“Thanks.” It was Kona coffee, strong enough to put structure in one’s afternoon.
“Dessert, Dan? We got a haupia chiffon pie.”
Watanabe patted his stomach. “Gosh, no thanks, Misty. I just had my ration of Spam.”
Misty left the check on the table, and he stared out the window. An elderly Chinese woman passed by, hauling a wheelie basket full of her day’s shopping, which included a fish wrapped in newspaper, the tail sticking out. A shadow raced down the street, darkening the people-a passing cloud-then hot sunlight flared, then another cloud-shadow. As usual, the trade winds were driving rain and sunlight across Oahu. Rain and sun, endlessly marching over the island, and when you looked into the mountains, you often saw rainbows.
He put on his sunglasses and walked back to police headquarters, taking his time, running his tongue over his teeth, trying to work out a Spam knot from between his molars. By the time he got back to his office, Watanabe had made up his mind.
He had decided to open an investigation into Nanigen.
Do it quietly.
The matter was sensitive. Nanigen was a rich company, with a high-profile CEO. The company might have political connections, who knows. The Nanigen matter would take time away from his investigation into the bizarre case involving the three dead men-the lawyer Willy Fong, the PI Marcos Rodriguez, and the unidentified Asian male. The victims had bled to death from numerous cuts while they’d been inside Fong’s locked office. The Willy Fong Mess, as he liked to call it, would have to go on hold. He wasn’t getting anywhere with the Willy Fong Mess anyway.
At headquarters, Watanabe dropped by the office of his boss, Marty Kalama. “I want to look into these disappearances at Nanigen.”
“Why, Dan?” Kalama said, sitting back and blinking rapidly.
Watanabe knew Kalama wasn’t questioning his methods. Kalama just wanted to hear what he had in mind, his reasoning. Watanabe said, “First I want to wait a short while and see if the missing people turn up. If they don’t, I’ll assemble a squad. But right now, I just want to do a little poking around on my own. Low-pro.”
“You suspect criminal activity?”
“I don’t have probable cause. But things don’t add up.”
“Okay,” Kalama said. “Explain.”
“Peter Jansen. When I showed him a video of his brother, Eric, drowning, he seemed to recognize a female in the video who was a witness to the drowning. But then he, like, covers it up, says he doesn’t know the woman. I think he was lying. Then I had a couple of my people visiting Nanigen to get info on Eric Jansen, the executive who drowned. My guys met the CEO, named Drake. Drake was polite, but. My guys said it was like a traffic stop when the subject is visibly nervous but there’s no obvious reason for him to be nervous.”
“Maybe Mr., uh-”
“Drake.”
“-Drake was upset about losing his executive.”
Watanabe said, “It was more like he had a body in the trunk of his car.”
Marty Kalama squinted behind his rimless spectacles. “Dan, I’m not hearing about evidence.”
Watanabe patted his stomach. “Gut. My Spam is talking to me.”
Kalama nodded. “Be careful.”
“About what?”
“You know what Nanigen does, right?”
Watanabe grinned. Oops. He hadn’t yet looked into Nanigen’s business.
“They make small robots,” Kalama went on. “Really small.”
“Okay, so?”
“A company like that could have contracts with the government. That’s trouble.”
“You know something about Nanigen?” Watanabe asked his boss.
“I’m just a cop. Cops don’t know shit.”
Watanabe grinned. “I’ll keep you out of it.”
“The hell you will,” Kalama snapped. “Get out of here.” He took off his glasses and polished them with a Kleenex, watching Dan Watanabe leave. The guy was quiet and smart, one of his best detectives. Those were the ones who created the worst trouble. The thing about trouble was that Marty Kalama kind of enjoyed it.
Chapter 25
Fern Gully 30 October, 7:00 a.m.
Morning came, and the six survivors stirred inside a pocket of moss on the trunk of a tree somewhere on a rain-forested mountainside in the Ko‘olau Pali. The birds were singing, slow and deep. They sounded like whales calling to one another in the deep sea.
Peter Jansen stuck his head out of the hiding place in the moss on the side of the ohia tree and looked around. He could see the remains of the fort on the ground below, trashed by the centipede. Nearby lay the dead centipede. Ants had already begun butchering it, and had removed large portions of the carcass.
They were near the bottom of a sea, Peter reflected. It was a sea of jungle as deep as any ocean.
He craned his neck, looking up along the tree’s trunk. The tree was young and small, and its crown was ablaze with red blossoms, as if the tree had burst into flame. “I think we should try to climb to the top,” Peter said.
“Why?” Rick asked.
Peter looked at his watch. “I’d like to get a view of the parking lot. To make sure we’re headed in the right direction. And to watch what happens in the parking lot.”
“Makes sense,” Rick said.
Peter and Rick pulled their heads in. The others sat huddled in the moss, with Amar between them wrapped in the silver blanket; he had finally fallen asleep. A bruise had developed on the side of his head, extending over his left temple. It might be just a bruise, or it might be a sign of the bends-in any case, they decided that Rick would remain with Amar to look after him, while the others would attempt to climb the tree. There were four radio headsets, all told. Rick would keep one radio, while the climbers would carry the others. Peter said, “We should keep radio silence, except in an emergency.”
“You think somebody from Nanigen could be listening?” Karen said.
“The radio’s range is only a hundred feet. But if Drake suspects we’re alive, he may be listening for us. And he’s capable of anything,” Peter answered.
They began climbing the tree. Peter led the way up the first pitch. He put on the belt with the reel and line attached to it, and carried the rope ladder from the backpack. Karen King took along Rick Hutter’s blowgun and the box of darts, and the jar of curare. Karen would serve as the expedition’s hunter.
Tree climbing proved to be extremely easy. Mosses and lichens, as well as the rough bark, offered plenty of handholds and footholds as they climbed. They were strong enough in the micro-world to be able to hang from something with one hand, even by just a few fingers. And it didn’t really matter if you fell. There was no real danger in a fall. You’d land on the ground unhurt.
They took turns lead-climbing. One person, secured by another with the reel and belt down below, would lead the way up the trunk carrying the rope ladder, which he would then secure to the tree and drop down to the others to climb.
The tree was covered with furrowed bark, and the bark was densely packed with mosses and liverworts-tiny plants, some of them almost microscopic in size, though to the micro-humans the mosses and liverworts seemed as big as shrubbery. The tree was also crusted with many kinds of lichens, frilly, lacy, and knobby. The leaves were rounded and leathery and the branches snaked around.
Eventually, Danny Minot gave up. “I can’t do this,” he said, and sat down and tucked himself into a lump of lichen in a sunny, warm spot.
“Do you want to stay here while the rest of us go on?” Peter asked.
“Actually, I’d prefer to be in the Algiers Coffeehouse in Harvard Square, drinking espresso and reading
