FALSE REFUGE

Steve Anderson

Also by Steve Anderson The Losing Role Besserwisser: A Novel

www.stephenfanderson.com

Scribd Edition Copyright © 2009 Stephen F. Anderson ONE

Alex Swenson swallowed down the coffee. It was cold and he wanted to spit it out into the lashing rain that sounded like gravel on metal. The wind hurled the rain around, and foaming white waves boomed, cracked and smashed down along Alii Drive, Kona Town’s coastline gut. The Big Island of Hawaii was currently no paradise, Alex could see. How could he have known rainstorms would attack Kona? He was working the espresso machine at tiny Donkey Dick’s DaKine Coffee Shack, which was no more than 50 yards inland from Alii. Donkey Dick’s was barely a shack. It didn’t have a front door, only a roll-down bamboo shutter they had no choice but to keep open, and every few minutes the wind would whip rain in like someone lost control of a hose. On normal days Alex got a little spray of the ocean, which he liked. Best thing was, the open shack gave him a good view of anything going down and yet it was secluded — just beyond the little town park that local kids used to score dope and tourists wandered into, hoping for restrooms. Not a bad setup for getting some extra bucks. He’d work here a few days more unless Dick decided he couldn’t keep paying him under the table. At some point Dick would need proper ID. It was now into February, 2004. Alex had been AWOL less than a month. He was not stupid. He knew that every story like his — every American story — often ends with guns blazing. Inevitably, some decent guy will have to defend his convictions with bullets that kill. Alex had made up his mind. He would not let that happen. He was not going to the gun, not ever. Not any more. Way back when in Operation Desert Storm he’d seen the havoc that overwhelming force could wreak, and he’d seen enough of it. Besides, it was a bad move strategically. Going to the gun was what a standard goon AWOL did. The crackhead privates, the rapists, spies, murderers even. Letting himself get tagged as armed and dangerous only made the authorities’ job easier. No, if he was going to do this he had to be better than decent. Gunning others down only showed a lack of creativity and thought. The weather made it tough to eye the local cops. It didn’t help that cop cars here were privately owned, Fords and Toyotas and SUVs with smoked windows and no markings except for, if you were lucky, a tiny blue slap-on roof light. A couple cop cars had cruised by this morning, one a Jeep Cherokee, the other a Mustang, and it had seemed to Alex they were False Refuge ~ 2 slowing to steal a look up the path to Donkey Dick’s. Earlier he’d seen a couple of them standing out in the rain down on Alii, staring his way. Or at least it seemed that way. How many others were there? Surely they had dealt with an AWOL before. It was a perfect time to make their move because the storms were making the island even smaller by the day. Roads were washed out, the airport was closed, and boats were going nowhere. Alex was going nowhere. He threw back the last of the coffee, thinking, wanting, to tell those cops — look, I’m practically one of you guys. Let’s grab a sixer of Kona Lager, shoot the shit. I’ll tell you the real story. If only it was that easy. He did still have a way out — his one shot. There was this place south of here called Krieger Estates. He only had to pick the moment and move on down the road, and the cops could go back to busting the shoplifting tourists, local cockfighters, the tropical fish pirates, or whoever was badass on a daily basis here. More waves crashed over Alii’s mini seawall and splashed at the passing rental cars. It sent a gang of tourists scurrying up the path toward Donkey Dick’s. They were doing great business today with this weather — it was either coffee or booze in a storm. The tourists were the usual gaggle of mainland couples, their Aloha shirts dripping and their hiker hats sagging. “Incoming,” Alex said to Tom, the other guy on. Tom was from London, also working under-the-table. What a team they were — a Cockney world backpacker-on-hiatus and a thirty-eight year-old mystery barista straight out of the chilly, rainy Pacific Northwest. “Right,” Tom grunted. Alex always let Tom take the register and handle the customers — and Tom never asked questions. Tom stood to Alex’s right. A mini fridge, sink and tiny prep counter, espresso machine and register surrounded them behind the counter as the tourists lined up, sighing and mumbling as they huddled under the roof’s cover, six then eight of them, their ABC Store bags hanging low with sodden island wear and macadamia nuts, and Tom was barking out orders like a pro wrestling announcer on meth. Alex had two jumbo tall Lattes going at one hand, a mochachino and Italian soda at the other, and then it was three damn turkey sandwiches to make. He loaded grounds into the espresso portafilter with its thick iron handle, and thrust it up in and turned, each movement fluid and efficient as if he was cleaning his field weapon. Then lunging for more milk, mustard, and beans of their so-called 100 percent Kona Coffee, which in the fine print was a 100 False Refuge ~ 3 percent “blend” with about three percent real Kona beans. No one cared to look at that. They got what they believed. Up the path strolled that little waitress from that shitty sports bar down on Alii, Wade’s, where the only thing louder than the FM rock was the three TVs running ESPN channels and FOX News. God forbid you could hear the surf. Last time she was in she had told him how much she hated all that. It made him smile for the first time in days. Seeing her now made his feet feel lighter, his shoulders looser. Her flip-flops slapping and tossing water, her low hips rocking, she flanked around the tourists and climbed onto the one stool at the tiny bar before the espresso counter. Alex called out the sandwiches, glancing at her. Dark skin with faint pockmarks on her cheeks, narrow oval brown eyes, long black hair swinging loose, and most important, that native got-nothing-to-lose dead stare that kept the tourist women from sizing her up too long. Just a little thing, but then so is a grenade. He was on the soy capps now. She leaned forward and, stretching her proportionally thick and yet somehow petite neck, could see the mess he was making. “Howzit. Bodda you?” “What?” “Is it cool that I sit here?” “You? Sure,” Alex said. “Plus you’re blocking the rain.” “Okay den,” she said, twirling around and staring back out. “This weather no good. Is cold, man, like 65. Not this much bad luck since 9-11 take the tourists away. Okay, the tourists come back. But this one storm? It make no sense, brudda.” She added a bitter laugh. “What would you like? Your regular?” Alex added under his breath, just for her. “Yes, please.” Tom called out two cherry mochas and more sandwiches — one ham, one sprout veggie. Alex put his head down, working away. “I’ve heard you asking around — asking people about the estates,” she said, and before he could shake his head: “You know, the Krieger Estates.” “The what? Oh.” Alex knocked the foam pitcher, which sent vanilla foam onto the sprouts. He closed the sandwich anyway, wrapped it up. “Sprout veggie!” he announced and handed it over to another customer, a drifter who’d come in twice that day. Alex didn’t like the looks of this guy. Back in the day they called it hinky. His eyes moved too slowly, too deliberately for a False Refuge ~ 4 mentally disturbed man. His ragged burlap shirt showed scabs on his chest, which he scratched with his grimy long fingernails. A plastic sack hung from his hip, from a fraying shoelace tied around his waist. In a better world Alex might have been able to talk to this guy, get his story, send him to the right agency if it came to that. “You listening, uh? Last night at Duggo’s I hear you; two days ago on this stool I hear you, asking one golfer haole. Krieger Estates dis, Krieger Estates dat.” No use denying it. He’d seen her at Duggo’s, too. And the golfer tourist? Didn’t have a clue; the guy looked scared like Alex wanted to sell him property. “Only one thing you talk about? But no one know anykine about you,” she said, adding a smile. Alex steamed foam. “So I’m a new arrival. Hey, I’m not the only pasty white haole come here,” he added, keeping it light. Haole meaning white mainlander. He had decent features. The problem was, the more sun he got he only turned a brighter shade of pink, which only made his thin blond hair lighter and thinner. His days in the desert in that first Gulf War had proved that. Since he got here, more than one person had mistaken him for an albino, or British like Tom. She glanced at the tourists. “Haoles and haoles all over da place — nuff already,” she said louder, for anyone listening. And then in a whisper: “You’re different. Your hair’s short, too, what you got left up there. Look like one jarhead haircut.” Jarhead. Soldier. She was good. He had to assume she suspected something. He only smiled and muttered, “Gee, thanks.” He made her usual — almond latte extra sweet and hot, and handed it over. A couple in line shook their heads at them, snarling at the preferential treatment. Even the tourists were getting edgy. The storm sirens were horrifying the rest. More customers were coming in reeking like rum, and fights were breaking out all over. Just this morning a local Korean sicked his dog-fighting Doberman on a wiseass Midwesterner outside an ABC, and simply for pointing a camera his way. Last night a little old lesbian from Seattle kicked a drunk fisherman in the balls. Alex had seen both of those go down, and it was all he could do not to help out. “Mahalo. Is good,” she said, dipping her straw and licking it. “Great, I —” Two cops were strolling up the path, young ones, a stocky Samoan showing all smiles and a butch female cop, a Portuguese-Hawaiian with spiky hair. They joined the end of the line, which was thinning out. Alex kept his head down, got the next coffees out, his heart thumping. False Refuge ~ 5

The girl stayed on her stool, sipping. Watching. Licking that straw. She faced him and spoke lower. “So, why you ask about the estates?” She needed something, anything. He spoke fast. “The place is in coffee country, right? I like coffee. Maybe there’s work there. You’re the one asking. Why you so interested?” “Who says I am? People talk too much story about that place, that’s all, like it some kine Pu’uhonua — place of refuge my ass; I bet it’s more like a prison.” “Oh? I thought that’s what this was?” He added a chuckle. She smiled and took a sip, glanced over. Only the cops were left in line. They were at the register. Alex held a smile for her that he hoped said, stay right there. What I need is you to stay right there on that stool. Tom called out a double Americano and dry cappuccino. Nice order — these cops here have taste, Alex thought. He got to the milk, drawing the press and making lots of noise, all gurgling and screeches so the cops wouldn’t talk to him. The girl shifted her stool closer, to the opposite side of the machine from the cops. From here she could see him work. Her hair swung down on one side and cascaded over the counter, a silky black waterfall. A breeze blew in and he could smell her, clean and fresh like plumerias just plucked, the dew still on them. It calmed him. The Samoan cop was still smiling but he was facing Alex’s way. The female cop had put on sunglasses, facing him. The girl smiled and gave them the shaka sign — three inside fingers closed, pinkie and thumb out. The Samoan gave a modest shaka, down low. Female cop nodded. “‘Mericano dry capp,” Alex said and, adding a smile, handed the drinks off to the cops, making brief eye contact because there was no way around it. He turned his back to them, crouched before the mini fridge and opened it, pretending to arrange the milk cartons by date. His heart booming now. His toes digging into the insoles of his running shoes. He stood. The cops were heading back toward Alii Drive, shielding their coffees from the rain and chatting. No customers now. Tom lit a Camel and stood out before the counter, blowing smoke into the weather. Alex took a deep breath. “So. What were you saying?” he said to the girl, wiping his hands on his apron. She wasn’t smiling. Her hair was back, out of her face, and she sat upright. “I wasn’t,” she said. “What’s your name?” False Refuge ~ 6

“Mine? What’s yours?” “Kanani.” Her eyes had narrowed. Nice name. He waited a beat, hoping she would tell him what it meant in Hawaiian but she only stared, not blinking, her round face hardening up. Give her something, Alex. He matched her hard face, narrowed his eyes, and said: “Mine name is Rico.” Kanani nodded. Taking it straight. “You got a last name, uh?” “Sure. It’s Bocanegra.” The smile was back, a wide grin that showed all her white shiny teeth and pink tongue curling. “Rico Bocanegra?” Kanani flapped her hand like she’d burned it on something. “You no look like no Rico Bocanegra. Dat cute though.” He shrugged. “What can I say?” “What? I tell you what.” Kanani’s hair was coming back down on the side. She gathered it up in one hand and tossed it back over her shoulder. “You can start by giving me your story. Da scoops.” If he could only tell her. Or, maybe he could? He was already sick of telling lies. What he wanted was to buy her a drink somewhere off Alii, where they could sit and talk. Kanani would know a place. He could smell those dewy plumerias again. Besides, she might know something more about this Krieger Estates place, something that wasn’t in the brochures and gossip. Something he could store and deploy later — something that could confirm the place was his last and only hope. He leaned over to her, smiling, and rested his elbows on the divider. Kanani leaned to him, grinning out one side of her mouth. “You want the scoop, huh?” he began. “One lilibit,” Kanani cooed. Just a little bit. They heard sloshing footsteps, and grunting. The hinky guy was back. Tom got back behind the counter. Hinky was showing a nasty snarl. He held the sprout sandwich bag out in front of him as if it was a bag he’d just shit in. “Something wrong?” Tom said, lowering his cigarette. Hinky flung the bag toward Alex. Alex ducked, the bag bounced off the espresso machine and the sandwich tumbled out across the prep counter in mangled scraps. Kanani jumped from her stool but Hinky pulled a revolver from the sack on his waist. He waved the gun around, aiming at all of them, jumping up and down so he could see Alex. “You been here twice today,” Tom said, “You’d be stealing your own money.” False Refuge ~ 7

“Shut up.” “Fucking nutter,” Tom grumbled. Hinky lunged and swung at Tom. The butt of the gun caught Tom’s temple. He stumbled back and dropped to the floor. Alex stood. Hinky aimed at him, shaking the gun. Kanani had raised her hands. Alex raised his hands, and in a glance took stock of his options. The rain was driving harder again, and no customers were coming up the path. He remembered — a dull old Colt .45 lay on the shelf below the register. Was it loaded? The safety off? He didn’t dare look that way. “Look, I’ll make you a new sandwich, no problem,” he said. “Fuck that,” Hinky said. “The register. Empty it.” “The register, the register,” Alex mumbled and nodded, stalling. The register stood between him and Hinky. Tom was still down, holding his head up like his neck wouldn’t work. He sat within arm’s length of the Colt. His eyes rolled around and he saw the gun and he looked to Alex, who said to Hinky: “Dude, that’s armed robbery. You don’t want that. It’s just the weather. You know? Everyone’s losing it a little —” “Don’t call me dude. Do it!” Hinky moved closer, jumping up to steal a glance at Tom down on the floor. “All right. It’s cool.” Alex stepped to the register. Hinky hugged the other side of it, the gun sitting right at Alex’s waist. Tom reached out for the Colt. Alex pressed a knee into Tom’s wrist, pinning it to the shelf’s edge. Tom let out a yelp. “Shut fuck up,” Hinky yelled at Tom. “You hurt the guy, and now you got trouble,” Alex said. “What else did you expect? But we could let this end another way. What do you say?” “Open it!” “Okay, okay.” Alex scanned the register keys for the No Sale button. On the prep counter between the register and the espresso machine lay the espresso portafilter, which was more or less an iron mallet with prongs. Alex popped the register drawer open, dollars sprung up. Hinky glanced at the green. Alex grabbed the portafilter and came down hard across Hinky’s nose. Hinky lifted off the ground. His gun fired into the roof, bamboo shards flew. Hinky lay on his False Refuge ~ 8 back, the blood streaming out his nostrils. He tried to get up. Alex rushed out through the counter pass-through, pushed him down flat and squatted on him. Alex raised the portafilter. He imagined it coming down hard, again and again on Hinky’s cheeks, clunking on bone. He imagined himself twice as large as he was, his arms ripped. He imagined Kanani’s lips parting in rapt wonder, her hands clasped at her chest in hope. Tom and the tourists gathering to cheer. He let the images go, squeezing the handle tighter until his fingers ached and he could barely hold on. He looked around, taking stock. The rain was hitting them hard, rolling down his arms and face. They were out in front of Donkey Dick’s, out on the path. The gun had rattled down the path. Kanani had scrambled for it but she halted. The two cops were coming up from Alii, their guns out, taking cover against benches and garbage cans along the way, yelling at unseen tourists to stay back, take cover. The cops were shouting at Alex but he couldn’t hear over the rain. Kanani peered to Alex with, to his wonder, a calm look of understanding. She had been there before. In the shit. “It’s all right,” Kanani said. “I was here, so was Tom. Saw everything. Rico! You did good. Just get your hands up.” You did good, she’d said. What a girl — she knew he needed to hear that. But she wasn’t right in the shit now, not like he was. And there was no way to explain it to her, not now, no way to tell her why he was going to do what he was about to do. “Yeah. Okay,” he said. He set the portafilter on Hinky’s steaming, bloody chest, and then he raised his arms. The cops’ guns lowered and one of them gave him a thumbs-up but still they crouched, their eyes full of white. Alex knew the look — they were taking no chances. If he was going to make his move it would have to be now. He backed up behind the counter, checking out Tom on the way. Poor guy was bloodied down one side of his face and neck but breathing, his eyes alert. “Cheers,” he muttered. Alex kept backing up. “Rico where you going?” screamed Kanani. Alex hurtled out the back door and into the rain and wind, the clouds black and racing fast along with him, it seemed, up toward Kona’s broad lava slope hills he ran, sprinting across streets and through yards and then jumping and climbing over rocks and lush and knotty bushes. False Refuge ~ 9

After about ten minutes he dared look over his shoulder. Alii Drive was well below him, a blur of rain and low clouds. He jogged up more back roads and across the new freeway, and then on through more backyards and he clambered over scrubby fields loaded with the black lava rock that smothered all, panting harder and his thighs burning, on and on, up and up, heading inland. He found an old banyan tree that gave him cover from the rain and a grand view of Kona Town with its one old church spire and modest bay, and he saw more storm clouds rolling in from the horizon. He wheezed to catch his breath, his lungs squeaking. He was soaked, he’d cut himself twice on the shin and ankle, and, he was realizing, Donkey Dick’s was sure to have been his last chance in Kona. At least from up here, he could see them coming. False Refuge ~ 10

TWO

Alex holed up under the banyan tree high above Kona Town and watched the storm clouds roll in, the rain pit-patting at the long twine-like branches and trickling down the craggy and curvy trunk that was, he realized after an hour or so, actually an interweaving of many lean trunks. He had only heard one siren down on Alii, and he told himself that was a good sign. He’d had no choice, he knew — he had to flee the scene. Avoiding exposure was critical. Sure, Donkey Dick may have given him a tiny raise, maybe kept him on another week. But what was that weighed against the upshot? What if local media had worked up a little hero story on him? The cops would have checked him out in any case, and if his Rico Bocanegra alias failed him? A positive ID would bring Army CID down on his ass. CID had a field office on Oahu. For all he knew, they could be in Kona already. The fact was he’d done a good deed, period, and in doing so managed to avoid that trusty old Colt under the register — a make he’d fired far too many times to count. He’d even kept Tom from the deadly thing. Yes, some bloodshed had been necessary. A certain longing had even tugged at his heart, one last soft spot for those priceless fighting techniques he had vowed to let rot. An espresso portafilter, he had to admit, did make a decent weapon. Then there was Kanani. He’d loved the pure awe on her face as he was about to pummel the hinky guy. Yet he’d held back, hadn’t he? Now he was fighting a new way, and no one said it was going to be easy, or crystal clear. The main thing right now was to survive. Day to day. Shelter to shelter. Meal to meal. Gutting it out. Only then could he start over. AWOL — Absent Without Leave, they called it. But he wasn’t just absent. He was to be no more. Vanished. Adios. A New Man. Alex’s one hour under the tree turned into four. The rain stopped. The wind dwindled to a welcome breeze. Then the clouds dimmed, the sun went under the Pacific and darkness fell, a purple and gray haze that blackened the palm trees against the sky. Time to move out. He ventured back down the slope to the southern edge of Kona Town, to his crappy hotel room (paid up days in advance) that no one, not even Donkey Dick, knew about. His daypack was sitting ready on the bed, packed as always. A liter bottle of Gatorade (orange) stood on the dresser. He drank the whole thing down. He splashed water on his face, ate three strips of mahi jerky out of False Refuge ~ 11 his pack, then he heaved on the pack and headed south along Alii Drive, making sure to blend into the bushes and yards when the few cars passed. He knew all the shoddy rentals along this stretch from the classifieds in West Hawaii Today or the web listings in Kona’s Internet cafes. Most were vacant because of the storms. He like the ones on the inland side of the road, so that his back was not to the sea, so that he could always flee to the interior — his very last resort. About a mile south was a ramshackle clapboard rental with an overgrown backyard. A deserted chicken coop stood back in the corner. It smelled like dried chicken shit inside, and thick drops of water seeped through the half-ass balsa wood-and-tarp paper roof, but it would have to do. He spread his plastic ground cover (a large trash bag) over the chicken shit and out came his narrow sleeping pad. On this narrow island of coziness he sat to check his only belongings. On his wrist, a cheap compass watch, non-military issue. It now read eight p.m. A Washington State driver’s license bearing his picture and the name Rico Bocanegra that he always kept in his pocket, along with a Visa Card in that name (cancelled), and a few bucks. His real passport he kept in a belt wallet along with a couple small, crude island maps and two thousand dollars cash. This he kept in his pack, for now. His pack contained: a few changes of clothes (shorts and tees and hats, mostly); basic toiletries; a knife; a monocular field glass; mini camp stove; first aid kit; water purification drops; fire starter; fish hooks and line; candles; diarrhea tablets; needle and thread; chapstick; a sheet sack; a long sandy-blonde wig (if he had to); and a few days of food — if he stretched it — including mahi and beef jerky, power bars, and baggies of dried fruit he’d bought in bulk; and, lastly, his trusty old Palm Pilot. On it he had books and games (asteroids and blackjack he liked best), though he’d have to find an electrical socket now and then to recharge it. To justify such luxury, he’d downloaded the Army Survival Manual into the thing and erased all his addresses and calendar items. Half a life of lives and loves erased, he thought. Was there anyone he could save from the world of shit he was leaving behind? Only a month ago he had believed there was someone to save — Jerry Bateman. Alex and Jerry had served together in Gulf War One, as spearhead infantry. After all they had been through, the shit they had seen, Alex was sure he could get through to Jerry. He had argued his case a little over a month ago in dingy old Futz Tavern, in a dark corner booth beyond the pool tables. This was back in Washington State, just blocks from Fort Clark. They’d both been reserves for a few years. Alex’s unit had been called up for Iraq, and it was only a matter of time for Jerry’s unit. False Refuge ~ 12

They had faced each other in the booth, Jerry sitting upright, his rounded shoulders pinned back to the cracking red vinyl. While Alex was fair and lanky, Jerry was dark and thick with plump purple lips (if his name ended in a vowel, Jerry had joked, he’d be mistaken for a mafia guy). Jerry had waved his hand — let’s cut the small-talk bullshit, this meant. “I can tell something’s going down with you.” “We did our part, in a just war,” Alex began. “But Iraq is no just war. And because it’s unjust, it can be refused. By us.” He laid it all out for Jerry. He wasn’t just speaking out of his ass, been following too much left-wing media. He’d read up on the tenets of military law — a soldier can reject service if he knows that service to be unlawful. The Iraq war was unlawful, if not criminal — a lie so big and told so many times and so rarely disputed that all America seemed to have fallen for it. On top of that the soldiers weren’t getting the armor and supplies they needed to survive in the shit. “But I’m not just rejecting this war,” he said. “I’m leaving it. Going AWOL. And I think you should, too.” Jerry’s green bottle of Henry’s Ale had stood to one side, full but for one sip taken on the way to the booth. As Alex spoke, Jerry had planted his stout elbows on the table and pressed his hands to his jaw. Alex continued, with one last kicker — Jerry’s wife Marci was sure to back Jerry in this, Alex argued. Marci always knew the score. Then Alex stopped, took a sip. Jerry’s bushy black eyebrows had pressed down over his eye sockets, and the bags under his eyes had seemed to swell. He held out his hands, looked at them. He glared at them. “I’m CID,” he said. CID was the army’s Criminal Investigations Division. His unit was attached to CID West, 6th MP Group. Alex was in the 322nd Military Intelligence Battalion. Both based out of Fort Clark. He was glaring at Alex now. “This is far bigger than what unit you’re in. What unit I’m in. What branch even.” Jerry rubbed at the top of his head as if his wiry black hair was a toupee that wouldn’t come off. He added that crazy little snort of a laugh that said, Alex, just what in the fuck are you trying to do to me here? For Jerry, it was all about the duty. A contract he’d made. In the face of duty Jerry buckled like most guys did to hot chicks — didn’t matter if they were married or the girl was trouble or both, all it took was a sweet smile up close and twirl of the hair and their dicks were doing the False Refuge ~ 13 thinking. For Jerry, the orders were more than a hard-on; they worked all the way to his heart. The mission was a sweet song to him. It removed all his fears, for a time. “Duty’s important to you,” Alex said. “I know that. But this is about a bigger duty — a duty to the people. This is about all of us. We’re being conned here, Jere. Every American is.” It was a decent line but it didn’t matter. Jerry was sucking at his beer and shaking his head like he did whenever he wouldn’t budge. When he did that back in the day, Alex recalled, not even their sergeant had pushed it. Alex said he was going for two more beers. He went into the men’s and kicked at the stall door, the heat surging up his throat. What the fuck was he thinking? Jerry was CID — an army detective, and what Alex was proposing was a direct challenge to the CID’s mission. And that song of duty Jerry loved to sing was probably what had sent Jerry back into the reserves, even though he’d tell you it was the goddamn economy and he needed an extra paycheck. Even though they had been through so much. Alex had returned with two more. Jerry was cool. “Don’t worry about it. This did not happen; I did not see you; so don’t worry,” Jerry had said and took two quick sips. Screw worry. Alex had so much more to tell. He wasn’t just going AWOL like your standard tweaker grunt, on the lam and without a clue. He had a plan — or, he should say, he had been shown the plan that would give him the way out. On the Big Island of Hawaii was a place called Krieger Estates. The Estates was a safe haven — sort of an underground railroad for AWOLs. The people there were able to help. He couldn’t reveal his source, though, because the secret was passed one at a time, in a chain, on to someone you trusted. The one who’d told Alex was already AWOL. But now he held back. “Okay, look, I understand,” he had said to Jerry, lifting his beer to Jerry’s. “This never happened. Thank you for that.” They downed two more. Before those were down, Alex had proposed that Jerry think it over nevertheless. They would meet one more time before Alex left — in two days, right here in this booth at 4:30 pm. Jerry had agreed to that, fine, it was the least he could do. And then Alex had taken one more gamble for his old comrade. He had said: “Here’s the deal. Know you don’t want to know this but I’m telling you anyway. I’m heading to the Big Island of Hawaii, first to Kona, get my bearings. Quit shaking your head. Just listen. If you change your mind, you would at least know where to start.” False Refuge ~ 14

Two days later, Alex did not meet Jerry in the booth at 4:30. He had already jumped ship, riding away on a Greyhound bus for Portland that morning. Hawaiian Air flew direct from there. The sick truth was, he had feared that Jerry Bateman the CID agent would go and run him in. The thought had made him want to vomit. Jerry would have vomited, too, had he run Alex in. He would have been truly sorry. But that was the duty, he would have said, and duty was duty. Buddies were buddies and duty was duty. That memory of Jerry Bateman ached in Alex’s gut now, a sting of regret that pulled down the corners of his mouth as if eight balls hung from them. In his dark Kona chicken coop, on his bedroll, he had curled up in a ball and squeezed his eyes shut. How stupid could he have been? He had only put his old friend on the spot. The rain and wind returned that night, battering the chicken coop like a thousand kicks and slaps, and the storm would not let up. Alex changed backyards the next two nights, graduating to nicer shacks as it became clear no one would bother him. The afternoons saw sun now and then, and he allowed himself to sit outside, sometimes on a nice patio or porch, though always with a protected view of Alii Drive. He read from his Palm. In it he had dictionaries and The Man Who Would be King, The Count of Monte Cristo, Franz Kafka’s The Castle, and biographies of Napoleon, Thomas Paine, Martin Luther King. When the clouds broke the fresh air rushed warm over him, bringing aromas of fragrant island flowers, of salt water, or of locals smoking pot or lighting the fireworks they loved so much here. Someone was always grilling thick slabs of meat. When the sun came up on the next day, he lay and listened to the exotic birds squawk and sing and howl. He ventured into a local mom-and-pop for more food, and the old Chinese lady behind the counter didn’t bat an eye. Just another island freak. After a week or so of living in yards he had something like a beard — a mangy red-blonde fuzz, but decent camouflage nevertheless. His next rental was a nicer white stucco job. Someone had forgotten to lock one of the windows, and he crawled right in. He slept on the floor, leaving the beds made. The place even had electricity but he didn’t dare use it at night. The next morning, the storms were losing their force. He waited until the late afternoon to be sure. Then he left his pack in an outdoor crawlspace out back beneath the stucco house, slipped on his cheap blue reef shoes, and walked north along Alii Drive into town. He had one gin and tonic in a seedy bar, just to be around people, get the latest. The inter-island flights were back on False Refuge ~ 15 full schedule, he heard. Someone had left a USA Today on a barstool, so he got another gin-tonic and took the front pages to a booth. It was March now. Two more GIs had been killed in Iraq the day before, and reservists at that. By now the postwar casualties had far surpassed those of the war that was won, Mission Accomplished. He closed his eyes a moment and, thinking of Jerry, chomped on a chunk of ice. He tried other papers lying around. None had a thing on his AWOL, luckily. A part of him had been paranoid they’d try to pin something on him he hadn’t done. After all, his ex-wife was an Iraqi. He tried to read more but the lines of print blurred and he had to put the paper down — after eating jerky and power bars for days he had the buzz of five gin-tonics. He ventured out onto the Alii strip, mixing in with the drunken tourists and roving hustlers. He passed the bland, resort-like restaurants and shops and headed on, deep into the strip. Crossing the street he saw that stand-up sign placed out before an alley passage that led, he knew, to a cluster of newly remodeled offices. The sign showed a coffee plantation house shining white in the sun, surrounded by lush ferns and banyan trees. Sunny bamboo-shaped letters read:

Krieger Estates Your Place of Refuge

Alex had never been in the estates’ Kona offices and never would be; those were for legit tourists, he’d been told — possible property buyers. Up until the incident with hinky he had felt safe, which allowed him to adjust to the surroundings. Undue Haste Makes Waste — that was a cardinal rule of survival in the field. Size up before you move on. He had done that part. So what was he waiting for? The storm had waned, and it had been over a month. He should be heading south, along the coast. Out on Alii, the crowds were thinning and his watch read almost midnight. He headed back south along the strip, jumped the short coastal wall, followed the narrow beach. Soon the sand gave way to slick and jagged formations of black lava rock and he tiptoed along the rocks in his reef shoes, keeping one eye on the high waves. Without reef shoes, he knew, his feet would be hamburger. Small black crabs jumped out of his way, hopping as high as his crotch. The lava rock along the water led him to the south end of the strip. There stood Duggo’s bar, hovering above the rock-laden beach and churning surf. A balcony jutted out from a short False Refuge ~ 16 breakwater. Grabbing at columns Alex scrambled under the balcony, crouching low in the dark, his feet and shins sopping. He waited, letting his eyes and ears adjust because the waves echoed under here. Ukulele music and laughter spilled out from above. He heard snippets of bland conversations about the price of flip-flops and suntan lotion at ABC. No one talked of the war in Iraq that was killing their children, and creating sworn enemies of their children’s children, or of their own scheming leaders who’d sold them out for corporate fealty, for tainted fortunes, for the revenge fantasies of the powerful. But who could blame the vacationers for living in denial? The reality was too horrendous. When he could make out the shine on the black rocks and the bubbles in the surly water he felt eyes on him, coming from the darker, shallower end far under the balcony. He whirled around. Watching him from half behind a rock was a feral island cat, buff-colored with white patches and happy green eyes. Alex stared back, a smile rising up one side of this mouth. From Duggo’s he’d watched these cats sneak out onto the rocks and track the strange black crabs. They rarely got one but, man, did they try and try. The buff cat was sniffing the smells coming from Alex, rubbing at rock with his cheek and neck. Go on, he seemed to be saying. Your turn, Jack. Standing on the tips of his toes, Alex could peer out from under the balcony. From this angle he saw right across Alii and on through to that shitty sports bar — Wade’s, read the cheap sign that was supposed to resemble a baseball scoreboard. He drew his monocular from the pocket of his surf shorts and scanned the scene. There she was. Kanani. Her hair in cute but fraying pigtails. Picking up empty Coronas and half-drunken Mai Tais, bussing the tables, and giving the last customers big toothy white smiles, which, Alex told himself, were clear fakes compared to the ones she’d given him at Donkey Dick’s. They were cleaning up and shutting down and now it was the same above at Duggo’s; the music had stopped, the conversations were dying. She too wanted free of something, he could tell that much about her. He kept watching her. She was off at one end, by herself. She stopped at a roadside table and gazed out, out beyond Alii to the ocean that was black for the night, and he swore she was looking right at him, right into his monocular. He yanked it down and hit the deck, scraping his palms on the rock. He looked to the buff beach cat, but the happy little thing was gone. False Refuge ~ 17

What was he waiting for? This. Her. He could admit it. After all, it wasn’t the first time he had watched her from here. He waited another half hour, until they’d closed up. Kanani got on an old ten-speed bicycle with the handlebars turned upward and headed south on Alii. Duggo’s and the other bars were lights-out now, giving him good cover. He climbed out and over the seawall and onto Alii to follow her. A wind had picked up. It would keep her from outdistancing him. He kept to a light jog, feeling his lungs tighten, and his feet stung from the grating sand in his reef shoes. Alii started to rise uphill, and she slowed. But how long would she ride? What if she was heading miles south, past White Sands Beach even? Locals like her were fit despite smoking like chimneys and laughing at the tourists who jogged. It began to rain, a light patter. She’d reached the crest and disappeared down the other side. The rain helped his lungs but his legs burned now, as if he was running through sand dunes. Reaching the top he slowed to a fast walk, panting. A car came up from behind and passed him, its headlights giving him a good look far down Alii. She was nowhere. She must have turned off. But there weren’t many turnoffs along this stretch of Alii; the inland side here was undeveloped lava rock and the ocean side mostly aging hotels and time-share condos. He took his time, strolling, catching his breath. He entered each turnoff, looking around, scouring the few bike racks he saw. About a half mile down he entered a tight driveway framed by two sickly palm trees. A small pink house stood before him. It was local-owned, he guessed, because they still had their Christmas decorations up, a manger scene. He skulked around the yard, tiptoeing in his reef shoes, looking for the glimmer of a bicycle. The palm leaves rustled above him. The rain came down harder, pinging at the house’s corrugated metal roof. It was dark here, like the inside of a garage with the lights out. He headed back out to Alii. Something had filled the space between the two palm trees. It was her. Kanani was holding the bicycle up in front of her as a weapon. “I’ll scream. I’ll fucking scream. I know these people living here. Oahu Koreans. You do not want to fuck with them. What they do to perverts you don’t wanna know.” Alex’s hands went up. Kanani had a full-size maglite in one hand, he saw. He gave a little chuckle. “Then why don’t you shine that maglite on me? That should help.” The bicycle lowered. “Recognize the voice? It’s me. Rico.” False Refuge ~ 18

A sigh. “Step out onto the road,” Kanani said and did the same. Alex followed. Keeping the bike between them Kanani held the maglite by its end, as if she’d gladly hammer him. He kept his hands up. She clicked the light on, once quick, and then a second time, longer. In the flash he saw her teeth — a smile? “Nice beard you got,” she said. “Like one Kona boat captain gone hehena.” “That’s the idea. Something like that, anyway —” Kanani heaved the bicycle to the ground and kept coming. She pointed, stabbed at his chest. “Wait one minute. You know I had to spend half the day answering to those cops? Me and that poor Tom. I missed part of a shift. Almost got canned.” “I’m sorry. I am. I’ll make it up to you.” “Will you? Don’t see how you can.” Alex got the bicycle, stood it up and straightened it out, and sat on the saddle. “Here, get on the handlebars. I’ll ride you home. Deal? We’ll start with that.” False Refuge ~ 19

THREE

“That was some ride,” Kanani said, chuckling and wiping the wet grass off her thighs. Alex’s handlebar ride had lasted less than a minute. Jogging after Kanani had already worn him down, and so his steering had wobbled and weaved and Kanani couldn’t stop laughing, which made him laugh, and then she’d fallen back, her hair brushing his lap and her face under his chin, framed inside his arms, laughing up at him upside down, her smile so open and her legs stretched out, and it was all too much. He’d careened off into the Bermuda grass shoulder and spilled them both. He was walking the bicycle now. “Thanks. I didn’t hurt you?” he said. “Hurt me? No way.” The warm night rain softened to a mist, and then it ceased. Here Alii Drive ran along the water. Waves surged and crashed in the dark, only yards from them. As they walked they watched the stretched white explosions, searching for the right words that Alex hoped would keep this going. He wanted to tell Kanani how much he valued their time together, but, as he’d learned from being single again, guys didn’t talk like that. Not at first. Sincerity sounded cheesy. Everything had to be faux laid-back. Plus he didn’t want to freak her out. Who knew what she thought after what went down at Donkey Dick’s? “So. How’s Tom?” he said. “Good. Nasty gash on the head, but he good.” Her voice had a harder edge. “I checked him on my way out.” “Yeah, I saw you.” She had her head down, her little feet stabbing at their roadside shoulder path. “He sounded coherent. So, he’s okay?” Kanani stomped forward and swung around, her hands on her hips. Facing him. “Why you care so much now when you went cut and run before?” Alex had stopped. He let the bicycle rest against his side. “I am sorry. I mean it. I never thought of it that way. I would think your boss would understand, considering ...” False Refuge ~ 20

“Ah,” Kanani said and wiped at the air with her hand. She yanked the bike from him and headed on. Alex caught up and they were walking step in step, even though his legs had to be twice as long. “There weren’t badass Oahu Koreans living in that house back there, were there?” Kanani laughed and walked a few steps, nodding. “Ah, you good, brudda.” She faced him again, walking backwards, her feet finding her way along the wet grass and rocks as if she was strolling forward. “Here’s my motto, Mr. Rico Bocanegra — trust no one. Go with what you got. Do what you gotta do. Whatever keeps that one other dog from eatin ya. You know?” Isn’t that what he had done back at Donkey Dick’s? Not quite, he realized. He had acted according to a code — no guns, and no violence if he could help it. What about principles? he wanted to ask her. Without them we’re all just wily lone wolves. Cynical predators. Either that, or unwitting automatons taking orders. Dependant minions. And either way, doomed. She had twirled back around mid-step and walked on forward. He let her gain a few steps on him. “Kanani’s a lovely name,” he blurted. “Literally. Means the ‘pretty one.’” She tilted her head back to him, her eyes shimmering. “Ho, that’s impressive for one haole. Is this your way of surviving?” He could have told her about the Hawaiian dictionary in his Palm Pilot and how he’d looked up her name, but why spoil this with specifics? “Maybe. Maybe it is.” They passed the unoccupied rental Alex was using. Alex, pretending to fidget with a reef shoe, knelt and gave the place a quick once-over. The place was still dark. They walked on. Alii Drive turned inland again, and soon they were passing expensive walled villas with vast landscaped yards that faced the ocean. They walked in silence. The Donkey Dick’s incident was looming over them like the rain clouds, and these clouds were made with a dim, heavy, unyielding lead. Alex would rather not go there. His act had been haunting him. While holed up he’d had dreams he was thumping himself with that damn espresso portafilter instead of clobbering that hinky guy. Bashing in his own teeth. Cracking his kneecaps. Squirting blood and splintering bone and his nerves howling on fire. And yet he couldn’t stop. The shock and the trauma prevented him from running to freedom, even from being able to speak. His mouth had stretched open to scream. No sound came but a sickly throttled squeak False Refuge ~ 21 from the back of his throat. This had finally woken him. The sweat was running cold off his face and arms and left his bedroll wringing wet. “Tom wants to thank you, you know,” Kanani said. “You saved his English ass.” The thanks would never happen, Alex thought. He could never go back. “Just doing my part. Donkey Dick’s the one who should be grateful. I went above and beyond his wages.” “Right now he’s screwed. Till he finds a new guy he’s back on the line.” “He’ll survive.” “But I don’t know if I will. That Dick sure can’t make my usual like you can.” “Oh? Thanks.” Kanani was eyeing him now, as if waiting for him to elaborate. He sighed. “So, I take it the guy will survive.” “That hehena freak? Like he deserves to live. He’s not dead but you fucked him up good. Is his own fault. Turns out he’s wanted on the mainland and they’ve shipped him off. Dumb wanted fuckers like dat — why they always come here? —” Kanani tried to swallow away the end of that last sentence but was too late. Why? They came because Paradise was also a refuge. A haven. But Alex wondered: didn’t others come for more than just escaping? Didn’t they want to remake themselves into better people? To spurn their demons and their oppressors? He wanted to believe others did. It’s why he himself had come. Kanani was walking with her head down again. “I didn’t mean you — you’re not a dumb fucker,” she said. She’d left out the word ‘wanted.’ “Oh, I know,” he added quickly, to calm things. “The dumbest thing was that guy had a gun.” “And that gun was fully loaded, know that? Had five more shots in the thing. Dumb fucker, sure doesn’t know when to pick his battles.” Kanani shook her head at the thought. “Anyway Donkey Dick’s going to frame the bullet that went off — he’s plucked it out of the bamboo.” “Any news coverage?” “Had a story in West Hawaii, that was it. Oahu TV don’t give a shit.” A car was coming, its headlight beams all over the road. Alex moved Kanani and her bicycle to the farthest edge of the shoulder and they walked single file, the low hanging leaves brushing Alex’s head. The car slowed, flashing their backs with white light, and then gave them a wide berth as it sped on. A Ford Focus — only a rental car. Probably a drunk. False Refuge ~ 22

“He’d take you back, no questions asked — Donkey Dick, I mean.” Alex shook his head. “Nah. I’m guessing he can’t afford to give me a raise.” “Then screw him. There’s other joints. I could set you up at Wade’s.” “Thanks, but ... no.” She walked next to him, shoulder to shoulder, watching his face. “I didn’t say anything to the cops. They didn’t even ask me about you. They aren’t looking for you. They just wanted to thank you. No questions asked. Follow me? It’s safe in town, that’s all I’m saying.” “I know, I know.” Alex walked a few steps, moving in front of her. “It’s safe here. We’re safe here,” she added, but with a strain to her voice, as if trying to convince herself of it. “We?” he said. She smiled back. They walked on, in silence, listening to Alex’s reef shoes squeaking with water and sweat, to Kanani’s flip-flop slapping along, to the rustle of palm leaves stroking each other in the wind. They heard the cry-shriek of some unknown island animal, calling out for a partner. “Check um out,” Kanani said, holding a hand to her ear. “That’s a coqui frog.” “Cool,” Alex said, smiling. “You know what? I’m noticing something. It seems the longer I’m around you, the less of that island pidgin you speak. Yeah, definitely. It’s dropping off, bit by bit.” A grin stretched across her face and she wagged a finger at him. “Ho, you one akamai bugga,” she said, mocking herself. Then she cleared her throat, all business. “No, you’re right. We don’t speak like that for long with haoles we get to know, because we sure as fuck don’t want them speaking like that with us. Embarrassing themselves. We use it to distance ourselves. But then again, we can use it to show other haoles that we’re tight with you. With you, in town, you needed someone to get your back. I knew something was up with you. So I wanted it to look like you knew what you were doing.” “That’s why you were sitting there? I thought it was my barista skills.” “That, too.” Alex’s arm had reached out with a life of its own. His hand wrapped around her warm opposite shoulder. He gave her a little sideways squeeze of a hug and then pulled back. “I appreciate that. I do,” he said. False Refuge ~ 23

“I know.” I’ll look out for you, he wanted to say, but then he remembered what she’d told him — it was dog-eat-dog out there, and she was her own army. He said: “It is brutal out there. But if there’s one thing I learned …” — in the army, in the shit with Jerry Bateman, he wanted to add but held off. “It’s always good to have a partner. You’re really naked without one. Exposed.” He let the words trail off. She nodded at him, her mouth stretched out, and he hoped it wasn’t a frown. They heard the low drone of an airplane, flying low along the ocean horizon. “Hear that?” Kanani said. “The flights are coming back. That means the storms are ending.” She said it with a growl in her voice, as if the coming of spring and lovely Kona weather was a horrible thing. “Already into February. God, time’s flying.” “Flying way too fast. That’s exactly what I need more of — time.” “Me too, brudda. Me too,” Kanani said, and she spat out onto Alii Drive.

Alii Drive straightened out and stayed inland, entering a stretch of mismatched and overgrown lots that held cinder block huts and tar-papered sheds and decaying surfer rentals. Lights were dim and sparse. Kanani slowed her pace along here, watching and walking with a careful purpose. She steered Alex and her bicycle across Alii and through to an oversized lot, into which she flashed her maglite around. Random exposed light bulbs helped illuminate the scene. The lot held three bungalows, what looked like yet another chicken coop, three old cars sinking into the ground — including a Yugo, a Renault LeCar, and Volkswagen bus, a couple old refrigerators, a stone outdoor barbecue, and various chairs and tables that had been tossed about during the storms. Palm trees and high lush bushes leaned into the clearing, swaying and shimmying, the branches and leaves drooping and dripping and feeding, below them, the many giant ferns and shrubs of budding red flowers. It was more a dead-end clearing than a yard, and a place Alex normally wouldn’t have entered. Too much had to be checked out. With his flashlight he also made out a tree swing, and some children’s toys about. Or were those tools? The two bungalows farthest were black silhouettes, as if their windows were boarded up. The closest one showed light from inside, but just flickers that flashed through old wood shutter blinds, and Alex guessed these were candles. False Refuge ~ 24

Kanani had moved on in, halfway into the yard. She swung the bicycle around and peered for him. He’d stopped in the driveway, stooping next to a tree, his fingers clamping the wet bark. “Wait. Is someone home?” he whispered. “No. Just us,” she whispered back. He detached himself from the tree and tiptoed toward her. A pink sandwich-board sign outside the bungalow read:

Miss Leilani Massage However You Like It Licensed

“That you? Miss Leilani?” “Yep. Was, I guess. New business venture. Made a few bucks. But the storms went screwed it up. Had a bunch of flyers printed up and they all got wet. That sign right there was out on Alii but it kept blowing over.” She leaned the bicycle up against the few front steps and climbed them, with tiptoes. One step creaked. He stood down below, staring up at her. “Okay. So, thanks again for the ride,” she said. “Yes. You’re welcome. Okay.” He stepped back. “Why are we whispering?” she said, adding a giggle. “Hell if I know.” She let her hands slap at her sides. “You got a place to stay, you said.” “Sort of. My pack does, anyway. I’ll figure it out. There are other parts of the island. South Kona, Kohala Coast, Hilo Side, whatever,” he added, and not quite sure where he was going with that. “Figure it out,” he muttered. “Rico,” she said. She stepped down one stair, her fingertips along the railing. She stood on the bottom step, eye to eye with him. “Who’s after you? What did you do?” “It’s not so much what I did as, what I refuse to do now. That’s all I can say.” She reached out and touched his beard, rubbing a few hairs between two fingers. He let her, watched her, his mouth open. He smiled. What a goof. Say something. She opened her mouth False Refuge ~ 25 and her teeth glistened in the dark. It made him look down, at her brown shoulders, just a glance. She saw this, of course. And she whispered, from deep within her compact little chest: “So, then. You coming, or you going?” False Refuge ~ 26

FOUR

Jerry Bateman stared at his feet, at his bare feet. Out in the Hawaiian sun, by his hotel pool. They glowed, bone white. Since when did he have such white-ass feet? He put on his government- issue aviator sunglasses and stared some more. He saw he had a mole on one arch, and another on an ankle. He saw the veins, some bluish, some grayish. Saw how the breeze from Kona Bay caressed the thick black hairs on his toe knuckles. Calluses marred his heels and big toes, and his toenails were dense slabs with ridges and blurry dark patches. His grandfather had toenails like that, he recalled — his grandfather the firebrand union leader, from another time and age. Go figure. Chuckling, he stretched out in his pool chair, listening to the pool waves lap and lap, shaking his head at this whole foot thing. Funny how much you realize when you start looking at things in different ways, under different conditions. He took another sip of his Mai Tai, puckered as the blue juice clenched his tongue, and reminded himself never to order one of these damn syrupy things again. So he had pale feet. Screw it. It was only his second day on the Big Island and he had work to do. A pile of notes and photocopies rested on his lap and another pile lay on the plastic table next to him. He tugged on his damp aloha-print swim trunks bunching up at his flabby stomach, shifted his bare body in the sun, and lifted pages from his lap. Alex’s name was all over the pages — Army Reserve Sergeant First Class Alex Swenson of the 322nd Military Intelligence Battalion, a reserve unit out of Fort Clark, Washington. This much Jerry could assume — Alex was heading here, to the Big Island of Hawaii. Jerry had a couple weeks of vacation due at the police department, so as far as the PD or Jerry’s own Army Reserve unit knew, he was simply taking a long-overdue trip to Hawaii with his wife Marci. Marci didn’t know either. He didn’t have the heart to tell her about Alex. He lifted his Mai Tai, set it back down. A foul taste was rising up his chest, and it wasn’t the blue juice. They could really nail Alex for this. For one, Alex was a reservist in military intelligence. Second, his ex-wife Zaira came from Iraq. And when 9/11 hit the fan Alex had stood up for Muslim soldiers when others were riding them pretty hard. The tough truth these days was, Alex could be tagged as guilty of just about anything. Despite what the Constitution said. This was military law they were talking about. This was Homeland Security. It was War and False Refuge ~ 27 you’re either with us or against us, especially with the way things were going. Scapegoats were in high demand these days. Jerry was a reserve, too. He had a duty to serve when they called on him. He also had a duty to Alex. So he had gone and met Alex that one last time at 4:30 pm in Futz Tavern just like Alex had proposed. He was going to talk Alex out of the AWOL. If anyone could do it, it was Jerry. They had been through too much together. And, if he had to, he would’ve played the hardass — would’ve threatened to run Alex in himself. When Alex hadn’t showed, that had just busted Jerry’s heart. He had sat in that tavern booth and stared at his beer for two hours. Frozen. He couldn’t move. He had to pee and then shit and his sphincter had tightened up like a fucking boxer’s fist. But he couldn’t move. The kid bartender had finally come over and asked him if he was all right. Did he need him to call somebody? Wife? An ambulance? Jerry had charged out of the Futz, out into the bitter cold day that eased the sting and heat from his eyes. After a half hour of waiting in that booth he had known the truth — Alex was already AWOL, and probably because Alex had stopped trusting even him, his old soldier friend. Jerry grabbed at the Mai Tai and drank, letting the blue sludge slide down the back of his throat. He closed his eyes and let the drink work on him. Numbing him. So Alex had gotten called up. It could happen to any of them, despite services already rendered in Desert Storm. It was duty. Plain and simple. Any of them would go if called. Jerry would. That was the goddamn deal and they’d all signed up for it. He killed that dark thought with a grim smile, and then he checked his feet again, all warm and glowing down there. They were looking a little pink but he figured they could take it. His feet had always been bound inside some sort of sturdy shoe — combat boots, hard glistening dress shoes, rubber boots, work boots. Black cross-trainers for cops. He stretched his toes, curled them up, and giggled. Why the bittersweet shit? It wasn’t just the Mai Tai. It was only low 70s, but maybe he’d been out in this sun too long. He slid his feet into his new flip-flops that Marci had bought him, flimsy little black rubber things. They were like underwear for your feet, he’d joked — a thong between his big toe and first toe, but Marci had insisted. She couldn’t stand him wearing his beat-up white Rockports with socks any longer. Right now she was out hitting the ABC stores, which were like 7-Elevens for souvenirs and island gear. The ABCs were on every other corner, it seemed, and they obsessed her. She’d also reported that the ABC store had camo False Refuge ~ 28 pattern flip-flops — the camo look being in, Marci had assured him, and Jerry wondered if he could wear those back on base without getting his balls busted. It wouldn’t happen until the weather was better, that was for sure. They were having a harsh winter in the Pacific Northwest. Fort Clark itself was iced right over. That gave him a good chuckle. He had guessed he was going to like being here — but not this much. And he was lucky — most of the rainstorms had just passed, people kept telling him. The pool before him belonged to the King Kamehameha hotel, a massive and aging concrete 1970s goliath that reigned over Kona bay from the north end of Alii Drive, but still proud she was, the KK, like a creampuff Buick Riviera GS with good chrome and low miles. Jerry could respect that about the place. Thank god for this pool. He had sat out at pools before, sure, but they were always surrounded by concrete. Buildings, walls. In Saudi, in Turkey. In Germany the pool was indoors. Here it was open, so free. Behind him was a pool bar — the Billfish Bar. At night they had Hawaiian musicians playing, and if you had the right stool you could gaze out from under the fake straw roof toward the blue bay and setting sun, or you could watch the women saunter from jacuzzi to pool and back again. What a place, this Kona. The waitress passed bearing a plate of what smelled like grilled pork and deep-frying, and Jerry’s stomach rumbled. Maybe he and Marci would eat at Kona Brewing again tonight, he thought. That microbrewery sure had good beer. They could go early for a table, get a pizza. What he really should do was go deep-sea fishing. Take some pictures back for the guys. A marlin head for the mess bar on base, wouldn’t that be something? The only problem was, Fort Clark’s soldiers would rather hang Alex’s head up there. A cloud passed over the sun. Jerry’s feet went dim, shadowed. What was wrong with him, daydreaming like this? He only had so much time. Kona was his last chance to get through to Alex, and he was really going out on a limb. None of this was official. CID had its Hawaii Field Office on Oahu, at Schofield Barracks. CID HFO might have even had a tip or two for Jerry but he didn’t want to risk it. A thought plagued him — was it because he wanted a first shot at Alex alone? Or, was it because deep down he didn’t want them to know he was here — in case he ever had second thoughts himself? In case Alex’s arguments started making more sense? “Can I get you something, sir?” A waitress was standing over him, blocking the sun. “How about a water?” Her eyes were pinched and Jerry knew what that meant. False Refuge ~ 29

“Okay — a water,” he said, showing a big smile. The waitress must have gotten the word that he’d made trouble at the bar. The night before he’d met a newbie Marine at the bar, a kid who was heading over soon. Marci had gone up to bed. The civs around them were buying their drinks, to support the troops. Toasts all around. Jerry, for no good reason, was drinking mescal. The newbie couldn’t wait to get to Iraq, he told Jerry. He told everybody. They were fighting for freedom, fighting terrorism, the newbie boasted. Toasts all around. Dumbass kid, Jerry thought. Then the newbie was complaining about all the grunt work he had to do on base. By his third drink newbie was saying we should have made Iraq a “sheet of glass,” just start right over. “You fucking idiot,” Jerry had barked, the mescal kicking in. “You want grunt work? Slog it out in the desert. Watch a buddy scream, cry, whimper for his mother, and that’s just from the hot sand in his wounds. You scout casualties and find out they’re charred children, the mothers all wailing at you that their sons will grow up to slay yours. Yeah, that’s right — get yourself ready, kid.” The newbie Marine was glaring at Jerry as if Jerry had just slapped him across the jaw. Faces had stared into laps and drinks, silent. “Just don’t think that’s the way to support our troops,” someone whispered. Jerry had turned that person’s way, ready to lunge. Then the bartender had faced Jerry and suggested he call it a night. Out by the pool the waitress dropped off Jerry’s water. On his lap Jerry was flipping through what he was able to get at the base from the active duty CID — from a young lieutenant who, knowing Jerry was a friend of Alex’s, had said he’d pass Jerry what info he could; he’d only do it, he’d said, because Jerry was a Desert Storm vet and you had to respect that. Jerry could guess what this frat boy-Lt. might have been thinking — here was another rusty vet returning to the reserves for the extra pay; just because the guy didn’t develop one of those freaky Gulf War nerve disorders didn’t mean he wasn’t left screwed up. Still, this one was for Alex, so Jerry had thanked the Lt. and slapped him on the back, even promised him favors. The info Jerry got came complete with typos, doodles (one of a rabbit wearing a helmet), and sloppy thoughts and they didn’t tell Jerry anything new. He also got photos of Alex. Headshots, snapshots. The photos glistened in the sun and Jerry bended them for a better look. There Alex was in Saudi during Desert Storm, then in a German beer hall during a rotation home, and outside Fort Clark. That fuzzy blond head. Those gangly limbs. Such a dependable guy. Always so good in the field. Alex went for the carrot every time — he always got it done with talking, with showing-by-example. False Refuge ~ 30

Never lost the temper. Jerry did. Jerry, he carried a big stick, they said. That was his way. Although if he had a choice he would rather have some more of what Alex had. That was the way to do it. Jerry’s cell phone rang. It was Marci. He let it ring. Thinking, Alex had split just after the New Year, 2004. Now it was February. Alex had told Jerry he was to start out in Kona, to get his bearings. That meant Alex could be anywhere or anyone. Yet Kona itself wasn’t that big. Fort Clark wasn’t much smaller in total area. The guy could be working in this very hotel, but under what name? If Alex was using false ID, that could make things worse for him. The last thing Alex needed was to get desperate. Sighing, Jerry flipped through his other pile — the Kona pile. He had photocopies of local news stories, simple maps and regional info, anything he could print out from the Internet before coming over. In one news story, some distraught mofo had steered his SUV into a Kona airport terminal and torched the front seats with gasoline, saying he wanted to gain attention for his son who had died in Iraq. Jerry could only shake his head in pity at that — what had really driven that father to such desperation, he guessed, was all the things they hadn’t said, shared with one another. The other stories were about the standard crimes here. Theft. Crack. Assault. Of course Alex hadn’t gone AWOL to start committing crimes like these, but Jerry had to be thorough. If Alex was smart, and a part of Jerry — the same part that loved the wind in the hairs of his feet — was hoping Alex was smart, Alex would be renting a little out-of-the-way villa under an assumed name and taking the slow and careful baby steps of starting over. But what a way to start. On an island? Paradise is the greatest expression of freedom, sure, but not when you’re trapped there with no way out. Dumb move, Alex — a dim-witted civ move. But then again, Alex always was more of a civilian than the rest of them. He even made jokes about wearing a uniform, like it was some kind of Halloween costume. A lot of soldiers didn’t like that, but Jerry could handle it. He saw it as Alex’s way of showing respect. Duty was a powerful thing to live up to. Duty. Marci. He heaved his pile onto the plastic table and chugged down his water. He picked up his cell phone and punched buttons until he got Marci’s message. “Hi honey, just checking in,” her message began in that airy, sing-songy voice she got when she was out wandering. The rushing sounds in the background told him she was outside, all cars and surf and palms in the wind. She was going to be out shopping a while, she was saying. She thought they’d try somewhere else besides the Kona Brewery tonight. She didn’t love beer every False Refuge ~ 31 night and the change would do them good. Jerry loved beer. He was about to hang up. Then he heard this: “Oh, know what else I heard? Went for a latte and this guy working there had a bandage on his head. From London, of all places. Said some crazy guy tried to rob him with a gun a couple days ago. The robber even got a shot off and the hole’s in the ceiling, too, and I’m looking right at the bullet in a little jar on the counter. The place was called Donkey Dick’s. Know they say there’s live wild donkeys all over the island? On account of the army training here years ago. That true? And cats — wild cats all over. I don’t know if I can stand to see that. Maybe we can take one home? This place is weird. Oh, best part was that London fellow said was his co-worker saved him — first the co-worker tried to talk the crazy robber guy out of it, and then, when that didn’t work he beat the robber on the head with one of those heavy espresso filter thingamajigs. Uh, I hoped they washed it real good. But talk about a hero, huh? But then, get this, hero co- worker goes and splits once the robber’s done for, he just goes and takes off before the cops get there. No one’s seen him. Weird. Good coffee though. Nummy! Okay, so call me —” False Refuge ~ 32

FIVE

Jerry just about pitched his cell phone into the pool. He hung up and snorted “fuck,” grinding his teeth, and the waitress rushed on by even though his water was empty and he could have used another. A hero stops a robbery and then flees as if he himself was the robber — how did I miss that? Jerry thought. Thank god for his Marci, though. Murder She Wrote kicked his ass and she didn’t even know it. What a girl. Time to boogie. He dumped his piles into the cloth ABC bag Marci had given him and pulled on his new Hang Ten t-shirt, but the shirt chafed at his shoulders and arms when it hadn’t before. Too much sun? So what; he had work to do. He signed for his drinks at the bar. The waitress said she thought Donkey Dick’s was at the other end of Alii Drive. He hoofed it in his flip-flops all the way, pushing past the tourists and working up a sweat. Donkey Dick’s was just inland from Alii, up a path from a sports bar. Marci wasn’t there but the bandaged Londoner was, standing out front having a smoke. Jerry marched up and pulled out his narrow reporter’s notebook, letting the Brit assume he was some sorry stringer from the mainland. The Brit tensed up at first. Said his name was Tom, just Tom, and Jerry didn’t push for a full name. Tom was okay after that. Told Jerry the whole story. His co-worker’s name was Rico, which Tom thought was a weird name for a tall pale white guy, but then again his own name was Tom and he was a small pale white guy. Jerry laughed at that. Tom then showed Jerry the small write-up from the West Hawaii Today on the failed robbery, from two days ago — from the very day Jerry was flying over (thus the gap in his research). Jerry read the story fast, acting like he’d seen it already. It had no photo. Rico Bocanegra was the hero’s full name. No one knew where he’d come from. “Tell you what,” Jerry said, holding his pad and pen ready. “I’m looking for some color, you know, set the scene. You said this Rico is a tall pale white guy. What does he look like, you know, in detail? ... Good, that’s good ... Now, he ever say anything to you that would give away his background?” Jerry pretended to write, but his pulse was racing and in his mind his legs were already charging back up Alii, first to the hotel room for a piss and his Rockports and then he’d go straight to the local PD where, somehow, he would try for more. By the time he got into his room at the King Kamehameha his skin was looking tight and red. He pulled off the t-shirt slowly, with fingertips, as if it had been glued to his own skin. His feet False Refuge ~ 33 were raw, burning. Even the shag rug hurt the sides of his feet. Tender was not the word for this. He lay face up on the hotel bed, his feet dangling off the end and one arm out the side, the heat surging up and down his arms and chest and settling into the tips of his toes, throbbing. Pounding. As if his heart was beating in the tips of his toes. He touched his forehead but his skin singed as if he’d dabbed muriatic acid on it. At least his feet weren’t looking so white anymore, he joked to himself and wheezed out a chuckle, assessing the situation. He was done all over. He’d been out in the sun too long, and so close to the pool that the water was a reflector. How could he forget to apply sunscreen? His daydreaming had done it — letting himself wonder at the sun and sea and getting those tacky paradise itches that any common tourist gets. Gee, wonder if I really could live on an island? Just sell everything off back home and start over? Bullshit. This much he knew. He would have to power through the burn. Best thing was to keep moving. He pushed himself up and began to pull on his socks but it was like peeling off his skin with a cheese grater. “Fu-uck,” he growled under his breath. The PD was only a few blocks away. Gritting his teeth, he slathered on sunscreen in dollops and streaks. He loosened the fit of his Seattle Mariners cap and placed it nice and easy on his head, so that it rode on his hair. In the elevator a Japanese couple stared in shock and then stared at the floor. He scrambled out the KK lobby in bare feet, the ABC bag held out wide so it wouldn’t brush his skin. Out on Alii Drive he put on his aviators and stumbled for the right inland side street, tiptoeing and flinching at the pebbles and rough concrete. A couple of teenage girls busted up at him. He directed his aviators at them and sneered a fuck-you. Kona’s only PD was a district station, a tiny storefront between a tropical fish store and a hair salon. He pushed through the door, wincing at the suck of cool air that slapped his red skin. This was the PD? The place had one messy desk and a counter and if it wasn’t for a “Most Wanted” poster it might as well have been a failing tourist agency. A lady cop approached the counter. She had blonde spiky hair. “Yes?” she said, in that way that meant either you’re nuts or need to report something — or both. Jerry was tempted to continue the journalist dodge, since he did look like a behind-deadline stringer with the sun and booze all up on top of him. But his smarts kicked in — no reason to get desperate. He showed his military CID ID and the lady cop straightened. He offered her the ID but she waved it off, saying she wanted to support the troops in any way she could. She had a sign and a flag on her car but wanted to do more. Jerry assured her she could help. Did she know False Refuge ~ 34 about the incident at Donkey Dick’s a couple days ago? The lady cop grinned. Did she ever. She was on the scene, which wasn’t much of a coincidence considering they only had a few cops at a time working out of Kona Town station. She told him all she knew. Donkey Dick had no info on this Rico Bocanegra hero, not even a Social Security number or food handler’s card, which meant Rico was probably under-the-table but they weren’t pursuing that considering what a fine deed Mr. Bocanegra had done. He’d taken out an armed man with an espresso filter — definitely some fine work. “I’d say,” Jerry said, nodding. “So, why do you think this Bocanegra guy fled?” The lady cop shrugged. “Mainland trouble? A girlfriend. Parole. Happens all the time here. But, since this Bocanegra was playing the hero, why pursue a ghost?” Jerry shrugged, nodded. The lady cop was eyeing him. “That’s some burn you got there. Gonna be okay?” “Yeah. I’ll make it.” “Good. Hey, wait a sec,” the lady cop added. She went in back and came out with a photo she handed to Jerry. “Donkey Dick gave us this.” Jerry cradled the photo in both hands. It was a casual shot of Donkey’s Dick’s, from out in the path. A line was at the register, where Tom stood. At the espresso machine glared back the face of Alex Swenson, the only one looking at the camera. And man was Alex glaring. It was a look Jerry had rarely seen on Alex. He’d seen it in Desert Storm. He’d seen it when Alex carried wounded children who he knew wouldn’t make it. That forced up a sad smile in Jerry, but he pressed his tender and already chapping lips together to keep the smile down. “So, is this a buddy I’m guessing?” the lady cop said. Jerry shook his head, slowly. “No. I wish it was, but it doesn’t look like it to me.”

On the way back to the KK Jerry bought a fifth of Bacardi 151 at an ABC store. He never drank rum but then again he was never in the tropics and never in such pain. In his room he took a shot and it burned down his throat. He took a cold shower, the water pressure on low. This relieved the heat, the throbbing, but toweling off brought on the pain and left him shivering. He turned off the air conditioning and opened the patio blinds for the last of the sunlight. Chills rushed over his shoulders. He turned on the heat and pulled the covers up over him, but that scraped and itched, False Refuge ~ 35 so he sprung back up and hauled the Bacardi over to the mini bar, where he set himself up with a guava juice and rum without ice. The drink was smooth, and had just the right amount of sweet. He went over to the glass patio doors and stared out at the sun setting over Kona bay, at the water rippling with gold glimmers. Sipping. Taking stock. Alex Swenson was here on the big island, and time was on Jerry’s side. The Rico Bocanegra ID would do little good now. Alex might still make a move off this island, but a boat was the only way and another Hawaiian island wouldn’t help him much. They were in the middle of the Pacific. Alex couldn’t go back to a US territory. He couldn’t cross the Pacific either, because he’d need a valid passport wherever he ended up. Jerry doubted Alex had a fake passport. They were too hard to score these days. No, he’d bet on Alex seeking refuge right here. This was the biggest Hawaiian island (the rest could fit inside it, a stewardess had told him) with every sort of terrain imaginable, so Alex could lay low here a long time if he found the right place, preferably one where no one cared who he was or what he had done. Another tough thought hit Jerry — didn’t all this mean that Alex was only running in circles? Freedom was often found at the end of a long dark tunnel, sure, but this tunnel here was a loop. He took another drink, this one bitter with rum. Finding Alex would be a slog, and he’d have to go it alone from here on out. It wasn’t as if he’d been lying to Marci. CID had embargoed the official word on Alex’s AWOL, hoping to get a leg up on Alex, so of course he couldn’t tell his wife. As for the info he had on Alex, she was used to him bringing along paperwork on their trips. Besides, Marci knew Alex. Her knowing beforehand would have spoiled their whole trip, and not only that — it would bring back the questions that he’d asked her only in his darkest moments. Questions Alex had not only asked, but also acted upon. The horizon bit into the setting sun, bringing a jade flash, and the shoreline dimmed out. Sundown. The chills swelled in his underarms, shot down his butt cheeks. He lay back on the bed and stared at the white ceiling, thinning to a gray, dim, mass ... He woke to Marci standing over him, a shopping bag at the end of each arm, held up high like she was going to toss them. She’d flipped on the lamp over by the desk. She had her mouth open, breathing with it. “Hot in here, even for me,” she said. “Honey? You okay?” Jerry was sweating, the drops running off the sides of his stomach. He let the sweat run, staring up at her. Her brown hair was tied back, straightened out. She never wore it like that. It False Refuge ~ 36 was always fluffed and blow-dried and stiff with product. He liked it this way. It made her face look fuller, but in a healthy way. Her rosy cheekbones stood out, and he could see that she was getting freckles from the sun. What the hell would he ever have done without those freckles? “I’m fine. Great. Just taking a nap,” he blurted. “You look tall from down here.” “Funny.” Her eyes widened as she scanned his red skin. “And you don’t take naps. Look at you. Didn’t I tell you to wear number 15? Oh, god.” She lowered the shopping bags. “I did. I was,” he said. “Bullshit. I tried calling you.” “I know. Got the message.” He heaved himself up. Sweat rolled off his nose, into the folds of his stomach. He mounted a smile on his face, stretched and leaden. “God, Jere, you’re fried. You look like a crab.” “The crabs here are black. They match the black lava rock.” “I mean a crab in general. Honey, look at you.” “I’ll live. Come here.” He held out his arms. “No. It’ll only hurt your skin. I’ll get you a towel.” “And another drink? Guava. Fridge in the mini bar. No ice for me.” Marci left the shopping bags in the middle of the room, turned off the heat, cracked the patio door open, handed him a fresh towel from the bathroom, made two guava rums, commented that “you never drink rum” and sighed, brought the drinks over and sat on the bed next to him. “Black crabs,” she added. “Weird. I want to see one.” “We will,” he muttered. He drank. She drank. “Not bad,” she said, licking her lips. She stroked his red left arm, lightly, with the burgundy paint of her nails. She fingered some of the condensed water from her glass and trickled it along his fried toes. “That’s nice,” he said. They drank, staring out at where the sun had set. The storms would be rolling in again for the night. It had been like that since they got here. It would take half the next morning before the clouds broke, and again, and again. “You don’t like it here, do you?” Jerry said. “I don’t know. It’s not like Oahu. It’s greener there. Less of the lava rock. I like that. Like back home. Plus these rain storms. They keep coming back.” False Refuge ~ 37

“I know.” “I know,” she said and drank again. Jerry slept on his back, with the covers off. The sunburn kept him lying low the next day. He stayed in his room and Marci came back from shopping with various crèmes and gels. Aloe vera worked best. The sunburn turned from bright pinkish red to just red and, seeing that, Marci showed him a face that people give when they see a small dead animal. Another day passed. On the third morning, a Sunday, Jerry could rub his skin without it stinging too much. Marci was already down at the pool, waiting for the clouds to break. When she came back up, Jerry would be ready. False Refuge ~ 38

SIX

Alex and Kanani lay in the dark, spooning on a double mattress in Kanani’s Alii Drive bungalow. Their bedding was a thin bottom sheet and a comforter over them. The mattress took up most of the sparse bedroom. Over the one window Kanani had hung a top sheet, creating an indigo rectangle of night in which shadows of branches bobbed and danced, an elegant puppetry that should be set to music, Alex thought, and the more he watched he saw that the movements seemed to recur, as if in a loop, as if the wind and the branches had struck up a dance routine for ever. For them. That made a heap of sense to him and he guessed it would to her, if he told her about it. Kanani had led him to the bedroom and, dead tired, they had changed and slid under the comforter without speaking. It was if they’d known each other since childhood — as if they’d first met sharing a tree fort they had found and here they were again, safe in that fort someone (some god?) seemed to have built just for them. The air was so fresh in the room it was as if they were outside — his pillow was still cool under his head. He had on boxers, a t-shirt. Kanani had on a little string tank top and matching short-shorts that read “Aloha” on the butt in vintage lettering. All the ABC stores carried these; he’d seen them on everyone from ten-year-old Midwest farm girls to Filipino she-males to sixty- year-old NYC matrons. Only they seemed to have been designed just for Kanani. He was spooning her. He felt the terry cloth along her hip, and his hard-on swelled. Yet he didn’t feel a rush to put the hard-on to work, which was a first. And even that made sense, somehow. He sighed a deep sigh of relief. She breathed a little moan in response. They slept on, clinging to each other. He woke once and dug his hard-on into the small of her back, and she rocked her hips, which had grown warmer. But they left it at that. Later he woke and they were spooning opposite, her breasts pressed to his shoulder blades, her top leg looped around his. Her petite leg made him smile. He pulled back the comforter and watched her dark little toes wiggle as she slept. What was wrong with him? He’d never been so happy about not getting any. Later he woke and saw the darkness had weakened. Morning. The little bedroom didn’t even have a closet, he now noticed. Last night in the dark he’d thought the comforter was light blue — it was white. Kanani was snoring a modest rumble-growl, like a well-fed cat. He rolled off the False Refuge ~ 39 mattress with care, heaved himself up, and walked about the bungalow to rediscover the place in the thin light. It had the most basic of furniture — foldout table with mismatched chairs, a futon sofa, cheap bamboo end table. The small kitchen had a kettle on the stove. In the nearly empty cupboard he found a mug and a jar of instant coffee that probably dated back to the Reagan administration. She’s just like me — she’s prepared to bolt at any time, he thought as the kettle water began to rumble on the stove. That had been clear to him even last night. When they had entered the bungalow he’d seen that what had appeared to be candlelight from the outside was actually an electric fire log set against a white wall, to create a better illusion of someone being home. That and her one lamp were hooked up to a timer. She also had strips of folded paper in the front and back doors and dental floss hanging off the window latches, all to warn against intruders having entered while she was out. She had left him standing in the middle of the small living room so she could check those paper strips on the front and back doors and window latches. That might be their main difference, Alex had thought, standing there. He wanted to trust somebody, something. Anything that was good. She trusted nothing, ever. “Smart girl,” he had said while she passed through rooms as if she could see in the dark. “I didn’t know there was so much crime here.” “Lot of things you don’t know about this place,” Kanani had said. She then locked the three front-door latches, and even after that she avoided turning on the overhead lights. She found him back in the living room, and stood so close that he imagined her sliding her hands up his chest. And she had said: “Check u’m out — farther down Alii, at about the mile five marker? There’s a little orange church. That will be our meeting place. Got it? In case we’re separated or lost.” He was nodding. He was just about to propose a good meet-up spot himself. Now the water began to sing and he whisked the kettle off the burner. As he poured the water in he counted the days in his head. Today was a Sunday. That meant another week he’d survived in Kona. He took his hot mug out the front door and sat on the top step of the bungalow, noticing that its paint was faded pink and peeling. Silly birds and frogs yelped from their perches. A tiny red-spotted gecko stared back at him from the side of the railing. The other two bungalows stood dark and vacant — rotting and infested with rats and wild mongoose, Kanani had told him. It was hard to imagine such a scene from where he sat. Clouds lingered from the night’s rain and yet the clearing sparkled, as if the branches and bushes were laced with garland and the furry False Refuge ~ 40 moss on the yard debris was dotted with sequins. He chuckled at that and it made him wince. Don’t get too happy, he told himself. Then he sipped his coffee, and the gritty mix helped bring him down. This stuff was more like from the Ford administration. He’d had better in the field. Soft footsteps, a yawn. Kanani wandered out wearing a short red kimono-style robe. She sat next to him, rubbing at his shoulder, and sipped from his coffee. She spat it out over the railing. “What?” Alex said, adding a smile. “It’s your coffee.” “Yeah, right,” she said, nodding. She smiled out at the clearing and let her hands hang off her knees. “So, I guess you’ll want a massage now.” “Really?” He grinned. “With happy endee?” he added in a mock Chinese accent. She pushed at him. His coffee splashed. He tossed the rest over the railing. They laughed at that and breathed in the fresh air. The moss on the railing smelled sweet. But it was still moss, he reminded himself, and moss was slippery. Kanani bounded down the stairs and out into the clearing in her bare feet. Arms folded at her chest, she wandered among the car carcasses and the dead fridge, shaking her head at it all as if she’d never been here before. She rounded a palm tree, stroked the bark with her flat palm, and pretended to hide behind it. He smiled for her. She returned to him, her smile fading. She sat one step below, her knees pushed up to her chest, looking up to him. “I have to know — what did you do?” “Do?” He never was a good liar. He looked out, straight ahead. He still had the empty mug in his hand. He set it on a step. Taking his time. “I’m an escaped con.” She blinked her eyes. “I didn’t ask you that. I asked you what you did.” He waited a beat, staring at her. “I was a bank robber.” Her face went hard. Her forehead crinkled up. She was good. Only her shifting left eye showed that she didn’t buy it. “Do you want to tell me about it?” He shook his head, swallowing hard. “Are they coming for you?” “Coming. You mean the authorities?” He wanted to slap himself. What kind of bank robber says “authorities”? “Both. Either,” she said. “I don’t know if they’re coming. But I need to expect them. And you?” “Me?” She snorted a laugh. False Refuge ~ 41

“You’re not even licensed, are you?” he said, pointing at the massage sign. “No. No, I’m not.” She held up her hands. She gazed at the bungalow and shook her head at it. “So, what next?” she said. “First thing I have to do is get my pack from that rental,” Alex said. He shrugged. “From there? Taking this day by day. And you?” She shrugged. “Same as you — day by day.”

Out on Alii Drive Alex strode a second time past the stucco rental, his hands tight as fists at his thighs. “Shit,” he growled, “what are the chances?” A rental jeep sat in the driveway to the left side of the house. Someone was staying there. At least he had left Kanani back at the bungalow, he thought. And, getting his pack didn’t have to be a challenge, he told himself. The crawlspace was in back. He considered knocking on the door and simply asking permission, but he didn’t trust his luck. He walked on, back towards Kanani’s, trying to think. Whoever they were they must have just arrived, and surely would be heading out soon. If they caught him he could act like a crazy guy, but in a tender and pathetic way. He could talk with a stutter. He reached the little market a quarter mile away and turned back. The jeep was still there. Once he’d passed the driveway he knelt to tie his shoe and then, when no cars were coming, he ducked into the tall bushes between the rental and the high wall of the house next door. He crawled through, taking his time, tiptoeing around feces and rotting fast-food scraps. He heard voices in the driveway and squatted dead still, deep inside the bush. At the hood of the jeep, three clean-cut guys in their twenties stood in a triangle passing a joint and gesturing with bottles of Rolling Rock. Rich mainland boys over for the high waves, Alex thought. A surfboard and two boogie boards stood against the wall of the house, waiting for them, but they kept talking, smoking, drinking. Must be nice to have all day, Alex thought, feeling his right calf and foot tingle like they were going to sleep. He rubbed at the veins on his ankle, gritting his teeth. What were they waiting for? The surf was up. The sky was blue and the sun was well over the inland hills. False Refuge ~ 42

About ten minutes passed. One guy went inside, while the other two heaved the boards into the back of the jeep. The one came out jangling keys and all three hopped into the jeep, backed out, and tore off down Alii. Alex stared at the house, listening. No sound. Dragging his sleeping foot he moved along the perimeter of the yard, sticking to the bushes and palm trunks, scouting the windows. They hadn’t even opened the blinds. His foot was pulsing back to life, a thousand pinpricks. He crossed the yard, knelt at the crawlspace, pulled the door open, and felt for his pack. He tugged on the strap. A door flapped open, shut. The side door. Alex drove his shoulder into the crawlspace, feeling it out for room to hide, but the space barely fit his pack. He edged his pack out of the crawl space. Flip-flops slapped at the driveway. What sounded like another surfboard thumped against the side of the house. A guy appeared at the corner of the house with his back to Alex, as if checking out the traffic out on Alii. He wore surf shorts, no shirt and a thin tight stocking cap (of all things) but this guy looked older, and more built and far less clean-cut. He turned. Facing the corner of the house, he ripped loose the velcro zipper of his shorts and peed against the house, leaning back, sucking down a bottle of Rolling Rock. He tossed the beer bottle over a shoulder. He shook and pressed the velcro shut. He looked over at Alex, still crouched at the crawlspace. “Hey. Hey, man,” Alex said. “What the fuck you doing?” “Nothing. It’s cool. I just had a pack under here — I’d left it, just gonna get it and then I’ll be heading on —” “A pack? Fuck dat. Fuck you doing under the house, bra?” The guy’s arms had bent up like a rapper’s, the back of his hands out flat. He was inching toward Alex. Alex held up the pack. “See? Just getting my pack. That’s all. No big.” “Else you got under there? Fucking bombs and shit, what?” Alex had seen hundreds of these wannabes muster through with their fuzzy boy mustaches and their wigger talk and poses. Most curled up like babies in a firefight. But never when they had some poor bastard on the ropes — and Alex certainly looked that way with his beard and ragged t-shirt. Alex kept squatted, ready to spring, the pack out in front of him. He tried a smile. “It was just a place to stow my pack. That’s all.” The guy snickered. He knelt to the beer bottle and picked it up by the neck. False Refuge ~ 43

Tires whirred out in the driveway. An engine revved to a halt. The jeep was back. “Hey! Dudes! Out back!” the guy yelled. “Why don’t you just let me get on my way, huh? I was only getting my pack.” “Fuck dat, bra.” The other three strode around the corner laughing, more beers in their hands. Alex held out his arms, smiling. The laughs stopped. “What the fuck?” one said. “Fuckin freak was under our house.” The guy slapped at his chest. “Believe that shit?” “No, actually, I wasn’t under it —” “Dude, what you doing under da house?” Alex was standing. The guy had moved away from the house, to block Alex’s path. “Trevor — you call the cops.” Nodding, one of the three pulled a cell phone from his surf shorts pocket. Alex heaved the pack into the guy’s chest. The guy wheezed and his legs buckled but he swung the beer bottle. It busted on Alex’s shoulder. Alex lunged low, rammed the guy against the house, slid his arms up and around and he had the guy in a choke hold. The guy coughed, sputtered drool. The three stood back, all in a line, eyes wide in shock. “I’d just like to go, all right?” “All right,” the one with the cell phone said. “Yeah,” said another. “It’s cool, dude chill,” panted the guy. Alex let the guy drop. He grabbed the pack and pushed past the three for the side of the house. The four chased him. He passed the jeep, saw keys in the ignition. If he ran down Alii they’d be right after him in the jeep. He kept running, around the front of the house. Glanced back. Two of them had cell phones to their ears, calling 911 no doubt. “Gonna waste you muthafucka,” the one guy was shouting but the four were keeping their distance in case Alex tried something. Alex led them around the far side of the house and, reaching the back again, saw that thick brush, lava rocks and the walls of the neighboring houses sealed off the backyard. His chest tightening with dread, he sprinted back around the jeep-side of the house. He jumped into the jeep, started it up and backed out onto Alii. A sedan honked and kept going. He punched it south down Alii. The thing had a sixer and really moved. False Refuge ~ 44

He drove almost a mile, and then pulled off at a boarded-up surf shop that he parked behind. He changed his shirt and checked his shoulder — not a scratch. In the passenger seat stood a bag of groceries. What would fit and not spoil he crammed into the pack. Then he wiped down the steering wheel, shifter, and keys, and left the keys on the seat. Kanani’s was another half mile, and Alii Drive the only way. He kept to the bushes, trees, and yards, keeping an eye out for those goddamned unmarked patrol cars. At Kanani’s driveway his chest tightened again. A big sedan sat in the clearing — a black Crown Vic that was a little too shiny to be a rental. It had smoked windows. He stepped back, behind a palm tree, and peered in. Three tall and thick men in thin bulging leather jackets and slacks were circling the house with care, peeking in windows and communicating with hand signals. One white, one dark, one Asian. Their faces were jagged and their movements tense. He saw a flash of silver teeth. A couple of them had tattoos down both arms. One had a hole and a knobby white scar where an ear had been. Tourists looking for a massage did not use hand signals. No cop Alex knew had tattoos down both arms. There was only one reason to wear a jacket in Kona, and it wasn’t to block the wind. He crouched in a bush across Alii until the men ducked into the Crown Vic and left. He rushed the bungalow. The back door was unlocked. Kanani was gone. He pulled on his reef shoes, strapped on his pack and made his way south down the coast, using the shoreline as best as he could, navigating the black lava rock and taking the trails along Alii when the water was too rough. The little orange church was exactly that — a quaint Catholic chapel little bigger than a shed, with white clapboard siding, a corrugated roof, and bright orange trim. It stood just off Alii, looking out over a small rocky inlet. St. Michael’s Church Alii, it read up on the small gable above the door. The doors were open and he circled the twelve orange pews inside, still panting. No one here. He went back outside. It was beautiful around the little church. Palms and delicate flower shrubs swayed in the wind, and sea birds landed to check him out. He sat out on the black rocks, sniffing at the brackish sea air. He would just have to take a chance and hole up here a while. He could always pretend to be praying — maybe he could score some help that way, he joked to himself. False Refuge ~ 45

Sighing, he picked himself up and walked back inside the church. He placed his pack on the last pew and sat next to it. The gloss white paint and altar window combined to make the light brighter than outside, and he had to squint. He heard footsteps out on the path. He grasped at his pack, hit the floor. “Hey,” Kanani whispered and showed her head in the doorway. They met at the first pew, scrambling on all fours like crabs. Sweat was rolling down her face and he could smell her breath was hot and metallic from fear. “You okay? Followed?” he said. “No. I was watching you outside, just to be sure you weren’t.” Alex pulled her up to him, onto the pew. “Were they there for you?” “I don’t know. I barely, barely got out of there.” Her shins and hands were scratched and red and scraped. He held her by her shoulders and stroked her hair. “Jesus — you must have crawled all the way here.” She looked away, wiping the sweat off her face. He held her chin and turned her face to him. “They were there for you,” he began but she slapped a hand over his mouth. “I don’t like this game, Rico — or whatever your name is. You’re a bank robber I’m a fucking Southern Belle.” He lowered her hand. “Okay. You first.” She shook her head. She glared at her knees and squeezed her mouth shut, like a mad little girl who’s decided she’s never going to speak again. He didn’t know if he wanted to kiss her or slap her for that. “Here’s the deal. I’m heading south, into coffee country.” “To Krieger Estates,” she said to her knees. He nodded. “I should have done it first thing.” Her lower lip stuck out, defiant. “Maybe they’ll take you, too,” he blurted. “You’ve been thinking about it, haven’t you? You know about the place.” “Maybe,” she said. But she shook her head again. “What? Do they know you there?” “They shouldn’t. Not in a bad way. Maybe by a name. I ... just don’t know.” False Refuge ~ 46

They were holding hands tightly and with both arms out, as if they were about to part for a long time. Her eyes had welled up, and seeing that made his eyes burn. “I was desperate,” he said. “I wanted freedom. Real freedom. It thought doing this might inspire someone, anyone. They, back on the mainland — they don’t know what that is anymore. Freedom. They toss around the word like it’s cheap candy.” “I don’t. I ... I was going to go to the mainland.” She closed her eyes. “Don’t go to the mainland,” Alex said. “Don’t go to the estates,” she said. Their legs had intertwined up on the pew seat. A cool breeze floated in through the doorway and danced in Kanani’s hair. She smiled at their legs intertwined and slid her toes against his shin. Alex began to harden. They had never even kissed, and here they were. Kanani squeezed at his hands, pulled him to her. “Let’s make a deal. I’ll go with you, and you go with me. Wherever we go.” Alex nodded. She nodded. “I can’t get off the island,” Alex said. “No passport.” “Oh.” Kanani looked away, toward the altar, thinking. He watched the light shine on her dark cheekbone. He could let her think like that all she wanted. Then her face opened wide, and she turned to him with big eyes. “So that settles it then. Doesn’t it, Rico?” Smiling, she wrapped her legs around his waist and pulled herself up onto his lap, and the next thing he knew he was clamping his mouth onto hers, his tongue sinking in and searching. He lowered her down, flat on the pew. It was so quiet here, on a bay without a surf, and they would hear anyone coming. She wrapped her hands around his neck and pulled him down to her, and they tugged at each other’s shorts, and her sweat came rolling back, and it tasted sweet. False Refuge ~ 47

SEVEN

Kanani lay napping in their hotel room, on top of the covers. Alex watched her from a wicker chair in the corner. She slept on a soft old featherbed with a majestic bamboo canopy she’d said she loved so much she couldn’t wait for nighttime. It was late afternoon. The room was dim from the drawn window shade. Alex’s chair was wobbly and creaky, the armrests were shiny from use, and some of the wickerwork cords had peeled away and poked out. He had been sitting there for a half hour, so still the chair had stopped creaking. Sizing things up. He’d already gone over the incident with the mainland surfers a thousand times. Good thing he didn’t have a gun, he assured himself. If they’d had a gun the silly encounter would have escalated into a bloodbath. He could be dead along with a couple of them at the least. And what about those heavies who had come for Kanani? Add guns and you got another tragedy. Fight fire with more fire and it’s an inferno. The very fact that he hadn’t gone to a gun, and used his smarts instead, might be the only reason they were able to make it this far. He and Kanani had gone all the way in the little orange church, right there on the orange pew. It hadn’t taken him long to release into her. They had held each other a couple minutes, listening to the surf, and then they got a move on heading south. The journey would’ve only taken forty- five minutes from Kona by rental car, but they were on foot. Alii Drive narrowed and twisted until it reached a dead end just north of coffee country. Smaller old roads shot off into the night, made blacker by the lush landscape. Around midnight Kanani had led him into a tavern where she “talked story” (i.e. shot the shit) with local fishermen. It was all slang and dialect; Alex, his hat pulled down low, couldn’t even tell if she’d ever met them before. But this led her to a stash of old bicycles behind a boathouse, where they picked out two clunkers and pedaled uphill for South Kona, taking high back roads and trails that delivered them up onto the old Mamalahoa Highway, a two-lane secondary that passed through towns and junctions which, despite the night, Alex knew from his tightening lungs had to loom high over the coastal basin. They reached the small town of Captain Cook. The Manago Hotel stood along the road but the sun had not come up, so they had parked the bikes behind a shack (heeding the tavern locals’ instructions) and found a diner a couple blocks down that poured them coffee. When daylight came Kanani strolled down the road to the Manago and checked in, saying she wasn’t sure if her boyfriend False Refuge ~ 48 was going to make it but she’d gladly pay the extra few bucks for a double. Then she had fetched Alex, who went straight to the room where he shaved and combed his hair back for a different look. The whole time, through the whole night, they had held back from asking more about each other. Why hadn’t he wanted more? Did he fear her story was as grim as his? Or did he fear losing her by pressing the issue? She could have pressed him. She could also have bailed out a long time ago. But now? She slept curled up, her knees up to chin, her little brown toes nuzzling the toes of her other foot. Her glossy black hair spread out across her back. A purr of a snore. This lovely sight told him all he needed to know, for now. “Kanani. Ka-na-ni,” Alex said. No response. He shifted around in the wicker chair, filling the room with the creaking and squeaking. “Kanani, wake up.” Kanani moaned and exhaled, her mouth a little O. A hand flopped and felt behind her for him. She sat up, rubbing at her face, blinking. “What? What is it?” He smiled, waiting until she was seeing him, over in the dim corner. Let her take a moment, remember where they were. “My name is Alex,” he said. “Alex Swenson. That’s my real name.” A grin spread across her face. She slapped at the bed. “Alex. It’s Alex?” “Yes. It’s Scandinavian.” “Alex Swenson,” she repeated. “And your alias was Rico.” She fell back to the bed, giggling. “Alex is more like it — real whiteass haole name. But I like it. It fits you.” “Thanks. That Rico ID was all I could get at short notice. I paid a lot for it.” “I’m sure you did.” Kanani rolled on her side, smiling from her pillow. “It feels good to tell you,” he said. “And it feels good to hear it. Really.” A grimace spread across her face, and she let out a little gasp. “I feel bad about the church, though. Making love in a church? St. Michael’s is a historic site. It’s desecration.” Making love, she had said. They had made love in a church. They stared with creased brows, dead serious. They burst out laughing. They went down for dinner. The Manago was a funky maze of an old hotel with battered linoleum floors, mismatched furniture, added-on wings, ramps and walkways, corrugated tin roofs and a front office out of the 1920s — a real kamaaina inn, Kanani had boasted. It was also False Refuge ~ 49 cheap and the staff didn’t ask questions. The dining room was a vast rectangle with ceiling fans and clapboard walls adorned with paddles and native masks and pictures of old Hawaii. It could have been 1949. They sat in a corner, both facing the room. Kanani had a pork chop and he the mahi mahi, with sides of macaroni salad, rice and pickled seaweed. Alex sucked down two beers and wanted a third. Back up in the room they opened the window and lay on the bed, side by side. A light rain tapped away on the tin roof. The light evening traffic whooshed by out on the highway. And that was the extent of the entertainment. The room didn’t even have a radio. Kanani held one arm straight up in the air. She let it flop on the bed. He sighed. “Tell me about your wife,” Kanani said. “How did you know I was married?” Kanani laughed. “Oh, please. Who wouldn’t marry you?” His marriage to Zaira had only lasted a few years. They had met in Iraq. She had come over as a refugee. Everyone assumed the marriage had failed because she was Iraqi. A foreigner. The truth was you don’t marry a country, a people, a foreign policy. Customs. You marry a person, and Zaira had changed. Within a year people thought Zaira had been in the US most of her life, a feat she managed by listening to the radio and TV all waking hours and mimicking the American voices. Soon, she and Alex realized that Alex had only fallen in love with the idea of helping Zaira the refugee. Of saving her. By then Zaira had fallen in love with 70-hour workweeks, Visa and Amex shopping sprees, a steady diet of entertainment news. He said she was putting on the blinders like any uninformed American. She said it made her feel good, and besides she had earned it. When the dot.com boom came they had worked on plans for startups. He hoped to create a web network for non-profit orgs. She wanted it to be online wine sales or gourmet kitchen gifts — the key was to establish a presence and make the money fast because the boom wasn’t going to last. They fought over it. The truth was, she had outgrown him. 9/11 was the final straw. He wanted to protect her again. People would target her. She said she didn’t need it. She became more American. Traded in her BMW for a Cadillac. Her friends got wealthier, more conservative. He wouldn’t be surprised to see her running for Congress one day. But, he couldn’t blame her. Survival was relative. At least she was humane enough not to demand alimony from him. False Refuge ~ 50

Alex gave Kanani a little chuckle, show her he was over it. “I’ll take that as a compliment,” he said. Adding a shrug. “Her name was Zaira — is Zaira, I should say. She was once an Iraqi. But now? She’s about as Iraqi as you are.” “Ah, so that’s it? You like the swarthy gals?” Kanani was grinning. “I wish that’s all it was. We haven’t spoken in two years — not out of hate, mind you. We’ve just drifted so far apart. Zaira probably doesn’t even know I was in the reserves. She never would’ve approved of this, what I’m doing here. And I don’t mean being with you.” Kanani reached out for him. He held her hand, feeling her soft fingers. “You’re too forgiving,” she said. “You need to distrust more. It’s the only way to get by. But don’t worry — I can help you with that.” “Like a mentor? Show me the way to pure cynicism. Sounds great.” “I mean it. We’re only a few miles from Krieger Estates. It’s upslope. It overlooks all of this.” “With a view? Sounds lovely,” Alex said. Kanani was frowning at him. She shook his hand loose, went to the closet, and heaved her small duffel bag out onto the bed. She fingered around in the bag and pulled out a black nylon holster, from which extended the butt of a 9mm Glock pistol. She hadn’t looked up at him. She began to unsnap the holster, but couldn’t get it with her long fingernails. Alex grabbed the holstered gun and set it in his lap. She let him. “You know how to use that, I take it,” she said. Giving him the eye now. “Yes. Where did you get it?” A shrug. “Had it forever.” “And, you want me to carry it. That what you’re saying?” “Better you than me.” She was still frowning. “You’re not impressed.” “You say I’m too trusting. So how do you know I can shoot a gun?” “You did pretty good with that espresso filter,” she said, but pulling back a little. “Look, Alex, we don’t know what’s going to happen.” “No, we don’t. But, do you really think we’re going to get a Glock 9mm into Krieger Estates?” Kanani’s lower lip was hanging, in a pout. “We could try.” “And then they would suspect our motives right off the bat.” False Refuge ~ 51

“It’s not just for when we get there. It’s for after. In case we have to get the fuck out of there.” Alex placed the gun back in the duffel bag. He lowered the bag off the bed, onto the floor. He pulled Kanani to him, turned her around, and slung his arms around her. She let him, with her head down, like a child who knows it’s in trouble and the punishment is a lecture. “I’m an AWOL, Kanani. That’s what I’ve done. I’ve gone AWOL. I’ve never robbed a bank and you know it.” As he spoke, he felt her shoulders droop and shrink. He knew that would shake her up. With so much military on their islands, Hawaiians knew well the curse of going AWOL. She exhaled with a pop, as if she’d been holding her breath for minutes. “Ah, Alex,” she muttered. “What branch?” “Army.” She nodded. “Rank?” “Sergeant — Sergeant First Class. I’m reserves now.” “Knew you could use a gun. So, you’re a vet. From Desert Storm I’m guessing? Thus the wife.” “Yes. You got it.” She threw up her hands. “Okay, fine, so you’re AWOL — so all the more reason to be packing —” “No. It’s more than that. My unit was ordered to Iraq. I’m refusing to go. Going into Afghanistan to defeat the Taliban, to nail Bin Laden, was one thing. The opposite thing. That was obvious, the good fight, like World War II. Iraq is a sham. What if, after Pearl Harbor, we had attacked Mexico instead of Japan, just because the president thought it would be a cakewalk and give his power a boost? That’s what we’re talking about here. Meanwhile the military is getting screwed in the field. Back home, half the country have let themselves become pawns. I won’t be a pawn. And I won’t kill for pawns either.” It felt good to be saying it all again, out loud. The last time had been with Jerry Bateman. Unlike Jerry, Kanani had not frozen up. She was nodding to his words all along. It must have been making sense to her. He hoped. She opened her mouth to speak again, but didn’t. She turned to him, and held him by the shoulders. False Refuge ~ 52

“Alex, I think you made a, well, a heroic choice. That the right word?” Her tone had changed. He was the child getting the lecture now. “But, I’m not asking you to go to Iraq. I’m asking you to help us. Us. Now. Here.” They were so close their foreheads met, and they were whispering into each other’s laps. “I know,” he said. “I know that. But I’ve made my choice. I’ve done a lot of thinking. It’s all or nothing. I’m changing the game. The real heroes, if you look at history, and revolutions, and resistance, the real heroes are the ones who don’t just kick ass or lead well. They help change the game. They stand up. They might not be up for long, but at least they can, in the end run, inspire others. They lead that way.” Now Kanani had frozen, her hands spread open in her lap. She seemed scared to pull her forehead from his. “And, I don’t want you to use that gun either,” he continued. “It will just lead to more problems. Look, I’m no anti-gun activist. I’m an anti-people activist. People can’t handle the power of a gun. One unjust attack only causes more.” “I see,” she muttered. “So, we’ll just have to outwit them. Convince them, if we can. Not that it will come to that —” She pushed off his chest, crawling backward on the bed. She planted her back on the headboard and glared at him with wide and wild eyes, as if he was a sea turtle that had just flopped into the room. She sputtered a laugh. “You know what? I can’t believe this. What you think you are, brudda, fucking Gandhi?” “No. Just an American who’s trying to do things differently. To think differently. Doing the right thing isn’t always the popular thing, or the so-called ‘patriotic’ thing. Look back at our forefathers. Adams and Washington and Jefferson. That’s all they were doing. Standing up. Leading by example. Even later, during World War II and the Cold War, we were leading like no other nation on earth. Sure we had our fuckups, but it inspired people. Now look at us. What are we? Ignorant. Reviled. Rotting. The opposite of everything the world has looked up to.” “I don’t know that much about history, philosophy or whatever.” “You don’t have to. Just look around —” “You’re such a hero, why didn’t you flee to Canada? Or, or, why not turn yourself in? Go for the show trial. Convince people that way.” She had shouted it. False Refuge ~ 53

And she was right. She was getting to him. He wasn’t doing what he was preaching. He was refusing, yes, but he was also running. Anonymously. He wasn’t standing up. He was only preaching some ideal like a rambling professor. He simply wanted to start over. He wasn’t going to change what was happening in Iraq. The lessons of history proved that. The silver-spoon crooks in power would never change. So what was he lecturing her about? And not only that — he feared he was losing her quick. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I was just talking, you know, ideally. Don’t get the wrong idea. I really just want to find a way out. A new lease on life. I got word that Krieger Estates can provide a new identity — a new passport, I’m hoping, you know, like a witness protection program. They have a way. They had done it before, with other AWOLs.” But for what price? That was the big unknown. Her arms were folded at her chest now as she studied him and she had to be thinking it too. She huffed a laugh. “Listen, don’t act like I’m crazy,” he said. “I’ve been thinking about this a long time. Fighting it. On 9/11 I cried, for the dead like everyone else, but also for what I feared America would lose — and become. And it’s all come true. And I want no part in it. Not anymore.” “Okay. I guess, I just don’t know what to say.” “I don’t expect you to come up with your own self-destructive worldview. Just know this — I didn’t find this. It found me. It’s all I’ve got now. That and you, I hope.” She shrugged, pouting again. He crawled over to her and held her face, cradling it, staring into her eyes. She shook her head. But he kept staring and her eyes did twinkle for him, and she smiled. He kissed the smile, inhaling it. She leaned into him, sinking her tongue in. “That’s the problem with finding out about people,” she groaned as he slid off her hot pants. “You just want to know more. It’s like passing a car wreck.” Alex took his time, for her, despite what his hard-on was telling him. She came at the same time he did. As they caught their breath, holding each other, he kissed her face and tasted the tears that had been rolling down one side of her face. Later they lay side-by-side again, both unable to sleep. It must have been the middle of the night. “I guess you’ll want to know more about me,” Kanani said. “I didn’t own that bungalow. It was a rental. This was my last month anyway — paid in full ...” She sighed. “Actually, okay, False Refuge ~ 54 that’s not true. It was a friend’s place — someone I thought was a friend, anyway.” Her mouth snapped shut. “Look. Tell me when you’re ready to,” Alex said. “We got lots of time for that. Whenever you choose.” For now, she chose more sleep. In the morning, just hours before they were to check out, Alex left her snoring and found his way out the hotel’s back steps. The hill clouds hovered, dark and swelling. The wind fluttered the trees and palms and thick drops of rain slapped at the road. The diner in Captain Cook — the CC Diner — had an Internet café and ice cream shop stuffed into a side room. That was closed. On the diner side a hefty Hawaiian woman in flip-flops poured Alex a coffee and gave him a nod, as if she’d recognized him despite his new hairdo. Women like this knew everything. And before he could think up a plea, she told him to go ahead and use the computer. He passed through to the Internet ice cream shop. The lights were off, but the dim daylight showed him to the computer in the corner by the window. His chair was a child’s stool. He perched on it and clicked the screen alive. Where to first? Something generic. CNN. They had the usual. More GIs dead, more Iraqi children lost. Same with Yahoo! News and Google News. He took a deep breath. He had been putting this off. But he had to know before he, with any luck, would disappear forever as Alex Swenson. He typed in the website for 6th Military Police Group, United States Army Criminal Investigation Command. CID. That was Jerry Bateman’s command, he remembered and chuckled nervously at that. He clicked over to CID West in Fort Clark, Washington, and then on “Wanted Posters and Reward Information.” They had a new listing, just posted this morning:

WANTED — REWARD - For information concerning Sergeant First Class Alex E. Swenson who went AWOL to elude criminal prosecution for passing information to possible terrorist cells as well as the distribution of crack cocaine to fund terrorist networks. Swenson should be considered Armed and Dangerous ...

A snort of a laugh shot out his mouth and he stared, incredulous. Passing information to terrorist cells? He wouldn’t know a terrorist cell if he was sharing an elevator with one. And crack cocaine? He didn’t even know crack was cocaine. He skimmed over the particulars and False Refuge ~ 55 physical description, clicked on a headshot of him. The caption repeated “Armed and Dangerous.” Why hadn’t they just said that he’d strangled babies? His lungs emptied with a rush and he wheezed at the screen. There was a link for the “FBI’s Ten Most Wanted.” His fingers clicked there. He wasn’t on that list — not yet. His body had seized up inside, numb all over. It wasn’t enough to post him AWOL; they had to smear him with extreme prejudice. All he had done was leave Fort Clark and hop on a flight for Hawaii. They hadn’t even mentioned his fake ID. He’d only resisted what he knew was an unjust war. That was all he had done. He stared at the screen until it went blurry. His fingers hit the keyboard. They typed in the website for Krieger Estates, clicked open the map and directions page, and he memorized the way there from Captain Cook. Still he needed more. Something familiar. Anything. His fingers typed him to the Army Times, and then the Stars and Stripes website. Nothing there about him. He clicked around. Did a search. The latest item about AWOLs was a letter to the editor from a World War II vet. The letter rambled. The vet expected today’s kids to serve like they had. The vet didn’t see the gray areas, only the fact that he had to fight and so should everyone else, no matter the circumstances. At the end, the vet quoted Thomas Paine, from the bleak early days of the Revolutionary War:

These are the times that try men’s souls. The summer soldier and the sunshine patriot will, in this crisis, shrink from the service of his country.

They had it all wrong. They had him all wrong. His hands had balled into fists, cramped tight. He squeezed his eyes shut. His bowels screwed up and his stomach rolled. He stood and bolted for the restroom, wherever it was, hurtling forward and stomping his feet and not sure if he was going to shit or vomit or both. False Refuge ~ 56

EIGHT

That afternoon Alex and Kanani walked the old Mamalahoa Highway south from Captain Cook, the clouds so near and dark they couldn’t see the South Kona coastline far down below. “Down at the water? I bet it’s sunny,” Kanani told Alex. “Kona weather’s weird like that.” “I’ll try to imagine sunny,” Alex said, adding a smile for her. He was doing his best to recover from the morning’s shock. Back in that Internet café he had clicked off the computer and stumbled out the diner and, his head whirling, stopped to vomit at a dumpster, heaving again and again until it was only fumes coming up. Then he’d wandered the short sidewalks and tiny parking lots of Captain Cook, sizing things up again. It could all be a big mistake, but more likely was that the boys in CID, Homeland, and FBI found it convenient to pin the terrorist tag on him. The soundness of the scapegoat didn’t matter these days — all that mattered was nailing one. And the fact that he’d run was solid proof of motive. Had he really expected any less? This was a war — in more ways than one — and things usually went horribly wrong in a war. Misdirected fire hit innocents all the time. All the more reason to start over, he had realized, passing the diner again, the hefty Hawaiian woman watching him from behind the counter because the shops were starting to open and the tourists’ rental cars were pulling in. He must have looked like a real nutjob roaming this highway junction talking to himself. He had headed back to the Manago. Kanani was still sleeping. He let her. When she woke she had come over to him on the wicker chair and sat on his lap. He had kissed her, and he had stroked her hair, saying: “You know something? — if I hadn’t been such an idiot and gone AWOL, I never would have met you, would I?” She smiled. She didn’t answer. The highway left Captain Cook at their backs. About a half-mile south, they came to a road that ran east up into higher hills, still deeper within Kona coffee country. They stood along the road and Alex stuck his thumb out, just another pair of Big Island wanderers. A truck passed. A guy on a superbike. As they waited Alex told Kanani more about Zaira, about how they’d grown apart. It was so good just to talk. He talked about how the 1990s had disappointed him. Bored with being an IT guy and having lost three jobs (and stock options) in three different Internet False Refuge ~ 57 startups, he had joined the Army Reserves. The extra pay helped. But the military was also doing good things in Bosnia and he thought he could make a difference, somehow. He put in for Civil Affairs, whose units worked directly with the local population, helping them govern and rebuild. The army put him in military intelligence instead, in the 322nd Military Intelligence Battalion. Sounded nice, sure, but it was only ever four or five guys with gear from the Vietnam era. None of them had been in a fight. Soon he was talking about Jerry (but taking care not to name Jerry this time, just in case Kanani got questioned once they were inside). He could admit that he missed his old friend. He and Jerry survived Desert Storm together, in the front-line infantry. They’d enlisted for the college money and got dragged through the shit. At the same time Alex thought he’d found paradise in the Internet economy, Jerry became a cop back home. But his PD made him a desk cop, and he languished there. Got bored. Alex could see it, even though they weren’t hanging out as much. Jerry’s eyes dulled and he gained weight, while Alex lost hair. They signed up for the reserves within the same six months, without even having consulted each other. (He didn’t tell Kanani his friend was now an army detective). Their wrinkles and flab and soft arms made them look like any other reserves, sure. But the unit commanders knew they were combat vets, and the other reserves found out soon enough. Out in the field they did not fuck around, play army. People got dead fucking around. Kanani listened, offering nothing. Alex could guess what that meant. She didn’t believe her story was any better or offered him any hope. From what he’d seen, he could guess she owed people money. And when you owed people like those thugs at the bungalow instead of banks, the rest of her life couldn’t be good. But she was trying to change. That much was clear. When Alex had run out of words the only thing Kanani said was: “Funny, isn’t it, that we’re together? Check ‘um out — you, you’re running from a life of service. Sacrifice. Me, I’m running from a life of self-service. Self-interest.” She added a chuckle. “Ah, but that was all in Honolulu,” she said, and she waved a hand at the air as if the nearby island of Oahu was a foreign country vanished a hundred years ago. More cars passed. A pickup truck. Did they even see Alex with his thumb out? Kanani leaned into him, still sleepy, and he held her up. He wouldn’t tell her about his new status as a major criminal and possible traitor. Not yet. He should find out more about her. Then, she could believe him or not. It would be a good test, he told himself — because from here on out she would have to be fully committed. False Refuge ~ 58

A Saturn sedan slowed and pulled over. A little old lesbian couple gave them a ride. Farther along the lush greenery lined the road, so close the leaves and buds brushed the car mirror. Then the landscape opened a bit and they approached a side road, over which stood an arched front gate like the entrance to a ranch. A sign on the crest of the arch read:

Krieger Estates. Your Place of Refuge — for the New Century

The woman driving shook her head but Alex and Kanani kept quiet. Alex was busy scanning the grounds beyond, down the long entrance road. All was well groomed in there — like an upscale country club — with pruned shrubs and clipped grass and palm trees planted in patterns. How they even got lawn and trees to grow on top of lava rock he would probably never know. They drove on. After a half a mile Alex had the ladies drop them off at a bend in the road. He offered a few bucks but the ladies laughed at them and sped off. Alex and Kanani stood on the shoulder, staring at each other, listening for more cars. None came. At the bend were also a trailhead and a garbage can. “Can I see your bag?” Alex said. Kanani held it out, off her shoulder. He pulled her Glock pistol from the bag and hurled the gun into the garbage can. “What the fuck?” Kanani dropped her bag and leaned into the garbage can and pushed back the wrappers and food scraps but flies swarmed up into her face and she jerked back from the stench. She stood back, grimacing at the garbage can as if it was a wounded and growling bear. “That’s some hardball,” she said. “I know. Believe me, I know.” He was facing her from the side. Her eyes had closed. Her little fists closed up, and she pulled the duffel bag tight under an arm. “You can go. Another car will come along soon,” Alex said. “But if you’re with me, it’s the way we’ll have to do this.” She squeezed her eyes shut like she wanted to stomp, and then her eyes popped open at him. “This is all moving too fast. Don’t you think?” And before he could answer: “What they got going on in there, you don’t want to know about it. That’s what I hear. We got no idea.” “So you’ve warned me. So, all the more reason not to be packing.” False Refuge ~ 59

“You really think you’re going to get a break in that place? A new identity? Come on.” She sputtered a laugh. “It depends. It depends on what we — I — have to do for it.” “You can say that again. Ass, gas, or grass —” “No one rides for free. I know. I know.” He held out his hand for her. She took it. They turned back for the entrance road. The shoulder was a gentle slope downwards, the clouds were breaking, and they could make out the sparkling coastline far down below. That was a storied area for Hawaiians, Kanani said. Down there was the real Place of Refuge, or Pu`uhonua, where Hawaiians who broke the ancient laws could avoid certain death by gaining entrance to the sacred place. You had to swim across a bay known as the shark’s den and if you made it, the kahuna — a “priest” to a haole — was required, under pain of death, to offer you sanctuary and absolve you of all wrongdoing. Nearby, at another small bay, Captain Cook himself got pummeled and dismembered by the natives for the mana the priests believed was in his bones. Mana, that was kind of like a guy’s mojo. “Great. That all makes me feel better.” Kanani laughed, squeezing his hand. “But the snorkeling down there is the best around.” The gates came into view. She kept squeezing his hand. She said: “Krieger Estates is definitely up to some nasty shit. We should expect that. It could be worse than a front. Nasty ass shit. I wouldn’t believe anything they tell you.” “I don’t expect to. How do you know —” “I’ve been around nasty ass shit. As if you couldn’t guess. Illegal gambling rings. The gangs. Real estate scams. A lot of it was on Oahu, but it’s been spreading.” “With a boyfriend?” Alex said, releasing her hand. “Sure. I had a couple. But guys like that are in jail if they’re not dead. This was my last chance here, Alex. On the islands. Kona was.” “And those enforcers back at your place? In the Crown Vic? They creditors? Old business partners?” “Could be. Could be either. I wanted to start over. Now look at me. Heading into the belly.” False Refuge ~ 60

They fell silent as they approached the gate. Alex had been fighting the urge to sneak into the place first, do some decent recon. But they were going in like the wanderers they appeared to be. “Shoulders up. Act normal,” he said to Kanani, and she snapped to it. Good girl. On the entrance road now. Their way was lined with palm and banyan trees like something out of the old south. There had to be cameras on them. He’d expected a jeep or ATV to come out and meet them. Probably had perimeter defenses that took you out before you knew what hit you. He was sweating now. Get a grip, Alex. Kanani reached up and wiped the sweat that had rolled down to his jaw. He squeezed her hand. “Fuck, brudda. These guys are big time,” Kanani was muttering. Halfway now. The clouds were swirling back around, swelling darker, and yet a half rainbow had shot up from the end of the entrance road. There, where the road ended, stood a plain but spotless two-story white house of recent construction, one of those mini mansions with high entry that filled every new mainland development. “This is it? All they got? What the fuck?” “This is just for entry. It’s like the gatehouse for a fortress.” The front door did not open. No one came from around back, and no one had spread open the blinds for a look as far as Alex could tell. In the circular driveway before the house sat a brand- new Jaguar and a couple of Mercedes wagons. Still no one. He was scanning left and right as best as he could but the landscape was so lush it was all green beyond fifty yards. They were crossing the driveway, up the steps. A sign next to the door read: “Welcome. Please check in.” A buzzer. Alex rang it.

A nice young receptionist with a flower on her ear led them through to a back patio that was so clean it was either brand-new or just pressure-washed. The white columns at the corners of the patio’s metal awning were so bright that Alex had to squint. They sat in stiff rattan chairs with soft cushions facing two other chairs and, in the middle, a rattan table topped with brochures. A man and a woman met them, the man dark like Kanani and the woman as white as an Iowa tourist. Alex and Kanani introduced themselves, gave their names. The white woman introduced herself as Mililani and Alex could feel Kanani wince inside, for that was as Hawaiian a name as False Refuge ~ 61

Kanani. The two wore tropical print island wear, but it was nice and pressed as if for a church or a funeral. They showed tight smiles. Their eyes darted between Alex and Kanani. “You saw our pamphlets in Kona town? Did you visit our office there?” the man said. “Yes,” Alex said. “No, we didn’t bother.” They were holding their smiles a little too long. Alex could see where this was going. They thought he and Kanani were freaks and didn’t have any money. The blowoff could come any second. “And, you’re looking to stay here?” “Yes,” Kanani said. “We would love to stay here.” Adding a sweeter smile. “Okay. For how long?” The man had responded to Kanani, but he and the white Mililani were looking to Alex. “We — we’re looking to stay a long time,” Alex said. “That’s the thing. We’ve come a long way to be here. I — we — want a new start.” The two shared a glance. “Well, we do have a month-long option.” “No. Longer.” “Uh, well,” the woman said, and her mouth stayed open. The man sat up straight. “So, you are looking for work? But we don’t do work-for-rent, if that’s what you’re thinking —” “I’m not,” Alex said, and his legs shot him up so he was standing over the two. “Look. Let’s cut the bullshit. Here’s the deal. I’m AWOL, and I want in. That’s right. We want in. The both of us.” False Refuge ~ 62

NINE

Jerry Bateman stood at his hotel room balcony glass and watched the long, dark and compact cloudbanks rolling in like logs falling off a log truck. He had told the boys back at the PD that he’d be going snorkeling for sure. Yeah, he was going snorkeling here — and a squadron of pigs would also be flying out his ass any second. Snorkeling in Kona would be fine. Someday. When the weather was better. When Marci would want to go. When there wasn’t a war on. When Alex Swenson wasn’t digging his own grave. Marci would be back from the pool any minute. Jerry was ready. He had put on a KK Hotel robe and the matching slippers, which was a great step forward. It showed his sun-scorched skin and feet were ready, even though he still had hot flashes and what amounted to molting. His top layer of skin had been peeling off in vast blotchy flakes. Marci had joked that he looked like a spawning salmon. The room door clicked and popped open with a clank and Marci marched in, flinging their key card onto the dresser. “No sun again,” she said, adding a sigh. She was wearing the same robe as Jerry, who was sitting on the bed, nodding at her, for her. She set her eyes on him. She lowered her ABC bag to the rug with slow care, as if it held TNT, and sat next to him on the bed. “Okay, what?” she said. Bring it. Jerry lifted her hands, held them in his, and he gave her the score. Alex Swenson had gone AWOL. He was going to be shipped to Iraq and he thinks he’s standing up to what he called an unjust military action. That was the real reason Jerry had come here. To look for Alex. Talk him into coming back if he could. He’s somewhere near Kona. There might just be enough time. The AWOL announcement’s been embargoed for now and they probably have no idea Alex fled to Hawaii. As he spoke Marci’s eyes narrowed, and then they closed, and she seemed to be holding her breath. Jerry could guess her thoughts. Alex and her husband had a special bond. She knew that. Yet she and Alex had also become good friends, and Jerry knew what she wanted to tell him now. Could you blame Alex? It was all because of this silly fucking war. We were in Iraq for the wrong reasons and were only causing the next wars for our children. “Support the troops” was only a cheap ploy to keep the people rooting — the people who weren’t paying attention, that False Refuge ~ 63 was. People who wouldn’t be too happy to send their own kids over, would they? It had been like that since before Vietnam — a war for Us, fought by Them. She had said all this only once before, once in the middle of a windy and freezing night a couple months ago when another of Fort Clark’s reserve detachments was sent to Iraq — and two reserves were killed by mortar attack right off the bat. Jerry’s response had toed the line. It’s my job, he had told her. The duty is the whole point of the job. And every time he thought about that he felt a shiver. Had they felt that shiver in World War II? He didn’t think so. Marci popped her eyes open. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. About any of it.” “I owe it to the guy. He’s been there for me. Out in the field.” A silence. Marci had never pretended to know what that was like. She turned her shoulders to him, facing him straight on. “Can you get dinged for this? By the Army?” “Not that I know of. Not if I stumble on something, while on vacation.” Jerry added a wry smile. “I can’t help that, now can I?” “No, you can’t. You can’t help any of it.” She looked away from him, at the wall. “Look, honey, I just want you to know I’m not discounting our time together.” Discounting? That was what Wal-Mart did. What kind of a word was that for his dear wife? “Want you to know I’m loving our time here,” he added but she cut him off. “I’m sure you’re not ... discounting it. So, I assume you want me to go — go home?” Marci said, but not pouting to the words. It was more matter-of-fact, as if she was confirming a dinner reservation. Jerry loved her for that. She could take it. This was about the best scenario he could’ve hoped for. “Your call,” he said. “I’m going to be hitting the trail, see what I can sniff up the last few days I’m here. Got a couple leads. That’s no fun for you. You could always stay here if you want.” She shrugged, shook her head. She took a shower and came out to report that she was going on to stay an extra couple days in Oahu, for the better shopping and sun, and then she would head home from there. She packed with silent efficiency, but she clung to him as they slept. She took the first morning flight over to Oahu. The next day was a Monday. Jerry got to work checking the local news — the daily briefs in West Hawaii Today were best for that. He used the Internet Café around the corner. By the afternoon he’d scored a top-shelf police scanner in a pawnshop. He set it up on the hotel room False Refuge ~ 64 dresser and couldn’t take his ears off the thing. Along with the standard auto accidents, petty thefts and drug dealings he heard about a naked man riding a Segway in the rain, a sighting of a life-sized gecko, and two reports of desecration of ancient Hawaiian artifacts — the first an ancient temple, the second a prize-winning longboard dating back to the 1950s. Every call the local police treated with the same professionalism as a murder. This made him smile. He stayed with the scanner into the night and the next day, ordering meals and coffee and rum and beers to his room. This was costing him time. He needed a lead. Any lead. In the afternoon he was just coming out of the shower, patting his wet and flaking skin, when he heard chatter about a drifter assaulting renters and stealing their jeep. The drifter had used a chokehold on one of the renters. The description fit Alex’s. Jerry heard an address, jotted it down. It was south, down Alii Drive. He slopped on sunscreen and headed out wearing, to protect his new layers of skin, a long sleeved shirt, panama hat, large sunglasses, long pants, and sandals over socks. He rented a scooter from across the street and rode the squealing thing all the way down Alii, and when the traffic picked up he had to share the side lane with the joggers and cyclists. The rental was a nicer stucco place. Jerry knocked on the front door. No answer. He parked a couple driveways down and strolled back, checking out the bushes and hideaways for any sign of Alex. He waded through the bushes along the driveway and the backyard. A jeep — the once-stolen jeep — turned into the driveway followed by a police car, one of those personal unmarked jobs with a blue strap-on siren like they had here. Jerry’s legs carried him back into the side bushes so that he was watching over the driveway. The cop car only slowed, honked, and sped northward toward Kona. Jerry’s back was to the perimeter wall of the neighbor’s house. He caught the reek of rotting litter and hobo feces, and he wondered if Alex Swenson had been hunkered down in this very spot. Three guys jumped out of the jeep wearing bright surf shorts, flip-flops, flashy sunglasses. They were wannabe surfers, Jerry was guessing, probably in from the mainland. They shuffled into the house, slapping each other on the backs, one of them rocking his shoulders around, wanting to be more tough-ass than the others. They had probably provoked Alex, Jerry thought. Wannabes did that. False Refuge ~ 65

He waited a few minutes. Let them settle in. Then he walked over to the front door and knocked. Tough-ass answered the door, a fresh bottle of beer in hand. Jerry could smell the pot loud and clear. Probably had bongs and bags of it on the fucking coffee table. “Yeah,” said tough-ass. What a smirk on that face. Jerry could show him a smirk. His molting skin didn’t freak them out either. “I hear you had some trouble today,” Jerry said. “Trouble?” A couple others came to the door. One was coughing. Another had a cell phone, ready to dial. Tough-ass waited till they’d gathered around. “You friends with dat muthafucker?” tough-ass said to Jerry. “No. Not the way you’re thinking. I’d like to ask you a few questions.” “You a cop?” said cell-phone. “Shit, they just here, brah.” “I’m not a cop in the way you’re used to. Let’s just say I’ve got more authority than you’re used to. And, well, truth be told, I wouldn’t want to pass the word about your smoking habits. So just answer the questions I give you.” Meanwhile, tough-ass had gone white in the face. He pushed the coughing one away, snatched the cell phone from the other one’s hand and sent him off, too. He stood into the doorway, filling it. Just as Jerry was betting on — tough-ass probably had a record; maybe he was even on parole. Jerry added: “I’m guessing you don’t need the agro.” — as they called it. Tough-ass glanced out, toward the big water rolling in on the other side of Alii, composing himself. He swallowed and said: “What do you want to know, sir?”

Jerry spent the rest of the day staring at maps and listening to the police scanner and browsing the papers and web sites for news. He’d be checking out of the King Kamehameha the next morning. Alex wasn’t looking too great, from the way tough-ass described him. He had abandoned the jeep only a ways down the road — heading south for sure. Heading south was really all Alex had. The big island was big, but it had a few simple and clear routes. The main one was a ring around the edges of the island, running along the coast. Another option was what they called Saddle Road, which ran through the middle of the island, right between the island’s False Refuge ~ 66 two inland volcanoes, Mauna Kea and Mauna Loa, but the army had built that route fifty years ago through a hell zone of bare lava rock and little else. The rain forests were the other inland options but Alex wasn’t ready to hit the wilds, Jerry figured. Plenty little towns and junctions lay south of Kona. By early evening Jerry was out on the patio waiting for sunset, another rum and guava in his lap, going over in his head just what he would say to Alex. And what would Alex do? What if he got that look? Jerry sighed, lifting his cool glass to his flaking lips. His cell phone rang. Marci again? He’d just talked to her an hour ago. He answered. “Jere? Can you hear me?” She was panting. “What’s the matter? You outside? Are you walking?” “Nothing. Yes. I was anyway. Oh, my god — you haven’t seen it, have you?” He’d been so focused on the local police scanner that he hadn’t glanced at the TV in a while. It was on mute. “No,” he said and turned it up. CNN was on. They were doing another stupid story on low-carb diets. But the news ticker caught his eye:

AWOL Army Reserve A. Swenson wanted for drugs, terror links ...

He scanned the other channels, got the same. The Army was considering Sergeant Swenson armed and dangerous. FOX News had a headshot up now. “Honey, you there? You saw it.” “Yeah.” The ticker didn’t bother to add that Alex was refusing Iraq service. But Alex was lucky in a way. With Iraq falling apart daily Alex wasn’t getting the play he might have. Jerry started pulling on clothes to get down to the Internet café. The tickers said six more GIs killed today in Iraq. “Jesus,” he muttered. “Honey? You okay?” “Yeah. They have anything about leads — they know where he is? Not that they would say.” “No. They’re not giving out much info.” He could still be the only one who knew about Hawaii. He could hope. “Are you okay?” he said. “I don’t know. I tried shopping, there’s the Ala Moana Center here, but … I talked to a couple of the wives back home. Janie. Kendra. Tough times back there. Another Fort Clark detachment False Refuge ~ 67 is heading out — and it’s reserves again. And it’s freezing rain at the fort again.” Her voice was breaking up. She paused a moment. “Ah, fuck, Jere,” she blurted, “I should’ve just stayed there with you. We should have gone snorkeling, if only for an hour. I told you I wasn’t into that. Of course I am. If it’s with you.” “I know. It’s okay.” “Honey?” “Yeah,” Jerry said. “Did you know about all that? About what they’re saying?” “No. I just thought he went AWOL.” “Do you believe it? Do you believe all that about Alex?” “I don’t know. Anyway, it doesn’t matter now.” “It might. I know that’s what you’re thinking. You still have some time.” Less than two weeks, Jerry thought. The feds could be all over here soon. He pulled on socks but they burned around his flaking ankles. “Fuck,” he muttered again. “You could bring him back. He could fight it.” “We’ll see.” “Honey?” Marci said. “Yeah.” “I loved our time together. I did.” “Me too.” They said I love you at the same time and hung up and Jerry wandered back out to the balcony. The wind had picked up, and the sun was half down. He was missing the sunset. He dropped into the chair and sucked down the rest of his drink, wondering if Alex had known this was coming? Was that why he was on the run? Did Alex know the full extent of it? None of it made sense. The allegations just didn’t jibe. But had he really expected them to? Right before Jerry had left, he had learned what few knew — Alex had sought Conscientious Objector status, but they let his papers die. If Alex was so bent on all the rest, on the drugs and helping terrorists, why would he go and request CO status? Why didn’t they mention that part? Because they didn’t have to. Because no one dared second guess them. The sun dipped under, the sea went black. Jerry wandered back into the room for the mini bar. He lifted the bottle of rum to his glass. The bottle was empty. He pitched the bottle and it False Refuge ~ 68 thumped at the rug, tumbling away, and then he leaned onto the bar and set his head against the wall, slamming his eyes shut. False Refuge ~ 69

TEN

Jerry Bateman rented the cheapest compact sedan — a little Chevy made in Asia — and worked his way south along the Kona coast, stopping often to ask questions and show photos of Alex Swenson. He stopped at corner stores, farmers’ markets, family picnics, and crowded beaches. He asked anyone from lifeguards to transients, elderly tourists to teenage surfers. He tried bars, Internet cafes, and diners, and soon Alii Drive gave way to the old Mamalahoa Highway, where South Kona began to rise over the coastline. He and Marci talked on the cell phone. She was back home and sounding depressed. The weather was colder than when they’d left. All the rumors about increased deployments were turning true. Many on base were shocked about Alex Swenson, she said. They didn’t want to believe Alex could do those things, but why else was he wanted for them? Others said Alex got what he deserved for running out on his fellow soldiers. “They have a point,” Jerry told her. “Fuck that,” she snapped. Jerry knew where Marci got that mouth. She was back with her friends, that small pack of reserves’ wives whom the majority of wives labeled the “Others” behind their backs. Marci’s friends read Salon.com and watched the Daily Show. Some even read The Nation or The Economist. Since 9/11 they kept informed, looking for facts for facts’ sake. That was Marci’s kind — don’t believe what they tell you. The majority of wives didn’t keep informed. Said they were too busy. The kids took up their time. They watched a few minutes of the local news or FOX News when they could find time, or they picked up a Newsweek in the doctor’s office. But it wasn’t about a money or education divide, Marci had assured Jerry. It was anger versus laziness, intelligence versus fear. All Jerry knew was, the majority of reserves’ wives looked a lot more scared of the world and you could see it in their faces. He didn’t know which kind was worse for him. Sometimes he’d wished they all talked about baby showers or even the size of the husbands’ penises rather than notorious neocons or Jessica Lynch. “Fuck that?” he said. “You don’t just run out on each other. That’s the thing. These guys, even if they don’t believe in the war, the cause, the policy, they still must go where they’re sent, they must go back, and do you know why? The real reason? Because they’re fighting for their False Refuge ~ 70 buddies. In their unit. You know that. When you’re sent abroad to fight it’s not for Rumsfeld or Bush or even to defend the Constitution. It’s for your buddies. Your team. That’s it. All there is. All we’re really fighting for — so we can all get back home in one piece. You might think it’s a cliché or whatever, but it isn’t —” “I don’t. I know, Jere. I know that. But sometimes I think, if you really want to help your buddies, your fellow soldiers — and us citizens wanted to help you, we’d all be standing up and saying, shouting, we’re not going where it’s not justified. Just like Alex is doing.” A pause. A sigh. “Honey, I know what you mean about the unit being the reason. Alex being the reason you’re there now. I understand. I respect it. I just can’t help feeling the way I do.” “I know. I just want you to remember it.” “I will. And don’t think I don’t know they call us the ‘Others.’ They say I got time to question because we don’t have kids. Fuck them. The truth there is, I don’t give a shit what they think. I love you. So, look, just come home soon.” What a girl. He had to admit it. He kept at it. He asked gas station attendants, boogie board renters, apparent drug dealers, even landscape gardeners. He passed lovely houses, mom-and- pop stores, and cute little churches as the towns and junctions came and went — Honalo, Kainaliu, Kealakekua, each harder to pronounce than the next and they became a jumble of consonants in his head. He drove the side roads leading down to the many secluded beaches and small bays, where he talked to the tourists who jammed small piers for the snorkeling, whale watching, and fishing boats. He talked to the men and women who manned the boats. One night he stayed in a shady motel with cockroaches the size of his cell phone, so the next night he spent in his little Chevy, facing the surf. He had only traveled 20 or 30 miles south in a straight line, but he must have put in hundreds of miles going back and forth, starting and stopping, following leads. Doing the legwork. Getting the human intel. And he got nothing. But he was learning to love this place. He wished Marci could have seen the bland shopping and cheap tourism of Kona Town give way to roadside hamlets and lush green wilds of he didn’t even know what they were. Were they all ferns and palms, and impatiens that would soon bloom red? Was that even possible? He’d had tasty plate lunches of white rice and spam, macaroni salad and Mahi Mahi. He gobbled down more fresh fruit than ever in his life. That second morning he stopped the Chevy at a small bay ringed with the black lava rocks. The bay held one beach the size of a patio, nestled within the rocks. A person was on the beach, False Refuge ~ 71 sitting with a fishing pole. Jerry had to walk the wet and jagged rocks to get there. He took his time. Took it all in. Wild mongoose darted in and out of the rocks, chasing the black crabs. He passed a rickety structure of bamboo and sticks holding stones, basically a pallet on stilts for stacking up stones. Was it old Hawaiian? Some sort of offering to gods? The water was churning at the rocks but it only lapped up to the beach, little folds of white. The person was a wiry and dark little man sitting on a cooler. His fishing pole stood in the sand, the line far out into the water. Jerry walked out to the man, who saw him and nodded and grinned. He looked half Asian, half Polynesian. The skin of his face looked stretched and yet had deep lines. He wore a baseball cap bearing an American flag and “I Luv Baseball.” Jerry showed him the photos of Alex. Asked the usual questions. The man said, in broken English, that he wished he could help but he knew nothing. His accent was a mystery, full of pops and clicks and hums. But Jerry didn’t want to leave yet. The breeze opened his sinuses and helped him breathe. He asked the man if he came here a lot. “‘Ery Day, ‘ery Day,” the man said. “Is my place.” “Do you own this beach? Is it your property?” “Ah, no. But is mine,” the man said, adding a smile. He pointed at Jerry, his finger stabbing at air. “Sunburn on skin you have. It hurt you?” “No. It’s getting better.” Jerry pointed to the man’s hat and asked him about his love for baseball, but Jerry realized the man knew nothing of how the game worked. He thought stealing a base meant grabbing the base and running off with it. The concept of an out drew a blank, so Jerry tried to explain that outs are like chances lost. But the man only smiled and laughed. Then his pole shimmied and he focused on the line, silent. Jerry watched the line, too, for at least fifteen minutes. Nothing happened. He wondered if the man had ever caught a thing on his beach. Back in his Chevy along the road, Jerry, his chest swelling with warmth, popped open a can of Guava juice from his little cooler between the seats. This little man on his beach had inspired him. Alex, he had his convictions. Marci, her awakening to some sad-ass facts. But this here was his own crusade. Once, before Alex had gone AWOL (well before Jerry had suspected) Alex, buzzed on a couple beers, had asked Jerry out of the blue: What do you do when you believe in two things that are opposite? Jerry had shrugged, and Alex had answered for him: You follow your gut, you love with your heart, and you think with your head. And you never look back. False Refuge ~ 72

And that’s what Jerry was doing now. He arrived in a town called Captain Cook, a few miles inland above a bay where natives once beat to death and dismembered Captain Cook. Jerry parked the Chevy in the parking lot of a small market and walked the town. They had a hotel called the Manago, a nice old place with tin roofs, hardwood floors, and outdoor gardens. He checked in — what the hell — and roamed the halls and lobby, showing the photos of Alex to guests and employees. The comfy dining room was right out of 1930s. He had each of the waitresses look at the photos. One scrunched up her face at them. She brought out another woman from the kitchen to look. The other woman said the man looked familiar, perhaps he’d eaten here, she just wasn’t sure. He might have been with a woman? She didn’t think she’d seen him staying here, she added — but then a lot of people just pass through heading for coffee country. It was all he could get out of her. He tried some shops, a few houses, and got nothing. Across the highway, the CC Diner had an Internet café, which was nothing more than a side room with an ice cream counter and a computer in the corner. That evening a stout Hawaiian lady was running the show. Jerry sat at the diner counter and she poured him coffee, eyeing him, most likely because his skin was peeling in vast dry flakes, and he had to itch at them with his blotchy hands. She brought him a fine plate of bacon and eggs and sticky rice. The next time she passed he asked if she would be so kind as to look at the pictures of a man she might have seen around these parts. He had laid the two photos out on the counter, turned upside down so she could see them better. She was carrying a coffee pot in one hand and in the other a rag, which she rubbed along the counter, around the photos as she looked at them, her hip rolling along the counter, back and forth. Then she shot him a glance and strode back out onto the floor, where she refilled coffees and took an order. His phone was ringing on silent, vibrating in his pocket. He checked it. It was Marci. He let it go to voice mail and finished his food, and his coffee. She came back to refill. “Thanks,” Jerry said. “I saw him. Strange one. But he look akamai too.” Akamai meant smart, Jerry knew. She laughed. “He use the Internet. And den something make him sick. Didn’t take long he went vomit outside. Then he walks around outside talking to himself, walking back and forth. I should have called the cops, or paramedics? Nice enough man, but —” “Wait. Please. When was he here?” False Refuge ~ 73

“Couple days ago. Two days.” She headed off for more orders and refills. Jerry waited. He pushed his plate aside. He returned the photos to his pocket. He took one measured sip of coffee. It was hot. Fuck it. He threw it back. She passed to refill. “So, he used your Internet?” Jerry said. She pulled back the pot. Her eyes narrowed up. “Who are you?” Jerry showed her his military ID. He held it until she looked back at him. “CID. I’m an investigator — a detective,” he added. She nodded, slowly, swirling the coffee in the pot. “He want to use the Internet before we open that side but I let him anyway. He looked nice. So why not?” She added an odd off-pitch laugh. “Can I see the computer? I mean, can I use it?” She shrugged. “Kay den.” He filled out the minutes log, which was a coffee-stained legal pad, and looked for Alex two days ago. A listing in all caps with indecipherable signature had to be Alex. He got in front of the computer and took his time. He was alone over here. He’d even left his coffee on the counter so the waitress wouldn’t come and refill. He clicked around and, to his luck, was able to access the web browser history (too many Internet cafes like this were not secure). He snickered at the irony — it was Alex who had first taught him about computers, how to work your way behind the scenes of a PC. He clicked back, one day and then two, finding the usual links for lodging and web-based email, in all languages. His phone again. Marci. The waitress passed the doorway, watching him. He hovered over the screen. Someone had been on the website for CID West, checking the Wanted posters. Alex. It had to be. And right before that? Links for CNN, Yahoo! News, and Google News. Alex was always talking up Google News — it had to be him. After CID West, he had clicked on the FBI. Right about here was where Alex’s stomach must have been rolling. The trail then seemed to end — up next was a link for someplace called the Krieger Estates, a coffee plantation turned resort. A map link showed it to be just south of here, higher into the hills, where South Kona and its storied coffee country began. But after that it was websites for the Army Times and Stars and Stripes. He memorized the map to Krieger Estates, amazed that Alex hadn’t False Refuge ~ 74 erased all this history — the poor guy must have been really rattled not to delete this. After that were sites in Icelandic, some porn, and links for fine dining in Kona Town. Definitely the end of the trail now. The phone again. Something was up. He’d call Marci as soon as he was back outside, because the stout Hawaiian waitress, if he was any judge, would not be caring much for cell phone talking in her diner. Before he left he clicked over to his web email, what the hell. Might as well check it. Most messages were junk. He deleted them. But the last two were from Marci, just sent, and the one before that was an email from his Commanding Officer, group-emailed to the whole unit. He clicked it open:

Effective today all personnel return to base at earliest opportunity. Training for active duty deployment begins immediately. All leaves cancelled. False Refuge ~ 75

ELEVEN

“Freedom is supposed to mean open spaces. Isn’t that how it works? Lush green fields, a wide- open road, sunset on a long sparkling beach. Isn’t that right?” Alex was pacing their small room and couldn’t stop, beating the same eight-foot path back and forth on the bland tan carpet. Their escorts had called it a guest bungalow but it was more like a convalescence room in a rehab facility. The walls were mauve, there were two white plastic chairs and a table of lavender Formica, and the double bed had thin pillows with polyester blend covers. It all had the saccharine whiff of a cheap air freshener. The one window had thick bushes brushing up to it, so that when Alex planted his forehead on the glass he could only make out a couple inches of sky. The room didn’t even have a clock. He reckoned about a day had elapsed. During that time straight-faced men had brought them dull food on plastic trays — rice and eggs, canned fruit, cold spam sandwiches. “Another goddamn cell,” he said, kicking at a chair along his path. “What you were expecting?” Kanani said from down on the carpet, where she was doing stretches. “You don’t stop pacing you’re going to dig a trench.” Alex strode over and tried the door again. Locked tight. “I can’t believe I let them lock us in. What if they’re calling the cops?” “They probably want to see if we trust them. They aren’t calling no one. If they had they’d be here by now.” Alex had said the same thing himself, at first. At the time Kanani was the one freaking out. She even kicked at the door and screamed and Alex had to wrestle her over to the bed, where he talked her down. But after the first few hours of isolation she turned calm, and then it was Alex who threatened to bust a nut. They had given up their packs, their IDs, and his Palm Pilot — everything but their clothes. “What’s next? Group intervention? Fuck,” he said and flopped on the bed, on his back. Kanani sighed. She crawled up on the bed and, nudging him in the side, had him flip onto his stomach. She helped him pull his t-shirt off and began to massage his back, but she kept stopping to groom him, like a monkey. She plucked something out of his hair, and yanked a few hairs from his ears. She grabbed at his foot, picked at that, and then slapped it back to the bed. She False Refuge ~ 76 pushed his head to one side and pushed back an ear, checking behind it, her fingernails doubling as precise medical instruments. “Jesus. You a masseuse or a medical examiner?” “Shut up.” Kanani straightened him out and went back to the massage, working his shoulder wings over real deep and good. He groaned. He’d needed that. “Better? Now, think about it. What did you expect?” she said as she rubbed. “No, you’re right. They’re checking us out,” he moaned, letting his arms relax, and his mind drifted back to that crucial moment out on that spotless patio when he had admitted he was AWOL. The dark man and white woman had asked rapid and specific questions. “How did you hear about us?” they had asked. “Another soldier was going AWOL, and he mentioned it to me.” “Name?” “John Sanchez.” Alex hadn’t even told Jerry Bateman about Sanchez. Sanchez was the one who’d gone AWOL before Alex. They’d had a few beers near the base. Sanchez had seen Alex’s application for CO — for Conscientious Objector status — and thought Alex the perfect choice to be the next link in the chain. The man and woman had stared, not reacting to the name Sanchez. “He’s — was — a Sergeant. You want his unit, all the rest?” Alex had added. “Won’t be necessary. What else can you tell us?” Alex shrugged. “What can I say? This is the way Sanchez told me to do it — just out and say it. Hey guys, I’m AWOL so take me.” “That’s fine, you’re okay there,” the woman said. “What about the girl?” the man said. Meaning Kanani. Alex reached for Kanani’s hand and held it tight. Kanani showed them a broad and sweet smile, looking like the poster girl for Hawaiian tourism Inc.. “I met her here. We hit it off. She’s with me.” At that point the man nodded like a thoughtful family doctor and left the room. “Stand by,” the woman said, shooting them a faint smile. Kanani came over to Alex’s chair and sat on the chair arm. After a couple minutes the man came back and asked Alex to continue, just tell them anything he felt like telling. False Refuge ~ 77

“Anything? Here’s the deal. They say, now, that I’m wanted for terrible things. I didn’t do them. I only went AWOL. Believe what you want. Either way, I’m yours. Obviously I — we — have skills to offer.” “Obviously,” the man said. He held up a finger and paused a moment, as if listening, as if he had a wireless receiver in his ear (which he might have had). Then he said: “Both of you come with us, please.” Their escorts had frisked them and led them to a jeep out back. The four of them had driven up along a high road that passed over the estates’ main resort area. A couple weeks down there, the woman had explained, got you the full treatment at what used to be one of Kona’s prime coffee plantations — luxurious spa, lots of golf, coffee bean picking and roasting, romantic dining. Kanani had flashed Alex a knowing look that said — obviously that’s all a front. And they had driven on through a small narrow canyon and passed through two electronic gates. Along the way their escorts had answered questions but offered nothing of substance or opinion, reminding Alex of the few State Department diplomats he had met. That was probably what they once were, he had thought, and the implication had given him pangs low in his stomach. If best skills were rewarded here, then what would that make him? One whole day had elapsed, Alex recalled from the bed in the so-called bungalow and wanted to shake his head but Kanani was working his shoulders and neck now. It burned a little (too bad she had no oil or lotion), but it still felt nice. “Checking us out is exactly what worries me,” he said. “They’ll know about us, and we still know butkus about them.” “You army guys like your intel, don’t you? Look, we’ll know soon enough. Just focus, honey.” When Kanani finished Alex did his best to massage her, but kneading her soft brown skin with just enough curves in all the right places only made him hard. He kissed her neck and she pulled him close. His hands moved between her legs. And the pangs hit again. A black cloud filled his head. They were cut off, sure. He had chosen that. But had he measured every option? Taken all the time required? What if he’d dared a call home for the latest? That might have helped them. Gone with someone he trusted. Called Fort Clark even. There were good men around there. Jerry Bateman? He would know the score. But would Jerry even talk to him after he’d left him behind like that? False Refuge ~ 78

His hands had stopped. They’d gone clammy. It was too late to make contact, and too dangerous for those contacted. He rolled off Kanani, onto his back. They lay in silence, staring up at the white plastic ceiling fan going round and round. “There’s no turning back,” Kanani said. “So get your shit together, haole.” The green wall of leaves outside had gone bluish black. Kanani turned the lights off and they discovered it was dark out. They tried to sleep. Alex pretended to sleep so she’d be able to. Some time later, deep within the darkness, Kanani nudged him. “You’re not sleeping, are you?” “No,” Alex said. “Me neither. I was thinking. Think they can get me a new identity? I mean a full one. One that was safe just about anywhere where no one knew us.” “It’s worth a shot. Would you want that?” “If you had a new identity, too. We could be anything we wanted. And if you had a new identity? Would you go back to the states with me?” “I don’t know. Would you go abroad? If it included passports? With me, I mean.” “You mean escape this all. This and the mainland. Start completely over.” Another sharp thought hit Alex’s gut — what if they were listening? He paused, cleared his voice, and said: “The way I see it, this isn’t my country any more. It’s a once great prodigy gone mad, deluded and corrupt, it attacks its last champions and best friends.” Hoping that was what they wanted to hear. Kanani listened, understanding. “Lead by our mad leaders, our country is turning on itself. Eating its young. And We the People are letting it —” He bit his mouth shut. He too was letting this happen, he realized. By running. But what else could he do but run now? What else? His pulse was racing, making him hot and start to sweat, and he sighed to slow it all down. Kanani fingered around in the dark and found his hand, holding it firm. “What? What more can I do?” he muttered in the dark.

The bushes out the window had lightened to a dim olive green. The room held a deep blue glow. Dusk. They took turns in the tiny bathroom, dressed, and paced and waited. Alex heard the front door lock click open. Then, a knock on the door. False Refuge ~ 79

Alex opened. Two hard types filled the doorframe — a tall thick man with a heavy forehead, boyish face and black mustache, and a lean woman with a square jaw. They smiled. “Good morning. Ready? Let’s go. You’ll be separated for a while.” They put Alex and Kanani into separate golf carts and sped them off. Alex got the big guy. Alex and Kanani smiled for each other as their carts veered off down separate paths. Big guy drove Alex through a grove of palms and bright red hibiscus and into a culvert that ended at an underground roll-up gate the size of a large garage door. They passed through a secure check-in area without stopping, overseen by men who wore civilian clothes but walked and watched like guards. Big guy walked Alex down a long gray corridor. He walked casually, swaying his arms as if leading Alex through a warehouse or an electronics showroom. All was concrete down here, and stark. Doors appeared, every ten feet. One door was open. Big guy led Alex through that doorway into a gray windowless room. The room had a single bunk, a metal sink, and a toilet in a corner. Big guy left the door open. He gestured for Alex to sit on the bed, and he pulled up the one metal chair and sat on it backwards, his arms hanging loose off the back. He wore a goofy wide-eyed smile that said, this is pretty cool down here, huh? “Won’t be long,” he said. “And don’t worry — you won’t have to sleep here for long. It’s just a way station.” “Good. Thanks. What is this place?” Alex said. He’d decided not to ask big guy’s name until he offered it. “Used to be US military. Safe bunker. Cold war relic. They’re all over the islands. We spruced it up.” “Thought so,” Alex said, patting the taut bed. “So, you’re not US military, right? Not Fed at all.” “Not any more, my man. Just like you. I was in Gulf War One myself. “ “Congratulations. Feel like telling me more?” “Can’t yet. Can I get you something?” “Okay — calamari, Kobe steak, couple Kona lagers?” Big guy laughed. “Soon enough. How about eggs and bacon, some mango?” Alex nodded. “Coffee?” Nodded again. Big guy slapped at his thighs and was off. False Refuge ~ 80

Alex lay on the bed, thinking of Kanani, hoping her treatment was this good. The big guy returned within ten minutes with the food on a tray. He sat back in the chair and watched Alex eat, smiling. Alex shoveled it in. The mango was just right. Big guy was grinning. “What?” Alex said. “Man, you really are wanted for some nasty shit. Your face is all over.” “I told them that. They know. So why the grin?” “Because you’ve been accepted.” Big guy gave Alex a hearty thumbs-up. “Great. Thanks. I hope.” “It’s a good thing. First off — plastic surgery.” Alex stared. “Just kidding.” Big guy chuckled. “No, seriously. That girl of yours? Kanani. Kanani, now she has a record. Talk about trouble, my man. Whatever Honolulu had to offer, she’d had a hand in it — except prostitution. She wasn’t into that, not directly I mean. Anyway, I don’t think she’d still be here if it wasn’t for you.” Alex set the tray next to him on the bed. “I told you that from the beginning. Full disclosure.” “Right. And they like that. I’m just saying. And as far as your deal goes, the frontline duty always looks good too. You’ve been through the shit. So, trouble notwithstanding, we believe you both have skills to offer —” “Skills that will get us a new identity?” Alex blurted it on purpose, in case they were listening. Let them know his priorities up front. “I mean, is that possible here?” Big guy grinned again. He held up his hands. “Hey. First things first, my friend. Alright? That’s all I’m saying. Nobody rides for free.”

Big guy rolled in a clothing rack of shorts and slacks, golf and aloha shirts, all of it modest stuff like hotel chain front desk people would wear. Alex picked dark khaki shorts without pleats and the least bright aloha shirt. From a trunk down below he selected underwear and sturdy flip-flops, and a neat toiletry kit of the type airlines gave in first-class. He washed and brushed. Then big guy led him down more corridors and through another gate until they came to a carpeted lobby, where they waited for elevators. A couple more in bland island wear joined them in the elevator, and big guy made small talk with them as they went up. Together they led Alex out the elevator False Refuge ~ 81 to a large square conference room with chairs lined in neat rows and a bamboo podium up front bearing the plaque of Krieger Estates. Framed photos of prime Kona views and glossy ads for Krieger Estates lined the walls. Big guy and his friends didn’t take chairs, but big guy gestured, with a smile, for Alex to please take one. Alex sat in the second of six rows, two in from the right, while the rest stood at the back and chatted in upbeat tones. Kanani came in wearing a light blue pool set of shorts and hooded top. They grinned at each other, shrugged, and she joined Alex in the second row as her escorts met the others at the back. She and Alex whispered and shared snippets of their morning. She’d gotten the same treatment. Same bunker room. The good mango. Her escort was back there in khaki shorts and a sleeveless aloha shirt. Kanani’s escort was colder, she reported. Alex stole a look back. The woman’s face was stunning, with bold blue eyes, but her pocks and lines revealed something darker. “Know what she reminds me of?” Kanani whispered. “High end prostitute. Ex, of course. Knew a lot of them. She wouldn’t tell me that, of course. But my mind’s running. Who knows? Witness to a mob crime? Murderess —” “Maybe it’s best not to know,” Alex whispered, even though the escorts at back wouldn’t have been able to hear them talking. “I mean, look, don’t you think it’s weird they’re accepting me so easily. Think about what I’ve been accused of. It’s like they’d rather believe I did all those things.” And then there was Kanani with her past, which he’d never really pressed her about. “Stay calm. It’s showing on your face.” The lights were dimming. Kanani rubbed at his leg. “That’s better. One step at a time.” A screen lowered from the ceiling, veiling the podium. Alex peered behind him to make out a projector window in the back wall, where their escorts had once stood. Their escorts were gone. Loud surf music kicked in, a tame Ventures medley, and the screen showed a tall blue rolling surf and then, close up, a man surfing the roaring white curl of the highest wave. The shot narrowed, focusing on the man. A title read:

OUR FOUNDER GLENN KRIEGER False Refuge ~ 82

TWELVE

That first presentation Alex and Kanani sat through had been little more than one of those soft- sell condo presentations people endure so they can get a free vacation or a cruise. The film presented the beauty and noble mission of the Krieger Estates, or, KE as it was known internally — establish and provide attractive development properties as well as offer a new brand of refuge for tourists and “Colleagues” (i.e. refugees on the lam) alike. A cute and perky couple manned the podium and explained to Alex and Kanani that they had come here in good trust, and so KE would return their fine conviction. Together, by working as a team, they will all pursue happier, more fulfilling lives. It was a glorified infomercial live, with the appearance of openness and positive, creative thinking. All tourist visitors to KE, they learned, were invited to a consumer’s version of the pitch, for the refuge concept Alex and Kanani were pursuing was simply a twist on the standard practice of attracting potential new buyers. Above all, KE sold condos. They sought real estate. They developed real estate with condos. KE had properties to offer all over the Hawaiian Islands, but most were on the Big Island, and they were working hard to acquire more. Naturally, KE pledged to pursue environmentally friendly development. The cute couple took questions, but Alex and Kanani didn’t dare throw any hardballs. The couple stressed they’d be well taken care of and Alex and Kanani left it at that. Salary, health care, vacation didn’t matter. This was about putting in time. The hard questions would be answered in due course and through showing, not telling. Asking for the up-front full disclosure was like asking a priest to tell you the day you would die, how you would go, and if heaven was an option. Faith was Faith. Only at the end did the mood shift. The man of the cute couple dropped the cheesy smile and said: “You won’t get your belongings back. Your clothes, IDs. Palm Pilot. Nothing. This is about starting over.” “I understand, sir,” Alex said, not meaning to say sir. “We understand.” Alex and Kanani had a week to recover from their journey. They had to sleep in their separate bunker rooms but were otherwise on their own. They could choose clothing from the KE resort shop and use the facilities at their leisure, so long as they maintained proper confidentiality when chatting with KE guests. They made the most of it. They slept in late, took False Refuge ~ 83 massages, lay by the pool, and wandered the plantation grounds in search of the perfect sunset view. They met other colleagues but kept to small talk, as was expected. At night they drank rum and danced. When the week had passed they reported to the Select Colleagues Resources office down in the bunker complex, not far from the elevators. Alex was offered a job of doing web and phone sales, following up on email and phone leads, using the name Andy Smith. It was boring cube farm work of the sort he had avoided back home. Kanani was to serve resort guests as an assistant activities coordinator. Kanani did the job with a smile. In private Alex heard her roar. “They say it’s because I’m nice. Fuck that. They want the token native face. Sweet little Hawaiian girl with one sweet smile and the sweet flower in her hair. I was a criminal, Alex. One badass tita. How can I be sweet all the time? It’s two-faced.” “I think your smile is sweet —” “Plus, you know there’s no promise of a new identity. So what if you’re now Andy Smith. You don’t even have a Driver’s License. And what if they make me work down in Kona Town? I owe people out there. I wouldn’t last.” “They won’t. They know. We’re just going to have to keep hoping.” By the third week Alex and Kanani were allowed to move above ground. They could even live together. They got a nice little studio bungalow nestled within a grove of palms and ferns beyond the bunker complex. Their only view was south island. On the farthest horizon they could just make out a stretch of the Pacific, if they sat to a far end of their small lanai. But it would do. They were free and together. Their next meeting took place in a replica of an ancient Hawaiian temple, a high-gabled grass and bamboo hut guarded by life-sized wooden warrior statues bearing spears. The temple edged a stunning precipice that overlooked the South Kona coast. Kanani snickered at the temple but turned stone-faced once they entered, stooping so as not to hit their heads on the bamboo uprights. Two young men they’d seen around the complex entered right after them. Following Kanani’s lead, the four of them sat cross-legged on the soft gravel and waited. “You new here? So are we,” one of the men ventured, and they left it at that. Alex guessed they might be AWOL military just like him. Soon a short clean-cut Hawaiian-looking man entered and welcomed them. In a mild mainland accent he spoke to them of Krieger Estates’ — and especially its founder Glenn Krieger’s — commitment to the ideals of freedom of speech and False Refuge ~ 84 democracy. Looking back at history, libertarian ideals were those that worked best. People, and the ventures they pursue, should have complete freedom of thought and action and should not be subject to the authority of any state. At about this point, Alex noticed a distinct difference from all previous discussions of freedom and democracy he had heard in his life — for once, the importance of America to these ideals was not discussed. By the same token, said the clean-cut man, KE, when allowed complete freedom, will always operate in peace with nature and other competitors and allies. The entity that was Krieger Estates was really an individual, of which all Krieger colleagues belonged. “Deliverance is a simple game made difficult. We keep it simple,” the man said. The man revealed that KE Founder Glenn Krieger was striving for a new and independent land where whites and Hawaiians could start over, working together in complete freedom. With time and great struggle the new entity would shed the oppression and sins of the mainland. At this point Kanani had a hand up. “And where would this new land be?” “Why, here, of course, my girl,” said the man. “As I said — it’s a simple game.” Kanani nodded, smiling. “Of course. Simple.” Afterward she was fuming. She stomped at the trail on the way back and wouldn’t let Alex hold her hand. “Fuck that guy. Preaching to us like one haole professor. Acting like one Hawaiian brudda. Sounds like one weatherman from Seattle. And what do they think they’re gonna do — take over the whole island?” Alex didn’t want to speculate. He was noticing his own red flags. At work he’d seen — on Krieger websites and brochures sent to the mainland — a copyright for something called Reacton Uni-Corp. A brief Internet search brought up nothing, so he didn’t push it. Who knew what sort of employee monitoring was going on? He waited until he and big guy, his escort who’d first questioned him when they’d arrived, were alone on a path strolling up to the Spot, a pool bar with a great patio and view of the coastline. Thick bushes lined their way, and the chatter of frogs and birds filled their ears. Big guy was in front of Alex, panting a little and rolling his shoulders. “Hey. What’s Reacton Uni-Corp?” Alex said. He tacked it on to the end of a question about surfing. Keeping it light. Big guy’s shoulders straightened out, but he kept going. “Oh, uh, Krieger Estates ... is a division of ... Reacton Uni-Corp.” Keeping it just as light. “I know. But what is it? Parent company or something?” Alex said. False Refuge ~ 85

“That’s right. Parent company.” “Who are they? Where they based?” “Where? All over. They’re a multinational,” big guy said. The pool bar was in sight, a glow of torches at the end of the trail. Big guy picked up the pace. Alex had slowed. Big guy turned and waited. He said, taking Alex’s arm: “It’s really just another name for KE, that’s all. For a different audience, that’s all. Okay?” “Okay. That’s cool —” “I didn’t really mean ‘they,’ as if there’s anyone else. So you shouldn’t think that way. It’s not a matter of They — as in, there’s Us and there’s Them. We are They. They are Us. We are Reacton Uni-Corp. All of us, from Mr. Krieger on down. KE and Reacton Uni-Corp and Us, me and you, are all the same thing. One individual.” “Sure, right —” Big guy shot Alex a grin. “We are all a part of it. This. Isn’t it great?” “Okay. Yes.” “Got it?” “Yes. Sure do.” Colleagues gathered at the Spot at sunset and kicked back, chatting about whatever little they could given the fact that their lives had started over here and they could never return to the distant past. Alex spent his couple drinks with big guy talking about female colleagues, some football and baseball, and cars. Alex pretended not to know too much about computers, for that might reveal too much about him. He still didn’t bother asking big guy’s name, and big guy did not offer. For most people here, Alex realized, it wasn’t much of a stretch not to talk about anything funny or painful from one’s past. It was tougher for Alex. He told himself to study the sports pages, maybe read some car magazines. That night, when Alex came home, Kanani was sitting on the bed staring at the tile floor, her shoulders slumped. “Hi,” he said and left her alone. He washed his face and brushed. He sat on the floor before her, up in front of her eyes. “Don’t,” she barked. “Up here.” Patting on the bed. He sat on the bed next to her, looking around. “What? Is everything all right?” “I’m fine. Listen.” False Refuge ~ 86

He heard a soft clattering noise, like thin fingernails tapping on metal. Kanani nudged his thigh. He looked down. Out from under the bed scrambled a cockroach the size of Kanani’s foot. The roach took its time, veering one way and the other, hedging for the best route. Its brown shell had a brassy hue, and the antennae fluttered and fingered the cold tile. Kanani bolted off the bed and came down hard with her foot, flattening the roach with a sharp crack. “Ha — fucker,” she grunted, picking it up by a leg and showing it to Alex, who winced. She tossed it into a garbage can. She walked back to Alex and stood over him, her face steeled for more. “See, my love, nothing is as it seems here, is it? For him or for us.”

April passed and May brought sun-filled days and warmer nights and the rain, when it fell at all, was brief and light and refreshing, like the spray from a faraway sprinkler. Alex and Kanani settled in, doing their best to appreciate their new haven. Things weren’t so bad. They were in paradise, after all. They even had the same days off, Sunday and Monday. Alex reminded himself — if he hadn’t gone AWOL he’d be on the ground in Iraq by now, sacrificing and killing for leaders and politics no one should believe in. He’d be joining all those who doubted the reasons for being there and yet fought on, telling themselves, pleading to themselves in the blackest of nights, that the dead children (staring with those dimmed eyes) and shattered families, friendships, and precious antiquities were a sad fallout that couldn’t be avoided. For that was war and war was fucking hell. Not for Alex. Not this one. The important thing was he had acted on his principles and refused to participate. He was setting the example. Wasn’t he? Wasn’t running the same as standing up? This question bothered him at times — in the middle of the night, alone on a long path — but he reminded himself the goal was now simple — put in his time and survive, so he may come out the other end with a new life. Kanani, for her part, was a trooper. She greeted the estates tourists and arranged their horseback rides and coffee tours and came home smiling more often than grumbling. But she was a time bomb, he knew. She was doing this for him first, and how much was she getting out of it? She was used to perks and kickbacks, a secret skim if need be. And now she is supposed to believe in some jackpot at the end of a rainbow? That didn’t mean so much when you didn’t believe in rainbows. So how long before she’d have to invent that jackpot and pull up the stakes? False Refuge ~ 87

She told him she was fine (as long as they were together), but she was taking more naps and was harder to rouse for the same old leisure activities around the estates. Even in paradise — especially when you grew up there — there was only so much rain forest hiking, horseback riding, laying out by the pool, and barbecuing you could do in the same place. So they mixed it up a lot. It was what the others did, and they seemed fine with it. So why shouldn’t they be? They talked a lot about this. Soon, Alex assured her, they would get some direction from the top, and if they didn’t get it soon he would go looking for it. In mid-May he got their wish. It was a Monday morning, and looking glorious. The coastline was shrouded in clouds but upslope it was clear and blue with no wind. He and Kanani had planned a trip they’d never done — a mountain bike ride across the main range and into a small rain forest valley, where they would pick rare flowers. Kanani had been talking about it all week. She boasted that she knew all the flowers on the island. Alex woke at eight a.m. to see her up and blow-drying her hair out on the lanai. The phone rang. Alex reached for the receiver on the nightstand, picked it up. “Hello.” “Good morning.” A female voice. “Morning.” “I’m pleased to inform you, you have a meeting with Mr. Krieger at eleven a.m. this morning, at the Main House. We apologize for the short notice.” “Alright, I’ll be there,” Alex said but the woman hung up. Her voice had been firm and yet pert, like that of a capable executive secretary. Kanani stood in the doorway to the lanai, staring at him, the blow dryer hanging from her hand by its cord. He told her about the meeting. “I’m sorry, honey. Kind of ruins the plans, doesn’t it?” “Listen, I’m happy for you. For us. It just better be good. And I’m sure it will be,” she said and backed out onto the lanai, where she puckered a kiss for him. By the time he was out of the bathroom and ready Kanani was back in bed, curled up facing the wall. He kissed her cheek. A golf cart had been left for Alex at his bungalow. He drove the paths to the Main House, passing men who waved him on. He stopped at a barricade and waited, his hands high on the steering wheel for all to see. No one came out to him; he assumed a camera was scanning him. False Refuge ~ 88

The barricade lifted and he sped on into a driveway, where the bushes and palms finally gave way to reveal the Main House, standing at the crest of the KE property. The house wasn’t that imposing in itself. It was a ranch style in an L shape, with a pool nestled in the L’s angle, facing the ocean and the sunset, not quite modern but its lines were clean, like one of those homes owned by people in infomercials who’d made it super rich at a rapid rate with little or no money up front. It was white and the roof a vibrant green, matching the lushest shades of the island fauna. He waited a few minutes. No one came out to him, so he got out and stood on the porch. The place was not as vast as he imagined. The vibrant green roof was corrugated metal like on many houses on the island. The door had a knocker shaped like a gecko, and a doorbell. Which to use? He felt a flutter in his stomach. Just trust, he told himself. He rang the doorbell. A small and elderly Hawaiian-Japanese woman opened the door. “Aloha. You got a meeting?” she said, smiling. “Yes. I think I do. Someone called me — a woman, said to come up here.” He followed the woman down a hall that passed rooms that opened on to the next rooms, all of them lined with the house’s many windows. Low slung rafters and columns were carved with decorative curves, in the Hawaiian style, and all the woodwork was painted white. Taxidermy fish with long spiky fins hung from almost every rafter. He guessed these were marlin. They were bright blue and yellow, with spots. The woman left him in the room and turned back down the hall. He faced the windows and looked out. This view was impossible to ignore. The only thing between these windows and the whole west coast of the big island was the pool and a well-groomed lawn with a small gazebo, where a man sat, a guard, most likely, who from out there could probably see Kona town and even Kohala farther north, or, to his left, the barren South Shore with its black and green sand beaches. From inside the room Alex heard a little screak, like a throat clearing. He turned from the windows, careful to duck for a low hanging fish tail. The center of the living room, he saw, had a sunken, circular area, as if a giant hot tub had been dropped down into the room. “Hey,” he heard and a man rose from the sunken area. It was Glenn Krieger. “Ah. Hello, Mr. Krieger.” Krieger was wearing pleated khaki Dockers, bright white tennis shoes, and a patterned golf shirt with a little too much sheen. He looked to Alex like any average middle manager at some False Refuge ~ 89 third-tier dot.com. Judging from that intro movie he’d seen, Alex had half-expected to find Krieger in flip-flops, board shorts, and a t-shirt from some shitty sports bar in Kona. But his look placed him more specific to his age, which must have been about 55. His jaw, in person, was striking. It protruded long and wide, and his teeth bulged from it when he smiled, as if the whole lower half of his face had kept growing far past when the rest of him had stopped, and his skin stretched to cover it all. It wasn’t so much ugly as awesome, and he wondered if it was handsome to a woman. Luckily his big and bony Roman nose offset the grotesque. “Howz it?” Krieger said. “Good. Thanks.” They shook hands and Krieger ushered Alex down to the sunken area, which held four high- back rattan chairs and a table that was the cutoff end of a wine barrel. Krieger dropped into a chair with a screech of grinding wicker. Alex took the chair opposite. “It’s actually cooler down here. It’s nice,” Alex said. “It’s below ground level.” Krieger stared a moment, his hands pressed together at his chest. “So. Coming along okay.” It didn’t sound like a question. “Me? Yes, great. Listen, I want to thank you for taking me on.” Krieger clapped his hands, once. “Hey, that’s cool, brah.” And the hands went back together, and Krieger stared on. “I, uh, think so, yes. So, do you fish?” Alex pointed a thumb at the six-foot long marlin looming above them. “Must be a blast to catch one of those.” Krieger laughed. “Not really,” he said. “Just like the look of them.” And added nothing. His hands still pressed together. Couldn’t the guy offer him a drink, or something? “You like to surf,” Alex said, “I saw you in that film when I first came here, man, I sure would like to learn that.” Krieger laughed again. “So that really does look like me? Good.” Alex realized he was wishing for things — surfing, fishing, open water — that could only happen off the estates, and he wondered if Krieger took it as a subconscious, subtextual confession on Alex’s part that he’d really rather get his new identity and move on. That was always a good tactic, Alex had to admit. Say little, stare a lot and let the other guy ramble, and then see what you learn. “Never been around water much,” Alex said. False Refuge ~ 90

“Ha! But now you are — or should we say, it’s all around you,” Krieger said, pointing a bony finger at Alex. Before Alex could respond Krieger cleared his throat and said: “Here’s the deal. We only give new identities to those who have special skills. You have them, we believe. You even come recommended.” “Oh. Thank you —” “Yeah, and so we’re hoping you can help us out for helping you. Now, about your gal, Kanani? She was a common criminal, and, though it does look as if she is competent, she probably can’t be given a new identity. There just aren’t that many to go around. Unless — unless — you and the both of you work very hard. Do the deeds. It’s always possible.” Krieger might as well have reached over and slapped Alex hard on the cheekbone. It was good news but the delivery sucked, and Alex wanted to slap him back hard for it. He nodded, head down, keeping it calm. “Thank you, sir. We are doing our best.” “I know. That’s cool.” A sliding door opened and closed, from a neighboring room. “There he is,” Krieger said. Alex wanted to stand but Krieger didn’t, so Alex kept his butt planted. He peered around the top of his chair at the man walking in, a man with dark features that were vaguely Hispanic. It was Sanchez — Sergeant John Sanchez — the AWOL that had tipped Alex off to this place. But Sanchez looked a different man. He had shoulder-length black hair held close to his forehead by one of those shoelace-like headbands that South American soccer players wore. The Sanchez Alex had known had always had a jarhead cut, and he also wore thick dorky glasses. Not now. He must have contacts. Sanchez also had a thin Mac laptop under one arm and a white iPod hanging from his belt, while the old Sanchez had been a hardcore Luddite who cursed even the cultural changes brought by the common telephone. Alex stood. “Hey,” he said, not knowing what to call Sanchez. Sanchez stepped down to them. Alex gazed on, smiling, the warmth surging in his chest. Krieger snickered, sucking on his teeth. “Hey, man.” Alex put out his hand. Sanchez shook it, smiling back. “It’s Morales now — Clyde Morales.” “Clyde,” Krieger said, sucking and giggling. He slapped his hands together. “Love it.” Sanchez shrugged. “Take what they can get you,” he said to Alex. “And then you make the most of it.” He sat in the third rattan chair and laid his laptop on the barrel table. He shook his False Refuge ~ 91 head at Krieger. “You know, boss, really should get wireless in here. Airport base station get you all the way out to the gazebo.” “Right, brah. Get right on that.” Krieger shot a laugh at both of them. “I keep telling him, but he won’t listen,” Sanchez said to Alex. “So, Alex, welcome. Though I probably shouldn’t call you Alex any more. It’s good to see someone make it through. It must feel good …” “To leave that rotting old world behind,” Krieger added. “Yes, but, to be honest I don’t think it’s been long enough for me. And we are still in Hawaii after all. On an island.” Sanchez and Krieger shared a laugh. “Just you wait,” Morales said. “It only seems that way,” Krieger added. The way they finished each other’s words suggested close collaboration. Sanchez might even be Krieger’s right-hand man. Their laughs faded. Sanchez was waiting for Krieger to add something. “No, you go on,” Krieger said to Sanchez. Sanchez faced Alex, and his face went hard, harder than he’d ever seen on the old Sanchez. “You didn’t think we’d just hand you a passport with a new identity and tell you to have fun. It doesn’t work that way. It certainly didn’t with me, and I didn’t think it would. Most of us end up wanting to stay, in any case. They find that, well, our world we’re creating is far better than the one they might return to or any they might flee to — even with a new identity. The old world’s still the same, no matter who you are. Here you can be anyone you want, in a new world. See what I’m saying? There’s a lot to look forward to here, and lots to be done. Much you can be proud of. That’s what I found.” Alex was giving them the hard and serious look back, and he nodded along to Sanchez’s words. But a voice inside Alex was shouting — fine, great, then just tell me what the fuck it is you want me to do? “I know you have a lot of questions. Here’s the deal. Like me, with your background, you have all the makings of a smart enforcer. A security guard, more or less. It’s a good gig for you. Plus it’s low profile. We need to keep you out of the public eye until your case dies down.” “Great,” Alex blurted. “So how can I help?” False Refuge ~ 92

“Keep doing what you’re doing. Show us your commitment,” Sanchez said. “Show us that you can make your old self go away.” “Show us those same balls,” Krieger said “— those very same cajones — that went and got you here, brah.” False Refuge ~ 93

THIRTEEN

Alex returned from the Main House within two hours, but it seemed as if days had passed. The shock of the meeting coated him, all black and gritty thin like long-spent motor oil. The meeting proved he would have to earn his way, no matter how raw the deal. He’d known it all along. So why did it stun him? His limbs ached, his head was in a fog, and he was thirsty for water. Not knowing what to do with the golf cart he left it at his front door, grousing that they better let him keep the thing now that he was supposed to show his big balls. The entry was dim. Tiptoeing in, he pressed the door shut. Kanani was back out on the patio; he could see her stretched out in a lounge chair wearing a pink KE bathrobe, with the hood on her head. He poured a pint of water from the fridge and gulped it down. The sliding lanai door was open, bringing a sweet draft, and he could hear the palm leaves rubbing each other out there. Kanani’s back was to him. She was writing in one of those aloha print notebooks they had in the gift shop. As he walked across the room she slammed shut the notebook, shoved it in a pocket, tore off her hood and sat up straight facing him. He stood in the doorway, adding a smile. Her smile faded. “What? It went bad.” “No. Not really.” What was he supposed to tell her? “Then what’s the matter?” “I don’t know,” he said, his voice creaking. His knees felt mushy. The doorway might be the only thing keeping him standing. His shoulder pressed into it. “The guy called me brah,” he muttered. “For starters.” “What? Who did?” Alex was hoping Kanani could laugh at that. She didn’t. “Krieger did,” he said and added, with a sigh: “You know when you get a new job, and you think it’s going to be really good, great even, definitely more than you expected, but then by the time that first day’s half over you realize it’s not? It’s kind of like that. But I should be happy. It’s not like they’re turning me in.” “True. There’s that. What’s he like? I need more.” “Kind of bland. But also a schemer, I think, in a detached kind of way.” “About what I’d expect. So what’s the problem?” False Refuge ~ 94

“Nothing. I guess that is the problem. I was expecting something more, I guess.” Kanani was leaning forward from the edge of the lounge chair, her toes pressed so hard into the patio tiles they were white. “Wait. Let’s go back. What did you mean, for starters? What did he say?” “Nothing. The guy was just a trip. In person he’s got this oversized face. He didn’t say much. He praised me. Said I was doing a good job. Said I was on my way if I kept doing a good job.” She stared, her lips pressed to one side. She needed more, of course. “He did mention you,” Alex added. “Said, he wasn’t sure if he could get you a new identity — they’re hard and rare to produce. Though it is possible. It just depended on how well we proved our commitment.” He didn’t mention that Krieger had said this first thing, to make it perfectly clear. “What else did he say about me?” “He mentioned your criminal background.” Alex added a shrug. “But to them, it didn’t seem like a bad thing.” “Them?” “Him — Krieger I mean. It’s just a figure of speech.” Something kept him from mentioning Sanchez. It was simpler this way. Her lips had formed a little O. “He tell you about me, or did you bring me up?” “Both, I guess. We were just talking. I don’t know what I expected, but whatever it was I didn’t get it. Maybe I expected some sort of indoctrination, oath, something. But there was no coming or going, only ... this looming sense of favors owed. Like everyone keeps saying — ass, gas, or grass; no one’s riding for free.” “Right. And that’s why you’re standing there like you want to puke.” “Yes.” Alex, breathing deep, shifted his weight into the other half of the doorway. “We’ll just have to keep hoping it will work out for the best.” Kanani was standing, her calves pressed to the edge of the lounge chair. Her little fists balled. “Sure. Yes. Same time, Alex, we need to keep our eyes peeled. Our ears to the ground. I know I don’t trust these fuckers, not yet. It’s a little too Disneyland here. I mean, we don’t want to get played, do we?” “Played? No. Definitely not.” Alex was coming around. His breathing eased. He pushed off the doorway and walked to her, taking her hands in his. He spoke with emphasis, stressing the False Refuge ~ 95 pauses between his words. “There’s no turning back now. Going back home. I know that. Here’s why. The truth of it. Even if they somehow let me off the hook back home I’m done. Why? Because they could still send me to Iraq, and if I go back over there I’ll lose this, what I have now.” He thought of Jerry Bateman back home, and squeezed his eyes shut to it. They popped open. “Look. Over there, on the front lines, there’s no political discussions. No ideals. And there can’t be. There’s no time. Can’t be and there shouldn’t be. You’d be dead. There’s only time to kill or be killed. I can’t go back to that. Not when this war is unjust. Because on the ground that doesn’t matter. I will kill again over there, because I will have to, and it will be justified. You do what you have to. So I have to stop it here.” Kanani was shaking her head. “No one’s asking you to give up on this, to go back. I’m not. I wanted the mainland, sure, but it can wait.” “I know. I know. I just wanted to say that. Actually it just came out on its own. Meantime, look, it’s not so bad. Right? I mean, look at how far we’ve come.” “For now, yes,” Kanani said, “For now,” and she pulled her hands back from his and lay back on the chair to think, facing the palm trees and bushes that stood like a wall before them. Later Alex told Kanani about the house, and the butler woman, and she said she liked the sound of that pool with the view. And then life went back to normal — as normal as it could be. Alex continued his dull job as Andy Smith, KE sales associate, a job that kept him in a cube and out of view, and did his best to keep his head down when not working. He even avoided the Internet café (free for KE colleagues), where he’d been following current events back home. Iraq was spiraling out of control with the Abu Ghraib prison torture scandal, and some were beginning to talk about a Vietnam-style quagmire. But at least his case had faded from the frontlines. Days, then a week passed. He began to look at the meeting with Krieger and Sanchez as a necessary first shock to his system. The blackness that had encased him during his first days in boot camp had been far worse, he told himself. Only one thing about that meeting haunted him — why hadn’t he mentioned Sanchez to Kanani? The concept of Sanchez had been on her radar. She knew a Sergeant Sanchez was the one who’d led Alex to KE. “Wonder if you’re going to run into that Sanchez dude?” she had even said to him, “Though I don’t know if you should kiss him or whack him,” adding a bitter laugh. Alex had to admit Sanchez’s transformation had shaken him. The most disturbing thing was that Sanchez’s speech had more of a Hispanic inflection than False Refuge ~ 96 before he’d gone AWOL. Morales was like Sanchez’s long-lost twin. On the golf-cart drive back Alex had wondered if they still shared anything. Before he’d gone AWOL, Sanchez had seen the invasion of Iraq as a misplaced Crusade that would only create more terrorists. And Sanchez, like Alex, had also been no fan of weapons — a rare trait among longtime soldiers. It was one of the reasons, Alex suspected, that Sanchez had even told him about KE. So why the transformation? Was that what gaining your Freedom meant — turning into someone else? Losing your identity? Was Sanchez a glimpse into his future? He vowed it wouldn’t be so, but who could be sure? The faster he and Kanani were back on their own, the better, and the only way to do that was do the best job he could. To help deal, he told himself to quit thinking of Morales as John Sanchez. Morales should not be judged as Sanchez. A war changed everyone. That was the sour upshot and he would just have to deal with it. Sanchez was now Clyde Morales, and there wasn’t a thing Alex could do about that. He would just have to trust his new leaders, because they were trusting him.

Meanwhile, Kanani couldn’t help being Kanani. The eerie KE mindset was getting to her and she let Alex know it. Her coworkers were cordial to her, and yet distant. “It’s weird,” she said, “they treat me like I used to treat tourists back in Kona town. You didn’t get too close because you knew one day they’d be gone.” Alex was thinking of another analogy. She was like one of those young recruits in the war movie who’s sent to the front and no one wants to get to know her, because they all know she’s canon fodder. He kept it to himself. “Do you think others feel like me?” she asked Alex. “I mean, maybe most of us are all just thinking the same thing.” “Oh, I think so. But I wouldn’t bring it up with anyone. Remember, we’re all looking to make the next move. You know that. The only problem now, with you, is that the tables are turned and you’re not used to that. Look at it this way — just feel lucky. I think it’s better that we don’t get to know them better. I certainly don’t want to know.” Maybe that had been Clyde Morales’ take on things? It was easier if you just completely became a new person. False Refuge ~ 97

Her questions kept coming. Once in the middle of the night she asked him, her voice clear as if she’d been up for hours: “Do you think they’re watching me? I mean, because of my background? Think I’m going to rip them off or something?” “I doubt that. They make a decision on people before they accept them, not after. They would know before if they thought you were a risk.” Alex could have added that she was safe, but he didn’t. Better to keep her wondering. He didn’t want her doing anything reckless, something cynical to get back at them. Even pocketing some pencils here could land you back in the bunkers. He had to assume that. One day Kanani mentioned Claude Morales. She told him how Morales and an entourage of the toughest guards had made a rare appearance at the resort pool. They were all wearing sunglasses and shoes and kept their shirts on, and she was guessing they were looking for someone. “Long hair dude, Morales. Mexican or something. Bad ass. You run into that one, stay clear.” A bad ass? Alex hadn’t thought of Morales that way. But Kanani would know. And maybe that was what was disturbing him about Morales, the new Sanchez. “Why? What’s the deal?” he mumbled. “He’s one of the kahunas. Even heard someone saying he’s right up there with Krieger himself. Man, I can just tell by the way he’s walking that one’s a bad ass.” “Okay. I’ll stay clear.” After a couple weeks of the questions, Kanani seemed to stop doubting. It was an overnight transformation. She woke up one Sunday morning happy and free like the island girl who had flirted with him at Donkey Dick’s (which seemed ages ago and continents away even though Kona was only up the highway an hour or so). She was better with the tourists, she was waking early, and she only wanted a nap when he could join her — no clothes allowed. On their days off she was up for whatever he wanted, even if it was the same thing they had done twenty times. She told him she was finally settling in, and she was sorry she had been such a drag. But Alex, with his dim thoughts, suspected more sinister factors. He could rule out speed or coke or ecstasy; she wasn’t the type for anything stronger than booze and pot. And yet she seemed to have more of the money she got as tips from the tourists, and she was spending it. She was supposed to be saving it for when they got free. Now she was saying they might as well spend it because KE, disciplined as it is, would probably make them give up whatever they had when False Refuge ~ 98 they left. Alex had first given her this idea. He said they should expect some sort of exit fee or pay off. But that was all the more reason to save for it, Alex had countered. She laughed it off, telling him she would try harder. Soon a desperate thought began to burn in his chest. What if she was seeing someone? Once when she was working he went through her things. He was relieved, in a way, not to find her notebook. But apart from her regular stash of tip money he found another lode crammed behind the medicine cabinet, which pulled right off the wall. This was not the standard wad of ones and fives and twenties, but twenties and fifties and hundreds. Without counting it he suspected at least eight hundred, if not over a thou. So this was her secret. He almost wished it was simply a guy. Because this meant she was going it alone on the side. She was skimming, somehow, and that had brought her joy because from where she’d come from you always had to have a Plan B when things were looking dicey. And so the burn in his chest turned into a dull ache. That night he sat out on the lanai with a tall gin and tonic in his hand. He finished the bottle. Thought it all out. He would talk to her, but only when the time was right. He didn’t want to force her into doing something more rash. Part of him even admired her for it. At least someone had a Plan B.

June was looking fine. Every day reached 85 and the clouds burned off before they could settle upslope. They were doing well and working hard, and Alex kept assuring himself they were in fine shape. He said nothing about the money, though he checked it once in a while and was always relieved to find it wasn’t getting too big. She must have thought it was a sure thing, because she never seemed to know he was checking. One Tuesday morning the phone rang, jolting Alex from sleep. He glanced at the alarm clock — it was only six, a good hour before they got up. Kanani pushed at him to pick up. “Hello,” he said. “Andy,” said a voice. Morales’ voice. But it was lower, and breathing hard, as if Morales had just been working out or having sex. Alex sat up. “This is Andy. Who’s this?” Morales laughed. “How’s that sales job of yours?” he said. His voice was echoing. Was Alex on speaker? Was Morales in an empty room, or the bathtub? Alex didn’t want to know. False Refuge ~ 99

Kanani had rolled over, staring up at him. “Fine,” Alex said, “It’s fine. Whatever it takes.” “Don’t even go in today. That’s for putas, man. You’re done with that. Here’s why. I’m ready for you. We are. You’ve just been promoted.” And Morales burst into a laugh that wouldn’t quit. Kanani could hear it for sure. Sweat was running down Alex’s neck and chest. Kanani stared. Alex stared at his knees, waiting for Morales to finish laughing. Now Morales was joking with someone, as if waving someone away. “I’ll pick you up this afternoon,” Morales said, “or, I don’t know, maybe tomorrow morning.” He growled a final laugh and let out a gasp, catching his breath. “Either way, it’s go- time. For you. You’ll see. Just you wait. It’s gonna be good.” Morales hung up but the phone rattled around before it clicked off, as if Morales, in his zeal, had only tossed the receiver because he just could not wait to prepare the calamities that were about to befall Alex. False Refuge ~ 100

FOURTEEN

The harshest winter winds, ice and rain had cleared out of Washington State by the time Jerry Bateman returned from Hawaii. And yet spring refused to take over. Two days of sun and 70 degrees brought five days of rain and 50 degrees, and three days of sun brought seven colder days, and so on. This went on for months. And months. Fort Clark had become a ghost base. So many active duty units had been sent to Iraq that whole buildings stood in darkness, their doors locked and the lights and heat turned off. Jerry’s unit got temporary offices in one wing of one of these dead buildings. Dead was right. The offices struggled to regain room temperature even when the old radiator heaters were clanging and steaming on high. The cold linoleum floor tiles didn’t help, and their old metal cubicles held in the chill like so many fridges. Here Jerry’s unit spent the first couple weeks doing the paperwork and data entry that various units had left for them. Jerry got lucky enough to score a desk by the window. He stared out at the flapping soggy pine trees whipping rainwater around in the wind like hundreds of giant mops, and he longed for that fresh and warm Kona breeze on his toes. That pool at the KK had been a dream. It had been worth the harsh sunburn and peeling skin. During downtime the soldiers hunkered down in the rec rooms and lounges. Every chair and sofa saw action here, and they turned the heat on high. They watched the same rented blockbusters, ESPN, MTV, and FOX News. The History Channel got occasional play. No other channels seemed to exist and any desire to channel surf was met with ridicule, if not actual disgust. The group mindset wasn’t always this stolid and conformist, Jerry knew. The army was more diverse than the American population. It was the times, the uncertainty. No one wanted to know anything other than the official line. Jerry couldn’t blame them. It happened when guys were scared. He had seen it before. He too had been scared. Now it only made him weary. Another month passed, and they were pushing into June. Jerry had never seen such depressing limbo before. His unit had been put on active duty, and yet they went nowhere and they received no new training. Many began to say they wouldn’t be trained at all — they’d just be dropped into some Iraqi desert town and told to get a job done. Still, morale survived. Some of the young gung-hos boasted of kicking ass if they had to, whatever it took. They’d shoot False Refuge ~ 101 children if they were aiming at them. Jerry knew better. This was not Gulf War I, or even GW II any more. The children had gone back to their toys. Vengeful fathers now had the guns, the car bombs, the mortars. If they got into the shit it would be a crapshoot, a cemetery with the graves already dug for you. Off base, he saw his civ life fading. His shot at patrol sergeant was slipping away from him, even if they told him he was a hero. He couldn’t blame them there either. They had to get someone on the streets. One new corporal, a former NYC cop, looked to be fitting the bill. The people in the county just loved that new corporal. NYC had been through so much and they would do all they could for the guy. Now, when Jerry waved at the cars of good citizens he knew they didn’t recognize him in his camos, riding in a hummer jeep. The ghost base had made him a ghost. He was able to see Marci a few weekends. First thing he did when he got home was get his fatigues off and into the sweats she’d have sitting out for him. Like on base, Marci had closed off whole rooms and all heat. His beloved workshop was a dead zone. After the first visit he didn’t go in there because he couldn’t bear to see the unfinished projects that he was going to attack this spring and summer. The little shed for their backyard hose rack, which would have siding and paint to match the house. A gardening cart for Marci. Two Adirondack chairs with ottomans for their happily retired feet. On Jerry’s third visit Marci made his favorite roast beef and noodles — squat egg noodles with chunks of tender beef and peppery brown gravy. She kept his Jim Beam and sevens nice and strong so that he had a good, soft buzz, and he was sure a trip to the bedroom was next. Instead she sat him down on the living room sofa, removed his whiskey seven from his hand, set it on the glass coffee table and stared at him hard and long, as if he had just broken one of her vintage vases. The shades were open but the daylight was dim and cloudy and thinning fast. Her skin looked metallic in the gray light. She kept staring, her whisky cradled in both hands, in her lap. “What?” he said. “You need to get out of it. I need you to get out.” “Honey ...” He reached for his whisky. She threw her whisky back and let it clank on the coffee table. “Don’t honey me. We all know what’s going down. June 30 is only a date. The handover of power is only token. Iraq’s a quagmire. There, I said it. Your CIC is going to need a draft, but he can’t before the election False Refuge ~ 102 because people, maybe even the so-called liberal media, might just have the balls to finally call the emperor on his lack of clothes.” By CIC she meant George W. Bush — his Commander In Chief, who, in her eyes, was responsible for all of it. Jerry knew where Marci was going. It had started when Afghanistan began to be neglected. She held back during the invasion of Iraq, when troops were dying. But after the CIC declared Mission Accomplished on that aircraft carrier and the local soldiers’ deaths’ increased she had stopped hiding that she watched C-Span, subscribed to Moveon.org, read The Nation and the Manchester Guardian online, and, with the new year, she had given up on NPR for Air America. Jerry was embarrassed that this made him uneasy. If the guys back on base knew they’d come up with names for him — Al Qaeda Jerry, Jerry Chirac, shit like that. He suspected she wanted him to know. She had gone to Berkeley — okay, it was only the early eighties when she was there — but it was still Berkeley and she had it in her. He loved her for that, her exotic past. It was like he had married a foreign exchange student. He also loved that she had held back, for him. Gulf War I she could understand. Saddam Hussein had actually attacked another country and we had international support. Clinton’s bombing of Belgrade was sad but a necessity, and the costs to US forces were light. But this, now? As Marci said, it was as if we had attacked China to avenge Japan’s attack on Pearl Harbor. Not to mention the costs, the billions in deficit. But people were scared and wrapping themselves up in the flag and they couldn’t see the true facts even when they were shown to them, which was almost never. If she watched enough FOX News she too would start thinking Saddam was Osama. The worse part was, she made a lot of sense, Jerry thought, more than any base wife he had ever met. And she needed a response. She was staring him down with that metallic face. He shook his head smiling. “Look, all I’m saying is, what do you want me to do? They can’t draft me — I’m already in —” “Who needs to draft you when they have their Stop Loss plan. That’s their War on Terror — there’s a bee in the house so throw everything they got at the house, knock the fucking place down brick by brick if need be, bulldoze it, kill everyone in it, no matter how many dead and maimed troops it takes. No matter that it’s the wrong house. Meanwhile the bee’s long gone, in another house. Meanwhile they’re creating thousands more terrorists. Meanwhile they’re going to Stop Loss everyone. Stop Loss — what kind of a word is that?” It was all coming out of her. She had even quit doing her hair — this evening she had it pulled back in a tight ponytail, as if False Refuge ~ 103 ready to pull on boxing headgear and gloves at any moment. He would let her have the moment. She’d earned the right to bitch after standing by him all these years. “It’s all fucking double speak. What it really means is, our dead for their war,” she continued, waving her arms in circles. “I mean, you don’t see his dear daughters on the ground, it would never happen. He never fought himself so why should they?” She took a deep lungful of air, exhaled. “Look. Jere. You’re a year away from pension. You did your time.” “You say that as if I was in prison before. It’s part of the deal. Duty. What do you want me to do, start acting insane, wear women’s clothes like Klinger. It doesn’t work that way. It’s part of the deal.” “There might be an exemption. You could look into it. I’ll look into it. You wouldn’t necessarily have to go back to your old job if you didn’t want to. There should be some sort of reward for you. I could quit teaching the little brats, put in for an admin spot.” “You’d need grad school.” You’re forty, he was going to add but he held back. “So — I could get the degree at night. Distance learning. Online. Whatever.” “If I make pension, we don’t have to worry about any of that. It’s only another year.” “Have you been listening at all? Your year doesn’t matter to them. To them, deals are for losers. You’re out of shape, Jerry. There could be a health exemption. Jesus, just have a light stroke or something,” she said, adding a bitter laugh. “Funny. I’m going to if you keep this up.” “Well?” A strand of hair had fallen down into an eye. She let it stay. She picked up their glasses together with two fingers and went into the kitchen. She came back with stiffer whiskeys and a bowl of ranch potato chips. He reached for the chips, but pulled back. She was right. He was out of shape. He hadn’t been thinking enough about how it was going to be in the desert with thirty more pounds on him. Better to lose some now than broil it off in the hot sun. “Looks like you’re trying to give me that stroke,” he said. She smiled. “Do what I have to do,” she said, the smile fading. “Anything to keep you here. Because without you here, there is no here.”

Jerry told Marci he’d look into an exemption but he knew there wasn’t any that wouldn’t get him dinged, if not made a pariah like Alex Swenson. He also vowed to start using the workout bike False Refuge ~ 104 on base and to request special low-fat and low-carb meals, but he didn’t do much of either though he had the downtime. Instead, Alex’s case began to obsess him. Alex, who still had to be on the Big Island of Hawaii. He couldn’t get back to Hawaii to check out this Krieger Estates, nor could he do anything about the injustices Marci saw, but looking into Alex’s situation could be his way of fighting from the inside. Besides, his posting to base gave him more resources at his disposal. He took this all as providence and took the plunge. He read whatever investigation records he could get released and requested those he couldn’t, and he talked to the regular army CID agents who’d been involved in the investigation. They busted his balls because he was a reserve but he kept at, asking them just what it was they were doing around 1991 while he was serving in Gulf War I? Dressing up like MC Hammer for Halloween? Or would it have been Vanilla Ice? It worked, to a point. Alex’s case, Jerry learned, seemed to be based mainly on hearsay and insinuation. Fingerprint evidence came from low-resolution fingerprint images, not actual fingerprints. The more Jerry learned, the more he dug in. By May the CID had passed the case on to the FBI and Homeland Security. So Jerry started calling around Washington DC. In June he got one FBI lady on the phone who was involved in the investigation. He wanted to know why they were all so sure about Alex’s guilt. It must have been a long day for her. She cut him short and said: “You’re kidding, right? Let’s start with how the Army saw it. The guy had applied for CO status.” There it was again — Alex’s application for Conscientious Objector status. Jerry said: “He’d also served with distinction in the first Gulf War. That doesn’t make him a criminal.” FBI lady had paused. “You sound like a reporter.” “I’m not.” A good reporter — if he or she had any balls — would be all over this lady, Jerry thought. “We’re on the same side.” “Are you? Then trust it,” FBI lady said. “I mean, this Swenson went AWOL, didn’t he?” “Yes, but, running doesn’t necessarily make you guilty of any other crime but running. It doesn’t take Quantico training to tell me that.” And the FBI lady hung up. He got a CID officer from the Pentagon on the line who had served in the field during Gulf War I. He’d been over there. He could relate. Jerry started by trading stories. Keeping it light. And he kept on the guy, bringing it around. He told the CID officer he didn’t see any good False Refuge ~ 105 evidence in Alex Swenson’s case. He said: “I hear about it but I don’t see it. Fingerprint reproductions? Come on.” The CID officer let Jerry reach the end. Then he breathed out a big sigh and said: “Your buddy, this fucking Swenson, he used to have a wife from Iraq.” “Sure. Zaira. I knew her personally. Refugee. She came over with him. She’s a good person. Model citizen now. They were just different —” “Yeah, and her family are all goddamn Hajjis. Probably ambushing a convoy right about now.” Hajji, of course, was the new word for gook. It wasn’t used as an insult in Gulf War I. The actual definition of a Hajji is anyone who had made the pilgrimage to Mecca, and that was it. Now it might as well mean they’d been to an Al Qaeda training camp. Now it meant they were all slimy terrorists, so why not kill them all? He could hear Marci disgusted saying — throw them all in one bag and they’re less than human — wasn’t that the old rule? It didn’t matter that Zaira had her own Internet business out of Seattle selling corporate gifts and awards. She had even converted to Christianity. Besides what the fuck did this guy know from his office in the Pentagon? “She can’t help where she’s from,” Jerry replied, spitting it out, but knowing he was getting nowhere he hung up. Thinking, be careful what you wish to know. But it was too late for that. Fuming, he stormed across base and into the remodeled digs of regular army CID. Back to where he’d started. They had new carpet, knock-off Aeron chairs, brand-new Dells that flashed and blinked a lot, and high-tech plastic track lighting. It looked like a scene from JAG or CSI. Jerry found the press officer, Lieutenant Siven, in his cubicle playing America’s Army with headphones on. Jerry tapped him on the shoulder. Siven twirled around in his fancy chair and showed Jerry a smile. Siven was just out of ROTC and had always been a little too tan for Fort Clark. He pulled off his headphones and Jerry said: “Here about Swenson — Alex Swenson. Why the fuck you guys send out the bulletin for in the first place. A wanted poster? The evidence was shaky, you said it yourselves — hearsay and insinuation, not actual fingerprints. What ever happened to getting your fucking ducks in a row?” False Refuge ~ 106

Siven kept the smile on. He had to have heard that Jerry had been sniffing around. “You’re talking to the wrong guy. I’m just following directives. They want stuff; we have to give them something. Investigating agents, my CO, everybody has to.” “Who’s they?” “Who’s they? Good one,” Siven said, the smile bursting into a shrill laugh, and the neighboring cubicles joined on in. FBI, Homeland Security, CIA or NSA, some Special Plans group. The who part didn’t really matter, Jerry knew. This was all about a great hunger, and it was always feeding time. You got a call or visit and that was it — you gave up what you had under the Patriot Act. Over and over if you had to. Rephrase it if it wasn’t what they wanted. Not even Military Law was a factor until it needed to be. One late Friday afternoon, just as Jerry was about to see Marci for the weekend, Jerry got the call he knew was coming. The CO wanted to see him. Major Pryor was in the oldest building on base, a stout three-story Tudor-style that looked like an Alpine inn (highway travelers racing by out on nearby I-5 often mistook it for a German restaurant). The major’s third-floor corner office had a commanding view of the towering pines that surrounded much of the base. The room was vast and yet felt cozy because of the dark wood paneling and built-in bookshelves. It reminded Jerry of a judge’s chambers. Major Pryor told Jerry to be at ease and take the narrow wood chair before the desk. Jerry did but kept sucking in his stomach so his love handles wouldn’t press against the chair arms. Pryor sat, his back straight. He had a square jaw and a gray mustache that made him look older than Jerry, although he was at least a couple years younger. Pryor, everyone knew, was one of those comers who would end up staff in Washington, or maybe even a politician someday. Pryor was not a bad guy. He drank beers in the local bars. He’d never been near front lines but looked and acted as if he had, and that was what counted to most of the troops. Pryor watched Jerry a moment. Neither blinking. Pryor said: “It’s getting back to me that you’re rocking some big boats over this Swenson thing.” Jerry didn’t have an answer. He wasn’t supposed to. He nodded. “I knew Alex Swenson. Good Soldier. But, what terrible fucking timing.” Did that last sentence refer to Jerry, or to Swenson? Jerry thought it best not to inquire. “Absolutely, sir.” False Refuge ~ 107

“Is the investigation a home run? No. Can we do much about that? No. It’s out of the army’s hands, Sergeant, and so it’s out of yours when you’re on duty.” Jerry thought he noticed a slight pause before the on-duty part. “Yes, sir,” he added. “This isn’t just about Swenson. It’s bigger. Our CID were the ones investigating the prisoner abuse in Iraq. We are the good guys. So one of ours going AWOL like this didn’t look so good — even if he was a reserve.” Pryor looked out the window. He held up his hands, as if to shrug, and then placed his hands flat on his desk. Jerry had expected a severe dressing down, if not a hard bite on the ass. This was practically a love song. “I understand he was your friend,” Pryor continued. “You served over there together. You owe him.” “Definitely, sir.” “But you’re giving it up. As of now. You’ll do no more solo work. We need every man doing his job, when on duty.” Which was important, Jerry thought — provided he had a job. He’d spent most of the week supervising unit vehicle washings, reinstalling old software, and printing out manuals on new protective gear they did not have and probably would never see over there (if Marci only knew). “You’ve investigated enough cases like this,” the major continued. “You know the drill. Handed off means handed off. Alex Swenson made a choice and no one can save him now. And, no one on duty is going to bring suspicion to this unit.” “Yes, sir.” That made three times the major stressed on duty. “It’s over. When you’re on base you’re ours and not Swenson’s. AWOL alone makes Swenson a criminal in the eyes of the army, and you mustn’t forget that.” “No, sir.” “You did your best for Swenson, but now you must keep your eyes on the mission at hand.” “Yes, sir.” “Okay. You’re free to go. Dismissed.” Jerry stood, and Pryor stood with him. Jerry gave the salute, turned to leave. Got to the door. “And, Sergeant,” Pryor said. Jerry turned back. Major Pryor was looking out the window. He spoke lower. “Being in Hawaii, at the same time as Swenson, it doesn’t necessarily look good. I assure you someone’s False Refuge ~ 108 aware of it. It could always be made to look worse.” The major cleared his throat, and he turned to Jerry showing softer, if not weary eyes. The eyes said — it could always be made worse for the both of them. “No one is immune these days, except the few untouchables ... So, listen, just watch yourself. I tell you that as a friend, and as a fellow Soldier.” False Refuge ~ 109

FIFTEEN

Jerry knew whom Major Pryor meant by the “few untouchables.” Marci, on her end, had been helping him understand — warning him about those who should be held most accountable but instead smashed anyone who dared question them. There in Washington DC, she had said, greedy black vultures were shredding the great duty and honor of high office in the Republic like a cow carcass in the desert sun. Not even the checks and balances of government enshrined in the Constitution seemed to matter. She’d wanted him, needed him, to understand — this was what happened in banana republics, fascist regimes, Soviet-style dictatorships, and now it was happening here and the worst part was most people had no idea. This was a revolution, make no mistake — a radical regime that cloaked itself in the flag and the same old dark suits but demanded lockstep obedience. Jerry had objected to Marci’s warnings. You had to honor those who’d died fighting for the Republic and believed in it. The worst thing you could do was stop believing, he had argued. He was missing the point, she had said. Deference to those who’d fought before and were fighting was important but this, now, was about holding their leaders accountable. Nothing less than Democracy was at stake, because accountability guarantees Democracy. Jerry had tried firm humor — he just wanted her to rub his feet while he ate his beef noodles. No, she said, not taking the bait. Democracy without accountability is Democracy no more. History books are full of tragedies about cynical and overconfident leaders who go unquestioned, unexamined, unpunished. And who pays in the end? The people. Us. Especially those suckers who supported the sham. And don’t even go and tell me accountability has to suffer a little because there’s a war on. When this has all gone too far, that old excuse won’t let us sleep at night either. Jerry had stopped fighting it, just let her rant. She wasn’t crazy. Of course she made sense. Everyone he’d tried in DC regarding Alex’s case confirmed it. But what could he do about it? In the army you didn’t vote your leaders in and out and you sure as hell couldn’t impeach them. What was he going to do, start a coup? Only Alex would be proud of that. But then Jerry got the warning from Major Pryor. That shocked him. He had wandered from the major’s office and ended up out among the pine trees along the base perimeter, staring at the cars and trucks racing by on I-5, all shiny bright blurs. Duty was duty, but what was he in it for? False Refuge ~ 110

They didn’t care out there in their speeding cars. The civs. They hated to see soldiers dying in Iraq, they said — they supported the troops, but what they really cared about was the price of gas, the latest blockbuster, the size of their big-screen TV, and what they were going to have for lunch — burrito or sushi? What if they could see the slaughtered boys and girls and grieving, screaming parents over there? The rows and rows of caskets. The media didn’t show them that cost, and they didn’t want to see it. So why should he care? So, what and whom should he serve? A hard lump of sorrow had choked his throat, and he wanted to call Marci and tell her, ask her, but he didn’t. He ended up over in Macky’s Tavern across from the main gate where he coated the lump with a pitcher of cold Rainier and then another until the lump was good and licked. By the second pitcher, Jerry was seeing things so much clearer he was feeling more sober than when he’d walked into Macky’s. Major Pryor had stressed, at least three times, that Jerry not pursue Alex while, quote, “on duty.” It seemed the major had meant it to get through. It was practically a go-ahead to pursue Alex while off duty. Maybe this was the way it was meant to go down? In that junction called Captain Cook in South Kona Jerry had to abandon the last clues to Alex. At the time he thought it a tough break. Now he saw it as fortunate. He was meant to hold his cards tight to his chest. It wasn’t a chance lost at all but rather candy for later. But when could he show his cards? He trusted he would know when. And so he waited. June reached its long and wretched end. It had been the wettest and grayest Pacific Northwest June in decades, if not the century. Jerry got little time off duty to see Marci, let alone pursue Alex’s case. On base the work piled up — almost every unit had left, and it seemed the whole Pacific Northwest was on a skeleton crew. If North Korea had its shit together they’d invade from Alaska, the men joked. Still, they knew they too would get the call. At the end of June they got training on bio warfare kits and had to study the latest Civil Affairs (occupation) guidelines. July came and summer hit overnight. The old offices of Fort Clark went from being chilly cells to hot boxes. In the first week Lt Siven’s active-duty CID unit got sent to Iraq, and Jerry got real CID duty investigating a young private who went AWOL out of Fort Clark. The case was dull. The kid’s trail ended at a broken-down coastal motel near Aberdeen where he was mixing meth in the bathtub, hooked on his own rough junk. But Jerry, for his part, of course had wanted to get up to speed on all recent AWOLs, to make sure none of them were connected. He took his time with the research, looking for anything that would help with Alex’s case. False Refuge ~ 111

He came across the file of another Fort Clark soldier who had gone AWOL, this one six months before Alex. John Sanchez. Jerry had seen Sanchez around. He was a quiet guy; he kept his shit tucked in. And according to his files he was looking like one of those few who go AWOL on tiptoes and never get nabbed. Clues were few. Then Jerry recalled that Sanchez and Alex had gone out for beers sometimes, just the two of them. They would huddle at Macky’s in a booth while the others played pool or watched games on TV. Then Jerry found that Sanchez had gone AWOL on Hawaii, too. His last tracks ended in Kona Town of the Big Island, where a soldier on leave had run into him. But the dumbass soldier had called out Sanchez’s name and Sanchez had split. Why would two guys who had known each other both be stupid enough to go AWOL in Hawaii, which is really tough to escape? And why on the Big Island, which is even more remote and rugged? Jerry knew he was pushing it now. But Major Pryor had never said he couldn’t contemplate Alex while on duty. Not contemplating would be impossible. It was a free country. So Jerry got to thinking about Alex’s last tracks. On that computer in that Internet café in Captain Cook, he had deduced that Alex had seen his wanted poster online and learned the worst. They were scapegoating him and would skin him alive. Jerry put himself in Alex’s boots. Would he split right away? Not necessarily. He might sit there in shock a while, letting it sink in. That’s what he himself had done in front of that very same computer when he’d discovered his active-duty call up and faced heading back to Iraq. He had stared at the screen, in shock, his sphincter tightening up. But then he got it together. He went to the Fort Clark website, to confirm the news. You always got a confirmation and Alex would have, too, because he might not have another shot at a computer any time soon. Jerry opened his notebook from that day. Alex had confirmed his fucked status with the CID web page, the FBI page, and a couple of dependable news sites. He had checked out the Army Times and Stars and Stripes. The next sites viewed were in Icelandic, and Alex sure as hell didn’t know Icelandic or how the hell to get there from Hawaii. However, the website for Krieger Estates had come right before Stars and Stripes and Army Times. A former coffee plantation turned into a glorified resort, Krieger Estates was minutes from Captain Cook by car. Jerry had seen the place before he caught the first flight back. He had needed a drive to put all the blood back in his head after seeing his deployment email, so he had picked the road that passed by False Refuge ~ 112

Krieger Estates. Now, when he recalled its layout, something about that gate, and its entrance, looked to him like more than a resort. It was too clean. Too quiet. It had looked, he realized now, more like the entrance to an embassy or, worse yet, a military base.

Over three months had passed and still Jerry’s unit got no overseas deployment. Though they all knew it was coming. They’d been issued their desert camo gear. Meanwhile, more soldiers out of Fort Clark had died and the severe injuries mounted. Lt Siven from CID had survived a car bomb and was heading home without an eye and an arm. Some of the men began hoping they wouldn’t be sent but Jerry knew better. The army was all about waiting. If something was immediate, you waited. If something was supposed to happen next week, it would happen as soon as you went to sleep that night. In a memo Major Pryor assured Jerry’s unit that those eligible would be able to take leaves before they shipped out, contingent upon any sudden change in deployment. In light of their fine service at Fort Clark the major had pushed papers through to see this happen. Some took their leaves right away, but not Jerry. He was waiting for the other shoe to drop, which it did on the morning of July 15th. They got the call. They were heading to Iraq in one month. Jerry had a two-week leave coming. Just enough time for it. His plan? He and Marci would take a trip down the Oregon Coast — the same trip they’d taken on their honeymoon fifteen years before. They would stay and eat at the old spots. School was out for the summer so Marci was free. It would be a killer surprise. It would make the deployment news easier on her. Later the same day, Jerry checked an old hotmail email account he hadn’t checked in a while. First he found the usual spam written in cryptic trickster spam script. Female escorts had big dicks, Viagra was cheaper than dirt, a noble family from Africa needed his money to undo some grave injustice, blah blah blah. He checked all and deleted them. In his regular inbox, however, was an email whose subject read: “Master Bateman.” Jerry’s heart thumped and swelled into his ribs. He clicked open the message:

This is strictly confidential — our eyes only. False Refuge ~ 113

It’s me. I’m still absent. But I fucked up royal. I’ve got myself in a real WOS — worse than anything we’ve ever been through. It’s making over there look good. I wouldn’t contact you but I’m desperate. You might be the only one who can help me. You also might be the only one who can believe me that I only flew the coop and didn’t do the rest of what they say. If you’re not in a position to help, erase this email with extreme prejudice and keep your head down old friend. If you’re willing and able, I might have a juicy prize that you can take back. PS: I’m guessing you’re back on active duty. I hope to hell you’re not back over there.

Jerry fought a bitter chuckle. Master Bateman was Alex’s old nickname for him, from Gulf War I. The email was from a nameless yahoo address of random numbers and letters. It was dated July 13th — sent a couple days before. “Over there,” of course, was Iraq. WOS was their old acronym — it meant World of Shit. WOS was reserved for all they couldn’t talk about without getting wasted or losing it. A corpse of a schoolboy, staring up into the sky. A grandmother shot in the back by stray fire. A buddy getting a bullet to the jaw or crotch. Jerry’s chuckle went sour. His stomach burned. He emailed back:

We’re strictly confidential. I might be in a position to help, although you know I would come for no prize at all. Our opp window is smaller than you know. Where are you? What’s your WOS? PS: Your guess and your hopes are both right. You’re missing nothing here but an impending WOS of my own. Keep your head down goddamnit.

He didn’t call Marci from base that day, so that nothing would spill out of his mouth. Luckily his deployment hadn’t been made public. A day later he got the reply:

My WOS was supposed to be a paradise where the names got changed and life started over. It’s turned out a nightmare hellhole where lies are truths and lives are exterminated. Black is False Refuge ~ 114 white is black. They want a future that’s more deluded and corrupt and two-faced than even your CIC wants. My head’s down, but my opp window’s a fucking pinhole. You have to be solo. And you have to promise I’m not coming back with you. That’s not the prize.

They were back to using the old language. Just the two of them. Jerry typed back:

I’m solo. I won’t bring you back to this. Not now. You wouldn’t get a fair shake here, believe me. Not the way things are. You have to believe me. I know about your paradise. I’ve already been there looking for you, flying solo. I owed you that much at least. I believe in duty, as you know. And I think I might know where you are. Can you confirm it with a clue? Confirm it and I’m there.

Jerry had to check his email in the middle of that night. He got nothing. He checked it again first thing in the morning. He got this:

Look up the German word for warrior. If that makes sense to you, you know where I am. To gain entry, tell them you’ve gone absent without and want a new life.

The German word was Krieger. Jerry had been closer than he knew. He deleted the email along with the rest and emptied his trash box. The next day he erased the hard drive, just to be sure, and listed the computer as having a virus that required reformatting. The next thing he did was apply for the two-week leave.

The next day was a Saturday. It was sunny and going to reach 80. Jerry had the day with Marci. He surprised her at their front door with a picnic basket of cold fried chicken and Washington Riesling. They were going to the park, he told her (this way she’d be able to talk freely). The park was six, seven streets away and they walked there. The grass was long and green and children were playing in it. The air smelled like a nearby barbecue, though they couldn’t see the False Refuge ~ 115 smoke. They took a picnic table under a maple tree. A stream trickled by, gurgling at rocks. Fat ducks swam sideways and stared. Marci’s hair was down and shiny and she had on a flowery summer dress. She sat across from him. Jerry laid out the spread, telling a story from base he’d already told her three times because that was all he could think of. His words drifted off. She watched him. She picked at her chicken. She drank the Riesling in big gulps. Jerry hadn’t taken a sip of his. He took a deep breath, looked her in the eyes and said: “I know you think something is up. Well, it is. Let me tell it to you this way. It’s not just that me and Alex Swenson went through the shit together. Alex, I never told you, he saved my life. He didn’t need to kill anyone to do it. Me, I’d done that part. I was with Alex and a few others on a routine patrol, at the edge of a village. We were approaching this hut, surrounded by a little grove of palm trees. We heard movement so we crouched secure behind this burnt-out pickup. It was dusk, the horizon in our eyes. Everything was silhouette, black shapes, you know. We heard screaming. Sand and dust kicked up from behind the hut. Someone was coming up fast from around the back of the hut. I, we, shouted but the person kept coming, and then another. One of them hauling something like a running back with a football. We screamed at each other, fire goddamnit, no you. Someone had to fire or they’d be on top of us. I fired. We all fired. “It was a mother and her young son. Head shot, and a gut hit. Son cut in half. Mother, you, you don’t want to know. The mother had been running with a baby. A girl. Her little neck was broken. We stood around the bodies, until well after dark, cursing them for being so fucking stupid. Cursing their damn clothes for all looking the same in profile. We moved out. No one spoke. The next encounter, it went okay. We came back to reality a little.” Marci’s lovely face had blurred as Jerry spoke and his eyes went hot and blurry and now he refocused on the twinkles of the stream. His hands set as fists on the table. “But not you,” Marci said. “You didn’t come back. Not to reality.” “No. Not Bateman. I was sure I fired the best shots, sharpshooter’s badge and all. So, ah, I, just ... I checked out. I cried, you know. One guy had two pints of Jack and he gave them to me and I drank. The guys were good. They could’ve fucked me over; I wasn’t carrying my load. They pretended I’d gotten food poisoning and the runs. We spent two days of sandstorm in an abandoned mosque. Day and night all mixed together. Maybe if we’d had more fighting I would’ve came out of it. If I bought it then I might have been a hero, right? Isn’t that what they False Refuge ~ 116 say — only the heroes are dead? Fuck it. The friends I knew who didn’t come back sure were, I know that. But we didn’t have more fighting. It was like someone put me there in that place to dwell on it, you know? You know?” Panting, Jerry looked for Marci across the table but she wasn’t there. She had come around to him and was holding him. He hadn’t even felt her. Now he squeezed her. And said: “Alex, he found me with my AR in my mouth. It was loaded. I was sitting against a wall. Surreal to think about it now.” Jerry tried a laugh but it came out a squeak. “I don’t even remember getting there. I was a fucking mess. And I was going to do it. Make up for wasting a family. Fuck yeah. But Alex, he brought me back. It took him hours, days, but he did. You know what he did? He brought your memory back to me. He stayed with me. Marched with me. Slept next to me. Even kept my bullets from me and he could have gotten dinged all to hell and back for that. The other guys would have strung him up for that.” “What did he say?” “I don’t remember. Home. You. Fate. But it worked. And that’s why I’m going back to the Big Island. I owe him. I don’t want him to end up where I was.” “I thought you had hit a dead end,” Marci began, but then her eyes widened. “You found something out. Something more.” She let out a gasp. “Oh, you did, didn’t you? A clue, some footprint you never followed.” “More than that. The only thing better.” Jerry fought a smile. “You heard from him?” “Email. Anonymous. He figures I’m the only one who can help him.” He added quickly: “He says he wants to come back.” Marci’s eyes had gone dark. She stared at the gnarly and gray picnic table planks. A fly landed on her piece of chicken and she let it wander. She hated flies. “You owe him.” “He sends his love,” Jerry said. “He knows I have you behind me.” “He better.” Jerry held out his hand. Marci gasped again, this time high as if she wanted to cry, but then she clenched his hand and kissed it. Jerry knew he could bring her out of this. She was stronger than him. He added: “I wish you could come — you could stay in Kona — but I don’t want you to be implicated if anything gets off kilter. Not that it will.” False Refuge ~ 117

“No, of course not.” A dark chuckle. Jerry shifted around and held her, from behind. “Honey, look. I can’t do anything about the injustices you see. Our CIC. No accountability. Our banana republic. But, going after Alex, it can be my way of fighting from the inside, in my own way.” She turned back to him and kissed him, hard on the lips. They drank the wine, emptied the bottle, gulping it down like a cure for poison. “I owe you more,” Jerry told her. “Hell yes, you do. Ah, fuck, Jere.” She banged at the table. The ducks stepped backward and glanced at each other. “Only reason I’m letting you go is because you wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for Alex. But, just don’t catch what he’s got.” “What’s that supposed to mean? Catch what?” “You know. The freedom bug.” “I thought you wanted me to.” “Not like that. Not with him. You can’t run away like that. Because I want you to find it with me.” False Refuge ~ 118

SIXTEEN

Alex quit going to his job, as Morales ordered. He just stopped showing up and no one called asking where he was. Morales had said he’d call Alex the next day, but he didn’t. Alex waited. Days passed. Kanani asked why he didn’t have to go to work. He shrugged and said they were reassigning him. She asked who was reassigning him and he said HR. June was half gone and the weather was amazing. He went on walks. He read by the pool. Thought a lot about how he could make this place work for him, for him and Kanani. He would have to be more proactive, he decided. In the middle of one calm and warm mid-June night Alex and Kanani lay together, limbs entwined. They heard each other sigh. “You can’t sleep?” he whispered. “No. Why, can’t you?” she said. “No. Keep thinking about things.” At first they spoke slowly, and low, and with long pauses, just as people did when they lay awake in the middle of the night and could not find rest from their thoughts. Alex said: “I’ve been trying to come up with a way to make myself more useful here.” A chuckle. “What are you going to do, volunteer in the gift shop?” “Very funny. No. Krieger, at that first meeting, he told me the best thing I could do was to keep showing I had cojones, you know, balls. So, I’m going to pitch something to them. Something big. Something you’re not going to like. Now, of course this place has guns, the guards have access to guns, we can be sure of that. We just don’t see them. Well, I’m going to propose that this place does away with its guns. It would be the lynchpin, calling card, of this place. We would learn how to become a better, more progressive system that way. And what a better way to repudiate all that we escaped from? Someday they could make it known to the world at large. That this is the kind of world we want to create.” As Alex spoke Kanani had untangled her limbs from his and they lay staring up at the ceiling, a black void. The skin of their arms and legs still touching. She said nothing. “I told you, you weren’t going to like it,” Alex added. Kanani grunted a little laugh. “What can I say? It was bad enough when it was only your personal view. Now you want to preach it.” False Refuge ~ 119

“You think I’m naïve.” “No, not naïve. Worse. I got to be honest. Many of these guys here came from the military, others from crime. Right? We both know the types. There’s a lot they’d be willing to give up to make their world better, but weapons that kill with a lot of power and efficiency sure as fuck ain’t one of them.” Silence. Alex’s head was growing hot. “And you feel the same way,” he said. “Damn straight, brudda. Just as always. It would fuck up everything.” “Everything,” Alex muttered, “like it could be any worse. What’s the point of this if it’s not to do things differently? If I’m not going to. That’s the sad story of history, right? People just keep repeating the same bullshit. People say America’s enemies hate us for our Freedom. What bullshit. How better to help the terrorists, and to make so many more millions hate us, than to behave exactly how they said we would. Just start invading and killing anyone we can. Whoever kind of resembles the enemy. What if we actually did something more creative with all our so- called Freedom? Used incentives. Inspired. Something. There’s got to be a better way.” “I don’t give a shit. And neither should you now.” Alex closed his eyes. He threw back his blanket. “Alright, fuck it,” he muttered. Kanani, sighing, reached for his hand, and she squeezed it, and she placed it back on his hip. “Look, Alex, I’m not saying you’re wrong. I’m just saying I don’t think you know exactly who these people are that we’re dealing with —” “You think I’m a pussy?” he blurted. “That it? Some kind of whining liberal? No. I’ve been there, I have killed, and with some big fucking barrels too so I think I’ve earned the right to say that maybe we’d be better off without them. Find new ways —” “But none of that matters if the other side doesn’t think like that, does it? What are you going to do, challenge them to rock-paper-scissors? Maybe a town hall meeting?” She hadn’t meant that as a joke. Her whole body was getting hotter, like his did, like a guy’s would, and her sweat made her skin stick to his. She rolled away from him and lay at the edge of the bed, facing away from him. They lay a while, two or three minutes. He sighed. She was so quiet — too quiet that he knew she wasn’t about to go back to sleep just yet. He couldn’t even hear her breathing. If he’d just woken up here in the dark he would have thought her gone. False Refuge ~ 120

He needed to tell her something, something to console her, even if he didn’t believe it himself. He rolled her way, and said: “Don’t worry, I’m not going to go there. I just wanted to bounce that off you. If this place really wants to be different, forge a new identity for itself, then it’s going to have to come up with different models, and new ways of doing things that no one else has thought of. They have to show by doing, not just by rejecting. They need to be accountable that way.” Kanani said nothing. No movement. He said: “Accountability and democracy, they go hand in hand. But America’s leaders have no accountability. So why should the rest of us? That’s what’s happening. It’s part of why I went AWOL. Me, I need to be accountable, somehow. Recreate a model of accountability. That’s all that pitch idea was about. Just brainstorming.” She waited thirty seconds or so, and then she rolled over to him. He could see the glints of her eyes, studying him. “I could give a fuck about accountability. Morality. Here’s the deal. First you survive, then comes the morality. Meantime morality’s for suckers, even if it is brand-new and one-of-a-kind.” She rolled back over, and said: “Not only that. You — we— just better hope that this room is not bugged.” Alex let it rest. They didn’t talk about it again. On the morning Morales called for Alex, Alex and Kanani were eating mango and rice out on the lanai. Kanani was off that day and they were going horseback riding on the range at the north end of the plantation. Morales had picked the worst possible time to call — but then again Morales had probably meant to pick the worst possible time, Alex thought, and he considered not answering the phone. He shrugged and went inside on the fourth ring. He was back out on the lanai in less than a minute, his face as long as he could make it for Kanani. “I have to go. They want me now. I’m sorry.” “So am I. That was Mr. Morales, wasn’t it? He’s the one who’s calling for you.” “Yes.” “And he’s the one said you don’t have to do that job any more. Am I right?” “That’s right.” In his new gig Alex learned a lot, and soon. Morales ran a unit called Select Response Section. SRS. Morales’ SRS was the strong arm of Krieger Estates, committed to respond to both internal and external threats. If Krieger Estates was a government, SRS was the police, army and CIA all rolled into one. Alex’s military intelligence background made him a natural for SRS. He False Refuge ~ 121 didn’t like the idea of returning to a vocation he’d deserted but what was he going to do? He tried to think realistically, like Kanani. This was his form of “national service” to KE. In any case, he supposed a haven like KE needed such a unit as SRS. And there were perks. He got cash weekly — anywhere from one to two hundred dollars — and the hours and workload were light. He was more or less a security guard, but he didn’t have to wear a uniform, salute, or wear a gun. That was the best part, of course, and he let himself daydream that they had been listening and were trying to keep him happy by not making him carry a gun. They gave him a cell phone that worked only on a radio frequency. Whenever Morales or Krieger held a meeting Alex and the other guards — ex-military, most of them — kept watch over the area. Alex spent most of his time in the bushes near Mr. Krieger’s main house with binoculars and his walkie-talkie phone. The people he saw coming and going looked liked the plantation guests — white middle- to upper-class professionals of competence. No one told him he couldn’t tell Kanani, so he did. It was definitely a promotion, he assured her. She seemed relieved. Things were moving forward and they were sure to get out of there sooner than later, she said. Alex was relieved. That was what he told himself. At the same time, Kanani had never really gotten over Alex’s plan to propose that KE abstain from using guns. “Now aren’t you glad you’re dropping that?” she said. “I’m not dropping it — I’m just not going to pitch it to them,” he said. “For me, personally, the song remains the same.” They were in the bungalow, he in the kitchen, she in the bathroom, not facing each other, and it was all barked out a little too loud. But Alex was stung and didn’t care. Let them listen, if they need to, he thought. What were they going to do to him — write him up with a warning? Around this time — and for the first time, Kanani refused sex with him, and sometimes she seemed to flinch when he touched her in bed. Saying it was her period. If that was her period, he thought, then he had four fucking heads instead of three.

June neared its fair and warm end. Alex’s phone rang in the middle of the night. A muffled voice ordered him down to the bunkers, down to a different wing Alex had never known about. There he walked the concrete hallways dotted with caged light bulbs and the video cameras that False Refuge ~ 122 followed him along, hearing only his own footsteps. After turning a corner and entering a long, descending hallway he heard what sounded like yelling and laughing that grew louder. The hallway ended at a broad watertight door with a wheel handle like they had in submarines. Next to the door, against the wall, stood a metal cart covered with a tarp that shrouded pointy and sharp-angled objects. A black industrial-duty extension cord sat on the floor coiled up in a neat circle, like a sleeping snake. A video camera mounted above the door focused on Alex. He knocked on the door, for formality’s sake. The lock clanked, the wheel spun, and the door opened. A guard let him in, a hulking Samoan-Korean named Soon-o who, the word was, used to kick box in prison, heavyweight class. The cell was about eight feet by eight feet with unpainted cinder block walls and a battered, uneven concrete floor that had a rusty drain in the middle. A heavy wall socket, up high on the wall. Morales stood in the corner to Alex’s right. He stared at the opposite corner. There a bulky figure sat down on the concrete, shrouded in a black wool blanket, his back up against the wall. Thick and hairy bare feet and shins stuck out. The toes clawed at the concrete as Soon-o shut the door behind Alex. Morales and Soon-o hadn’t opened their mouths, so Alex kept his shut. Both wore black long-sleeve shirts and cargo pants, and their faces and hands were smudged with night camo, which told Alex they’d probably grabbed their prisoner in his sleep. Alex had on shorts, flip-flops and a tank top. His arms felt naked and cold above his elbows even though the air was thick with leaden odors of sweat and dry mouth. He stood to one side of the door, a sour unease tightening up his chest. Morales and Soon-o the guard watched the man. After a minute or so, the man’s toes stopped clawing, and his shoulders slouched, only the tip of his spine against the wall now. They were making the man wait, letting him squirm. And yet Alex had the nasty feeling that he was the one being tested. Morales’ head pivoted to Alex. “Ready?” “Yes. Fuck it,” grunted the man under the blanket. Alex nodded. Soon-o bounded over and pulled off the blanket. It was big guy, the one who had helped Alex those first days in this same bunker facility. It all came back to Alex. They had drinks together, talked about girls and sports. Alex had even asked him once about Reacton-Uni Corp. All the guys liked him. Soon-o had probably had drinks with him. Now big guy wore False Refuge ~ 123 boxers with bright lei flowers and a white underwear tank top soiled with sweat and what looked like ketchup. No blood that Alex could see. Squinting, a hand clenched above his eyes, big guy peered around the room, the single light bulb above casting grotesque shadows in his eye sockets and brow, making his forehead heavy and misshapen with veins and muscle, bone. His mustache had been shaved off, Alex realized. His upper lip was thick and wide and white, making him look all the more boyish. Big guy grimaced at Alex and blurted a sick laugh that made him cough, and the cough clanged at the hard walls and floor like a hammer on metal. Morales said: “Freeman here, he called for you. Said you were in Gulf War One together. In country. Claims you can vouch for him.” Alex looked at Morales when he spoke. “He told me he was in country. I wasn’t there with him. But I can believe it —” “You weren’t in the same unit?” Morales said with a sharper tone and looked to big guy. Alex looked to big guy, whose eyes were not soft and pleading but dark and peering, as if he had never seen Alex before and didn’t like the looks of him. It was no way to stare down a possible friend, Alex thought. Alex said: “No. Why, if I’m allowed to ask? What am I vouching for?” “You’re allowed. Freeman thinks he should be entitled to leave, move on. Start over. He feels he has fulfilled enough duty to be able to collect his new identity —” “Don’t even want the new identity — I just want out,” big guy blurted to Alex. Morales paused a good thirty seconds before he spoke. Big guy looked to the floor, the long light bulb shadow dimming his face. Morales said: “In our eyes you have not fulfilled your duty. Thus your reasons are weak and self-serving. This, what we offer here, it demands a form of a contract. You fulfill. We fulfill. Right?” Big guy’s face shot up, his eyes bloodshot. “In a contract both sides know what they’re getting into. From the start. That’s the whole idea. That’s the social contract. I didn’t know what to expect here. None of us did. None of us. None of us.” He was speaking to Alex, holding up his hands. Alex listened with his head lowered enough so that — he hoped — the shadows wouldn’t show his eyes, searching for the right way. He looked to Morales, who said: False Refuge ~ 124

“Here, our contract is different. It asks for faith. That is the new contract. The new way. Our way. If we follow the old way we will end up just like the old society we have left because it’s bankrupt. We require faith. Faith is everything. You obviously have none. You are weak.” As Morales spoke big guy’s head sunk, this time lower as if his neck muscles were unable to hold this head up any longer, and he shook his head, slowly. “What did you do in the military when duty called?” Morales continued. “Go on. Speak up.” “Do I have to say it?” big guy said. “I followed orders until, that is, I decided, like you, like all of us here, that the ones making the policy for the orders could not be respected because they were not held accountable. We lost faith. That is why we are all here. Like you. So how the fuck — how the fuck — can I have faith in this? In this?” Morales didn’t answer. He looked to Alex, letting Alex sort this out in his head. Alex took his time, his arms now folded at his chest. Big guy, or Freeman as Morales called him, had a point — in a perfect world. The new faith Morales spoke of did not promise any accountability from those who demanded it. That’s what Morales was saying. Alex thought of his argument with Kanani over gun policy, and felt a cool rush of relief that he hadn’t gone and proposed something that was obviously unrealistic here. But Morales also had a good point. Any brave new revolt required trust and discipline. That was the only glue. And besides, what did Freeman expect? Alex himself always knew they wouldn’t just hand him a new passport out of the goodness of their hearts and let him move on. Kanani had warned him enough too. He was taking the chance, so why couldn’t Freeman? The cool rush vaporized and Alex’s temples throbbed and he grinded his teeth, his unease rising to a black anger. Seriously, who the fuck was Freeman to put him on the spot like this? He was supposed to vouch for him? How? He was in no position. He was lucky they hadn’t thrown him down on the floor under a blanket next to Freeman. And what about the danger to Kanani? Alex was shaking his head. He said to Morales: “I don’t know this man well enough to vouch for him. I’m certainly no judge. I didn’t even know his name was Freeman. I’m simply here to fulfill my duty as required.” Freeman grunted. Drool hung from his lips, glistening in the light. “Thanks for your candor. You’re free to go,” Morales said, and as Alex turned he straightened, shoulders square and chest out, fighting the urge to salute. Morales shot him a grin, as if sensing the urge and ready to alleviate it. False Refuge ~ 125

Alex gave Soon-o a friendly nod, and Soon-o spun the wheel and opened the door. As Alex stepped through and out Morales pulled the blanket back over Freeman and was wrapping a thick rope around Freeman’s waist, binding his arms to his sides and the blanket tight around him. The last thing he saw was Soon-o sliding another rope down around Freeman’s head. As the door closed Freeman shouted: “Get the fuck out man and now, get the fuck out and run as fast as you can —” Something cut him off. The door wheel spun and stopped tight with a clank. Alex walked hard and fast out the hallways, the adrenalin pumping. He wanted to press his hands to his ears so he wouldn’t hear what came next from that room, and he certainly didn’t want it seen on video. That might look like weakness, something Morale’s SRS clearly would not tolerate. Kanani had known the score. First you had to survive, and that was what he was doing. But he didn’t really believe in that, not in the long run. It was all happening too fast, coming at him too fast, and he yelled at himself, inside, to hang on to his convictions no matter what. For that was all he had, and why he had gone AWOL in the first place. He walked on, his step loosening into a shuffle. As he reached the last hallway out he still hadn’t heard the screams or rough sounds he’d expected, and was startled, no, horrified, to discover that he felt not relief but rather a deep and sharp chill of disappointment. False Refuge ~ 126

SEVENTEEN

Disappointment — that a man was not punished with greater prejudice and violence? Alex’s surprise and horror brought deeper fears. What was happening to me? he worried. A couple weeks ago he was going to propose that KE adopt a policy of non-violent conflict resolution. And now? Could he be turning into one of them? He had wanted Freeman to suffer, and for what — for the man’s stupidity? If stupidity was punishable, he himself deserved the guillotine. But no one should suffer for pursuing what they think is right, even if the odds stank. No, no one, Alex told himself as he hurried along the paths back to the bungalow. Talking himself out of the panic. He was frustrated, that was all, and angry with Freeman for mixing him up in this. He was just being practical. Kanani’s survival instinct was getting through to him, and thank god for her or he’d probably still be holed up in some rancid Kona chicken coop. This place could not change him. He would earn his new identity and move on — even if it killed him. He chuckled at that crazy thought, and by the time he got back to the bungalow a new relief found him. A realization. His presence down in that cell with Freeman had amounted to nothing more than a test, created to confirm he had the stuff to remain at KE. Freeman had been in on the game, he was sure of it. No one was hurt. All part of the vetting, the training. They simply needed to make sure he could make tough choices under pressure. He couldn’t even blame them, not really. They needed people who could make a clean break with the old corrupt world. They needed to know he was not weak. They needed to know he would never reveal their secret. There was one problem with his theory — why had Freeman added that shout at the end? Alex chalked it up to accurate role-playing. Maybe Freeman had even been a thespian in his previous life. This is what he told himself. He didn’t tell Kanani about the incident and he was glad he didn’t. For a couple weeks after that it was looking like he had indeed passed some sort of test. Soon-o, the other guards, and even Morales warmed up to him. They wanted to drink with him. They told him about the old identities of those who made KE tick. Some really were from government, CIA and State Department, the military, just as Alex had guessed. Others were from the corporate and crime worlds, many of the latter from Oahu. Soon-o had come from Honolulu. Kanani confirmed she’d known of him. He was a true moke, Soon-o — the big tough local, and you should see the tribal False Refuge ~ 127 tattoos down his back, she said. But Soon-o wasn’t lolo like a moke — he wasn’t slow, or dumb, or a lilibit crazy too. He started as a strip-club bouncer and ended up the top muscle for some big time gangs, first for the Koreans and then the Samoans, the kind who never went to prison because others were made to go in his place. And yet Soon-o didn’t stick to one boss like most. He was his own moke. He was a mystery moke. It wasn’t only because he was a mixed-race moke, never truly Korean (who all hated) or Samoan (who all feared). In high school, it was said, he didn’t even play football. He was an archery champ and a chess master, and, Kanani added with a chuckle, it sure was hard to imagine seeing those little chess pieces in such thick and wide and huge moke paws. But that was Soon-o. Soon-o was too smart for absolute loyalty, and in the end that would cost you. So his smarts brought him here, Kanani figured. He was the only deserter she knew of here who kept their old name. She had seen him around the estates, sure. They’d shared that nod of recognition. And then it was July, the days hotter and stickier, the gentler warm breezes fighting to clear out the stale summer air but never quite making it. On one Sunday morning Alex got a call to duty even though he was off that day. One of the guards was sick and they needed him up at the Main House. That Sunday was another strange day outside, the sky heavy with a thick bank of clouds that had settled high atop the upslope overlooking the coast. The clouds weighed down on the estate. Alex could almost reach up and touch them, it seemed. No strong winds could move them. Rain could hit at any time. He heard faraway pops and cracks and wondered if it was lightning and thunder. He smelled smoke and imagined locals lighting some ancient pyre as part of a ritual to ward off a summer storm. All of which reminded him of when he’d first arrived on the big island. The clouds had been looming like this for days. Only at sunset did the sun break free for them up high to see, sitting out on the wide-open ocean as it did, but by then it was already passing back under the earth, as if to say, you want your fucking paradise sun? Here it is. Fifteen minutes. In glorious orange and pinks. Taunting him. Strange days. And yet only as Alex walked up to the Main House did he realize something stranger. This Sunday was the Fourth of July. Independence Day for the United States. Kids and dads with firecrackers — they had caused the pops and cracks and smoke smells. It had been the same when he arrived, but back then it was the New Year, both Chinese and Western. Now, far below, along the coast, people couldn’t wait for the nation’s holiday. But up here there had been no flags, fireworks, or barbecues. They had left America behind and were sticking to it. False Refuge ~ 128

Alex swallowed around a lump in his throat, from a sadness he hadn’t expected. He was never one to be nostalgic. America had transformed into something grotesque, a sad and shaky and blustering caricature of itself, and he too had left her behind. No, he was only aching for what might have been after 9/11. As he always had. It might have been the start of a grand new American era. At the Main House, a guard Alex had never seen directed him inside and to the left down a hallway that ended in a bedroom, where Soon-o himself stood peering out a sliding-glass patio door. Soon-o’s neck was the thickness of two necks, a trunk, and Alex saw the pointy tips of a tribal tattoo shooting up that trunk, wanting to pierce Soon-o’s kinky black hair that today Soon- o had parted down the middle (the two black humps of head resembling, Alex thought, the island’s two huge volcano slopes in sundown silhouette). From the back Soon-o was all Samoan. He turned to Alex, his huge shoulder brushing the glass door though he stood two feet back from it. His eyebrows shot up when he saw Alex. Alex stood in the doorway. “Howzit?” he said, keeping it light. “You tell me.” From the front Soon-o was more Korean, and yet his own creature. His face was a block, with cheekbones so pronounced it seemed you could see the coarseness of the bone itself through the skin. His lips, thin and hard and purplish. Not handsome, but striking enough to inspire awe in the infinite extremes of the human form. You tell me, he had said. Alex said: “You don’t know? I got a call saying one of the guards was sick.” Soon-o’s eyebrows lowered, hanging heavy over his eyes. “What? Am I cleared? No, someone screwed up. I don’t have clearance.” Soon-o smiled and, taking only one step it seemed, grasped at Alex’s shoulder. “It’s good. No problem.” He slid open the patio door for Alex. “You’re our man. Head out the lanai, stand watch at the outdoor bar down the other end the house. There’s one bench there, with cushions. Take that. No use standing all day.” “Right.” “Wait.” Soon-o handed Alex a walkie-talkie with earphone receiver. “You’re handle’s MH8.” “Right. MH8.” “We decide you need a weapon, we’ll tell you where to get it. What you like? Glock? Revolver?” “No, I’m all right.” False Refuge ~ 129

Soon-o’s block of a head bobbled, releasing a chuckle. “That’s not what I’m asking.” “Oh. Right. I have carried a Glock before,” Alex said. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Don’t look like one revolver man to me.” “No.” Alex turned right out the bedroom lanai and down along the concrete path running along the L-shaped house. At the corner of the L he passed another guard he’d never seen before. This one nodded, waved him on. His headset was also different, Alex noticed, deducing that Krieger’s guests must be so important they required their own guards. He also heard a helicopter hovering somewhere up above, navigating those merciless clouds. The outdoor bar was unmanned. It was just Alex at this end of the house. A mist found him as he sat on the bench. To his right, about fifty yards off, he could see two heads of guards manning the bushes along the side yard. Straight ahead, Kona coffee country radiated green far below (even with the clouds), and the ocean at the horizon sparkled turquoise. Such a view could make him lazy, so he sat bolt upright. That only helped so much. After about fifteen minutes he stood and stretched his legs. A voice on the receiver: “MH8?” “MH8 here.” “Prefer that you sit.” “Roger that.” So Alex sat. They wanted him looking natural, he guessed. After about a half hour the helicopter had gone and the chatter disappeared from the headset. All he heard were palm leaves slapping each other, and then the wind calmed so much that the slapping stopped and he swore he could almost hear the surf miles down below. He could hear voices now, coming from a window above his head — the kitchen window adjoining the room in which Glenn Krieger had first received him. It was impossible not to hear. One voice was Krieger’s. “Simple, way I see it. The enemy of my enemy — is my friend,” Krieger was saying. “Your organization and mine? Great friends.” Krieger’s was not the bland manager voice Alex had heard before. It was sharper, from deeper in the throat. “What’s the threat? We know the threat,” said an unknown male voice. Their guest. “Short term — Terror. Long term — Terror. Always Terror. People seek a haven from it. It’s really the threat of the outsider. Can take any form. Doesn’t need to be Bin Laden in the long run — he’s just the first act. Environmentalists. Activists. Renegade pols. Anyone. And here? What you got? False Refuge ~ 130

Native Hawaiians. Holdout landowners, developers slash real estate agents.” The man spoke in measured tones punctuated by mechanical silences, as if he wrote his concepts on a whiteboard as he spoke, circling some words, underlining others, crossing certain ones out. “Here? Broader. I’d say, just about anyone who opposes KE,” Krieger said. “Which, would also have to include people inside,” said the man. “Those that question your purpose. Or at least don’t dovetail with it. Am I right?” “Absolutely. This is about convictions. You have ours or you don’t … The strongest ones survive. So this is a survival story. Survive or perish.” “You can’t sail before your own ship’s in order,” said the man. “Not a problem there,” said another voice. It was Clyde Morales now. “We have a lock on that.” “Yes, and moving forward? Never a problem. If they can’t commit, they don’t believe in this, then why didn’t they stay home and, I don’t know, join the Peace Corps? The Green Party. DNC? Give me a break. Or they go and wave the flag they bought at Wal-Mart. The model citizens, right? They go and fight and die for Bush, Cheney, Halliburton, Saudi Arabia.” This was Krieger again. “I mean, they’d be suckers any way they went. So we’re providing them with a revolutionary opportunity. Break free. Start anew. That’s the big draw and it’s Velcro.” A pause. “Can they exit?” said the man. “That’s my question.” “Do you mean go back? No,” said Morales. “We wouldn’t want them painting an unclear picture of us. Bring on greater threats, attacks. Give Washington yet another way to detour people from their incredible failures. That can’t happen. So we have our own Internal Affairs apparatus, so to speak — a correction process. Either they fall into line, or they don’t.” “But, can they leave? Move on. With secrets sworn to secrecy,” said the man. “With confidentiality agreed on? No. Too problematic,” said Morales. “At least for the near future.” More silence. Was it respect for what this had really meant? Alex imagined each man studying the others, so that they all understood. “Look, it’s necessary,” Krieger said. “We’re in the early stages. It’s too fragile.” “And, Reacton Uni-Corp? That’s the goal, correct? Correct,” said the man. “So, how about we frame this a little? Our eyes only. So we’re both on the same page. I’ll throw some issues out there, you give me the goods.” False Refuge ~ 131

Another pause. Alex imagined Krieger looking to Morales. “Don’t worry. You’re not putting your dicks on the table,” said the man. “You’re helping me — us — understand, and, I hope, believe. After all, I can’t leave, right?” Morales and the man shared a hearty laugh. “Our dicks are never on the table,” Krieger interrupted, his voice rising. “Not when we’re changing the game like we are. There’ll be no one to chop them off, I mean, that’s the whole point of Reacton Uni-Corp. It’s total autonomy.” “Fine,” said the man. “So help me out now. I want to know how you’re framing the message. Don’t hold back. Call a spade a spade. I say what you state you are for, officially, and you tell me what you really stand for and how you get there.” “Fine,” Krieger said. “I’ll elaborate the official line; Morales states the reality of it.” “Okay,” said the man. “Here’s one — eco-friendly.” “Yes. Of course we are. We cherish the environment,” Krieger began — “Fuck you. Go hug a tree. We undermine any environmentalists who oppose our development, threaten them if need be,” Morales said, “and, we blackmail or buy off politicians who come up against our land deals.” “Alright. Next. Pro Hawaiian,” said the man. “We respect native Hawaiian traditions and promote their reintegration,” said Krieger. “Fucking losers. Hawaiians lost this one long ago to the US of A and won’t get any sympathy from us,” added Morales. “This one’s irrelevant though, in time. It’s bigger than a Hawaiian question. We’ll find a way to divert all native movements to the other islands.” “Open, and democratic.” Krieger: “As much as we can be, what with the great threats to us. America’s founding fathers would be proud of us. We are like they were. Not like America is today.” Morales: “Won’t sugar coat it — it’s closed and dictatorial here. And thus efficient. But not without great rewards. Those who understand this perform and will win big-time.” “Next. Reacton Uni-Corp is a robust and yet responsible business.” “Yes. We aim to be a player in the world market,” said Krieger, nodding. “We’re the ultimate model of a caring free-market engine powering, and fueled from, the world’s burgeoning new economic zones, all working in harmony with, and respecting of, the world market’s latest forward-thinking treaties and accords.” False Refuge ~ 132

“Caring world model? Forward-thinking? My ass. At least the workers will know they’re being fucked and by whom. We’ll be cutting deals with major corporations, multinationals so they can use our new society as a tax haven. Others can factory here and not be bound. In time some will relocate here, we expect.” “And what about the short term?” A clearing of throats. Morales took this one: “Our current business model relies on real estate, mostly. The resort itself is just a way to get leads. Meanwhile, our new colleagues who’ve come from business and government are bringing in an impressive list of contacts. Also, we’re allied with certain interests from Oahu and the mainland, and, since we’re full disclosure, you should know we’re involved with pirate shipping all over the Pacific Rim.” “By ‘certain interests,’ you mean organized crime?” “Of course.” A long pause. Alex imagined scribbling on the whiteboard. “Okay,” said the man. “Now — the end goal?” “Let’s spare you the PR spin,” Morales said. “Here’s the reality. Ours will be a corporate society that will break off from the United States by means of: one, a simulated noble appeal to island independence as a haven from Terror; and, two, intense lobbying of Washington DC through our allied multinationals. Ours will be a corporation that is also a nation. Might be a first, technically, but it’s also an obvious next step. What other states already are but can’t admit it?” “Are there citizens?” “Not in the old sense. The so-called ‘citizens’ we bring in give up their old passports and identities to become colleagues of Reacton UC. We’ll call them something like settlers or pilgrims, but with an updated feel. Again, it’s all about framing the message.” “It’s a win-win, see,” Krieger added. “People come here because they see the hypocrisy of America — and that of a lot of other failed states, for that matter. Fight for what? Toil for what? Serve what? A flag. Support the troops? They’re getting screwed just the same. Come on. You gain nothing.” The man said: “What if I said this? — you’re a fascistic Pacific Rim Monte Carlo that strong- arms, corrupts, and sells out any principles it outwardly espouses.” Krieger let out a chuckle. False Refuge ~ 133

Morales cut him off. “You wouldn’t be far off the mark, unofficially. At least for the short term. Critics might say that. Let them. It’s not like we’re attacking anyone externally. Not like we’re making nuclear weapons. Believe me, there will soon be much worse threats than us, appearance-wise anyway, including, if you’re so inclined, the possibility of state secession movements in the US. In the long term. You forget that in the long term we’ll be able to use any means necessary. A corporate dictatorship has no Constitution, you see. Ours is a Utopia of Reaction, if you will, a corporation of survivalism and a sovereign land all rolled into one — the first truly corporate nation. It’s survival of the fittest and we’ll be the most fit of them all —” “MH8? Come in.” Alex’s receiver. He grabbed it. “Yeah. MH8 here.” “Stay put. Don’t move.” “Okay.” Alex stayed so still he kept his hand on the earpiece. A minute seemed to have passed. His eyes scanned the grounds and he saw the guard’s heads had vanished, deep into threat mode. He could hear the helicopter coming back around. His heart thumped. A patio door slid open. Krieger and Morales’ heads thrust out. Krieger bounded out to Alex. Alex stayed still, frozen. Krieger, panting, leaned over Alex and slammed shut the kitchen window and Alex could smell his excited stale breath, like mothballs. Morales shut the patio door behind them and joined Krieger, who said, facing Alex: “What’s he doing here? He didn’t have clearance. He’s not ready. You’re not fuckin’ ready,” he said to Alex. “What did you hear? Tell me.” Krieger had an index finger out, poking it like he was going to stab Alex in the chest. Alex had shot up, standing at attention, his calves pressed to the bench. “Hear, sir? I’m on watch. They called me in. Soon-o put me here. Someone was sick.” Krieger pulled his finger to his chest and spread out all his fingers, as if this would help him regain his breath. His panting slowed now but, here outside, Alex could see the deep lines that ran from Krieger’s eyes and mouth. Age spots mottled his skin. He looked ten years older in the full light, and loaded with worry. He closed his eyes a moment. He rocked on his heels. He opened his eyes to the ground and then he glanced at Morales and said to Alex: “All right. Look, look. Sorry. And don’t call me sir, okay? This isn’t the US Army anymore. We’ll come up with something different, but for now just don’t call me that ...” He let the words trail off. False Refuge ~ 134

Alex said: “All right. No problem.” He looked to Morales, who was smiling. Morales had been standing at ease, his hands clasped behind his back. He stepped over and laid a hand on Krieger’s shoulder. He said to Alex: “What you might have heard, those were just scenarios. Situation planning. You understand.” “It’s none of my business. I could give a ... I’m just doing my duty.” “Of course. Good man. You’re in the clear.” Morales slapped Krieger’s shoulder, adding: “Well, looks like this one’s just gained his clearance.” And he laughed, a shrill wheeze that took Alex, for half a second, back to the old Sergeant Sanchez on base. Krieger’s mouth was open, forming an O. He looked to both of them as if he’d just woken from a long afternoon nap. He bent forward, freeing his shoulder from Morales’ hand. “Yes, of course he is,” he muttered, and he wandered off, back inside. Morales shrugged for Alex, showing another smile. “Carry on,” he said and turned for the door. But Krieger turned back to them, showing a grimace that exposed all his shiny gums. “No, you know what? That’s not good enough. This is serious shit,” he hissed. “This guy, he needs to be ready, he’s going to be up here.” He turned to Alex. “No offense, but we have standards, and you’re going to have to catch up with them. I want you going out on the next job.” He turned to Morales. Morales’ hands found his sides. “I don’t think that’s necessary,” he said. “I don’t care. I want him going out.” “We already have people for that —” “So we just got another, didn’t we?” Alex stepped forward, standing in line with Morales. “No, it’s okay. Listen. If I may. I’d like to go. It’s like Mr. Krieger here says — you have standards and I should be ready.”

The meeting continued with the window shut and Alex turned up the chatter on his receiver just in case. He never did hear what the unknown man’s “organization” was. It could have been any of them. Government. Non-Governmental. A leading corporation. Mob. Weren’t they all becoming the same thing these days? It could even have been a media mogul. It was all the same. False Refuge ~ 135

He didn’t want to hear any more. He couldn’t. He had listened too much back home and look what that had brought him? It had brought him morals and scruples and urges to run. He’d had no choice but to volunteer for the job, whatever it was. Letting them decide his fate might have lead to far worse situations. He told himself, sitting there, that this was just another test. Besides, wasn’t it the quickest way to earn his way out? The best defense being the best offense. Get it done, whatever it was, and be on his way. No matter what he’d overheard Morales saying. No matter that the blood had drained from his face and his chest was tightening up and he was grinding his teeth so much that his gums ached. By the time he was off duty and back at his bungalow he was wringing his hands like a madman and muttering to himself. Kanani found him out on the lanai. A full glass of whisky stood at his feet, untouched and diluted with ice that had melted long ago. “What’s wrong? You’re sweating. You sick?” she was saying, stroking his head. He told her everything. He started with that middle-of-the-night interrogation of Freeman. He ended with the meeting he’d just been guarding, and what he’d overheard. Told her how they’d upped his clearance and he was going out on a job. He didn’t tell her he thought it was all a test. He probably never believed it himself. It had only confirmed his worst fears. This place was worse than what he had left — in fact, it had plans to be much worse. By design. And Morales? His real name was Sanchez. Alex had known him before. He was the reason Alex had come here. He had really fucked up. He told her everything. Kanani stayed calm. She put her hands together up at her chin, as if forming a little church spire. She nodded when he told her who Morales was — Sanchez had not really been that much different than himself. The news of the job brought one raised eyebrow. “That’s the easiest way to keep you from talking,” she said. “Make you an accomplice. Make you responsible.” “Of course. Sure. I fucked up.” “You? No, I fucked up,” she said. She released a long sigh from deep in her chest, but it sung a little too and sounded more like relief. And she told him everything. She had reverted back to her old ways, because that was all she knew here. It wasn’t just about surviving. That was also what they wanted from her, she could see. Her activities coordinator job was just a cover. Now they were using her as a go-between False Refuge ~ 136 with drug gangs and gambling rings. What was worse — what they didn’t know was — she was embezzling from them. Skimming, really. “Not a lot, but enough to bring us huge trouble,” she said. She said this with the same level of emotion she used to tell him the weather. “Trouble? Trouble like we don’t even know,” Alex said. He chuckled, from the sheer insanity of it all. “Either you’re with us, or against us,” he mumbled. He grabbed his glass and drank down some of the warm watery drink. It bit at his throat and he swallowed it all with a wild contorted frown. He said: “I knew about the money you’ve been hiding but I didn’t bring it up because I didn’t want to lose you.” “I’m glad you know.” They were crouched up on the one lawn chair, grasping at each other with digging fingers as if in a raft heading over a waterfall. “They wanted us to stay secret,” he said. “Keep us dependent. Don’t question. Hope for a bright future that will never come. That’s the way it’s always worked. Now it’s policy.” “Same as it ever was,” she said. He grabbed her shoulders and held her face. “I didn’t want to confront you because I didn’t want to lose you,” he said. “I told you I’d do what I had to so that I — we — would survive. Told you that all along.” “I know. Thank god. Thank someone, something. You’re all I have now. All.” His head found her lap. She rocked him. His head popped up. “And the notebook? Your little notebook you write in. What’s that about?” “What do you think? When in Rome. Keep track of what I see so I can use it later as blackmail — that or take it to the authorities. That or it will show me a way to beat them on my own.” “On our own, you mean.” “Yes. That’s right.” They kissed on the mouth, touched each other’s faces with fingertips. “So, you volunteered. What are you going to do?” Kanani said. “I know what I’m not going to do. I threw away your gun for a reason.” False Refuge ~ 137

Kanani sat up, and her neck seemed to gain twice its length. She stared at him, her face hardening, her little pockmarks filling out. He moved to her. She held him back with a flat hand to his chest. “I’m not even mad now,” she said. “Now I’m fucking scared of you. How many times we going to talk about this? This, here, this is different than anything you knew back home.” He seized her hand, pressing it into both of his. “Is it? Is it really?” False Refuge ~ 138

EIGHTEEN

Alex had a day off and then worked two days on normal guard duty. On duty it was as if the mix- up at the Main House meeting had never happened. Yet nightmare scenarios filled Alex’s head. What if they were setting him up for something even bigger? And what about Kanani? Survival to her meant go with any tactic that worked. He wondered just how she was able to survive all those years. What was her best tactic? Her charm? Sordid thoughts of indifferent sex and favors fulfilled clogged his head and he squeezed his eyes shut to them. Meanwhile Kanani kept insisting she score a gun for him, but he refused. They were testing him all right, but he wasn’t about to pass their test using their means. Kanani and Alex fought about it. Alex told her: “The less people that are shot, the less there’ll be who will want to shoot others. I know that sounds naïve, but you know what sounded naïve hundreds of years ago? Declaring independence, creating democracies, ending slavery. All of it. I don’t want to die. It’s just that I’ll have to find other ways not to die.” On the third evening Kanani was working late, so Alex stayed out on the lanai after dark trying to read a paperback spy novel someone had left at the pool. The title was One Clear Mission, a bestseller. In the story all terrorists were fiends and their Western enemies saints, and the simplicity of it all made Alex sick. The last time he’d read a spy novel, the Cold War was on and the story was about how one’s duty could easily become used and tainted and scarred by conscience in the end. Where now were the blurred lines of right and wrong and the compassion for senseless death? America’s leaders today looked more like the Soviet ones in those Cold War novels, a bland legion of yes men cowards who talked tough and yet had no accountability, no true respect for the dead. They were spoiled children on crusade, these so-called leaders. And yet this was the year 2004? Over two hundred years should have been enough time for American civilization to grow up. Alex flung the book across the patio, which blew out the citronella candle on the table next to him. Let the mosquitoes bite him. Sitting in the dark on a lounge chair was better. He reminded himself he wasn’t part of that America no more, but that did little good. He sighed. The night was quiet, the wind only a whisper in the palm leaves. “Shitty book?” said a voice. False Refuge ~ 139

Alex bolted up and crouched, hands clenched. A chuckle. “Well up. You still got it, looks like. At ease.” It was Morales, Alex realized, but Alex couldn’t see him. Alex peered, turning on the ball of his rear foot. “That’s it, let your eyes adjust.” Straight out from the lanai, in the thick foliage, Alex saw the glint of two eyes level with his. Somehow, Morales had not made a sound to get there. Morales rose from the bushes. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I just wanted to make sure you were alone.” Alex sat on the lounge chair and pushed out a fold-up chair for Morales, who sat. Their silhouettes faced each other in the dark. “Actually, that’s bullshit — I knew you were alone,” Morales said. “Your girl Kanani’s working tonight. She’s hard at work. Of course I would know that. I know everything, right?” “More than anyone else, I’m guessing,” Alex said. “Next time I’ll use the front door, okay?” Morales added a chuckle. Alex thought of offering a drink but the words would not come. “I just wanted to follow up on that, well, admittedly weird episode from the other day,” Morales said. “All right.” “That was a big meeting, with a possible partner who’s looking for a long-term relationship. I can tell you. In order to attract certain investors, partners, whomever, we have to appear sometimes to be something we’re not. Think of it as a brainstorming session, you know, like in an ad agency, or like in the good old dot.com days.” Morales added a chuckle. “Stating the mission. Brand building. That’s all. It’s really on that level.” “I wouldn’t know; I’ve never worked in an ad agency,” Alex said, thinking: What builds this brand is fear — the fear of Terror, which is really fear of any outsider. “And the dot.com days? Not so good, and not so old.” “I know. I’m just saying.” Another chuckle. “More and more people — of competence, especially — will need a haven, a refuge, something to put their faith in, and we’re looking to provide that. Whatever happens it won’t be called Reacton Uni-Corp, of course. Not exactly sexy. We’ll have to come up with something friendly and assuring, something to make Chevrolet False Refuge ~ 140 or iPod or Pampers look like stale peanuts. I’m telling you, Microsoft and Apple, Coca Cola and Ronald Reagan they don’t got a thing on what we got. Who knows, could even attract the churchgoers, the evangelicals, people get scared enough.” “But, you don’t want too many people here.” “No, no, no. Just the right people. Look, Alex, it’s not that we’re actually going to be that way that you heard; our possible partners simply have to know we’re capable of certain approaches. Depending on events. Whether we are this or that is sort of irrelevant. You understand. These are hard times. We’re in a real corner here. Just like you were before you got here. You really have to hustle. Make concessions, make compromises, so that you can get to be where you want to be.” “Is it that way with us KE Colleagues, too?” Alex said. “Come again?” “You treat us the same? You give the appearance you’re something you’re not.” “That’s logical to think. Sure. But the truth is, no one here’s ever been promised any more than a safe haven, so there’s not a lot to be shot down.” Morales held out a hand as if to pat Alex on the knee, but then pulled back. “Look. I know I told you about this place. I led you here. I might have mentioned the possibility of a new identity. Krieger might have. But the truth was I knew little about it either. It’s still a society in the making. But it’s new, and independent, and that’s the huge difference.” “What’s the point of a new identity if all the old associations have changed? If you’re stuck here and the new identity doesn’t matter anyway? It’s a bait-and-switch. The whole idea behind a new identity being, you can go back to the old world as someone else, unbothered.” “Good point. But this can be better, if you see it. The only thing better. Here, the whole society changes its identity — not just the individual.” “I see,” Alex said. “I hope you do. And let’s not forget one thing. You came here on faith, just like me. See? It’s not that we’re at odds, me and you. We’re just zooming along at the same time, with our two takes on this, like cars on a freeway — like all those cars going past Fort Clark.” Morales chuckled at that. “But I just happen to think my car’s a roaring sports car with, you know, the armor of a tank, the payload of a semi, and the fuel mileage of a Segway. Hey, that’s a pretty good pitch. Maybe we’ll use that.” False Refuge ~ 141

“You’ve obviously put your stamp on this place. How did you get so good at it? You were a technical writer.” Morales looked up, at the sky, and Alex saw the white of his teeth. He inhaled but nothing came back out. It was like he was inhaling the sky. He said, his voice higher: “It’s an amazing feeling to find what you love to do. I found that here. Not many get to reach that — artists, creative writers, craftsmen, teachers. Priests maybe. I stumbled on it. I hope you can, too.” “Me too.” “The fact of the matter is, we’re trying to create something that transcends the corrupt old world currently run by America. Something new. Absolute. Maybe even some lives will be spared, in the long run. Children will be born, to us. The coming generation of them will understand it.” “I understand it now,” Alex said. “Do you?” “Yes.” “I hope that means you appreciate it. Because Krieger’s worried about you. But then again he’s worried about everyone. He’s been at this too long, without enough payoff, and his convictions are more, let’s say, bitter. That was a good call of you to volunteer. I think you convinced him with that.” “I didn’t really have a choice. I have to prove myself, right?” “Yes. As do we all. So, that’s set then,” Morales said. His hands pressed at his knees, as if ready to stand. His pitch was over and, for all Alex knew, it was on to the next one. “Want a drink?” Alex said. “I forgot to ask.” “No. Can’t.” Morales was up and standing tall, looking down on Alex, his head blocking out the rare stars. “Do one thing. Be ready, okay.” “I am. Don’t worry.”

July crept on, into its second week. Over the next few days Kanani kept skimming the money and digging for any goods on Krieger Estates and that future corporate state they called, for now, Reacton Uni-Corp. She remained upbeat, even hoping they could find a way to create new identities on their own and flee. They decided they should agree on a contact back in the real False Refuge ~ 142 world, just in case. Stateside was best, someone who had even the slightest pull. Jerry Bateman was the obvious choice — the only one Alex had ever trusted. But it wasn’t just that. It was about a bind he shared with Jerry Bateman. Jerry, he admitted to Kanani, had always made him feel inadequate in moral stature in the way some feel flabby in the presence of a triathlete or a model. Jerry’s lack of irony and cynicism could be humbling. He always did the right thing. And yet Jerry had never succeeded because of it, Alex realized. But what if he could give Bateman something to use? Maybe Jerry could change the game in his favor for once. Meanwhile, Alex became convinced that he was supposed to overhear what was going on in that meeting. That had to be Krieger’s idea. Krieger probably wanted to see how Alex would react. It fit Krieger’s paranoid mindset more than Morales’ smooth and confident cunning. Not that he had expected anything more from Morales than a last ditch, face-to-face pitch in the dark, because Morales was surely thinking he’d already done Alex a huge favor. Alex couldn’t blame Morales for that, or even Krieger for his distrust. Survival was survival. A week passed. Morales and Krieger were hosting more meetings at the Main House and Alex worked them, though now he was posted to the shrubs and flowers out on the perimeter of the yard. Thursday. Another meeting at the Main House — Alex posted again in the bushes. The meeting started just after noon and stretched into the evening until the sun was touching the horizon. Soon-o radioed Alex to stay put and Alex waited, watching the sun sink down in a blaze of orange and a green flash. After a few minutes, Soon-o himself was pushing through the leaves and branches out to Alex. His island skin looked purple in the odd new darkness. Alex nodded a hi. Soon-o said: “Howzit. Hope you got nothing going with the wahine tonight, brudda.” “No. Kanani’s working again,” Alex said. They left within minutes. Soon-o led Alex to a battered old Jeep Cherokee that Soon-o drove straight out the front entrance of Krieger Estates. Alex was out for the first time — outside. But what could he do? Where could he go? Kanani was inside. They passed the Manago Hotel on the old highway and headed north, skirting the lush green slopes of Kona coffee country, now dimming for night. Less than a half hour later they were clearing Kona Town, traveling now on the new upper slope highway that bypassed the town. False Refuge ~ 143

Alex could see the lights of Alii Drive and the tour ships out on the bay. A monstrous slab of an ocean liner loomed out there, stories and stories of sparkles that dwarfed the pier. They passed the marina and the airport and the lush greens of Kona gave way to the bleak lava-flow landscape of the Kohala Coast. This was farther than he’d traveled since he arrived over seven months ago. The wind at his half rolled-down window became a rushing blast. They could see the stars in the clear sky. And the traffic thinned out, the rental sedans giving way to a few worn island pickups and compacts. Along this stretch of coast were some pristine and remote beaches, if you knew the right narrow rocky trail to take among the many that snaked in and out of the scrawny, wind-battered trees and brushes that soldiered on between the lava flows. Soon-o slowed near the 81-mile marker and turned down a bumpy one-laner that ended under a patch of palm trees. The headlights flashed on white surf and the rocky black sand of the beach. Alex and Soon-o got out and stretched their legs, listening to the surf that sounded like sifting, shifting gravel. “Choke snorkeling along here — mo’ bettah,” Soon-o muttered. “There’s one lagoon with Hawaiian sea turtles and they protected, you know.” From the trunk he heaved a small backpack at Alex, who strapped it on. Soon-o led them off into the scrappy woods and Alex focused on his steps so he wouldn’t snag a toe on the jagged lava rocks that poked up along the trail. Soon-o kept his head up. He knew the way in the dark. The branches thickened and brushed at their shoulders, but the constant whooshes of surf told Alex they were parallel to the beach. The dots of lights up ahead. Landscape lights. A grand and airy stucco beach mansion stood within a vast grove of lush bushes and palms. Alex saw groomed pathways, open-air living rooms and barbecues, pools and ponds. The place had more balconies than some hotels. Soon-o had them crouching behind a line of impatiens that formed one edge of the grove. They were now in black shirts, pants, and reef shoes, having stopped along the way to change. On their skin, black camo paint. Soon-o scanned the house with mini binoculars. “Ready?” he said. “Yes. I’ll just follow your lead.” “Then when you going to holster your Glock?” Two 9mm Glock pistols had been in the backpack. Soon-o had his holstered on his belt along with a fishing knife. Alex had left his knife and gun in the backpack. False Refuge ~ 144

“I’m not. I’m not going to be armed,” Alex said. Soon-o’s mini binocs lowered, vanishing into the dark. “You what?” “I made a pact with myself. I’m not. No can. It’s a personal thing. I have my reasons. I won’t bother you with the details.” “Fo’ real? You’re fucking messing, right?” “No. I wish I were.” Soon-o spat into the impatiens. “You’re going in anyway. Get fuckin shot you want. Just watch my back or I’ll cap you myself.” “Okay. I’ll do my best.” They pulled black stocking caps over their heads and headed in. Most lights were on in the house, but they only found one person inside. A wiry little middle-aged guy with a beer belly and a scraggly goatee was hiding in an upstairs bedroom closet, curled up in only his boxers. He had a reporter’s voice recorder tucked into his boxers, turned on. Soon-o pulled the guy out and stomped on the voice recorder, shattering it. The guy was so scared he was shivering and twitching as if they’d doused gasoline on him. He could only hold up a hand and yelp. Alex stood back, watching the hallways and exits from the upstairs mezzanine. Soon-o made the guy change into surf shorts as Soon-o gathered up the pieces of voice recorder and dumped them in his backpack. Soon-o found a snorkel set in the closet and threw that in his backpack. “Listen to me, listen — you, you’re working for Nazis,” the guy said as Soon-o dragged him down the stairs and outside. Alex followed. “Listen, please listen, I know. I’ve been researching them. Listen, you got to listen. Know you have your reasons. You want to start over. Understand. But this, this isn’t the way —” Soon-o thrust the barrel of his Glock into the guy’s mouth, holding it there, and the guy gasped, spitting up drool and blood. They were outside now, on a patio. “Follow me,” Soon-o said. Wheezing, the guy followed Soon-o out toward the beach, out past the landscape lights and spots. Alex followed in a crouch, eyeing the house and grove. They passed the edge of the palms, where a hammock was strung between two trunks. Beyond that, only beach and sand. What a sight this must be during the day, Alex thought. False Refuge ~ 145

The black sand beach had a steep incline here. The surf rolled into it and sucked back into itself. It was a place for dangerous undertows. The guy was looking to Alex now, his head cocked to one side, his eyes glazed over for pleading. Alex looked away. “Pound it,” Soon-o barked and pushed the guy’s face down to the sand. The guy began to sob. He whispered: “Forgive me, Sarah, forgive me. I love you. Forgive me —” Soon-o shoved the guy’s face deeper into the black sand until he gasped and coughed. Soon-o grabbed at Alex’s sleeve. “Your turn — soak him.” “I can’t do that,” Alex said. “I didn’t sign up for this.” He said it quietly, as if talking in a house in which someone was trying to sleep. Soon-o pushed Alex. Alex stumbled backward in the sand, landed on his butt. “Mutherfucka. You know what you’re doing?” The guy watched them from down on his knees, his hands pressed together at his chest, mumbling — or was it praying? “I know what I’m doing,” Alex said, standing. “I’ve thought about it a lot. I feel I have no other choice.” Soon-o grunted from deep in his throat. His shoulders rose and fell. “Some fucking choice. Kay den, you watch my back.” “Okay.” Soon-o forced the reporter guy to put on his snorkel set — fins, mask, snorkel pipe. The guy had gone silent; he moved slowly, deliberately, as if alone putting on a tuxedo for a wedding. Soon-o led him out to the water by his hand, as if he was a child. Alex kept watch on the house and beach but stole glimpses. Soon-o had the guy kneel in the water, so that the surf lapped at his chest. Soon-o planted his feet wide apart behind the guy and stood over him. “I’m supposed to give you this message,” Soon-o said to the guy: “You had your chance. Now it’s too late.” Soon-o thrust the guy head first into the water. The guy didn’t fight much. His arms flapped, the fins kicked in rhythm like he was swimming. The snorkel pipe shot out frantic bursts of air and water. Soon-o planted his thumb over the end of the pipe. The guy floated face down, arms wide out, the surf surging over his head and back. False Refuge ~ 146

Soon-o marched back up to Alex breathing hard. “Know how to swim?” “Not great.” “This part you’re doing anyways. Pull him out far as you can. Use his snorkel you want but remember to put it back on him. Hold him under until he sinks. I’ll keep watch. Don’t fucking drown or you’ll fuck us both over.” The guy’s body was light in the water, like a chunk of Styrofoam. Alex carried him out past the first set of breakers, the waves crashing at them and Alex gasped, for air. Out past the breakers Alex waded, treaded, and he held the guy under, grasping at the hair on the back of his head. “I’m sorry too, Sarah,” he muttered as the body sank. He swam as best he could, hoping the breakers would carry him. Flailing and gasping, he reached the sand about a hundred yards from where he’d gone in. Soon-o met him there. His gun was holstered. He was shaking his head at Alex, who coughed and spat up seawater. “Bad, bad call, brudda,” Soon-o said. “It’s my responsibility.” “Kanani’s a fine girl. You’re fucking this up for the both of you.” “She can handle herself,” Alex said. Thinking — keep her out of this. “You bet she can, that wahine. I seen her operate lots of times. Seen her here.” “Look. I’ll tell Morales about this. You did your job.” Soon-o shrugged. “However you want to play it. Though you did drag the guy out and sink ‘um.” “Whatever. It’s not going to matter —” “Fuck it. Listen.” They crouched behind the crest of black sand, facing back at the house. Two, three men were roaming the beach and the grove, heading in their direction. Soon-o drew his Glock. He glared at Alex, at the backpack holding his gun. “No,” Alex said. “It’s better without.” “Fuck.” Soon-o holstered his gun. “There’s got to be a better way. Right?” “Maybe. This time. Come on.” False Refuge ~ 147

Soon-o led them out. They scurried along the beach until Soon-o found a gully that led to lava rock caves and knee-high streams of cold fresh water, which they navigated on their stomachs. At one point something nudged Alex. It was a sea turtle, flapping its limbs. Soon-o led them through the brushes and paths, muttering as if reciting directions. After a half hour he got them to the highway, which they crossed and they kept going inland, north again, traversing the black lava rock in the black night until they came to a side road. An old Honda coupe sat in a gravel turnout. In bushes near the car they stripped off their gear and packs, scrubbed off their black camo paint, and left it in a pile for some other KE goon to pick up. “Try drive,” Soon-o said to Alex and tossed him the keys to the Honda. “All right.” Alex started up the Honda. They rode a couple miles in silence. Soon-o shook his head twice. “Nice work getting us out of there,” Alex said as they passed the airport. “Had to — no gun. Right? Haven’t used the old trail skills for years.” “See how that works,” Alex said. “If we would’ve gone for the firepower back there you might be dead too. Instead of just me now.” False Refuge ~ 148

NINETEEN

Alex and Soon-o parked the Honda in Captain Cook and hiked back up into Krieger Estates. Soon-o, exhausted, grunted goodnight and wandered off to his bungalow. Once inside his, Alex didn’t wake Kanani. He rolled in next to her and slept far better than he’d expected. And why not slumber? He’d already put his head on the chopping block. They slept late, pushing noon. Alex woke rejuvenated, recharged, like a man who wakes up to realize he’s finally recovered from a long illness. Every moment counted now. He would live them to the fullest. He made their best coffee — a rare 100-percent Kona he and Kanani had been saving for their release from KE. He cut up half a mango, spooned out white rice from the fridge and poured a guava juice, and brought the coffee, mango, rice and juice to Kanani on a tray in bed where she sat up, yawning. Her eyebrows lowering. She had questions. A lot of them. “Just eat,” Alex said. She ate little bites, traded sips of coffee and juice, eyeing him. “Killa coffee.” “Yes.” A bite of rice, and one of mango. “We can talk in here,” she said. “They’re not listening — place isn’t bugged. Found that out on my own. I’m good that way.” “I know. Great. That’s good to know.” She offered him a piece of mango. He shook his head. She said: “Good news?” “No,” he said. “None. There is no accountability here. There are no new identities to be had here. There probably never was for us. There’s only righteousness combined with exploitation, the same oppression of old. The subjugation. I’ve let myself be conned. There’s not even a silver lining, as far as I can tell. After last night, I know this for sure.” Kanani had listened with her arms dead to her sides, the tray resting steady on her lap. Now Alex told her, in detail, what he’d been through last night. “I conned you, too,” he continued, “though I didn’t mean to. Because I brought you here. I wanted to have hope in something. Something new. Something, some way, that had never been tried before. Some awe-inspiring combination of conviction and accountability. I’m learning a hard lesson now. You can’t just run. Can’t keep seeking a new reality. If you do that it only becomes a new and, in our case, far worse version of the old, established reality. The sad truth is? False Refuge ~ 149

The old wrongs need to be addressed, not forsaken. That’s the lesson here. I can’t run. I too need to be accountable.” “You saying you shouldn’t have gone AWOL? No. Fuck that. Fuck them.” One skinny strap of her nighty top had fallen off her shoulder. He replaced it. “I’m not saying that. I’m saying, what you run from you can never really beat until you face it dead on. Yourself. No one can do it for you. So, I don’t blame you for blaming me, or for wanting to leave. In fact I want you to go. We can sneak you out. It won’t harm my situation. I don’t care what happens to me. I can fend for myself.” “I’m staying.” “Listen. Soon-o mentioned you. Last night. Afterward. He said I was fucking this up for you. And you know what? He was right.” At the mention of Soon-o her head cocked forward and she glared, more riled than when he’d said he wanted her to go. Her mouth opened. She snapped it shut. “That really got to you,” Alex said. “You work with them, right? With Soon-o, and Morales even. I’m guessing with the both of them. You would have to.” She glared at the ceiling and shut her eyes, holding her head back. She said: “Yes, of course, with what they have me doing. But it’s not like I’m in cahoots with them. In bed with them. Whatever. I’m just one messenger girl. They keep me out of the loop, that’s for sure. Fuck, I’m just doing what I need to do to survive.” “It’s okay. I know. I’m the one who brought you here.” “Soon-o, he’s just surviving too. They saved his ass by letting him in. You know what he told me? This is the only real conviction there is — ‘kiss the ass of the man and make the man the man.’ That’s what he said.” “I understand that. But, you’re different. They know how much you mean to me. And me to you. They could use you. Try to get at you. Divide us.” “Soon-o, he isn’t like Morales,” Kanani continued. “He doesn’t think much of Morales. Morales, he’s all about the power. Use anyone. Get to them any way he can. Offer you anything. Promise you anything.” “Yes. Like Krieger —” She grabbed his arm with both hands, her eyes popping open as if she’d just heard a burglar in the house. “Alex. I didn’t want you to know I was working with them because I didn’t want False Refuge ~ 150 you to worry. But, look, I’m just thinking, maybe their interest in me will help us in the long run. Maybe we can use them.” Her hands loosened and they found his hand, and she stroked the top of his hand, his knuckles, adding a chuckle. “Though, I have to say, it’s nice to be finally wanted here.” Alex pulled his hand away. “No. It’s too late. You have to go.” “I’m staying. I told you.” “I don’t want you to.” “Yes, you do,” she said. They sat in silence. Stalemate. He didn’t fight it. He watched her inhale the rest of her mango, rice, juice and coffee as if she’d just been told she’d be riding on a bus overnight without eat or drink. She handed him the tray and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. He set the tray on the floor. She sat on the edge of the bed, thinking. He went into the kitchen to wash the dishes, and came back to find her in the exact same position. Her hair was in a loose ponytail. She yanked it tight and said: “I might have goods on them. Something we can use. Let me keep looking. I don’t want to tell you what yet. If they take you, interrogate, whatever, maybe you shouldn’t know —” “Right. Good thinking.” He lifted her hand and kissed it. “You would’ve made a good little front-line soldier, my dear.” “Would have? What ya think I have been?” Alex had one day off. He didn’t hunker down in the bungalow. Why show them he was spooked? He and Kanani strolled the grounds, did a little laundry, surfed the Internet in the KE library as they often did. Colleagues he didn’t know offered smiles and nods, while others he’d known walked clear of him staring at their feet. This told Alex who he had become, how it was playing out. He was the young man with terminal cancer, the dimwitted murderer on death row with only days to go. The poor man who’d expire before the month of July. The next morning, nine a.m. Back on duty. Alex entered the guards’ office to get his posting for that day. No one was in. The office was a simple one-window room sporting two desks with computers, a cheap teal futon sofa, a large whiteboard of postings, and a wall of shelves for equipment. An old poster for Primo beer hung on the one blank wall. Alex sat on the futon facing the whiteboard and stared at the postings, as if their patterns would tell him something. His name was nowhere to be found. False Refuge ~ 151

A rage rose up in his chest, not at the fact of his erasure but at the banality of it. So that’s the way it starts? Just wipe him off the schedule? Like some new supermarket checker who wasn’t cutting it? Was there so little respect? The rage surged into his hands, seizing them, and he had to flex his fingers to work out the swelling heat. What really pissed him off about that foul job with Soon-o? Morales didn’t bother going. He had expected Morales to be there, somehow. Take responsibility for it. But Morales was already growing untouchable, like Krieger. Let the poor grunts do the dirty work. Alex stood and paced in a circle, exhaling the heat of the rage. He sat down. It was better this way, he told himself. Morales was only steeling him, making him more defiant. He sat back, pressing his spine hard against the futon cushion until the wooden supports dug into his back. Let Morales himself carry him out on this sofa. Fuck them, as Kanani said. His feet had planted flat to the floor. His fists were balled. Minutes passed like this. The door opened with a sharp clank. Alex started, like a man in an examination room too long and the doctor enters. Morales ambled in and shut the door behind him. Morales. In blue slippers, green camo surf shorts, a gray tank top with Hang Loose on the front. Alex was in the same position. Morales did not flinch seeing him, as if he was that very doctor expecting to find the patient waiting. Of course he knew Alex was there. “Hey, Alex,” he said and sat on the futon next to Alex, leaving an inch or two between them. Alex said nothing. Morales exhaled from deep within, releasing the whiff of something strong — not alcohol but sweet and sour, like an elixir. Could be prune juice, or even cough syrup. They were like two strangers riding in an uncomfortable bus. Morales’ hands hung off his knees. The whiteboard looming before them. “Well. You know what you’re doing,” Morales said, releasing more aroma, “so I don’t have to tell you what it looks like. Basically, you’re telling Krieger to go fuck himself. You have no problem taking all the benefits of our community, but you, in turn, won’t offer the full service required of you. Now, you could say the two don’t match, I know, I know. The service being far greater. Our social contract is skewed. But not in the long run is it. No. Not if you have faith. Anyway, Alex, we’ve gone over all that. And you have again and again in your head, of that I’m sure.” Morales let out a chuckle, his stomach shuddering. False Refuge ~ 152

“You know what this is?” he continued. “A contest of convictions. A struggle. Because of the shit back home, we are all stepping out, creating a new way. So who’s going to trust their convictions more? You, in not using a gun? AWOL was a great first step. But I think you’re going in the wrong direction. I offer a more powerful way. Krieger does. He offered me the means. And Kanani? How long is she going to trust you? She looks out for herself. She’s really got the stuff, doesn’t she?” “More than you know.” Another chuckle from Morales, this one from lower in his gut. “In any case. Funny thing is, Krieger actually admires your stance. Thinks it’s fucking noble and we should all be a little nobler around here. Not in the way you’re doing it, though. A warrior who refuses to fight? That doesn’t happen much in history. It certainly doesn’t happen twice with the same guy.” To Alex’s wonder, the hot blood had cooled and settled throughout his limbs, giving him a new calm strength. His lungs seemed twice as large and he breathed with ease. “Let me make this clear — it’s not about the gun.” He didn’t have to think about these words; they came like the easy breathing. “It’s about what I’m supposed to do with the gun. It’s about the people who want me to do their dirty work for them. Kill for them. For their cause. At my expense. ‘Beware not the warrior, but the one who retains him’ — isn’t that a saying? Anyway I’m not a soldier anymore.” “Now you just told me to fuck off.” Alex shrugged. “That’s the way you see it. What you should have seen was my whole point in coming here. I wasn’t going to be just another pawn for the wrong war. Let them fight their own war, with their own people. Put their lovely daughters in fatigues if their war means so much to them. Tax their own ‘haves’ for the cost instead of us ‘have-nots.’ They can afford it more than us. But they can’t afford to fight the fight themselves, can they? Cheney scored something like five deferments during Vietnam, yet he’s the biggest hawk there is. To me that’s beyond contempt. There’s no word black enough for it. There’s nothing like shared sacrifice now, and there wouldn’t be, not even for the right cause.” Alex paused to stare at Morales, who stared straight ahead, a temple vein pulsating. “Sound familiar? You told me all this, back on base, over beers. And how many times? If you can recall all that and get why I still believe in it, and how it applies to anywhere, and any regime, then you should not be offended. Or surprised.” Morales sighed. He let his head lay back. “Alright, Alex, alright. I get you.” False Refuge ~ 153

“Alex? Suddenly you keep calling me by my name. Why now? It’s not because you’re Sanchez again, so don’t act like you are.” Morales head slumped back down, and he peered at Alex with pinched eyes, as if he had a great hangover and was looking into sunlight. “Who was he?” Alex said. “The guy last night.” “Not who you think. He was a journalist — an investigative reporter. Environmentalist. Independent media.” The blood surged back into Alex’s fists. Morales heaved another sigh. “Let me give you a bigger picture,” he continued. “You know how big the Big Island is — the other islands combined almost fit twice inside this one. But do you also know there’s almost no one living in the whole southern half of this island, and for good reason — it’s mostly lava flows and rainforests and ancient sites and coral and all the rest. But all that can be controlled. We have machines for that now. Tractors. Dynamite. Engineers. South of here, it’s all prime property for development and settlement. People don’t like the idea, obviously. This reporter, I’ll spare you his name, has been building a story against us, was going to show how we’re planning to buy up most of the island and develop it and then defend it at any cost, even if that meant violence, or revolt against our criminal mainland federal government. He would expose our independence. But what this reporter didn’t even know was, we won’t even have to revolt to get our way. As a corporation, we could find a way to do it without the violence. So, in that sense we’re really not that different from you yourself, are we?” Alex said nothing. He snorted a bitter laugh. “That house was not the reporter’s place, of course,” Morales said. “Some progressive millionaire was putting him up because we’d been putting the screws on. But when you’re on an island you can’t really ever hide. Can you?” “No, you can’t.” “Any case, it should look like he drowned snorkeling.” Alex wondered if Soon-o had reported they’d been chased off. He let it go. What did it matter now? This was going nowhere that could help him or anyone else. He stood and faced Morales from the middle of the room. Morales stood, pushing himself up from the armrest with another great sigh, his elbows shaking as if he weighed 400 hundred pounds. He would have to go around Alex if he wanted the door. He straightened and said: “I wouldn’t make a run for it, if I were you. Krieger, he likes False Refuge ~ 154 your brand of defiance. Amuses him. That’s what’s keeping you safe. Besides, there’s really nowhere to run. We got everybody on the take, probably more outside the ranch than we have inside. So stay put. That goes for Kanani, too.” “Don’t bring her into this. None of this is her fault.” Alex’s fists squeezed up again. One of Morales’ eyelids twitched at the sight. He flashed a grin, his teeth glossy as if brushed with a polish. “Wait, so, I’m the only guy you would use violence on, is that it?” “That’s not my way. I told you.” Morales shook his head, snickering. “Krieger still thinks we can bring you around. Me, I know I made a mistake. A big one.” “Yeah. And so did I.”

Noon. Back at the bungalow. Alex found Kanani out on the lanai. She sat in a ball on one of the lounge chairs, her knees up to her shoulders, her face thrust between her legs. Sobbing. She grimaced at him and snickered, wiping her tears away with her thumbs. She uncurled herself and a crumpled page of paper tumbled out. She handed the page to him. He sat on the lounge chair and straightened out the page. It was a photocopy, a microfiche of a brief newspaper article from the late eighties. The headline read:

ELDERLY STROKE VICTIM DIES FROM FALL

In one corner was a photo of a smiling Hawaiian woman in happier days, a flower behind one ear. The story reported that a Lani Lee, age 78, had fallen from the upper-story balcony of an apartment in one of Honolulu’s poor neighborhoods. Ms. Lee may have become disoriented because of a recent stroke. Alex looked to Kanani. “Tutu wahine,” Kanani said. “My grandma. She was all I had left. My family all gone, drunk, in jail. She raised me, my tutu. She my mama. But I was young. That stroke, it took so much out of her. It was tough, so tough. I was young. We couldn’t afford care. I wanted to go to this party. Out Waimanalo. On the beach. This was on Oahu. All my friends were going. I couldn’t explain to tutu how much I wanted to go because she couldn’t speak. She just kept looking at me with False Refuge ~ 155 those same eyes that always said yes to me. That’s what I told myself. So I went. I had tutu nice and safe in a chair with the TV on, the fan going. It was supposed to be an afternoon, the party. It went on into the evening. I felt alive there, so free, so I kept partying.” Kanani gasped, sucking up new tears. “I found tutu. When I got back. She was in the alley. No one had even seen it.” Kanani’s arms tensed up to her sides like she was freezing cold. “I never let tutu out on the lanai ‘cause it had a bad railing. One of those shitty cinder block apartment houses, you know? They all over Honolulu. The tourists don’t see them. Landlord, they could give a fuck.” Alex was wondering something horrible. He didn’t say it. He stared back, trying to come up with something comforting. Kanani gasped again. “Don’t look like that. I know what you’re thinking. Did she jump? Why would she jump? No. No.” She sprang and clutched Alex around the upper arms, squeezing tight, digging her face into his chest, crying into his chest hairs and muffling herself. For Kanani, the survivor, that was the most horrible thought — giving up on surviving. Alex couldn’t imagine Kanani’s guilt. How she had held that in. He understood now. That’s how she’d descended into her wild life. Why she refined her constant survival mode. And yet in her remorse, in her suffering, she was more like him than he ever could have imagined. This was that mysterious magnet that had brought them together in Kona. “I’m sorry,” Alex said, “I know how —” “How could you?” Kanani shrieked. “I left her there. Alone. With reruns of game shows on? What the fuck? Who am I?” She slapped at his chest. It stung but he let her. “Neglect is way too tame a word for it. And the fucking police, they never even followed up.” “Maybe they figured you suffered enough. There are procedures for that. They’re just not written down, into law ...” Kanani snatched the page from Alex’s hand. She glared at him. She handed it back. “Turn the page over.” Alex did. Someone had written in ink, in thick blue caps:

YOU CAN STILL MAKE UP FOR IT

Morales and Krieger. It didn’t matter which one. Maybe it was both of them. “It’s a test. They’re testing you,” Alex said. False Refuge ~ 156

“But how could they know?” Kanani said, her voice hardening up. Coming around now. “And why even bring it up? It’s not like they could have me put in jail.” “No. They don’t want you in jail. They want you somewhere far worse. They want you with them. Don’t take this the wrong way. They see promise in you, Kanani. I wouldn’t even be surprised if they know about that money you’ve been skimming. Maybe they even are testing you that way. I know it might sound twisted, but it’s not, not to them. Because, they believe in what they think is a new way of surviving. The problem is, it’s really an old way.” Kanani was nodding her head. She crawled off Alex, listening. He patted her thigh as she sat next to him. “Meantime, they create confusion. Fear. To divide us.”

That evening. July 13. Alex went to the KE library, as he often did at night. Two long tables of Internet PCs lined a windowless corner of the library, the walls faux-bamboo paneling and black- and-white prints of old coffee country. He got a PC in the very corner, facing out so no one could see his screen. He was sure they were watching him but he often came here to browse the news, and so that’s what he did. For about ten, twenty minutes. Meanwhile he opened a browser window for an old yahoo email account he hadn’t used in at least a year. When he was finished, he erased all browser history files of him having visited the account. And that was his first email to Jerry Bateman, back home. False Refuge ~ 157

TWENTY

Alex’s eyes flashed open, his heart pounding. In the dark. Men around their bed. “Who’s there? What do you want?” he shouted as thick hands seized his arms and legs, a knee into his throat. Kanani screaming. A hood yanked over his head. A black hood. His hot panicked breath filled it, the sweat rolling off his nose and jaw. Plastic cuffs cut at his wrists, behind his back. He was naked; he slept naked. They carried him off. Kanani screaming. “Not her, just me,” he shouted, “Not her.” Gasping the words. Think, Alex. Don’t fight this too much. Save your energy. Out the front door. The cool breeze. No Kanani? “Please leave her. This is between us.” No answer. Into a car trunk head first, the hands cradling his head. They’re careful with him — for now. The car sped off, his fingers grasping behind his back at nothing but coarse trunk carpet. Over the din of the road he heard laughing and speed metal blaring in the car. A bumpy road, his hip banging around and his shoulder knocking at metal. Keep your head down, Soldier. Steady, calm. Some time later. The black hood still roped around his neck. No breeze yet a uniform chill, as if underground. A light, coming from above. He was sitting on a floor with his back against a wall, leaning on one shoulder so as not to squash his cuffed arms. The walls and floor a rough, patchy concrete. The air stale, from dried sweat and blood and a sour reek like urine. He was in some sort of cell. So be it. He expected nothing less from them. His car ride had only been fifteen minutes at the most so he had to be on KE land. The situation? Past midnight. Into Friday now. July 16. Two days had passed since his encounter with Morales in the guards’ office. Alex and Kanani had made the most of what they had left. They ate tender Ahi and held hands and danced to the hula band by the pool and she let him make love to her for the first time in weeks. He squeezed his eyes shut and imagined Kanani in the golden sunset light, her head cocked to one side, the acne scars on her cheeks the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. Her little lava flows, she had called them. Meanwhile he sent that first email to Jerry Bateman. Contact made. The emails back and forth. He learned Bateman had already been here and was hot on his trail, too, like some goddamn jarhead rifleman on speed. Fucking amazing, that guy, his sense of duty. Now that was Accountability. Jerry Bateman for President, False Refuge ~ 158 that’s what they needed. And now Bateman has vowed to come back for him. A sharp black rush of fear and guilt seized Alex’s brain, pressing at his eyeballs. Bateman was really putting his dick on the table here. The only hope was they didn’t know about the emails. Still, they couldn’t know it was Jerry Bateman coming. So much depended on how old Bateman played it. But where was he now? The air was thickening under the black hood. Alex bit at the coarse fabric and tugged, to change the airflow — A scraping sound. Scratching. From no more than twenty feet away. A cockroach? Not here. Fingernails. Toenails? “Who’s there?” Alex said. A rat? He pulled in his legs and bent over, his nose between his legs to protect his genitals. Listening. The scraping was repeating a pattern — four dots together and two spaced out, as if Morse code. Alex kept listening, nodding along, recalling his code alphabet. Four dots together, two spaced out ... Was it the start of a Hello? A pause. Alex tapped and scraped Hello with the side of his right big toe. He paused. In return he got what sounded like: No, Hell Now. A giggle rippled from across the room, but then came a piercing wail. “Are you hurt?” Alex said. No response. “Who are you?” A dry gag, and another, like someone who had to sneeze, and then, sobs. Alex’s heart thumped. Cold strips of sweat drenched his forehead, his upper lip. “Kanani? Is it you? Oh, please, no.” “No,” grunted the voice — the voice of a man. And the voice went silent again.

Alex and the man heard muffled laughing and footsteps. From outside. The clank of a lock and the squeal of what sounded like a wheel handle spun, confirming where Alex was. He was down below KE, in the bunkers. The laughing had stopped. The door flung open, clanged against the wall. The footsteps of four or five at least. The scuffling and panting of dogs. Alex pulled his legs in tight, bent over. A dog sniffed and licked at his knee. False Refuge ~ 159

“Ah, fuckin reeks here, brah,” one guard muttered. “Shut fuck up,” grunted another. Alex knew the voices. These were the younger guards they were recruiting. Island criminals. Escaped from prison, some of them. Murderers. Addicts. “Get up, both of you,” shouted another. Alex heaved himself up using the wall to steady himself. His head spun and he swayed but he was up. “Get up, get fuck up,” two were screaming at the other prisoner, but the other only laughed. Thuds, groans. They were kicking at him. He laughed harder. The dogs growled, moving in. “Wait,” Alex shouted. “Please. Let me do it.” A pause. Out of respect, perhaps? Alex could hope so. Morales might have told them who he was. Soon-o. “Thanks,” Alex muttered and felt his way over using his toes as feelers, the dogs nudging at them with cold noses. He placed his leg at the chest of the other prisoner. The other held onto it, grasping like a child on a bottle. “Just do as they say,” Alex said. “All right? Can you understand? I’m with you.” A sad whimper. Alex lifted his leg, and then his body, using his back against the wall as support, and the other rose from the floor along with him, holding on. They stood side by side, their shoulders leaning into each other’s. “Move out,” barked a guard and each got a stiff jab to the back. No cane or bat jabbed like that. That was cold steel.

Another car ride, and a hike. A cool breeze and the familiar slapping of palm leaves, the chirps and bleats of island birds and frogs. Then, strangely, the breeze and island chatter faded out even though they were still outside. His breathing seemed to make a faint echo. It was as if he had been led into a giant bucket standing on its side. The black hood was still on. He had been left to stand in one spot. Jagged lava rock poked at his bare feet and he had to keep lifting and resetting them, like a kneading old cat. He heard the crunch of footsteps and soft speech that also echoed. A light clinked on — bright white through the hood. “Stay still,” barked a voice and footsteps neared. The neck rope pulled tight and loosened and Alex’s hood came off. He folded forward, shielding his eyes from the light. Spotlights. He let his eyes adjust, peering around. He was standing in what seemed to be a clearing of some sort, though he could make out no trees or False Refuge ~ 160 bushes. About fifty feet away, at the other end of the clearing, the other prisoner was curled up on the ground. A guard in a stocking cap mask bounded out and kicked at him yelling, “Get fuck up now!” The other rose, pushing up from all fours. His hood was off. His face was puffy and red and splotched with dried blood. His mustache was coming back in thin sickly streaks of hairs, like missed smears, and he had a patchy beard. His head was shaved. Freeman. In the same soiled tank top and boxers. He squinted and blinked, peering around. He stopped on Alex and kept blinking, as if hoping to make Alex’s image go away. “It’s okay. Just do as they say,” Alex said. Freeman pointed at him, grimacing. A sick laugh rose out of him and he held his belly as if it hurt. Drool hung from his mouth, swinging as a string in the light. Alex’s eyes had adjusted. He looked around, getting his bearings. The sky was pitch black. Too black. No stars? How could that be? “Stay put,” someone yelled at him, and it echoed. And he understood why. They were in a lava tube. A cave. A massive one. These were all over the island. No one knew how many there were. They stretched far and deep into the land, into the earth, and inside them the ancients had hidden from foreign invaders. On Alex’s end a wet green moss rose halfway up the walls. This told him they weren’t far from outside. He glanced behind him and saw a thinner purple darkness, coming from what had to be the opening of the cave. He now made out silhouettes among the lava rocks and walls — guards in black, and all around them, all wearing stocking cap masks. The guards had machine guns and pistols, pointing at him and Freeman. Freeman’s eyes had gone glossy, with sadness. He sucked up the drool. “No. Wait. You?” he shouted to Alex. Alex gave a little wave. “Yeah. Hey. That’s it.” Recognition was good, Freeman. Now get your bearings. A guard each strode over to Alex and Freeman and handed each a 9 mm Glock pistol. Alex held his by the end of the butt, letting it hang as if it had been dragged in shit. “Better grab onto it,” the guard said, backing up. Alex and Freeman stared at each other, the guns dangling at their sides. False Refuge ~ 161

“No, no way,” Alex muttered. “It’s duel time. Raise your weapons.” Alex eased the butt upright, into the crook of his thumb and forefinger, and he raised his gun halfway so that it aimed at just before Freeman’s feet. Freeman was doing the same, nodding along. “No way to hold a weapon, Soldier,” someone said. Jeers followed. Alex spoke to Freeman, soft yet firm, as if they were alone, his head craning forward: “Listen to me. Don’t do it. Don’t let them make you. Take it away from them. Okay? Can you?” Freeman nodded. “Take aim!” someone shouted. “If we both refuse then we won’t have given in to them. They won’t have won, will they —” “Said take aim!” Freeman was shaking his head — no, they would not win, Alex. “Take aim or we fire!” “Don’t go to the gun. Refuse it. It’s the ultimate resistance, Freeman. Right? Think about it. If everyone did that, then what could the bastards do to us? To every single person. Nothing. They would be outnumbered. And we would win. In the end. It’s not idealistic, or naïve. It’s the simplest, most powerful tool we have as humans, and it’s been right in front of us all along.” Chuckles rippled among the guards. Alex continued: “Then we would have to find other ways to settle differences. Right? It only needs to happen in great numbers. By all of us. Everyone, rising up, providing examples that many more will follow and the movement will be exponential. Many could die, yes, but there are only so many bullets in the world and only so many willing to use them against the helpless and yet more defiant than those bastards can ever be. Nothing stronger than a boycott, a full strike. I see you listening. Right? I’m not crazy —” Freeman was still shaking his head. Alex glanced over. The submachine guns were raised on them, trained on them. They’d have to be good shots or they’d strike the lava rock, and you wouldn’t want ricochets in here. But they were good shots. That’s why they were welcome here, rewarded here. That’s why they now got to have their fun with the lost causes. “Last chance. Take aim,” someone shouted. Freeman aimed his Glock with both hands, wrapping his left hand around his right trigger hand. He leaned forward, knees bent. False Refuge ~ 162

“Goddamn you,” Alex muttered. He raised his gun grasping at the butt with both hands but kept his index finger off the trigger, resting along the barrel. The sweat running down his forearms in long hot slivers. He spoke faster. “Don’t you see? It’s the start of something. A real start. A true break with history. A real revolution. Not more of the same —” “They’re both fucking nuts,” someone said and many laughed. Alex went on: “You know what I’m saying. We won’t have new identities, Freeman — we’ll have finally fulfilled our real ones —” “Alright, Gandhi, that’s it. You get a five count,” shouted the guard. “Five ...” Freeman’s eyes bulged but his arms steadied and his finger found the trigger cage. “Four ...” “Three ...” Fuck. Alex’s finger found the trigger. Freeman’s head and chest were thick and white and easy to sight. “Two ... “ Alex stood up straight, chest out, not caring that he was naked. His heart had calmed, and a sensation like warm water rushed through his body. Understanding. Or was it peace? His finger left the trigger. “One ...” Nice and steady, Freeman. Hit me right in the heart, please. Please. Kanani — I loved you. I love you — “Fire!” Freeman swung his gun upside down and rammed it into his mouth and fired. It clicked. No round. He squeezed the trigger. No round. He squeezed again, stumbling backward. Nothing, nothing. He landed on his back and kept squeezing, his legs kicking. Alex aimed down at the lava rock and squeezed his trigger, again and again. Nothing. No rounds. They were laughing at Freeman, howling and pointing, gasping from the hilarity. “Man that sucked,” someone said. “Shoulda gone with the bullets,” said another. Alex glared at the guards, pivoting around. “Did I pass?” he grunted, licking at his lips from a bitter taste in his throat. No one had heard him. But it wasn’t meant for them. False Refuge ~ 163

Two guards held Freeman by the arms. Laughing, they thrust him up by his wrists as if he was the prizefighter who just KO’d to win a prizefight. Others howled and cheered, a couple lifting cans of beer to their mouths, cigarettes. The dogs rushed in past Alex and barked and jumped around Freeman, growling and showing teeth and snapping at his feet. Freeman, dancing for them, had his mouth hung wide open like he wanted to cry or scream, but no sound came out. Alex’s shoulders felt heavy, like he was wearing a backpack of rocks. He slumped and lowered himself to his knees, letting the jagged rock cut into them. The guards ordered the dogs off. They turned Freeman around, facing away from Alex. Freeman’s arms found his sides, and his shoulders squared. And they marched him off, leading him into the blackest, darkest end of the cave. A guard was coming over to Alex with the black hood. The last thing Alex saw before they pulled the hood on was Freeman’s white square back fading into that pitch black darkness, like a bag of concrete sinking into a deep lake at night, sinking down, down and deeper still until it would find the bottom of everything, and nothing at all. False Refuge ~ 164

TWENTY-ONE

An hour later. Outside somewhere. The black hood still on, but no handcuffs. After another jarring trunk ride they had led Alex to what felt like a cot. He lay flat on his back in the dark, waiting. Still naked. He heard no voices. No footsteps. Still dazed, he breathed deep, letting his heart rate calm. Another fifteen minutes passed. The rhythm of the palm leaves flapping above, the fragrant mix of hibiscus and vines and plumeria, the cool breezes passing over his temples — it all seemed so familiar the way it blended together. He could untie the rope around his neck, he realized. He pulled the hood off. He had to chuckle as he looked around. They’d left him on his own lanai, in the lounge chair. He scrambled inside to find Kanani on the floor at the base of the bed, clenching a kitchen cleaver. She dropped it and wrapped around him and knocked him to the bed, kissing him and feeling him for wounds at the same time, frantic like a mother monkey grooming a baby gone astray. “I’m okay, okay,” he said between kisses. “Didn’t harm me. Not physically.” “Me neither. They just left me here, the fuckers. Rather gone with you.” “No, you wouldn’t.” “Tell me about it?” “Later. Right now we need sleep. Can’t go far without it.” He showered. They kept all the blinds shut and slept clinging to each other. They woke after the sun had set again, and it was like being in another windowless room. Alex didn’t mind. In here, with her, he was still free. They had some eggs and spam left. He fixed her that. They sat at the little metal table off the kitchen and he told her about the lava tube, sparing no details, and Kanani wrung her hands with white knuckles and wanted to interrupt him, the anger rising up in her, so he popped her open a Kona lager to take the edge off. She sucked it down. He opened another, and one for himself. “Funny thing is?” he said. “The worse it got, the stronger I seemed to feel.” “What? They wanted to scare the living shit out of you. You know that, right?” She waved a hand at him. “What you do, eat magic mushrooms? Smoke the paka lolo.” “No. It’s just the way I feel.” False Refuge ~ 165

“Know why they did that to you? Exactly because you won’t use a gun. Like with those Arabs in that Iraq prison — they make them fake the sex with each other because that’s exactly what those Muslims scared of the most.” “Abu Ghraib, yes,” Alex said. “They were playing with me. Recruits blowing off steam. Morales and Krieger had no objections, I’m sure. They want their new grunts hating the enemy, dehumanizing him. Behavior like that comes from the top down even when it’s not directly ordered. Definitely. It’s the maximum expression of the leaders’ so-called values.” “And Morales and Krieger? What about them?” “Oh, they’re not done with me. Don’t think they’ve even really started.” Kanani was glaring at Alex. She stomped off and came back with a small backpack, which she plunked down onto the table. It was Alex’s daypack. “How did you get that?” “How you think, uh? Found a way to steal it. Everything’s in it, too, check um out — even your Palm Pilot thingy.” She kicked off her flip-flops (slippers, she called them), set out hiking shoes at her feet and pulled on hiking socks with a grimace, as if they were made of steel wool. “Well? We got the sleep, the food. Let’s go.” “No. We can’t yet —” Kanani slapped him, hard against the jaw. “You dumb fucking haole. Listen up. We’re going. I took your stuff.” Alex shrugged, rubbing at his jaw. “They don’t care about my pack.” He pointed to his head. “This, that’s what they care about. Hearts and minds. And if they wanted to harm you, they would have already. Sure, they might have used you to get to me, but now they know there’s nothing they can make me do. Fact, they’d probably give you a second chance, if you were eager for it.” “Eager?” Kanani muttered, staring at the floor. “About as eager as a gecko riding a mongoose. I know what a second chance means and I don’t like it.” “I love you,” Alex said. Kanani’s lips had pressed together, and she stared up at him with hard eyes. “Then you’ll go with me. Right now,” she said, sliding her socked feet into the hiking shoes. “We’ll need water. Couple empty bottles out on the lanai.” Standing and sighing, wobbling in the new shoes, she pushed through the vertical blinds out to the lanai and pushed open the door, leaving Alex alone False Refuge ~ 166 with his pack. A small black nylon Adidas day hiking pack. All he’d had left was in there. His Palm Pilot. The rest, he couldn’t even remember. It had all seemed so precious once. Now he’d throw out most of it. All he needed was water, food, a basic first aid kit. It seemed like so long ago when he’d been on the run. AWOL? Before it had sounded so ominous. Now it was just a bland acronym. He had changed, he realized. He wasn’t running after some unattainable, unknowable pipe dream any more. A new identity? Who was he kidding? Kanani stumbled back in through the blinds, panting and wheezing and holding her mouth. Alex caught her. She dropped to her knees grasping at her chest. “You’re hyperventilating. Panic attack. Breathe deeper, more even,” Alex said, holding her steady by the shoulders. “That’s it, there. What is it? What’s wrong?” She pointed out to the lanai. “Be … careful,” she gasped and lowered to all fours, inhaling, exhaling, fighting the urge to vomit. He knew what that meant. He’d seen it too many times before. First, he shut off the inside light to adjust his eyes. He stood in the middle of the room, peering through the vertical blinds flailing and flapping in the breeze. But it was too dark out there. Kanani choked back coughs and scampered into the bathroom. He grabbed a thick metal maglite off the kitchen counter, reminding himself that this was not a weapon any more, not for him. And out he went, into the breeze that was cooler than he’d felt in months. He saw the bare feet first, and then the legs. A figure lay on the lounge chair, in the same spot where he had been left early that morning. On its back, facing up as if taking a nap. The white skin glowed blue in the dark, so bright it helped him see. He kept the flashlight off. He tiptoed closer. The legs were together and the hands met over the stomach, fingers intertwined. Freeman. In a tank top and boxers. Alex felt the pulse, to be sure. It was cold, but not from water, or a freezer, or even from having been dead a while. It was the same chill of that lava tube, and it seemed to pass on through Alex like an electric current; goose bumps rippled up his forearms and he had to rub them warm. He lowered to his knees and drew closer. Freeman’s eyes were shut, his jaw was slack and his mouth parted as if he might be snoring. It was like a still photo of a man sleeping a peaceful nap. Alex had never seen a corpse this serene. Kanani had peeked out; now Alex heard her puking again inside in the bathroom. Freeman had no major wounds on his front side. Heaving a shoulder into Freeman’s ribs, Alex nudged the corpse onto its side. Nothing on back either. Freeman had the dark circles under his eyes and the False Refuge ~ 167 same scrapes and bruises, and that was it. An autopsy might have revealed an overdose, poison, or some other shock to the system, yet Alex wouldn’t be surprised if there was no external cause. It was as if they had simply worn Freeman down and out. Faced with the unending darkness of that lava tube he’d simply expired, drained of the will. Flutters of nausea surged in Alex’s stomach. He gritted his teeth. “You’re better off,” he muttered. Back inside Kanani was brushing her teeth. Alex slid the lanai door shut and waited for her, sitting at the table. She came back out and sat, the eyes hard again. “You okay?” he said. She nodded. “That’s what they’ll do to you. You know that, don’t you?” “Jerry’s coming,” he whispered. “Jerry Bateman. I told you. I owe him. That’s why I can’t leave yet. I have to assume he’s coming alone. And, I don’t think he knows what he’s getting into.” “What’s it matter, if you’re dead like that guy out there? What good is that? Now if this Jerry dude was coming with one pack of Navy SEALs I’d feel one lilibit better, but he isn’t, is he?” Alex shrugged. His shoulders ached and felt weak, as if he’d been hauling heavy furniture all day. She was right, of course. But that was the chance he’d have to take. “Look at it this way — they’re probably expecting me to run. Both of us even. Probably love to give the recruits the chance to hunt us down. The practice. So why give them what they want? Morales said Krieger wasn’t done with me yet. Let’s just hole up here, see what goes down.” “Without a gun. Without knowing if Krieger’s not already done with you. Without you and this Jerry having a plan.” Kanani strapped on his pack. She spat the words, chuckling, sputtering. “Fuck this. I know the island. I could show you, but you don’t want to. Fuck you, haole. I’m going. You stay. Maybe I’ll email, from the mainland —” Alex grabbed her hard by the arms and kissed her on the mouth. She bit at him but he held her face tight and kept kissing, sucking her in. She pushed off and sat back in a chair, groaning, pouting, her lips wet. “Let me tell you about it,” he said, wiping blood from his lips. “Okay? About me and Jerry Bateman. Gulf War I, we were in some nasty shit. In country. Iraq. Recon. There was a firefight. A mother running with a baby. At sunset? With the glare? The clothes they wear? Plus we had the germ war masks on. Looks like Saddam himself charging us with who knew what. Fire all False Refuge ~ 168 around. They go down, mom and baby. Man, if that didn’t cease the fire.” Alex paused. His lungs had tightened up and he needed the air. “Now, Jerry, he was sure he was the one done the deed. It tore him up, and he was sinking fast. A head case. I got him through it. Stayed with him. That was the job I took on. Because I was sure he’d do it for me.” Kanani was shaking her head, her little chin trembling. “There’s more to it. Jerry doesn’t know this part. Me, I’d always been certain Jerry had missed. Wasn’t that great of a shot anyway despite his badge. We were both firing that target. Me, I was the one pegged the mother, and probably the baby. I could feel it in my gut. I told Jerry, tried to. Jerry wouldn’t believe it. And it probably didn’t matter. Maybe we both got the shot. Didn’t matter. Because he needed to suffer, Jerry did. And me, I needed to bring him through it. And so I did.” A tear rolled down Kanani’s face. It made the heat rush to Alex’s eyes and he let it. She reached out to touch his cheeks but he kept back, his arms to his sides. Contaminated. “But you know what? You know what’s the worst part? I hadn’t felt the guilt like Jerry had. Not back then. I stood over the mother and baby; I looked into their darkened eyes. But I didn’t feel anything then. Not then. That’s what scares me now. Scarred me. Maybe that’s why I married Zaira, for all I know.” Alex threw up his hands, expelling a sick chuckle. “See, back then, Jerry had done the suffering for me. For all of us. So, now, I’m going to stand up for all those like Jerry who feel it’s their duty to go back there even if they know, deep inside, that it’s the wrong war this time. And once they’re in? Theirs is not to question. As it should be. They will always be noble there. Well, I’m going to find another way to be noble. I’m going to do more than question, because that’s my right. That’s the greatest thing I can give back. Even if no one will ever know, or even understand it. Not even Jerry. Because someone will know, someday they will.” Kanani had drawn close to him, holding his hands steady because they were shaking in his lap. “This shit here, it has changed me, and I can’t help that,” he continued. “I don’t know how it’s going to end up. But I know now that it’s right. Jerry and me, we don’t need a plan. We’ve been through the shit together. Jerry, he wants to feel like he’s fighting for something. This place should give him that something — give him that something he’s not going to get by going back to Iraq, I can tell you that.” Kanani’s eyes had dried. She nodded. False Refuge ~ 169

Alex added: “You meet Jerry, you can’t tell him about what I just told you.” She stopped nodding. She shook her head, her eyebrows pressing down with anger. “Ah, you’re all fucking hehena,” she said as she was sliding the pack off her shoulders. She kicked off a hiking shoe. It thumped at a wall.

More sleep. Who knew when they’d get a bed again? They left Freeman out on the lounge chair. All three slept undisturbed. A night’s tropical rain came and went, hissing and rushing, tapping at the windows. In the morning the corpse was still there, spotted with raindrops, the water pooling in Freeman’s belly button and between his legs, in the hollow of one eye socket. For breakfast, Alex and Kanani drank tap water and shared three Power bars, two chocolate peanut butter and one oatmeal. It was all they had left. A knock at the door. They stood at the table. “Why don’t you wait in the bathroom?” Alex said. She shook her head. Alex kissed her on the forehead and went over to the door, to look out the peephole. Morales stood out there, alone. Alex opened the door. They stood in the doorway, facing each other. Morales’ chin was high and his shoulders squared. He had on a University of Hawaii baseball cap and a bright white polo shirt, as if he’d come to challenge Alex to a morning game of tennis. His eyes did not blink; they seemed to take in Alex and the whole inside of the bungalow at once. Alex glanced back and saw Kanani divert her eyes from them. She trudged into the bathroom, head down. “He’s out back,” Alex said. “I didn’t come for him.” “What did you do to him?” “I did nothing. Ask your guards. I can’t control them every second. They reported back that he had an irrational fear of caves. A severe cave phobia. Or maybe he dreaded the dark.” Morales jerked a shrug. It might have been a shudder. “Maybe it was both,” Alex said. Morales cleared his throat. “Any case, you’re taking over for him now. Think of it as a promotion.” “That Krieger’s call, or yours?” False Refuge ~ 170

“Actually, the choice was all yours.” Morales flashed a closed smile. “A threat is a threat. You know that.” “I was a threat. Now I’m an example. To others. Isn’t that right?” “Maybe it’s both.” Morales shrugged again, this time adding a casual flip of the hands. “So, step on out now, and keep your hands out like they are. If you so much as turn to the side or take one step back, they have orders to take you out.” Behind Morales it was all bushes. They could be anywhere. With the scopes they had, a head or a heart shot would be easy pickings. “What are you going to do to with Kanani — to Kanani?” “That’s up to her,” Morales said, louder so that she could hear. But not in a menacing voice. It was firm and steady, like that of a cop offering a ride to a runaway. “All right,” Alex said. No need for black hoods now. Alex knew where he was going. Morales, sighing, entered the bungalow, closing the door behind him, and left Alex outside with three more guards he had never seen before. More gung-ho young recruits. Orphans. Gangbangers. Guarding him as they rode in the golf cart they talked about new video games. Down in the bunkers they locked him away in that same cell where he’d been reunited with Freeman — where Freeman had spent the last days of his life. He settled in the farthest corner of the cell, easing down, letting his spine firm up against the hard wall. All the time in the world now. The concrete was colder than he’d remembered. All he had on were surf shorts and his Donkey Dick’s t-shirt, flip-flops. He told himself he’d acclimate. He tapped his fingers and hummed whatever melody found him. “Raindrops Are Falling On My Head.” “Cowboy” by Kid Rock. Bob Marley — “Get Up, Stand Up.” “Ghost Town.” “Inoculated City” by the Clash ... Minutes passed. An hour? He paced the room. He slept on his side, knees to his chest, a flip-flop over his eyes to shield the light. When he woke he’d lost all sense of time. He told himself it had been only another hour. But now his stomach rumbled and he had a dry, metallic taste in his mouth. He thought of that movie Papillon with Steve McQueen. Could he eat a cockroach? Would it come to that? He had to urinate so he yelled, “Hey! Gotta piss! Got a bucket? Hey! Hey!” He pissed into the drain in the floor, hoping it wasn’t sealed or clogged. The yellow stream emptied away. Yellow was good — he still had nutrients in him. “Lucky man,” he muttered and False Refuge ~ 171 laughed. He paced the room again; five steps one way, then the other, and his limbs ached from all that time on the cold concrete. He had a sharp headache, at his temples. He tapped his fingers, but this time no tune came to him. He couldn’t think of one. He could only think of Kanani. “Why don’t you wait in the bathroom?” — did those have to be his last words to her? He thought of Morales in there, consoling her, appealing to her convictions, her survival instincts, and he had to squeeze his eyes shut from the pain of that. And what about Jerry Bateman? He wouldn’t have a chance against these motherfuckers. Alex laughed again, a bitter chain of snorts. At least he’d be saving Jerry from Iraq. At least. Maybe Jerry could even join him in here. He tapped and hummed, but all he could come up with was Morse code. Hi, and Alex, and Danger, he tapped and scraped. Kanani. Love. Forever. And then: Hell Now? False Refuge ~ 172

TWENTY-TWO

July 19. A Monday morning. Eleven a.m. Krieger Estates, Big Island. Jerry Bateman had walked right in, right through the perimeter’s front gates and down the tree-lined lane. He was now inside the cookie-cutter McMansion at the end of the lane — a checkpoint in camouflage. They’d led him into what looked a den office. “You keep asking why. Why you think? My unit’s being sent to Iraq,” he was saying to the official woman across the table desk from him. The furnishings in here were more Foggy Bottom than Big Island — dark and glossy desk set, the fancy china vases, those thick Persian area rugs, a faint smell of mothballs despite some poor cleaner’s best efforts. Not one spot of dust Jerry could see. It was a funeral home parlor with the spick-and-span of a Marine’s quarters. He was cruising so far. His explanation? Justification? He’d condensed all that Marci and Alex had ever preached to him. He’d even slapped the table with the edge of a hand like she did. “Listen. Going into Iraq was not right. We’ve been lied to. My Commander in Chief is a criminal. By military law a soldier has the right — as a soldier and a citizen — to refuse service that is clearly unlawful. And our efforts there are only making things worse. So I’m not going. I took a two-week leave and came here.” The woman had scribbled some notes on a legal pad. She snapped off a smile, said, “Please wait,” and left the room. He might have been getting a passport replaced at some proud but now minor-league American embassy. Vienna. Manila. Johannesburg. All of which would have been more comforting if the woman didn’t have Victoria’s Secret looks and the bone-grinding handshake of a Special Forces instructor. All Jerry had was a small backpack with some clothes and toiletries. His passport and military ID stayed in a locker at the airport. As he waited he felt for the pack at his feet and set it on his lap, but he decided that made him look jumpy, and so he set it back down just as the woman returned with a man who, despite his golf wear, had the straight angles and efficient movements of a veteran MP. The man’s handshake made the woman’s seem like a librarian’s. Both fired questions at him. How long is your leave? What do you want from us? How did you find out about KE? You have a wife? — what about her? He answered: two weeks; a safe haven; don’t want to reveal my False Refuge ~ 173 source, not yet; I love my wife and hope to reunite with her when it’s safe, but for now she’s to act like she had no idea I was leaving. He added: “If I was up to something fishy, why would I come through the front door?” “Yes. Thank you. We’ll need to take your backpack. Please wait here.” He waited an hour. They returned and blindfolded him, apologizing for the inconvenience, which he shrugged off, and they led him outside and then into a naturally cool facility that felt like underground. They took off the blindfold. The place looked like a bunker system. The hallways were concrete with caged light bulbs. They left him in a clean, windowless room that had a single bed and small desk, toilet, sink, locker, all of it gray metal. “Apologies. A precaution — you understand,” his escorts said, handed back his backpack and left, locking the door behind them. Jerry lay on the bed and, taking long deep breaths, was actually able to get about twenty minutes of shuteye. Bad idea. He woke with a start and the enormity of what he was doing rushed at him, and through him, surging his blood through his veins and making him sweat. He did what he used to do in the field when he had a lull. He washed his face, cold water only. He went through his backpack, again. All there. He pulled out his little framed photo of Marci and set it on the desk, facing him on the bed. The shot was from their first year of marriage, 1990, and he’d carried it with him ever since, ever since Gulf War I. In the photo she wore a little black dress and was giving him the worst, but cutest, salute he’d ever seen. Her face and neck were narrower then, but her eyes had even more sparkle now and he wasn’t getting any narrower either. That was the best part of marriage, he thought. Aging together. Life was a march on toward death. So why not ramble on together? Four p.m. Over six hours since he’d entered KE. The door. The MP-looking guy entered bearing a manila folder under one arm. Jerry sat on the bed, sitting up straight. MP guy sat at the little desk, his jaw set. His shoulders and chest seemed to have gained fifty pounds of muscle since last time. “Who told you about us?” he said. “I told you. I don’t feel comfortable yet.” Jerry sighed, staring into his lap. Playing the role. “You’re a reserve,” MP guy said, his mouth screwed up like he needed to spit. No matter that Bateman was CID or had a worthy active duty record; to this goon in golf wear he was a reserve. “It was obviously from someone on base. Fort Clark. But reserves aren’t on base that much. And False Refuge ~ 174 all the troops you might have known there — including any few who could have known about us, to be frank, are not there now. So, I’m trying to understand how —” “Sanchez,” Jerry blurted. “A guy named Sanchez. Sergeant. Tank mechanic, I think. Went AWOL. After my unit got called up for redeployment I was assigned to reorganize CID files. Busy base work, you know? This Sanchez, his AWOL file, it listed this place, because Sanchez had mentioned it to a few select guys. But no one in active CID added two and two, because no one had time. Too busy dodging shoulder rockets and cell phone bombs over in Iraq — some good detective duty in the field, right? Fucking A. But me, I had time. I added two and two.” Jerry pointed at his chest when he said that. Me, smart guy. I like to lie, for the right cause. MP guy stared a moment, processing. “You’ve been here before. Big Island.” “A few months ago. Sure. First time. Liked it. Guess that’s why this file stuck on me. Knew right where this place was.” “Anyone else?” “Anyone else what?” “Any other’s files you look at?” “Sure, lots of them.” Jerry’s chest puffing up now. “I mean about here. Any others’ files mention this place.” “No. None I saw.” “Destroy it?” “The file? Of course.” He hadn’t, of course. That would be a military crime of the highest severity. They left him in his room overnight. Three days now on the Big Island, and only ten days left of his leave. The next morning he got good chow, mango and pineapple and eggs and bacon with white rice. Then, a knock on his door. “Occupied,” Jerry shouted, joking — as if he was in a bathroom stall. The door opened. In came a man with black hair, olive skin and dark features. “Good one,” the man said, giving Jerry half a smile. “Name’s Morales — Claude Morales.” His handshake firm and yet relaxed at the end. He had a cell phone and a PDA on his belt. He sat on the bed next to Jerry, his lower lip jutting out, calm. “How do I know you?” Jerry said. “Did you serve?” False Refuge ~ 175

“I did,” Morales said. “I have questions for you. Alex Swenson. You didn’t mention him to your handlers, but you did mention the name Sanchez —” “That’s it — you are Sanchez!” Jerry said, slapping at the bed. He was honestly surprised, which helped his act. He shook his head, forcing out a grin. “Holy shit. Sanchez. Small world.” “That’s right,” Morales said, adding a smile. He was indifferent and tough, this guy, like a combination of software tech and head bodyguard. Clearly, Sanchez was also a mucky-muck here. You never knew what people had in them until dared to take a stand. Jerry continued the aw-shucks routine, rambling like a crazy guy on the bus. Stalling. “Man, quite a jump from, what was it, tank mechanic? Look a lot different though. Must be the lack of fatigues. The island life. And that hair. You lose a few pounds?” “Yes. Actually I’d changed grades and got out of tanks; I was a technical writer when I chose to leave,” Morales said. “But, let’s stick to Alex Swenson.” “Sorry, the questions,” Jerry said. “You’re right — I didn’t mention that I knew Alex Swenson. I didn’t mention him because he was a good friend. Why involve them, you know? Friends.” Morales shrugged a nod — sure, he knew how it was. Jerry shrugged, said: “Guess I didn’t want you guys thinking I had something to do with Swenson, with what he did. His so- called crimes. You know about that, right? That he’s wanted?” “Yes. What do you mean he ‘was’ a good friend?” “‘Was’ because he’s long gone and he ain’t never coming back — unless, wait — he’s here, isn’t he?” Jerry put on a big smile. Fuck yeah, sure, he was eating a hot fudge sundae with the smile. He slapped at his thigh. “You mean Swenson made it here too?” Morales studied Jerry, unblinking, as if peering right through his skull and through the concrete wall behind it. “Alex Swenson is not here. Not any more. He was here. He made the choice to move on. That’s all I can tell you.” He stood, touching, adjusting, the gadgets on his belt. “So. Welcome. Let us know if you need anything special?” he said and left, even though Jerry had a finger up to ask more questions. “Something to read,” Jerry muttered well after the door had shut. “A newspaper?” Fifteen minutes later a sunburned young guard brought him a USA Today and the West Hawaii paper. He got loco moco for lunch — a pile of rice stacked with two hamburger patties and brown gravy. After wolfing that down he tried and tried to avoid it and yet fell into a deep nap that went wrong and wild with sick nightmares. He had long dark hair like Morales. They dropped him off in False Refuge ~ 176

Kona Town with no clothes on. Then his room was closet sized, the bed, sink, toilet all crammed together. Then he was alone in a black cave, his chest tightening with a deep chill and a horrible sorrow. He jolted awake to find his heart pounding and sweat rolling down his forehead and chest, drenching him. He’d had no choice but to admit he knew Alex. Now he realized they might be working Alex over for it, to find out more about the two of them. They could be working the poor bastard over right now. The thought made his stomach roll. His lunch shot up his throat. He grabbed the garbage pail and hovered over it but was able to swallow the loco moco back down, wheezing and panting as it burned in his throat. He wasn’t scared, no, his loco moco simply had some bad meat in it. That’s what he’d tell them if they asked. That’s what he told himself as he changed his shirt, washed his face in cold water, and waited for the next round.

Two hours later. Pushing evening. Jerry got a new minder, a big and thick island guy named Soon-o who looked like the top-dog thug in a prison movie. Square Korean face, Samoan linebacker body. He had long eyelashes that made the package even creepier. But he could speak like any stoked island dude you’d meet working a luau or a tour boat, and he wore flip-flops, surf shorts, aloha shirt. Jerry told himself that was a good sign. Soon-o even brought good news. They were letting him out to “circulate,” as Soon-o called it. In a small auditorium Jerry first watched a PR movie about Krieger Estates. The flick ended with an introduction to their Poo-Bah, a silver-haired Margaritaville type named Glenn Krieger who seemed to know how to surf pretty good. Then Soon-o led Jerry to a small bungalow out on the grounds, right in the middle of the resort action. Soon-o called it a “guest bungalow.” Jerry was to enjoy his stay (on the house, of course) until they could clear him and figure out a role for him. Jerry asked if that meant he was accepted. Soon-o laughed and said, “This isn’t college. You’re in until you’re not, if you know what I mean,” and left Jerry to his bungalow. The bungalow had one main room and a small kitchen and bathroom. The furniture was sparse and most of it fake bamboo. It had a patio — a lanai, they called it. But it still reminded Jerry of his holding cell, so he took a walk at sunset, checking out the pool, the rec room, and the library, in whose Internet room, he figured, Alex had emailed him. He checked the news for the hell of it. Make this look natural. He so wanted to email Marci. He’d told her Alex wanted to come home. He’d told her it wasn’t dangerous. False Refuge ~ 177

Back outside the sun was down, the paths now lit by tiki torches and landscape lights. On his way to his bungalow the passersby smiled at him, their teeth shining in the flame light. Jerry smiled back, bewildered. He had expected a knockdown drag-out from the start. But this was like a Club Med, fucking Fantasy Island. So why then did he still feel so threatened? At his bungalow he downed a bottle of Kona lager out on his lanai, the frustrations clashing in his head. He knew why. This was a zoo and he was on display; he was the unstable monkey on new medication, released back into the common cage. They were watching him, to see what he’d do. That night he had more of the nightmares. The next morning. July 21. Jerry slept until ten a.m. and it was already damn hot. He went out to the pool for a dip, maybe some more sleep, see what he could find out. The chairs were nice, with independently adjustable arms. They had magazines and bottled water out there. Few were out yet — a retired pair, a couple bleach blondes wearing lots of gold, a fat guy in a Speedo, but what Jerry really appreciated was the lack of kids. Try to enjoy this while you can, Jerry. He was by the shallow end. Across from him, at the deep end, sat a pretty dark girl. He pulled on his aviators and held up his Motor Trend so he could scope her out. Long black hair that was pinned up on one side, as if she’d had a flower on that one ear but it had fallen off. A real island type — not hot, just nice and brown and well formed with a broad smile and knowing eyes, most likely. He dove in the pool. It felt great so he climbed back out, did a cannonball. He popped up to find that the girl was gone. She was now in the pool. She popped up and they faced each other, treading water. She smiled. He smiled, spitting water. Up close, she had some acne scars on her face but nothing shady. Just character. Character was good. She’d been through shit, too. She said: “Oh, you’re new here, aren’t ya? Waiting for clearance, uh?” She had that nice and easy island tone to her voice. It reminded him of New Mexico, kind of an American-Indian slash Latina thing. “Can you tell?” he said, adding a laugh. He held his breath and flopped up onto his back and swam around. At the edge of the deep end, he heaved his arms up and suspended from the edge, his back to the pool wall. Kicked at the water, let the sun hit his face. The girl swam up, did the same. She had a badge on her bikini top. “Activities Coordinator,” it read. So that’s all it was. “Welcome,” she said. “Need a tour of anything, let me know.” False Refuge ~ 178

“Great. Thanks.” They hung there, kicking and paddling. “Don’t forget to wear sunscreen,” she said. “That’s the first thing I tell people. The sun’s closer here than on the mainland.” “I will. I mean I am. I learned the hard way the last time.” “Ah,” she said and glanced around. She splashed her feet. Grinning. She whispered through the grin: “Jerry Bateman? Right? Yeah?” He nodded. They must have told her his name. Yeah, that was it. “I can show you around, you want? There’s horseback riding even.” She splashed again. And grinned and then: “You’ve come for Alex. To help him.” He had stopped kicking. He started in again. Act normal. “What was that last part? I don’t know what you’re talking about.” “Of course you don’t. That’s good. Play it safe. You have to.” “I just think you have me confused with someone else.” “Do I? Alex said he called you Master Bateman, a joke, a play on words —” Jerry started to swim off but underwater one of her legs clamped onto his like an eel and pulled him back. He went under a sec, caught a mouthful of water, spit it out. He grabbed at the pool edge, facing the wall. “Just listen,” she said. “Please. I know about you and Alex, how you were in Desert Storm together. He tell me. We’re on the same side, you and me. You want more proof, uh? Know what he said? Said: He saved you from yourself.” False Refuge ~ 179

TWENTY-THREE

The island girl’s name was Kanani. “I’m working on a plan. For us. So sit tight — and don’t be fooled by some things you might see,” she said, kicking and splashing, her face to the pool wall. Jerry kept a happy grin on, as if they were making small talk. Then she climbed out of the pool and chirped: “Well, hope you’re enjoying your stay!” Sit tight, she’d said. What did she think Jerry was going to do, start kicking down doors? No, he had to get wise first. That afternoon he strolled the grounds making mental notes. Guards were never far from every main path, and those were just the ones he could see. Some surveillance cameras, but no fences he could detect. The only visible stronghold was the Main House up high, overlooking it all, and he wasn’t going to get near that. Back at his bungalow. No word from this Kanani. Cold Budweisers, rum, and mango sticky rice helped get him through the evening that dragged on like a wait in line at an underfunded post office. The sky red and purple and the sunset lasting hours, it seemed. And he couldn’t help thinking, a fortress would’ve been far easier to recon than this so-called “haven” — at least then you knew what you were up against. Still, he knew that underground facility had to be close because his blindfold walk had taken no time. Next morning. Eight days left. He hit the pool and Kanani found him there. They splashed around again, hung on the edge of the deep end. “Tell them you hate Alex. Make shit up. You don’t want a thing to do with him. That’s our way in,” she muttered, choking on the words, her chin scrunching up like she wanted to cry. That evening Jerry, exploring the grounds, spied Kanani strolling hand in hand with Soon-o the guard. They stopped under a palm tree, facing each other. Jerry crouched behind a palm and watched the show. Kanani’s hands moved up and down Soon-o’s chest, stroking. The sunset glowing on her cheeks, shoulders, chest. It was like a Hawaiian Airlines ad, the soft porn version. Soon-o must have been harder than petrified bamboo. Then Kanani pulled Soon-o’s head down to hers and her tongue wrestled with his. Jerry ended up at the pool bar, where he choked down a sweet mai tai. Good actress, this island girl. But what was the role? Could she be a plant, to test him? He downed another mai tai, False Refuge ~ 180 and this one didn’t go down as sweet. It numbed him. Steeled him. He would have to trust her, because she was the only lead he had. The next day. One week left. On Kanani’s instructions Jerry joined that morning’s horseback ride. He was one of ten riders. The rest were middle-age tourist couples from small towns on the mainland. Kanani was one of two guides. She had on a little frayed straw cowgirl hat and a white flower behind an ear. They rode inland, through a tropical forest. Kanani rode at the front, pointing out the flora and fauna and plucking fresh mangoes and avocadoes that she handed to riders. And Jerry stayed in back. Let her make the move. He didn’t even get a plucked fruit. Soon the tropical forest gave way to wide-open plains land, a moonscape of lava rock earth that was furry with brown grass. Harsh winds plunged and soared and collided. Stunted and craggy old trees leaned and drooped, doing their best to hang on. Beyond, dark cloudbanks hovered at the volcanoes Mauna Kea and Mauna Loa, obscuring their drastic peaks. That, there, was the infamous barren outback of the Big Island. They rode a half-mile along a narrow and stony trail cut in the lava, but the horses slowed and shuddered and the clouds swelled out to them, dimming the sun. They turned back. In the forest again, the giant leaves and bushes shook and flapped and dripped streams of warm rain. Jerry was still trailing on his spotted gray nag, Sally, that he swore was an island donkey. Something about the exposed lava plain and the rain had made Sally’s ears flutter, and now, confined to the forest, she began to buck and twitch and he had to get tough with her. He slapped her neck with the reins but that only made her snarl and snort and sway, his butt cramping as he fought to stay up and centered in the saddle. Kanani rode back to him. “Everything all right there, paniolo?” The Hawaiian word for cowboy. “You made sure I’d get this one,” Jerry grunted. “I think it’s really a donkey.” Kanani forced a laugh. “Let her know she’s bad. Whip her with the reins, hard, harder. Kick her. There. Show that bitch who’s boss.” Sally gave a sideways glance to Kanani, her head steadying. “Thanks,” Jerry said. The two of them riding side by side, trailing the pack now. The forest dripping like a sodden sponge, the rush of it sucking up all sound. “Don’t I get a mango?” he said. Kanani produced a green orb and tossed it into his lap. “Guava okay?” False Refuge ~ 181

“Even better. Go good with rum.” As he rolled the fruit into his saddlebag, he saw the hard look in Kanani’s eyes. He’d seen it at the front, that combination of desperation and quiet resolve. She removed her hat and set it in her lap and peered ahead, as if her vision was too sharp and sensitive to light. Letting the raindrops roll down her face. “You got a flower in your hair,” he said. She forced a smile, touched the sodden wilting petals. “From Soon-o? Soon-o the guard?” he said. He had to test her. She glared at him, blinking the drops away from her eyes. “Good one. They must think I’m a real cunt, Morales and Krieger. But, hey, that’s also why they want me.” “Want you?” “Have to have me. Part of my plan. Our plan. Yeah? Make them think we don’t give one crap about Alex now. Me da tita and you one haole badass. We both know Alex’s done for and we don’t want to be like that. We know where our bread is buttered, right? Right. But, then again,” she muttered with a bitter laugh, “it takes two slices to make a sandwich.” “What? Look, I need to help. This is driving me fucking nuts. I hate donkeys. I have to take a piss.” “You have to trust me. You’ll get your chance, believe me. Because this is going to take both of us and I need you just as much as you need me.” “Alright, alright,” Jerry said. They were catching up with the pack. A chubby guy wearing a tennis visor grinned back at them from his behaved and shiny brown mare. “Tell me one thing — where were those goddamn bunkers we were in?” Kanani chuckled. “Right below our hooves, brudda.” “No shit?” “And that dead open plain back there, stretching on and on? And then it’s Mauna Loa and Kea? Hope you took a good look at that no-man’s-land. Because with any luck those two will be saving our lives,” Kanani said, and she gave her mare a kick and rode on up ahead.

Next day. Ten a.m. Six days left of leave. An odd and startling noise in Jerry’s bungalow — it was the phone, ringing for the first time. False Refuge ~ 182

“Report to the Main House, please,” said a robotic female voice. Jerry asked what time but robot lady hung up. Twenty minutes later Jerry was sitting alone in the sunken area of a spacious living room off one end of the Main House. A kindly old Asian housekeeper lady had escorted him in. Blue sky and sun had filled the rows of windows, and the view of Kona coffee country and the Pacific stretching to the horizon had been stunning, but down here in his high-back rattan chair he could not see any of it. It was cooler down here than up in the room. The area had four of the chairs and a half-end of a wine barrel for a table. A giant marlin hung from the white rafters above. The lady had asked him to wait here, and that was it. No guards, no shakedown whatsoever. A man stood above, grinning down at Jerry. Jerry hadn’t even heard him. It was the man from the movie. “Mr. Krieger?” Jerry said. “Yep.” Glenn Krieger. He wore boat mocs, khaki slacks and a golf shirt with fold creases from wearing it right out of the package. In person he looked like the sedate (and a little bitter) older brother of that surfer guy in that movie. His silver hair was messed, and the dark circles under his eyes devalued his even tan. His lips were flaking dry and his face was bony, almost grotesque, quite a contrast to the finer, almost delicate features of that guy who used to be Sanchez. Krieger skipped down the steps and landed on a chair, which bended and squeaked. “You’re here,” he said. Jerry stood, held out a hand. Krieger reached out and squeezed it, one pump. Jerry said: “Listen, I want to thank you for taking me on, for respecting what I’ve done and for giving me a chance here ...” As Jerry spoke he felt another presence. Claude Morales had sidled into the room and stood at the edge of the sunken area, his arms folded at his chest. “Hello. Go on,” Morales said. His hair back in a tight ponytail, which made him look like a spick-and-span Stephen Seagal. Jerry always hated that dumb fucker. Couldn’t act to save his mother’s life. But Morales? This guy was no Seagal. This guy could deliver. “No, that was all,” Jerry said. “I just wanted to, uh, thank you.” The housekeeper lady led Kanani in, walking arm in arm. Kanani’s eyes were wide and aware of the whole room, her arms bent a little too much. From the looks of her, this turn of False Refuge ~ 183 events must have been a complete surprise to her. Or so Jerry hoped. If it was an ambush he was screwed. This was going down so fast, so little time to think. Now the four of them were in the sunken area, facing each other in the high-back rattan chairs like four Mister Rourkes in some twisted episode of Fantasy Island. Krieger was making small talk and Jerry was playing it close to his chest, remembering the few rules Kanani had given him. They were talking about how good Kona coffee was, what bullshit, Jerry was saying how much he loved it; you could really tell the difference, even for a guy from the capital of Starbucks — Morales held up a hand and lowered, slowly, like a drawbridge. “So, you might be wondering why you two are here,” he said, eyeing Kanani and Jerry. Krieger sat forward, sliding his hands together. A pause. This was Kanani’s call. Kanani showed her white teeth, in a grimace. The ends of her mouth pulled back like she wanted to launch a loogie out into the living room. “I’m guessing it’s because ... we both knew Alex. Why the fuck else?” “Go on,” Morales said. “What’s there to go on about?” Kanani growled, the New Mexico slash Latino voice sharpening. “I’m done with that guy. You know that. Isn’t it clear enough? Done with him royale, brah. I mean, what the fuck, uh?” Krieger bounced in his chair, smiling. Morales sat back, waiting for more. “Sure, he got me here. Alex did. Okay, fine. But then he made some bad choices. And this all about choices, isn’t it? Way I see it. You got to survive and I’m surviving.” The subtext was clear to Jerry — her man was Soon-o now. Morales didn’t seem to like that line. He glared into his lap, both hands clenching the chair arms. “That’s all I’m doing, too — surviving,” Jerry offered. No one responded. Morales and Krieger were watching Kanani. Kanani snorted, her head bobbing like a rooster’s. “You know what? Fuck it.” She stood, pulled her mini skirt down with a sharp tug and stood over Krieger, who leaned back showing a soft smile, as if she was about to do a lap dance on him. “You want to know what’s pissing me off? I’ll tell you. I give you guys all I got from day one — day fucking one — and you go and False Refuge ~ 184 pull that shit about my grandmother. Threatening me, that it? Saying, you know, we know all about you. We know how you can make up for that. Only we can show you the way. What the fuck is that? Assholes. You fucked me over royale with that.” And she stomped up the stairs and out of view. The three men sat staring at each other, the soft smile now on all their faces. Best performance Jerry had ever seen, that was for sure. Krieger, snickering, kicked at Morale’s wicker chair but Morales didn’t respond. Deep in thought, nodding along to his thoughts, his lips had jutted out as if he was hyperventilating and sucked up air. Krieger kicked at his chair again. Morales glared and shouted: “Kanani? Honey? Can you come back here? We want to talk to you.” Silence. Morales held up a finger as if to say, just wait. Soon they heard a huffing and puffing. Kanani was standing over them, her hands clenching her hips. “We’re sorry about that with your grandmother,” Krieger said. He had a hand on his heart. “We just had to see what you’re made of.” Jerry didn’t know about this grandmother business but he took this here to mean that they had wanted to divide her and Alex, see what that would do to the two of them. Kanani was looking to Morales, her eyes shimmering. “That’s right, and we would like to make it up to you,” Morales said. “There will be opportunities coming your way, you can be sure of that.” Kanani nodded. Krieger nudged Morales’ chair again. Morales said: “Oh. Also. Would you like to see Alex? Say aloha. We can offer that.” Kanani’s hands had slid off her hips. They clung to her sides, as fists. A little vein on her temple flickered, catching the sunlight up there. “No. No. Why would I? —” “Wait. I thought you said Alex was gone?” Jerry said. “What? Who’s talking to you?” Kanani said and waved his way like he was a mosquito. She glared at him and said: “You know, who the fuck is this guy anyway? You guys bring this jerkoff in to dog me, that it?” Jerry released a nervous chuckle. “Calm down,” he muttered. “You tell us.” Morales said. “You’re the activities director. You talk to him.” False Refuge ~ 185

“What do I know? I welcomed him here, like I do all new colleagues. Answer his haole questions. Got him to go on one horsy ride.” “And, you discussed Alex Swenson?” “No, no, no, not me — he brought him up,” Kanani said, pointing at Jerry. “Asked if I knew him? But, hey, you’re the guys who told him Alex was here. When he first arrived. That right? That’s what he said. So don’t go putting the shit on me.” “I only asked her if she’d seen him,” Jerry said, his voice rising. “I mean, I’d served with the guy. Wouldn’t you be curious? Besides, like she said, you guys brought him up first.” Morales had both hands up high, calming them. “Okay, okay. All right. Let’s go a different way. Jerry. What’s your take on Swenson?” “My take?” Jerry stared at Morales and Krieger, Morales all ego and conviction and Krieger all smug and cynical with his dry lips. Or was it the other way around with these two, when the chips were counted? All Jerry knew was these fuckers were everything that was wrong with back home, and yet they thought they were better than that. It was a cinch to transfer his hate for them onto Alex. All this needed was some good old-fashioned smear, what some would call “spin.” His forehead scrunched, and his lips screwed up like a scrotum in a firefight. “A take’s an opinion,” he said. “Let’s talk about facts. All right? The fucking facts. First off, Swenson tried to get it on with my wife. Second, he lies about it. Even though we served together and there was a time when I would’ve saved his life.” He stood, kicked at the barrel table, sat back down. “Swenson, he committed crimes. Swenson, far as I can tell, gave you a vow and then reneged on it. He went AWOL on you, too. So I’d say that speaks for itself. Top all that, Swenson’s a fucking know-it-all. Thinks he knows better. So I want nothing to do with him. Just like her. That’s my take.” “Okay. Fair enough. Thank you,” Morales said. Morales and Krieger shared a glance. “So, do you want to see Alex Swenson?” Krieger said. Jerry grinned, showing all his teeth now. He was eating dogshit, and he liked it. Yeah, tasted real damn good. He shrugged. “Why would I want to do that? After all I just said.” “Nonetheless,” Morales said. “If we needed you to see Alex Swenson, could you deal with that? Either of you? In order to help our cause. Your cause.” To punish Alex, they meant. To make him pay. How dare Alex question them? It was all or nothing here. Punishment was not False Refuge ~ 186 enough. Either you’re with us or you’re going to suffer. The boot of power, it must stamp on the dissenting face forever. “It would be sooner than later,” Morales added. “Hey, if that’s what you need,” Kanani said. Rolling her eyes. “Whatever’s part of the deal,” Jerry said. “Dog eat dog.” False Refuge ~ 187

TWENTY-FOUR

“I seem to be passing their test, too,” Jerry said as he and Kanani walked the path down from the Main House, the midday sun stinging their shoulders. “You seem to be?” Kanani said. “We — we seem to be. The team.” They kept bright smiles on their faces. To observers they were making small talk, nothing more. “You didn’t believe I was legit,” she said. “Not at first.” “Would you believe you? You know, it’s funny — I’ve never put so much trust in someone I don’t know. Not for a long, long time anyway.” “Yeah, well, me neither.” The path crossed the paths and roads leading from the main resort and they picked up the pace, pumping their arms. Jerry thought about Marci, about what she must be going through. She was the real trooper. He would make it up to her. If this went well, he might even consider putting in for some sort of hardship leave after all, for her ... They climbed stairs along a bushy lava ridge and enjoyed a few moments of privacy. Kanani let out a snort. “Son of a bitches,” she whispered. “And they say they want to make it up to me? Fuck them. No one fucks with me and my grandmother. But, you know the worst thing about Krieger? They make it appear they’re the opposite of what they really are. They really got a hard-on for one thing only — grabbing more and more power and holding onto it no matter what. No matter who they fuck over. Truth is, they are the worst enemy of the very people they say they help — the very people who think they’re the greatest thing ever. Only Krieger can lead and protect them from the threats, from the corruption, the people are thinking, but the truth is Krieger is the worst menace of all. Their worst enemy. Ever.” “You’re a smart wahine behind all that Kevlar. Sound like Alex.” “Thanks. Hell yeah I sound like Alex. Because he helped me understand.” “Well, I’ve heard it, too. Here there’s no accountability. It’s just like back home. The biggest challenge of 9/11 was not defeating terrorism. Terrorism is just a noun. Terrorists themselves are just bad guys. Individuals. Unsound. Exposed. America will take them, in time. The world will. False Refuge ~ 188

Muslims will find a way to better themselves, in their own way. No, the real test is can we retain what and who we are in the process? Can we salvage what made us great, or will we lose that? If we lose that, then we have not really won anything.” “True. That from Alex?” “No. My wife. Marci.” “Ah. Smart wahine. You believe it? I’m not so sure you do, looking at you.” “I don’t know. I ... Let’s just say, it’s a tricky world out there. I don’t know if I can afford to.” A golf cart of guards passed, nodding. Kanani waved shaka-style while Jerry gave another shit-sundae eating grin. Thinking back to that meeting in the Main House. He knew where Kanani stood with Krieger, and with Soon-o. But what about Morales? He had sensed an odd tension between Morales and Kanani in that living room, and he’d come across enough hush- hush relationships in the military to know he wasn’t just paranoid. Morales could make a play for her. Appeal to her. To her worst instincts. They had to consider any threat. “What about you? Where you stand,” he said. “I couldn’t help noticing, you didn’t mention Morales in that speech.” Kanani glared as if he’d just pinched the back of her arm, a look she’d call a stink eye. “You know what you saying, brudda? That’s some hard rub.” “Hey. Can’t hurt to ask.” “No, it can’t. I meant Morales too. He’s in the same boat. And that’s all you need to know.” And she charged up the last steps and back out into the open. Paths intertwined. Bungalows appeared. Busy colleagues passed here and there, clutching papers and PDAs and duffel bags. Jerry caught up with Kanani, panting but faking a laugh for the passersby. “Look, shit’s going down. That’s the main thing. They said it was going to be soon.” “That’s right, and we’re making the first move. So be ready,” Kanani said. She showed him a big grin as if he too was just another unknowing passerby. Then she shook his hand, leaving a folded square of paper in his palm, and turned off down the path for her bungalow.

That night. In the middle of it. In the dark. Jerry lay on the bed, on top of the covers, crashing in and out of sleep, the breeze from the open patio door tickling his eyelashes and the hairs on his False Refuge ~ 189 back. Kanani had a plan, she had said, but was getting little of the operative big picture. Her paper square of notes listed only those details of logistics, location, and layout he needed to know. The notes were precise, thorough for what they were; she’d done her homework. But he got no schedule; he was to follow her signals. You’ll know what to do, she’d written. Sure, but would she? He was putting everything behind this Kanani. She was Alex’s girl, and that meant their duty was intertwined. Still, wasn’t an insider’s plan better than what little he had to go on? This was the deal — he’d made his choice and would have to follow it through. War was war. You just hoped for luck and the balls to earn the luck. He rolled over again, thinking about the one or two shots of rum left in his bottle. That was no good now. Drinks would help him sleep, but he’d need to be sharp all the time from here on out. A soft knock. From out on the patio. 2:30 a.m. He rolled off the bed and scrambled over, clutching the hammer he’d found in a kitchen drawer. He crouched at the patio doorframe and looked out from between the vertical blinds. Kanani stood in the middle of the patio, her hands clasped together at her waist like a good schoolgirl waiting for a friend’s mom to answer the door. She was wearing a black tracksuit, a small backpack, and hiking shoes. He stood, pushing open the blinds. She pressed at his chest and forced him back into the bungalow. “It’s time,” she said and peered back out the patio, keeping lookout. “Could it be a trap?” he whispered as he pulled on his black jeans. She twitched a shrug. “If it is we’re fucked.” “Right. But good chance it isn’t.” He pulled on his running shoes, the darkest t-shirt he had. His pack was ready and he heaved it on. “And besides, what’s the alternative?” “Uh huh.” Out on the grounds they moved along through the bushes, shrub to palm to shrub, squatting and crossing the paths only at their darkest patches, Jerry trusting that Kanani knew the cameras’ blind spots. It was a quiet night, and the breeze light. One group of guards approached, crossing their path. They hunkered down behind a wall of impatiens. Kanani kept them there well after the guards had passed, her head down. “What you got?” Jerry whispered. “One problem. I need to tell you now. It’s guns. Alex won’t use them. He refuses. Says, no point using the same methods he came here to leave behind. Would’ve been no point going AWOL, he said.” Kanani sighed. “Crazy fuckin haole.” False Refuge ~ 190

Alex might have a different outlook now, Jerry thought. Under torture and abuse, the fury of revenge often trumps conviction. Yet he kept it light, to keep her mind off what they might find. “Should have been a philosopher, our Alex. Sure. They would’ve loved him in Ancient Greece. Rome. Fucking saint.” “Yeah. But I love him for it anyway,” Kanani said. They pushed on. The flowery bushes and spiky shrubs, the wild palms and vine-tangled island trees began to thicken and swell. They had reached the edge of the tropical forest, peering down into a tight little gully. A narrow road led into it, and a skinny side path down had been cut out of the lava rock. The road, they knew, was lined with motion-sensor lights. They took the path, grasping at rock as leaves and flowers and veins grazed their cheeks. Halfway down the growth thickened, giving good cover. They halted, rocking on their heels as they surveyed the end of the gulley, where once, in ancient days, a waterfall might have given island families a sacred place for fishing, swimming, bathing. Now all that remained was the black hole of a lava tube. The road ended there. Kanani pulled off her black tracksuit and shoes to reveal short shorts and a flowery little top that only covered one shoulder. Moonlight shined like silver on her dark skin. She stepped into flip-flops and pushed her pack over to Jerry. She looked to him, her eyes sharp glints of light. “If this doesn’t work — you’re on your own.” “Fuck that. Okay? And keep your head down.” He added a smile. “You, too.” She hugged him, patting his back. She stood up, straightened her top, sauntered down and disappeared into the black hole without losing stride. Light shot out the lava tube. A motion sensor. This was expected. There was a video camera in there. It would identify her, and that was exactly the plan. Minutes seemed to pass. The sensor light turned off. Jerry shifted his weight, wiggled his toes. Worst thing was to have a leg go asleep. A half hour? He peed on the spot, into the trunk of a bush for quiet. A whizzing, whining sound. Jerry crouched lower. A golf cart was speeding down the road, the headlights jolting and flashing from the bumps. A large figure at the wheel, weighing down the driver’s side. Soon-o. Soon-o spun the cart to a halt, bounded out and marched into the lava tube, his shoulders forward and his hands clenched. The light came on. Minutes later, off. False Refuge ~ 191

So far, so good? Jerry’s hands were sweating. He rubbed them on his t-shirt, chuckling to himself. Thinking, this wahine’s got more balls than a Navy SEAL. Five minutes passed. He inched downward a few bushes, one backpack on each shoulder. Ten minutes. Twenty. The lava tube lit up. Out ran Kanani barefoot, no shorts, her shirt bunched up at her waist and off both shoulders. The road lit up from the sensors. She had a handgun in her right hand; in her other hand a key chain jangled. Jerry ran out to her and grabbed her by the shoulders. “Focus,” he barked, “Focus.” “I don’t know which keys,” she panted. “For Alex. I can’t know, no can ...” Her eyes were wild, her breath hot. Blood had squirted on her legs, neck. One of her eyes was puffed up and beginning to darken. She turned to him, showing him the eye. “Okay, it’s okay, you’re all right. It’s not your blood.” She pressed the gun into his hands; it was sticky from the blood on her hands. It was a Glock, 9 mm. “Okay, come on.” He grasped her hand and led her back into the lava tube. About fifteen yards in they came to a concrete bunkered frame, which held a gray metal door — a side access for the tunnel system. She had jammed a rock in the door to keep it open. Good girl. She led the way now. Down concrete hallways they ran until they reached a mess strewn about the floor — cell phones, walkie talkies, a silver Palm Pilot; two drawers of mismatched silverware and kitchen utensils; a bloody knife; and a second set of keys, dark with the blood. The blood dark red and stringy-sticky along the keys and knife and floor. Seeing the fresh living blood brought a calmness to Jerry, regulating his panting, and he welcomed the calm, for it prepared him for that realm, that state of mind, that no one back home could ever know, it was that blood lust-fueled steeliness that the firefights drilled into you, a charging, driving, undeniable otherworld in which you were neither unfit and scared nor expert and fearless. You were beyond human parameters, beyond sensation. The only sane and rational and pure lust he had ever known. The lust had returned to lead him, ready to infuse and upsurge his veins with new power, as if delivered by IV. He gazed up from the blood mess and locked on Kanani, his eyes blinking no more, he was that alert. False Refuge ~ 192

She was watching him with her head cocked back, her gaze shifting from him to the door. Looming over the mess was a shut door, on which a sign read, Authorized Staff Only. He nodded at the door. That’s where they needed to go, and so they would. “It locks from the outside too, like a cell door,” she said. “There’s two in there. I locked them in. They’re in rough shape. I just hope, it’s the way I left it —” “They know which key? They’ll tell us,” Jerry said mechanically, the lust answering his own questions now. He reached up and shattered the nearest light bulb with the butt of the Glock. He hugged the wall next to the door, aiming the Glock. Kanani fingered the keys until she found the right one. She turned the lock, and then twisted the knob, parting the door open. They heard heavy breathing, and a hissing whir. They heard a grunt. And a gurgle. Jerry shouldered the door open, aiming the Glock into the room with both hands. One fluorescent light was on, flickering from above. It had been a standard surveillance room, with a mini fridge and cupboards, a Formica table and a cheap sofa. To the right, a bank of video monitors stood on metal shelves, the screens snowing — that being the whir. To the left, Claude Morales lay on the floor, his back slumped sideways against the sofa as if he’d tried to heave himself up. One arm lay stretched out, looking twice as long as the other, which had curled up in his lap, the hand clawed. His face was battered, misshapen, bloodied, one eye a clot of black and blue and syrupy blood. His other eye stared at them. A bubble of blood at a nostril, rising and falling. He wore blue Bermuda shorts, the crotch seeping with blood. His right leg was bent back, and lay under itself as if the knee had been broken. In the middle of the room sat Soon-o, at the table, the blood sprayed on him from head to toe. He was pale, his dark skin like mustard instead of mocha. Under his chair, a pool of blood, widening out from a trickle that rolled off his left arm, down and off the chair. He held the left arm tight with his right, but blood was seeping out through his whitening fingers. The other three chairs were upended about the room, along with the debris caused by what had to have been a nasty fight — shards of plates and mugs, videocassettes, water bottles, wrappers, to-go boxes and vegetable scraps — the contents of a garbage can. Kanani’s short shorts and flip-flops. The reek in there was bitter, and sour, and yet False Refuge ~ 193 fresh, like a compost pile just stirred. All of it lit up by bright fluorescent lights that strobed and buzzed like a massive bug zapper shorting out. Jerry eased a bit, off the tips of his toes, his feet taking a wider stance. Not much work for the lust here, he realized, and his intestines twinged with regret. “Motherfucker,” Soon-o grunted. He stomped a foot and his flip-flop slid off into the watery muck of the debris. “We need the right key,” Jerry said, keeping to the doorway so as not to slip on the muck. The Glock still aiming. “You know the one.” Morales opened his mouth to speak but a gurgle sputtered and sank in his throat and he had to cough to bring it back up. He wheezed at them, his throat whistling. “You got them,” Soon-o said. His toes were feeling around in the muck, hoping to find the flip-flop. Kanani shook the keys at him. “It’s on here? How do I know?” “You don’t know. You’ll just have to trust me. Like I trusted you. One island moke to another.” He added a sick grin, his head wobbling. Blood squirted out from the grip on his arm. Tears rolled down Kanani’s face. She turned out the door. Jerry backed up, out into the hall, nodding at the finality, the certainty of the mess on the floor. The mess that brought order. “Motherfuck —” Soon-o repeated, but he gasped and he couldn’t get the rest out. Kanani kicked the door shut and locked it. She waved him on, further down the hall. As they ran they heard a scream from that room, but Jerry couldn’t tell if it was Morales or Soon-o and the lust comforted him, pumping his legs with fresh power, assuring him it did not matter now. False Refuge ~ 194

TWENTY-FIVE

Kanani led Jerry on. They turned down the next hallway. She halted. Her tears had stopped coming, leaving her cheeks moist. She hadn’t bothered to wipe them away. They listened a moment, heard nothing, no one. Jerry handed over her pack and she ripped it open, grabbing at her black gear. “What you saw in there? I didn’t do that to them, honest,” she said, stepping into the tracksuit pants. “I just wanted to get them both there, to corral them. The rest they did to themselves.” “No problem here. That was tidy work. How’d you know they’d do each other?” They were speaking like they were moving, with great efficiency, lacking all snags of emotion. “Had no idea,” Kanani said. “I only wanted them at the same place, so that we could control them. Lock them in. All I really knew going in there was that door locks from both sides.” Jerry handed her the hiking shoes. “So, they did it because of you. Over you. You played them off each other —” “Wait,” Kanani said. They paused to listen again. If any guards happened to come down here they were screwed. But the screams from that room had ceased. Only the caged light bulbs hummed above. “You know why Soon-o came here?” she whispered. “Jealousy drove him out of the world. He tore the head off one guy who did his wahine. Problem was, that guy was his boss’s son. Literally tore his head off. They never found the head. The body was in the canal near Chinatown, Honolulu. He didn’t even try and hide it. So this was his Place of Refuge.” She added a sad chuckle. Jerry grunted, from the absurdness of that. After the blood lust, shit comes around. “Look, you used the tools you had — did what you had to do. When this is over? Don’t beat yourself up.” “No. No time for that.” Kanani ripped off her crumpled little shirt, exposing her small firm breasts. She wiped her hands with the shirt, tossed that, and pulled on the tracksuit top. Jerry, squatting, had looked to the concrete floor. Should he ask the rest? If Alex was to know about this? The hard fact was, she had prickteased two guys to get here. False Refuge ~ 195

“The opportunity was there; I had the skills,” Kanani said. She pulled her hair back tight in a ponytail. She rubbed at her face. She added a chuckle. “See, that’s what you men will never get about dancers, waitresses, whatever. Titas like me. My smile does not mean I want to fuck you. It’s a job. One skill. To gain something. Right?” Jerry nodded, yes, it was sad but true. Women might get screwed, but the guys always got fucked. She touched his shoulder and spoke softer, as if passing gossip: “You want sad? Soon-o’s a sick moke, yes. But he’s one of mine. So you see what they do to us? How they screw us Hawaiians?” ‘They’ meaning, all those who had ever sailed here looking for a killer deal and unearned awe — Jerry and Alex included, most likely. “They make us turn on one another. They always done it. And on the mainland they do it to their own, too. To you.” Jerry said nothing. He shook his head, but he wasn’t sure if it was because she was right or because he didn’t want to believe it. All he knew was, his blood lust state had never really kicked in because the firefight had never come, and he hadn’t had to use the Glock, not yet. But now he knew the old blood lust could come back, and that warmed him inside. Part of him had been wondering if it was possible to lose the lust you needed to survive a fight. And he was glad, most of all, because he would need it all in Iraq. They headed on. The hallway turned, reached a fork. A right hallway had stairs at the end, leading up at a sharp grade. Kanani pointed them left. The left hallway ended at a large door with a wheel-like handle, like in a submarine. The wheel’s hub had a lock. “This has to be it,” Kanani muttered,” has to be.” She spread the keys out in her palm, but her fingers shook and the keys jangled and jumped. “How do I know which one?” “Here,” Jerry said, “We’ll just try a few.” He tried keys in the lock while Kanani stood back, as if Jerry was defusing a bomb. The seventh key released the wheel. Jerry spun it and the door popped open. Stale and sour air hissed out, warm on his face and scraping at his eyeballs. The cell was dark inside. Kanani, eyes wide, handed Jerry a mag lite from her pack. He pointed the light in and the beam hit a scarred and stained concrete wall opposite, no more than ten feet away. A rusty drain in the middle of the floor. It was definitely a cell. It smelled like an outhouse. In the near right corner lay a neat pile of feces. Shit. In the far left corner was a lump, under a black blanket. “Alex?” Jerry said. Kanani rushed to the doorway. False Refuge ~ 196

No answer. Jerry stepped inside, up on the balls of his feet, careful not to step in muck. The black lump had legs, toes sticking out. He tore off the blanket. Alex Swenson. Facing the wall. Jerry recognized Alex’s fuzzy and pale long calves. He wore a torn and soiled white t-shirt, blue boxer briefs. He lay curled up and rigid, as if to shield himself from kicks and punches. His hands were pressed flat to his ears so that he couldn’t hear whatever was invading his dark cell. Kanani had frozen in the doorway with one hand outstretched, as if begging. “Al. Al.” Jerry tugged at elbows and yelled “Al, Al, Al,” but Alex only tightened up. Jerry hooked his fingers around Alex’s and pried half a hand off an ear. “Alex, it’s me, Bateman,” he repeated. Alex loosened. He turned up to Jerry, squinting. The blankest look Jerry ever saw on a face that was not dead. They pulled Alex out into the hallway and the gamy reek of the cell came with him. They stood Alex up but he stumbled, as if his legs were asleep, and his head wobbled. They sat him on the floor, his back against the wall. They saw purple and blue bruises, deep scrapes and crimson burn marks, the stains of excrement and who knew what. Kanani stroked Alex’s upper arm, kissed his head. His thin light hair dark and clumpy with grease and sweat. He looked to each of them, squinting again. “We got you, see, we got you out,” Kanani was saying. “Al. I came Al. Just like I promised,” Jerry said. Alex blinked, and blinked, his eyes adjusting to the caged light bulbs above. He raised a hand to shield his eyes and they widened, blood-shot but aware. A smile spread across his face. Kanani grinned, gasped. Jerry laughed for him. Alex laughed, his voice cracking.

Jerry and Kanani carried Alex between them on their shoulders and hurtled him down the hallway, his feet dragging but his toes doing their best to push him along. They turned back right, away from the stairs leading up, and slowed as they neared the first hallway. Kanani propped Alex against the wall. Jerry pulled the Glock and peered around the corner. The hallway was empty and the debris still there, the door to the room closed. False Refuge ~ 197

Jerry’s lungs heaved, pumped. A heat surged up his chest and neck. This was the blood lust transforming. Now it was a revenge lust, the marauder of the aftermath. A plunderer. Dark thoughts pressed at his eyeballs. Those fuckers in that room, they were finished. He was going to carve them up for what they did to Alex, just like a Christmas turkey but without the care and good cheer. Fucking aerate them like putting greens with this Glock, that’s what he was going to do. “Yeah,” he muttered, a sick smile spreading on his face. Let it happen. This felt powerful. He was nineteen again. He moved on down the hallway, one shoulder close to the wall, the Glock so light in his hands. He could do so much with it. Do no wrong. At the door. He waved Kanani down to him. She brought Alex, who stared at the blood- splattered debris with his hands clawed at his chest as if he’d done all this himself and it was only now coming back to him. Kanani was grinning now, too, and it was spreading like Jerry’s, and she was nodding, yes, yes. Good girl. She saw it. She had it. He nodded at the blood mess of silverware and she picked up a steak knife, and a butter knife, one in each hand. For Alex. They were going to finish this thing like nothing had ever been finished. You want Mission Accomplished? Fucking Shock and Awe. Close your eyes because here we come. Aloha! Alex was glaring at them. He saw the door. “Sanchez?” he said to them. Jerry nodded. Oh, yeah. “And Soon-o,” he said. “Two birds, Al.” Goddamn, they were good. Alex wasn’t smiling. “Both of them in there?” he said. “Oh, yeah.” “It will be closure,” Kanani said. “We need them quiet,” Jerry said. Alex was staring at the Glock in Jerry’s hands. His own hands had come unclawed, and he clamped them to his waist. “They in bad shape?” he said. “Got that right. Morales might be done.” “They deserved it,” Kanani added. “No doubt. That’s the Golden Rule. And now, you want to finish them off? That right?” Alex said. His shoulders filling out now. “You’re looking disappointed,” Jerry said, his grin fading, his lungs losing steam. He had to sigh. “I’m not. I just want to know. Did you start it with that? With that weapon?” False Refuge ~ 198

“No. We didn’t use a gun,” Jerry said. “Did you use violence?” “No, not directly. Not as a first resort.” “Don’t get the wrong idea,” Kanani said. She had put down the knives. “They did it to each other. It was coming sooner or later.” “We only helped them along,” Jerry said. “Got them in the ring.” “And Krieger?” Jerry looked to Kanani, who shrugged. “Untouched,” she said. “He’s the wild card — as always.” “I see. So that’s why we got to get out of here, keep moving. And right now,” Alex said. “We have to leave them.” Jerry and Kanani were both crouched to the wall, looking up at him. Alex reached down to Kanani and touched her face, and she leaned her head into his hand, smiling. “Listen. I don’t know how to thank you,” he said. “For saving me. I can’t even believe you’re here, Jerry. You don’t owe me this, and yet you’re here.” He stopped to clear his throat, swallow. “You answered the call. But let me ask one more thing of you. No more guns. Let them be in there. If they’re in that bad of shape. They did what they’ve done to one another, so let them reap the consequences. Together. Leave them to their tomb.” “Let them rot. Like they did to you. In their cell. Yeah,” Jerry said. The heat had cooled in his chest. His teeth were set back in his mouth. He had lowered the Glock to his side. He was human again. Jerry Bateman. And he recognized why. It was the way Alex was speaking. It was the same way Alex had spoken to him so long ago, back in Iraq, when he’d hated how he’d let the aftermath get the best of him and he’d only wanted to blow his brains out. “Okay, Al. Okay. Thanks.” “Don’t thank me yet,” Alex said, “We’re not out of this yet. Are we?” They looked to Kanani. She was shaking her head at them, wildly, as if she had a mad wasp in her hair. False Refuge ~ 199

TWENTY-SIX

Five a.m. Outside they fled, out into the dying night. Out across the barren landscape. The wind cool and whipping at them. Alex’s knees and ankles ached and his thighs burned as Kanani and Jerry Bateman led him along. His shrunken lungs wheezing. At least Kanani had brought shoes for him. And Alex couldn’t help smiling, grinning. They had fled only a few miles inland and he could see every star in the sky, it seemed, more stars than he’d seen in any desert or forest he’d ever known. Theirs was a new world — the Big Island’s outback interior. And Kanani and Bateman were there for him, believing in him. Whenever he stumbled or stopped to pant, leaning on his creaking knees, they would stop and huddle with him, Kanani’s warm dark hands massaging his sore ribs, thighs. Amazing what a few days without much food, water, fresh air or exercise could do to a guy. So Alex just kept smiling, grinning. At first Kanani and Bateman thought it was a grimace of pain. Then he caught them exchanging wide-eyed glances that said — do you think he’s lost it? “I’m doing great,” Alex told them. “Just getting my legs back. Let’s go.” The barren east horizon was blossoming for the new day, swelling out and freeing itself from the earth, purple and then cobalt blue. That’s where they were heading, and it welcomed them with its color and light and glory. “It’s beautiful!” Alex shouted. “Not so loud,” Kanani said, but sharing the smile with him. Bateman only snorted, shook his head. He marched on, pushing the pace, his little daypack bobbing between his shoulders as if empty. He’d been that way since they heard a strange braying siren about an hour ago, like a mad boar’s laugh. Kanani said it was only a civil defense siren down along the coast, but her urging voice had revealed she didn’t really know anything for sure now. All they knew was they had a long way to go. They were crossing the island across its unforgiving volcanic center, straight through its gritty and grim gut. Heading northeasterly, it was roughly 50-60 miles (in a straight line) from the Krieger Estates to the opposite coast, about a 24 hours’ journey if they could travel a mile every half hour or so. Kanani and Bateman’s daypacks were crammed with beef jerky, water, power bars, some bananas. They had basic first aid and False Refuge ~ 200 survival items, including a set of twenty-dollar walkie-talkies. So far they had only touched the water, obeying a cardinal rule of outdoors survival — hydrate in the cool of the evening or morning so as to regulate your sweat, thereby saving water. They had discarded one other classic survival tool — the gun. Back at the edge of KE’s tropical forest Alex had urged Bateman to toss it, arguing that it would make them maneuver smarter without it, and that it was better if the authorities found them without packing a loaded Glock. Both of them knew this was less about smarts than about faith. Faith in each other’s ability in the field. Faith in past pledges, whispered in some dusty dark desert hut riddled with bullet holes and shrapnel scars. Faith in honoring each other’s madness so that one day they might live to cure such madness. Bateman, his face contorted in a sick scowl, had flung the Glock pistol down a narrow and dark lava crevice so deep they didn’t hear the gun hit bottom. That was also when Bateman had started snorting and shaking his head. And so, in turn, Alex had then tossed his Palm Pilot into a stream, the last water they had seen. As they marched on the sun rose and bloomed, pink and orange. Then it emerged golden and round and white in its heart, and their black moonscape turned mustard and olive from the dry grass that covered the rolling outback as far as the eye could see. From high above this terrain must look like a giant skateboard park carpeted with khaki. But it was no carpet. Up close the grass was thin and sparse, its soil just another variant of the black lava rock and their feet pounded at it, hot like asphalt, but harder and creviced and jagged right when you took your eyes off it. Steep vast slopes rose up left and right, dwarfing all. To the left stood Hualalai Volcano, the island’s third largest. Ahead loomed the mighty two volcanoes — to the right Mauna Loa and ahead on the left Mauna Kea, their thirteen thousand plus foot-high peaks masked by dense cloudbanks in an otherwise clear sky (they even got snow up there, Kanani had told them). Linking the two mauna was a lava-laden funnel of a basin, only a few miles wide at its lowest stretch. They called this the Saddle. The Saddle was their passage through to the other side. Eight a.m. Full daylight. Almost no natural cover out here. The wind grew warmer but still ripped at them (on a tourist’s video, Alex imagined, this ripping wind would kill all other sound). False Refuge ~ 201

They trudged on, avoiding a plunging ditch here, a ragged rusting fence there. A half hour a mile had seemed conservative. Now it was looking optimistic. Bateman waved them down into a gully. They lay on flat lava and looked out, catching their breath, the grass poking and itching. Behind them, KE’s tropical forest was only a green line along the blue ocean horizon. Bateman had binoculars out. Alex rolled close to Kanani. He kissed her on her pocked cheeks, and tugged at an ear. “I love you,” he whispered in an ear. “Me too you,” she whispered. “The sun’s up — so hats on,” Bateman barked, and Kanani produced three trendy mock- camouflage bucket hats from her pack, the KE gift shop tags still on them. Bateman pressed his on and lifted the binoculars to his eyes. “Too quiet out there,” Kanani groaned, but she didn’t need to say it. How long till Glenn Krieger knew? And what would he do? They had to expect a mighty wrath. The machinator who’d devised Krieger Estates and Reacton Uni-Corp would not just bury his dead and head down to the beach. Bateman rolled around and peered ahead, pointing to the basin between Mauna Kea and Loa. Somewhere along the Saddle a narrow and choppy road had been blasted out of the lava. Saddle Road they called it — the only vehicular route through the middle of the island. “They could be waiting on Saddle Road,” Bateman said. “Maybe. Maybe not. So we’ll find out,” Kanani said. Their flat, monotone speech hinted at worry and helplessness. Alex watched them with a caring but concerned smile stuck on his face. If only they could see things the way he did. The grand picture. They had embarked on a great journey, one borne of radical and fundamental realizations that Alex was certain to pass on. In his dark cell Alex had begun to see the beauty of their revolt. What he was doing — what they were doing — was right and good, and it was meant to be. He’d even come to realize that Morales and Krieger did him a favor by shutting him away, with his thoughts. His revelations. The wind lashed at his jaw and he breathed in the warm and gritty air. He felt eyes on him. Bateman was watching him, his forehead so rumpled that his bucket hat sat back on his head. “What?” Alex said. Bateman leaned into him, patting his shoulder. “Good to have you back, man.” False Refuge ~ 202

“It’s good to have you here.” Bateman was still watching him. Kanani was now, too. “Just what happened to you back there in that cave?” Bateman said. “No more guns, you tell me. And now you’re all, I don’t know, happy. Contented, like.” “Don’t you mean that ‘cell’ I was in?” Alex said, laughing at Bateman’s slip. “Though it might as well have been a cave. What’s wrong with being happy? Nothing happened that wasn’t already planted in me. The time in the cell, it only made things clear to me. I don’t know. Some, when left in a cave, they might lose their minds or lose hope. Not me.” “And that’s why you wanted me to lose the Glock. Because of that.” “Yes. But it was happening before I got here. It’s really what sent me here. I see that now. I’m seeing one thing, one truth, so clearly that it’s undeniable, in the way that others have a religious experience, I guess. I see, simply, that might never makes right. This goes to the root of all that is bad in our world, and ever was. It’s not about left versus right, one religion versus another; it’s not even rich versus poor. It’s about power — about those who have power and must increase and retain it and any cost, versus those of us who don’t. About the rank that comes with the power and how to address, or, I should say, how not to address, the question of rank. When you don’t have the power, the goal should not be to gain the power. Rather, the goal should be to gain the wisdom that power and the use of might — going to the gun, if you will — will always lose in the long run. Many have seen it, have suffered by it, but they don’t live by it.” Alex didn’t look at Kanani as he spoke. If he was losing her with this he didn’t want to know it yet; he could not bear to know it until they were free. Bateman was staring, his face hard and sharp in its lines, like the lava rock. “Don’t look at me like that, Jere,” he went on to Bateman. “This isn’t anarchy. All I’m really talking about is restoring The Golden Rule, for everyone. Do unto others, as you would have them do to you. You don’t need religion to see it should be the universal law of human governance. That’s the way back. We just need to get back to that. It’s about defusing the might of power. It’s a simple rule, but the simplest games are the hardest to play. And, to be honest, I’m not sure how it’s going to play out. In the long run persuasion, negotiation, support, recognition, suffering even, will have to be more powerful and respected than just going to the gun. But I do know that now has to be the time to start breaking the chains of power. Why? Because our weapons are becoming too potent. They can obliterate without either side having learned False Refuge ~ 203 anything. It’s like killing ants — you learn nothing from that except that you can never kill all the ants in the world. There will only be more. You cannot hide from them. They will creep their way into every crack and crevice. We are the ants. The ones without. The have-nots. And there will always be more of us. So we don’t have to use the same methods of the powerful, of the so- called haves. We only have to be, to exist. But exercising a new wisdom. Reinstating the Golden Rule. And by living this way one day, I believe, the violent methods will cease to be an option. Above all, they’re inefficient. All fighting fire with fire does is make more fire. It’s do unto others, but perverse and out of control.” Bateman’s mouth had parted open in the shape of an egg. Kanani’s eyebrows had arced up, practically to her hairline. “Anyway. That’s all. That’s all I know. It’s nothing new. It’s just kept simple.” Bateman exhaled a long sigh, out through his nose. Kanani was staring at him like he was a Kindergartner who’d just freed the class rabbit from its cage. “You’re raising a lot of questions,” Bateman said, “but not too many answers.” “I know. It’s going to take time.” “How about centuries?” Bateman coughed out a laugh. “But, okay, hot shot, all right. You got a cause and that’s great.” They ate power bars and jerky, sipped some water, pushed on. By noon they’d gone about twenty miles. It was only about 80 degrees out but they could feel the lava earth warming under their soles and it was a wonder the grass wasn’t scorched black. Bateman had moved on up ahead, taking point. Kanani walked with Alex. She squeezed his hand and they swung their arms. “You one crazy haole,” she said. “But I want to hear more, uh?” “Okay.” A little later, Bateman had moved back to them. He was eyeing Alex again. “What?” Alex said. “I don’t know,” Bateman said. “It’s like you’re a saint or something. Like you’re freaking Gandhi.” “Uh, not quite. Just asking some questions.” Alex shrugged. “Hey, you could have left me in there if I’m freaking you out so bad.” “I didn’t mean that. It’s just that, it’s not the best time to become a saint.” “I’m no saint. You know that.” False Refuge ~ 204

“No, because a saint has followers.” Alex chuckled. “True. But I’ll pass this on somehow. It can’t be that hard. Spreading a word is a simple game. Everyone makes it hard.” “Basketball is hard. But preaching? Moralizing? And without a church. You might as well be fucking ice climbing —” Kanani grabbed at them, pulling them down. “Wait. Look. What’s that?”

A helicopter rising high, up in the sky behind them. They scrambled into a trench and hit the deck, lying in a row. Alex and Bateman tore at grass and lay it over Kanani and then did each other, as best as they could. The helicopter rose fast, its nose down as it roared up. It hovered over Krieger Estates, over the open plain just beyond the tropical forest, passing back and forth. Bateman clamped the binoculars onto his eyes, focused. “That’s no news chopper,” he grunted. “Cops?” “Doesn’t look like it. Must be Krieger’s. Shit.” “What?” “ATVs. They got ATVs combing the plain beyond the forest. Barely make it out. Looks like guys on foot, too.” “We’re miles ahead,” Kanani said. “Hours.” “Right now we are.” “They don’t think we’re crazy enough to cross the island?” “Probably not. Probably just covering their bases. Kona Town, the airport probably got so many KE boys snooping around you’d think it was a Navy SEALs convention. That or a mob party. But then again, we were crazy enough to take out two birds with one stone, weren’t we?” “They could go to the police,” Alex offered. Bateman and Kanani showed him frowns. “They won’t,” Kanani said. “But they will make it this way. Only a matter of time,” Bateman said. “Let’s just make sure that chopper’s keeping to the coast for now, and then we’ll push on.” False Refuge ~ 205

They watched the chopper roam, back and forth. The black rock under them was heating them up and they began to pant. Kanani pulled out the sunblock and they slathered it on any exposed skin, Bateman letting the stuff gel in clumps on his face as if someone had slathered mayonnaise on him. “Okay. I have some info for you two,” Kanani said. “Ready? Glenn Krieger is a Vietnam vet. His real name is Randy Karp.” She sputtered a laugh at that — these goddamn haoles and their white-ass names. “Army. Infantry, just like you two were fifteen years ago. Thirty years ago, Karp was down for a second tour of duty. He never reported.” “He went AWOL?” Alex said. A sting of emotions — remorse, shame, understanding — flared in Alex’s belly. “And the guy never went back. Never faced it. So. No wonder,” he muttered. He and Bateman exchanged humbled glances. “How’d you find that out?” Bateman said to Kanani. Kanani shot a sharp glance at Bateman. “If I’m going to take these fuckers on, think I should know who I’m dealing with. Don’t you think?” Bateman nodded, compliant. “Okay. Nice one. You can trust me, you know,” he added. “Yeah. I sure hope so.”

An immense slab, purplish black in the sun, its plateau as high as their heads, its depth at least a couple miles, its length like a river. They had reached a massive lava flow, more than a century old but looking as if it had only just cooled. No grass, no weeds up there. Bateman was up there climbing around, crouching with the binoculars. “Some paradise,” Alex grunted. In the half hour since they had seen the helicopter, he’d definitely been losing his euphoria. The adrenalin of freedom had helped him tame his aches and pains, but now the fatigue of flight was setting in. His throat was dry, his hungry stomach a throbbing abyss, his muscles shaky and his nerves prickly. “This, one of the main flows on the island,” Kanani said, taking his hand again. “Stretches all the way down to the Kohala coast, north of Kona.” Sounding proud of it like she was a parks service guide. False Refuge ~ 206

Bateman waved them up. “This isn’t even the worst of it,” Kanani added as they climbed. “Two types of lava on da Big Island — the pahoehoe, and the ‘a’a. Pahoehoe flows are smooth and wavy surfaces, like this. But the ‘a’a? All broken up. Jagged, loose, rocky piles of hell. Is junk, brah. This flow got choke ‘a’a. And up ahead, too.” Bateman clambered over to them and led them onward. “It’s like a fucking obstacle course up here,” he panted, “so be careful.” He had a bloody scrape on his knee. Kanani made a clicking sound at that. “This lava can be more friend than foe,” Alex said. “No ATV could traverse this, not with this goddamn ‘a’a lava.” “True,” Bateman said. “But that chopper decides to head this way now with us out in the open we’re fucked.” They scrambled across the black river of slabs, zigzagging to avoid the spans of ‘a’a rock that came up fast like streams of mountain water and then there were the crevices, their usual half hour a mile taking more like an hour. Then it was all ‘a’a and it was like hiking across a bed of coral. The brittle sharp chunks wobbled and shattered and yards of them shifted under their feet. Ankles rolled, palms scraped. After an hour of it they could smell the brown grass of the saddle. Almost there. Behind them the chopper hovered nearer, high in the sky like a second sun. “Why they staying away?” Kanani asked Bateman. “They got good sighting gear, it doesn’t matter — they could see us from there.” They rushed on, tiptoeing and skidding and kicking up rocks. The lava flow ended as it began — with a sudden drop-off they had to navigate like a rocky sea cliff, grasping at each other’s hands and elbows. Back down on the grass, about a quarter mile to the north, was a white sign about the height and width of a garage door. They trudged over to it. It read, in black letters on white background:

OFF LIMITS AUTHORIZED MILITARY PERSONNEL ONLY False Refuge ~ 207

TWENTY-SEVEN

“Pohakuloa Training Area,” the sign read in the bottom corner. Pohakuloa, or PTA, was one of those duty assignments few troops bragged about — a vast and unforgiving moonscape for military exercises. A Hawaii posting was supposed to sound sexy. PTA was Siberia, and thus ignored. But Alex should have remembered the place was here. All his aches and sores returned throbbing. His head spun. “This isn’t good,” he blurted as he backed up, feeling behind him for the safety of the lava flow. “I mean, what better target practice — open fire on a moving AWOL?” “It’s cool,” Bateman said, “we’re all right.” “Are we?” “I don’t see any barb wire,” Kanani said, showing Alex a smile. “Why would you see any? Who’d want to enter this place?” Alex said, facing Kanani. “You, you look too calm. You know about this? You did. You knew we were heading into this all along.” “Yes. I’m sorry. I thought it would freak you out.” Alex faced Bateman. “It’s the only way out, Alex. Trust us.” Bateman looked to Kanani for elaboration, but she could only nod. They huddled in the nearest gully and passed around a water bottle, sighing. Bateman and Kanani avoided each other’s glances. Bateman turned on a walkie-talkie and switched channels. He got empty static. Kanani was eyeing Bateman as she drank water. She kept eyeing Bateman. Bateman switched off the walkie-talkie and glared at Kanani. “What? You’re the one said you had this all figured out.” “I did. Do. Mostly. I got us out of there.” Neither could look at Alex. Bateman nodded at Kanani. He grunted. “Krieger’s chopper won’t dare come in here, I’m guessing. That’s one good thing.” He held up his palms. “Saddle Road’s public access,” Kanani said. “We have to cross it at some point. They could be waiting. Krieger could be.” False Refuge ~ 208

“That’s what I was saying before.” “What if Krieger went to the police? And they’re there. It is possible.” Bateman shrugged. “Well. That’s a chance we’ll have to take, isn’t it?” “Yes, yes it is,” Alex said, standing. Standing over them, with his fists balled. He didn’t even realize he had stood. “So let’s finish this.” They chewed on power bars and jerky as they headed on, across more of the same high plains of brown grass and lava earth they had crossed before the lava flow. The plains stretched on for miles, and miles, and they made better time. Mauna Loa stood back over their right shoulders while Mauna Kea waited before them, on their left. They heard nothing, saw little but the brown grass and an occasional knot of scrawny trees. The three fell silent for whole miles at a time, each pondering whatever brought them to this. Alex imagined an army of Soon-o clones lining Saddle Road with shotguns, and Krieger would be waiting with a black hood. Four p.m. The sun blazing. Alex drenched with sweat. Two more hours had passed. Almost twelve hours into this. Up ahead another lava flow slab came into view, ever thicker and higher. There would be no way around it. They came to another Off-Limits sign:

TARGET RANGE BEWARE LIVE ORDNANCE

Far off to the right rose a wide cinder cone hill of the busted-up ‘a’a. Halfway up the rise, a ridge of white target boards gleamed in the sun. “Papohaku Range,” Bateman said. “Been using it since the forties. Not a good idea to try and cross that. More or less a mine field.” “And too much ‘a’a. No other choice but this way,” Kanani said and led them northward, skirting the lava flow, heading straight toward Mauna Kea, a massive slope of a horizon that rose high into the blue sky and disappeared in that huge cloud bank that never seemed to clear. She dropped back to join Alex. She eyed Bateman trudging along, his big shoulders rolling. “We’re in the center of the saddle now — the Humu’ula. And Saddle Road is straight ahead,” she said, raising her voice as if daring Bateman. False Refuge ~ 209

Bateman glanced back over his shoulder, kept going. He reached a lone tangle of ragged trees that looked more like diseased bushes. He crouched within the tangle, pushing away dry knotty branches, and raised the binoculars. Alex and Kanani joined him. “Look familiar?” Bateman said, handing Alex the binoculars. Up ahead, a long line of modern metal telephone poles crossed their path, strung with cables on which hung large orange balls. The poles meant a road — Saddle Road, no doubt — and the orange balls served as a warning to low flying military aircraft. Bateman had a hand on Alex’s shoulder. “Now, two o’clock.” Alex shifted his view to the right. At the base of Mauna Kea’s slope he made out a cluster of short long buildings of corrugated metal. Quonset huts. Then, a short and stout flight tower. “Bradshaw Army Airfield,” Bateman said. “Part of PTA. Still held maneuvers here before everyone went to Iraq, got sucked in. Plus now there’s no budget —” “Someone has to be there,” Kanani said, interrupting. “No shit, sweety,” Bateman said. “Fuck you —” “Cool it, both of you,” Alex said. They glared at him, eyebrows low, like a brother and sister caught fighting. “You really don’t have a plan for this, do you? Either of you?” Alex said. Something had been in the works. A couple times when Alex had trailed Kanani and Bateman had engaged in what looked like heated conversations. Kanani looked to Bateman, who said: “Nothing we could agree on.” “Then come on. Follow me.” Alex handed back the binoculars and hiked up onto the lava flow. After a few minutes of poking around he found a gully that descended deeper than any they had traversed. One wall of the gully gave way to a small, shaded cave. It was a lava tube. The jagged walls funneled away into a hole so black it had no depth or dimension Alex could make out. Alex faced the hole, his feet spread apart. He took a deep breath. He waved them down in. The shaded entrance held the three of them and that was it. Any further in and they would have to crouch and crawl. Kanani and Bateman squatted around Alex. “It’s too quiet out there, and I don’t like it,” Kanani said. “We need to keep moving. We’re giving Krieger time to cover the road.” False Refuge ~ 210

“He’s already got it covered,” Bateman said. “Other side of the PTA, to the east, the landscape eases up. And it’s all Krieger’s if he wants it. I guarantee you they know our position, within a mile or so. Just a matter of narrowing down.” They stared at their feet, thinking. Alex could feel cooler air coming from the lava hole, and part of him wanted it. The thought of him wanting, needing to crawl back into the darkness gave him a sharp chill. Kanani, watching him, rubbed at his upper arm. “Weapons would have helped,” Bateman muttered. “Would they?” Alex said. “What do you propose — defend this black hole till our ammo runs out? Then what? Alamo? Bastogne? Problem with that is, no one would be coming to relieve us.” Kanani and Bateman exchanged tense glances. Bateman had sat up straight, his back against the rough lava. Kanani’s hands hung clenched off her knees. “All right, let’s have it,” Alex said. “Jerry?” Bateman shook his head. He added a heavy sigh. “It’s not what I proposed to Kanani, not exactly.” He stared at the black lava earth as if it was a map. “Here’s the deal. There’s probably only a small unit posted to PTA. Those Quonset huts. Marines most likely. They would take care of us — they would take care of you.” “Fuck dat,” Kanani barked — “Ah-ah.” Alex held up a hand. “So, what exactly would you tell these Marines?” “It would have to be close to the truth, Al. They would find it out anyway.” “But then you could be in hot water, too. So far, you haven’t done a thing wrong as far as anyone knows, am I right?” Bateman nodded. Alex looked to Kanani. She had to have been working on a way out, and soon after they got to KE. She was just that kind of girl. The survivor. Thus the hoarded money. He just didn’t want to know how far she had taken it. Not yet. “He hasn’t done anything wrong,” Kanani said. Alex waited for more, if it had to be so. But she and Bateman only stared back. Bateman put a hand up. “Can I say something? I’ve done a lot of checking into your case back home. At Fort Clark. Called the Pentagon. On the Q.T..” He was sitting forward, his elbows on his knees. This was his big pitch. “The evidence against you is sure to be wrong, Al. Touchy even. They don’t have a case. They only have scapegoats. So it’s your duty to go back and fight this.” False Refuge ~ 211

Duty. There was that word again. “I don’t know if I deserve you going to bat for me, Jerry. But, you also promised you wouldn’t try and take me back. In the email.” “I know. You’re right. I came to help you. That’s all. I guess I only hoped you would come back —” “Back to what? For what? Why are we there? Really?” Kanani blurted. Bateman glared at Kanani, his mouth screwed up like he needed to loogie. Here it comes, Alex thought — this is where Bateman’s going to lose it, going to give her a piece of his mind. The old lecture about duty. But then his lips loosened up, and he nodded at her, and at Alex, and at the black jagged rocks, and said: “That’s a good point.”

Half an hour later — pushing five-thirty p.m. Still in the cave. They drank more water, two swallows each. Bateman had gone out for a look with the binoculars and Alex snuggled with Kanani, stroking her hair. The lava was too jagged to lie on, so they leaned into each other like two monkeys up in a tree. She smelled like sweat too, but hers was sweeter and thinner than his gamey mix. She didn’t seem to mind his reek. She rubbed her chin into his greasy neck. “You don’t trust him, do you?” Alex said. “Not all the way. But you do, so I’m doing my best. Besides, we wouldn’t have got this far without him.” “This far? I’m guessing wouldn’t be free without him. Right?” “Yes.” The grating sound of shoes on rocks. Bateman ducked into the cave and crouched back against the rock, panting. “So, all clear out there,” he muttered. He was gazing at them, his arms loose at his sides, his knuckles grazing the rock earth. “Thanks. I’ll take the next one,” Alex said. Bateman nodded, once, okay. His eyelids hung, more sad than tired. “What is it?” Alex said. Bateman let out a chuckle. He lifted his arms and let them slap at his hips. “Okay, here’s the deal. I’ve done some thinking. I’ll go. Me only. Go it alone. Tell them I was hiking and got lost. Some crazy guys were after me. They followed me onto the PTA. The Marines won’t like that. False Refuge ~ 212

After all, I’m military too. Maybe I could get them to go recon Krieger’s crew, give them the business.” “A decoy,” Kanani said. “What would you tell them?” Alex said. “I’m on leave. I like the Big Island. Krieger says I was staying there, fine. No law against going hiking. Tell them I didn’t like the feel of KE. But I’m guessing he won’t. Wouldn’t want to bring attention to himself. Could even tell them Krieger’s an old deserter, if I have to. They won’t like that either. Not these days.” Bateman was speaking down, to the rock. He couldn’t look at Alex. Alex was still a traitor, was what Bateman meant. Alex had abandoned his unit. And yet here Bateman was, possibly sicking the Marines on another AWOL just to keep Alex the AWOL free. Bateman chuckled again, shaking his head at the rocks. Alex had nodded along as Bateman spoke. Kanani, silent, pulled back from Alex and hugged her arms. “First, you tell me something,” Alex said to Bateman. “Your email, it said you have a small ‘op window.’ What’s your status? Your unit. I mean when you get back?” Bateman, stalling, swatted and pushed at lava pebbles like a kid in a sandbox. “I’m doing my duty, right here. The rest, it doesn’t matter,” he muttered. “Not good enough,” Alex said. “You want the truth, that it?” Bateman said, his voice rising. He planted a hand over his heart. “I only have a couple days left. Then? We’re activated.” Alex’s throbbing hunger had vanished. His stomach tightened up, shutting down. “You’re going back.” “Iraq,” Bateman said, nodding. Alex stared, nodding. Kanani’s eyes had shut. “Look, don’t say anything,” Bateman said. “Just go with it. What I can offer here and now. It’s the perfect plan. Why couldn’t I get them to head off Krieger’s posse? They’re probably bored to tears out here. They’d love the action. Track down some scumbags, encircle them. Interrogate. I’m hoping they got a couple humvees, maybe even an APC or a tank. Might get to ride in one.” Bateman sputtered a chuckle at Alex. False Refuge ~ 213

But Alex only stared at Bateman. Bateman stared back, ready. He seemed to know where Alex would be going with this. A swap. If Alex turned himself in, would Bateman refuse to serve in Iraq — exercising his right to reject duty in an unjust invasion? Grimaces spread across their faces. They were grinning at each other. Then Bateman was shaking his head. “No. That won’t work. This is it, Al. Right here, right now.” Alex’s grin faded. “Well? Say something,” Bateman added. “Stay with us,” Alex said. He didn’t have to spell out what that meant. Bateman would be choosing the same route as Alex. Bateman shook his head faster, as if imagining himself in drag or in a wheelchair. “No good.” “Marci?” “That’s not the problem. She’d be glad if I refused duty.” “She always was a smart girl,” Alex said. Now his chest had tightened up, as if he’d been smoking, and he had to sigh to make it go away. The three sat in silence, exchanging awkward glances. “So, what? It’s back to Marci first, I hope,” Alex said. “Yes. Then boots on the ground. Unit’s got the marching orders.” “How soon?” “Be over there within a couple weeks.” Bateman sputtered a laugh. Alex only now noticed Kanani had left them alone. She was crawling out into the sunlight, holding the binoculars. Always helping out. What a wahine. His wahine. Bateman was watching her, too, and an incredulous smile was spreading across his face, parting his dried lips. As if he was watching some kind of rare bird in a zoo. “She’s a keeper,” he said. “Thanks. I know. Believe me.” “Just don’t forget it in the days to come.” “No. I won’t.” “She did what she had to do. For you.” “I know.” Bateman shuffled over on his haunches and went through his backpack with Alex, separating items. He put some jerky and water in Alex’s pack. He gave up the second walkie-talkie and False Refuge ~ 214

Alex understood why — they could have no contact or proof of contact from here on out. Alex held the pack open, nodded along, sighing, searching for something to say. “I guess I’m just old fashioned,” Bateman muttered, slinging his pack back on. “Duty is duty.” Duty is duty when the war must be fought. Duty was duty in World War Two. But when a war’s the rich man’s choice, what should the real duty be? Alex wanted to ask Bateman all this, one last time. But it was done. Bateman trusted the duty, like so many others. That was how he survived. And you could never knock them for that. It’s what made them good soldiers. “Tell Marci hi,” Alex said instead. “And keep your head down, all right?” “Sure. Sure thing.” Bateman splashed water on his hands, rubbed at his face. “I don’t know how to thank you,” Alex said. “We needed you, and you came. It took the two of you. We, I, wouldn’t have made it without you.” “Thank me by staying true to yourself,” Bateman said, his voice breaking. “Okay. You too. Give em hell.” “Yeah. You know what the worst part is — what it will be like, back there? In the shit? It’s like a drug that you have to come down from.” Alex knew what he meant. That blood lust. It was vital. He nodded. “That one time, with me, in that firefight, it didn’t kick in right. Is that what happened? The soldier in me had not responded. Or did I just come down too hard?” “The human in you responded,” Alex said. “It never did in me. Not there. That’s what I want now. What you had. But,” he added with a laugh, “without the having-to-blow-your-brains-out part.” “Keep doing what you’re doing. Standing up. I think it might just make a difference someday. If someone hears it. Besides, it’s your right. I mean, that’s what we’re really fighting for, aren’t we, to defend this Constitution and the rights in it? The right to be who you want to be. That’s the whole point of this country, right? Why we stuck it to old King George way back when.” “That’s right,” Alex said, smiling. That was the way it was supposed to be. Bateman began to stand. Alex grabbed his elbow. “Hey. Man. Keep your head down,” he said. “You said that already —” False Refuge ~ 215

Alex said: “I was always certain you missed, did you know that? Back in Iraq that day. The firefight. The mother and baby. It was me. I hit the mother, that baby.” Bateman was shaking his head. “No, listen, I could feel it in my gut. And, I guess, that’s why I’m doing this now. But you, you had done the suffering for me, back then. So now I’ll do the standing up for you.” “That sounds like a deal,” Bateman said, and Alex saw the glints of tears in Bateman’s eyes, and Alex wasn’t sure if those tears had come because Bateman had seen Alex’s own tears coming. “Give me at least an hour,” Bateman said. “Will do.” “You keep your head down, too.” “Check.” Bateman squeezed Alex around the shoulders, patted him on the arm. Grunted: “And after? You know where to find me,” and he was off, scampering out the cave on his haunches like he was playing crab. Alex, his eyes blurring, watched as Bateman and Kanani shared words and a hug out in the gully. Kanani pushed the binoculars into Bateman’s hands. He forced them back on her. She took them, hugged them at her chest. Bateman kissed her cheek. And he was off and out into the blazing daylight, so fast had he passed once more through Alex’s strange life that Alex wasn’t sure if his old soldier friend was an angel or a ghost. False Refuge ~ 216

TWENTY-EIGHT

Alex and Kanani stayed in the lava tube cave for half an hour, listening to the wind, crouching, debating their chances, hoping. Alex wrung the sweat from his sopping bucket hat. They splashed water on their faces. Then, holding hands, they crept out the cave to find the centuries- old lavascape just as they’d left it — no birds, mongoose, or insects here and only a whiff of ash and cinder that tickled the nostrils. The sun hung low on the west horizon. They were a quarter mile south of Saddle Road, and the lava on this south side of the road stretched on a few miles to the east. They hiked to the northeast, heading straight for the road, mighty Mauna Kea a leaden mass for a horizon before them. To the west the same helicopter hovered, high in the sky. They had to take the chance. The goal? Cross Saddle Road closer to the west side of Mauna Kea, where the lava ended and grassy slope plains led into the island’s lush and remote eastern coast. They trudged on, around the jagged ‘a’a and along the wavy slabs of pahoehoe, the wild mix of lava-lands a labyrinth with no solution. About 80, 90 yards from Saddle Road. The sweat rolled into Alex’s eyes and stung; Kanani made him stop and she wiped his face. They hunkered behind an ‘a’a mound, shielded from the helicopter. Alex drew the binoculars. The military base, behind them now to the northwest, looked as dead as ever, a cluster of drab squares and rectangles. Closer to them he could see the road, a winding strip of mottled gray cut out of the purple-black, the road so narrow and rough in legend (and in legend only) that rental car contracts forbade drivers to travel it. Alex saw a delivery truck pass, a local’s beater pickup. A white minivan. Then another white minivan. Alex refocused; Kanani tugged at him; he kept watching. The white minivans kept passing, back and forth, east and west, along only this one stretch of road it seemed. Kanani squatted closer, whispering. “Is that, are they —” “Krieger’s men,” Alex said. “We have to assume it.” One of the vans parked halfway between the base and their lava roost. Alex leaned around for a look. Two broad-shouldered men in dark clothing exited the van’s side door and stood to scan the lava with binoculars. “Shit,” Alex grunted, pulling back to the cover of the mound. He checked his watch. 7:30 p.m. The blue sky was thinning, fading. Out west, over Kona, pink and orange streaks of clouds False Refuge ~ 217 painted the sky. In a half hour the sun would be down and the lava would be as black as night, impossible to cross without using a flashlight. Even with their eyes adjusted to the dark they could bust an ankle or land face-down in the jagged ‘a’a. And Krieger knew it. The second white van was still roaming the road, back and forth, west and east. Alex dared another look. The parked van was there still but the men were gone. Were they back in the van? Could he be sure? Or where they now out on the lava? The sun had set. Mauna Kea was fading into the evening sky. Their skin was losing its glow. “Trying to lock us in, get our exact coordinates,” Alex told Kanani. “What about the base? See anything? Any activity?” Alex shook his head. “Soon we won’t be able to tell anything. Be like being in a cave, but outside.” Krieger’s men could be wearing night vision, heading across the lava in thick-soled boots. Alex didn’t tell her that. He didn’t have to. “Fuck dat,” she said. “We gonna cross this road, and we go soon now.”

Pushing eight p.m. Darkness falling. The wind had calmed, bringing an eerie void of sound, like in a tunnel. The temperature was sinking fast, their sweat cooling on their skin. Alex tore off his drenched hat and stuffed it in his pack. They waited behind the mound, going over the plan, letting their eyes adjust. Up in the sky the lights of Krieger’s helicopter had vanished, which wasn’t necessarily a good thing — it might have done good work locking them in and wasn’t needed now. The good news? The moon was out, only half a sphere, yet it would help light the highest pikes and ridges. “It’s shorter distance than a soccer field,” Alex told Kanani. They would stay close, holding hands, and would have no choice but to take their time, like in a minefield. Alex would lead and Kanani would step where he stepped. They took deep breaths. They grasped hands and squeezed. They scrambled out from the mound crouching. The moonlight did help. Alex stepped here and there, bounding forward and Kanani followed step, lunging and wobbling, what must have looked like two meth heads doing the bunny dance. “Wait. What’s dat?” Shouting, from the lava west of them. They lowered on all fours, the lava poking at their stomachs. Alex fumbled for the binoculars. False Refuge ~ 218

More sights, sounds. Lights flashing, sirens whirring, what sounded like someone on a bullhorn. But this was from farther off. Kanani planted the binoculars on Alex’s eye sockets. It was coming from the direction of the base. “Some kind of alert,” Alex said, still panting. “Bateman fucking us over?” Kanani said. Alex shook his head. “Any luck it’s the opposite. Come on.” Beams of light shot into the sky — spotlights. They pushed on, scrambling along like spooked lizards. Alex scraped his shin. Kanani tore her sweats. Headlights were coming up Saddle Road, coming their way. The van. Flashlights flickered on, then off from the lava just west of them. “That’s Krieger’s crew, has to be. Getting on top of us. Keep going.” Alex stumbled. Kanani landed on him but they rose as one and kept going. Bigger, higher headlights were coming up the road, pursuing the van’s headlights. A blue siren flashing. “Know those lights. That’s a humvee,” Alex shouted. A new helicopter, roaring their way. It had the light pattern of an old Huey — a UH-1N. “Marines chopper,” Alex said. It veered lower and directed a spot on the lava, hovering in circles. Searching. “The Marines, they’re coming after them.” They hit a stretch of good flat lava and sprinted, the van’s headlights now equidistant from them and the road. The humvee gained on it. “Look, look!” Kanani panted. More headlights. Another humvee was coming from the other direction — from the east. It passed Kanani and Alex’s path and halted sideways, filling the narrow road. Cutting off the van. Alex and Kanani were less than 50 yards from Saddle Road. Alex could see the flat and brown other side where the lava stopped, glowing blue in moonlight. On they went, scrambling, one eye on the cluster of headlights. The first humvee had pulled up to box in the white van — blocking its escape with a roadblock. The van slowed, stopped in the road. Marines jumped out the humvees — Alex could make out the camo in the headlights — and surrounded the minivan, creeping toward it, crouching. Men exited the van, their arms up high, but these were wearing surf shorts and tees. Not the same men. Then the sideways humvees’ headlights illuminated the False Refuge ~ 219 lavascape where, Alex could see it now, other Marines were marching the men in black, their arms up. A telephone pole. The road. They hurried on and huddled at the base of the pole, catching their breath, peering out. “Bateman there?” Kanani gasped. “Don’t know. Can’t tell.” The Marines lined up the van men, at the side of the road. Flashlights illuminated their faces white and Alex recognized them. From the lava tube. From Freeman. From his cell. Gear was at their feet. Weapons. The Marines had weapons aimed, AR-15s. Of course they did. They had all along. Only now did Alex notice. Kanani was squeezing his hand, their hot sweat flowing as if from one. “Go.” Out into the road, as low as they could, their thighs pumping. A narrow stretch of the lava lined the other side — the smooth pahoehoe, so flat it shined in the moonlight. They crossed it and their feet hit the grass and it was like carpet. Sprinting now. Up toward a dark line, what had to be a gulley. Kanani was leading. Alex had to look, one more time. He pulled at her, and they turned and crouched. At the dark rear end of the nearest humvee stood a silhouette, glowing red in the taillights. Facing their way. Only ten, fifteen yards away. The silhouette wasn’t wearing camo, except for a trendy bucket hat. It was Bateman. His thick, set jaw and eyes wide, all glowing red. Now he was looking around the side of the humvee, to where two Marines were frisking Krieger’s men in the road. A delivery truck had pulled up to the other blocking humvee, waiting to get through to the east side of the island, the driver with his head out. Bateman turned to them. Their eyes met, locked on. Then he waved them on, pointing, directing them onward. Go, go, he was saying. Coast is clear. Now or never. Alex nodded. Bateman nodded. Alex could see it. Off they went. Kanani pulled at Alex’s pack strap and they made it to the gulley where they dropped down and turned to the road, lying flat, arms and legs intertwined. Panting, wheezing, the sweat splashing on their hands. The Marines chopper had pulled away; Alex could see it out west, lowering onto its airfield. At the roadblock the delivery truck passed through, probably moving some fresh Kona-side mango or coffee. Alex drew the binoculars. Down at the roadblock, a Nissan SUV had pulled up. An SUV? Then Alex saw the blue siren on top — Big Island cops drove their own cars, he remembered. False Refuge ~ 220

Two cops in uniform were talking to two Marines. Krieger’s men were squatting in a circle down on the road, the other Marines guarding them. But Bateman? Nowhere. Had they really seen him? It didn’t matter. All that mattered was that Alex now knew his old soldier friend was both a ghost and an angel. False Refuge ~ 221

TWENTY-NINE

Now, this here was a paradise. Alex’s lanai looked out over a sparkling gurgling stream that ran down to him, along tributaries large and small, from a spring that began high up on Mauna Kea. Farther out lay a green field of tall, moist, and thick grass, lined on either side by lush tropical forest. Still farther out, a horizon of palm trees, a black sand beach, and the Pacific Ocean, where the sun rose every morning. His shack was built into the base of a derelict old rail trestle tower from the plantation days, from when the pineapple and sugar cane barons grabbed this island for America’s own, but now the trestle pillars were just a skeleton for the planks and logs and corrugated metal that made up Alex’s lanai and two-room domain, complete with roof. The trestle bridge and the tracks running into it above were long gone, sunk into the soft valley earth or swept away by floods, and the remains converted into firewood and huts, sawhorses and horseshoes. Thick vines cascaded down on all sides, helping to disguise the rust and graying wood and hand-built solar panels attached up higher on the trestle, high above the palms and forest growth, there where the sun always shined on the valley. This had to be the most remote valley on the island. It lay at the bottom of a steep gorge. Behind Alex, on the inland side of his shack, the gorge stretched for a couple miles at least and then narrowed into a chasm that plummeted thousands of feet from the high plains above. On the other end, nearest him, the ocean lapped up on the beach of black lava sand, the only tried and true way out. Only one road led down into this valley, a twisting, rutted, plummeting snake of a trail that few four-wheel- drives or their drivers could handle. The few who dared delivered foodstuffs or dropped off small groups of plucky haole tourists who came for the guided horse rides, the only legalized business in the valley. At first Alex feared one of those four-wheel-drives would bring a team of sunburned Homeland Security boys or a jet-lagged and grouchy team of CID detectives, but they never did and he got used to seeing the haole tourists on docile old horses cross his stream now and then, their faces alight with wonder. It seemed like he had been here much longer than two weeks. It took him at least that first week just to get his strength back. He’d holed up in this shack they had given him, recovering. Like everyone down here, he had no electricity or mail service. No addresses here. They lived off False Refuge ~ 222 the grid. Alex boiled or purified his water and his power was solar. The first couple days the valley dwellers had passed to stare at this wild and goofy haole with the pink skin and puffy white blond hair. Old Samoans, the skin hanging off their once corpulent bodies. Wiry little Asians. Dark-skinned cowboys in worn riding hats. A white couple with leathered faces, salt- and-pepper long hair, and knives on their belts. Many of them were about his age. Their children gathered in a line across the stream and waited for him to appear on his lanai. The ones who weren’t in the know must have wondered if he wasn’t a little mad, or dangerous. Even long-time islanders were scared of this valley, Kanani had told him. But this place was too beautiful to fear. They had wild horses down here, and mango and avocado trees lining the trails. There was tropical forest, and streams, and waterfalls. They had secluded lava tubes, too, though Alex wouldn’t bother with those. He didn’t know where Kanani was living down here. She had gotten him into the valley and this shack and then left him on his own. She said it had to be that way. The originals tolerated him here, but wanted no contact. Not yet. This was his de-contamination period. He smelled barbecues and imagined that they, most all the people of the valley, often gathered to eat together. He saw smoke coming from the black beach and heard drums at night and pictured a community luau with ukuleles and song and succulent roasted pig. But that was okay. He might be a danger to them. He understood that. He went on walks he kept short, always within eyeshot of his shack, making a loop or two if he was feeling up for it. He passed no one. Or was it that they kept away, too? After those first couple days no one had appeared to stop and stare. This was his purgatory. His purification. They had a tradition for it — a Place of Refuge. They knew it as much as he did. After two weeks he could now sit for hours on this simple lanai and reflect, and begin to understand. Kanani had come to him only four times in those first two weeks, to check on him, help him out, make sure he was working the solar energy right and keeping his water fresh. She brought him food from the valley — there was pork wrapped in leaves, and poi made from the taro fields. A mango turnover pastry sent down from one of the junction bakeries up above. This was always during the day. Each time Kanani came, she sat with him on the lanai and gave him more background, speaking with the measured tones of a research librarian, a dispatcher, a corrections officer. False Refuge ~ 223

“A tsunami hit this valley. The bad one of ‘46. They had a schoolhouse down here, and a village, and the whole place wash away. The children, many schoolchildren died. The village, the school never returned, not as it was.” Alex pointed above his head, to the trestle. “They work for the plantations?” “Many did, yes. Before the plantations, was one mission church here. It was the missionaries who brought in the plantation owners.” He had two mismatched folding chairs out on the lanai, one metal, one wood. She kept her chair a good yard from his. They looked out to the ocean horizon as they spoke; or, at least, she did — he stole glances of her and only got caught once or twice. She wore threadbare jeans, and boots, and had a knife on her belt. She was one of the guides for the horse rides now. The next time she came she told him: “This is where my grandmother grew up.” “Tutu.” Kanani nodded. “She was one of the few survivors of that tsunami. She see it. Experience that horror. She always say it was the gods’ anger at us, for what we were becoming. From Kahiki. She was close to the beach when it come. When I was little she used to talk story about how the sea had risen and pulled back that day, way back to the horizon, and you could see the ocean floor. The rocks. The fish jumping. Luckily she was also near the road. A man had a jeep there.” She pulled her feet onto the chair seat, raising her knees to her chest, and sighed. She went silent a while. “You’ve seen the flag on your walks?” she said. On his walks Alex had seen a white, yellow, and black horizontal tricolor hanging from a shack, and another painted on the side of an abandoned pickup. Some sort of purple and green symbol in the center. He nodded. “Most here believe in restoring the Hawaiian nation, in breaking off from the United States and reestablishing the sovereignty the haole plantation barons and politicians stole. Never see an American State of Hawaii flag down here like you do up above. The Union Jack, the bars, those make up the flag of occupation. That one you saw down here is our flag. The Hawaiian nation.” Kanani smiled to herself, and brushed dust off her jeans. “Some down here had heard about Krieger, about what he planned for our island. They were planning a campaign against him, so False Refuge ~ 224 they are happy to welcome two veterans of the fight. Since we were on the inside, some may come to debrief us.” “Okay. I’d be glad to —” “Some down here, they were once a part of a bigger movement. From the seventies. I didn’t know any of this. Some even knew Krieger. But then, the movement got corrupted. The ones who didn’t end up like Krieger ended up either in rehab or working for some corporation or lobbyist. Hotel chain. Mob.” Kanani sputtered a laugh. “So, you weren’t part of this from the beginning? Just so I know. You didn’t want to get into KE for them here? To spy on KE.” “No. I wanted in for you. It was just as it appeared to be. I’d finally escaped Honolulu, come back home to find a way out from the crime and the debts. And I found you. I didn’t know any of this. I’m just learning now.” Two wild horses emerged from the forest and drank from the stream, their hooves shifting and rising in the water, kneading at the mossy rocks. Their brown coats shining. Alex loved that, how shiny their coats were in the wild. “What are you learning?” he said. “You can’t just survive for surviving’s sake. If you really want to stand up, you have to create your own fight. You can’t let others do the fighting for you.” “Yeah, I think I’m learning that one, too.”

Alex and Kanani had reached this valley less than two days after fleeing Krieger Estates. After they crossed half the island, and Bateman saved their lives, they had headed east from Mauna Kea. In the dark the scrubby plain grass had given way to shrubs and then a ragged forest of short dry trees and they had to stop to camp. These were the rare mamane trees, scrappy and knotty and crooked. They dared using the flashlight here. Alex’s hand was cut from the ‘a’a lava, and Kanani cleaned and bandaged it. It grew cool and a fire would have been nice but Alex didn’t want to risk the smoke and light and Kanani agreed, adding that the mamane were a protected Hawaiian fauna. They shared Alex’s narrow bedroll, spooning. Too tired to talk. Too relieved to worry. Too wary to go back in time and put all the pieces together. False Refuge ~ 225

In the morning they saw they had reached a new world. A fog obstructed the sky and thick and huge bright green fern-like plants surrounded the mamane trees, filling every gap in the forest. So near a volcano this was the world starting over again — this is what the whole earth must have looked like, Alex thought, before even the first creatures and plants began to rise up from the water and the soft mud. They hiked on east toward the northeast coast — the Hamakua Coast. They passed through rain forest and crossed many streams. They crossed former plantation lands, now private crops. They passed waterfalls, a couple stunning ones combing with tourists. Here Kanani began to show another side — her knowledge of her island. In ancient times, she told him, these surrounding wild lands were a major source for feathers and canoe logs; in more recent times, vast fields of sugarcane covered these lands — until 1993, that is, when the last plantation harvested its last crop. They passed through small junctions with mom-and-pop stores offering homemade fish jerky, fruit turnovers, and shaved ice. Kanani went in one of these to buy water and food and Alex watched the few tourists stare at her from their rental cars, look at the sketchy dirty island woman. If they only knew. Then Kanani led them to the coast, where the upland gulches, ravines, and forests ran into the abrupt rocky shores with their cliffs and pounding surf. She knew the way now exactly. They followed the winding old coastal highway, and she stopped at a cemetery of sooty crumbling tombstones, most bearing Japanese characters. She went quiet and walked off from him, passing among the tombstones. “Some of my ancestors are here,” she said afterward, “but I don’t know where.” They had marched on, following the highway. A couple miles later she had said: “Guess what? Now it’s my turn to go all idealistic on you.” It had been a long day of walking northward along the coast. Soon it would be dark again. She found a deserted plantation warehouse still bearing the fading title of the Hamakua Sugar Company, its roof wracked with holes, its floor littered with fallen rafters and the air reeking of hobo urine and bitter ash. But in the corner was an old mattress, and here they could make a fire. They sat across from each other, the fire flickering between them, flashing their skin orange and gleaming in their eyes. Alex on the mattress, she crouched on the dirt floor. He offered the bedroll. She didn’t want it, not right now. He said: False Refuge ~ 226

“Why were you and Bateman so sure they weren’t going to call the cops? It’s not just that Krieger’s an AWOL. That was over thirty years ago.” “No. That wasn’t why. It was because Morales and Soon-o killed each other.” “I see. Over you?” Kanani nodded, staring into the fire. She told him everything. She’d had affairs with both of them, and then each turned on the other. Alex closed his eyes, letting the fire heat up his eyelids as she continued. For her, it was only a job. It was to get information. To get him free. To get them out. Her notebook provided the details for the job. Her money skim, it turned out, did not anger them. It impressed them. “You mean him.” He opened his eyes. “You impressed him.” “Morales, yes.” She glared into the fire, mesmerized by the flame. “I didn’t even mean to turn them on each other. It just turned out that way. Then it became the only way. Divide and conquer.” The anger swelled in his head. The flames seared at his cheeks and he let them burn. “We each should use the gifts we have, so why not you? At least you didn’t use a gun. Not you. You use your pussy. How do you say that in Hawaiian? Sweet pussy?” He called her bitch. Cunt. The fire dried his tears before they could roll off his jaw and chin. How could she? Even though he knew why. She had to. She had done it for them, and it really was the only way. They would have ended up like Freeman, and her well before him. She had stared at him the whole time, never blinking it seemed. Then she had curled up in a ball on the dirt to sleep, leaving him to the mattress.

In the valley, the two weeks became three. One night, as Alex sat out on the lanai, watching the stars, Kanani appeared on the other side of the stream. She crossed and took her chair on the lanai, and they looked out. High in the black sky, the lights of an airline passed, a comet in slow motion. For minutes they sat, saying nothing. Six months ago, when he’d first come to Hawaii, he could have never just sat like this. Patient. “At first they left me alone down here, too,” she said. “Did you know that? To think about where I had been.” “Place of refuge,” Alex said. False Refuge ~ 227

“That’s right. Place of refuge.” “I know one thing — I can never run again,” Alex said. “Knowing that Krieger was an AWOL? Like me? Didn’t make it any easier here, being alone with that. And then I realized I wasn’t like him, precisely because I’ve come to understand something else. I must be accountable.” “We all must be,” Kanani said. “I must be.” “That’s right, and when I leave here, I’ll go straight back and meet my fate.” She turned to face him. “Back to the mainland, you mean.” Alex nodded. “I’d be taking a cue from your people here — about identity and standing up. You can’t run to prove a point. You have to face the evil straight on. You can’t run away. Go to them. Stay on your own land. Claim it.” He stopped to gauge her face, make sure she wasn’t showing him the corrections officer look. Her mouth had relaxed, and she gave him the slightest nod. “I’m not just realizing things about my past. This place is helping me see my future. I talked of not using guns. Okay. How is that fighting? Somehow, you have to stand up and be counted, and it has to evolve in steps. How? That’s what I’ll find out. It means getting creative.” “Even if they put you in a jail.” “Even if. Even if no one sees or cares. I can still fight from a jail.” Around them, the palm leaves flapped in the breeze. The breeze brought the faint aroma of a sweet flora. Kanani had another flower in her hair, this one red with long petals. She was still staring, her mouth ready to part open. This time he was the one looking out, letting her gaze at him. He let her. “I propose we meet more often,” she said. “Okay. I’d like that.” She stayed with him that night. They lay together on his futon on the floor. Alex, spooning her from behind, went hard down below, but he didn’t act on it. They lay awake thinking, but not speaking. Hours later they were awake again. Still dark out. “I’m sorry about what I said,” he said. “I’m ashamed of myself. You did what you had to do.” “I’m ashamed, too,” she said. “I’ve been wasting my life away in anger, misdirected, shooting at the wrong targets.” Alex nodded. “We all have been. You’re not alone. But we can change. Just like the people can change. I’m seeing this now. I’ve been thinking, looking ahead. Back home, more and more False Refuge ~ 228 people will surely have seen how bad they’re getting bamboozled, shafted, used. Even if the media doesn’t have the balls to make it clear, the signs are there for all to see. They will see the wrong war in Iraq and the sham war on terror. And they will vote out all those swine who wrap themselves in the flag just to keep their grasp on the power — unjust dead be damned. That’s a start. The people are good that way. They will see this isn’t about left or right or so-called values or patriotism. This is about a sick and radical grab at power that is so sly it makes Fascists, Communists look like the amateurs they were.” “Sounds like you’re on the right track. It might take a while.” “I know. I’m just waiting for that one final call. I’ll know when I get it.” She nodded along. Minutes passed. The shack creaking in the breeze. “Am I going back?” she said. “That’s up to you.” She kissed him on the hand, and fell into sleep. She left for work at first light.

Alex didn’t miss the Internet, the TV, and the newspapers. Of course he wanted to learn about the coming election but he figured it was all just noise until the votes were counted. He was starting to miss human contact again. Jerry Bateman, he missed. But he also knew that Bateman wouldn’t be contacting him, not if he could help it. Bateman had fulfilled his debt and was working on another. Alex smiled to himself on the lanai, imagining how it must have played out with Bateman. Jerry got those Marines to kick some ass and they had to have been glad for the action. Sure, there could be an inquiry about Bateman’s antics on the Big Island, but it would certainly have to wait. Because Bateman would be getting back just as he was shipping out, and that was more important than any mix-up while on leave. Then Alex thought of Marci Bateman, and he wasn’t smiling. The MPs on the tarmac would have to pry Marci off her beloved Jerry. That afternoon Kanani burst out of the forest, ran across the stream, the water spattering, and she jumped up onto the lanai, planting both feet and grinning at Alex. Her hair was down, wet in her face. She pushed it away. Lovely. “What?” False Refuge ~ 229

“Krieger was arrested. All over the papers. I was up above, in town.” She pulled a rolled-up Honolulu Chronicle from her back jeans pocket and handed it over. It was the top story, in bold headlines: “MURDERS BURST KONA DESERTER’S SYNDICATE.” A joint task force of Homeland Security and FBI had arrested Glenn Krieger (real name: Randy Karp) and were holding him on the mainland. Krieger’s shady business ties and plans for an independent “corporate republic” based on the Big Island were found to stretch much further than feared. Nice one, Alex thought — that had to be Bateman’s doing. But as Alex read on he found no mention of Bateman. An “anonymous tip” had busted this thing wide open, according to sources. That meant the FBI and Homeland Security were taking full credit for this, they were so desperate for a win. They had probably given Bateman a nice promotion and Bateman, for his part, didn’t want to risk the exposure — to himself or to Alex. Alex had to assume Bateman had shipped out, hopefully with a better posting. Kanani was still standing there, grinning. She stomped her feet. “Good, uh?” “Yes. Thanks. When are you going into town next?” “Tomorrow.” Kanani’s grin fading. “I take the ride up for supplies. They go every other day. It’s more of a job than giving tourists horsy rides.” “That’s good. Will you keep bringing me the news?” For a week Kanani brought him papers, from all over. They carried the same story about Krieger, all tightly delivered and controlled from the top. A few ex-government and crime officials were being questioned, and high executives in corporations were being investigated for their willingness to meet with Krieger, who, while in prison, was now claiming to have been born again as an evangelical Christian. Prosecutors, meanwhile, were looking to nail KE for the murder of an investigative journalist. The Rapture would make any trial pointless, Krieger was quoted as saying. Alex quit following the story. It was the same sensational bullshit with no moral implications. Only Marci would know how Bateman was doing. And when it was time to go back, Alex vowed to himself that she would be the first person he’d contact.

One afternoon Kanani showed up across the stream, her shoulders sunken. She looked as white as a haole. She sat on the bank, glaring at him. Her eyes red. Tears. False Refuge ~ 230

Alex bounded off the lanai and jumped through the stream to her. She had a newspaper under one arm. “I couldn’t help it,” she muttered. “Sometimes I look and I know I shouldn’t.” Alex yanked the newspaper from her. It was a New York Times, opened to an inside page. He held the page open, searching it, his bare feet still under water, his toes digging into the rocks and mud and the cool water surging around his ankles. He saw the words “casualty,” “Iraq,” and “reserves”:

Reserve CID Lt. Jerry Bateman, Fort Clark, Wash. ... Humvee struck by explosive device ... Bateman died instantly along with three schoolchildren ... Bateman was transporting the ten children in the Humvee, driving them from the school to shield them from the heavy fire that persisted throughout the attack ...

Alex’s first thought was Marci, back home in Washington State. He wondered if even she would be allowed to see the remains. Would they even let her, those same self-deluded con men who ignored the real war on Osama bin Laden and brought us one spoiled son’s mad Iraq crusade instead, those who would not allow the coffins coming home to be seen and photographed for we, the people, to understand what we have wrought? Those who, in their power and greed and their machinations, showed that same unaccountable and immoral mindset that had been working to perfect Krieger’s delusions? “No, you were right to look,” Alex muttered to Kanani, who was crouching now, to hold him up. “We should all be looking, every day, all of us. And counting. Counting like days on a prison wall.” Those who don’t, who don’t work to understand, who don’t toil to find the facts somewhere, and get at the truth, they will all deserve the regret, and the shame, and the empty death they will bring on themselves in the end, and he saw this as clear and true as the feel of the rocks and mud and cool water, and the newspaper fell into the stream, which carried the paper off, swirling and jerking and darkening with stain. And Alex beat his fists on his thighs, and he knelt in the water, ever lower, its surging coolness unable to stifle the heat that was rising up, up from deep within him. www.stephenfanderson.com

Also by Steve Anderson The Losing Role Besserwisser: A Novel