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Authors: Charles Knief

Silversword (37 page)

BOOK: Silversword
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“Your brother,” I said. “He
lived
here.”
“Yes. Daniel killed him.”
I remembered what Tutu Mae had said before my trial. She must have repeated the same thing to Chawlie, who started thinking. And I remembered the Cadillac SUV in the Waialua parking lot. “Ricky Lee was your brother.”
Felix nodded. “They executed my lover and they murdered my brother and now they're going to kill me. I'm trapped in the Islands and I have to get out.”
“I can't help you.”
“I was hoping you would, but I am prepared to take this thing out myself.”
“Or get rid of me as soon as we were close to California.”
He nodded. “Gilbert brokered the bodyguard job for me. The thinking was that I could get Daniel and Chawlie together at one time. Do them both. Daniel must have smelled something, because he never let it happen.”
“You almost got close.”
“Once, but I would have died. Staying alive is always my first priority.”
“So what are you going to do now? Kill me? Take
Olympia
out and head for San Francisco? They'll find you. They'll track you down easily. As soon as you key the satellite phone or use the GPS they'll zero in on the signal and send the Coast Guard after you. Or the Navy. That's a big flat ocean out there with nowhere to hide.”
“You'll take me out of Pearl Harbor. I can head for Canada or Mexico or South America.”
I nodded. “And then what?”
“I've got money.”
“No, Felix,” I said patiently. “And then what about me?”
“Your choice. Either join me or die.”
“I don't think so.”
“I thought you'd say that,” he said. He reached into the backpack and drew out a sawed-off shotgun. I saw it coming out of the bag, tossed paperbacks off the bookcase with the tips of my fingers, grabbed the .22, aimed quickly at center mass and fired twice.
Felix fell over.
He lay on the deck, the bag and both arms underneath his body, the knife on the bench seat. His breath came in quick pants. But he still breathed.
“Felix,” I said quickly, “let me see your hands.”
He pulled his right hand from beneath his chest and wiggled bloody fingers.
“That's one hand. Now the other.”
He lay still, as if thinking it over. Blood was pooling under him and running along the grooves of the teak decking.
“Come on, man, I don't want to shoot you again.”
He rolled over and brought the shotgun with him. I kicked his arm with the ball of my foot and the shotgun sailed across the lounge, skidded over the lounge table and wedged between two cushions on the bench seat.
He grabbed my leg and I went down, my gun under me. He scrambled for traction on the deck, punching and kicking me, gouging my eyes, trying to reach my pistol.
I fought him off but his strength was enormous, and he almost ended up on top of me before I recovered and slammed him under the chin with my cast.
It didn't phase him. Blood weeping from two tiny bullet holes in his chest, he fought as if nothing mattered. In the confines of the small space I had the advantage of leverage and reach, but he was younger and stronger, and he fought like a cornered animal.
I fought off another attack. I could tell he was getting weaker. Time was on my side.
He attacked again, knocking me down. As I fell I dropped the gun. He reached for the pistol and I kicked it away, sending it scooting down the lounge toward the bow.
He followed and I tackled him, smashing his face against the deck. He wiggled out from under me. We both struggled to our feet and I hit him with two elbow kites that staggered him. He struck back and I blocked the last attack, using his momentum to crash his body into the teak bulkhead.
He reeled back, then faded away.
And raced for the shotgun.
I looked for the pistol, saw it lying under the table, thought about it only long enough for the synapses to come back with the calculation, my cerebrum screaming, “NOT ENOUGH TIME! WRONG DIRECTION! GET THE OTHER GUN!”
I raced for my stateroom, leaped onto the bed, reached into the bookcase for my .45, stretching until I got clumsy fingers around the checkered rubber grips.
Felix got to the shotgun first, cocked it while he turned, and ran into my stateroom with single barrel aimed directly at my head.
I brought the .45 around and aimed it at him.
Too late.
We fired simultaneously.
I
took four BBs in the right shoulder and three or four more in the neck. The rest of the load passed over my head, punching into the bookcase and the teak paneling.
Felix slumped against the bulkhead, his shotgun on the deck beside him. I kept the 45 trained on him until I could get down from the bunk and hobble over to pick up the shotgun. I broke it open. It was a rusty single-barrel, single-shot affair that had been crudely cut down. Harmless now, I tossed it behind me onto the bunk.
I had hit Felix three times, all of the rounds so close together I could have covered them with my hand.
He opened his eyes. “You shot me again,” he said. He seemed surprised.
“Of course I shot you. What did you think I was going to do?”
“Should have known better,” he said, his breath coming in quick pants, like a dog run hard on a hot day.
“Why?”
“Why did I do any of it?”
I nodded. He reached out and I held his hand. Anything now to give him some small comfort.
“We wanted to rule, Caine. Jesse and me, we wanted to be on top. It's just that simple.”
“Were you Silversword?”
He laughed. I wasn't sure it was a laugh because it was so soft, but I leaned closer and found that it was. “Ricky's contribution. It was just a front to hide our true motives. Ricky had these dreamers and college students in the palm of his hand. He taught them lua, he told them stories, and suddenly they were an activist group. Down with the government. Establish the new monarchy. They really didn't mean any harm.”
“Kidnapping? Bombing? Murder?”
“Not a threat, not them. Honest. Ricky did most of it to give them standing.”
“You wanted Daniel dead, and me dead?”
“Uh-huh. When you were charged with murder it changed the plans, but then we thought how convenient, you would be out of touch. Then the court let you go and I had those two ninjas take you out. Or try to.”
“That was
you
in the alley?” I'd decided that it had been Ricky Lee.
“Yeah. I went along. They were supposed to be very good. You were injured. I didn't think you'd live to recognize me.”
“All you guys look alike to me. Who killed the professor?”
“Don't really know, Caine. Probably Ricky. Why would you care?”
“And you cooperated with Gilbert. You were allies.”
“Yeah. We would rule the Pacific Triads. He didn't want to harm Chawlie. Only Daniel. He would wait until Chawlie retired or died. Then Gilbert would be the undisputed leader in Hawaii.”
“Jesse was your lover?”
“Yeah.” He closed his eyes. “Gonna be with him soon, wherever he is. I'm going to die.”
“Probably.”
“That's cold, Caine. You killed me.”
“You didn't have to come here. You didn't have to pull a gun on me. I'm sorry, though.”
He smiled a ragged smile. “That's something, getting an apology from you. It had to be this way, Caine. I didn't have anywhere else to go. Chawlie or Daniel would have got me one way or the
other. They would have killed me for three days. Just the way they did with my beautiful Jesse. This way is better.”
He closed his eyes, his breathing rapid and small. “I'm afraid, Caine,” he said, his voice small and quiet. “I don't want to lose this … life. I like it here.”
“We're all afraid, Felix.”
He opened his eyes and looked directly at me, but he wasn't seeing me. He saw something beyond me and behind me, and I thought he might have smiled. “It's okay, Caine,” he said. “It's okay.”
He closed his eyes again and lay still and I held his hand until he stopped breathing and I felt the life drain out of him. He had been a complicated little guy, witty and articulate. More sly than smart. He had not been one to trust. He had sought my death and the death of my friends. But I had liked him all the same. And I was sorry to have killed him.
I laid him down on the deck, the hardwood awash with his blood and some of mine. The pain from my wounds had not yet come but I knew it would. I felt a little woozy, and debated whether to call Chawlie first or to call the cops. The decision was made for me. Two squad cars pulled up at the end of the dock, their bubble machine lights revolving, flashing a circumference of blue light over the marina restaurant and the yachts.
I knew they would be nervous, and they would have their survival at the top of their agendas, so I left the .22 where it was, unloaded my .45, locked back the slide, and placed the pistol on the teak tabletop. I switched on the spreader lights, opened the hatch and stood on the deck, my hands in the air, my bleeding wounds all too visible, and waited in the cool evening breeze for the officers to make their way down the length of the dock to my slip.
I wondered if I could reach Tala Sufai this evening.
I wondered if I should bother Kimo with my problems.
And I wondered why peace, when it comes to me, only comes in infinitesimal chunks.
I
n the weeks that followed, the official agencies issued their findings, blaming the murder of Professor Hayes on Ricky Lee and Felix Chen. Both men were dead, themselves casualties of what the
Advertiser
labeled as tragic gangland executions. I was not mentioned in the newspapers this time, much to the credit of Chawlie and Daniel Choy, who exerted an undefined amount of unofficial pressure on the members of the fourth estate to keep my name out of print. The hunt for the murderers continued, according to the local media, who issued broad hints that the second worst crime spree in the state's recent history was the result of a difference of opinion on the distribution of profits derived from the sale and distribution of unauthorized pharmaceuticals.
The official also gave me a free pass on the killing of Felix Chen. This time self-defense was ruled as a permissible offense. In Hawaii, at least.
James came home from the hospital after a month of skin grafts and operations on the leg that had been kissed by Pele. He would always bear the scar. Tutu Mae called it an honor and a sacred burden.
Using James's newfound wisdom, Tutu Mae took over the name of the former group, calling it the Silversword Alliance. The group's new function was educational and spiritual, dedicated to preserving the culture and history of the Hawaiian people. That
they took a more genteel path from the previous group did not change the fact that they espoused the same goal. Hawaii, they affirmed, should in fact belong to the Hawaiian people. Somehow I felt better hearing Tutu Mae saying that than someone like Ricky Lee.
David eventually went back to California. Already late for classes, he was intent on petitioning his professors for late admission, something he assured me would be feasible, especially when his role in the summer's activities eventually came out in the press.
All in all he seemed to have come through his adventure with his sense of humor intact. He and Donna came to visit me before he flew home. I noted that they were still holding hands.
“Mother sends her regards,” he said, “and her gratitude.”
“Then you didn't tell her what you really did.”
“Not all of it,” he said, his mouth in a wry twist. “Thank you for showing me some great diving in Hawaii. This was supposed to be a summer of leisure. This lady,” he indicated Donna, “made me work like a slave.”
“Come back anytime.”
He stared at Donna when he answered me. “Oh, I will. I'll come back often.”
“Stay out of caves and volcanoes.”
He nodded.
“And sunken ships.”
“You can depend on that.”
Donna later kissed him good-bye and returned to her cloistered office provided by the university.
They
knew what she had. She had shared it with them, in all its glorious detail. Her doctorate assured, as well as her future, the university president who had been shepherding her project in the absence of Professor Hayes provided her with everything a graduate student could have wanted.
She had an office. Well, sort of an office, she told me. They gave her a table in a corner of a room in a basement, the room largely dedicated to the storage of film and video and image retrieval equipment. She had to edit and catalog thousands of images of the tomb and the site. A doctoral candidate, she had no assistants other
than her sisters. That suited the university. The Wong sisters had worked together at the site and now they labored in another underground chamber to prepare Donna's initial report.
It would be initial because what she had discovered was not just a find, it was the foundation of an international career. I wondered about her decision not to take the bone sample. That way it would have been a sure thing. The way she explained it, DNA testing would have assured the identity of the skeleton. Now it would always be conjecture. Now the world would never be certain just who had been buried with all that treasure. But I understood the reason for her decision. Scattering the bones would have demonstrated extreme disrespect, and might have caused outrage in these peaceful islands. That would have gone against every precept that she held. She was right. Some things are not meant to be done. Because we
can
does not mean that we
should.
Even without a positive identity the find was earth shaking. The university president persuaded the magazine to quash Hayes's pending article, managing to do so by a combination of threats and promises. Donna would announce her initial findings in the same publication when she was ready, and under her own name. She would share the credit with only one other person. And Tutu Mae didn't even know it yet. That was Donna's surprise, recognition for Tutu Mae's contributions. Donna told me, but swore me to secrecy.
Hualalai, the little volcano that erupted just enough to blanket a mysterious tomb with thirty feet of solid rock, quieted down after Madam Pele had achieved her goal. If the bones were those of her darling, The Lonely One would never be disturbed again. Not after she had displayed such obvious displeasure. Donna's photographs, drawings and video would be the only record of his final resting place.
I did a lot of reading as the summer turned to fall. Not that there's much of a difference here. In October, the golden plovers begin returning from Alaska, and Hawaii is only two hours behind the West Coast instead of three when their daylight saving time expires for another year. The hurricane season has one more
month, but aside from that there is very little change. Tourists still crowd the hotels and the sandy beaches. The sun still plays its light upon the pale blue water. Trade Winds tease the palm trees on any given afternoon. And rainbows still grace the Waianaes every morning and the Ko'olaus every afternoon.
As I said, I did a lot of reading. The doctors had been right. Diving with open incisions had not been a good idea. After they had treated me for minor gunshot wounds, I came down with a vicious systemic infection. I spent three weeks in Tripler, the great pink army hospital that attended wounded American soldiers and veterans for more than just a few wars and “police actions.” I'd been there before, and it was where I went when I realized I was very sick. I parked my Jeep in the long-term lot, shuffled to the front counter, showed the nice admissions lady my identification and reported that I was probably suffering from a variety of infections and parasites, that I had been a sailor, and that they should not treat me for that malady alone.
The doctors didn't give me much of a chance, as weakened as I was with my injuries and surgeries, and at one point a well-meaning chaplain leaned over my bed and asked in concerned but plummy tones what my religious affiliation was. The man gave a visible start when I said, “Epicurean.”
Finally it became apparent to everyone, including the disappointed chaplain, that I was not going to die.
Shortly after David returned to California I checked out of Tripler, walked over to my Jeep and tried to start the engine only to find that the battery had died. I shrugged, appreciating the ability to enjoy the view of a magnificent double rainbow. Better the battery than me. I called a taxi to take me home. The Jeep would be there when I needed it.
Daniel met me at my dock.
Olympia
floated at her slip, forlorn and lonely, reminding me of her terrible neglect. I sighed, gazed longingly at my home, remembered that duty to friends was a man's highest duty, nodded, and climbed into the back of the Cadillac SUV double-parked in the lot above the Marina Restaurant.
“It would have been easier if you'd just called and asked me to come directly to Chinatown,” I told him as the driver goosed the Caddie up the Nimitz Viaduct.
“I just follow orders,” he said without inflection. His voice would always have that raspy quality. He would always sound as menacing and as dangerous as he really was.
“You shouldn't use a company car when you fill your special orders,” I said.
He looked at me sideways. “I don't know what you're talking about.”
“You called me and told me to get out of there. Right after the place was shot up and burned.”
“Yeah, I called you. But that was just to tell you that your hotel room was a hole, man. I wanted you to come back to the suite at the Royal.”
“Sure it was, Daniel.”
He stared at me impassively. Chawlie would have been proud. Of all of Chawlie's sons, Daniel was most like his father. When I looked at Daniel I sometimes wondered if Chawlie had been as tough and as silent as this young man when he was his age.
“Okay.” I leaned back into the leather seat and closed my eyes. “You know what this is about?”
He shrugged.
Sometimes it's best just to let things flow the way they are going to flow. Sometimes talking to Daniel is like talking to a granite boulder. Except you might get more information from the boulder.
The Cadillac stopped in front of Chawlie's restaurant and I climbed out and tottered across the sidewalk.
Daniel ushered me into Chawlie's den and backed out, leaving the two of us alone in his father's private quarters.
I found Chawlie elaborately fussing with another elm bonsai, a perfect living miniature the same shape as one of its larger cousins. Fascinated, I watched him prune and prick it, carefully grooming the plant the way one would groom an expensive pet.
“We are alone,” he said, not looking up from his task. “Sit down.”
I found a pillow and gingerly planted myself. Nothing worked exactly right just yet.
“You have had a hard year, John Caine,” said Chawlie, when he had finished his task.
“I've had better.”
“And worse, I would imagine.”
The fever almost killed me when the gunshots did not. The State of California did their best to put me away. As did a couple of malcontents who saw me as a roadblock to their success. And then there was the volcano. But all in all, things could have gone much worse. “Yes, Chawlie,” I said. “I've had worse.”
“I am concerned about you. I know what you do when you are hurt. You go into hiding until you are better. I knew that if I did not not see you before you became a hermit I would not see you for months. Maybe more. You must rest.”
“Now I try to get my strength back.”
“It will not be easy,” he said, and I heard echoes of another conversation I had had before, unsure of where, or with whom.
“It's not easy being me, old friend.”
He smiled. “Nor is it easy being Chawlie.”
“How is Gilbert doing?”
Chawlie's eyes twinkled. “They report that he is doing well, given the circumstances.”
When Chawlie had learned that his son had planned to assassinate his brother for succession to the throne, he had not done what I had expected of him. In the past he would have killed the young man, but Chawlie was evolving, or attaining enlightenment or wisdom, and he did something so out of character that I had to have Daniel repeat Gilbert's sentence twice before I understood what he had done.
Gilbert was a thoroughly Americanized young man, typical of second-generation immigrants. Princeton and Yale educated, Cornell hotel school, Wharton School of Business, Chawlie had invested a fortune in the young man's training. But the old Chawlie would have had him killed for far less, I knew. I had been
there when he had dispatched another son to his fate when he had become an embarrassment to the family.
But not now. Chawlie had invested heavily in casinos and hotels in Saipan, down near Guam, and he needed an assistant night manager, one of the more menial jobs available. He sent Gilbert down there to take the position. “For a few years,” he said. “He will not get a vacation, he will not come home, he will work sixteen hours a day, seven days a week until he learns the business of the family. The business of the family is not killing one's brother. That is no way to succeed.”
Deep down I was glad that Chawlie had begun to mellow. I also had a random thought that Daniel would have dispatched his brother without a second thought, and that, perhaps, was the main reason he was the natural heir to the family fortune. Gilbert would not get his hands dirty. Hiring others, even talented others, was not the same. Chawlie's interests sometimes required hands-on problem solving, like the night Ricky Lee and his associates died in the bar fire in Waialua.
“Are you still going to China?” I asked.
“Not yet. I will. Someday. But not just yet. Will you retire?”
“I wouldn't know what to do with myself.”
His eyes crinkled and he opened his mouth in silent laughter. “That is a big joke, John Caine. All this trouble. Because I said I wanted to live in China. I send architects to build me a house in Hong Kong. So oldest son thinks that I am going to name another as head of the family. And now that I am faced with going to China, now that I have my new home, I do not want to go. Like you, John Caine, I wouldn't know what to do with myself.”
BOOK: Silversword
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