Primitive Secrets (9 page)

Maile's eyes filled with tears and Uncle Keone stared at the tabletop while he cleared his throat a few times. Storm reached across the table and took their hands in each of hers. “Look, we'll get to the bottom of this accident. I don't want you to worry too much.”

“The police here may not be too sympathetic.” Maile's expression was a warning.

Storm sighed. She knew Maile didn't want to bring up Storm's colorful past again. “I know. I'm a little worried about that.”

“You'll go talk to them first thing tomorrow?” Keone asked.

“Yeah, I can barely hold my head up now.”

The kitchen clock said almost one o'clock. Aunt Maile and Uncle Keone looked exhausted, too.

When Storm woke up, her blinds were drawn and she was sleeping in her underpants and the tee-shirt she'd been wearing last night. Although she had no memory of undressing, her jeans were planted by the bed as if she'd peeled them off and fallen face forward. Aunt Maile must have tiptoed in this morning and pulled the window shades so she'd sleep in. Storm peered at her watch, then looked again. She hadn't slept till eleven o'clock since her late-partying school days. She felt about as bad, too. A headache lingered behind her eyeballs, warning against any quick movements.

A shower and the aroma of freshly brewed coffee improved Storm's energy level. Aunt Maile must have heard her rummaging around, because when Storm made her beeline to the kitchen, her aunt pointed to a mug of strong brew in front of the chair opposite her own. The older woman sat with her own cup and the morning paper propped at arm's length.

“Good morning, dear. Just poured it.” She shoved the paper toward Storm and went to the stove. “I don't know how this story got to the press in time for the morning paper. Of course, this is pretty exciting news around here.”

Kwi Choy of Honolulu, 20, died when the Chevrolet Impala he drove smashed through the guardrail on the Mimalahoa Highwaye Ocean currents carried Choy, still inside the car, to Waipuna Stream, where he was discovered early this morninge Hilo resident Tong Choy reported the car stolen at two aeme from the street in front of his homee Police are seeting more information regarding the accidente

Storm skimmed the top story on the front page, then looked up at her aunt. “This guy Choy reported his car missing long after the accident. He noticed in the middle of the night?”

“Maybe he had insomnia.” “Right.” Aunt Maile peered over her reading glasses at Storm and shrugged. “Just trying to be the devil's advocate.” “Yeah, or maybe he gets up to walk the dog.” “What?” Aunt Maile looked at her and frowned. “These guys have the same last name. It's a common one, but I don't like the coincidence. You know many people in Hilo?” “Some. I'll ask around.”

Storm propped her chin in one hand and siphoned off a noisy swallow of coffee. “I told you about Tom Sakai last night, didn't I?”

“Tom Sakai? No, but I know that name. Bebe Fernandez asked me for some special herbs for him a couple weeks ago. They only grow here, high on the slopes of Mauna Kea.” Aunt Maile put a plate of scrambled eggs in front of Storm. “Since we learned lapa‘aa from the same kapana, we share ideas on treatment.”

“So she's on O'ahu?” Storm set her fork down with a click.

“Sure, in Waianae. She's the best healer in the islands.”

“How's Tom doing?”

“He's pretty sick. Doing chemotherapy, too.”

Storm knew better than to get into a discussion comparing traditional Hawaiian healing to Western medical techniques. “I found Sakai's file in Hamasaki's briefcase, but he never handled medical cases.”

“Maybe he was going to hand the case over to his partner but never got the chance.”

Storm nodded. “That's possible. But I don't think he would talk about either Sakai or O'Toole's problems without asking them first.”

Maile sat down at the table with a grunt. She picked up her tea without looking at Storm.

“Do you think I could talk to Tom?” Storm asked.

“I wondered if that's what you were getting at.” Maile thought for a moment. “Bebe needs those herbs and I could send them with you. It's the safest, fastest way of getting them there.” She peered at her niece. “Do you really believe that a sick man can give you any useful information? Enough to warrant disturbing him and his family?”

“I'll be very careful when I tell him about the file. I'll just ask him if he knew Hamasaki.”

Maile frowned. “You take those herbs to Bebe, then let her decide.” She pointed to the newspaper. “Meanwhile, you'd better go to the police before they come to you.”

“Right.” Storm ate the rest of her eggs. She would never cook them for herself and they tasted wonderful. After the last bite, she tried to help clean up the kitchen, but Aunt Maile shooed her out.

Storm drove into Waimea, where the principal police station for this side of the island was located. A dark-haired woman in the familiar blue uniform smiled up at her from a desk. “May I help you?”

“Yes, could I talk to you about the accident that happened last night?”

The woman put down her pen. “You need to talk to Chief Mendoza. Let me check if he's free. What's your name, please?” She picked up her phone and pushed a button.

Chief? Shit.

Mendoza stood behind the woman's desk by the time she'd placed her receiver back in the cradle. “Kayama. You're back.” His hair was still slicked straight back, but its raven sheen was silvery gray and he'd gained fifty pounds.

“Nice to see you, too, Chief Mendoza.” Well, what else could she say?

He exhaled through his nose with a puff that reminded Storm of a Percheron and caused the woman cop's smile to diminish a watt or two. “Let's talk in my office.”

The office was bigger than Storm remembered, and the walls were covered with pictures. Mendoza with the mayor of Hawai'i, the mayor of Honolulu, and Jack Lord of “Hawaii Five-O.” That one was from the days Storm lived on the Big Island and Mendoza was still a sergeant.

“Have a seat.” Mendoza pointed to a chair, then perched his substantial behind on the edge of the desk. He glared down at her and folded his arms. She looked up and noticed that her neck was stiff from the ordeal last night.

“We got your call. Why didn't you stay at the scene?” he said.

“Chief Mendoza, I was so upset, it was all I could do to dial the number. I grew too tired to wait.”

“Did you stop when you heard the crash?”

“Yes, but I couldn't see anything. So I drove to Laupahoehoe, where I could safely pull off the road and call.”

“The car Kwi was driving was white. It had metallic blue paint on the front bumper. If I look at your car, will I find that it matches?”

“Of course. He rammed me from behind.”

“And you fled the scene of a fatal accident, which is a felony.”

Ten years ago, Mendoza's bullying would have terrified her. This morning, it made her mad. She stood up and looked down at Mendoza's seated bulk and folded her arms like his. “Chief Mendoza, I reported the accident. He rammed me, dropped back, rammed me again, and went over the side. The marks on both cars will corroborate my story.”

Mendoza narrowed his little black eyes. “We'll see. Why would he do that?”

“Chief Mendoza, I'm reporting not only an accident, but an assault. The why part is your job.”

Mendoza stood up. “You have your car outside? I want to see it.” He opened the door. “Hamasaki can't get you out of trouble anymore. If you're involved in any of your old shenanigans, I'll bust you flatter'n a cockroach.”

Mendoza looked at the rental's crumpled fenders. He walked around the car twice, opened the doors, looked under the front seat, and sniffed around the dashboard, punctuating his search with grunts and snorts. He slammed the driver's side door so hard the car rocked. “Watch yourself,” he said and went back in the station house.

Carefully obeying the speed limit while her blood pressure threatened to blow the top of her head off, Storm drove north to her aunt's and uncle's home. No one appeared to follow her. It was hard to know which sight would have upset her more in the rearview mirror, a police car or an anonymous sedan.

Twenty minutes later, she found a note from Aunt Maile on the kitchen counter saying that she was doing errands and would be back in an hour; when the day cooled off, they would go pick herbs. Storm still seethed at the confrontation with Mendoza, but now she realized that what upset her most was the memory of her past put on display. She paced the floor for a few minutes and mentally reviewed the conversation. Mendoza was a jerk, but he was right about her leaving the scene of the accident. Still, she didn't feel that she could ask him for help if she needed it. What she needed was to go for a run, burn off the frustration, and think about the situation.

The gravel roads around Pa'auilo were wonderful for running. There was very little traffic and the few drivers who passed waved with big grins on their faces. The air was humid, cool, and smelled of sweet grass and the faint perfume of, well, cow manure.

Storm found her rhythm in ten minutes, then jogged without fatigue. When she turned around in the middle of the dirt road to head back, she was inhaling deep, cleansing breaths and she had left the conflict of the morning in the dust of the road.

Clearheaded, she reviewed the events of the drive from Hilo last night. When she left the house this morning, dreading the visit to the police, she had the feeling that she'd left something undone. With a jolt, Storm realized that she had intended to call Lorraine. If the whole thing with Kwi Choy hadn't been just a crazy accident, then someone believed Storm knew something damaging. That person might figure Lorraine knew it, too.

Maile was in the kitchen, chopping the tops off carrots and stowing them in the refrigerator when Storm came in sweaty from her run. Maile watched with a wide-eyed, bemused expression when Storm burst into the kitchen and grabbed the phone.

Storm shifted her weight from one foot to the other and counted the rings. From past conversations, Storm knew that Lorraine and her husband went to the farmer's market and Chinatown on Saturdays for their weekly vegetable shopping. It was an activity they enjoyed together and Lorraine frequently related the bargains they found to colleagues at the office. Storm left a message for Lorraine to call her immediately and hung up the phone. “I'll try again later.”

“Good idea.” Maile put down a peeler and washed her hands at the sink. “You feel like walking with me, picking some herbs for Bebe's patient? We need to go soon. The clouds are coming in and it'll rain in an hour or two.”

“I'd love to. Give me five minutes to change my clothes.” Storm dashed off to her room.

When they got outside the house, Aunt Maile pressed a piece of carved wood into Storm's hand. Storm smiled. “Pua‘a, my pig. You still have it.”

“Of course, it's your ‘aamakaa, your personal guardian. One day soon, I'll give it to you.” Maile cocked one eyebrow at her. “When I know you'll take proper care of it.”

“It's old, isn't it?” Storm looked at the totem in her hand, gave it a pat, and handed it back to Aunt Maile.

“Yes, it belonged to my father, and his father, your great-grandfather. A kapana carved it about a hundred years ago, when people knew how their ancestral guardians looked out for them.” Maile looked at Storm, her smile tinged with solemnity.

“You think I need it today?”

“I think you need it always, but I chant to it from time to time for you. It can take care of you from my house.” Now, her eyes had a mischievous sparkle.

“Come on, Aunt Maile.” Storm grinned back.

Maile looked up the mountain and started to walk. “The ancients had good reasons for their beliefs. We shouldn't reject so many of their teachings.”

“I believe you.” Storm recognized her aunt's mood. She knew that while she'd been changing her clothes, Aunt Maile had probably said an Hawaiian prayer for guidance in her search for strong herbs. Like many other Native American cultures, Hawaiians believed they were a small part of a great circle of life; the earth and her gods nurtured and needed to be shown gratitude for their benevolence.

Aunt Maile was a modern woman in many ways, but she believed in the teachings of the ancients. When Storm was a child, Aunt Maile had tied a small ‘aamakaa on a thong around her neck before taking their walks on the slopes of the volcano. For Storm, it was tradition, like putting a star on top of the Christmas tree. For her aunt, it was deeper, a plea for a safe journey into the sacred lands that bordered the kapa, or forbidden trails of the ali‘i and their kahana.

The royalty of old, their priests, and certain gods still wandered among the koa forests and lava fields. Those who saw them said that their feet never touched the ground and their presence was preceded by the aroma of gardenia or pikake. It was said that whenever the sweet perfume of those flowers surrounded a person out walking, this person needed to heed the warning or face death. Tale after tale, even modern-day ones, passed on the omens.

Chapter 16

Storm followed the wide seat of Aunt Maile's overalls up the narrow path that veered from the main road and rose with the slopes of the volcano. Mauna Kea had not erupted for many years, though Kilauea spewed regularly from the Pu‘u õ‘õ vent, north of Hilo. Still, Storm could see the lava paths that had flowed hundreds of years ago. A thick layer of lava could take decades to cool, and only then did the hardiest varieties of grass, blade by blade, poke through the convoluted sheets of congealed rock.

Along the edges of the lava flows, koa and kiawe grew gnarled by the ceaseless trade winds into skeletal crones that tottered across the grasslands. Storm was always amazed that this same koa tree produced the richly burled wood treasured by the best furniture makers in Hawai'i.

She took a deep breath of cool air and watched wisps of clouds dance ahead of them on the path. Aunt Maile bent down and plucked a plant, carefully leaving leaves behind. Storm drew up beside her and tilted her head back to the damp mists that drifted around them like amiable spirits. She'd forgotten how revitalizing it was to hike these pastures. From time to time, a cluster of cows with their spring-born young would low and trudge away from their approach.

“Want me to carry your basket?” She spoke softly, as if the clouds that descended upon these deceptively fruitful lands requested peace.

“Thanks, honey, but I'm accustomed to it. I'd feel like something was missing.” Aunt Maile's voice was low, too.

“Aunt Maile, why did my mother use the paeo for her ‘aamakaa?”

Maile looked at Storm out of the corner of her eyes. Storm saw the glance and knew she'd caught her aunt off guard by actually bringing up the topic of her mother. “She felt closer to the owl, our mother's family's animal guardian. I chose our father's, the pig. Same as you.”

“Did she carry it?” Storm knew she was surprising her aunt by discussing her mother, a topic she'd avoided over the years, even when Aunt Maile had brought it up.

Maile grunted, then bent down and poked among some grasses. “No, she didn't.” She stood up slowly. “She didn't learn about the old ways as much as I did. She was only twelve when our mother died. I'd had six more years of learning, and that's a lot when you're young.”

Storm felt goose flesh creep along her arms. “I was the same age when she died.”

Maile looked over her shoulder at her. “That's right.”

“But your mother was sick.” Storm's voice was brittle and Maile dropped back to her side.

“So was yours.” Maile sighed. “If my mother had got pneumonia a few years later, better antibiotics might have saved her life. Eme was no different. There are good drugs these days which might have relieved her illness.”

“Like the sleeping pills that killed her?” Storm spat out the words.

Aunt Maile's voice was gentle. “Depression killed her. She had no more control over it than my mother did over pneumonia.”

Storm kicked a rock and sent it bouncing along the path. “Didn't any of these remedies help?” She waved her hand in the direction of Maile's basket and quickly stomped ahead of her aunt.

Alone, she sat down on a boulder off the side of the path. Why was she searching for answers about her mother now? Maybe Uncle Miles's death had set it off, or maybe it was just PMS, though she'd never admit the latter out loud. It made her feel like crying.

She was terrified of being like her mother, yet she could still miss her so badly that she ached. One of her childhood memories was of her mother comforting her, saying, “Cry, let it out. Your tears carry away the pain.” Why hadn't crying, or something, relieved her mother? Why hadn't her only daughter been able to provide enough light in her life? A wave of pain passed through Storm. Maybe because the daughter hadn't been a very sympathetic adolescent.

Storm shuddered with the recollections of how people had whispered about her, lovely Eme's defiant daughter. Then, later, when Storm was a gawky teenager, the women sitting around would stop talking if she walked into a room and look at her with pity blurring their expressions to mush. It made her furious; the notion still made her boil.

Storm swallowed hard. She seemed to be caught between grief and the fear that depression would be as much her legacy as her mother's dark eyes and wavy hair. She was even further tormented by the scorn that much of society and organized religion heaped on suicide. Storm detested pity, the condescension it implied.

Aunt Maile sat quietly, six feet away on another boulder. She looked up at Storm, her brown face creased with sadness. “I still miss her.” Maile picked a flower out of her basket and twirled it between her strong fingers. “Sometimes when I look at you, I see her.”

Storm jerked as if Maile had touched her with a hot wire. Awareness passed over Maile's wizened face. “You only resemble her physically.”

Storm lowered her gaze. “Was she stubborn, like me?”

Maile chuckled. “No, she was sweet.”

Storm glared at the older woman.

“She was impressionable, even as an adult,” Maile continued. “Very different from you. You're stubborn, yes, but tough. And generous.”

Storm shook her head with distress. Maile walked over and put her hand on Storm's shoulder. “I mean that in a good way. I'm like you. Eme was artistic and sensitive. You and I blaze ahead. To our own detriment, sometimes.” Maile smiled. “She did like to walk these same paths, though, just as you and I do.”

Tears burned Storm's eyes. She wiped her nose on the back of her hand, then rubbed her hand across her jeans. “I should slow down and listen to people more.”

Maile shrugged. “We learn at our own rate.” She looked around at the fog that had silently surrounded them. “Storm, the clouds have come down and I need to get one more plant, koali, the blue morning glory. I think there's a vine on the pasture fence up ahead. Let's go, then we'll head for home.”

“Aunt Maile, I want to sit here for a minute and enjoy the peace. Could you come back this way?”

Aunt Maile paused, then nodded. “It's only about a hundred yards up the path. Stay here, you could get lost in this fog coming.”

The thickening mists gradually muffled the sound of Maile's footsteps. Storm raised her face to the coolness that eddied around her, glad for tranquility and solitude. Some of the cloud wisps were cooler than others and carried larger raindrops; they gathered and obscured the path Aunt Maile had taken. The fog cushioned not only the sights and noises of the pasture, but Storm's own bruised emotions. She took a deep breath of the soothing dampness and rested her elbows on her knees, chin in hands. Unlike the city, this was the land of her people, and for her, it held the power to heal.