Annoyed, I snatched up the handset.
"First prize! An all-expense-paid trip to Hawaii!" Danny Tandler imitated a game show host.
"Do you know what time it is here?"
Wiggling good-bye fingers, Katy exited the kitchen.
"Travel time!"
"What?"
"Our lucky winner receives a coach-class seat by the loo and a low-budget room a zillion miles from the ocean."
"What are you talking about?"
"You charmed the shorts off Plato Lowery."
"He's a very nice gentleman."
"The very nice gentleman wants you and only you. And his congressman is turning the screws to make sure he gets it."
Based on our shared photo album moment, I was afraid something like this might unfold.
"O'Hare called again," I guessed.
"Yep. I don't know if Lowery phoned the good congressman or vice versa. O'Hare phoned Notter. Notter phoned Merkel. Ain't modern communication grand?"
"I can't come to Hawaii right now."
"Notter thinks otherwise."
"He'll get over it."
"What if we billet you on a really nice beach?"
"Danny."
"Why not?"
I told him about Coop.
"Jesus, I saw that story on the news. Katy's friend was the American?"
"Yes."
"Poor kid. Were they, you know, close?"
I didn't know. "Close enough."
"Give Katy a big hug for me. Wait. Better yet, bring her with you. A little Hawaiian sun could be just what she needs."
"Oh, Danny."
"Lowery is adamant that you accompany his son's body to Honolulu, and that you oversee the entire reanalysis."
"Have Notter talk him down."
"Not happening."
"Not my problem."
"When's the last time you took a vacation?"
"Christmas."
"Look, Tempe. We both know the guy you dug up today is not John Lowery."
"He went by Spider."
"Why?"
"Long story."
"This thing's going to skewer old Plato. Do it for him. And for Notter and Merkel. You may need a favor from us sometime."
I pictured tormented eyes beneath a Korean vet's cap.
A plastic-wrapped corpse.
A mold-crusted skeleton.
I had no urgent cases in North Carolina or Quebec. Maybe Danny was right. Maybe a trip to Hawaii would be therapeutic for Katy, and Danny's point about my perhaps needing them in the future wasn't said entirely in jest. But would Katy go?
"When will action kick off at the CIL?" I asked.
"The remains are being transported on Friday. Lowery insists you travel with them."
"Adamantly."
"Adamantly."
"I'll ask Katy."
"Good girl."
"That's not a promise, Danny. Katy needs me right now. It's her call."
"I imagine she's pretty torn up."
"Very."
"Will she attend the kid's funeral?"
"The service will be open to close family only."
Silence hummed from the South Pacific to the southeastern seaboard. Danny broke it.
"I'll send flight information as soon as I have it."
I ROSE EARLY THE NEXT MORNING, BLITZED THE HARRIS TEETER floral department, then returned home to download and print photos from the net. Armed and ready, I made a tippy-toe visit to my study-turned-guest-room.
Katy awoke to orchids and plumeria, a handmade lei, and a thumbtacked Hawaiian panorama.
She appeared in the kitchen shortly after ten, tousled and confused, holding a particularly dazzling shot of Maui's Kamaole I beach.
I asked how she felt. She shrugged, poured herself coffee.
I conveyed Danny Tandler's condolences. She slurped.
I launched my pitch. Snorkeling. Diving. Maybe a surfing lesson or two.
Katy listened, eyes on steam rising from her mug.
Interpreting shrugless silence as interest, I continued. Diamond Head. Waikiki. Lanikai Beach.
"So. What do you think, sweetie? Aloha?" I pantomimed a little hula.
"I guess."
Not exactly "Yippee!" But she was willing to go.
By noon, thanks to Charlie Hunt's intervention, the public defender's office had granted a "compassionate leave" for its very junior first-year researcher. Two weeks. Unpaid.
Fair enough.
After a lunch of tomato soup and tuna sandwiches, Katy and I dug out and organized scuba and snorkeling gear. At least I did. She mostly watched.
I made calls when Katy went home to pack. LaManche had no objection to my two-week absence from the LSJML in Montreal, provided I was reachable by phone. Pete agreed to take Birdie. My neighbor agreed to look after the town house. Tim Larabee, the Mecklenburg County medical examiner, asked that prior to my departure I examine a skull found off Sam Furr Road just north of Charlotte. I promised to do the analysis the following day.
Danny rang around six with flight information. Convinced of the righteousness of his plan, he'd gone ahead and booked a reservation for Katy.
Danny said he'd meet our plane, warned teasingly of a surprise. No amount of cajoling could wangle further information from him. Slightly uneasy, I disconnected.
Thursday night, after wrapping up with the Sam Furr skull, I treated Charlie Hunt to dinner. Partly because I missed him. Partly to thank him for scoring Katy her unearned vacation.
We met at Barrington's, a tiny bistro buried in a southeast Charlotte retail complex. Unlikely location. Pricey tab. Kick-ass food.
I had the tagliatelle. Charlie had the grouper. For dessert, we shared an order of bread pudding with white chocolate ice cream.
Afterward, leaning on my Mazda, I said mahalo to Charlie in a very big way. His response indicated eagerness to continue the thank-you at his place.
I was tempted. Very tempted.
But not yet.
To Charlie's dismay, we both went home solo.
Getting to Hawaii from North Carolina is easier now than back in the nineties when I consulted to the CIL. But the trip still takes half your life.
I rose at dawn on Friday and called Katy. She was up, but sounded groggy. Said she couldn't sleep and had spent all of Thursday and into the wee hours writing about Coop's death.
My daughter had begun blogging the previous winter. I'd visited her site, ChickWithThoughts.blogpost.com, and been surprised at the eloquence of her posts. And at the serious nature of the subject matter. Topics ranged from presidential politics, to ecoterrorism, to global economics. I'd been astounded at the number of people who read and participated in the discussions.
Flying US Airways from Charlotte via Phoenix, we arrived in Honolulu at two thirty in the afternoon. One gains five hours traveling west, so the outbound leg seemed deceptively painless. But I knew from experience. The return would lay me low.
Though I hadn't been involved in the official transfer, I was aware of the young man riding below us in the cargo bay. Throughout the journey my thoughts had repeatedly drifted to him. Who was he? What was his story? How had he ended up in Spider Lowery's grave?
Katy slept through most of the flight. I tried writing reports, gave up. I'm lousy at working on planes. I blame it on altitude. It's really just lack of discipline.
The movie offerings were approved by censors for both sailors on shore leave and four-year-old Baptists, so I read, alternating between a Hawaiian travel book and a Stephen King novel.
During one of her brief waking periods, I explained the JPAC issue to Katy. No details. The last thing she needed was a reminder of the tragic cost of war. But Katy would be on her own while I was working at the CIL. She'd be curious about where I was and why.
Katy listened without interrupting, a response I found unsettling. Normally my daughter would have posed a thousand questions and offered an equal number of opinions. I understood her listlessness. Though Katy kept it to herself, I'd overheard her rephoning the Coopertons before leaving my house on Thursday. Her side of the conversation indicated another rebuff.
As promised, Danny was waiting in baggage claim, cart at the ready. Upon spotting us, he beamed like a kid who'd just downed a Snickers.
Hugs all around.
While Danny and I collected the luggage, Katy went in search of a john. Danny took the opportunity to query my daughter's state of mind. I waggled a hand. So-so.
I asked about the remains from Lumberton. He said that Silas Sugarman had delivered the transport container to the Charlotte airport and that it was listed on the manifest of our flight.
I knew the drill. The transport container would be off-loaded and taken to the cargo area, where it would be met by personnel from Borthwick, a local Oahu mortuary. With paperwork completed, the coffin would travel by hearse to Hickam and enter the CIL through a rear door. An accession number would be assigned, and the remains would await processing.
The Avis line moved at the pace of sludge. When I reached the counter, the agent could find no trace of my reservation. After much sighing and head-shaking, a car was finally located, a red Chevrolet Cobalt about the size of my purse.
Danny helped load our suitcases. Then, refusing to divulge any clue concerning our hotel, he insisted I follow his Honda.
In the past, when consulting to the CIL, I was always billeted in a moderately priced hotel on Waikiki Beach. That meant traveling roughly southeast into town.
Danny's route surprised me. He looped north on the H-1, then cut east on the H-3 toward Kaneohe.
We'd barely cleared the airport when Katy slumped against the window and fell asleep. My little navigator. It would be up to me to keep Danny in sight. Challenging, since the guy had a foot twice the atomic weight of lead.
Twenty minutes out, Danny merged onto Highway 630, Mokapu Boulevard, then turned south on Kalaheo. Eventually we passed Kailua Beach Park.
As my internal GPS engaged, I felt a buzz of excitement. Danny knew that my favorite stretch of Oahu sand was Lanikai Beach. Lanikai lies just south of Kailua. Was that where Danny was going? Was that his surprise?