The Burning Island Page 11

  “Oh, sure,” Thom replies. “We’re in Lava Zone 1, the highest-risk area.”

  “That doesn’t worry you?”

  “Nah. It’s actually worked out well for us. We have B & B insurance, but the big hotels can’t get insured out here. That pretty much limits development permanently.”

  “But . . . you’re still in the path of an active volcano.” His lack of concern confounds me. “Is there any way to divert flowing lava, if it came to that?”

  “Divert it? Oh, no.” Thom shakes his head vehemently, as if I’ve said something offensive. “You have to understand, to Hawaiians like David, Tūtū Pele is an honored guest. That’s not just lip service. When the lava comes a-flowing, people clean their house, tidy up the yard, prepare a nice meal—they welcome her. Pele’s the creator of these islands. You can’t stop her fire. All you can do is get out of the way.”

  “Huh.” I have to admire how Thom, a Jewish boy from Oregon, has come to embrace these practices. But I guess welcoming Pele isn’t as strange as, say, drinking the blood of Christ.

  “So how was your meeting with Victor yesterday?” Thom asks, ready to drop the subject of fiery goddesses and the destructive forces they unleash.

  “Oh, I learned a lot,” I say. “And I met Victor’s wife. Sue’s an interesting woman.”

  “She’s an iron lady,” Thom says. “It’s amazing, all the things she overcame after her accident. Victor’s got nothing on Sue when it comes to mental toughness.”

  “Yeah, what happened to her? She mentioned she’d been in the wheelchair for eight years, but I didn’t feel right asking about it.”

  “It was something weird.” Thom’s forehead crinkles as he tries to remember the particulars. “Fell out of a tree, I think? Me, I’d be a lonely, bitter person in her place, but not Sue. She keeps on keeping on.” Ahead of us, a rather grimy pedestrian saunters down the middle of the road. Thom slows the Yaris and lowers the window as we approach. He honks at the man, but as a greeting, not a complaint. “Ziggy! Howzit?”

  The man raises his hand as we pass, sticking out his thumb and pinkie to salute us. He’s older, and his grizzled face suggests hard drinking and homelessness, but Thom returns the “hang loose” gesture with genuine goodwill.

  It seems that Thom knows everyone in this town, that he’s the perfect person to extract local gossip from. “So . . .” It’s time to broach the subject of Naomi with him. “I heard quite the story about Victor yesterday. Sounds like he’s a rather controversial figure here in Kalo Valley.”

  “Controversial?” Thom raises his eyebrows. “In what way?”

  “Not everyone is overly impressed with his moral character.”

  “Ah,” says Thom. “Well, it’s a small town. There are always rumors.” His words are measured and professional, but I can see how badly he wants to blab, how much it’s killing him to keep his mouth shut.

  “You don’t think it’s true? About Victor and Naomi Yoon?”

  “That’s not . . .” Thom exhales. “Look, Victor was nice enough to refer you and Rae to Koa House. I don’t want to gossip about him.”

  “Off the record,” I say. “I’m not planning on writing nasty things about him. But I get the sense he’s holding back when he talks to me. And I’d like to know what we’re all tiptoeing around.” I ask him point-blank, “Are Victor and Naomi an item?” I pause, let him struggle with how to answer. “Better I ask you than Sue Nakagawa, right?”

  “Oh God,” Thom says. “Poor Sue. She must know.”

  “So it’s true.”

  “They’re definitely friends,” Thom confirms. “Have been for years. David and I see him heading over to Wakea Ranch now and then—I think he stops by when he’s on his runs. Now, whether it’s crossed into something more than friendship . . . I mean, I haven’t personally seen anything. But if Victor’s not the father of Naomi’s youngest, I think everyone in Kalo Valley would love to know who is.”

  My eyes widen. “Naomi had his baby?” This is even messier than I thought. “Jesus.”

  “Naomi has a four-year-old son,” Thom says. “And Peter Yoon, her husband, died ten years ago, so . . .”

  “Does the kid look like Victor?”

  “Kind of. Naomi’s a haole, a white woman. And the kid is clearly hapa. Mixed race, definitely an Asian dad.” He shrugs.

  We’ve reached the “market” by now, which proves nothing more than a convenience store attached to the local gas station. “We go to Pāhoa for full shopping runs,” Thom says apologetically. “The fruit here is fresh, though.”

  I grab a bag of lychee nuts, still working through what I’ve just learned, while Tom sniffs the bottoms of pineapples. Fathering a child with Naomi would certainly intensify Victor’s desire to believe Lise is alive. The accusations circulating about Elijah Yoon test Victor’s loyalty on multiple fronts. I had no idea his responsibilities to this woman—and to her family—could run so deep.

  Like Thom, I can’t imagine that Sue isn’t aware of all this. She’s too smart to remain oblivious to something everyone in Kalo Valley knows. But it would be wrong to assume that she’s a victim here. Maybe she gave Victor permission to pursue the affair. I have no idea if, following the accident, Sue even had any interest in sex. Perhaps she allowed Victor to find refuge in Naomi’s arms. Perhaps she knows about this love child he’s fathered.

  But how on earth did Lise Nakagawa begin dating Elijah Yoon? Wouldn’t Victor have objected to his daughter’s taking up with his baby mama’s son-by-another-man? The whole thing sounds vaguely incestuous.

  Thom can see me doing mental calculations and winces. “Seriously, Charlotte. These local rumors about Victor better not make an appearance in your magazine.”

  “No, no, of course not.” The idea of publishing this stuff makes me blush. “I don’t work for a tabloid. My readers want inspiring stories, not sordid investigations into some guy’s personal life. I’ll just have to . . . write around this.”

  Thom prods a few mangoes and drops two into his basket. “Are you going to mention Lise?”

  “Probably. A missing daughter is hard to avoid in a human interest story.” I take a shot in the dark. “Lise wasn’t one of your students, was she? Back when you taught?”

  He shakes his head. “I left the school before she hit upper math. Never knew her.”

  “What about Elijah Yoon?”

  “You are writing a true crime story!” Thom wags a triumphant finger at me. “I knew it!”

  “I’m considering it,” I lie, “once I finish this profile of Victor. It really depends on how much I can find out about this case.”

  Another customer enters the store and Thom goes pointedly silent, as if warning me against a public discussion of the Yoons. In a town as small as Kalo Valley, everyone has ears. I take the hint and begin to inspect some papayas.

  “Those are Puna grown,” Thom informs me. “If you buy any local fruit, make sure you wash it thoroughly. You don’t want to mess with rat lungworm.”

  Rat lungworm does sound like something I’d prefer to avoid. I put the papaya back in its stack and we go to make our purchases. I can tell Thom is still thinking about the Yoons, dying to dish. He remains heroically silent all the way through the parking lot, but the moment we’re back in the Yaris, he spills his guts.

  “So here’s what I know about Elijah Yoon,” he begins. “The kid is homeschooled. All Naomi’s kids are homeschooled. It’s a religious thing, but I have no idea if the kids are legitimately receiving any education.”

  “How does she have time to homeschool? She doesn’t work?”

  “Oh, she works. Naomi’s a home aide. Pulls a lot of nights. That’s how she got to know the Nakagawas. She worked for them after Sue’s accident.”

  I let out a low whistle. “Damn.”

  “Yeah, I know.” Thom glances over his shoulder and backs out
of the parking lot onto the road. There are too many bizarre possibilities in the Nurse Naomi scenario for us to unpack them all. He doesn’t even try. “So there’s three boys. Adam—that’s her oldest—is pretty much an unpaid nanny to the little one. And Elijah . . . well, he just runs wild.”

  I peel back the shell of a lychee and pop it into my mouth. The shape and texture approximates that of an eyeball, which makes it both disgusting and strangely satisfying to eat. “Wild how? Is Elijah wild enough to kill his girlfriend?”

  Thom sighs. “You don’t want to think that about your neighbors, but . . . maybe? You have to understand, Naomi Yoon is not a normal woman. She grew up on this very insular religious compound, and she married young, some guy more than twice her age.”

  “Did you know her husband?” I ask.

  “No. David and I didn’t move out here until after Peter passed away. I heard he was a good guy, though. Not part of her religious sect.”

  “Sounds like Naomi’s had a rough go of things. Poor woman.”

  “I guess . . .”

  I laugh; Thom’s naturally expressive face cannot feign even a modicum of sympathy.

  “She’s that bad, huh?”

  “She’s something,” he says. “Naomi’s definitely something.”

  * * *

  • • •

  BY EIGHT A.M., I’ve set up shop on the back patio, downing coffee as I bang out the article about Victor. Rae misses breakfast and doesn’t wake until almost ten—all that wine she drank with Victor last night caught up with her. After downing a glass of water and a couple of Tylenol, she plans her own version of a low-key day while I work: a reading with Marvel and then a little community recon at Kehena Beach, a “clothing optional” spot I am happy to miss.

  “I can do topless,” she tells me as she packs a beach bag. “If people see my ta-tas, it’s no thing. Bottoms, though? That’s a whole ’nother level. My bottoms are staying on. You have to know your limits.”

  As someone whose swimming gear has become increasingly Puritan in recent years, I agree.

  With Rae gone, there is nothing to do but slog through my draft. I run through my notes of the evening, transcribing the best quotes and couching them in solid prose. I detail Victor’s exercise regimen and his cutting-edge research on the origin of the island, share stories of the boyhood that foreshadowed his current passions, and even work in a few Hawaiian myths using the site he shared with me. The article finds its shape, and yet my mind keeps wandering to Lise, Jocelyn, and Sue. They are a central part of this narrative, but I don’t know how best to incorporate them. More about parenting twin girls? Too mundane. I need drama, I need heart. I need the story of Sue’s accident, to show how it reverberated throughout the family.

  Which brings me to Naomi Yoon. I can’t write about her, of course, but her presence has become palpable, a shadow that twists through Victor’s life. His wife’s nurse and now his possible mistress, the mother of his child. What kind of woman would raise her children in such isolation and settle for a relationship with a man as emotionally distant as Victor?

  An orange tomcat nuzzles against my ankles, seeking a head scratch.

  “I bet you’ve seen her,” I say, getting him behind the ears. “The crazy lady who lives through the woods. What’s she like?”

  The cat keeps his opinions to himself. He jumps onto the table beside me and parks himself in front of my laptop.

  I nudge him aside. “Gotta work, buddy. Sorry.”

  But with a couple thousand words of my article down and holes that require more research, working has become hard. The tree line that divides Koa House from the Wakea Ranch property now emits a magnetic pull.

  Did police ever conduct a thorough search of the land? Did they have enough evidence to get a warrant?

  I stand up from the table. I’ve been at this for more than five hours now. Might as well take a break, stretch my legs. No harm strolling through the woods a bit. It’s broad daylight . . .

  At first, the trees appear impenetrable, too dense to enter, but as I get closer, I see a few cracks in the foliage, trails carved through the branches and leaves. Someone’s been wandering around back here, pruning.

  I wade into the maze of trees, waiting for something to guide me, my elusive sixth sense to direct me to a place of evil. But it’s unfailingly pleasant, full of birdsong and the kind of rich, extravagant green I never get in Arizona. An emerald swathe of leaf and shadow, dappled light playing across the forest floor. If Tucson desert botanicals bring to mind a postapocalyptic survival tale, this is a story of competition, thousands of plants springing up across the forest floor, each one vying for its own patch of sunlight.

  Leaves brush against my bare arms and calves. The soil is dark and rich beneath my feet, a shallow but fertile layer atop solid volcanic rock. I move in deeper, hoping one of the winding trails will lead to a break in the woods, offer up a glimpse of a house or vehicle—some sign of the odd family living on Wakea Ranch.

  What I get is a sound. Humming. A soft tune that seems to hover in the air above me.

  I stop. Listen. The cheerful, meandering melody breaks off for a few seconds and then resumes. I try to trace its source, but the song seems to come from the sky, spritely, childlike. As I head north, parallel to the property line, the humming gets louder.

  When I look up, I finally see him, perched on the slim trunk of a fallen tree. The tree has wedged itself between two others and hangs suspended from the ground, about fifteen feet up. Far too precarious to bear the weight of an adult, the trunk is just strong enough to hold a child, although the wood trembles as the little boy scuttles across.

  He sees me and stops humming. Peers down, on hands and knees, curious but not frightened. His bowl cut and collared white shirt seem hopelessly dated. He can’t be older than five.

  “Hey, buddy,” I call. His shaky perch unnerves me. I do not want to watch this child plummet down to a broken bone or worse. “Are you out all by yourself today?”

  He disregards my question. “I’m climbing.”

  As he turns his head, I can see the interplay of Asian and Caucasian features in his dark eyes and faintly reddish hair. Hapa haole, Thom said. White mother, Asian dad. No doubt about it: I am staring at the youngest Yoon.

  “Where’s your mom, honey?”

  “Sleeping.”

  From somewhere in the woods I hear a male voice. “Raph? Where’d you go?”

  The child looks at me but doesn’t respond.

  “Is that you?” I ask. “Are you Raph?”

  He climbs a few inches higher, still not answering, and hugs the rotting tree trunk.

  “Raphael!” There’s rising concern in the male voice now.

  “He’s over here!” I call back.

  I hear footsteps, leaves crushed by hurried feet. It takes a few more shouts, but eventually I see a figure moving toward us, a boy in a light blue polo shirt and rumpled khakis. He’s a variation of his brother, with slightly less European features and an equally bad haircut. He exudes a sweet, almost bewildered youngness. So this is Yoon Boy number three. I can’t remember his name. Something biblical. Abel? Aaron?

  The young man takes one look at the child crouched pantherlike above him and rushes forward. “Get down from there, Raph! It could break!” He holds out his hand. “I’ll help you jump, okay?”

  “It won’t break,” the little boy says, but he begins to back himself down the tree, bit by bit, until he can reach his brother’s hand. His dirty paw clamps onto the larger one, and he leaps the final four feet through the air.

  The older boy turns to me, his head bowed. “I wasn’t watching him closely enough. I should’ve been watching better.” He’s a delicate, waifish kid, pale with dark strands of hair flying around his head at different lengths.

  “Are you Naomi’s son?” I ask.

  “Adam,” he
says.

  “Of course.” I squint at him. He must be the eldest Yoon, but I’m hard-pressed to imagine him Elijah’s senior. “I thought you were older.”

  “I’m nineteen.”

  I try not to convey my shock. This kid is legally an adult, and he barely looks old enough to get into a PG-13 movie.

  “Nice to meet you, Adam. I’m Charlie. I take it Raph here is your responsibility today?”

  “He’s my responsibility every day.” He draws the boy to his waist as if afraid I’ll take his brother from him.

  “It must be hard work, keeping up with this little man. How old are you, Raph? Four?”

  Raph nods.

  “Your mom is lucky to have you,” I tell Adam. “Not a lot of guys your age could handle this job.”

  His grip on Raph relaxes slightly at the compliment. “Are you staying at Koa House?” he asks.

  “Yeah. Sorry if I’m on your land. I didn’t mean to trespass.”

  “I don’t mind,” he says. “I mean, it is our land. But I’m not . . . I’m not mad.” He brushes some hair from his eyes. “You must be traveling. On a vacation. Where are you from?”

  “Arizona,” I reply. “Tucson.” I wait and then can’t resist amending the statement. “That’s where I live now. Before that, New York.”

  He gives a wistful sigh. “That must be nice. New York, Tucson. I’d live anywhere that’s not some little island.”

  “Hey, I traveled thousands of miles to see your little island. It’s pretty beautiful.”

  “I guess. I’ve never been anywhere else. Not even Oʻahu.” His mouth lifts in a self-conscious smile. “That’s weird, isn’t it?”

  “Nah,” I say, although it does seem pretty weird to me. “I bet there’s plenty of people around here who don’t leave the island much.”

  “I don’t know.” He lets go of Raph, and the little boy skitters off, dancing in excited circles ahead of us. “I don’t know what other people do. My mother . . . you might have heard about her. She’s not like other people. She . . .” He trails off, unwilling to complete the thought. “She’s just different.”