5 Murder at Volcano House (7 page)

As the speakers drone on I find myself feeling blue. A man has died and few who knew him seem deeply moved. When my time comes I’d rather just vanish in a giant wave, without fanfare, than be remembered with such little affection.

A commotion at the back of the chapel makes me turn around. So does Kawika. A man who resembles Father Time, long white beard and all, stumbles down the aisle. He looks for a seat, but no one is making room. As he passes I get a whiff of him. It’s barely mid-morning and he smells like he’s been knocking ‘em back since dawn.

The current purveyor of platitudes at the pulpit tries to ignore the bearded figure, but he’s already stolen the show. Finally he finds a seat. Those sitting by him slide this way and that—giving him a wide berth. Ransom turns around, sees the old drunk, and the color drains from the CEO’s face. He knows this man. And he’s not overjoyed to see him.

“Das Mick,” Kawika says. “Mr. Ransom’s old partner. Mick—he go broke when Ransom Geothermal pull out. Belly up. Fo’ sure.”

“Mick London?” I recall his name from my web browsing.

“Das him, brah.”

That makes three enemies of the man I’ve been hired to protect under this one roof—his ex-partner, his ex-wife, and the ex-protester who did jail time for attacking him. Not to mention the operative who seems to follow the CEO everywhere. And possibly knows his former wife.

Will the next one to stumble into the church be Pele’s favorite sister Hi‘iaka? Or maybe the fire goddess herself?

eleven

I’m making my way out of the chapel after the funeral, just turning my phone back on, when it rings.

“Kai?” It’s Donnie. “He’s in the restroom,” she says. “Just to warn you, he wants to drive to Wao Kele O Puna.”

“Why?” I ask.

“I don’t know,” she says. “Memories, I guess. All the rigging and equipment and buildings are gone. There’s nothing to see. It’s just an empty hole in the rainforest at the end of a lava road.”

“The Puna forest is isolated,” I say. “It’ll be tough to follow you and not be seen. I’ll have to lay way back.”

“Good idea, Kai. Rex joked on the way over here: ‘That guy in the yellow Porsche seems to follow us everywhere.’ I guess he must have seen you coming up from Hilo.”

I gulp. Ransom’s eyes appear not to be aging as fast as the rest of his body. “The Porsche wasn’t my idea. The agency was out of all but exotic cars. It was either this or walk.”

“Here he comes,” she says nervously. “I’ve got to hang—”

I hurry to the Boxster. Kawika has already pulled up to the chapel door and the Ransoms are climbing into the black limo.
They pull away. I follow at what I hope is enough distance to evade Ransom’s view.

In the parking lot we pass an old beat-up truck that has faded letters on the door: L
ONDON
D
RILLING
E
QUIPMENT
. Ransom’s ex-partner. Smashed Father Time with his flowing beard is inside trying to start the old beast—and not having much luck. Should he be driving in his condition?

I aim the yellow Porsche back onto Crater Rim Drive, well behind the Lincoln. It passes the park entry station and heads down toward Hilo. I let two vehicles come between us, and then follow.

The rainforest. Ransom’s going back.

When reaching the town of Kea‘au, the limo turns right onto Kea‘au-Pāhoa Road. Wao Kele O Puna, the upland rainforest of Puna, is another ten miles almost due south. But first we pass through the quaint town of Pāhoa that looks like a snapshot from the Old West—plank sidewalks under wood-railed balconies and false-front clapboard buildings. The balconies are festooned with bunting and flags and flowers, giving the little town a cheerful, festive feel. But we quickly leave that cheerfulness behind.

I lay back further because now there are no cars between the limo and me. Soon the Lincoln makes a sharp right off Kea‘au-Pa-hoa Road and heads into the forest. The road eventually turns from asphalt to crushed lava. The Ransoms’ car is alone. I try to get lost in its dust contrail.

I slow down and glance from one side of the road to the other, taking in the amazing diversity of the forest that Ransom had so casually disregarded in his effort to exploit the supposed energy sources in its depths: the scarlet flowers of the mossy-trunked ‘
ōhi‘a
tree; the pendulous fronds of the
palapalai
clump fern; the soaring umbrella-like
hapu‘u
tree fern; the silver-leafed and orange
blossomed
pa‘iniu
lily; and the smooth, shiny twining leaves of the fragrant
maile
vine. These trees, ferns, flowers, and vines in the rainforest, protesters argued, were vital to native Hawaiian gathering rights and cultural practices—from securing natural remedies to making
lei
and adornments for sacred
hula
. The SPC sought to reclaim what they believed was rightfully theirs.

Into this culturally rich and fragile ecosystem Ransom brought his drilling operation, apparently ignoring the traditional admonition to tread lightly and treasure this wonder of nature.

E nihi ka hele i ka uka o Puna,
mai ‘ako i ka pua
o lilo i ke alao ka hewahewa

Approach cautiously the forests of Puna,
do not pluck flowers lest
you be lost in the pathways of error.

After a mile or two of thick forest, a clearing comes into view. The limo drives straight in. I pull off into a break in the road. I park the Boxster between two ‘
ōhi‘a
trees, hoping Ransom on his way out won’t spot the yellow roadster among the bright red
lehua
blooms canopying the trees.

Stepping back onto the road, I gaze into the hole in the forest and recall news coverage of the drilling and the protests. The clear-cut, geometrical scar of nearly eight acres looks hauntingly familiar—like a science fiction movie in which a giant flying saucer has landed and scorched the earth.

The rigid straight lines and totally denuded landscape in the midst of lush greenery bring to mind the opposing camps that spurred the protests. Those who would preserve and
protect the land vs. those who would exploit and develop it. There wasn’t much middle ground between these champions of untamed nature and champions of untamed industry.

On one corner of these barren acres sits an eerily square reservoir of milky zinc green. I don’t know what chemicals the reservoir contains or what purpose it served, but its murky surface looks as unnatural as the stripped land.

I hear something that makes me turn around. Another car raising dust pulls up about twenty yards behind me. The driver climbs out. A Touch of Grey.
He’s everywhere
. He just stands by his car, looking past me to the Ransoms. He must wonder about me like I wonder about him.

I turn back to the clearing in the forest and watch the old man step from the limo, hobble with his cane a few paces toward the green pond, then stop in his tracks and scan the entire clearing. I can’t see the expression on his face. He’s too far away. But I can see him shrug as if to say, “What was all this about?” I imagine him reflecting on his drilling on the disputed land, the anger and resentment it aroused, and then the ultimate failure of his operation to produce enough steam and energy to be profitable.

Why he wanted to return here is anybody’s guess. Could it be that his ill health and the death of two of his former executives have heightened his feelings of mortality? Or is he merely lamenting that fate defeated his reign as the geothermal king?

He shakes his head. He bows. He moves closer to that milky pond, almost stumbles, and his wife dashes from the limo to right him. She turns him around, guiding him back to the car. They both climb in. I hide among the ‘
ōhi‘a
trees when the limo passes, raising a dust cloud. A Touch of Grey briefly
disappears among the trees, then jumps into his car and raises a dust cloud of his own. I fire up the Boxster and follow both dust clouds back to the Volcano House.

Tuesday evening the Ransoms leave me alone. Donnie calls once to say they are dining in their room. I’m relieved and re-pack my bag. Their flight to Kāua‘i via Honolulu departs at noon. Except for following the Ransoms back to Hilo tomorrow morning, I’m done. Well, I’ll continue to keep an eye out for A Touch of Grey—
whoever he is
.

I phone Ashley in Denver again. And leave another message. I want to ask her about the Hawaiian bracelet with her name on it I found at the scene of the Pali crash, and about the party she attended celebrating the Lindquist twins’ twenty-first birthday. Frustrating as it is not to hear from Ashley, I’m glad to have a case waiting for me when I return to Maunakea Street. And also glad to put this glorified chaperone gig behind me.

I eat alone that night. On my way back from the hotel restaurant I walk by the Ransoms’ room. I hear tapping and stop. The tapping seems to be coming from the room next door. Is it the toe tap of a hotel guest listening to music? Or maybe some kind of secret code?

Or just my overactive imagination?

twelve

Wednesday morning, I’m awakened by a call. I was wrong. Donnie does need my services. She says her husband insists on walking the Crater Rim Trail again before breakfast. For his health, she tells me. And he’s going alone. She doesn’t say why. No worries, I reply. I’ll be waiting for him by the trail.

Same drill as before. I hide behind the corner of the hotel when Ransom appears. The old man hobbles out the side door, makes his way awkwardly across the lawn with his cane, and sets out even more slowly than before—with no one now to support his feeble progress. I let him get ahead of me, far enough so he won’t think he’s being followed, but not so far that I lose sight of him.

The air is chilly and thick with mist. The sky is ghostly white. Visibility is even worse than yesterday. We’re walking in a cloud. Double exposures, odd outlines, and shrouded images distort even the most familiar objects. I stick close to Ransom. He shouldn’t be left alone in this murk.

I look behind me. No Touch of Grey in the parade. To track Ransom today he’d have to be close. He’s not. Why go to so much trouble to follow a man and then just quit?

Not me. I’m still on the case. I follow Ransom, just the two of us, alone on the trail. Not even any other tourists at this hour. We leave the Volcano House behind and head into the tree ferns. The old man is under those green umbrellas when he puts his cell phone to his ear. He talks briefly, and then hangs up.

He hobbles on. Finally he reaches The Steaming Bluff, the goal of his solo hike. He stops at the first gaping vent and leans against the top guardrail. The steam, billowing thick with sulfur, still appears to be the most visible threat to his wellbeing.

A young woman approaches him from the opposite direction. Even through the steam I can tell she’s oddly dressed for the trail: flowing crimson gown, shimmering black hair, flame-red lipstick, and eyes vivid with dark shadow and liner. She’s attired more for a prom than a hike. Ransom sees her and they appear to lock eyes briefly.

Who is this woman? She looks hauntingly like a well-known
kinolau
of Pele. Donnie mentioned this guise of the goddess in my office—the seductive young woman in red. My client didn’t describe her in detail. She didn’t need to. Like most people who grow up in the islands, I know. That
kinolau
and this woman on the trail appear to be one in the same.

Can’t be
. I scratch my head. Is she why the old man insisted on walking alone? Was the call from her? Or has she merely bumped into him by chance?

Now my own phone rings. It’s Donnie.
“Kai!”
She sounds hysterical.
“I’m so afraid!”

“What’s wrong?” I say. “Where are you?”

“I’m running toward you on the trail.” She’s breathless. “Now I can just barely see you through the mist.”

I turn around and see the vague outline of a person, motioning rapidly toward herself.

“I’m so afraid!”
Her voice is lower now, but still on the verge of hysteria.

“Wait there.” I run to her. I don’t like leaving Ransom behind, but he’s not so far away that I can’t return to him quickly. I keep glancing back as I move further from him and the woman.

When I reach Donnie she’s clutching a piece a paper in her trembling hands. She grabs my arm and pulls me a few steps off the trail into the tree ferns, out of sight of her husband.

“What’s wrong?”

“This.” She hands the paper to me. The words on it are cut and pasted from a newspaper.

“Where did you get this?”

“It was slipped under my door just after Rex left,” Donnie says, still trembling. “What does it mean?”

“You tell me. You know your husband and his enemies better than I do.” I step back onto the trail to catch another glimpse of Ransom. The air is thick and I can barely see the shadowy outlines of two people.

“Maybe it’s Rex’s ex-wife?” She shrugs.

“What motive would his ex have to produce a note like this? Just to make him, or you, uncomfortable?”