Then I hear them. Footfalls again. This time at the front of the church, from gravel, to the wooden porch, a hand on the doorknob, and it opens. A shaft of bright sunlight. I press my back harder against the altar. Hard heels on the rough wooden floor, quick steps coming this way. With each I count the seconds left of my life. I think of Sarah. Life as an orphan. Bitter recriminations. I should not have come and left my daughter to pay the price. The irresponsible things parents do. What I would give for one more hug before I leave her…
A long shadow approaching, growing shorter on the wall. In this instant of blind panic, my mind reaches for an out-of-body experience, floating somewhere over this scene, above this altar of death.
‘May I ask what you’re doing?’
From the corner of my eye, a head of dark hair peers at me over the edge of wood that is the corner of the altar. A lean face, stern in its bearing, middle aged, a touch of gray at the temples, the face of peace, framed in black and white, a broad clerical collar.
‘What are you doing back here?’ he says.
‘Oh, God!’ I grab my chest, gasping for air.
‘Are you all right?’ The minister looks at me, suddenly solicitous, one of his flock with a coronary.
I’m hyperventilating, making up for life’s deficit of lost breath.
‘Fine,’ I tell him. ‘I’m fine.’ My looks must convey otherwise. He’s around the altar, helping me to my feet, propping me against the altar.
‘Do you need a doctor?’
‘No, no. Just give me a second.’
Sweat running down my face, my knees trembling. He plies me for my story, some testimony of what I’m doing here, something for a Sunday sermon. Man’s ultimate ‘come-to-Jesus meeting’ behind the altar.
‘It’s a long story,’ I tell him. I look at the windows, the ebbing sun, the lengthening shadows of late afternoon. I fight to find saliva in a dry mouth.
‘You’ll have to excuse me, but I was praying,’ I tell him.
‘That’s good,’ he says. ‘This is the right place. But you’re supposed to do it out there.’ He points toward the pews.
‘Somehow, back here,’ I tell him, ‘I felt closer to God.’
He considers this for a moment, then nods as if to say, ‘If it’s right by the Lord, it’s fine by me.’
‘Is there anyone outside?’ I ask.
He shakes his head.
‘I mean a car… in the parking lot?’
‘One driving out when I came in, and another, a small red sedan parked,’ he says. ‘I was coming to look for the owner. I have to lock up.’
‘You found him. Where did you come from?’ I ask.
‘I live across the road. I walk here each afternoon to lock the church and the gate out on the highway. Can I help you to your car?’
‘No. There’s no need.’ I’m around the altar, making my amends, telling him I am fine, my shirt dripping with perspiration, more dust and dirt on my pants than a coal miner.
He gives me a strange sort of look, a shake of the head, something designed to measure my soul, that says it’s been a long time since anyone in this little church has worked so hard at prayer.
On the road back to Hana my eyes are glued to the rearview mirror. If the courier is following me, he’s doing a good job, sans lights, taking the hairpin turns in what is now approaching darkness.
I’m past the turnout to the Seven Pools when a car comes from someplace off a dirt road, a lot of dust, and headlights on high beam, close enough that if I brake, he will be sitting in my trunk.
My first thoughts are ones of panic. I goose it and take a turn on skidding wheels.
Suddenly there’s the flutter of lights in my mirror, flashing red and blue, followed by a quick siren. Pangs of wondrous relief. I’m about to get a speeding ticket.
We stop. The widest spot on the road I can find, a private driveway. The cop gets out, blue uniform. In the beam of his spotlight it is all I can see. In this instant it hits me. A courier one moment. How hard would it be?
Then his flashlight is in my eyes. He lowers the beam for a brief instant and I can see him. One of the local boys, Hawaiian through and through.
‘Can I see your driver’s license?’
‘How fast was I going, officer?’
No response. I fumble in my wallet.
‘Take it out, please.’
I hand it to him.
He looks at the license, then flashes light in my eyes.
‘Mr. Madriani. Stay in your vehicle and follow me, please.’
With that he hands me my license and heads back to his car.
I have had roller-coaster rides with less G force than the trip back to Hana behind this guy. Like some Toon-time character with an anvil for a foot, the cop drives as if the road will stretch like ribbon to hold his tires in the turns. We highball through town like a rocket sled, no siren or lights, nothing that might give the odd pedestrian or stray dog an even chance.
Two miles on the other side, he turns down a road to the right, onto the flat plain leading to the airstrip. A second right and a few hundred feet up a dirt road he comes to a stop behind another police car and two unmarked vehicles. A small group is gathered, talking in the headlights. I see Dana, and Jessie Opolo. They’re both wearing blue nylon jackets with the letters FBI emblazoned on the back.
As soon as Dana sees my car, she moves quickly toward me, a tight expression on her face.
I kill my lights, and before I can get out she’s posturing at my door.
‘Where have you been?’
‘Pursuing a lead,’ I tell her.
‘You had us worried sick,’ she says. Dana’s face is a map of fury at this moment, but her voice is restrained. ‘We didn’t have any idea where you’d gone. Taking off like that.’
‘So you sent the troops?’ I point to the cop car that brought me in like I was on some kind of tractor beam.
‘Jessie had them put out an all-points for your car,’ she says.
‘Discreet,’ I tell her.
‘Well, you should have told us where you were going.’
‘What’s happening?’
‘Jessie and his men got a lead on the Merlows. One of the mail carriers saw them driving to a house up the road here. We think it’s where they’re holed up.’
‘Wonderful. What are they waiting for?’
‘Jessie wants to go in carefully. We’re not exactly sure what we’re dealing with.’
I’m trying to move toward Jessie and the agents. She’s got her hand on my arm.
‘What did you find?’ she says.
‘Nothing. Dead end,’ I tell her.
There is little sense telling her about meeting with Kathy Merlow or my close call with the netherworld at the hands of the courier. It would only make her more angry. If they have found the Merlows, Dana will know the story soon enough. We can get them on a plane and I can grill them both for five hours to the drone of jet engines.
We’ve made our way to where Opolo and the cops are standing.
‘Hey, man, we were worried about you. She chew your ass good?’ A big smile on the Hawaiian’s round face.
I don’t answer.
‘Where’s the house?’ I ask.
‘Up there. About a hundred yards,’ says Opolo.
Just then one of agents comes down the road, a steep incline. He holds his voice until he reaches us.
‘Lights are on, but no movement. If they’re inside they must be sitting down doing something. We can’t see a thing.’
‘Should we go?’ Opolo quizzing his men. There’s a debate.
‘We don’t have a warrant.’ One of the agents is worried.
‘Hell, we’re not looking to arrest them,’ says Opolo.
‘I’d like somebody to hold them,’ I break in. ‘At least until we find out what they know.’
‘No problem,’ says Opolo. ‘We got cause to hold them. To talk to them about the bombing at the post office. If what you say is true, they know something about whoever sent the bomb.’
‘Yeah. We just want to talk.’ One of the agents chiming in. ‘If it turns out they’re witnesses, we’ll bag ’em and ship ’em,’ he says. ‘We’ll hold ’em until you can get a subpoena or an order of extradition if they’re involved.’