Molokai Reef (29 page)

Once
Mongoose penetrated the server, he networked to the director’s
personal computer. To limit his exposure, he had written a small
program that harvested every data file on the computer and
transmitted them back to
Makani
where he could analyze at his
leisure. While he was in the system, he planted a Trojan horse that
would transmit updated files over the Internet daily.

Mongoose
hadn’t analyzed all of the files. He concentrated first on the
correspondence documents and spreadsheets. The technical documents
would take longer to decipher. Because of the technical jargon and
the lack of his expertise in biotechnology, he had forwarded these to
a genetic engineer acquaintance on the mainland. “My friend
will send an abstract of the technical files.”

From
the letters and memos, he confirmed Flyn’s findings that the
recent cash transfer came from a Swiss account. “There were
several e-mails with a company called Tonto Group, Ltd. before the
wire transfer. It looked like they were negotiating a trade, but Les
never specified what he was trading.”

“
Tonto?
As in Lone Ranger?” Gybe asked.

“
Yes,
but in Spanish it can mean fool or blockhead.”

“
Who
are they? What do they do?”

“
I
don’t know yet. But, I’ve traced their IP address to a
server in Bogotá, Columbia.”

“
What?
There isn’t any clean money in Columbia. Why would a drug
cartel invest in SynCorn?” Gybe exclaimed.

“
Stereotyping,
are we?” Flyn chided.

Mongoose
ignored the exchange and continued his report. He had found e-mails
with details of the Bahamian bank to Swiss bank wire transfer. “The
Swiss account was Les’s. Once the money arrived in
Switzerland, he transferred most of it to SynCorn.”

Flyn
chimed in with more news. “After ‘goose told me about
the Tonto Group, I looked for them on the net. Tonto Group, Ltd. is
a shell corporation based in the Bahamas. I e-mailed a friend who
sails out of Eleuthera. Since she is in The Bahamas, she may be able
to find out who is behind the company.”

“
And
she will do this how and why?” Mongoose asked.

Gybe
knew the answer, but let Flyn reply. “She has shall we say
persuasive assets. As to the why, she’s my friend.”

Flyn
waited two beats then added, “And I transferred two thousand
dollars to cover her yard bill.”

Gybe,
Flyn, and the ‘goose knew all about yard bills. Any boat owner
who hauled his boat in a boatyard had faced the tab – the yard
bill – at the end of the haul-out. Boatyards would not drop the
boat into the water until they had received payment. No cash no
splash.

“
It
will take her a day or two to get the information we need. I may
have to send her some grease money for the officials.”

“
Back
to the e-mails, did you get any clue about what the company –
Tonto was it – was getting in return for their money?”
Gybe asked.

The
e-mails were vague. They referenced telephone conversations when
talking about the trade.

While
in the system, ‘goose had downloaded the data files from Ray
Wilson’s computer. Although it had been more than one week
since his death, his computer was still turned on and on-line. Such
a waste of electricity, he lamented.

Like
Gybe, Mongoose was an ardent conservationist. Both men had rigged
wind generators and solar panels on their vessels to generate their
electric needs. Each sailboat was equipped with an auxiliary diesel
engine, but unlike so many boats, especially those anchored or
cruising away from the dock, you never heard the diesel growling out
electricity for refrigeration and other onboard electrical needs.
Flyn’s feelings were similar, but she had yet to add the solar
panels. Her boat sported twin wind generators, which satisfied most
of her electrical requirements.

The
wasted electricity offended Gybe. Hawai‘i had plentiful
quantities of every known form of renewable energy – solar,
wind, wave motion, geothermal, deep ocean thermal. They could
produce biomass on abandoned pineapple and sugar cane fields.

You
didn’t see coal barges on their welcome to paradise posters.
But, Hawai‘i imported coal to generate electricity.
Unbelievable!

“
Mongoose,
keep looking through Les’s files. I’ll check back in the
morning. This may have nothing to do with the murders, but I want to
pursue it. First the drug brothers, now Les’s tie-in with the
cartels. We’re seeing too many connections to drugs.”

“
Tomorrow,
I’m paying another visit to my good buddy Les at SynCorn.”
Gybe added.

“
By
the way, “ Mongoose responded, “I found files from Dr.
Splicer’s computer on Les’s machine. It appears that
either he tapped into her computer or someone was feeding him the
files.”

54

It
was too early to return to their boats so Gybe and Flyn walked to
town and straight to Humpies Bar. A slab of rare koa wood in the
rough shape of a humpback whale with the word Humpies in bas-relief
hung over the front entrance. The bar occupied the former location
of a Moloka‘i based brewpub. The brewpub found out the
expensive way that island tastes ran more towards dollar Bud drafts
than four-dollar craft brews.

The
bar was divided into three sections. Because of a local ordinance, a
wall with large windows sectioned off the dining area. In the bar
area, the bartender worked inside a rectangular surround bar. Six
barstools sat along each of the three sides of the bar. On the
fourth side, a window serving station penetrated the wall into the
game room. Gybe counted two pool tables, three video machines, and
at least two dartboards. A jukebox owned the corner beyond the far
pool table.

A
sign above the window to the game room stated that happy hour was
from three to seven. The bar clock showed that they were two hours
into happy hour. Like paper clips on a magnet, the regulars were
stuck to their barstools. The only unoccupied seats in the bar were
two stools near the cocktail server’s station.

Flyn
guided Gybe to the empty seats. As any professional pub-goer knew,
these were the least desirable seats in the house.

The
culturally sensitive Gybe ordered a Bud longneck, Flyn ordered a Cuba
Libra. For the puzzled bartender, she translated and asked for a
dark rum and coke with a squeeze of lime.

The
barkeep slid the drinks in front of them and asked if they wanted a
complimentary pupu tray. “Sure,” they said in unison.

“
Kanpai!”
Gybe tipped the longneck towards Flyn.

A
paper plate landed in front of Flyn.

Gybe
and Flyn looked at the plate, then at each other. Neither struggled
nor extended a boarding house reach for the pupus. Quietly, so that
the bartender wouldn’t hear, Flyn asked, “What is it?”

Certain
that the food was nothing that had ever graced the tables of the
great Ali‘i – the royalty of Hawai‘i –Gybe
pointed to the small pinkish round tubes smothered in a dark sauce.
“Vienna sausage would be my guess - Swedish meatball style.”

“
And
these?”

“
Those
are fried chunks of the Hawaiian national food.”

Flyn
arched her brows.

“
Spam.”

One
advantage to sitting near the server’s drink station was the
trashcan. Gybe could feel it against his left leg. He didn’t
want to offend the bartender or the locals so while he downloaded his
first beer, he discreetly relocated several items from the pupu
platter to a paper napkin and then into the trash.

He
signaled for another round and declined the offer of a second pupu
tray.

The
guy sitting on the other side of Flyn ignored Gybe and started
flirting with her.

Rude,
very rude, Gybe thought. Suppose Flyn were his wife? … his
girlfriend? … his sister?

It
turned out that the guy was just a friendly drunk. He was curious
about the out-of-towners. Everyone in town had known about Gybe’s
arrival less than two hours after
Ferrity
’s anchor
touched bottom. Similarly, they knew to the hour when Flyn had
arrived.

Gybe
joined the conversation. Flyn made the introductions and Gybe
learned that the man’s name was Gark. At least that was his
handle here on the island. The man worked for a pest extermination
company based on Maui. He owned the Moloka‘i territory.
Termites, cockroaches, and centipedes were his targets.

“
Gark?
I assume there is a story behind the name.” Gybe asked.

“
Why?”
said Gark looking puzzled.

Suspecting
that Gark may have sprayed without a respirator one too many times
Gybe switched the subject. “So what have you heard about the
murders?”

The
barkeep brought another round of drinks. Gark was drinking schooner
size mugs of Bud Lite.

Everything
he told them about the murders of Jean and Ray and the follow-on
arrest of Susan could have been gleaned from a newspaper. His
account was more colorful, but the facts and suppositions were the
same.

In
Gark’s account, concrete encased them up to their bellies.
“When the coroner chipped away the concrete, the man had a
big…” he glanced at Flyn, “ you know?”

Flyn
reached for her drink to break eye contact.

“
Do
you know Susan​? The accused?”

“
Aye
matey, that one be a bad un.” The flooding alcohol had topped
another levee of neurons.

Gark
leaned close to Flyn and whispered “she was a devil worshiper,
that she was.”

Flyn
and Gybe glanced at one another with a ‘this will be good’
eye-roll.

“
I’ve
heard she and her friends hike into the valleys during a full moon.
They get nekkid and dance around the trees. They’re witches
and…” Gark launched a search through his brain cells
looking for the word that described the male counterpart to a witch.

“
Warlock?”
Flyn helped. She knew that if there were any truth to Gark’s
tale, then Susan might be a Wiccan. During the PPC (Pre Political
Correctness) eras, Wiccans would have been called pagans. Almost two
millennia of church propaganda and spin had brainwashed their
followers into equating paganism to devil worship. Paganism, worship
of nature and her elements,w as unfamiliar with the devil concept.
It took the church to define an opposite, or evil, to their Christ or
good. They, the church, knew that one can’t have a good
without its opposite, a bad. No white without black, no up without
down, no left without right.

“
Gark,”
Gybe goaded, “you look like you lived during the age of the
hippie and love generation? What’s wrong with dancing naked in
the woods?”

He
had struck a chord. Gark eyes rolled back searching for the
videotape of his youth. “That was different. We didn’t
worship no Satan. Love, love was our god, man.” He replayed
the quip in his mind. “Maybe we worshiped a few chemicals
too.” He chuckled.

Caught
up in his analogy, he continued. “Yeah, you could say we
worshiped at the church of love. In our communion, bongs were our
chalice and Toklas’ fudge was our sacrament. We worshiped
anywhere and baptized in hot tubs and fountains. The other guys with
their flesh and blood rituals are downright creepy.” He
shuddered.

Flyn
turned to Gybe as Gark rambled along and whispered. “I think
our friend has spun out of orbit. You ready to leave?”

Gybe
scanned the bar before answering. The first digit on the bar clock
was a one; the other three were zeros. Happy hour had passed and
several barstools awaited the next shift. Two twenty-something
couples drank and shot pool in the back room.

One
regular had his head on the bar near the cash register. This was a
small town, so sleeping at the bar drew less wrath than say San
Francisco’s image conscious North Beach. An argument between
two other regulars loudened.

Gybe
nodded.

Flyn
paid the tab, tipped the barkeep with a five, and followed Gybe out
the door.

As
they walked down the causeway towards the harbor, Gybe inventoried
their surroundings. No clouds floated overhead, but the intense
lights atop the lampposts washed several stars from the sky. No
trade winds tonight. Brief chunks of silence erupted between the
cruising automobiles with their overloud radios. Exhaust fumes and
cigarette smoke defiled the ocean air. “Humans and huwomans
have fouled the nest.”

Flyn
glanced to her companion. “Oooohkay.”

Midway
out the causeway, a car sat idle on the shoulder. Inside a two
headed, five-limbed alien life form writhed in the front seat. Or,
it may have been two teenagers practicing the reverse amoeba split.
“It’d take a jumbo pack of condoms to protect all those
orifices.” Gybe mused.

They
were about thirty yards from the pier when Gybe spotted the man lying
in the shadows of the ferry terminal. “Flyn, look.” He
pointed to the body. “At least in the tropics, the drunks
won’t freeze to death on the sidewalks.”