'It's a lie,' Aki said. 'I tell it to make myself interesting. Nobody knows about Hawaiian birds here but there is such a thing at home as a vulture finch.'
'There are no regular vultures in Hawaii?'
'No big land birds at all,' Aki said. 'Hawaii is nowhere. Nowhere is too fir for big birds to fly to, but little birds were blown over by hurricanes. There's this little cute-looking bird that you'd swear is a finch that feeds on dead bodies. That's how I found out life isn't Walt Disney. I was out as a kid playing and there was a dead man in a field, a drunk who got hurt and who dragged himselfout there, and the body was crawling with gorgeous little birds, gorging themselves.'
'Yecch…'
'But why? It's not really revolting.' Aki asked. 'There's no biological reason for vultures to be big.'
'You know about biology?' Grijpstra asked as the car slowed down. There was a commotion further along the interstate.
'My major subject,' Aki said, 'at the University of Honolulu, and now I serve eggs over easy to the wild men of Jameson, Maine. It's not a pretty story, Krip.'
Traffic had stopped. A car had left the road ahead, at a high speed probably, for it had rolled over a few times. And it had been a while ago because an ambulance was now back- l ing up to the wreck, policemen were directing traffic, and a helicopter hovered above.
Eventually traffic moved again. 'Makes me think of Beth's father,' Aki said. 'It was last winter. Big Daddyti been to the grave of Beth's sister. The man was eighty years old and almost blind but every few days he made himself take flowers to the cemetery, to alleviate some guilt. Apparently he had maltreated the girl. Then Big Daddy disappeared. Nobody could figure it out. He'd bought the flowers at Gary's Greenhouse behind Main Street, and Gary had seen him drive ofFtoward the cemetery, which is along a straight road through the forest west oftown. The flowers were found on the grave but Big Daddy never came back.'
'Maybe a good way to go,' Grijpstra said.
'You figured it out?' Aki asked. Grijpstra sat quietly while the Ford product sped along.
'Getting hungry, Krip?'
He was but he didn't want to eat at any of the fast food places that they passed once in a while: slabs of concrete behind plastic signs. Beth had known of an inn with gourmet food and Grijpstra read the map that she had marked with arrows, giving Aki clear directions.
'Aren't we a deadly combination?' Aki said when they sat on the inn's terrace, facing a pond with a collection of exotic ducks and geese.
'And how do you like these gorgeous fowl, Krip?' Grijpstra knew the birds' names.
'You took biology too, Krip?'
He told her he painted birds, in the Dutch Golden Age tradition, a time when Dutch merchants liked to keep exotic fowl on their country estates and had them portrayed for extra glory.
'And now you see them in America. More Belgian steamed mussels? More French bread? This is America, Krip, we indulge every desire. You don't have to go anywhere to get anything, it's all right here. You solved the puzzle yet, Krip?'
Grijpstra thought so. Beth's father, when he disappeared, was eighty years old and nearly blind so he wouldn't have been able to drive on unfamiliar roads. He had driven home after leaving the cemetery, where else would he have gone? But he hadn't gotten home. On the way home he had become sick or had fallen asleep, like the driver of the overturned car on the interstate just now. A stroke or a cardiac arrest made him slump over the wheel and stamp on the gas at the same time. Being an old man he was driving an old car, a tank of the gas- guzzling type. The car had left the road and barreled into the forest, which, like most in northern Maine, grew up to both sides of the rural road. The car flattened saplings and brushes until stopped by a tree trunk. There the car sat. The saplings behind it bent back.
'What about that big old Packard's massive tracks?' Aki asked.
'This happened in winter?'
'Yes.'
'So there might have been snow,' Grijpstra said. 'Snow covered the car's tracks after the car entered the forest.'
'You're good,' Aki said.
Grijpstra looked pleased. 'That's what happened?'
'Exactly.'
'The sheriff sent out search parties?' Grijpstra asked.
'He saw ravens circling the next morning,' Aki said, 'and an eagle. Eagles are scavengers too. And the big sea gulls. They have cruel eyes. They go for your eyes first, they don't wait for you to die.'
'Was Beth's father dead before the birds found him?' Grijpstra asked.
'Oh yes,' Aki said, 'there was an autopsy. The heart attack must have killed Big Daddy straight off.'
Grijpstra enjoyed the cream pie Aki ordered, a Florida pie made from limes, foreign to Maine. He dozed in the car until, close to Boston, the traffic became noisy.
'Motel out of town?' Aki asked. 'Hotel in town? Hotels will be expensive. Any preference, Krip?'
He waved his credit card. 'Nothing but the best.'
Aki had heard about the Parker House being good. 'But very expensive. You really don't mind?'
He didn't. He liked the skyscrapers lining the parkway and the way Aki handled the car, driving close to cabs so that she could ask their drivers for directions.
'Hold it Krip.' The car shot across a sidewalk and dived into a garage. 'This is it. Out you go.'
Bellboys took over, parking the car, carrying luggage, driving the elevator, ushering them through the lobby.
Grijpstra ordered separate suites. Aki canceled that. 'One suite will do.' He protested. Til get lonely, Krip. The big city reminds me.'
He worried. There was Nellie, there was disease, but then there was safe sex, but he didn't want safe sex either. Besides, why not separate suites? What could a thirtyish extraordinarily attractive homosexual Polynesian female want with a sixty-year-old slightly obese white heterosexual male? Information? Information about what?
He missed de Gier. De Gier, while roaming the alleys of good old Amsterdam, would have had something smart to say about the situation. Now de Gier, auto-induced schizophrenic meddler with fourth-dimensional reality, was a goddamn suspect himself.
Aki and Grijpstra talked over dinner, at an age-old oyster bar in Boston's harbor district, eating quahogs stuffed in their shells, root beer for Grijpstra, tonic and lime for Akiapola'au, served by old, ugly, rough but not uncaring waitresses.
'No alcohol, Krip?'
'I can't smoke anymore,' Grijpstra said, tapping his chest.
'Can't drink without smoking?'
'True,' Grijpstra said. 'Yourself?'
'I'm alcoholic.
He left it at that, watching Boston women. He thought Bostonian women looked like women from The Hague- quiet, dressed with a kind of in-between taste that wouldn't commit them one way or another.
'Want to know when I stopped?' Aki asked.
'Being alcoholic?'
She laughed. 'I will always be that. Stopped drinking, I mean.'
'Tell me.'
'When I came to Maine two years ago,' Aki said. 'You want to know why?'
'Tell me.'
'You sure?'
Grijpstra was sure.
'Because of hopping backwards up to a urinal in an army barracks restroom with my clothes off and shy soldiers staring.'
'I see.'
