Neil Plakcy - Mahu Fire

Lui’s team was the first to find anything. After about half an hour of climbing, they came upon the abandoned Volvo that the helicopter had spotted. They radioed the license plate and VIN number in to Sampson, and he called in for an identification. I heard him radio back, “It belongs to an Eli Harding of Palolo,” he said. “I’m trying to track down the Hardings. I’ll let you know what I find.”

Before the report could come back, though, Lui’s team ran into Harding himself, along with his wife. My team wasn’t far from them, and I met up with Lui to take charge of the Hardings and see what they had to say.

When my team connected with Lui’s, I could see that Alvy Greenberg wanted to talk to me, but I didn’t have the time-or the interest. Harding was a short, stocky guy in his early thirties, with wiry, sandy blonde hair. His wife was about his age and height, a bit slimmer, with blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail. They looked like an ordinary suburban couple, and I could see why Kitty had trusted them enough to go off on a picnic with them and their kids.

They were frantic about their two children. Lui was good with them, talking with quiet power about his own kids, and how he understood completely what the Hardings were going through. “My brother knows what he’s doing,” Lui said, handing the Hardings off to me. “He’ll get your kids back.”

I wished I felt as sure, but I smiled and said that Lui was absolutely right. He took Greenberg and his two uniforms and went back into the brush, and my team and I started down the hill with the Hardings.

Finally, Eli calmed down enough to tell me what had happened. “My grandfather built this cabin, just one big room, about twenty feet on each side, with ten-foot ceilings, in the 1930s, when you could claim a piece of the mountain land by building on it,” he said, as we made our way down the narrow, overgrown path. The smoke was heavy around us, and the heat was almost blistering.

“I grew up going there for holidays and summers, and when my father died I inherited it. I was talking about the place with Jeff White last week and he said he’d like to see it, so we made plans for this picnic.” He was wearing shorts and a fake military shirt in a khaki color, the kind with epaulets and lots of pockets, and the sweat was dripping down his forehead.

He started to cough, and Fran grabbed his hand. She continued the story. “The kids were playing outside, and Eli and I were standing by the kitchen counter putting sandwiches out on a platter when Jeff and Sheila walked in.” Her arms and legs were scratched, and her white shirt and plaid shorts were smoke-stained.

“The bastards were holding a gun on us,” Eli said indignantly. “I’m the one took Jeff out shooting at the range, and he had this 9 millimeter aimed at Fran, while Sheila came over to me carrying this rope. I said, ‘What’s going on, buddy? What are you and your wife doing?’”

He started to cough again, but stopped after a moment. “He said, ‘She’s not my wife, she’s my sister.’ I was so surprised I didn’t know what to say.”

“He made us lie down on the floor,” Fran said. “They said that they were going to tie us up so that we couldn’t follow them.” She reached over and used her shirt sleeve to wipe Eli’s brow of sweat.

“We asked them about Cole and Caitlin,” Eli said. “At least we wanted them to bring the kids in with us. But Sheila said they were taking the kids for a ride with them. Jeff took the keys to the Volvo from my pocket.”

“We started fighting them,” Fran said. “I couldn’t believe they were taking my babies away from me. Sheila hit me in the head with her gun.”

We came to a narrow place on the trail, where there was a steep drop-off to one side, and we all had to stop talking and go single file until the danger had passed. The brush crackled under me, dry as tinder, and tiny pebbles skittered away whenever anyone stepped down. When I took deep breaths I felt a stinging in my throat.

The strap of Fran’s left sandal was torn, and it caught beneath her as she walked. She lost her balance and nearly fell down the side of the ravine, but Lidia was right behind her, and she caught Fran and helped her stand up again.

Sweat was pooling under my arms and dripping across my forehead. I couldn’t see how Mike could work in this kind of environment. Not just the infernal heat and the sweat, but not knowing where the fire was, and where it might strike next.

After Hurricane Iniki destroyed Kauai in 1992, a lot of people talked about leaving the islands. Cousins of mine moved to Southern California. I figured that at least with a hurricane, you knew what was coming and you had time to prepare. An earthquake could strike any time, without warning. That’s the way I felt about this fire-that at any moment a tongue of flame could spring up, trapping us or turning us into crispy critters. Give me a good old fashioned tropical storm, wind and rain lashing the palm trees, any time.

When we’d passed the narrow spot, we stopped for a minute to regroup. I looked at the map my father had given me, and tried to estimate where we were. If I was right, the park entrance was just below us. If I was wrong, we were screwed-lost in the dry scrub with fire raging around us.

“Did the Whites start the fire?” Akoni asked, as we started up again.

“They set the cabin on fire,” Eli said. “The bastards. They stacked charcoal and kindling along one wall, and poured lighter fluid over it. I could hear and smell what they were doing, and we kept calling them and begging not kill us.”

“Sheila tied lousy knots,” Fran said. “It took a few minutes, but we managed to get untied and get out of the cabin before the fire caught.” She caught her breath in a little gasp. “But the car was gone, and the kids. They’ve got my babies.” She started to cry.

I tried to imagine what might have happened if the Hardings hadn’t been able to get out of the cabin before it burned to the ground. Chances were we’d get there eventually, and in the ashes we’d find two bodies, a man and a woman. We’d discover the charred wreckage of both the Whites’ vehicles, and the easy conclusion would be that they had died in the fire.

We crested a hill, and below us I saw the bottom of the trail. Lidia took calm charge of the distraught couple, leading them off to get cleaned up.

“What about our kids?” I heard Fran ask.

“We’re going to find your kids,” Lidia said. “And when they see you, you want to be all cleaned up, don’t you? You don’t want to frighten them any more than they have been.”

Meekly, Fran Harding nodded.

Sampson let all the units know that the suspects were now known to be armed, dangerous, and holding two small children that they might use as hostages. “Be very careful,” he said into the radio. “I want no accidents.”

I led Akoni and Saunders back up the trail, going off onto a side path we hadn’t explored yet, and I heard someone crashing through the trees just above us and waved the other cops with me to stop. We took up positions on either side of the trail, our weapons aimed and ready. My throat was dry and the smell of smoke was everywhere around us, though we still had decent visibility.

Just ahead of us, I could see two adults blundering through the underbrush. I pulled my gun and stood in the shooter’s stance. “Come out with your hands up!” I called.

The bush parted and the two figures stepped out.

“Don’t shoot,” Jimmy Ah Wong called. “Please.”

He had his arm around Kitty, and she limped down the trail, favoring her right foot. I didn’t know if they were armed, but I was sure they had to be scared. Slowly, I stepped into the trail path a hundred feet ahead of them. I whistled, and Kitty looked up.