Faber-Brady Trust Building, Hilo, HI – 4:00 AM Hawaii Time

Garrison circled FBT grounds via the adjoining properties. Behind a thicket of bamboo across from a loading dock, he watched as a cafeteria employee and a truck driver off-loaded a delivery of foodstuffs. When their dolly tipped over and the men stooped to retrieve the spillage, he dashed across the dock and into the building.

He had but one thought: Deborah is locked up somewhere in the basement. He found a stairwell and began to descend.

Heavy metal doors enclosed the three flights of stairs. As each one slammed behind him, Garrison’s became more focused.

He had no strategy. He had no tactics. If he had a plan, it could be summed up simply: He would find his wife. He would get her out. He would kill anyone who tried to stop him.

In the corner beside the third door was a length of steel pipe. Garrison bent down and picked it up.

One block away - Wailoa Park, Hilo, HI – 4:05 AM Hawaii Time

The sign read: Wailoa Park - Pleasure Walking, Public Fishing, Quiet Relaxation. Nachtmann had been doing none of those things. He’d been running. Near the foot of a wooden bridge, he knelt to catch his breath.

Who was the black man who’d been tailing him, he wondered. Once, during the past hour, he’d gotten a look at the man’s face through a telescope on his keychain. He was a stranger.

Whoever he was, he was making life difficult.

He reached into his shirt pocket and he drew out a zip lock baggie, inside of which was the green circuit board. Satisfying himself that it was undamaged, he returned it to his pocket.

A cool offshore breeze blew through the morning air. Nachtmann’s clothes, still dripping from the carwash, hung heavy and cold. He shivered as he took the rifle sling off his shoulder.

The Faber-Brady Trust Building was visible over a line of trees a block away. He unzipped the sling, took out his Stoner SR-25 and began jogging east.

The rifle sling, he left behind.

Faber-Brady Trust Building, Hilo, HI – 4:10 AM Hawaii Time

The doorway in the basement parking lot had not been difficult to find. There were only two and one stood open. From behind the other, came the murmur of voices.

Garrison listened. Two men, he thought. One, he could handle. Two, probably not.

A group of cars sat nearby, each bearing the FBT logo. Garrison looked around. A chunk of cement chipped from a parking barrier lay at his feet. He picked it up, gripped his steel pipe firmly in his left hand and hurled the cement at one of the car windows. Glass shattered. An alarm shrieked.

Then, nothing.

For over a minute, long after the car alarm fell silent, all was quiet. The voices behind the door stopped. Standing outside, his pipe poised overhead, Garrison began to doubt his senses. Had he really heard something, or had the strain of the past week finally overtaken him?

His uncertainty was short lived. The door creaked open. From behind the door came the silhouette of 40 caliber Glock 27. Garrison swung. The pistol skidded across the concrete. He dove for it.

Faber-Brady Trust Building, Hilo, HI – 4:17 AM Hawaii Time

As his footsteps echoed down the spiraling drive Nachtmann thought he heard shouting. Between B2 and B3, he could have sworn he heard shots. As he rounded the curve at the bottom of the ramp, the smell of gunpowder was everywhere.

Up ahead, one man lay motionless in a puddle of blood. Almost out of sight, just beyond a far doorway, two other men struggled. One of them was Daryl.

Nachtmann hurried forward as the two men spun out of sight. At the doorway, he looked inside. Deborah Garrison, much as he had last seen her, was tied to a chair. Her face flushed, she struggled against her bonds, grunting through a duct tape gag. From the look of despair in her eyes, the identity of the man fighting Daryl was no longer in doubt.

Nachtmann did not hesitate. He stepped around the door, raised his rifle and fired.

Stop ‘n Go Gas, Kinoole Street near Haili, Hilo, HI – 4:25 AM Hawaii Time

For a half-hour, Frederick and Pukuli crisscrossed the same five-block area, scouring the streets for the Firebird’s fugitive driver. At last, they returned to the Stop ‘n Go Gas Station.

“We’ve lost him,” said Moses.

Frederick sighed, nodding. “Looks that way.”

The Firebird, parked in a corner of the lot, was being prepared for a tow. A Hilo policeman stood alongside, finishing up the paperwork. Moses called the man over.

“The car is registered to a Hilo resident,” the policeman said. “But the address is phony. How that got by DMV, I’ll never know.”

Moses looked at Frederick. “What do you think, Hal?”

The inspector shrugged. “Dead end,” he said. “At least for now.”

Moses slapped Frederick’s shoulder. “Great,” he said. “My brother lives about a mile from here. What do you say we get some shut eye? Tomorrow’s another day.”

Frederick looked at his watch. “We’ve only got five hours.”

“Five hours?” Moses said. “Until what?”

“Kailikane Kapono’s press conference,” Frederick replied. “We’ve got a lot to do.”

“Come on, man. I’m dead.”

Frederick turned his head. “You don’t understand, Mo,” he said. “Wicks and I just wasted four private citizens and an agent of the FBI, based on little more than gut feelings. As things stand, all three of us, you, me and Wicks...we’re all dead...professionally if not literally.”

Moses raised his eyebrows and sighed. “OK,” he said. “I’m awake now.”

Princess Ruth Hotel, Hilo, HI – 5:30 AM Hawaii Time

Time in Hawaii is two hours behind mainland California. For the boy, it was 7:30 AM. Time to get up.

“I thought you knew where my mommy was, Uncle Lewis,” he said.

“No,” Lewis replied. “I didn’t say that.”

The boy’s chin began to quiver. His lower lip protruded. He hadn’t seen his mother for nearly a week. It was starting to tell. “What did you say?”

“I said I think I know where she’s going to be.”

“Where is she going to be?”

“At a place called the Faber-Brady Trust,” said Lewis. “I think.”

“Can we go there now?”

“She wouldn’t be there yet.”

The distinctions were becoming too subtle for the boy’s young mind. Finally running out of patience, he began to cry.

Lewis drew him near, folded his arms around him and stroked the back of his head. “I understand,” he said. “This is hard. Just a little longer, though, and we’ll know everything.” As Foo rocked the boy’s small body, a valise at the edge of the bed tipped and fell to the floor. A shiny Browning M-1900 handgun slid out onto the carpet.

The boy sniffled. “When?” he said. “When will we know?”

Foo scooted the pistol under the bed with his foot. “Ten o’clock this morning,” he said. “Eleven at the latest.”

Plaza of the Faber-Brady Trust, Hilo, HI – 9:15 AM Hawaii Time

The press conference was not due to begin for forty-five minutes, but the feeding frenzy had already begun. Broadcast trucks were everywhere. Camera tripods sprouted from the sidewalk. The steps leading to FBT Plaza had all but disappeared beneath a brigade of news personalities, jostling for position against the granite backdrop of the building beyond.

In the plaza itself, workmen were putting the final touches on a short riser, festooned with Hawaiian flags and hung with photographs of famous Hawaiian citizens, including Deborah Garrison’s ancestor, Kailani Faber. A banner proclaiming “100 Years of Service” was draped over the rail.

Across the street in Moses’ Jeep, the congressman and his brother-in-law watched as a tall, red-haired man strode past the workmen to a nearby fountain, then back to the riser and up the steps.

“That’s him.” said Pukuli.

Frederick nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “Sit tight.”

The red-haired man fiddled with an apparatus on the speaker’s podium for a moment, then descended the steps and walked away.

Pukuli grabbed the door handle, ready to leap out and give pursuit. Frederick caught him by the sleeve.

“Hold it, Moses,” he said. “He’s not the one we’re here for.”

A line of policemen ringed the area. Ostensibly charged with crowd control, their more important assignment lay in another area entirely: assisting in the arrest of the R2M killer. Based on Josh and Caleb’s sworn statements, the prosecuting attorney had petitioned a judge to issue an arrest warrant for Kailikane Kapono.

Captain Raymond Suzuki of Hilo PD, in the passenger seat of a police vehicle, rolled alongside Pukuli’s Jeep. “The Keona boys are over there,” he said, jerking his thumb toward the press corps. “When Kapono gets here, she’s bound to see them.”

The Keona twins were indeed conspicuous. Even at a hundred yards, they could easily have been mistaken for a public monument.

On either side of the Keonas, stood sixteen other Native Hawaiian men, some wearing the clothing of their ancestors, some wearing Aloha shirts and shorts. Four of the men were Hilo police. The others were Kailikane Kapono’s supporters.

Moses gave a short wave. “Thanks, Ray,” he said.

Uniformed FBT security guards were stationed on both sides of the street and at various places on the building grounds. At 9:30, swarms of onlookers began arriving. Frederick climbed out of the Jeep and buttonholed an FBT guard.

“Is your fountain dedication a public event,” he asked, “or is this crowd here for the press conference?”

“A little of both, I expect,” the man said, “Although a lot of these folks work in the building.”

“And they have time off to observe the dedication,” Frederick said. “Is that it?”

The guard shook his head. “Building’s closed,” he said. “Some kind of test, I hear. Won’t open until eleven.”

Frederick grunted, then returned to the Jeep and stuck his head in through the window. “Come on, Mo,” he said. “Let’s take a look around.”

Down the street, a motorcade of black limousines was making its way toward FBT. A guard blew his whistle.

“All right, folks,” the guard said, waving to a group of people standing off the curb. “Step back please. Let Mr. Kane get through.”

The motorcade came to a stop. Kane, Trask, and a bodyguard climbed out of the lead vehicle. Various junior directors and their wives alighted from the second and third limousines.

A few news people approached the executive director, brusquely thrusting microphones at him and calling out questions. At first inclined to cooperate, Kane turned away in disgust after discovering that all their inquiries concerned, not the trust or its memorial fountain, but Kailikane Kapono.

It took nearly ten minutes for Kane’s entourage to climb the plaza steps and wade through the crowd to the riser. Having circled the building and approached the plaza from behind, Inspector Frederick and Congressman Pukuli stood next to a nearby news van, watching as the FBT board of directors filed onstage.

A slender young man, whom Kane addressed as Trask, leaned over the director’s chair and whispered in his ear. The two exchanged hurried words, after which Kane’s expression showed high agitation. It took a moment before he could compose himself. Finally, he rose and approached the microphone.

“Good morning,” he said.

Kane was not the main event, certainly, still he was a diversion, and the fact that he spoke over a PA system lent authority to his presence. The crowd settled down, prepared to listen, if only out of custom.

“As some of you may know,” he began, “yesterday evening, we at the Faber-Brady Trust installed a new hereditary director, Hubert Faber Nachtmann, son of the late Reverend Dr. Faber Heath. I had hoped to introduce him today. Unfortunately, he was unavoidably detained. That being the case...”

Kane’s next words were lost as pandemonium broke out on the steps, a few feet from where the Keona twins and their police escort were stationed. Kailikane Kapono, arriving incognito, positioned herself amid a ring of husky followers, shedding the wrap that had heretofore concealed her colorful attire. There she stood, her tawny limbs and shapely figure showing beneath the flowing feather robes of the highest of the high, puhi okaoka, the big kahuna.

In her hand, she carried a bullhorn.

“People of Hawaii,” she said. “Hear me.”

Recognizing their headliner, the row of TV cameramen surged forward for a closer shot. Sound technicians rushed toward her from all sides, elbowing their competitors, striking onlookers with booms and microphones. Ordinary citizens pushed and shoved one another. Against this swirling tide of humanity, the plain clothes police had as much chance as salmon swimming up a fire hose. Try as they might, Kapono remained unreachable.

“People of Hawaii,” she said again, “This man Nachtmann is no fit person to sit on the board of the Faber-Brady Trust. He is not fit to sit anywhere among decent people.”

From a pouch under her robes, Kapono produced an 8”x10” black and white photo, holding it high for all to see. In it, a man was taking aim through the scope of a Stoner SR-25 sniper rifle.

“This photograph shows Hubert Nachtmann for what he is: a cold-blooded killer...a hired assassin...a murderer.”

Few in the crowd would have known Hubert Nachtmann had they fallen over him. Still, they craned to see his likeness.

“It was he,” Kapono continued, “Hubert Nachtmann, who fired the bullets that felled Dr. Michael Crockett just two days ago in this very town.”

A gasp arose from among everyone within earshot. Something approaching silence fell over the crowd. Then, into the stillness, boomed the unamplified voice of Joshua Keona.

“Just as it was you, Kailikane Kapono,” he shouted, “who mutilated and murdered those four men in the Puna District only last week.”

It was Kapono’s turn to gasp. As she whirled round to face her accuser, his brother, Caleb, took up the cry.

“Yes!” he bellowed. “Kailikane Kapono is the R2M killer!”

Now, no one knew what to believe. Overwhelmed, they backed away from both the Keona brothers and Kailikane Kapono.

The plainclothesmen made their move. A pair of them hurried up from behind. Before Kapono realized what was happening, they’d snapped on handcuffs and began reading her rights.

The reporters broke loose. Pushing and shoving, they peppered the captured Kapono with question after question. Is this true Kailikane? Why did you do it? Who were the men you killed? Tell us your side of the story Kailikane, etc., etc.

Too smart to answer and too proud to fight, Kapono drew herself up. As officers began clearing a path to lead her away, she uttered two words. Catching the eye of a doughy looking man in a white suit standing nearby, she looked at him and said: “Remember Jericho.”

Faber-Brady Trust Executive Offices, Hilo, HI -- 10:15 AM Hawaii Time

High above the plaza, inside Kane’s office, Nachtmann watched television coverage of the drama unfolding below. Camera operators were doing a spectacular job. Shots from all over the plaza showed not only Kapono’s arrest, but reactions from the crowd as well. Nachtmann spotted a number of familiar faces, even the black man who’d been tailing him the night before.

He went to the window and looked down. Strange, he thought, how a little distance could make even the most worrisome circumstances seem trivial.

He turned and went to Kane’s desk, flipped open a Rolodex and found a card labeled “Trask,” then picked up the phone and dialed.

Plaza of the Faber-Brady Trust, Hilo, HI – 10:16 AM Hawaii Time

Inspector Frederick stood near a news van beside the fountain dedication. While others had been drawn to the commotion surrounding Kapono’s arrest, the inspector had stayed behind, watching. There was something odd, he thought, about the effect the day’s events were having on L. David Kane.

While almost everyone else in the plaza had been visibly shocked by Kapono’s assertion that Hubert Nachtmann was a murderer, Kane had not so much as lifted an eyebrow. Similarly, the Keona brothers succeeding revelation, that Kapono was the R2M killer, had not ruffled him at all. The inspector might have concluded that Kane had ice water in his veins, had it not been for his intense reactions to a pair of communications from one of his assistants.

The first event had occurred just before Kane’s initial announcement over the PA. The assistant had said something upsetting to Mr. Kane, and his distress had shown clearly. The second event was unfolding at that very moment.

The assistant, a portable phone at his ear, was speaking to Kane. Even over the din, Frederick could hear his responses.

“What?” Kane said, almost shouting. “He’s where?” The executive director then gazed upward, exclaimed “God damn it” in a loud voice and headed down the riser steps. Then a curious thing happened.

From the edge of the crowd, a pasty looking fellow in a white suit called out: “The fountain, Mr. Kane. Don’t forget the fountain.”

The executive director scowled. Had a newsman not swung a camera in Kane’s direction, Frederick felt sure he would have ignored the man and gone on his way. Caught, however, in the public eye, he reversed course, ascended the steps and approached the mic.

“I’ll make this brief,” Kane said, smiling thinly. “Lord knows, we’ve already had our fair share of excitement.”

From the corner of his eye, Frederick noticed a white blur moving away at a speedy clip. He glanced up just in time to see the man who’d called out to Kane, rapidly retreating across the street, heading into an adjoining park. There he stopped and turned again toward FBT.

“Commemorating 100 years of service to the Hawaiian community,” the executive director intoned, “and in memory of a great lady, I hereby dedicate this, the Kailani Faber Memorial Fountain.”

Then he flipped the ceremonial switch.

But for a smattering of applause, largely from board members on the dais, nothing happened. Yes, the fountain sputtered to life, spilling water over a lava rock waterfall and into a shimmering pool, but that was all. Across the street, Frederick could not help noticing the awkward body language of the man in white. Even at a distance, his dismay was evident.

Kane, meanwhile, turned on his heel and stalked offstage.

Faber-Brady Trust Executive Offices, Hilo, HI -- 10:25 AM Hawaii Time

Twice more, Nachtmann saw black man onscreen, once in a close-up and once in a long shot showing the fountain over Kane’s shoulder. He went to the phone and pressed redial.

“Trask,” he said, after a few seconds. “Look out toward the fountain. Do you see a black guy wearing a gray hat anywhere in the crowd? Go get him…Don’t fuck with me, Trask. Neither one of us has the time. Go get him, now.”

A few seconds later, he again spoke into the telephone.

“Hello?” he said. “Are you the guy in the Jeep? The guy from last night? Good. I just want to tell you one thing. You’re on the right track, just back up a little.”

Then he hung up.

Plaza of the Faber-Brady Trust, Hilo, HI – 10:27 AM Hawaii Time

Inspector Frederick opened his mouth just as Trask’s phone went dead. He turned toward Trask himself, but the man’s back was all he could see, and that was rapidly disappearing.

Frederick looked around. In the news van parked nearby, a technician was rewinding tape, checking the footage before uploading it to post-production in Honolulu. The sounds drifted into the inspector’s ears.

“...and if you look closely,” a newswoman’s voice was saying, “you can see Ms. Kapono’s lips clearly mouthing the words, ‘remember Jericho.’ What that might mean exactly, is just one of the many unanswered questions in this ongoing drama of....”

That was all Frederick heard. It was all he had to hear. A jumble of thoughts ran through his brain: the misguided prank of the teenage Keona twins, Joshua and Caleb, their very names, the evacuation of the FBT complex, Jericho, the fountain, the man in white, the words “back up a little.”

Frederick climbed atop a low garden wall and looked out toward Kalanikoa Street to where a Hilo policeman was directing traffic. Through the crowd, across the plaza and down the steps, taking out his SFPD badge on the way, Frederick ran toward him.

“Does this town have a bomb squad?” he said, showing his shield.

“Yes, sir.”

“Get them over here, then get these people off the street. This fucking place is gonna blow.”

Nearby, within earshot of Frederick, a Chinese man in the company of a young boy, listened. He leaned over and spoke in the boy’s ear, then led him across the street.

Faber-Brady Trust Executive Offices, Hilo, HI -- 10:40 AM Hawaii Time

Kane stood in the doorway of his office, his fists clenched, his jaw muscles twitching. “What are you playing at, Nachtmann?” he said.

Across the room, his back to the door, Nachtmann sat, unmoving, in one of two leather chairs in front of Kane’s desk.

“Nachtmann!” Kane barked. “Answer me!”

Though still motionless, Nachtmann did answer. “Sit down, why don’t you, Kane?” he said, gesturing toward Kane’s chair. “We have things to discuss.”

Grudgingly, Kane complied. Walking around behind his desk, he sat.

“All right, then,” he said. “I’m sitting. What do we have to discuss?”

Nachtmann sniffed and crossed his legs. Touching the tips of his fingers together, he gazed over the desktop. “All right,” he said. “There’s not much to it. It’s quite simple, really. In fact, I can sum it up in two words.”

Kane began to calm himself. “Two words?” he said. “What are they, pray?”

Nachtmann smiled. “It’s over.”

Kane gazed back. “Over?” he said. “What’s over?”

“All of it, Kane.” Nachtmann’s voice was unhurried, casual, even friendly. “The corruption, the graft, the blackmail, the entire web of unscrupulous double-dealing bullshit around which your entire filthy life has been lived. It’s over.”

The lackadaisical manner in which Nachtmann addressed him came as such a surprise, his insults and threats went almost unnoticed. This was a side of Nachtmann Kane had never seen. Something was very much amiss.

Still, accustomed to dealing with dangerous characters and confident in his skill as a negotiator, Kane did not react. This is a power play, he thought, nothing more. A clear head, that’s what I need.

“Now, now,” Kane began, “don’t be hasty. Surely we can iron out whatever differences there are between us.”

A peculiar smile stole over Nachtmann’s face. “Do you think so, really?” he said.

“Of course,” Kane replied. “Now, what’s all this about your having killed this fellow Crockett, for example? Even if you did it, I’m sure it can be gotten round. There’s no need to...”

“Oh, I did it, all right,” Nachtmann said. “And it can’t be gotten round, either. No more than you and Schmidt’s conspiracy to dope up every kanaka on the island can be gotten round, no more than your embezzlement of millions, no more than every cheap bribe you ever took or paid. None of it can ever be gotten round. Ever again.”

To that point, Nachtmann’s tone had not changed. It remained tranquil, appeasing, conciliatory. In Kane’s mind, compromise was more than merely possible, it was imminent. He opened his mouth to counter. He never got the chance.

Before he could speak, Nachtmann lunged across the desk and yanked him to his feet, shaking him like a rag doll.

“Did you hear that?” he shrieked. “Never again, you shriveled up, conniving, contemptible old bastard! Never...Again!”

With a powerful thrust, he flung the old man backward, sending both Kane and his chair careening into the wall.

Kane looked around wildly. His lips curled back; his teeth bared. So wide were his eyes, the whites could be seen all around them.

“What’s the meaning of this, you insolent wog?” he screamed. “You’re the bastard...Faber Heath’s idiot-boy, mongrel bastard, that’s what you are! This proves everything I’ve always thought. Even one drop of kanaka blood turns a civilized white man into a stinking pig!”

He’d felt wonderful saying it. He was glad he’d said it. Only one thing was wrong. He’d gone too far.

Nachtmann came at him.

At that, Kane remembered his remote control, the device that switched on a red light in the basement. Frantically, he snatched it from his pocket, and held it out for Nachtmann to see.

“Stop!” he cried.

Nachtmann froze.

“Take one more step, and I’ll push this button,” said Kane breathlessly. “You know what that means. If that light goes on downstairs, you’ll never see Deborah Garrison again.”

Nachtmann smiled.

Kane cocked his head quizzically. Smiling? That wasn’t right. What was happening?

Nachtmann made no threatening moves. He only smiled more, and more broadly. Then he giggled. At last, he began to laugh.

Thoroughly baffled, Kane took a step back. “I’ll do it,” he said. “I really will. Don’t think I won’t.”

“Go ahead then, you pathetic old fuck,” Nachtmann said. “Go on, push it. Push it.” Then, bounding forward, he snatched the hand that held Kane’s toy and drew it toward him. “I know,” he said, grinning, “Let’s push it together.”

Nachtmann squeezed Kane’s finger, forcing it down on the button. Kane heard it click.

Down in the basement, the socket that had once held the red light bulb lay shattered on the floor, not far from the lifeless bodies of Daryl and his partner. Apart from them, there was no one there, dead or alive.

From the wall, where the socket had once been, there now hung a green circuit board, dangling from two electrical cords, one red and one black. On the circuit board, just before the rumbling began, a tiny blue light flickered on and off.

At first, the building only shuddered. Upstairs, in the executive suite, Nachtmann and Kane scarcely felt it. Only when the RDX charges on the twelfth and fifteenth floors detonated simultaneously and the floor supports began collapsing beneath his feet, did Kane begin to understand what was happening.

“No!” he cried, as if, even now, he could somehow wheedle or buy his way out. “No!”

“Yes, you slimy gob of spit, yes!” Nachtmann shouted over the roar. “You’re dead...and she’s alive!”

Those were the last words either man ever heard.

Plaza of the Faber-Brady Trust, Hilo, HI – 10:43 AM Hawaii Time

Sgt. P.T. Butler of the Hilo Bomb Squad, heavily padded in green protective gear and bubble helmet, came across Kalanikoa Street at a brisk, waddling jog. The respirator covering his mouth and nose muffled his voice, yet Captain Suzuki heard every word.

“All the columns are loaded with explosives, hooked up to blasting caps and fused,” he said. “Whoever did it is good.”

“An implosion?” asked Suzuki, referring to an explosion designed to make a building collapse, rather that fly apart.

“Looks that way, sir,” Butler replied. “Some of the prep was left undone. Except for that, it’s totally pro.”

Captain Suzuki pursed his lips and nodded gravely. “Is it disarmable?”

“Yes, sir. Given enough time,” Butler replied. “Problem is, each one of those charges is independently fused. It’s like there were twelve separate bombs over there, all connected to a remote detonator. Even if...”

A faint pop followed by a series of low rumbling noises interrupted Butler’s reply. From their vantage point in the park, Inspector Frederick and Congressman Pukuli watched as the Faber-Brady complex began to disintegrate.

At first, it only seemed to stumble. A banner hanging from a balcony on the sixteenth floor wrinkled slightly and a few pieces of granite skidded downward. Then, the surrounding crowd gasped as plumes of dust began rising from the ground and the lower floors buckled and fell away. The upper floors, still remarkably intact, plummeted downward. In the blink of an eye, FBT lost half its height. Two seconds later, it had all but disappeared.

Moses and Frederick turned their backs. A fine powder of rock, dust and dirt began raining down. The congressman put a handkerchief over his nose and mouth. Frederick breathed through his hat.

“Come on, Mo,” Frederick said, nodding his head toward Pukuli’s Jeep. “One more stop and we’ll call it a day.”

Hawaii Belt Road, Hilo, HI – 11:10 AM Hawaii Time

Inspector Frederick emptied the Jeep’s wiper fluid reservoir onto the windshield. Even so, ashen streaks, the chalky remains of the FBT building, obstructed his view. At the intersection of Hawaii Belt Road and Molana Street, he slowed, checking street signs through the open passenger window. Then he turned right.

Midway down the block he came to a stop.

“What’s up?” said Moses.

Frederick brushed his side view mirror with his fingers and peered into it. “We’ve picked up a tail.”

Pukuli began to turn around. Frederick put a hand on his shoulder.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “I think I know who it is.”

Moses looked at his brother-in-law curiously for a moment, then glanced out the window. “What the hell are we doing here?” he asked.

“Nachtmann,” replied Frederick.

“Nachtmann what?”

“Nachtmann sent us here.”

Frederick turned again, this time up a short drive and into a parking lot, coming to a stop at a doorway marked 115.

“To his apartment?”

“His exact words were: ‘You’re on the right track. Just back up a little.’ This is as little as we can go.”

“I thought you said ‘back up a little’ meant get away from the building.”

“I did, but there’s no evidence that Nachtmann was a moron. He might have been capable of putting together a double entendre.”

“We going in there?”

“That’s the plan,” the inspector said.

“Shouldn’t we get a warrant?”

Frederick killed the engine, pulled on the door handle and swung his legs out the door. “Somehow,” he said, talking over his shoulder, “I don’t think the occupant is going to make an issue out of it, one way or another.”

The door to the apartment stood slightly ajar. Frederick paused, listening. Then he pushed it open.

Parking Lot, Trade Wind Towers Apartments, Hilo, HI – 11:25 AM Hawaii Time

Lewis Foo, in his rented car, waited at the head of the drive, watching as Frederick and Moses entered the building. He’d followed them, hoping they would lead him to Deborah Garrison. Could she be in this place? It didn’t seem likely, still...

Foo thought for a moment before reaching into the glove box and coming out with his Browning M-1900. In the back seat, his passenger was growing restless.

“What are you doing?” Noah asked.

“Thinking,” said Foo.

In fact, Lewis was contemplating his life. Over two-thirds of it, he’d spent as an American. All the real living he’d done, had been in the company, not of doctrinaire Communists, but of relatively easy-going Westerners. Much of what he really knew of the world, he’d learned from them. Almost everything joyful and life-affirming he’d ever experienced, he owed to these people and to Hawaii.

Yet, how had he responded to all this?

He’d misled Isaac and Rebecca Faber. He’d collaborated with their enemies. He’d done everything possible to circumvent whatever good may have come from their work. He’d labored to prevent Deborah Faber from taking her rightful place as executive director. He’d fomented suspicion and dissent wherever he’d gone, victimizing everyone here who’d ever believed in him, helped him or trusted him.

And for what? Lewis Foo could scarcely remember. Neither could Fiu Tse Liu.

If only he did not feel such terrible guilt. Whichever way he turned, he would betray someone.

Trade Wind Towers, Apartment 115, Hilo, HI – 11:30 AM Hawaii Time

As Frederick entered, a swath of sunlight poured into apartment 115. From the floor in the middle of the front room, a bewhiskered young man wearing a Phoenix Suns t-shirt looked up. An attractive blonde woman in pedal pushers and a tank top was beside him. Both knelt over a cardboard box filled with file folders.

“Hello, Frederick,” said the man.

Frederick nodded at the woman. “Is this who I think it is?” he asked.

The man grinned. “Inspector Hal Frederick, allow me to introduce my wife, Deborah Garrison.”

Deborah extended her hand. “How do you do, Inspector?” she said, smiling.

Frederick smiled back. “What’s in the box?”

“Ammunition,” said Garrison.

“There’s enough information in this box about FBT to force Kane and his people out of power forever,” said Deborah. “Hugh Nachtmann collected it. Now we can start fresh.”

“Congratulations” Frederick said. “Mazel tov.”

“This is absolutely one of the greatest days of my life,” Deborah said. “There’s only one thing I can think of that could make it any bet...”

Frederick held up his hand. The room went still. He crept to the window, pulled back the curtain and peered outside. In the distance, a car could be heard speeding away.

Cautiously, he went to the door, turned the handle and opened it. A little boy stood alone on the doorstep.

“Hello,” he said. “I’m Noah. Is my mommy here?”

Epilogue

In the succeeding weeks and months, a number of events transpired pertaining to the state of Hawaii and its police, the Federal government and its agencies and the Faber-Brady Trust. Officially, each of these developments came about independently. Additionally, no representative of any of the agencies, organizations or governments involved has ever agreed to comment, publicly or privately, on perceived relationships between or among these events.

• On Monday, April 26, 1993, during an inquiry regarding the alleged abduction and attempted murder of Deborah Faber Garrison, Hilo Police received information from the Bureau of Vital Statistics indicating that the suspect, Anthony Dudgeons, had died in 1991 of a brain hemorrhage while a patient at Walter Reed Army Hospital in Washington, DC.

• Subsequent investigation by Hilo Police indicated that certain locations described by Mrs. Garrison, namely three townhouse structures, an underground passage of some 100 yards in length and a compound-style residence, did not, and had never existed anywhere along the Hamakua Coast.

• Sunday, May 1, 1993 - Hints of massive corruption involving past and current FBT board members are reported in the Hawaiian press. In a public statement, incoming Executive Director Deborah Faber Garrison downplays the significance of those reports.

• Monday, May 2, 1993 – The board of directors of the Faber-Brady Trust votes to dissolve itself.

• Tuesday, May 3, 1993 – FBT Executive Director Garrison selects Dr. Katherine Stanford, Hawaii state Congressman Moses Pukuli and US Congressman Joseph K. Chow to head a search for new director candidates.

• June 17, 1993 - President Bill Clinton, National Security Advisor Anthony Lake, Secretary of the Interior Bruce Babbitt, Speaker of the House Thomas S. Foley (D-WA) and Congressman Joe Chow (D-HI) confer for three hours. Despite repeated inquiries from members of the press, no specific information is ever released to the public regarding this meeting.

• President Bill Clinton accepts the resignation of FBI Director William Sessions in July of 1993.

• November 23, 1993 – President Bill Clinton signs United States Public Law 103-150 which stipulates in part that “...the indigenous Hawaiian people never directly relinquished their claims to their inherent sovereignty as a people or over their national lands to the United States, either through their monarchy or through a plebiscite or referendum.

To this day, the quest for sovereignty among the Native Hawaiian population of the islands of Hawaii, remains a hotly contested and widely discussed issue.