The codebreakers secret, p.30
The Codebreaker's Secret, page 30
Ever since her conversation with Mr. Hamada, Isabel had thought about tracking down Hudson and telling her story, asking for advice. They’d left on good terms. In fact, by the time the war ended, Isabel was often the one who got handed the “hard” messages first. Last she’d heard, Hudson was living in the mountains of New Mexico, retired and raising alpacas. It always fascinated her to hear where her coworkers had settled, and what kinds of peculiar professions or hobbies they’d taken up when the war ended. The war had been a great equalizer. It was sometimes easy to forget that just like everyone had a life before the war, everyone would have a life after. Everyone who survived. But also, that life would never ever go back to normal. Not for them.
His wife picked up on the second ring, and Isabel strummed her fingers on her address book while waiting.
“What a pleasant surprise,” he said, sounding genuinely happy to hear from her.
They made small talk for a few minutes, catching up on lives, and then Isabel told him the whole story. She’d been anxious about the part where she copied the message, but Hudson didn’t bat an eye.
“Why didn’t you come to me at the time with the message?” he asked.
“None of the guys agreed with me. I thought maybe I was losing my mind, or wasn’t being objective. It was a particularly active time and I’d been awake for what seemed like weeks.”
He chuckled. “You probably had been.”
“I should have pushed it, but I had no proof of anything, and by the time I spoke with Hamada, the war had been over for fifteen years. It didn’t seem like enough to come forward and point a finger at a US senator.”
Isabel looked at the photo of Walt on the wall, watching over her, as always. She was doing the right thing, at long last.
“Listen, this is an unusual situation. I’ll make some calls and get back to you.” There was silence on the line, and then he said, “Fucking A, as Denny would say. This could get ugly.”
“It already is ugly.”
* * *
After hanging up with Hudson, she walked back onto the porch, glancing around for Lu and Matteo. Drizzle had given way to steamy sunshine. She walked toward the garage to see if they were with Mele. A strange grunting arose from behind the structure. She started running, and made it in time to see a foal’s head slip out of Mele, who was lying on her side on the grass. Matteo and Lu were standing back, near the rock wall, watching. Lu had seen this before, but Matteo looked unsure.
When he saw Isabel, he said, “I hope you know something about how this works.”
“Mele knows what to do, she doesn’t need me. But I like to be here just in case.”
Mele kept turning around to see the foal, encased in a bag of amniotic fluid. Its tiny perfect profile was enough to fill even a bitter heart with love. Isabel came around and stood by Lu and Matteo, keeping a healthy distance.
“Easy there, mama. We’re here with you,” she said.
Mele pushed. Nothing happened. The donkey then stood up and started walking in circles, as if trying to see her foal.
“Is there a problem?” Matteo asked.
“I don’t think so, it just takes time.”
They moved back so they were sitting on a bench under a giant jacaranda tree, letting nature run its course. Mele lay down again on her side, eyes wide, nostrils flaring. They waited a short while longer, and still the foal didn’t come out. Isabel knew that the main danger was having it suck back into the birth canal and drowning. She glanced over at Matteo, and their eyes met. Even though he had no idea what he was doing, having him here felt good.
When twenty more minutes passed, Isabel began to worry. She pulled out her birthing box, with towels and antiseptic and gauze, then went over and bent down next to Mele, running her hand down the animal’s back. The foal was in the correct position, head resting on its two front legs, one slightly forward of the other for easy passage.
“Push, Mele, push,” Isabel said.
Mele let out a long moan. She appeared to be straining more than usual.
“I think she needs help. Lu, can you go call Dr. Greenwell and ask her to come as soon as she can? Her number is on the fridge. Matteo, I need you over here with me.”
A second later, he was kneeling beside her. “Just tell me what to do.”
“I’m going to break the bag, and I need you to grab the legs and gently but firmly pull.” She pointed toward Mele’s underbelly. “You have to pull in this direction or you could hurt the foal’s back.”
“Roger.”
Matteo was dressed in all white and looking very stylish, but it was the worst possible attire for the job he was about to do. “You may want to take your shirt off,” she said.
He looked down, then said, “Nah. I can always get a new one.”
They were kneeling next to each other, shoulder to shoulder. His sureness gave her confidence.
“So as soon as I break the bag, you pull, okay?”
He nodded. All signs of nervousness had left him. Isabel broke the bag and wiped away the clear film over the foal’s tiny, precious nose, and the foal took its first breath.
“Now,” she said.
Matteo gripped the foal’s ankles and pulled steadily in the direction she’d shown him. The foal seemed wedged in place for a moment, but once its front half was free, the rest of its little body slid out in one big whoosh. Small and wet and dark, the foal was all legs and ears.
“Now we step away,” Isabel told him.
Mele took over from there. Nudging and licking and mothering. The tiny foal made a few failed attempts to get its legs under itself.
“It’s a girl!” Isabel said.
Matteo’s clothes were no longer dry. Or white. “Would you look at that. Never thought I’d add donkey midwife to the résumé,” he said.
Again, the foal unfolded her legs and tried to push herself up. This time she succeeded in standing. Mele sat back and watched, head drooping in exhaustion.
“Probably not what you expected this morning,” Isabel said quietly.
“You can say that again,” he whispered. “But look at that little thing.”
She snuck a look at Matteo, who was watching the foal with such tenderness he may as well have been the father. The foal was now prancing around on wobbly new legs.
“Have you ever seen a birth before? Of any kind?” she asked.
He shook his head. “I’ve seen men die, but never, not once, watched anything being born.”
Isabel smiled. “It almost feels like each new birth helps cancel out more than its share of sadness in the world.”
He seemed to be studying her, his eyes boring deep. “Some things have that effect.”
35
THE BEACH
Hawai‘i Island, July 1965
The early-afternoon onshore wind beat the water into a frenzy. Blues and whites and grays all mixed together in a mash of chaotic motion. Fresh out of the shower, towel wrapped on her head, Lu sat on the lānai and studied the moods of nature while waiting for Russi and Sheriff Rapoza. But before they arrived, Dylan called.
“I have some new information for my favorite journalist,” he said, a smile in his voice.
“And I have some new information for my favorite photographer.”
“Glad I still rate as your number one.”
“Always,” she said. “You go first.”
“Soooo, I discovered that, until 1948, Fuchs went by the name Thompson. In the navy, he was known as Dickie Thompson—”
She cut him off. “I know that already. We found out this morning. Wait until you hear this story, Dylan. But you have to swear not to tell a soul. Not until we talk to the police, which we’re about to do.”
“Cross my heart,” he said, and she pictured the way he did that, running his finger down along the contours of his face and across his chest, without ever lifting it. She told him everything they’d learned from Izzy.
When she was done, Dylan whistled. “Guys like Fuchs think they’re untouchable. When I found out he changed his name, I called his office to ask why. The lady who answered said that his mother had insisted he take the name of the man she remarried, but once his mother died, he changed it back. In honor of his father.”
“Sounds reasonable. Unless you’re a murderer. Then it’s awfully convenient,” she said.
“What about Russi and your friend?”
One thing she loved about Dylan was his unabashed interest in the lives of other people. And not just because he was in the field.
“He was so nervous going down there I wasn’t sure he would go through with it. And then Auntie H—Izzy—she’s always so cool and collected, but I could tell she was rattled,” she said.
“A meeting like that would rattle the best of us.”
“It seems like the hardest part was both of them knowing what they’d let slip out of their hands.”
Silence on the other end.
“What a position to be in,” he finally said.
“It makes one think.”
“It does.”
Five seconds later, there was pounding on the door. Lu said goodbye and opened up, ushering in Russi, Rapoza and Bull. The dog must have smelled the foal on Russi, because he sniffed and slobbered all over him and would not leave his side.
“I must smell like donkey, even after a hot shower,” he told Rapoza. “Long story.”
“I have time.”
So, Russi laid it all out for him, with Lu dropping in details here and there, like seeing the scratches on Fuchs. Rapoza kept a poker face the whole time. When they’d finished, he said, “Let me run through this again. Senator Fuchs, who once called himself Thompson, is the same man who was with Gloria Moreno when she allegedly drowned at Mau‘mae in 1943. But now Gloria’s ring was found near the skeleton in the lava tube, which you believe positively IDs it. And you suspect Fuchs is responsible for killing Joni Diaz. But as of yet we have no body and no motive.”
“If Gloria ‘drowned,’ then why is her body a hundred yards inland, deep in a cave?” Lu said.
They hadn’t told him about the old Japanese message from Izzy. They still needed her approval, and they didn’t want to get her in hot water.
Russi chimed in. “Oh, there’s motive. The roommate maintains that she told the cops back then that Gloria had found a suspicious letter and was concerned Dickie might be a spy. The cops ignored her.”
“What about Diaz? Motive?”
“When she told me about the man she was in love with, and sworn to secrecy, I got the feeling she was on the edge. Maybe she threatened to go public? Fuchs is up for reelection, and imagine what his constituents would think if they found out he was having an affair with a Mexican singer. It would ruin his career.”
Rapoza jotted down a list of notes, then stood up and said, “These are serious allegations. I need to get ahold of my boss and make sure we have our ducks in a row. Then we’ll talk to Fuchs.”
“The sooner, the better,” Lu said.
“I know that, miss. We’ll be back in the morning. Meantime, don’t you go saying anything to anyone. Especially Fuchs. If you’re right about any of this, he’s not someone you want to mess with.”
* * *
Lu woke even earlier than usual, despite hardly sleeping. Clouds slung low over the bay and she smelled rain. The weather seemed unusually moody for this time of year. Her mind was still a jumble from events of the past few days. So much heartache, and yet so much hope. Funny how the two often went hand in hand.
The beach awaited, hard sand laid bare in low tide. It was dark enough so Lu could only make out shapes. The trees stood unusually quiet, and the water was tranquil as a mountain spring. She thought of Dylan again, and how things might go when or if she made it back to say goodbye. Spending time with Russi and Izzy yesterday had impressed upon her the importance of speaking your heart. What if she lost Dylan without telling him how she felt? Could she live with that?
As she neared the Kona end of the cove, a big log appeared. Depending on the currents, fallen trees from around the island or even from the west coast washed ashore on these beaches. Some over a hundred feet long, others polished smooth and worn from months at sea. When she was almost upon the log, she noticed branches coming off the trunk. They looked almost human. A faint smell of fish and decay lifted off it. She stepped closer, then went still as a fence post. This was no log or branch. This was a body.
The dead woman was lying on her side, twisted, hair splayed out like seaweed and one arm behind her at an unnatural angle. Bile rose in Lu’s throat. Finding a skeleton was one thing, but a dead body something else entirely. A strange pull grounded her to the sand. A need to stand and look, to comprehend what she was seeing. Death. Her feet remained planted, though a part of her wanted to bolt.
“I’m sorry, sweet friend,” she whispered, for there was no mistaking who this was.
Joni.
Two small black crabs climbed down the torso, scurrying toward her feet. It was too much. Lu turned to run back and report what she’d found, but someone was standing there, blocking her way.
“Is everything okay, Miss Freitas?” Senator Fuchs asked.
“No, it’s not. It’s Joni,” she said, pointing.
He didn’t say anything at first, just stood there. Didn’t even try to look at the twisted form in the sand. He doesn’t know that you know, Lu reminded herself. Stay cool.
“Well, I suppose it was bound to happen. Did you know that bodies usually sink first and then later float to the surface?” he said.
Her skin electrified. What a bizarre thing to say. Lu glanced past him to see if there was anyone else around. They were alone. “No, I didn’t. Now, excuse me, I need to get back and tell someone.”
He blocked her, then lightly grabbed below her elbow. “How about we walk to the end of the beach, in case there’s anything else to see, and then we can go back and tell Mr. Rockefeller together.”
When he didn’t let go, Lu went along with him. Breaths became hard to find.
“I’ve been thinking about what you said to me the other day, about you and Matteo Russi finding something else of interest. It really made me curious. Would you care to elaborate what it was that had you so intrigued?” He tried to sound casual, but she noted a slight tremor in his voice.
“Oh, nothing. We found some really unusual petroglyphs that I’d never seen before. I used to come up here a lot, so that was really surprising to me. I’m an amateur archeologist.”
“Oh? What were they of?”
Her eyes scanned the beach for any kind of weapon—branch, rock, coconut, anything. “Just unusual-looking canoes and geometric shapes, hard to describe.”
“You know, something about you reminds me of Miss Diaz. Do you sing?” he asked.
This was getting weirder by the second.
“Not at all.”
Fuchs forced a laugh. “Hmm. Perhaps, then, it’s that you two are both dark-skinned, pretty things. What is your family background, Miss Cooper?”
“My dad is Portuguese, my mom Irish. What about you, Senator? Fuchs is a German name, isn’t it?” You Nazi motherfucker.
His grip firmed up on her arm. “Very astute of you. You’re smarter than you look, aren’t you?”
“Oh, I’m smart, all right,” she said, eyes locking on a piece of driftwood about twenty yards away. They were getting farther and farther from the hotel, and the pink light from earlier had been blotted out by clouds. The question of whether he was really unhinged enough to do something to her kept looping around in her brain. Each time the answer came back the same.
Probably.
“You know, I think I’ll turn around now,” she said.
He leaned in so his mouth was inches from her ear. “Am I making you nervous?”
A voice inside said, Run, but his iron grip was beginning to cut off her circulation. “Actually—”
Behind them, someone yelled. “Hey! Wait up!”
They both turned to see Russi running toward them with a towel around his neck. Senator Fuchs looked flummoxed, and Lu had never in her life been more relieved to see someone.
When he reached them, Russi’s hair was askew and he leaned down with his hands on his knees to catch his breath, “There’s a fucking dead body back there, did you see it?”
Lu gave him a look, but he probably wouldn’t notice in the dim light. “We did.”
Fuchs let her arm go, and remained cool. “We’re on our way to report it to Mr. Rockefeller—just wanted to check there wasn’t anything else on the rest of the beach first.”
Ready to hightail it out of there, Lu grabbed Russi by the hand and pulled at him. “We’ll go, Senator. You keep walking.”
As they ran back to the hotel, Lu would not let go of Russi’s hand. She was half-hysterical while trying to explain what had just transpired. Russi, in turn, seemed to understand and let her keep his hand. It was big and warm and comforting.
“The guy knows it’s over. He’s getting reckless,” he said.
“I’m just happy you came when you did.”
“Thought I’d work up my nerve to dip a leg in or something, without anyone around.”
“Weren’t we supposed to do it together?”
“You have enough on your plate.”
“Russi, we had a deal.”
“I think we got more important things to worry about.”
Rapoza, his chief, several other detectives and the coroner showed up an hour later. Entry to the beach had been blocked off and Lu and Russi sat in the lobby drinking coffee, watching the hotel get taken over by law enforcement. Mr. Rockefeller had been gracious and helpful, but you could see the toll this was taking on him—his grand opening marred by such ugliness. They watched as Joni’s body was carried out on a stretcher, under a white sheet. Stanley followed behind, ten pounds lighter than when he’d first arrived.
