Honolulu Story. Leslie Ford

Boyer.

      She stopped short on the threshold.

      “I’m going to draw your blind down, dear. It really gets cold up here at night.”

      It looked like an afterthought, or something, to me, as I watched her roll down the heavy woven matting until it covered the opening onto the lanai.

      “That’s better,” she said. “The light won’t annoy you in the morning.”

      She tied the cord down to the hook in the wood door frame. I watched her with a vague uneasiness.

      She came back to the foot of the bed and stood there uncertainly. “Oh, it’s no use, I guess,” she said. Then she turned abruptly and looked directly at me for the first time. I was appalled at the sudden passion ravaging her face, blazing in her eyes.

      “I’ve got to get Mary away from here, Grace! I’ve got to! I can’t just sit and watch her life being ruined this way—it’s too horrible! I thought if she and Swede . . . oh, but it’s no use. Not now. Not if Corinne has stepped in. That would be ghastly for her—simply ghastly. And I won’t have her hurt that way. That’s more than I can stand. Oh, Grace, it’s such a mess! I wish I were dead, I wish none of us had ever been born!”

      I’ve seen people have hysterics and wish they were dead, but Alice Cather wasn’t hysterical in any possible sense of the word. She was trembling with passion, but she was dry-eyed and controlled, with none of the ashen-gray terror she’d shown earlier, hearing the red-bird’s call from across the ravine. She stood for a moment and then went slowly across to the door.

      “I’m afraid I’m being rather difficult this evening,” she said. “I’m still tired, I guess. And it was such a shock to find out about Ben, and to find Swede here after I thought we’d seen the last of him. I guess I weakened for a moment.—But only a moment,” she added. She managed to smile. “Don’t say anything to Mary, please. I don’t want her to know. Maybe they’ll be sent somewhere else. I know a good many of the officers at Hickam.”

      She put her hand on the door knob.

      “Do take that pill and get some rest—and be sure to keep the blind drawn. I haven’t had the pool cleaned out, and there may be mosquitoes. There’s malaria, you know, and dengue fever.”

      I knew there wasn’t, but I knew before that that she wasn’t telling the truth. She’d had some other shock. The reaction from hearing about Ben Farrell and Swede couldn’t have been that long delayed. It was something else. I wondered. There’s no malaria in the Island of Oahu. Mosquitoes live in lowland marshes, not in mountain swimming pools. And that was not all. It came to me with a chilling uneasiness that made me look skeptically at the orange capsule in my hand and take it to the bathroom and put it quietly down the drain. Redbirds don’t call in the middle of the night and faces don’t move in trees without bodies to go with them . . . not in Oahu or anywhere else. Or if they did, I decided I didn’t want to be so sound asleep I wouldn’t know it.

      It took me a long time to get to sleep without the capsule, however. My mind was like a blindfolded beast of burden, going around an interminable treadmill of confusion and bewildering cross-currents, and the face in the trees kept creeping closer and closer until I thought I was seeing it in every shifting shadow in the room. But I must have gone to sleep finally, because suddenly with a horrible abruptness I was awake, sharply and instantly, stiff with apprehension and absolutely frigid, my heart an aching motionless weight inside me.

      There was some one in my room. Where the woven lau-hala mat was that Alice Cather had drawn down was an open luminous space. Framed in it was a tall figure, groping to fasten the cord to hold it up that Alice Cather had tied to hold it down.

      I lay on my side, my eyes open, staring, terrified, my throat constricted in a tortured knot.

      The figure moved suddenly, silent and lithe as a great cat, flattening itself against the wooden frame of the opening, motionless then as a part of it. Some one else was on the lanai. I could hear a soft swish of steps on the matting. I saw the man’s hand move toward his hip and rest there and move forward again. The long naked blade of a knife glinted in his hand. If I could have screamed then I would have, but I was sick and paralyzed with fear and no sound would come. Yet I knew I had to, had to warn whoever was coming . . . and then the cry I was forcing from my throat died before I ever uttered it.

      “—Roy! Oh, God, not that room! Here—come quickly!”

      It was Alice Cather. In the faint glow of the light from her room around the lanai I could see her. And she knew him, was calling him by name.

      The man flashed forward onto the lanai. He was tall and very thin. His forehead was white and he was unshaven. His head was covered with leaves, his suit pale and spotted, like the camouflage suits the marines wear in the jungle . . . and I knew then, as he moved away, like something out of the jungle, swiftly and without effort or sound, why I had seen only the face against the trees.

      Then the lanai was empty. The cold air from the mountains swept through the door and rustled over the straw mats on the floor. I didn’t dare, at first, to move or more than breathe. And as I did, silently and more painfully than I can say, there was some one else on the lanai. The soft slipping tread of footsteps came like a horrible whisper to my tense sharpened hearing, coming closer and closer, until they were there at my door. A white coat glistened for an instant in the dim suffused glow of light, and a silver tray glistened. It was the Japanese house servant Kumumato, taking food to the man who had crept silently, like an animal, out of the wilderness in the night.