Night Freight

"There's a road called Chain of Craters that's wonderful," Brenda said. "It goes right out over the flows and at the end there's a place where you can actually walk on the lava. Parts of it are still hot!"

I said, "Yes, we've been looking forward to seeing the volcano area. But since you've already been there, I think we'll just drive down by ourselves in the morning—"

"No, no, we'll drive you down. We don't mind seeing it all again, do we, Brenda?"

"I sure don't. I'd love to see it again."

"Larry, I don't mean this to sound ungrateful, but Jan and I would really like some time to ourselves—"

"Look at that moon coming up, will you? It's as big as a Halloween pumpkin."

It was, but I couldn't enjoy it now. I tried again to say my piece, and again he interrupted me.

"Nothing like the moons we get back home in Wisconsin," he said. He put his arm around Brenda's shoulders and nuzzled her neck. "Is it, pet? Nothing at all like a Wisconsin moon."

She didn't answer. Surprisingly, her face scrunched up and her eyes glistened and I thought for a moment she would burst into tears.

Jan said, "Why, Brenda, what's the matter?"

"It's my fault," Larry said ruefully. "I used to call her that all the time, but since the accident . . . well, I try to remember not to, but sometimes it just slips out."

"Call her what? Pet?"

He nodded. "Makes her think of her babies."

"Babies? But I thought you didn't have children."

"We don't. Brenda, honey, I'm sorry. We'll talk about something else . . ."

"No, it's all right." She dried her eyes on a Kleenex and then said to Jan and me, "My babies were Lhasa apsos. Brother and sister—Hansel and Gretel."

"Oh," Jan said, "dogs."

"Not just dogs—the sweetest, most gentle . . ." Brenda snuffled again. "I miss them terribly, even after six months."

"What happened to them?"

"They died in the fire, the poor babies. We buried them at Shady Acres. That's a nice name for a pet cemetery, don't you think? Shady Acres?"

"What kind of fire was it?"

"That's right, we didn't tell you, did we? Our house burned down six months ago. Right to the ground while we were at a party at a friend's place."

"Oh, that's awful. A total loss?"

"Everything we owned," Larry said. "It's a good thing we had insurance."

"How did it happen?"

"Well, the official verdict was that Mrs. Cooley fell asleep with a lighted cigarette in her hand."

I said, "Oh, so there was someone in the house besides the dogs. She woke up in time and managed to get out safely, this Mrs. Cooley?"

"No, she died too."

Jan and I looked at each other.

"Smoke inhalation, they said. The way it looked, she woke up all right and tried to get out, but the smoke got her before she could. They found her by the front door."

"Hansel and Gretel were trapped in the kitchen," Brenda said. "She was so selfish—she just tried to save herself."

Jan made a throat-clearing sound. "You sound as though you didn't like this woman very much."

"We didn't. She was an old witch."

"Then why did you let her stay in your house?"

"She paid us rent. Not much, just a pittance."

"But if you didn't like her—"

"She was my mother," Brenda said.

Far below, on the lanai bar, the hotel musicians began to play ukuleles and sing a lilting Hawaiian song. Brenda leaned forward, listening, smiling dreamily. "That's 'Maui No Ka Oi,'" she said. "One of my all-time favorites."

Larry was watching Jan and me. He said, "Mrs. Cooley really was an awful woman, no kidding. Mean, carping—and stingy as hell. She knew how much we wanted to start our catering business but she just wouldn't let us have the money. If she hadn't died in the fire . . . well, we wouldn't be here with you nice folks. Fu

Neither Jan nor I said anything. Instead we got to our feet, almost as one.

"Hey," Larry said, "you're not leaving?"

I said yes, we were leaving.

"But the night's young. I thought maybe we'd go dancing, take in one of the Polynesian revues—"

"It's been a long day."

"Sure, I understand. You folks still have some jet lag too, I'll bet. Get plenty of sleep and call us when you wake up, then we'll all go have breakfast before we head for the volcanoes."

They walked us to the door. Brenda said, "Sleep tight, you lovely people," and then we were alone in the hallway.

We didn't go to our room; instead we went to the small, quiet lobby bar for drinks we both badly needed. When the drinks came, Jan spoke for the first time since we'd left the Archersons. "My God," she said, "I had no idea they were like that—so cold and insensitive under all that bubbly charm. Crying over a pair of dogs and not even a kind word for her mother. They're actually glad the poor woman is dead."

"More than glad. And much worse than insensitive."

"What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean."

"You don't think they—"

"That's just what I think. What we both think."

"Her own mother?"

"Yes. They arranged that fire somehow so Mrs. Cooley would be caught in it, and sacrificed their dogs so it would look even more like an accident."

"For her money," Jan said slowly. "So they could start their catering business?"

"Yes."

"Dick . . . we can't just ignore this. We've got to do something."

"What would you suggest?"

"I don't know, contact the police in Milwaukee . . ."

"And tell them what that can be proven? The Archersons didn't admit anything incriminating to us. Besides, there must have been an investigation at the time. If there'd been any evidence against them, they wouldn't have gotten Mrs. Cooley's money and they wouldn't be here celebrating."

"But that means they'll get away with it, with cold-blooded murder!"

"Jan, they already have. And they're proud of it, proud of their own cleverness. I think they contrived to tell us the story on purpose, with just enough hints so we'd figure out the truth."

"Why would they do that?"

"The same reason they latched onto us, convinced themselves we're kindred spirits. The same reason they're so damned eager. They're looking for somebody to share their secret with."

"Dear God."

We were silent after that. The tropical night was no longer soft; the air had a close, sticky feel. The smell of hibiscus and plumeria had turned cloyingly sweet. I swallowed some of my drink, and it tasted bitter. Paradise tasted bitter now, the way it must have to Adam after Eve bit into the forbidden fruit.

The guidebooks do lie, I thought. There are serpents in this Eden, too.

Early the next morning, very early, we checked out of the Kolekole and took the first interisland flight to Honolulu and then the first plane home.

Trains, like werewolves and a few dozen other wide-ranging subjects, are a source of endless fascination for me. A couple of my novels have railroading elements; and I've edited two anthologies of train stories, one mystery/suspense (Midnight Specials) and one traditional Western (The Railroaders). "Sweet Fever," the second of two short stories built around this theme ("Night Freight" being the other), is a mood piece steeped in railroad and hoboing atmosphere, one reason why it is among the most anthologized of all my short fiction. Parenthetically I'll add that, as was the case with "The Monster," it came to me whole—title, plot, setting, everything—and is essentially a first draft written at white heat.