“Mahalo, Tommy.”
“No problem. Glad you’re back. See you at the press conference?”
“Count on it.”
Kawika headed north again, then followed Highway 19 as it wound up the slope from Pu‘ukoholā Heiau, the sacred spot where Peter Pukui and Melanie and HHH had once met to plan campaigns. Halfway up Kohala Mountain he passed the turnoff he’d taken the night he broke Cushing’s nose. Further along, the road split. One fork led to Waimea, where Joan Malo had lived an innocent childhood, and where he’d since seen Fortunato laid open on a table and Joan’s blood splattered inside a BMW. He took the other fork: the Kohala Mountain Road, the road to Hāwī, the road to his birthplace, and Joan’s, and Kamehameha’s. Nothing bad had ever happened to Kawika on the road to Hāwī.
Nothing bad happened this time either. He could tell Kimaio’s house was probably empty; no car or truck in the driveway. It was an old Parker Ranch line shack, a place for paniolos—cowboys—to hole up for a hot meal or in bad weather and still be able to watch the cattle on the vast grazing area that stretched for miles north and south and down the mountainside below. Some owner before Kimaio had remodeled the place. It looked comfortable, even stylish, and enjoyed one of the most sweeping views of any house in the world.
Kawika knocked at the door, expecting no response and receiving none. A wide deck surrounded the little house on three sides. He walked to the southwest corner, the spot that interested him most. He peered in windows as he passed, feeling entitled—even obligated—to do so. Kimaio had covered them with blinds, but through one small gap Kawika could see a wall almost entirely covered with electronics and blinking lights. Before it stood a table with computer, headphones, an office chair.
Kawika leaned on the corner railing. It was just as he’d imagined. Here one seemed to stand in God’s shoes. The volcanoes were all in view: Mauna Kea, Mauna Loa, Hualālai, and over on Maui, Haleakalā. The long coastline was also in view, thirty miles of it, from Kona all the way to Kawaihae. The ocean, corrugated by swells and serrated by winds, lay dappled and shadowed by scattered white clouds so far below him that Kawika looked down on their tops.
Taking his time, using landmarks for reference, Kawika eventually pinpointed in the distance every important location: Waikoloa Village, the land for KKL’s planned resort, Fortunato’s home outside Waimea, Cushing’s home far down the slope, the grassy expanse of Waiki‘i Ranch where Rocco had buried Melanie. Kawika could even vaguely see the Mauna Lani’s golf courses.
Kimaio had built himself a sturdy observation post like a tiny set of bleachers, something the winds wouldn’t move around. It wasn’t entirely rudimentary. Kimaio had added padded back supports and arm rests. Kawika climbed up to Kimaio’s throne and sat. He wasn’t waiting for Kimaio—he figured Kimaio wasn’t coming—but for the sunset. He wanted to see more of what Kimaio had seen, feel more of what Kimaio had felt when he was feeling like God.
After sunset, incomparable in its grandeur and celestial scale, Kawika felt he’d gotten what he came for. He walked to his car and drove down to Puakō. He embraced his father and Ku‘ulei, compared healed wounds with his cousin, and spent the evening quietly with two people he loved.
In the morning he knew there’d be no point in returning to Kimaio’s house. Instead, he drove down the highway to the turnoff for Waikoloa Village. A short distance up the slope he found the roadside graffiti meant just for him. He’d guessed it might be there.
The bleached coral letters stood out against the black lava rock. “KW: KFR.” Kawika could guess what “KFR” meant: Ka‘ū Forest Reserve. He sighed and dialed the station. Tanaka’s assistant took the call.
“Hi,” Kawika said. “Do me a favor, would you? Go into my office and pick up this call there.” He wasn’t sure this was necessary but figured it couldn’t hurt. He’d finally understood how to communicate with the graffiti artist who specialized in bleached coral on black lava. Almost nothing about the case, it seemed, could possibly be explained if Kimaio hadn’t been listening in on him and others; almost everything could be explained if Kimaio had been. Kimaio’s buddy Joe Crane had evidently done a lot more than just get Jimmy Jack a nice phone number and run some wiretaps for the U.S. Attorney back on the mainland.
“Sure, I’ll switch this to your office, but why?”
“I’ll explain later.”
In a few moments, Tanaka’s assistant picked up again. “I’m in your office now,” she said.
“Thanks. I just wanted to say, I’ve got to go to Ka‘ū.” He pronounced it the Hawaiian way, kah-oo.
“Now? You’re not coming here?”
“I’ll get there. But I’ll go to Ka‘ū first. That’s K-A-U.”
“I know the spelling, mystery man. See you later.”
Kawika checked his watch. It was a long way to Ka‘ū, and he’d have to drive fast. Tanaka expected him in Hilo for the press conference, and he could not afford to arrive late. Everything depended on getting to Tanaka first.
72The Ka‘ū Forest Reserve
The Ka‘ū Forest Reserve is huge. To say, “Meet me in the Ka‘ū Forest Reserve” is like saying “Meet me on the Big Island” unless a specific location is understood. Kawika understood. The location had to be the skinny young koa tree where, not long ago, he’d found unconscious and handcuffed that druggie killer he’d been pursuing, the one Tanaka had used to illustrate that in police work, the fact that something’s true is more important than why it’s true. “KW: KFR” could have no other meaning for Kawika—a thought that chilled him. In Father Brown’s lexicon, Kimaio had been the Invisible Man, Kawika an observed man. For how
