James Benn - The White Ghost

“What do the carvings mean?” I asked as he limped out of the hut, leading us downhill toward the water.

“Nothing,” he said. “You’ll find all sorts of stuff for sale down by the harbor. Grass skirts, canes, and all sorts of carvings. But it’s meaningless. Literally.”

“What do you mean?” Kaz asked, offering a hand to steady Jack as he took uneven steps on the path. Jack shook it off, an irritated look on his face. A Kennedy didn’t need help. His gait improved as we walked. Maybe he was shaking off the stiffness, or maybe ignoring the pain. Hard to tell with that guy.

“GIs and sailors saw grass skirts in Hawaii when they shipped in,” he said. “So they expected to see them everywhere. When they came through these islands, they wanted souvenirs like they found in Hawaii. The natives were too polite to tell them they never heard of a skirt made out of grass. But they were smart enough to see an opportunity. These canes are another good example. Every sailor around here will tell you they got theirs from a village chief. There aren’t that many villages in the Solomons.”

“The islanders must enjoy the newfound wealth,” Kaz said.

“Yes,” Jack answered, leading us through the bushes on a narrow track. “But remember, the white settlers and plantation people here call themselves islanders. The Melanesians are natives. The English and Australians are touchy about the distinction. Besides, the islanders don’t like all the money the natives are making, whether from souvenirs or working for the navy. They say it’ll be hard to get them back to work on the coconut plantations after the war. Here we are.” We stepped out onto a small stretch of beach, soft sand about twenty feet wide. Crescent-shaped, the beach fronted a small lagoon. Waves lapped against coral-encrusted rocks. Peaceful and quiet. The perfect secluded spot for a bit of mayhem.

“He was over there,” Jack said. “Close to where the trail empties out onto the beach.”

“Show me exactly,” I said. “Where was his head?”

“He was on his stomach,” Jack said. He drew an outline in the sand with his cane. Legs pointing toward the water. “His head was bloody, but it was dried. I don’t know about these things, but it seemed he’d been dead a while.”

“What time did you find him?” Kaz asked.

“A little after seven o’clock,” Jack said. “I’d taken a walk to get some strength back in my legs.”

“With those cuts?” I said. “They must have been pretty bad last week. They’re still healing.”

“A few scratches from the coral,” he said with a shrug. “No big deal.”

“Still, it must have been hard,” I said. “You did okay today, but you weren’t exactly limber.”

“You’re right. It wasn’t as easy last week,” Jack said bitterly. He wouldn’t have liked being incapacitated then, much less admitting to it now.

“But you had your cane, right? Or did your friend just give it to you?”

“No. He brought it over the first day I was here,” Jack said. “What’s your point?”

“I don’t know,” I said, studying the cane as Kennedy put weight on it. “I guess I wonder why you chose this spot.”

“I like the view,” Jack said impatiently. “Listen, Billy, anyone could have followed Daniel down here and surprised him.”

“Sure,” I said, taking the cane from his hand. “But how many of them came prepared with a blunt object?” I slammed the round end of the cane into the palm of my hand.

It packed a wallop.

Jack grabbed the cane out of my hand, told me to go to hell, and stalked off, waving the cane like a saber at a clump of tall grass, beheading it neatly. I’d half expected him to swing at me, but he was too smart to incriminate himself, so the vegetation suffered in my place.

“Interesting fellow, your friend Jack,” Kaz said as we watched him disappear into the bushes.

“I never claimed he was my pal,” I said, walking along the water’s edge, trying to imagine what had brought Daniel Tamana to this spot. I walked to where Jack had drawn the outline of Daniel’s feet. “It would help to know which side of his head he was hit on.”

“Why?” Kaz asked.

“It might tell us if he was trying to get away, or was taken by surprise,” I said. “He was close to the path, and it seems like he was facing away from the water. Had he started to leave? Run? Or did someone take him by surprise?”

“I see,” Kaz said. “If he were hit from behind, he wasn’t taken by surprise since his assailant would have been in the open, close to the water.”

“Yeah,” I said, kneeling and studying the surface of the beach as if it might yield a clue after all this time. “Not that it matters much; it won’t tell us if he knew his killer. Too bad there wasn’t a real police report or a morgue with the body on ice.”

“We’re a long way from anything so organized,” Kaz said. “I wonder what did happen to the body.”

“Let’s ask Jacob Vouza,” I said. He’d told us he was headed to Hugh Sexton’s place, where the Coastwatchers had gathered. I figured it wouldn’t be hard to find.

“Good idea,” Kaz said. “While we walk, you can tell me about your history with Jack Kennedy. What happened back in Boston?”

“What did you think of Jack’s reaction to seeing me this morning?” I asked as we took the trail to the main road by the hospital.

“Pleased to see you, I’d say. Fairly normal for running into an old friend. Or acquaintance,” Kaz said.

“Right. It was like nothing had happened, nothing of importance,” I said, feeling the anger rise in my throat. “Except that the last time I had anything to do with him, he nearly cost me my job.”

“Why?” Kaz asked.

“Because it was convenient for him, and I was handy,” I said. “Which is all that matters to Jack. But that’s enough ancient history for today.” Being with Jack reminded me of what a chump I’d been, how I’d assumed a friendship that was never real, never on an equal footing. We got into the jeep and drove in silence down the winding narrow lane, following the directions we’d been given to Sexton’s place. Palm trees arched overhead, shielding us from the midday sun. It was already hot, and our khaki shirts were damp with sweat. North Africa had been hot, but this was a different kind of heat: thick, humid, cloying. And this was Tulagi, the paradise of the Solomon Islands.

I wanted to find Daniel Tamana’s killer and get the hell out of here, away from the sweltering heat and Jack Kennedy. We drove away from the hospital, navigating around a couple of trucks from a signals company stringing communications wire through the palm trees. Tulagi probably never had a single telephone before the war. Now it had all the trappings of civilization: bombs, Spam, and telephone calls.

“There,” Kaz said as we approached a large house with a wide verandah where Jacob Vouza stood talking with a man wearing an Australian slouch hat. The building sat on a cleared hillside alongside a smaller house on the right. Across the road on the water side, a weather-beaten dock jutted out into the clear water, where an even more weathered boat bobbed gently on the waves. It had one blackened funnel, a broken window in the pilot house, and peeling white paint down to the waterline. Two dugout canoes were beached nearby.

I pulled the jeep off the road and we walked up the steps-coconut logs set in the hill-to the house.

“Hao Nao, Jacob!” Kaz said. Jacob smiled and waved us onto the verandah.

“This is Captain Sexton,” Jacob said, introducing us to the wiry, tall fellow at his elbow.

“Pleased to meet you,” Sexton said, shaking hands. His blond hair was bleached nearly white by the sun, or perhaps worry. Coastwatching was not for the faint of heart. His face was deeply tanned and crow’s feet radiated from the corners of his eyes. “You’ve come to find out who killed Daniel, I hear.” Sexton spoke with an upper-class English accent and wore an easy grin. The dark bags under his eyes hinted at something far deeper.