“Martin Paix awoke from a sleep so long and deep he could not remember when he had drifted off. Sitting up in bed, he saw that he had come to a hotel room. He felt at ease with the absence of aroma and the half-light that did not disclose the time of day. The noncomittal furniture made Martin wonder where he was until a cowboy in a wall picture told him: western North America . . .

“This would be his fifth journey of support. He didn’t yet know his assignment but assumed it would involve one or more hungry minds yearning to break free from a stifling mentality that bound them to lives they didn’t want. His subject might be an individual, an exceptional person who needed a final boost to reach enlightenment; or maybe he might educate millions of people to a higher order of perception by way of a spectacular event.”

The “spectacular event” is Martin’s interview of a political criminal for publication on the internet. The “hungry mind” belongs to Sara Clay a novice intelligence officer on her first assignment whose orders are to find Martin Paix and stay close to him. Checking out of the hotel, Martin finds that his bill has been paid as the cashier gives him the business card of a financier whose offices lie a few blocks away.

“May I help you?” asked a young woman Martin had not noticed. He moved his eyes to meet hers--green and pale, almost translucent—then walked to her desk and introduced himself. The tall brunette’s eyebrows said she recognized his name and he saw her catch her breath.

“He liked the way this striking woman presented herself, bearing the demeanor of the affluent and educated but spurning corporate attire in favor of tight jeans topped by a sleeveless blouse that displayed lean arms toned just shy of masculine, and he welcomed her energy when she picked up her phone, pressed a button and studied him while in a low voice informing her boss of his arrival. Martin returned her interest, noting a short, sharp nose and pursed, narrow lips. The intensity in her gaze had an impact both flattering and aggressive. 

“Not a receptionist’s usual look, Martin thought, wondering if this person wasn’t a broker who happened to be filling in at the front desk. But then she would be wearing a suit. Slightly bemused, the visitor placed himself at the graceful woman’s disposal . . .”

Martin learns that financial arrangements have been made for him. His assets include a house which the young woman volunteers to show him. Martin has no idea she is an intelligence agent placed in the financial firm in response to an anonymous tip that warned of a national security breach.

“Though this was Sara’s first assignment, she had been taught that sex worked well as an information-gathering tool, a tactic her boss had hinted at four days before as she was leaving their office in Phoenix and he had reminded her not to be bashful; Black Hornet Security was counting on her to gather important intelligence for the United States government. Accordingly, at the first red light, Sara turned to Martin and grinned. It felt insincere. Worried that her target had sensed her falsity, she blushed. That was when Martin smiled and the cool light in his blue eyes incited a reflex that made Sara feel warm. Careful now, she scolded. You’re supposed to seduce this guy, not fall for him.”

Her strategy succeeds.

“Martin laughed at her cheesy joke and patted the back of her shoulder. Sara laughed too, then wondered if Martin was nefariously reading her and keeping up with her every mental step or if he was just an easy-going man with whom she had just connected. She squinted as she watched her target wander his new yard amid an aura of serenity. Then she headed for the kitchen and texted Hank Maguire in Phoenix, informing him she had just made contact with their person of interest. The return text told her to stay close.

“Pleased she had anticipated this pivotal moment, Sara grabbed the bottle of champagne she’d left in the refrigerator two days before and the fluted plastic glasses she’d stored in an otherwise empty cupboard. Then she headed for the dining area where French doors opened to the veranda.

“Standing nearby, Martin turned when Sara sashayed toward him with the champagne and glasses hidden behind her back. “Look what I found,” she cooed, showing him her presents. “Courtesy of Smugg-Ladrone!”

“Who else?” Martin said with a laugh.

“The cheerful couple sat on the veranda drinking champagne, Sara in a Cape Cod chair, Martin on the edge of a padded divan. He did not hide from Sara the pleasure he felt in her presence. She thought him handsome and wondered what message he was getting from her. For an instant she wished she really was a receptionist at Smugg-Ladrone Partners. Stop it, she told herself, and shut down the fantasy.

“Reminding herself of the importance of this assignment, the novice agent reached one last time for the bottle and went to work. “I’ve got the rest of the day off,” she said.

“So do I,” answered Martin and Sara giggled. She wondered what was the reason for his seeming lack of defenses. Not much like a criminal, she thought, let alone a terrorist.

“The summer sun heated the yard, including the shady veranda; the warming couple finished the champagne with a toast of mutual welcome. “Thank you for bringing me here,” Martin said. Sara rose from her chair to sit beside her person of interest. Skirting the border between gold-digging receptionist and diligent intelligence officer, Sara touched Martin’s shoulder and slid her fingers slowly to the back of his neck. Telling herself to go for it, she leaned into a kiss that was not tentative. Martin’s was, though he did not back away. Sara found his bashfulness charming and regretted she hadn’t advanced more tenderly. The experienced young woman corrected the error, and the well-matched couple established a rhythm that led them to lie on the divan, face to face and earnestly engaged.”

The strategy backfires.

“Sara wasn’t ready for the thrilling energy Martin wielded in his touch and she could not help but respond. The new lovers spurred each other through a revelatory night to physical heights of which neither had suspected themselves capable and with every increase of intensity had come a new depth of feeling. Sara did not remember the climactic event that turned off her lights. Now it was five-thirty a.m. and she beheld Martin asleep, serene amid the disarray of his bed. She had never slept with a man the same day she’d met him; gazing at Martin the novice spy understood why wise women counselled against such impatience: the fondness she felt for this gentle stranger welled in her to a degree that would have bothered her if she’d known him a month.

“One more night like that and I’m a goner, she thought. But it wasn’t just the night, she admitted, recalling the champagne and Martin’s bashful kisses, and she mentally revisited several sweet places to which those stimuli led. She did not let herself review what followed.

“Why did you tell him you had the day off? the voice of her discipline demanded. Sara shook her head. Why are you going to work? came her heart’s retort. Swelling with warmth, tempted to wake Martin she stopped pulling up her jeans, but only a moment. Hardening she chose discipline, crept from the house, drove to her apartment and made herself into a receptionist. But her workaday effort failed to keep memories of Martin’s touch from making her quiver and hoping he would call . . .”

Martin meets his contact and learns his assignment. He wants to know who Sara is. The contact can’t say but promises to find out. Following instructions Martin proceeds to the house of Wenzel Junker to interview the one man with inside knowledge of the greatest political betrayal of public trust in the nation’s history. Martin finds a sick old man who resists Martin’s requests.

“I thought our contacts were finished,” said Junker.

“I’m here to ask you to come forward with the truth.”

Junker looked horrified. He tried to stand up but he was shaking too hard to leave his chair. Focused on his mission Martin did not show pity.

“How did you find me?”

“It wasn’t me. My job is to talk to you.”

“Why would I do such a thing?”

“Because of the truth.”

“How much do you think I know? I was a functionary, not a planner.”

“You know enough.”

Junker shook his head. “I must say, your timing is perfect.” The old man sagged; Martin sat silently, giving Wenzel Junker time to muster the courage to make a disclosure without which he could not proceed. “I have acute myeloid leukemia.”

“Good.”

Above his mask Junker’s watery eyes squinted. Martin could tell his subject was thinking clearly when the diseased man asked, “What is your purpose? Money? Notoriety?”

“My sole aim is the truth.”

“Will you hurt me if I don't talk?”

“You have hurt yourself so grievously. How could I harm you more?”

“Are you religious?” Junker demanded.

“Spiritual.”

“Deeply?”

“Profoundly.”

“I’m an engineer,” Junker said with pride.

“Even men of science crave forgiveness,” Martin said, and Junker nodded sadly.

“How could anyone forgive me? I have betrayed—”

 “No. Not this way. You had your reasons and I believe they must have seemed good. But now you must tell the truth and let yourself go free.”  

 “I’ve heard such things said but I don't know what they mean.”

Martin met the dying man’s eyes and the high-minded men began a silent conversation. Though unspoken, Junker’s guilt and Martin’s acceptance emerged and drifted amid the blossoms and birdsong and settled as a comfort upon the sick man’s shoulders. When Martin sensed he had brought some peace to Junker’s mind he attempted to explain why the man of science should strive for forgiveness, “Your disease is your guilt made manifest.”

“I admit that I've felt a sense of what you’re saying. But where’s the proof? And what difference does it make? Either way, my life consists of millionaire doctors rubbing their hands and salivating when they tell me there’s a chance I’ll survive. And where’s the proof of that? As far as I can tell, when the doctors have sucked up my last dollar, I’ll die screaming. Alone. Inconsolable, for I have wasted all my learning in the service of evil men and women and now I am left with nothing.”

Martin waited for the inevitable coda and Wenzel Junker soon came around to it. The old man’s eyes filled and full of desperation he added, “Yet my sense of hope never fades.”

“Wenzel Junker,” Martin said firmly, “there is no death.”

“That is my hope.”

“But you must move on cleanly.”

“I sense that as well.”

“Then tell the truth.”

The suffering man closed his eyes and inhaled. When he let out his meager breath, the frail shoulders shuddered.

“With a smile,” added Martin.

“That, I do not feel.”

“Are you afraid they'll send an assassin? Or smear your reputation and leave you unemployable?”

Wenzel Junker stared for a solid ten seconds after which the dying man let loose a fragile laugh. Then he told Martin Paix the truth . . .”

That night on the veranda Sara and Martin make love in the ionized air of a thunderstorm. The experience leaves them clinging, but Sara musters the will to probe her lover of his plans to leave town, which he’d disclosed earlier that day. She know she must leave with him, but has to be careful not to seem overanxious. The next day Martin returns to his contact to turn in the Junker video for publication on the internet and is told, as he suspected, it’s time for him to leave town. Martin asks again,“What about the woman?”  

“She’s with them.”

“But I’ve invited her to leave with me.” 

“His angel laughed. “I see your instincts remain exquisite. What do you want to do?”

“I want her to come. I feel close to her.”  

“And she to you?”

“I’m sure of it.”

“Then I must tell you that Sara Clay is a woman of sensitivity and talent. What I’ve learned about her reminds me of what years ago we learned about you. Except you had a sense of your reality, of your need to find a life beyond what the world offers. Sara Clay has no idea who she is. Her mind has been polluted by decades of elite schooling. And, while her hunger to achieve stems from a decent intent, its energy is aggressive and she has no inkling that her ambition is an obstacle. On top of that she’s a trained killer.”

“Sounds like a challenge.”

 “All right,” said the angel, fondly shaking his head. “But it’s my duty to say that you don’t have to do this, and it will be easier for everyone if you leave her behind.”

“Why?”

“I just told you. Sara Clay has no compass. She’ll be as open to the human instinct as she is to you, which means that even as she advances she’ll be unpredictable, erratic. Even at the threshold of enlightenment she could turn on you without a thought.”

“I don’t care. I think she and I have unleashed the love her education has suppressed, and she can’t get enough of it. She feels important to me, and we really have connected on a very deep level and right off the bat. You should see her eyes. Pale and green, as deep as the universe . . . . Shall I tell her that I know?”

“Don’t. If she is important the truth will have to come from her, based on her own experience and expressed in her own way. With appropriate guidance, of course.”

“Martin grinned, his angel slapped both thighs and announced, “You’ll leave tonight. I'll see that you get boarding passes, together with instructions. We’ll have the Swiss lawyers keep the money safe . . . for both of you.”

“Martin stood up relishing the intrigue that had just been layered onto his thrilling relationship with Sara. That afternoon, he phoned her at work and said, “Tonight's the night,” and Martin felt his feelings intensify when he heard her inhale, and whisper with heartfelt ambivalence, “Okay … I'll be ready!”

They flee to the Puna Coast on the Big Island of Hawaii. Unaware of their destination until she gets her boarding pass, and having to ditch her cell phone immediately thereafter, Sara is unable to tell her boss where she is. Detached from the world, she and Martin set up house in a secret village hidden in the jungle where a hundred enlightened people live and meditate under the auspices of a seer named Dora and her priestess, Keilani. Martin is well known to these people to whom he is a hero. Sara is most welcome here, and her spiritual abilities blossom.

“The horizon showed traces of a fuscia-tinged sunrise, the sunken sun giving just enough light to color the jungle gray. The village's open area was dark and cool. A dozen meditators sat on mats around the center. Martin wanted his lover to know the strength of the center, and pulled her in that direction.

“I don't know what to do,” she protested.

“Don’t worry. Part of you really wants to learn this, and that energy will come forward. Let it take charge.”

“Like I do when we're fucking?” she whispered with a grin at once bashful and wicked.

“Exactly!” said Martin, pleased to find honesty behind her eyes . . .

“Sara found it easy to reach a meditative space but hard to stay. Part of her mind—what now seemed like the more superficial part—wanted her to wander off. But she felt a deeper presence and knew success meant letting the deep presence take over. Yet not more than thirty seconds after she’d joined the group mind, the shallow part of her mind conjured up distracting images--of trouble at work, a childhood humiliation, and the blatant hypocrisy of her presence in this place—that shook her inside and left behind a residue of guilt.

“But Sara softly squeezed Martin’s hand and he gave her strength. She knew that he trusted her. And she realized his reputation among these people to some degree depended on her performance; she resolved to make a real effort. With this resolution came a sense of the deeper presence rising, bringing with it an unfamiliar calm . . .

“Martin had left Sara and her conflicts behind to join the energy that connected his group to sympathetic minds everywhere. Now he felt new strength come to him and he recognized Sara’s potent presence. He opened to her, this time passively. He could hear her breathing—slowly, correctly—as she came to his state of awareness . . . Martin resumed his position and was gratified to find Sara waiting, hovering until he joined her in an upward step. Martin relished the creativity he and Sara were sharing and he perceived this condition as more than a state of mind: this was the experience of life beyond the physical realm in a space without time where the substance of the world—including the body—was not merely perceived as energy, but experienced as energy. Known as energy.

“When Sara opened her eyes she reached for him. Martin saw that his fellow adventurer could not speak and he held her, giving her time to reorient to place and time. They returned to their dwelling, arm in arm.

“Martin?” a dreamy Sara asked when they reached their bedroom. “What just happened?”

“Puna happened,” he said, spreading his hand across the view.

“You mean it’s only in this very region that people can meditate so powerfully?”

“No, but the energy of this place is so concentrated that these kinds of things happen faster here, and with more intensity.”

“Why is that?”

“Puna is the youngest place on earth and very raw—like you,” he answered slyly, and watched as the warmth in his words carried Sara to their bed where, worn out by mental exertion, she slept. He smiled, content with the outcome of his lover’s first meditation, sure that she, too, was aware a transformation had begun . . .”

But in Puna, no sensitive person’s experience is complete without exposure to a spirituality strictly Hawaiian.

“Sara didn’t ask about Pele until she and Martin had said good-bye to Eddie Mahalona and the receptionist nestled beside her runaway-lover on the bench seat of his pickup.

“Pele is the goddess of the volcano,” Martin told her.

“You sound like you think she’s real.”

“She is real, like a Jungian archetype or any other potent presence. She’s just more evident—and more powerful—than most.”

“What’s an ark type?”

“Martin smiled wryly at Sara’s awkward pretense; he neither challenged her nor played along, but he did warn her, “You would be wise to remember one thing: you’re not on the mainland anymore.”  

“Sara stiffened and moved a few inches away. At the next light Martin looked at her and found his lover distracted by an inner dispute. He stroked her long hair but she stubbornly aimed her narrow eyes elsewhere. Martin kept driving along the coast toward their goal, Kehena Beach, an isolated palm-shaded strip of black sand protected by a lava cliff where swimmers customarily went naked and on Sundays gathered with a dozen drums to dance in the sunshine--or the rain--sometimes joined by a pod of dolphins at play: a place replete with Hawaiian power.

“Martin pulled off the road and parked on a shoulder of red earth. Crossing the road into a thicket of ironwood trees he led Sara down a trail that descended a bluff via easy switchbacks, stopping halfway to take in a view of the sea in front of them, the concave cliff to their left and the black-sand ribbon beneath it.

“Finishing their descent, the adventurers had the place to themselves except for a lone woman standing in a cluster of palms at the beach’s far end. She was slender, dark and barefoot, clothed in a sarong of scarlet and black. Martin felt the woman staring and noted her waist-length black hair tousled by the breeze yet never crossing her face. Her fierce eyes were fixed on Sara.

“The newcomers tried the churning water. Martin went nude and Sara wore a bikini bottom, crossing her arms over her breasts as she stood knee-deep in white-water surge and sized up rapid-fire waves which, though small, packed enough force to knock an inattentive wader down. “This is open ocean, no protective reef,” Martin warned. “There are currents.”

“Sara had been looking at the woman in red. Now she turned to Martin and shrugged. “No worries, I know how to swim.” The brave young woman strode into deeper water and dove under a breaker. Martin followed and they swam to a depth where the sea rolled beneath them. Treading water, Martin looked for the woman under the palms but she was gone. He looked at Sara and saw her scanning the trail they had descended, searching for a trace of the woman. He did the same but saw no one. There was no other way off the beach. He remembered folk tales that Eddie had told him and wondered if he and Sara had been visited by Pele, and he knew he should handle the subject with care.

“Sara swam to him and put a hand on his shoulder; he saw her arm covered in goose-flesh; her straining eyes searched his. “Where have you taken me?” she breathed.

“To another world,” Martin replied, his double meaning plain . . .”

Disturbed by the experience, Sara seeks an opinion from Dora and Keilani.

“I need to know about the woman in red,” Sara said bluntly, determined to hear whether the leaders of Martin’s community viewed the strange woman in the same way that Martin’s talk about primal energies had implied: a manifestation of the volcano goddess, Pele.

“Dora accepted the mantle. “The woman you describe sounds like some popular descriptions of Pele. But I cannot make your vision my own. A vision’s meaning is always personal: you’re the one who saw her eyes.”

“Sara looked at Martin demanding a better explanation but he kept silent.

“Have you ever seen her?” she asked Keilani.

“I have experienced Pele and I know how to reach her just as my mother and grandmother and their mothers and grandmothers did. But I am not one to invoke her. Pele is wild and demanding and I fear her commands may not keep me on the way of aloha, the way of love and acceptance. That is where my devotion lies. Yet I believe we who live on this marvelous coast should realize we are Pele’s guests and respect the forests and waters of Puna, her ancient home. Then she may tolerate us. And I’m sure that if Pele had meant you harm you would not have left that beach.”

“Keilani looked directly at her trembling friend and said in a gentler tone, “Sara, it is clear to Dora and me that as new as you are to Puna’s energies and our beliefs, layers of your old perceptions have already fallen away. You are building to a great change. But like all powerful people you face powerful resistance. For its survival, the human instinct—the dangerous voice you’ve obeyed for so long—needs you to deny what is happening to you here in Puna.”

“What is happening to me? I wish someone would just say it!”

“You have come face to face with your talent. I’m sure Martin knows better than we do but after what we’ve felt in the circle, Dora and I are sure of it. You are so sensitive and so strong that Pele may have felt your presence. Maybe she wanted to see how you moved in a place like Kehena Beach.”

“She was checking me out?”

“Keilani gave an ambiguous answer, half shrugging, half nodding.

“I hope you’re kidding, because you’re starting to freak me out.”

“I meant to show you respect.”

“Awe,” added Dora.

“Sara felt an urge to scoff but she respected these women and knew that the aim of their sincerity was praise. It demanded an earnest response. As her disdainful impulse faded, into its space rushed a sense of self-wonder her disciplined brain challenged: Don’t get sucked in. They’re fawning on you because you’re with Martin. Their theories are bullshit and you know it.

“A tiring Sara bowed her head to the elder and the priestess then leaned against her lover and rested on his strong shoulder . . .

“Then she turned to Keilani and humbly asked for advice.

“Make an offering to the goddess.”

“The surprising answer made Sara wince, but it also touched her. She did not realize it but Keilani had offered a way to connect to Puna as deeply as Martin had done. Even in her skeptical haze, Sara sensed an opportunity to become Martin’s equal in at least one way and find out for herself what life on his level might mean . . . ”

Martin and Sara have no idea, but while they were down on Kehena beach, Martin’s great friend Eddie Mahalona had—in the parking area above them—killed an assassin hired by Black Hornet Security to assassinate Martin Paix. Eddie had picked up Martin and Sara when they returned their rental car, and taken them to his house in Pahoa where Martin stored an old pickup. It was Eddie who had introduced Pele to their conversation as part of his description of an ongoing eruption of Kilauea volcano and the lava flow currently creeping through Puna’s jungle toward his home town. When the lovers left his house Eddie saw a stranger in a silver car pull out from a hiding place down the block, and follow Martin’s truck. A combat veteran whose instincts remained sharp, Eddie ran inside for his keys, followed the hitman and at the crucial moment ran him down.

“Ripped on adrenaline Eddie exited the car, opened the trunk and stowed the corpse. Then the loyal soldier picked up the assassin’s gun, put it in his glove compartment and returned to the Red Road, heading back in the direction he had come. With hormone levels peaking, Eddie exerted extreme self-control to keep from speeding, and he studied the rearview mirror for any hint that a car was following, but the remote road was empty. All he noticed was a stunning, long-haired Hawaiian woman in a red sarong walking in short grass, facing away. Eddie knew a lot of folk tales that hinted at who this woman might be. He pulled over and nonchalantly rolled down the passenger window to see if he really was about to meet Pele. If so, he was determined to be cool.

“Need a lift?”

“The exotic woman looked into the car and sized Eddie up. Her stare made him warm and he felt sure he faced the goddess. Every Hawaiian knew someone who had a story of meeting Pele and Eddie believed every one of them. Now here she was standing next to his car and giving him the eye. What an honor to meet the volcano-goddess: the feared and beloved creator of his sacred home.

“Thanks,” she said as she opened the door . . . 

“The slender woman stretched and sighed and Eddie hoped she was settling in for the drive to his house but when they reached a long grove of ironwood trees that surrounded a little-used campground Pele told him to pull in. As usual the campsites were empty. Most locals were spooked by tales that these woods were frequented by nightwalkers, ancient soldier-spirits who hadn’t lost their taste for killing and Eddie wasn’t surprised that Pele felt undaunted by the place’s reputation. And he realized that here was a perfect place to dump the assassin’s body. Eddie drove to a concrete retaining wall at the back of the campground where a steep cliff dropped forty feet to the sea and huge waves crashed below.  

“His passenger opened her door and said, “Thanks for the ride and thanks for the offer. You’re an okay guy.” She started to walk away and Eddie jumped out and blurted, “I’m not the only one, you know. Lots of good Hawaiians in Pahoa.” Still walking, the spectacular female erupted in laughter deep and eerie enough to spook a stranger, but the weird sound gave a Eddie a thrill, especially when she stopped and turned and looked him in the eye.

“If the offer’s still open I might drop by some time. Love to drink with a warrior.” Then Pele snapped her fingers, a gesture that ended with her index finger pointed at the trunk of Eddie’s car. She knew what he had done and she approved.

“Eddie grinned his widest grin as the slender woman walked away, each step stretching her sarong to its limit. Knowing he should not stare after her Eddie went to the retaining wall and looked down on the crashing sea. After a while he turned back and saw that the goddess was gone.

“Calmer, more confident, Martin Paix’s avenging hero drove along the sea-wall until he reached the end of the campground and, sure he was unseen, got out of the car and stood behind it. Trying to seem casual Eddie decided to reach in, lift the corpse and fling it over the cliff in one motion. Breathing in the meditative way, the loyal soldier worked up the nerve to open the trunk, where he saw that the body was gone. A pile of lumpy ash remained. Eddie stared, then laughed out loud at Pele’s helping hand. When his amazement passed the proud warrior thought to dump the gray dust into the sea but the incoming breeze was too strong. Seeing an iron firepit at an empty campsite he drove up to it and deposited Cal Ivan's remains.”

To Martin’s dismay, Eddie and Sara become competitors bound in a jealous entanglement.

“A couple of days after visiting Kehena beach Martin told Sara he was going to Pahoa. When her face brightened at the thought of more adventure, he added, “I need to spend time with Eddie. We always go on an outing after I return. He needs that time with me.”

“What will I do? I’d like to go out, too.”

“You could drop me off at Eddie’s and take the truck to Hilo. Maybe shop or go to a couple of museums.”

“For the first time since they had met, Sara felt Martin pushing her aside. And she didn’t trust herself alone in a city, fearful that the pull of Black Hornet Security might be too strong to resist. In the cave-village she couldn’t call Maguire if she wanted to and so felt little pressure from her failure to do so. In Hilo she’d have no excuse. If she didn’t call she’d be AWOL, officially, even in her own mind.

“As the quiet couple drove toward Pahoa, Sara realized how deeply her feelings for Martin had penetrated much like her respect for Dora, Keilani and their community. Puna’s hypnotic influence had thrown open secret regions of her mind where daily meditation uncovered an obligation of honesty to Martin: she must disclose her occupation. She could not dispute the insight but dreaded the moment, sure her disclosure of her job would turn her lover away.

“As Martin was pulling the truck into Eddie’s yard, with grim resignation Sara said, “Martin, there’s something I have to—”

“Sorry, there isn’t time right now.”

“But there's something you don't—”

“Look,” her lover said gently while taking command. “I need to be with Eddie. He depends on me. No matter how unsteady you feel you don't need me the way he does.”

“Okay,” she muttered, but her tone carried a warning.

“Sorry,” Martin added and he soothed her with a hug.”  

On the way to a snorkeling site, Eddie tells Martin about the killing of his would-be assassin and shows him the gun he took from the scene. Martin is moved by his dear friend’s bravery. They embrace in pouring rain.

“The Kapoho tide pools were empty of tourists and the two friends explored every corner, free diving among the brilliant coral and teeming fish, clambering over a’a to move from pool to pool, working their way east until bubbling whitewater surged over the walls of the deepest pool and dropped a giant sea turtle in front of their masks. The great friends swam with the venerable beast before working their way back to their ice chest and beach chairs at the north border of the pools. There they sat silently, feet in shallow water. The weather had improved to a breezy overcast beneath which the tide pools shimmered a rose and lavender iridescence.

“Eddie opened a couple of beers and asked his friend, “Who wants you dead?”

“The Powers That Be think I'm a threat. I interviewed a demolition expert whose explosives brought down American Towers. It was part of a plot to blame Arab terrorists and start the latest oil war in the Middle East. The guy I talked to is dying of cancer and wanted to clear his conscience; he gave me all the details of his role in the operation. Then the interview got posted on the internet.”

“I heard about that,” said Eddie. “I thought it was a hoax, so I never paid attention. But that interview's a big deal, Martin. There's hundreds of thousands of people demonstrating all over the mainland, Europe too. There’s even been riots and the cops shot two people in DC.”

“Martin absorbed the dreadful news. “That’s not all. The government knew something was up before the interview even happened and assigned Sara to the case.”

“She's a cop?”

“A fed.”

“That's bad news! She must have led that assassin right to you!”

“I'm not so sure. We used our real names on the airline tickets and the rental car. It would have been easy to trace us. The bad guy was probably waiting when you picked us up.”

“You got to get rid of her!”

“How am I supposed to do that? And besides, I don't want to.”

“Oh, no,” groaned Eddie. “Don't even tell me.”

“Martin shrugged and grinned. “She loves me, too, you know. It must be obvious.”

“Eddie shook his head. “You're crazy to trust her.”

“I have to believe in her,” said Martin, and he paused before he confessed. “The place I go to in the jungle is a place of communal meditation, a place of power; ancient, unseen power that cannot be overcome. Sara has been touched by it. It’s a part of her now but she’s still being pulled by her past. She’s got some heavy separating to do but I’ve watched and I can see that she’s come far. She needs my support or she could falter, and that’s when I would be in trouble.”

“I'll bet she's turning you in right now . . .

“Sara was in fact wandering Hilo’s dingy streets, dodging persistent showers by ducking into galleries and shops, and finally the Tsunami Museum with its startling photographs of the Big Island’s great disaster seventy-nine years before. An image that especially impressed her showed Hilo Bay—wide and deep enough to moor cruise ships—so utterly drained by the gigantic wave’s backwash that people walked in places where the water was usually thirty feet deep. They wandered the sea bottom ignorant of the onrush of a second  wave, a hundred feet high, that would lift them and smash them into buildings it demolished onshore.

“The anxious young woman realized this image of people trapped in a chaotic and dangerous situation with no inkling of the murderous wave about to roll over them, reflected her turmoil. She’d heard the truth about herself when Keilani spoke of her talent and a brilliant clarity had lifted her in the meditation circle but, as before, the euphoria dissipated. Now, with so many illusions about her way of life stripped away only to be replaced by the scary woman in the red sarong, Sara felt raw and vulnerable to the next threat, the next giant wave. But having experienced the potency of her potential, the challenged woman could not hide behind the veil of unconsciousness. She knew the big question perfectly well, and now she had to face it: which identity would she choose—intelligence/security officer impersonating a receptionist, or Martin Paix’s lover and member of his community; a fighter for political and social order, or a carrier of the peace that comes with the knowledge of one’s spirit. And on this day, in Hilo, she knew this great decision had taken shape as a mundane choice: should she buy a prepaid phone and call her boss?

“After a final grim study of the photo of doomed people picking sea shells from the floor of Hilo Bay, Sara left the museum to find a convenience store.”

She calls the Phoenix office but her boss gives her a number in Washington where she reaches Michael Hass, Black Hornet’s Director of Operations who is waiting to meet the Secretary, the man who runs the multi-tentacled company. Hass says he’ll call her back when he sits face to face with the Secretary.

“The officer assigned to Martin Paix has just surfaced. I can get her,” he said, brandishing his phone. The Secretary nodded, Hass dialed Sara’s number, activated the speaker function and put the phone on the desk.

“Yes, sir,” Sara answered.

“Let us have your report.”

“As ordered, I made contact with Martin Paix and . . . insinuated myself into his life. The interview with Wenzel Junker took place after I met Martin Paix but without prior disclosure from him. And even after the fact I didn’t know Martin well enough to press for details about what he’d done without raising suspicion. So I learned nothing specific until I spoke to Mr. Maguire this morning. My orders were to observe and report but Martin and I ditched our phones before we left town and in Hawaii we've lived in a cave. Literally. It’s way back in the jungle, very remote and it harbors a village inhabited by a quasi-religious group. We came out today so Martin could spend time with an old friend. We’re going back to the cave later.”

“You said this group is quasi-religious,” growled the Secretary. “Do you mean Muslim?”

“No, sir, they don't practice a specific faith. And they are nonviolent. They have no weapons. All they do is pray . . . I mean meditate.”

“Is Martin Paix the leader?”

“No, but he is looked up to.”

“Who's in charge?”

“An older woman. She’s clairvoyant.”

Hass grimaced; The Secretary sighed . . .

A conversation ensues in which Hass and the Secretary learn how little their officer knows.

“Look, Sara,” Hass urged, “you're doing a good job. Just maintain your resolve. This is going to get arduous. Remember your country needs you. Martin Paix has ripped the fabric of our society and must be dealt with.”

“Promptly,” snarled The Secretary.

“So listen up,” continued Hass. “I am changing your assignment. As of now it is your task to terminate Martin Paix. Repeat: Martin Paix must not come out of that cave.”

Hass’s phone went silent. “And keep your phone charged!” he barked.

Hass waited for Sara to acknowledge her orders but the line disconnected. Hass looked at the Secretary who was looking at the ceiling.

“Where do we find these people?”  Hass moaned . . .

“In Hilo a rattled Sara Clay was pressing her cheap phone's charger into the old pickup's cigarette lighter when its blaring ringtone made her jump. It was Maguire. ‘Michael Hass has ordered me to get you a weapon. Do you understand your mission?’”

“Sara nodded, her mind adrift amid the shock of being ordered to kill her lover. Hass’s command still echoed in the desolate space where the notion of abandoning her job and committing herself to Martin’s strange ways seemed inconceivable.

“Do you understand your mission?” Maguire repeated.

“Yes, sir!”

“Hass thinks you’re turning on us.” 

“Sara barely heard her boss’s voice above her heaving breath. “No sir,” she panted. “You can count on me.”

“You’re goddamn right we can. You’ll get a call in the next few minutes.”

“Sara hung up, clenched her fists and ground her teeth. Sweat glued strips of hair to her forehead and neck. Her head throbbed. The phone rang, she answered and a stranger gave directions to a pawn shop. She put the truck in gear and started to drive but the activity confused her, made her wonder what she thought she was doing. Hers was a predicament that needed hard thinking but when would that happen? Clear thought was a luxury of people who rode above the events of their lives.   

“She parked the pickup behind a gas station and sank into funhouse images of herself in grad school, self-directed and sure of what she wanted: to rise as high as she could in service to the Land of the Free. Hah! she sneered. It's a long way from Jeffersonian Democracy to Wenzel Junker’s confession. And look at yourself! You’re a goddamn functionary. A hit-woman with orders to kill Martin Paix . . . dear, pure Martin . . . for the crime of telling the truth.

“If her patriotism were a thoroughbred mare she would trade it for a swayback and spurn her plush stable for a livery in Pahoa. Ambition’s voice retorted: her quandary wasn’t a matter of right and wrong. The actionable issue was self-preservation—if not self-advancement—and Martin's killing would save not just her but her career, which his survival would surely destroy. If Martin got away Michael Hass would be humiliated; if Martin died, Hass would be glorified and his power would expand; that's why he wanted the deed done now. Above all, Sara realized that if Martin Paix lived Hass would see to it that she paid the price. The whisperings of her heart—take the noble path, follow her ideals and stand up for what is right—would ruin her.

“She pronounced the insight with a whisper. “Only by murdering Martin will I earn the life I've worked for. If I save him, I’m finished.”

The wobbly officer drove from the gas station carrying the weight of the way of the world. She did not know what she would do, and was surprised to feel good about her indecision: a trace of humanity survived in her. And she realized that putting off the decision would keep her options open. Meanwhile, she would meet the local pawn and play it real with him, handle the weapon like an icy-hearted pro. The choice would come later. Let it evolve, she told herself, as if Martin’s killing might be a good subject for meditation. Maybe the group could take it up, she thought with a snicker.”

Sara picks up Martin at Eddie’s house with her gun concealed in her daypack, which lies on the pickup’s bed. They park near the village entrance.

“The sky was clear, the sun strong. Sara headed for the waterfall, reaching the pool in the slick state of perspiration known only in a jungle. She dove in naked and swam as close to the falls as she dared, remembering Martin's warning about falling chunks of lava chipped away by the river where it tumbled over the cliff. Treading water she saw her lover—her target—perched on a rock beside her gear, gazing with a peaceful demeanor that blended with the steam of the forest, the mist of the falls and the coolness of the pond. Sara’s harried brain warned that the fugitive might grab her day pack and take charge of the pistol but in the next instant she knew he wouldn’t try any such thing. He smiled, it touched her and she softened enough to let herself be soothed by the water in which she nestled, and she sighed to feel the rise of  the once elusive pleasure with which she and Martin were intimate: airy and sweet, yet as demanding as any discipline.

“Sara side-stroked toward Martin knowing he was her means to that pleasure. If she had found this pool on her own she would have been capable of nothing more than wonder. Turbulent within, the lissome swimmer pulled herself onto a submerged rock and sat facing her lover.

“How did you reach such a lovely state?” she asked.

“You lifted me into it.”

“The plain words hit Sara hard. She frowned and deflected Martin’s intent by pretending he had peddled phony flattery. “Come on,” she scoffed but could see and feel Martin’s enchantment with her and she was moved when he became forthcoming about the importance to him of their relationship, speaking with a humility Sara would have sneered at in anyone else. “I mean it, Sara. I believe that life is a progression, a series of steps, each one preparatory to the next. And all of my past has prepared me for this, the step in which I meet you, find the love of a kindred mind and we walk the way of a shared imagination.”

“Sara squinted hard, helpless to realize she had no honest way to respond. She stepped to the shore and kissed Martin’s forehead. Was it the last time? She began to get dressed, but stopped when Martin said, “This morning you had something to tell me.”

“His words stabbed her gut, the seat of her ambition and all its squalor. “I'm not sure I can tell you now,” was the only truth she could muster.

“Martin shrugged. “It's going to come out, one way or the other. The longer you wait, the harder it will be.”

“Sara cringed at the truth in his warning just as her trained voice barked at her to carry out her orders before Martin’s cheap flattery turned her head. She could not dishonor him; she knew she should try to tell him the truth about herself but still didn’t think she could do it. Looking at the top of the falls she saw a chunk of lava break free and tumble. “Why didn't you let me tell you?” she said sadly, almost sure she had lost her chance to unburden herself to the only man she’d ever trusted. “I really wanted to tell you. I was ready to tell you.”

“It wasn’t the time,” Martin said and Sara suspected he was right.

“At least I could have begun. It would have been easy to begin.”

“Maybe I can make it easy for you now: I know who you work for, if that's what you’re nervous about.”

Stunned, Sara warded off a barrage of feelings that included a twinge of relief. “How long have you known?”

“I found out in Albuquerque, the day I arranged our travel.”

“You knew before we left? You could have escaped without me?”

Martin nodded with a grin.

Incredulous, Sara struggled to evaluate this information. Parting a curtain of racing thoughts she fathomed the meaning of Martin’s admission: he could not have described more clearly his devotion to her from the beginning. She could not speak of it. “How did you find out?” she demanded instead.

“My angel told me.”

“An angel! Really! Sometimes you are too fucking much.”  The security agent had no way of knowing her target had told her the truth, but did acknowledge she had never known him to lie. “So that’s fine, you can mock me. But did you know they sent an assassin?”

“What do you mean, they?”

Martin grinned but Sara did not. The import of his disclosure continued to sink in: Martin had known from the start that her job would pit her against him. But he trusted their connection and gave himself up to her, more and more, day by day and night by night, a progression of giving that inexorably led to this moment in which he became hers to do with as she wished. His very life lay in her hands. A vast responsibility spread inside Sara that exposed the depths of the ethical disaster her education had bequeathed, and she was appalled to find its repellent advice still tempting her. 

Martin perceived his lover’s torment. To save her from the precipice at which she wobbled, he said, “Yes. I know they sent an assassin. I found out this morning. The guy tailed us from Eddie’s house to Kehena Beach. Eddie saw him pull away from a hiding place down the street. He suspected the worst, followed the guy and put a stop on him.”

Sara exhaled with a hiss and shook her head. “Your friend must be some kind of killer. My big boss blames the Chinese.”

Martin laughed and Sara had an urge as well but it felt like giving in, and she lacked sufficient control of her thoughts and emotions to take that risk: she was aftaid to come face to face with Martin’s integrity because of what he still didn’t know. It took a moment, but she raised the courage to look at him and did not turn away until she was sure her lover saw the sorrow in her eyes.

“You’ve turned me in?”

Sara shook her head. “Worse than that.”

Martin sat still, waiting for his beloved to realize the time had come to muster the strength to perform her mission or reject it. Sara reached for her pack, fished out her new cell phone and, more slowly, her gun. Standing straight she displayed her betrayal on open palms.

“I’ve been ordered to kill you.”

“I won't fight.”

Sara studied his eyes and she was moved by the strength of his serenity. “Thank you,” she sighed, “for making this easy.” Staring at the gun, the novice assassin took a deep breath and flung her weapon high toward the falls and the spot where the loose rock had fallen away. She did the same with her cell phone. Martin’s humble mien disclosed how deeply her expression of love had moved him and Sara went to him. The redeemed lovers embraced with exquisite tenderness.

“There's something else you can get rid of,” Martin whispered. He lifted Sara's arm and slid her wristwatch over her hand. “May I?”

“Be my guest,” she said, grinning with relief as Martin threw the timepiece toward the the falls where it vanished into the crush of the cascade.”

At this point Martin and Sara’s enlightened tale of devotion and doom may begin.

Press the button below to purchase The Return of Martin Paix.