Meaning his daughter, Quincannon surmised. “I take it you don’t particularly care for Stanton Millay.”
The innkeeper countered the question by asking one of his own. “How well do you know the lad?”
“Not at all — we’ve never met. My business is primarily with James Varner. You won’t give offense by confiding your honest opinion, Mr. Bannister. I would like to know what to expect of Mr. Millay.”
“Well... just between us?”
Quincannon raised a solemn hand. “You have my word as a gentleman that anything you say will not be repeated.”
“Well and good, then,” Bannister said. “My opinion is that Mr. Millay is half the man his father was — an arrogant blowhard who never outgrew his adolescence.”
“The sort who would rather play than work.”
“Yes.”
“Weak-willed, easily manipulated, would you say?”
Bannister wouldn’t say. His answer was an eloquent shrug.
“This may seem an odd question,” Quincannon said then, “but I have my reasons for asking it. Do you know of any spot on that part of the coast that might be referred to as ‘auohe’?”
“Hidden place? Well, let me think.” Bannister’s pipe had gone out; he relit it, puffed reflectively for several seconds. “There isn’t much on that part of the coast except volcanic rock, black sand beaches, and a kiawe forest to the east. But there are numerous caves and lava tubes, some quite large and reputed to extend for miles. Is that what you mean?”
“Possibly. What exactly is a lava tube?”
“Just what the name implies. Tubes formed centuries ago when molten flows from Mauna Kea cooled and hardened as they neared the sea and new flows tunneled through. Legend has it that there are undiscovered burial chambers in tubes along the Kohala Coast.”
“Burial chambers?”
“It was the custom of the ancient kings and those of royal blood to have their clothing and other possessions interred with their remains, after the fashion of the Egyptians. The locations were kept secret for privacy reasons....” Bannister paused. “Ah, that reminds me. Just south of the Millay ranch road, near Waimae Point, there is an inlet where an old heiau once stood. I suppose it might be considered a hidden place.”
“And what is a heiau?”
“A Polynesian temple. After a volcanic eruption destroyed part of the low cliffs there long ago, a kahunapule — a high priest — ordered a temple built on the site. Grass huts that housed various wooden idols, stone altar platforms where sacrifices were offered to the gods. The early missionaries had the huts and idols burned. No one goes to the ruins.”
“No? Why is that?”
“Natives are superstitious,” Bannister said, “and heiaus were considered taboo — still are, to some extent. The ruins can also be dangerous at high tide. The rocks are unstable and there is a rather large puka in the ledge there. Blowhole, that is.”
Quincannon let the conversation lapse. No matter now whether or not the heiau was the hidden place referred to on the map. Vereen would reveal the answer, one way or another.
13
Sabina
She could not seem to sleep beyond a series of fitful dozes.
It wasn’t the heat or the humidity, or the fact that, except for the faint distant sound of the surf, the night had a preternatural stillness. It was that she was alone in the guesthouse. After Stephen’s death she had adapted well enough to solitary living and to sleeping alone, even learned to cherish solitude; self-reliance had made her a stronger woman. Nor had she had any trouble sleeping alone during John’s infrequent absences since their marriage. But here in Hawaii, in a strange environment three thousand miles from home, she couldn’t help feeling a restless sense of displacement, of being at loose ends now that he was away.
Lying awake, she wished she had insisted on going with him to the Big Island. Sharing whatever hardships he might endure over there would have been preferable to the hardship of passively waiting. Margaret had graciously offered to show her the local attractions — they had spent most of this day on a buggy trip to Diamond Head, the views from the top of which were breathtaking — and she was good company if a little too inquisitive about Sabina’s investigative experiences. So the days would be tolerable enough until John’s return. It was the nights, if this one was an indication, that would be the hardest to bear.
The inability to do more than doze drove her out of bed finally, out onto the screened porch. There had been no rain tonight, nor was there any threat of it in the offing. The moon was up, nearly full, bright when not obscured by a thin scud of clouds. Perhaps a walk on the beach would tire her enough so she could sleep.
She dressed in a skirt and blouse, slipped her bare feet into beach sandals, tied a long scarf around her head and neck, and went outside. The lack of even a breath of ocean breeze made the night’s stillness acute, and the mingled scents of tropical flowers were almost cloyingly sweet. The whiteness of intermittent moonlight made it easy enough for her to traverse the crushed-shell path that led down to the beach. Mosquitoes and other night bugs thrummed around her on the way, but they were not bothersome enough to change her mind about continuing.
When she reached the gate, she could see lights in every direction — a winking yellow beacon high atop the massive shape of Diamond Head, winking lanterns out beyond the reef that marked the presence of native fishing boats, a broad sweep of shore and ship lights in the harbor three miles away, the glow of the arcs that lined the city streets. The sight, not unlike that of the San Francisco bay front as seen from Nob Hill or Telegraph Hill on a clear night, gave birth to a faint feeling of homesickness. As much as she liked Hawaii and the Pritchards, the visit here had not lived up to her expectations thus far.
She stepped through the gate, walked southward along the surf line. There was no one else on the beach at this hour — 3:00 A.M.? 4:00? It was as if she were alone on a desert isle, a feeling that was not unpleasant. Sabina Crusoe, she thought, and smiled.
She had not walked far, a hundred rods or so, when she came upon what she thought at first was a large round rock in the sand. But as she neared it, it moved. The partial appearance of a dark scaly head froze her to a standstill. Then the head retreated and the shape was motionless again, and she realized what it was. A turtle, a harmless giant sea turtle that had crawled up onto the beach to sleep. She chuckled to herself, detoured around the creature, and made her way back the way she’d come.
The Pettibone house had been completely dark when she started out; now a light shone in a pair of adjacent windows in a ground-floor room facing the sea. Someone there who wasn’t able to sleep either, she thought. But maybe she could now; she felt tired enough after the stroll. She stepped through the gate, went up through the garden.
She was almost to the guesthouse porch when an explosive report broke the quiet.
The noise brought her to another standstill, the hairs on the back of her scalp prickling. No mistaking it for anything other than a gunshot; she had heard enough pistols fired to recognize it. Yes, and the shot had to have come from a large-caliber weapon for the sound to have carried on the still night air.
There was no second report; the silence resettled. Instinct and curiosity sent her past the poinciana tree to the boundary fence, to where she had a mostly unobstructed view of the Pettibone house. At her first look she saw nothing but a pale spill of electric light from one of the rear windows. Seconds later, a puffball cloud obscured the moon, throwing a blanket of darkness over the house and grounds.