Primal Instinct

9

Midnight July 16, 1995

Claxton wasn't in the phone directory. They found the name of the Dean of Faculty on a placard in front of a closed and darkened administration building of gleaming steel and glass. Parry telephoned the dean, identified himself and asked for the whereabouts of Dr. Claxton. The dean, shaken by the late night call, finally gave him the home address for a Dr. Donald G. Claxton. He lived within walking distance of the campus and they were soon on his doorstep, pounding away like a pair of Nazi Occupation troops.

Claxton was a big man, filling the doorway. He was also a belligerent bastard who refused to allow them inside where the sound of some less-than-classical music blended with heavy breathing, the telltale blue cast of a video screen rising and falling. Parry caught sight of someone hastily dressing and stumbling around behind Claxton's large frame, no doubt another of his students catching up on some late assignment.

Claxton was bearded and balding with the appearance of a man once active and involved in sports. Nowadays it appeared that boredom, beer and coeds made up his sporting life, and if his students were good sports, they'd receive good grades; otherwise, they got what was considered in college the ax, a grade of C. Parry recalled that Linda Kahala had gotten a C in her Shakespeare course, but had done superbly well in all of her other English classes.

Parry quickly introduced himself and Tony. “I want to talk to you about Linda Kahala.”

Claxton was immediately on the defensive. “Yes, of course, I'd heard about her disappearance. Tried to locate her about a grade conference but, well, some kids don't want to be found. Has she? Been found, I mean?”

“ Found, yeah, she's been found.” Parry watched intently for any reaction to this news.

“ Thank God. It must've been a nightmare for the parents.”

Either Claxton was an extremely cool character, or a sociopath-which their killer must be-or the man had no idea that Linda Kahala had been brutally murdered. At this point, Parry didn't want to disturb his line of questioning with the fact the girl was found dead. “I understand she had a problem with you, Dr. Claxton?”

“ Problem? Oh, well, she wasn't too bright; she failed to do well in my class, but-”

“ Why's that, Doctor?”

Tony snidely asked, “She didn't do well on her orals or what?”

“ Because she didn't pass your goddamned sex exam?” Parry bluntly added, having agreed on the ride over to press the man this way.

Claxton visibly reddened there in the dark doorway. “What the hell is this? I'll thank you to leave now, you gentlemen of the law.”

“ We know all about your classroom tactics, Claxton,” Parry retaliated. “And now one of the girls you sexually molested has turned up dead, mutilated beyond recognition and-”

“ Dead? Mutilated?”

“- and that's a bit too much to overlook, Doctor, even for a man of your refinement and reputation. Now, are you going to cooperate, or do I have to get a warrant to search, and maybe a second to arrest?”

He stood there breathing heavily, pondering his options. “All right, all right, what the hell do you want from me?”

“ We'd like to come inside, look around,” said Tony. “ 'Less you got somethin' to hide.”

He looked over his shoulder, eyeballing his guest. “It's really a bad time for me. What about coming back tomorrow, say two in the afternoon?”

Parry pressed on. “You gave Linda a book of sonnets?”

“ I give a lot of books away.”

“ Did you or not?”

“ What if I had? What's it to you?”

“ This book?” Parry's sleight of hand with the book impressed Tony, whose eyes bored into Claxton, his fists clenched.

“ Yeah, maybe… I suppose I may've given her a book. I give away a lotta books.”

“ When? Before or after you raped her?”

“ Raped her? Are you guys nuts? What rape? There was no… never any rape. She… consented.”

“ Yeah, right,” muttered Tony.

“ Right there in your office, Doctor? Where you backed her into a corner?”

“ God damnit, do you know how many of these kids with poor grades go shouting sexual harassment these days?”

“ She's told others about the incident,” Tony added.

“ It's her word against mine.”

Tony instantly corrected him. “Was… was her word against yours.”

“ And who's a court to believe, Doctor? You or a poor dead girl whose life was shattered first when her professor put his hands all over her, from where she spiraled down to the street?” asked Parry.

“ What exactly do you fuckin' cowboys want from me?”

Parry and Tony heard the noise of a back door closing. “Go get that person, Tony. Maybe we'll have a talk with her, too… corroboration, maybe.”

Tony started away. Claxton called out. “All right, all right.”

Tony stopped at the foot of the stairs. Parry motioned for him to return.

“ Now, Dr. Claxton, I want you to tell me where you were on the night of the 11th when Linda Kahala disappeared.” Claxton backed from the door and pushed it open for them to step inside, saying, “Look around. Does this look like the house of a maniac?”

Parry stepped in, followed by Gagliano, who said, “You got any coffee?”

Claxton ignored the request.

They went through the necessary questions and as they did so, Parry began to feel that Claxton, while a scum, was no killer. He finally asked Claxton, “Have you any students, particularly male students, that Linda gravitated to in class? Was there anyone she worked with in particular, studied with, say on a class project, anything?”

“ She was dating some guy in my nine o'clock. That's all I know.”

“ We know about the boyfriend, Oniiwah,” replied Tony. “He's clean.”

“ Anyone else she might have shared a book like this with?” pressed Parry.

“ A guy, huh?” He had lit up a cigarette and now he blew out a long stream of smoke. He sat back on his lounge chair in his robe, naked beneath, rolls of fat making a spiral of snakes about his relaxed midriff. “I couldn't say… I don't know… I'm no mind reader… Don't pay that much attention to these kids, you know. Besides, I have a lot of classes and students.”

“ Sounds like the Albert Schweitzer of academia, don't he?” asked Tony.

Parry said, “This would be a guy in her class.”

He shrugged. “I can give you the roster; you take it from there. I didn't notice anything in particular going on with her and another student. Course, I don't pay that much attention to the private lives of my students.”

“ No, I guess you wouldn't. You're just interested in their private parts.”

Claxton started to protest but thought better of it.

“ Let me have the roster. Fact, let me have all your rosters.”

Claxton nervously bit at his inner jaw, but went to a desk and ripped several computer printouts from a book. “Here, take them. I got others.”

“ Jesus,” moaned Tony as he stared over Jim's shoulder at one of the lists which numbered three hundred students.

“ This the way Shakespeare's being taught nowadays?” asked Parry rhetorically as he made for the door, anxious to be rid of Dr. Claxton.

“ It's a fucking introductory level course.” Claxton pursued them, as if it were important for them to understand him better. “It's bottom-line, product-centered, factory mentality in the bloody womb of academia, thanks to the bureaucratic assholes in administration whose primary concern is to suck every cent out of their pockets! Whataya want from me?” Claxton bellowed as the door slammed in his face.

At the car, Gagliano began a coughing and spitting jag. Parry asked him if he was okay, his right hand pounding Tony's back in mock concern. “Come on, it wasn't that bad.”

“ I'd rather deal with the rats on the wharves than a puke like that. Guy turns my stomach.”

“ You carry Rolaids; use 'em. For now we'll split the lists into four evenly divided, Tony. I'm getting additional manpower and if the Trade Winds Killer is on that list, I intend to get to know him up close and personal.”

Parry then took the list from Gagliano and ripped off the first of the four sections.

“ You've got to be dead on your feet, Boss,” offered Tony. “What can you do tonight?”

“ Narrow the list to all Caucasians first. It's a good bet our killer is white; also look for the killer to be older, a good deal older than Oniiwah, upper twenties to middle age marks the kind of organized, controlled killer we're dealing with here, if the statistics mean anything. It's unlikely this guy's a kid. He's too deliberate, too careful to be a kid strung out on drugs, or some hot-tempered punk who'd leave a trail any idiot could follow.”

“ Given the deliberateness of his remaining in the shadows, the fact he's left no crime scene for us to work, yeah, I got to agree on that score.”

“ He seems to know enough to cover his ass, all right. Tomorrow, start with the registrar's office, get every bit of vital information on every male on the list their damned computer has, and have it play kiss-face with our mainframe, got that?”

“ It's called in-your-face, Boss.”

“ You mean innerface.”

“ Who'll you be recruiting?”

“ Haley's expressed an interest and so has Terri Reno.”

“ Kalvin Haley, that big Aussie?”

“ He's had experience with serials, and he was practically born here, part Hawaiian even if he won't admit it. Could really be of help to us.”

Tony remained skeptical. “Yeah, but Reno, a mainlander?”

'Tony, you're going to have to work with her, all right?”

“ Whatever you say, Jim.”

“ She's got to get experience somewhere, and who knows more than you, Tone?”

“ Whatever you say, Jimbo.”

“ I say don't call me Jimbo, okay?”

“ Whatever you say,” he repeated.

“ I say get me back to my unit so I can take myself home. Tomorrow noon, I want to feed the computer the breakdowns on these names-sex, age, height, color of eyes, nationality of each person on the list. Run 'em all through the Honolulu Police I.D. files, our own files… see if we get lucky.”

“ Whatever you say, Jim.”

Tony sensed the foul mood Jim Parry had fallen under, and so he wisely fell silent. The drive back to the street where the Kahala house stood didn't improve either of their moods as they looked past the lifeless, darkened house to where Jim's car stood stripped and smashed. It looked as if there'd been a block party, everyone issued a sledgehammer and given a license to attack Parry's car. But first the more prudent had ripped out the radio, popped the trunk and made off with a pair of expensive Kevlar bullet-proof vests along with several boxes of ammunition for his. 38 and an expensive Remington 12-gauge shotgun; his tires had been punctured, the moon hubcaps gone, every window smashed, the street littered with the raining pellets. The hood and top of the vehicle were destroyed beyond recognition, and beneath the hood expensive necessary parts had been stripped away. A siphon hose extended from out of the gas tank, likely the only reason the car hadn't gone up in flames, as several bullet holes had cut paths through the metal.

Parry was stunned. “That call we heard,” he said, the words tumbling out as hard round marbles, Parry not feeling his throat muscles, tongue or lips moving.

“ You sons of bitches,” Tony bellowed to the night.

Parry cursed the street as well and gained as much response as Tony had. The two FBI men felt eyes on them, imagined the glee in the hearts of those watching, and in a moment began to feel vulnerable. “Where were the city cops when my wagon was being annihilated? It must've taken twenty or thirty minutes at least to do this kind of damage, damn!”

“ We can't do squat about it now, Jim,” said Tony.

“ The hell we can't!”

“ Come on. We'll send a wrecker for it tomorrow.”

“ Gutless bastards!” shouted Parry, shaking his fist.

“ Jim, standing here and shouting at the pavement's not going to get us anywhere.”

“ Where are you now?” Parry continued to shout, venting his anger.

The dark little street responded with a few lights going on here and there, but no one came outdoors to claim any victory. Parry scanned the windows, Tony tugging at him.

“ Forget it, Jim. Come on.”

“ Don't take it so personal, huh, Tony? Well, fuck that!”

“ Jim, these people're frustrated. They struck out at what we stand for, not who we are.”

Parry paced around the hulk of his destroyed vehicle, gritting his teeth over the sight of its stripped interior and slashed seats, mutilated with machetes and knives. He realized it was just over a century ago that native sovereignty had been wrested from Queen Liliuokalani in a bloodless takeover backed by 162 sailors and Marines from the U.S. Boston, then docked in Honolulu Harbor. It was on January 17, 1893 that a group of powerful white businessmen and plantation owners took up arms, calling themselves the Hawaiian Rifle Militia. They forced the queen to abdicate, and soon after Hawaii became a U.S. Territory, and in 1959 the fiftieth state in the Union. To a sizeable number of Hawaiians this was not ancient history, and although the white mind could not conceive of ever rending the intricate tapestry of economic, industrial, technological and cultural fabric woven out of this tortured paradise by returning Hawaii to its sovereign status, as Hong Kong was slated to be returned to China, there were many prominent Hawaiians actively seeking just that, along with ten billion dollars in reparations, an apology and a return of their lands used as U.S. government holdings, including Pearl Harbor.

Now the grand and long-standing debate between the U.S. and Hawaiian nationals, coupled with the recent spate of disappearances and probable murders of Hawaiian women, seemed to have all congealed here on this street tonight and the frustrations of several generations had come down heavily on Parry's unfortunate vehicle.

“ The unit's ruined.”

“ It can be repaired.”

“ I've had that car since I became bureau chief.”

“ I know… I know…”

Tony managed to dance him back to his own car and Parry got inside. “Where the hell you suppose the police were?”

“ Probably no one called it in, Jim.”

“ We heard a disturbance call, remember? Christ, should have responded ourselves.”

“ The disturbance call was a 10-6, remember? No big deal, but this-this had to've happened after the cops came and went, is all I can figure, unless-”

“ Isn't this sector routinely patrolled by Hawaiian cops? Right, and all they saw was a block party, right?”

Tony, who had pulled from the curb only to hit the opposite curb with his wide U-tum, drove away now. He was trying on a smile when he said, “Hey, Chief, it could've been worse.”

“ Oh, how so?”

“ You could've been in the frigging car when it happened… or worse…”

“ Or worse?”

“ It could've been my unit.”

Parry shook his head and held back a laugh. “It's just a machine, I know, but you do get attached to what's yours. Even if it does actually belong to the bureau, you know.”

“ We aren't talking horses here, Sheriff. At least the machine didn't feel any pain.”

“ So what, Tony? Does that mean I shouldn't? It pisses me off, all right?”

“ Let's just get out of this area before someone takes a shot at us. Feel like a sitting duck here.”

He put his foot to the floor, the engine roaring. Tony nervously glanced in the rearview where he saw a crowd of dark-skinned youths gathering like corporeal shadows behind them, thankful that Chief Jim Parry didn't look back or hear them.

“ Lot of anger building up out here, Jim.”

“ The damned police aren't cooperating, Tony. They had George Oniiwah two days before us, and yet they chose to say nothing about him.”

“ Wrote him off as a suspect, I'd say, so why bother you with him, Jim. You're overreacting.”

“ God dammit, Tony, do you know how long I've tried to get an island-wide task force put together on the Trade Winds Killer?”

“ I know… I know…”

“ I was told by the commissioner of police of Honolulu- guaranteed, mind you-that whatever they know, we know.”

Tony sat up at this. “And we'd extend the same courtesy?”

“ Which I've been damned careful to do.”

“ Oh, like you've told Scanlon every single result of the two autopsies on his cops?”

“ Fully informed Scanlon, yes.”

Tony nodded approvingly. “And the girl's arm?”

“ They've got it, as does the military, thanks to Marshal, and the county, and the state.” Parry's voice began to drag along with the list of need-to-knows. 'This case is turning into a political soccer game.”

“ So you've held nothing back?”

Parry thought of the bloodstains found on Kaniola's hands, the blood belonging to Linda Kahala. It was the one item of information he had withheld. “Nothing,” he lied.

“ Then I guess those bastards are shafting us, Chief.”

“ Wouldn't be surprised if they didn't have a hand with the sledgehammers.”

“ Only an off-duty cop on a drunk would be that reckless to risk his job, Chief.”

“ Yeah, maybe.”

They were at Parry's house, where they exchanged their good nights, Tony assuring him that he'd pick him up at eight sharp. Parry trundled off to his door, a small ranch home, well manicured and out of the mainstream of Honolulu life in an area between Fort Shafter Military Reservation and the Likelike Highway on a dead-end street named Kiloni. It was quiet and serene here, no bustle or distractions, attractions or madness. He had had opportunities to move into a condo fronting Honolulu Harbor, but he'd never taken the step.

Inside the house there was a friendly emptiness, a solitude and stillness that were both warm and needed for his frayed nerves. The walls were lined with photos and paintings, primarily of mountain scenes he'd collected over the years, which shared space with a few citations.

He tore away his shirt and wandered through the well-furnished living room to the refrigerator in the kitchen, searching for something to quench his thirst and to nibble on. He couldn't decide which was more pressing, his hunger, his fatigue or his need for a shower to wash off the filth of a day that seemed steeped in grime. He gave a thought to Claxton, to George Oniiwah, to the pair of eyes that belonged to the cowboy proprietor of the drug-fronting bar and grill, and then he recalled the slinking rats who'd destroyed his car.

He opted for the shower when he saw that his refrigerator needed re-stocking.

Prices in Oahu for such items as cereal, $6.99 for a twelve- ounce box, $4.00 for a gallon of milk, had become routine for him, acceptable, but keeping his place well stocked had always been a problem. Still, the beer was cold and chilled. He took one into the shower with him and drank as he lathered up.

Once he began to relax, the tension draining from his aching muscles and limbs, he thought of Jessica Coran, thought how wonderful it would be to step out of the shower and find her somehow magically transported here, waiting for him, her arms open, her lips inviting.

“ Crazy fantasizing bastard,” he admonished himself, stepped from the shower and halfheartedly toweled off, the muscles of his chest heaving with the effort. It was past midnight. Honolulu was wide awake and Honolulu cops were on the prowl for the Trade Winds Killer, on the lookout for young women who matched the description of those already brutalized by the killer. FBI agents, too, were posted at strategic locations along the strip. Every disturbance call was being taken seriously, at least everyone but those involving an FBI vehicle demolition.

Tomorrow, he'd shift to nights, to help out in the street surveillance operation. Tony would join him, spelling other agents he'd sent out.

The phone rang; he didn't want to pick it up; didn't want to hear any more bad news today; wasn't sure he could take any more. No one but Tony knew for certain that he was home. He let it ring. On the fourth ring, he gripped the receiver, started to pick it up, but cursed instead. When he did pick it up there was only a dial tone.

He had made a lot of mistakes tonight, he told himself, and not answering the call might have just added to them. Suppose there was another disappearance. Suppose a kidnapping had been foiled. Maybe a candidate for the Cane Cutter'd been apprehended. It could have been Kal Haley and Terri Reno calling with good news.

“ More likely bad news,” he muttered to himself, trying to shrug off the phone call when the damnable thing rang again. This time he picked it up on the second ring.

“ You son of a bitch, Parry!”

It was Dave Scanlon, police commissioner of Honolulu, angry as hell.

“ Something bothering you, Dave?”

“ You, you bastard! You fucking held out on me. One of my cops has the victim's blood on his hands and you don't see fit to tell me? And now it's going to be all over the goddamned morning papers, thanks to that goddamned kanaka!”

“ Kaniola?”

“ Who the hell you think called to corroborate the information?”

“ How the hell did he get it?”

“ You tell me, Mr. FBI. Frankly, Parry, I don't give a mongoose shit how in hell he got it. I want to know why I wasn't informed.”

“ No one had that information outside our lab this morning. I was going to alert you when-”

“ When! Yeah, when it suited you. And what about this hypothesis that the Trade Winds Killer is a white male between the ages of twenty-seven and forty who's wielding a cane cutter? How did the papers get that?”

“ Not from my office.”

“ No, I suppose not. I suppose your hands are spotless.”

“ Believe me, Scanlon, it didn't come from this direction.”

“ Sounds like you've got a leaky valve somewhere, pal. And I understand you're on foot these days.'“

The delight in his voice gave Jim Parry a visual image of the smirk on Scanlon's face. It dawned on Parry that every cop in the city knew about his vehicle.

“ Any information withheld from the public and your office, Scanlon, was done for the good of us all, for the sake, god damnit, of peace. Now you're telling me that the headlines in the Ala Ohana are going to read that a white man is stalking Hawaiian women with a cane cutter?”

“ And the goddamned English papers'll be running a counter- story, saying that Alan Kaniola was Linda Kahala's murderer!”

“ A little information in the wrong hands.” Parry's words tumbled out in a sigh. “Dangerous as a cornered mongoose in a cradle.”

“ I had a right to know beforehand, Parry. We had an agreement, I thought. You broke faith.”

“ Faith hell, Scanlon! You've been withholding information since day one on this and-”

Scanlon hung up.

“ Christ,” moaned Parry. Things were fast getting out of hand.

A half hour later he was sound asleep, but rudely awakened by the insistent phone ringing at his bedside. This time it was the melodic, whiskey-voiced Dr. Coran, her tone tinged with an icicle of agitation as she told him about her earlier meeting with Joseph Kaniola.

He was instantly angry with her. “But why'd you tell him anything, Dr. Coran? It should have occurred to you that you were talking to the most irresponsible newspaperman on the island. One of the most vocal lobbyists for Hawaiian sovereignty, a leader in the nationalist party here.”

“ He promised it wouldn't be used in the paper.”

“ It'll be all over the island tomorrow. I've already had calls on it. Damnit.”

“ I'm sorry, but he is the father. He had a right to know as next of kin, and he promised what we spoke of was off the record.”

“ And you believed him?”

“ I did, at the time.”

“ The man must've been following your movements the whole time and you trusted him?”

“ I did what I felt best, under the circumstances.”

“ Well now the circumstances have changed, drastically.”

“ Thanks to me,” she replied.

He softened his tone. “Look, I suppose it would've had to have come out in another twenty-four hours or so anyway. Don't lose anymore sleep over it.”

“ Did you have any luck at the college?”

“ We have a lead, but it's going to take time to pursue, learned a few details about the last days of Lina… Linda Kahala's life.”

“ I see.”

“ Funny, I'd hoped to hear from you,” he managed to say, “but not about this.”

“ Oh? And what had you hoped to hear about?”

“ About how you enjoyed spending the late afternoon with me, that's all. Listen, you said you used to go deer hunting often with your father?”

“ Well, yes,” she said. “I did.”

“ I know a place in the islands where deer season is just opening.”

“ Here, in Hawaii? You have deer?”

“ Imported, but yes, real live deer. On the island of Molokai.”

“ Sounds like a great trip. Have you hunted on the island?”

“ Yeah, once. I have to warn you: It's a wilderness section.”

“ No problem. I love the wilderness.”

“ I mean, it might be difficult getting around.”

By her silence, he knew that she understood his concern was with her bad leg and the cane. Finally, she said, “Don't worry. If you can arrange it, nothing'll stop my accompanying you to Molokai. Well, I'd best say good night now. Let us both get some rest.”

“ Expect to read about our case in the papers tomorrow,” he warned her.

“ I hope I haven't completely ruined things.”

“ I hope we don't have a race war on our hands.”Silence for a moment. “Do you really think it could get so… out of control as to-”

“ Like L.A., we have our minority held pretty much in economic bondage; these people are very close, very strong in their family ties; it's really all they have. I've already seen evidence of their frustration and anger played out on my car tonight.”

“ Oh, no,” she gasped into the phone. “You weren't hurt, were you?”

“ My car was totally dismantled and destroyed while I wasn't looking, but otherwise, I'm unhurt.”

“ You think that some of Kaniola's well-meaning friends may've been behind it?”

“ No, not likely, although who knows for sure…”

“ Christ, I wish I'd kept my mouth shut around the man. I hope I haven't screwed things up to the point-”

“ I don't fault you, Jessica,” he said. “You couldn't know the depth of feeling between the whites and non-whites here in paradise.”

“ Shoulda known better.”

Her deep, breathy voice alone made it all worthwhile, he thought, listening to her every word.

“ Forget it. We go on from here.”

“ Dammit, Parry, you're being too goddamned nice. I just fried you and all you can say is-”

“ Night, Jess.”

He hung up, not allowing her another word, glad to have the last word, pleased to have heard the sound of her voice again, and totally frustrated on learning that the leak Scanlon referred to had indeed come home to roust at his doorstep. As upset as Scanlon was, he knew there'd be a great deal more hell to pay come sunup.

Suddenly, he could no longer sleep. He got up, fixed himself a cup of steaming-hot tea and switched on a tape player that'd remained on his table all week. Once more he listened to the voices of Thom Hilani and Alan Kaniola from the moment Kaniola picked up the “suspicious”-looking, dark or maroon Buick sedan barreling up toward Koko Head at a fairly high rate of speed at 1:43 A.M.

“ HPD 12, this is Hilani, Unit 2E, Sector Bravo. I have you and the sedan in sight. Can I be of assistance, since you're such a fucklick?”

“ This is Dispatch Officer A312. No can make dat kine talk on dis frequency, Officer Hilani.”

“ Friendlies're hard to fine out heah,” replies Thom Hilani.

“ Fall in behind me, 2E.” Kaniola's invitation gives no sign of agitation until his next words. “Shit, Dispatch I've lost sight of him off the hairpin just before the Blow Hole.”

Hilani's reply is clipped and angry, a blaring motorcycle horn providing a backdrop to his curses. “Damnit, brah! Whataya doing backin' into me fo'? Almost run my ass over!”

“ Call in our position, Hilani.”

“ No readin' this mother by no book. HQ, this is HPD 12 and 2E, leaving unit to investigate abandoned suspect vehicle. Our location is the Blow Hole, over.”

“ Roger that,” replies Dispatch.

Neither man mentions why he fails to call in a DMV check on the plates. The transmissions simply end. After an uncomfortable amount of time Dispatch tries to hail the two dead cops. There was already much criticism circulating about how Hilani and Kaniola didn't properly execute procedures, that they should have secured the area around the car, got that license plate, called it in, and called for reinforcements up there. But Parry, who'd now listened to the tape sixteen times, was convinced that these two men had not been given an opportunity to respond and had had good reason for their every action, because the plate was intentionally obscured. “No readin' this mother by no book,” Hilani had said.

Hilani, Kaniola and Lina Kahala's deaths were all linked as closely with their Hawaiian blood as with anything else. Hawaiians, by nature, were open and honest to a fault, like the Eskimos, inviting terror into their lives without even recognizing it for what it was, he thought. For now he allowed the tape to replay, but his attention floated away to the book lying next to him on the table, Lina Kahala's book of sonnets.

He lifted it, felt its heft in his hands, squeezed it in a fantastic hope that in doing so some clue would ooze from the damned thing, but the book remained as silent as ever.

In the still of the Hawaiian night, he feels time slow to a crawling, halting stop. He opens the pages and reads as he has each night from the dark passages the young woman, now beyond this life, had once marked for him to find.

Shakespeare's words… her words flow off the tongue easily, like a timeless riddle, and he wonders anew if he hasn't been placed on this earth to unite Lina with her prophet, Shakespeare, whom Jim Parry has never before thought of as a poet of darkness and despair. He wonders, too, what he has missed, what has escaped his eye and his consciousness.

He keenly feels that he is being haunted by Lina, that she pleads with him from every crevice and dark corner of his universe, that she is asking him specifically to untie the twisted ribbon of darkness that somehow links Lina with an embittered, saddened poet and her killer. What is the link that binds a white man who lived hundreds of years before in a place alien to all that Lina knew-England-and an adolescent teenaged girl trying to find herself in modern Hawaii, who instead finds a killer?

Does the book belong to the killer? Whose name, spoiled by water damage, has been all but erased? The killer's? Or someone close to the killer?

Why has he been so reluctant to turn the book over to the lab. to let the analysts conduct tests, to restore the badly damaged ink, to re-invent the name in the dark smudges? Why hasn't he let go of the book? Is it his only connection with the killer, or with Lina? If he loses this connection, does he lose all connection with her?

His tea is gone. He stares into the dregs wishing he could read something into them like some psychic, some fictional sleuth who, in the absence of reason, acts on instinct alone and wins. But heroes often fail, like the song says.

The night offers little more than an empty feeling inside him now-nothing more. He is left to pace, to think of his heavy responsibility, his burden to put an end to this madman. He paces until exhausted, until he again finds himself staring into the mirror and wondering if the killer, too, is awake at this ungodly hour, if he is pacing and staring at himself through a looking glass, questioning himself, his next step, wondering if he can go on, doubting his resolve to reach seven murders this season. Parry stares longer into the looking glass, and knowing the killer to be out there, he wonders if the killer is staring back at himself, pulling at facial stubble, washing white skin, or rinsing brown skin?

Unable to account for or remember his night's slumber, Parry, stupefied, awakens to the sound of military aircraft beating a thunderous approach and retreat overhead, as if he and his modest home are under siege. It is as if he has not slept at all.