Grober Tag Ranch, Kaumana Road, Near Hilo, HI -- 1:45 PM

The Grober Tag Ranch house had seen better days, but they were long gone. Of the twenty-four panes in its six-over-six casement windows, only one was intact. Ferns grew out of the rooftop. The front porch sagged. For several minutes, as Trask and the bruisers ransacked it, Kane leaned on his walking stick outside, listening to the random bangs and thuds from within.

At length, a side door opened. Trask exited and made his way to a small wooden outbuilding a short distance away. Within a few feet of it, he stopped and cocked his head. Advancing the few remaining steps, he carefully opened the door and stuck his head inside, then tiptoed back to the house.

As Trask came out the front door, waving to his boss and simultaneously signaling for silence, the three thugs came out the side door and gathered near the shed.

“There’s a long stairway leading downward just inside that shed,” he whispered as Kane approached. “I can’t see how far it goes, but if you stick your head in, you can hear voices.”

206 Kauwa Road, Off Highway 130, Pahoa Town, HI -- 1:50 PM Hawaii Time

When the canvas tarp on Dickley’s shack opened a second time, Frederick’s brain was just beginning to clear. He sat up. Jack Richter, still barefoot, padded toward him, somehow managing to avoid the rusted spikes sticking out through the floorboards.

“Oh...uh...hey...sir? You OK?”

Frederick scowled, touching his scalp where the blow had fallen. There was no blood, but his head throbbed furiously. He replaced his hat, looking up just in time to see Richter peering at the hole in Dickley’s floor. Under the inspector’s gaze he coughed nervously and looked away.

“Uh...you told me not to come in,” he said, “but after that other guy tore out...”

Frederick stopped rubbing his neck. The pain remained, but the buzzing broke off.

“What guy tore out?” he said. “You mean the congressman?”

“No. Some other guy,” said Richter.

“Describe him.”

“Like how?”

“Like a description. Tall, short, slim, fat, black, white.”

“White guy,” Richter said. “Tall.”

“How tall?”

“About six one or two, I’d guess. Bald. And skinny...raw-boned.”

“Reddish skin? Ruddy?” Frederick asked.

“Yeah. Wearing one of those geeky jackets...striped and kind of puckered.”

“Seersucker.”

“Right. With a bow tie.”

Bang. That was it. It went with the voice. Besides, Hawaii was his beat. It had to be him.

“Schmidt,” Frederick said.

“What?” asked Richter.

“Nothing. Give me a hand, will you?”

Frederick got up, dizzy and seeing double. He steadied himself, then looked around.

Dickley Hooper’s shack looked unchanged. That didn’t make sense. Agent Schmidt didn’t come all the way to Pahoa to give Frederick a headache. He must have done something. It was only logical. Besides, Frederick could feel it.

The hookah stem lay where it had fallen. The same dishes filled the sink, the same faucet dripped over them.

But wait. Was that just dripping water or was there another rhythm in the mix?

Richter opened his mouth to speak. Frederick held up his hand.

“Shhh.” He closed his eyes, turning his head from side to side.

Oh, shit. Was that what it sounded like? Christ, no, please.

Frederick opened his eyes and followed the sound. Five feet away, near the center of the room and beneath the table, sat a small tan briefcase, its plastic handle standing straight up.

The inspector’s thoughts went through his mind so quickly he scarcely noticed them: This floor is unstable; that explosive, unknown. The smallest vibration...

Then it came. Silence. The ticking stopped.

“Get out, Richter,” he said.

Richter stood still. “What? Aw, man, I came in here to help. You coulda been...”

Frederick caught the man’s arms and turned him around. “For God’s sake, Jack,” he said. “Get out!”

“You fucking cops...”

Beep, beep, beep, beep. It was the briefcase.

Frederick squeezed the man’s shoulders and shook him. “You hear that, pal?” he said. “That’s a bomb.”

Richter’s eyes gaped. “Holy shit!” he said. Still he didn’t move.

“For Christ’s sake, Jack, go!”

Jack went, but with his first step, a rusty ten-penny nail, poking out from the floorboards, drove through his heel. Richter cried out, lost his footing and toppled to the floor. The shack trembled. The plastic handle on the briefcase quivered and fell.

Frederick caught his breath. A second later he reached out and pulled Richter upright. Walking backward, he led Richter to the exit.

“Come on,” he said. “On your toes. Let’s go.”

It wasn’t Richter’s day. His good foot skidded and an ugly black splinter tore into his skin. As he stumbled, a rickety ceiling support clanged to the floor. The roof collapsed and Richter vanished. Only his arm poked through the rubble.

Frederick grabbed it and pulled. Nothing happened. He flung aside pieces of tin and rotting timber to get at Richter’s shoulders. Under both arms, he wrenched the man free and heaved him on his back. Now what? Frederick looked around. There was only one place to go. Grunting, he broke for the road.

Across the blacktop, sixty feet from the shack, Frederick pulled Richter into a gully. In a blink, the bomb blew. Glass shattered. Dirt flew. What was left of the shed disintegrated. With a roar Frederick hadn’t heard since Vietnam, an orange and black fireball rose over the treetops.

Kaumana Cave, Near Hilo, HI -- 1:45 PM Hawaii Time

Two hours ago, Deborah had regained consciousness. It seemed like a lifetime. Before, she didn’t know what was happening. Now, she knew, and wished she didn’t.

“Have you forgotten I’m a married woman?” she said. “What about my husband? How does he fit into all of this?”

“Your husband is dead.”

That hit her like a blow, but she didn’t flinch. “How do you know that?” she asked. “Where is his body?”

“He escaped from the FBI on Sunday,” Nachtmann replied. “He died in the desert.”

He escaped. Jim Garrison had gotten away. That was all that mattered. His death was not real...the assertion of a madman. She would not believe it.

Neither could she believe Nachtmann’s scheme. It was outlandish, insane, and becoming more so each time he spoke of it.

“You can’t really imagine you’ll succeed at this,” Deborah said.

Nachtmann rose, waving his arms excitedly. “You’ve known about my strategy all along,” he bellowed. “Stop pretending you haven’t. I’m tired of it.”

This was just the most recent of Nachtmann’s outraged avowals. Several times he’d insisted on Deborah’s foreknowledge, even her complicity, in his plans.

Finally, as if negotiating with a child, she conceded. “All right,” she said at last. “You’re right, I knew. Still, knowing is one thing. Doing is another. I need time to adjust.”

There was a note of angry satisfaction in Nachtmann’s voice. “That’s better,” he said.

“Just take me through it once more,” said Deborah. “How is this thing going to work, exactly?”

Nachtmann threw up his hands again, growling in exasperation.

Summoning all her grit, Deborah smiled engagingly. “Go on,” she said, “humor me.”

Nachtmann was not the recipient of many smiles, least of all, from attractive women. That he should have been so favored, not by just any woman but, so far as he was concerned, by the most beautiful woman imaginable, had an extraordinary effect. He became almost human.

For the next half hour, with exaggerated restraint, he walked Deborah through every nuance of his plot, explaining each detail and rationalizing its every seeming flaw.

For all his patience in describing it, however, the plan itself remained as ridiculous as ever. Relying, on magical thinking, exaggerated hopes and grandiose expectations, it hadn’t a chance of success...not one…not even with billions to back it up.

Deborah strained to maintain the pretense of taking him seriously. It wasn’t working. Nachtmann had to be seeing her skepticism. What would happen when he finished, she wondered, when it became clear that she wasn’t convinced. What form might his anger take?

She needn’t have concerned herself. From a distance, near an outlying wall of the cave, came an unmistakable voice: “That’s the most outrageous god damned fairy tale I’ve ever heard.”

Nachtmann spun around. Emerging from the shadows, accompanied by his assistant and three armed henchmen, was Kane.

“Keep him covered, for Christ’s sake,” Kane said. “He’s even crazier than I thought.”

Central Police Station, San Francisco, CA – 12:00 Noon PST

Paul Wingate was multi-tasking: processing paperwork while snacking on dim sum. He swallowed the last bits of a tasty dumpling just as the phone rang.

“Wingate,” he said.

“Mr. Wingate, my name is Allen Kertz. I’ve been trying to reach Inspector Frederick.”

“Oh, right, Mr. Kertz. He told me about you. What can I do for you?”

“I have some information for the inspector, but...”

“What is it in regards to?”

“I’m not sure how much can tell you, Mr. Wingate, you see...”

Wingate drummed his fingers. “Look, sir. The inspector’s not here. If I’m going to be any use to you or him, I’ve got to know what you’re talking about. What information do you have?”

Kertz hesitated. “All right,” he said finally. “It’s about a client of mine, Jim Garrison.”

Wingate sat up in his chair and glanced around the squad room. His voice, when he spoke again, was quieter and more serious than before.

“You have my undivided attention, Mr. Kertz,” he said. “Fill me in.”

“I’m a CPA and investment advisor. I handle Mr. Garrison’ finances.”

“Go on.”

“Inspector Frederick asked me to check on Mr. Garrison’s credit card accounts...to see if there was any activity pertaining to Mrs. Garrison.”

“And?”

“Well, there hadn’t been any activity since last Saturday. This morning, though, I got word that a card on which Mr. Garrison is a signatory had been used to rent a car in Hawaii.”

“And Mrs. Garrison might have used the card?”

“It’s a business account,” Kertz said. “Only Mr. Garrison and I are authorized to use it. In fact, my name is listed as the main signatory.”

“So, Mr. Garrison is in Hawaii?”

“Apparently, but...”

“But what, Mr. Kertz?”

“It’s just that I can’t understand why he used that particular account. It’s tied to an employee retirement trust. That’s not like him. Ordinarily, Mr. Garrison would never dip into those funds, especially not for a routine car rental. I just thought Inspector Frederick might be interested.”

“Good call, Mr. Kertz,” said Wingate. “I’ll let him know.”

Wingate hung up the phone and reached for Frederick’s card. Then he remembered that he’d changed suits. The inspector’s contact number in Hawaii was at home, in his other coat.

Kaumana Cave, Near Hilo, HI -- 2:05 PM Hawaii Time

Kane sat on a flat outcropping of rock across from Nachtmann, leaning forward on his walking stick, glancing around the cave.

“I love what you’ve done with the place, Hubert,” he said, smiling. “Primitive yet crude, artless yet unrefined...not unlike that absurd little double-cross you’ve been plotting against me.”

Trask and one of Kane’s hatchet men stood on either side of Nachtmann. The other two men, standing behind Kane, held Deborah between them.

All eyes were on Kane...all but Nachtmann’s. Unblinking, he stared at Deborah.

“Trask,” said Kane.

“Yes, sir?”

“I think Mr. Nachtmann is distracted. Get his attention, won’t you?” Trask took Nachtmann by both ears and twisted his head in Kane’s direction. For perhaps three seconds, the security chief and the executive director glowered at one another. Then Nachtmann turned his eyes back toward Deborah.

Kane’s jaw tightened. He stood, raised his walking stick and swung down hard. Nachtmann’s head flew backward, then sagged to his chest. Blood dripped onto his jacket.

Kane lifted Nachtmann’s chin and shook it as he spoke. “Look at me when I’m talking, god damn it! I'm offering a million a year plus all you can steal. Can that bimbo do as much? Would she if she could?”

Nachtmann glared, licked his lips and spat in Kane’s face. The executive director winced. Coming erect, he wiped his brow with a pocket hanky.

“All right, then,” he said. “Have it your way.” He signaled one of the men holding Deborah. The man snatched a hank of her hair and yanked, wrenching her chin up and back. A surgical steel switchblade shimmered at her throat.

“On three,” Kane said. He held up his hand as though officiating foot race. “One...” His hand rose higher.

“No!” Nachtmann said.

“That’s not the word I want, Hubert,” Kane said. “We need to find a way to get to ‘yes.’ Two...” The hand rose still higher.

“OK, OK,” said Nachtmann. “You win.”

“No, that’s not right, Hubert.”

“What?”

Kane winked at the man wielding the knife and, with his right forefinger, drew an imaginary line on his own cheek. With his knifepoint, the thug drew the same line on Deborah’s. She gasped as a trickle of blood ran down her face.

Nachtmann bellowed. “No!”

“I just told you the magic word, Hubert. Come on, say it.”

Nachtmann looked wildly around, as if the answer to Kane’s riddle might be written on the wall. “Yes!” he shouted at last. “Is that what you want? Yes, then, god damn you! Yes!”

Kane smiled. “Good boy, Hubert,” he said, waving off the switchblade. “Good boy.” He stepped closer and leaned in, now using his hanky to dab at Nachtmann’s wound. “And I’m sure your girl friend is very grateful,” he whispered. “For the moment, at least, you’ve saved her life.”

206 Kauwa Road, Off Highway 130, Pahoa Town, HI -- 3:05 PM Hawaii Time

Across the road, firefighters extinguished the few remaining embers while three cops stood watching. There was little for them to do. Hooper’s shack was a pile of soot.

Richter’s injuries were not serious. Except for the puncture wound on his heel, now being treated, he was unharmed. Hal Frederick sat on the rear bumper of a cracker box ambulance, his brother-in-law alongside.

“Anyone seen Dickley Hooper?” Frederick asked.

“Not since the Long Branch,” said Moses.

“Hooper witnessed Iggy’s murder, Mo.”

“He did? How do you know?”

Frederick used his shirt sleeve to wipe sweat off his forehead, then looked up. “He drew a picture of the woman who did it.”

“The woman who did it? The R2M killer is a woman?”

“Yep.”

“Where’s the picture?”

Frederick nodded toward the fire scene. “Over there,” he said.

Moses glanced up, then back at Frederick. “That sucks,” he said. “Any idea who she was?”

“Yeah,” said Frederick. “Kailikane Kapono.”

That was a jolt. “What?!”

“It was her, Moses,” Frederick said.

“Jesus, Hal,” Moses said. “God knows I don’t like her but…think about what you’re saying.”

“I have. It was her.”

“How you know? Based on what?”

“For one thing, the balloon.”

“The balloon?”

Frederick was still woozy from his head injury. “You know, like in a comic book...a text balloon...where you read what people are saying. The woman in the drawing had a text balloon.”

“Saying what?”

“‘Go and tell them.’”

Moses blinked. “‘Go and tell them?’”

“Don’t you get it?” said Frederick. “It’s like what Dickley was saying at the Long Branch. ‘I’m telling them. I’m trying to tell them.’”

Pukuli shook his head. “It’d be a stretch even if you had Dickley’s picture...and you don’t. Sounds weak.”

“Weak? Damn it, Moses, think. Dickley was freaking out at the Long Branch while Kapono’s face was on TV. I’m telling you, he drew that picture because he saw her killing Iggy, and now...”

The inspector’s voice trailed off. His brow contracted. His eyes danced from side to side. “Damn!” he said.

“What?” Moses asked. “Damn what?”

“I’ll be a son-of-a-bitch.”

“What?”

“I just realized something...Schmidt.”

“Schmidt? Who’s Schmidt?”

“Agent Schmidt, FBI,” the inspector said. “He’s the guy who snatched Jim Garrison back in Tucson. He’s also the guy who blew up Dickley’s shack...and probably Iggy’s place, too. Jesus H. Christ, Moses, this whole business...it’s all connected...it’s all part of the same thing.”

Frederick headed for the emergency vehicle where Jack Richter was being treated. Moses followed.

“What’s all part of the same thing?” he said. “What are you talking about, Hal?”

The inspector talked as he walked. “Remember when I noticed that the dead drug dealers had all suddenly stopped getting arrested?”

“Yeah.”

“And that meant they had an angel someplace? Somebody cleaning up after them?”

“You mean?”

“Schmidt,” said Frederick. “Schmidt was the angel...the same Schmidt who grabbed Jim Garrison.”

“So when you say this is all connected you mean...”

Frederick stopped and turned to face his brother-in-law. “I mean it’s ALL connected, Mo...everything. Deborah Garrison’s disappearance, the killings, even, somehow, the Faber-Brady trust...all of it.”

Moses stood still for a three-count, staring into Frederick’s eyes. Frederick stared back.

“It’s true, Mo. I know it.”

Pukuli turned his head slightly and shouted. “Sergeant Wicks!” A uniformed officer hurried over. “Get on the radio. Get the word out to Hilo PD. Tell them to step up the search for those addresses…and find out if there’ve been any explosions on the other islands.”

“Yes, sir.” The sergeant rushed to his vehicle.

Frederick turned toward Richter. “All right, Jack,” he said. “Come clean.”

Richter looked up. “What?”

“Go get it.”

“Get what?”

Frederick leaned over. “I just saved your life. Don’t make me wish I hadn’t. Go get it.”

“I still don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Inspector Frederick grabbed a handful of Richter’s hair and yanked. “The stuff you stole from Dickley’s shack, goddamn it. Go get it...now.”

Richter grimaced. “But my foot,” he said.

Frederick consulted the paramedic. “Can he walk?”

“Shouldn’t hurt,” said the medic. He held out a cane. “Use this.”

The inspector released Jack’s hair and glared. Richter took the cane and hobbled toward the bungalow. A few moments later, he came back, carrying a grocery sack. From it, came a freezer bag full of dried leaves and buds.

“This from the hole in the floor?” said Frederick.

Richter nodded. “He stole Brandon’s bike. I figured he owed me.”

Frederick opened the bag and shook out a handful. “Pot?” he said dubiously.

Moses sniffed. “Doesn’t smell like pot.”

“No, and it hits you like a fuckin’ hammer,” said Richter. “Here, take this stuff, too.” He held out the grocery bag. “I get the creeps just looking at it.”

The inspector reached inside and pulled out a drawing pad. It was Dickley’s. On each page was a different picture of the same scene: two Hawaiian warriors holding a bleeding man while a bare breasted woman brandished an ax.

On every page, under the woman, Dickley had scrawled the letters ‘KK.’

“What do you think, Moses,” said Frederick. “My theory still weak?”

Moses shook his head. “Let’s get her,” he said.

Pahoa High School, Pahoa Town, HI -- 3:40 PM Hawaii Time

Twice, school officials pleaded with the hordes of media people, begging them to show some restraint. Heedless, reporters and cameramen continued to accost anyone, teacher, staff member or student who dared venture into the open. By lunchtime, their presence had become so disruptive, the principal decided to cancel classes for the remainder of the day.

“TV crews and photographers are exciting and you may be tempted to stick around and watch,” he said over the PA, “but I urge you to leave school and go home.”

He may as well have been speaking Greek. When the bell sounded, almost everyone headed for the media command post, where they were peppered with questions.

“What do you think of Kailikane Kapono?”

“She’s awesome.”

“What did you think of her appearance on the morning news?”

“That lady interviewer thought she was so cool,” said one, “but Ms K shot her down.”

“Yeah,” agreed another. “And she didn’t even have to say nothing. She just looked at her and the lady was all ‘please forgive me, please forgive me.’” Everyone laughed.

“What do you think of Hawaiian sovereignty?” said a newsman. “Should Hawaii be its own country?”

“Self-determination!” shouted one group.

“Hawaii for Hawaiians!” cried another.

Others disagreed. “No,” they said. “Hawaii is part of America now. We’re Americans!”

“We’re Hawaiians,” the separatists clamored. “You’re just a bunch of illegal aliens!”

Tempers flared. A shoving match broke out. Two boys began swinging. Seconds later, a ring of students formed around the pair, egging them on. There were no police or security guards nearby. No one knew what to do.

A middle-aged man burst through the throng, snatching both boys up by their shirt collars. “Stop this!” he roared. “What’s the matter with you two? This is no way to act. Stop fighting, this instant.”

Startled, the two boys held back, glaring at each other. The crowd went quiet.

The man was Moses Pukuli.

“I don’t care what started this,” he said, “and I don’t care who. But I want it to stop, right now.” Moses released the two combatants and pushed them apart. Slowly, the pair melted back into their respective camps.

“And the rest of you, go home.” Moses said. No one moved. “You heard me,” he said again. “Go home...now!”

Two or three of the students flinched at Moses’ vehemence. They had seldom seen an adult so angry. Gradually, the mob began to disperse.

“Congressman Pukuli,” a reporter called out when the students had all but gone, “what are your feelings on this issue? Should Hawaii secede?”

Pukuli turned on the man, his eyes flashing. “How dare you ask me such a question?” he demanded. “I am a public servant, sworn to serve those who elected me. Should I honor that oath by making inflammatory statements, helping divide the people of this island, one against the other?”

“But Mr. Pukuli,” said another, “you, yourself, are predominantly Native Hawaiian by birth. Surely, you must have personal feelings on this issue.”

“God knows,” Pukuli said, “there are plenty of politicians willing to foment hatred and discontent to further their own ends. I only pray I may never become one of them. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve come here to speak with Ms. Kapono.”

“She’s not here, Congressman,” a newsman said. “She’s in seclusion somewhere on the island. You’ll have to wait until tomorrow at 10:00 AM, just like us.”

“Tomorrow at 10:00?” said Pukuli.

“Yes,” someone said. “At her news conference at the Faber-Brady Trust Building.”

Hal Frederick stood at the edge of the crowd, watching as his brother-in-law approached.

“What now, Mo?”

“First, I’ve got to call Alana and give her an update,” said Pukuli. “Then I need a drink. Then I want you to tell me what the hell is going on here.”

Home of Moses and Alana Pukuli, Pahoa Town, HI -- 3:45 PM Hawaii Time

Alana Pukuli had a lot on her mind. A few moments ago, the DJ’s amplifier fried a speaker and blew a circuit breaker. Then a food server twisted her ankle and fell in to the Koi pond. Just now, the groundskeeper had called on the intercom to say that the rental company had misunderstood her order, delivering only two porta-potties for her three-hundred guests. People were due to begin arriving within the hour and Moses had just telephoned saying that he and Hal were going to be later than he’d thought.

An extra set of footsteps made their way into the room. “I’m here, Mrs. Pukuli,” said a voice behind her. “What can I do?”

Alana turned to see Janet Suzuki, her husband’s young assistant.

“Oh, god, Janet,” Alana said. “Am I glad to see you.” Mrs. Pukuli thrust one of her lists into Janet’s hands. “Ordinarily, I’d insist that you relax and enjoy yourself, but I’m so busy can’t afford to be gracious.”

“No problem,” said Janet. “I want to help.”

“Great. Take that list of rental contractors and get us four more porta-potties. There’s a phone in the hall.”

Two telephone calls later, Janet had managed to secure three additional units. She was about to make a third inquiry when the phone rang.

“Congressman Pukuli’s residence,” she said.

“Hello? Uh...my name is Paul Wingate. I’m an associate of the congressman’s brother-in-law, Inspector Hal Frederick. May I speak to Inspector Frederick, please?”

“Just a moment, please.” Janet placed her hand over the mouthpiece and called out. “Mrs. Pukuli? It’s someone asking for an Inspector Frederick.”

“He’s out, Janet,” Alana called back. “Take a message.”

“He’s not in at the moment,” Janet said. “May I take a message?”

“This is an urgent matter. Is there another number where I can reach him?”

“Not that I know of, sir.”

“Do you have a pencil?”

“Yes, sir.”

“OK, write this down. It’s a Hawaiian license plate number...655 XCV. Got that?”

“655 XCV?”

“Right. Tell Inspector Frederick that it’s a tan 1993 Ford Taurus recently rented at the Kona Airport by Deborah Garrison’s husband, Jim. Would you mind reading that back?”

“655 XCV, 1993 tan Ford Taurus, rented at airport by Deborah Garrison’s husband Jim.”

“Yeah. See that the inspector gets that, will you?”

“Absolutely, Mr. Wingate. I certainly will.”

At that moment, the sound of a glass tray crashing to the floor came from the kitchen. Janet went to help. When she returned, she found Caleb Keona bent over the telephone table, writing something on a page he’d torn from the memo pad.

Lava Lamp Bar, Keaau, HI -- 4:00 PM

Over drinks, the inspector told his brother-in-law everything he knew; Jim Garrison’s arrest by the FBI, the murder of his pilots, Lewis Foo, the Faber-Brady Trust and Kailikane Kapono’s connection to it, via her dead grandfather.

Pukuli whistled. “We’re in deep shit,” he said. “This is big. I don’t understand everything, but we’ve got to start taking it apart.”

“Starting from R2M?” Frederick said.

“Right. We need a warrant...no, two warrants. One to arrest Kapono and one to search her residence.”

“All we’ve got are Dickley Hooper’s drawings,” said Frederick. “Think that’s enough?”

“Let’s hope so.”

Office of the Prosecuting Attorney, East Hawaii Division, Hilo, HI -- 4:45 PM

Prosecuting Attorney David Yoshiko leaned back in his chair, listening while Pukuli and Frederick argued their case. Dickley Hooper’s sketch pad lay open his desk.

“Let me see if I’ve got this straight,” Yoshiko said. “This fellow...what’s his name? Hooper?”

“Yeah,” said Moses. “Dickley Hooper.”

“This Dickley Hooper is somehow tied in with one of your murder victims. Is that right?”

“Right. We don’t know exactly how. We do know that he’s a pot farmer though, and we know he drew those pictures.”

“OK,” Yoshiko went on. “So Dickley’s an artistic doper who was present for at least one of the murders…but he’s not the person you want.”

“No,” said Frederick. “For the moment, we have other fish to fry.”

“And by other fish you mean?”

“Kailikane Kapono,” Moses said.

“The woman on television? The woman from last night?” A slightly uncertain tone began creeping into the prosecutor’s voice. “She’s the one you want to...I’m sorry, what is it you want with her again?”

“We want to pick her up.” Moses replied.

“And search her residence,” said Hal.

“Because?”

“She’s the R2M killer.”

Yoshiko gaped openly. “Kailikane Kapono is a ritual murderer?”

“We believe so, yes.”

The prosecutor drummed his fingers on the desk blotter, sucked a mouthful of air in through his teeth and blew it out noisily. “Jesus,” he said.

“Problem?” said Moses.

“A few.”

“Like?”

“Like Hooper’s a drug supplier who, according to you, may have been one of the last people to see...what’s his name...the murder victim?”

“Iggy Arnold,” Frederick said.

“Right...Iggy Arnold...Hooper may have been the last person to see Arnold alive and yet...” Yoshiko paused.

“Yet what?”

“Yet you don’t want to arrest him. You want to arrest a school teacher whose only connection to this is being featured in some of Dickley Hooper’s finger paintings.”

“Now, hold on a minute, Dave...” Moses began.

“No, you hold on, Moses,” said Yoshiko. “Politics is a rugged business, I know, and I understand that it’s sometimes necessary to get tough with the opposition, but this? This passes understanding.”

Pukuli was puzzled. “The opposition?” he said.

“Come on, Mo,” said Yoshiko. “I’m not blind. I watch TV.”

“What do you mean?”

“Stop playing dumb. Being at Crockett’s speech last night isn’t Kapono’s only claim to fame. She’s the one who got those sound bytes on the radio yesterday. They said so on the news.”

Moses’ face still wore a puzzled look.

“And I don’t blame you for being angry. She got you on tape...put your remarks on radio…made you look bad. Now you want to get even. I sympathize, but there are limits, Mo, even in politics.”

It took several seconds for the full meaning of the prosecutor’s remarks to dawn on Moses Pukuli. When members of his own constituency doubted his motives, it was annoying and hurtful, to be sure. Still, such misunderstandings were occupational hazards; part of being a public official. Yoshiko’s inference, however, that he, Moses Pukuli, was capable of flagrant abuse of power, was an entirely different matter. It stung deeply.

Frederick watched as confusion and fury washed over his brother-in-law’s face.

Moses gritted his teeth and clutched at the arms of his chair, fighting the impulse to show his feelings. “Dave,” he said, with exaggerated composure, “for the sake of our friendship, I’m going to forget you ever said that.”

Yoshiko tried to backpedal. “Moses, I...”

Pukuli held up a hand. “I’m going to step out in the hall. Inspector Frederick here will finish up for me. If there’s some legal reason you can’t seek warrants against Kailikane Kapono, explain them to him.”

With that, Moses stood and walked out. Silence hung heavy. An abashed prosecuting attorney squirmed uncomfortably.

“I didn’t mean...” he began.

“Save it,” said Frederick. “It’s none of my business. Just tell me if you’re gonna go after the warrants. Yes or no.”

Yoshiko waved a hand toward Dickley’s sketch pad. “Not until I get more than this,” he said. “Interrogate Hooper first. See if he can tie Kapono to the killings. Then we’ll talk.”

“Hooper’s dropped out of sight,” said Frederick.

“I’m sorry, inspector, but these are serious charges you’re making. I need corroboration. Remember, you have no police authority in Hawaii. For that matter, neither does Congressman Pukuli.”

Frederick paused. The prosecutor’s points were well taken. Logic was not on the inspector’s side. Still, his gut told him he was right. “Something very big and very dangerous is unfolding here, sir, and Kailikane Kapono is right in the middle of it.”

“What do you want from me? I can’t do my job based solely on assumptions.”

“No?” said Frederick. “You were pretty quick to assume that Congressman Pukuli was a sleazy string-puller out to cover his ass.”

“Yes, and I’m sorry for that,” Yoshiko said. “I spoke out of turn, Still, what you ask is not possible. No judge would ever buy this tale and I’m not going to embarrass myself trying to sell it. You’re a policeman. You know how it is.”

“Sure, Yoshiko,” said Frederick, retrieving Dickley’s drawing pad from the attorney’s desk. “I know exactly how it is. Four people are dead, evidence is being destroyed and buildings are blowing up left and right, but nothing is being done because you’re afraid of looking bad.”

Out into the reception area, Frederick found Moses Pukuli behind a desk, talking on the phone to Sgt. Wicks.

“Listen up, Wicks,” he said. “I want you to put on a full court press. Take as many men as you can find. Canvas the entire district. First, find Kailikane Kapono. Second...and this is a very close second...find Dickley Hooper. As soon as either one of them shows up, come and get me, day or night. Got that? Good.”

MOPS Division, Pahoa Meat Packing Co., Pahoa Town, HI -- 5:15 PM Hawaii Time

Had both processing technicians shown up for work that night, the entire contents of rendering truck #3 might well have been converted to poultry feed without incident. It was only because one of them had called in sick that the remaining technician found it necessary to make two trips alongside the receiving bin, ensuring that both screw conveyers were transporting material into the crusher efficiently.

On the first pass, she noticed a leather sandal floating near the surface. Various odd items often found their way into the rendering system and there were prescribed methods of dealing with them. In this case, the sandal had a rubber sole so, in accordance with procedure, she used a tank fork to fish it out.

It was on her second pass, down the opposite side of the receiving bin, that the technician became concerned. While she had not thought it unusual to find one sandal bobbing up from the offal, it did strike her as passing strange to discover its mate so near at hand. She switched off the conveyer screw and climbed the ladder attached to the side of bin to get a better look inside.

Having put two children through college on her MOPS salary, the technician was a veteran employee, much accustomed to her macabre workplace. Indeed, after all those years, very little surprised her. Nothing in her past, however, could have prepared her for the gruesome spectacle of Dickley Hooper’s broken carcass, slowly emerging from beneath the bloody ooze. The grisly vision, she would later say, haunted her for the rest of her days.

Faber-Brady Trust Building, Hilo HI – 5:45 PM Hawaii Time

Seated three abreast in the rear of the executive limousine, Kane, Trask and Nachtmann rode in silence down a spiraling ramp into the bowels of FBT. Deborah Garrison, mouth taped and hands cuffed, sat across from them, a thug on either side. At the bottom, the car stopped.

Kane nodded to one of the hoods. “Daryl,” he said.

Without a word, the man opened a door, took Deborah by the arm and pulled her outside. Daryl’s partner slid out onto the concrete and shut the door. Then Daryl opened the door of a small room near the elevator. Deborah and the two men entered, closing the door behind them.

Nachtmann appeared not to notice. Kane reached into his pocket and produced a brown remote control, much like a garage door opener.

“Look at this,” he said. Kane placed the gadget in his open palm so Nachtmann could see it plainly. “It’s a kind of remote control. I’ve had it specially designed. Under ideal circumstances, it has a range of several miles.”

Nachtmann looked at the apparatus, though not, evidently, with any great interest.

“This button,” Kane said, “turns on a red light and activates a microphone over a door inside that room.” Kane pushed it. A tiny speaker on the remote squawked to life.

“Yes sir,” said a tinny voice.

“Ah, Daryl,” Kane said. “The next time the light comes on, I want you to go ahead and-- well just take care of Mrs. Garrison.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And Daryl?”

“Sir.”

“If Mr. Nachtmann’s presence should be detected anywhere within 50 yards of your location, do likewise. Is that clear?

“Perfectly, sir.”

“Thank you, Daryl. Good-bye.”

The executive director carefully placed the remote control back in its box and slid it into his pocket. “You see what I’m trying to tell you, Nachtmann?” he said. “If Daryl’s light goes on, Deborah Garrison’s light goes out.”

Nachtmann stared vacantly into the executive director’s eyes.

“I know you despise me, Nachtmann,” Kane said. “Frankly, I feel the same about you. For the moment, however, we need each other.

“Tomorrow, at 10:00 AM, I’m dedicating a fountain in the FBT plaza to honor of the first 100 years of the trust. Be there. I’ll use the opportunity to formally introduce you to the public.

“Play your part and, in a week or two, I’ll see what I can do about releasing Deborah Garrison. Screw up and, so help me God, I’ll slit her throat myself.”

Kane rapped on the driver’s window with his stick. “Mr. Trask and I will stay behind, driver,” he said. “Return Mr. Nachtmann to his home.”

Kane and his assistant exited the vehicle near the elevator entrance. Trask pushed the elevator call button and the two men waited.

“Mr. Nachtmann’s ardor toward the Garrison woman seems to have cooled,” said Trask. “He scarcely looked at her during the ride back.”

“He’s preparing himself.”

“Sir?”

“People are all the same, Trask,” Kane replied. “They all want the same things: to survive as long as possible and be comfortable in the interim--even wackos like Nachtmann. Ignoring Deborah Garrison is his way of getting ready for the inevitable. He realizes she’ll have to be eliminated so he’s pulling away.”

“I hope you’re right, sir.”

Kane gave his assistant a reassuring wink. “Believe me, Trask, I am,” he said. “I’ve seen it all before.”

The elevator doors slid open. Trask stood aside, allowing Kane to enter first, then stepped aboard and pushed the button marked Executive Offices.

As the doors closed, a man in a white suit, a hard hat on his head, stepped out of the shadows. For a moment, he stood quite still. Then he glanced over his shoulder toward the small room into which Deborah Garrison had recently disappeared.

The light on his two-way radio began to flash. He pushed a button.

“Devlin here,” he said.

“Almost finished,” said a voice on the other end. “We need you on the roof.”

“On my way.”

Crown Hilo Hotel, Hilo, HI -- 6:00 PM Hawaii Time

Jim Garrison checked into the Crown Hilo on the advice of an attendant at a gas station.

A large, pink, U-shaped structure, the Crown Hilo’s three sides enclosed an asphalt parking lot, lined with flower beds and potted palms. Garrison pulled in and registered at 4:00 PM.

He’d intended to shower, grab a snack, then scout the Faber-Brady Trust Building in advance of Kailikane Kapono’s 10 o’clock press conference the following day. Falling asleep in an armchair hadn’t been on his agenda. It had just happened.

At 6:00 PM, a loud knocking awakened him.

“Mr. Garrison?” said a male voice outside his door. “Hilo Police, sir.”

Garrison edged toward the window overlooking the courtyard and peered through the curtains. On the second story landing just outside was a lone uniformed patrolman. The man knocked and called out again.

“Mr. Garrison?”

If his brush with the FBI had made Garrison wary of familiar cops like Inspector Frederick, it had left him downright suspicious of strange ones. He froze, silent and motionless. Finally, after several minutes, the policeman turned and left.

Then, while Garrison watched the officer climb into an unmarked car and exit the parking lot, the phone on his nightstand began to ring.

This room is attracting way too much attention, he thought. Hurriedly, he gathered up his few belongings and made ready to leave. Opening the door was as far as he got.

There, in the entryway, a silk lace shawl over her dark chestnut hair, stood Kailikane Kapono.

“You are James Garrison?” she said. “The husband of Deborah Faber Garrison?” her presence in the doorway blocked his way, but Garrison would have stopped anyway. So would anyone.

“I am.”

“May I come in?”

Garrison stepped aside, trying hard not to breathe in her aroma as she passed. Kapono took a seat on the chair.

“Do you know who I am?” she asked.

Garrison nodded.

“Mr. Garrison,” she said. “I need your help.”

Garrison closed the door, crossed to the edge of the bed and sat. “In what way?”

“How much do you know about your wife?”

Garrison frowned. “How much do you know?”

“I know that she’s missing,” Kapono said. “So is your son. I may be able to help you find them.”

“If what?”

“If you give me your word that you’ll help. Can I count on you?”

“What is it you want?”

“I want you and your family to leave Hawaii.”

“Leave?”

“Leave and never come back, ever.”

The telephone rang once again. Garrison glanced at it nervously, then looked back at his visitor. “How did you know I was here?” he asked. “How did you find me?”

“The license plate on your rental car,” Kapono said. “A colleague discovered the number. From there, tracing you to this hotel was easy.”

The credit card, Garrison thought. Damn! He’d hoped that using a corporate trust account might protect him. It hadn’t.

“Is there somewhere we can go?” he asked. “Somewhere I can’t be traced?”

Kapono’s smile was fleeting. “Of course,” she said. “Come with me.”

Home of Moses and Alana Pukuli, Pahoa Town, HI -- 6:10 PM Hawaii Time

The setting sun cast a warm glow over the Pukuli’s grounds. It was perfect party weather. From behind the broad windows of the den, early arrivals to the luau were milling around the grounds, laughing and talking, flames from tiki torches only beginning to play on their faces.

Inside the den, Inspector Frederick returned the phone to its cradle just as Congressman Pukuli and Janet Suzuki entered the room.

“Did you reach Garrison?” Moses asked, taking a seat at his desk.

Frederick shook his head. “Left a message. Maybe he’ll call back.”

Moses slid a manila folder toward him. “Here,” he said. “Some light reading.”

The inspector picked the folder and flipped it open. “‘A Toxic Analysis of Puna Pow,’” he read aloud. “What’s Puna Pow?”

Congressman Pukuli gestured toward his assistant.

“It’s designer dope, or so I’m told,” Janet said.

“And it’s called Puna Pow because...?”

“It’s super strong,” said Janet. “That’s the ‘pow’ part.”

“And it’s grown in the Puna District,” Moses added. “Right here.”

“Where’d you get this?” asked Frederick.

“From a juvie cop in Hilo...Sgt. Jacobson.”

“Says here the report came from an independent lab.”

Suzuki nodded. “A sample being analyzed at Hilo PD disappeared...along with the lab notes and all the paperwork, so Sgt. Jacobson went independent.”

“Tell him the rest,” Pukuli said. Janet hesitated. “Go on,” Moses urged. “Tell him.”

“My source, Sgt. Jacobson, thinks the sample came from a much larger consignment and that...”

Frederick could see she was having trouble getting the words out. “That what?”

“Sgt. Jacobson thinks some branch of the federal government may have been distributing Puna Pow free to Native Hawaiians.”

Frederick’s head jerked. “What?.”

“Janet found statistics showing that scholastic achievement among young Native Hawaiians has been declining more than it should,” said Moses.

“Employment too,” Suzuki said. “Jacobson thinks it’s all related to Puna Pow.”

“What do you think, Hal?” asked Pukuli. “Schmidt?”

Frederick groaned and looked down at the report. “Where’s the stuff Jack Richter stole from Dickley?” he asked.

Moses pulled the plastic freezer bag out of his desk. It was a huge container, and very, very full. Frederick poured a pile onto Moses’ desk blotter, picked up two large buds and held them for a moment. Then he picked out two more.

“You’ve seen marijuana before, haven’t you Janet?” he said.

“I’m a 19-year-old college student, Inspector,” she replied. “What do you think?”

Frederick smiled. “Give me your impression of this stuff, then,” he said.

Janet picked up a bud. Over ten inches long, with a few dried leaves among the fluffy, umber buds, its powerful odor was near to overwhelming. Suzuki brought it to her nose and sniffed, then coughed and turned away, holding the flower out at arms length.

“Wow,” she said. “I’m no stoner, but even I can tell this is really strong dope. The smell alone is mind-boggling.”

“What else?” Frederick asked.

She turned the bud over, examining it more closely. “There are no seeds?” she said uncertainly.

“That’s right,” said Frederick. “It’s sin similla, Spanish for ‘without seeds.’ Sin similla street dope is usually stronger, but... Hmm.” The inspector’s brow furrowed. “I’ll be a...”

“What is it?”

“Check this out.” Frederick arranged three buds side-by-side, then stopped and looked at Moses and Janet. “What do you think?”

“About what?” Pukuli said.

Saying nothing, Frederick reached for three more buds and placed them alongside the first group. The congressman and his assistant shook their heads. Frederick reached for a third set of three. Before he could lay them out, Suzuki had a breakthrough.

“Oh, my god,” she said. “They’re identical. Each one of those buds is the same length, virtually the same circumference...” She turned several of the specimens over, counting to herself. “They even have the same number of blossoms and leaves...exactly the same. They’re clones!”

“I’ll be damned,” Moses said. “The ultimate in quality control.”

“That’s the FBI for you,” said Frederick. “Stamping out non-conformity wherever they find it. Even their weed marches in lock step.”

Pukuli began putting buds back in the baggie. “It’s hard to imagine this is an officially sanctioned undertaking,” he said. “It’s too outrageous.”

“I’ve seen Schmidt at work,” the inspector said. “My guess is he’s acting on his own.”

Janet shook her head. “It doesn’t matter who did what or why,” she said, “In a case like this, perception is everything. Like the story about the US Army giving small pox to the Indians. It may not have actually happened. Still, thousands of Indians died and the army got the blame.”

Moses held up the buds and looked at them, then dropped the bag in his drawer and closed it. “Jesus,” he said. “What a mess.”

Faber-Brady Trust Building, Hilo, HI – 6:45 PM Hawaii Time

The sun had set and the air had grown cool. Devlin and a man in work clothes stood near the edge of the roof, bent over a roll of blueprints. Devlin held a flashlight. Both wore hardhats.

“So,” Devlin said, “are we good?”

“Fastest god damned prep job I’ve ever seen.”

“I know. That’s why I’m asking...are we good?”

The man grunted, turning over the pages, one by one. “You didn’t take out the non-load bearing walls. That’ll stiffen the drop...if there is a drop.”

“Taking out the walls wasn’t possible. You know that.”

“Still...”

“Stop hedging,” Devlin snapped. “Are we good or not?”

The man pulled a Camel straight out of a pack and lit it with a kitchen match. “Tell me again about the columns,” he said.

“Cut half one way and perforated the other,” said Devlin. “Supervised it myself.”

“And the charges?”

“RDX and dynamite. Three separate blasts, eighteen loads total.”

“First floor only?” the man asked.

“First, second, twelfth, fifteenth and twenty-first,” said Devlin.

“So you’re hoping it’ll collapse into its own footprint, is that right?”

“That’s the idea,” Devlin said.

“Detonators?”

“Electrical. Delayed.”

“Radio controlled?”

“Right.”

“What’s the sequence?”

“Center, ground floor column charges go first,” Devlin began.

The man interrupted. “Then ground floor outer columns?”

“Exactly,” said Devlin. “Then the remaining charges on all six columns on the upper floors.”

“Well,” said the man, scratching the side of his head, “there are no guarantees in life.”

“If you had to guess, then,” said Devlin.

The man took a long drag off his cigarette, then flipped it off the rooftop, watching the sparks arc slowly downward. “If I had to guess,” he said, “I’d guess that, come 10:30 tomorrow morning, this fucking place will be a stack of dust.” He looked up and grinned. “But that’s just a guess.”

Home of Moses and Alana Pukuli, Pahoa Town, HI -- 7:00 PM Hawaii Time

Kalua pua'a or roasted pig, the Hawaiian treat to which the Pahoa Meat Packing Company owed its success, is cooked in an underground steam oven, an imu. Using river rock, crushed banana stumps, tea leaves and firewood, the pig is slowly steamed for several hours. Uncovering this delicacy is the high point of any luau, especially a luau at the home of Moses and Alana Pukuli.

Gathered round the earthen ovens, murmuring in anticipation, the assembled guests burst into applause as four kalua pigs were placed on litters and ceremoniously borne to the feast.

At center stage in front of a five-piece Hawaiian band, Moses raised his glass. “Aloha and welcome to our home,” he said, “to our celebration of family and friendship.”

“Victory in ‘94!” someone shouted. “Pukuli for Congress!”

At the first public mention of Pukuli’s bid for national office, the crowd howled.

“Speech!”

Moses grinned, waving for quiet. “Thank you everyone,” he said. “Alana and I truly appreciate your support. I only hope you’ll be equally enthusiastic when we come to you for donations.” Laughter all around. “For now, though, let’s put politics aside and spend this evening in joyful appreciation of our many blessings. In the true spirit of aloha, let’s laugh, eat and drink together.” He raised his glass again. “Hawaii!”

“Hawaii!” chorused the crowd. The band launched into an upbeat rendition of Hukilau and Moses leapt from the stage.

It took a while, after his toast, for the congressman to return to the table. Everyone, it seemed, wanted a word, a shake of the hand or a moment of his time. When he came close, Alana went to his rescue, pleading, good-naturedly for a few minutes with her husband.

“I’ll send him right back,” she said. “Just let me give him a kiss and a mouthful of food.”

“Impressive,” said Hal after Moses sat down. “You really know how to handle a crowd.”

Pukuli laughed. “These are friends,” he said. “On the campaign trail, it’s different.”

“Tell us,” said Hannah. “What’s it like?”

“Rough, especially in small gatherings. That’s when people ask the nasty questions.”

“Really?” Janet said. “I would have thought big crowds would be the more likely place.”

“There you get heckled,” Moses said. “Which is nothing compared to a good grilling.”

From behind, a hand landed on Moses’ shoulder. “A good grilling only bothers you if you have something to hide, Mo,” a man said. “That can’t be you, can it?”

Recognizing Joe Chow’s voice, Pukuli’s face lit up. “Damn it, Alana,” he said. “I told you we needed more security.”

“Good thing she never listens.” They laughed and shook hands.

“Glad you could make it, Joe. This is my sister, Hannah Frederick...her husband, Hal Frederick from San Francisco. Folks, this is Joe Chow, Hawaii’s next junior senator.”

Chow nodded and shook hands, then turned again to Pukuli. “I have someone for you to meet too, Mo,” he said. Up from behind, stepped a studious looking woman, advancing in years, but hale and rosy-cheeked, wearing a print dress and a straw hat. She held out her hand.

“How do you do, Mr. Pukuli,” she said. “My name is Katherine Stanford. Mr. Chow says we have some things to talk about.”

Frederick choked on his coffee. “Katherine Stanford? Doctor Katherine Stanford? Deborah Garrison’s guardian?”

“Guilty.”

“In that case, Dr. Stanford,” he said, “We have some things to talk about, too.”

********

Moses and Hal, along with Joe Chow, Dr. Stanford and Janet Suzuki retreated to a pair of facing sofas overlooking the grounds in the Pukulis’ living room. Outside, there were shouts of laughter, drums and dancing. Inside, the very air crackled.

From the edge of his seat, tattered spiral notebook in hand, Inspector Frederick spoke first. “Dr. Stanford,” he said. “Four days ago, in San Francisco, Deborah Garrison and her son were reported missing. Do you have any idea where they might be?”

“If I know Deborah, she’s very nearby, or at least she was, before the announcement.”

“Announcement?” Moses said.

“Haven’t you heard, Mo?” said Chow. “The Faber-Brady Trust found a board member with the right blood lines...a successor to Reverend Heath. It was on the nightly news.”

“I thought Deborah Garrison was Heath’s only living relative,” Moses said.

Dr. Stanford answered. “No,” she said. “He had a son; illegitimate, of course.”

“‘Of course?’” said Frederick.

“Faber Heath was far too selfish to have ever married. The mother was a woman on his staff; a secretary named Olga Nachtmann.”

“You heard all this on the news?”

“Just the man’s name, Hubert Nachtmann,” Stanford said. “I got the background information independently.”

“How?”

“Correspondence from Puhi Okaoka Kapono,” said Dr. Stanford. “As head of the Council of Kahunas, it was his business to keep track of all Kailani Faber descendants.”

“Here’s where it gets interesting,” Chow put in. “For the past nine months, Hubert Nachtmann, the same man who was just been appointed to FBT’s board of directors, has been head of security for L. David Kane, executive director of the trust.”

“I don’t get it,” Moses said. “If Nachtmann was there all along, why didn’t Kane appoint him right away? Why the search for forgotten heirs?”

“Two reasons,” said Dr. Stanford. “First, Deborah Garrison is most closely related to Kailani Faber. If she declares for the position, it’s hers by default. Deborah’s opposition to Kane is well-known, however, and he was apparently hoping to locate another, more pliant relation.”

“And reason number two?”

“Let me guess,” said Frederick. “He didn’t know. Nachtmann’s relationship to Reverend Heath was as big a surprise to Kane as it was to everyone else.”

Stanford nodded. “Exactly,” she said, fishing through her bag. “Kane didn’t know, not least because Hubert Nachtmann took great pains to conceal it from him.”

“Do you know why?” asked Frederick.

Dr. Stanford produced a notebook filled with neatly handwritten pages, leafed through them and handed the book to Frederick. “Here,” she said. “Read this...aloud, if you don’t mind.”

The inspector scanned the first few lines and cleared his throat.

1/12/60 Born - Hubert Faber Nachtmann, boy, 9lbs.2 oz.

Reverend Heath’s disavowal notwithstanding, I have no doubt that he is Hubert Faber Nachtmann’s natural father.

3/4/62 Family Court case #G438239 - Nachtmann v. Heath

Though her case was sound, the boy’s mother, Olga Nachtmann, failed in her attempt to compel Faber Heath to recognize her son. Nonetheless, the council has voted overwhelmingly to recognize Hubert Faber Nachtmann as a legitimate descendant of Kailani Faber.

2/22/64 Contact notes – Olga Nachtmann

Grober Tag Ranch

4063 Kaumana Hwy

Hilo, HI

I have spoken with Miss Nachtmann, informing her that, should he choose, her son may avail himself of the benefits of his ancestry, i.e. his eligibility to sit on the board of FBT. Our conversation left me in some doubt as to her feelings in this matter.

12/12/90 Medical examiner report attached.

Olga Nachtmann found dead. Medical examination concludes death was from natural causes.

1/5/91 Contact Notes - Hubert Nachtmann

Trade Wind Towers Apts.

513 Molana Place #115

Hilo, HI

Queried on the subject of his paternity.

Mr. Nachtmann refuses to concede any relationship to Faber Heath. Still, he makes extravagant claims which seem to be based on that very relationship.

When reminded that, in refusing to acknowledge Faber Heath as his father he forfeits a lucrative opportunity, i.e., that of serving on the board of FBT, he asks a curious question: “Knowing what I know, why would I choose to serve the board?”

I asked what it was he knew, to which he replied: “You know as well as I that the board should be serving me.”

Based on my impressions of this interview, I have come to three possible conclusions.

1. Mr. Nachtmann has somehow discovered the nui huna or

2. Mr. Nachtmann has guessed the nui huna or

3. Mr. Nachtmann has inherited his mother’s penchant for nurturing delusions of grandeur.

Frederick looked up over the rim of his reading glasses. “Nui huna?” he said.

Both Moses and Dr. Stanford spoke at once. “Great secret.”

The inspector waved them off. “I know what it means. I want to know what it is. What’s this great secret I keeping hearing about?”