure in the stripes of moonlight.

“That still hurt?” Tanner looked up at him. “You okay? You look kind of queasy.”

“Yeah.” Luke's voice came out in a rasp. “I'm okay.” He cleared his throat. “When did you get that tattoo?” He pointed at his dad's arm.

“Oh, that. A few days ago.” Tanner looked a little embarrassed.

“Why?”

Tanner kept cleaning Luke's wound. “It's a friendship thing. I made an oath not to talk about it, though. You know about oaths? They're even stronger than a promise, otherwise I'd tell you.” He spread ointment on the cut, and glanced up at Luke, who had shrunk back into the chair. “Sorry, I bet that hurt.” Tanner unwound a swath of sterile gauze from a roll. “About the oath, though. You'll understand when you get a little older.”

“It's like a vow.” Luke's voice was strong and drew Tanner's attention.

“Right, good for you.” Tanner squinted at his son. “You ever made one?”

Luke nodded.

“Can you tell me about it?”

“No.”

“Good boy,” Tanner said, but Luke saw regret flutter through his eyes. Tanner concentrated on gently wrapping the gauze around Luke's cut hand.

Luke didn't speak, either. It was to his mother that he'd made the vow, and it had happened only a few months ago, when he'd found a postcard from Chicago on the kitchen table. Grief for his mother filled him with a rush, and it threatened to overflow, but he could not let that happen, not in front of his dad.

The situation came back to him as if it had occurred that morning. He'd asked where Chicago was, and the
People
magazine Jenny had been reading slid from her hands.

“Please, love, don't ever tell anyone about it.”

“Okay, Mom.” But she'd heard the questions in his voice.

“Will you promise from the bottom of your heart?”

“Okay,” he'd said, and he meant it. Now he thought about his words. From the bottom of his heart, that was a vow, wasn't it? And even though she was gone, he knew he'd keep it. Especially now.

His dad was wrapping a bandage around the cut with tender care, and hadn't seemed to notice that Luke's reaction was to the tattoo and not the pain of his injury. Luke closed his eyes and forced himself to recall the figure silhouetted in his living room. It scared him still. It was all he could do not to pull his hand from his father's grasp.

Luke's heart beat so hard and fast, it seemed to flutter his eardrums. He could hardly believe his father hadn't noticed. A tear slipped from beneath Luke's right eyelid, and he stopped himself from wiping it away. Instead he turned his head.

“This really hurts, doesn't it?”

“A little,” Luke lied. It didn't. If it did, it was surpassed by the emotional restraint he was using.

The figure that had bent over his mother was big and strong, he knew that. Was it shorter than his dad? He wasn't sure. Tanner seemed taller than most of the men Luke knew. He cracked open his eyes to check. He couldn't tell.

But his dad would never have done this. Would he? Luke hated himself for even letting the thought enter his mind. He watched the care with which his father tended his injury and felt shame redden his cheeks.

But apprehension wouldn't leave him alone, and it prodded him until he faced an awareness he'd tried hard to ignore. What Tanner had told him about the vow had revealed something. His father had made a promise to at least one friend, and Luke believed one of them killed his mother. Tanner didn't have that many close friends. Luke guessed he knew them all.

Nasty suspicions again tapped at his mind. Had Tanner's vow something to do with his mom's death? His father wouldn't protect her killer, would he?

Luke shivered. Even if his dad didn't know it yet, he'd made a vow of friendship and silence with Jenny's murderer. So what would his father do when the man came for Luke? Who would Tanner believe if it came to Luke's word against an adult's, an adult who was a sworn friend?

Chapter Thirty-two

Jenny Williams reached for someone out of sight. She leaned toward this person, her mouth open and eyes wide. Storm sat in Jenny's living room, on the worn sofa with her feet up on the big stone and glass coffee table. It was a party, and a pile of beer bottles was growing beside her. She wasn't drunk, but she was laughing. And she wasn't reacting to Jenny's plea for help. Instead, she observed the others who were there, talking and interacting with each other. No one responded and Storm wondered why this was, but she didn't do anything about it. She even looked around for Luke, who didn't seem to be in the room. Storm knew that Jenny, though she was surrounded by people, was alone and terrified. And Storm took another drink of her beer.

She woke with a start, drenched with sweat. A soft bird call sounded. Storm peeked at the clock by the bed, which said two forty-five. Birds shouldn't be up yet. Yet she recognized the
‘alae
's call.

The idea that the mudhen was sounding a warning again bothered her, but Storm had been raised at the knee of a kahuna, in this case a teacher of Hawaiian myths and lore. Aunt Maile, hopefully snoring peacefully in her own room, would advise Storm to go back to the dream. She needed to find the reason for it, both from within herself and from any outside forces. Aunt Maile would tell Storm her subconscious was trying to pass along information, something she needed to know.

Storm shivered. Don't move, she told herself, or you'll lose the connection to the dream. She took a breath, closed her eyes, and placed herself back on the sofa in Jenny's living room. Poele sat in a chair across the room, next to the sculpture of Maui, which sat on the bookshelves next to him. His eyes were glassy with grief. Makani sat next to him, crying, while someone popped a beer open in the kitchen.

Tanner sat close to Storm on the couch, but acted like he hadn't seen her. He didn't look at anyone else, either. Instead, he frowned down at the cluttered surface of the coffee table and twisted his hands together as if he were holding them under a faucet.

There was a beautiful woman across the room who wore hospital scrubs like the ones Jenny had been in when she'd come to the door on Thursday afternoon. So long ago. Storm's mind fled the dream to figure out what day it was. It was Sunday, very early, three days since Jenny had died.

Storm didn't know the pretty woman, nor did she recognize the man sitting next to her, who touched her hand lovingly when she spoke. There was an odor Storm recognized, though she couldn't place it. Not a good one, either. Rancid and penetrating.

The scent didn't come from the affectionate couple, from Tanner, or from Poele's direction. Lambert's eyes were swollen and bloodshot, and though they met Storm's and tried to communicate something, Storm didn't know what. They always returned to Jenny, who wasn't paying attention. Jenny watched someone outside the front door, someone who either couldn't or wouldn't come in.

The next Storm knew, a halo of daylight was peeking around the drapes, and she woke again with a jerk, this time because she was worried she'd be late for breakfast. She'd agreed to meet Aunt Maile and Uncle Keone at six-thirty so they could get an early start on their ride.

She jumped out of bed, did the least she could in terms of morning rituals, and jogged over to the dining hall. Aunt Maile and Uncle Keone already had a table and were sharing the Sunday
Honolulu Star-Bulletin
.

“Good morning,” Aunt Maile said. She took a drink of her coffee and Storm resisted the urge to grab it from her. She still felt fuzzy with sleep, while Aunt Maile looked fresh and rested.

“Have you been here long?” Storm asked instead, and snagged the mug at the empty place setting. She loved it when restaurants left an entire carafe of strong, hot coffee on the table.

“Five minutes.” Uncle Keone looked up from the paper. “You look tired.”

Storm thought about sharing her dream, but decided she'd mull it over a bit longer before she put it into words. She explained the other reasons she hadn't slept well. “I'm worrying about Luke Williams. And I couldn't get hold of Hamlin last night.”

“Hamlin probably went to bed early and turned off his phone,” Aunt Maile said. “You could call the police to check on the boy.”

“I'll do that right now,” Storm said. “If the waiter comes before I'm back, order me the taro pancakes.” She took her coffee cup with her when she left the table to make the call.

Outside the dining room, she dialed Hamlin, who answered on the first ring.

“How're you feeling?” she asked.

“Better. Did you get my message last night?”

“Yes, who told you Brock Liu knew who started the fire?”

“Devon Liu's assistant.”

“Brock told him? Why didn't he say anything before this?”

“Her name's Alyssa Bennet, and Brock mailed her a letter. It got here yesterday.”

“So it was sent Wednesday or Thursday?”

“The postmark is from Kaunakakai on Thursday.”

“Brock had been dead about two weeks already. You think he told someone to mail it if he didn't show up at a specified time? What does it say? Have you seen it?”

“I think so, I don't know, and no.” Hamlin cleared his throat. “Let me tell you what I do know. It seems Brock and Alyssa had a thing going.”

“Why am I not surprised?”

“Yeah, well, Alyssa will only tell me the part of the letter that mentions sorcery. It's apparently like the stuff you saw at Lambert Poele's.”

“So who's the sorcerer?”

“Don't know yet. She didn't have the letter when we met with Liu yesterday because she didn't want him to know about it until we have more information. We're meeting in an hour, and I told her to bring the letter, or at least the pertinent pages.”

“Aunt Maile got some information that the fire sorcerer's name is Kekapu.”

“Sounds familiar.”

“It's Makani's last name.”

There was a stunned silence on the line. “Holy shit.”

“My reaction, too. See if that corresponds to Alyssa's information.”

“Makani would have only been, what, sixteen, seventeen?”

“That's what I figure.”

“I wonder if the sorcerer has to be on the site to start a fire.”

“I already asked Aunt Maile about that, and she doesn't think so. It's done by chanting, perhaps over a period of time, and the chanter may need a possession or part of the intended victim.”

“You mean like hair or fingernails? Storm, I just don't buy this whole premise. Alika Liu died of smoke inhalation. He got trapped and overwhelmed by the fire.”

“I'm just repeating what I've heard, and the part that matters to me is that someone is still willing to commit murder to keep anyone from finding out who lit the fire or why. You can take or leave the sorcery aspects, except as possible clues to help you answer the who and why.” She thought for a moment. “We know the police already looked into arson. Have you seen any of those reports?”

“Devon Liu got all the evidence collected back then, which is pretty skinny. No one knows how it got started, though the inspector believed it began in the living room, where the drapes caught first and spread across the ceiling. There were no apparent signs of accelerants or faulty wiring. The house was frame and about thirty years old, so the wood would have been dry and flammable. That's part of the reason Poele was never indicted. No evidence.”

Storm heard the question in his voice. “What are you thinking?”

“I wondered if you could ask the local guys what they saw and if they conducted interviews. You know, what they didn't write in the reports. That guy Niwa might talk to you.”

“He's in the hospital, and it's serious.”

“Damn. What happened to him?”

“A bleeding ulcer.”

“Don't tell me that's caused by sorcery.”

Hamlin was joking, but the comment made Storm think twice.

“I doubt it,” she said.

A long moment passed before Hamlin spoke. “Storm, you don't want to raise people's suspicions. Just talk to the cops. Don't go to anyone else. Please?”

“Okay,” Storm said. It was good advice. As it was, he'd have a fit if he knew she'd gone back to Poele's. That outing could stay a secret until this was over. “Aunt Maile and Uncle Keone are with me, remember?”

“Make sure Aunt Maile stays close by. Keone and you are cut from the same cloth.”

Storm chuckled. “I'll tell him.”

This time, Hamlin laughed. “He'll be flattered.”

“Oh, sure.”

Storm was still grinning as she searched for the number to Moloka‘i Hospital on her call log. “Do you know if Sergeant David Niwa is up yet?”

“I'll connect you to the nursing station,” the operator said.

The nurse who answered was friendly and informative. “He's not in his room now. Could I take a message?”

“I'll call back, thanks.” Storm hung up and called Iinformation for the police station. She asked for Detective Steve Nishijima.

“Nishijima here,” he answered.

Storm explained that she was a friend of Tanner's, and that she was concerned about Luke. “My mother died when I was about the same age,” she said. “Plus, I heard he was diabetic.”

“We had a call from a woman last night who picked up the boy and drove him to Halawa Bay to meet his father.”

“Do you know how to get hold of Tanner? I'd like to make sure Luke got there.”

“He didn't give you a number?”

“Only to Hawai‘i EcoTours, but I haven't been able to catch him.” It was likely Connor didn't pass along her message. She decided right then to ask Uncle Keone to stop at the Hawai‘i EcoTours office on their drive to Halawa Bay.

“That's our phone contact, too.”

“Do you know where his cabin is located?”

There was a pause on the line, and Nishijima's tone was cooler when he answered. “Not exactly.”

And Storm knew she'd reached the end of that line of questioning, at least until she met him face to face. Maybe she should have started with questions about the fire, but she didn't think he'd tell an unknown person about a cold case from ten years ago. No, she was going to have to try and talk to Niwa in person.

She went back into the restaurant and found Aunt Maile drinking her coffee and reading the paper alone.

“Where's Uncle Keone?” Storm asked.

“He saw Dusty walk by, probably getting a cup of coffee, and he went out to talk to him about using a horse trailer for the ride.”

By the time the waitress had set down the plates, Uncle Keone had returned, and he looked disgruntled. “He acted sort of secretive. After all these years, Dusty could at least tell me if he's got a date.” Keone doctored the levels of cream and sugar in his replenished coffee mug and took a sip. “Then he told me Makani would try to hook us up with a trailer. Like he wasn't sure.”

“Maybe he's getting more discreet with age,” Aunt Maile said.

Keone looked at her dubiously and bit into a piece of toast. “I know he's got a horse trailer. I've used it before, and I've loaned him mine four or five times.”

“Maybe it's with Makani,” Storm said.

“Yeah, maybe,” Keone said again, but he didn't sound happy. His irritation didn't affect his appetite, though, and a smile spread across his face when he bit into his omelet.