CHAPTER XI

                 Danny replaced the receiver and went into McGarrett's office.  From the tone of his voice, his boss was frustrated.  Ben and Duke were already standing in front of the desk, waiting expectantly.

                "Close the door, Danno," ordered Steve.

                Danny complied and joined the others.  Steve McGarrett handed each of them two case files.  They leafed through their respective folders quickly while he waited. Amongst the mug shots were the faces of two of Diedre Streit's men. Sight of them once more unsettled Dan Williams.  These two had not been caught up in the bust.  Having received minor sentences several months prior to the occasion, they were now out.  Danny reined in his agitation with a heavy hand.

                "I want each of these suspects investigated with a fine tooth comb," said McGarrett.  "Their MOs most closely match what we're presently dealing with."

                Danny considered the slim folders in his hands.  Eight cases, eight suspects, including the two remaining on McGarrett's desk.

                "What about the rest, Steve?"

                "They all have air tight alibis," replied McGarrett.  He tapped one finger on his folders.  "These don't appear to.  Each of them has a substantial score to settle with us."

                In what an unfamiliar person might consider an off-handed remark, Ben asked, "Anyone spotted a tail yet?"

                "No," responded Duke.

                "Yes," countered Danny without thinking.  At the sharp look their boss rest on him he blushed.  Duke and Ben stared at him.  "At least, I think I've had one.  Late model Valiant station wagon.  White, rusty.  Sixty-seven or Sixty-eight, I think.  Couldn't make the licence."

                McGarrett leaned forward.  "When?"

                "Twice last week, before the funeral.  Since then, nothing," said Danny uncomfortably.

                "Someone reported a late model white station wagon near Leo's apartment last week," said Ben apologetically.

                "Damn," muttered Danny to himself.  He was slipping.  It was past due time he took control of his mental and emotional rambling, and put his full attention back on the job at hand.  He met McGarrett's gaze, guilty.  "Sorry, Steve.  I screwed up."

                His boss' eyes pinned Danny to the spot.  "Why are you so distracted, Danno?  It isn't like you to miss something like this."

                When Danny shot his companions a sidelong glance, neither said a word.  Nor did they smile at his discomfiture.  Without thinking, he slid his hand into his jacket pocket and rubbed the smooth lump tucked inside.

                "I'm sorry, Steve.  I guess I'm more concerned about Charley and Jonny's vulnerability than I realised."

                "So am I."  McGarrett considered the problem.  "Would it do any good getting them off the Island?"

                Danny shook his head hard.  "Charley would lose her job.  Work's not that easy to come by.  And I doubt she'd go."

                "Life's more precious than a job, Danny," commented Ben for the first time, his delivery quiet.

                "I know," Danny unaccountably snapped back.  Then, "I know.  Sorry Ben.  I'm worried, that's all."

                "We all are," responded Duke, sympathetic.

                "Charley wouldn't leave unless we physically dragged her off this rock," concluded Danny, returning his attention to his superior.

                Steve McGarrett understood.  Charlene was determined and stubborn.  If her feelings ran half as deep for Danny as Steve suspected his partner's were for her, Charlene Mattheson would remain, through thick and thin, to support him.  Even at the cost of her life.  Her tenacity for survival had kept her alive in the past.  Steve's major concern was that it could well prove her downfall at some time in the future.

                "Speak to her about it, Danno.  It can't hurt."

                After some soul-searching, Danny slowly nodded.  "Alright, Steve.  But I can't promise anything."

                "I know.  Just---see what you can do."  He turned back to Ben and Duke.  "That's it.  Dig into these parolees until they squeal.  Then dig some more.  Somewhere out there a killer's running loose.  And right now he's holding all of the cards."

                Returning to his office, Danny called Charlene but even after several rings there was no reply.  He swore and hung up.  One eye to the clock, he reviewed the first of the two files.  Half an hour later he had a list of points to cover, contacts to call to assist him in locating both men, and a severe case of nerves.  He redialled Charlene's number.  Jonny answered.

                "Hello?"

                "Jonny?  It's Danny."

                "Hi, Danny.  If you wanted Charley, she's out back."

                Momentarily thrown off base by Jonny's information, Danny demanded, "What's she doing outside in weather like this?"

                "She's putting away the lawn furniture," said Jonny sheepishly.  "When I cleaned up the other day, I forgot we wouldn't be using any of it for a while."

                "How long has she been out there," Danny wanted to know.

                His concern penetrated Jonny's banter.  "Not long.  What's wrong, Danny?"

                "Check on her for me, then come straight back to the phone, Jonny."

                "But---" Jonny thought better of arguing.  "Okay."

                As Jonny set down the receiver, it 'clunked' against wood.  Danny heard the young man's footsteps fade away, presumably in the direction of the kitchen patio doors.  There followed a moment's silence before Jonny returned.

                "She's almost finished, Danny.  Now, tell me what's going on."

                "Charley's hasn't told you?"

                "Told me what?  What the hell's going on with you two?"

                Taking a deep breath, Danny slowly released it. "Listen carefully, Jonny.  There's a sniper loose on the Island who has a personal contract out on Five-O, and possibly anyone associated with the department."

                "Oh shit!"

                "Terry's death was an accident.  Steve believes the shot was meant for Ben instead."

                "And the guy missed."

                "Only because your sister and Ben were fooling around.  Ben ducked at the right moment."  Danny realised he was clenching the receiver.  The tendons in his hand hurt.  He forced himself to ease up.  "Steve wants you two off Oahu."

                "No can do, Danny," responded Jonny slowly.  "I got mid-terms coming up for this semester.  If I miss those, I'll fail the year.  And Charley'll probably lose her job.  Which means we'd lose the house.  She's got about ten years' worth of payments owing on this place, you know."

                "I realise that.  I told Steve that's what you'd say."  Danny paused, thinking.

                "Is that why you haven't been over like you used to?"

                Danny's voice went flat.  "Yes."

                "Look," Jonny sounded uneasy, "I'll tell Charley you called, and explain what Steve wants.  But I can tell you what she's gonna say."

                "So do I," replied Danny, "I think Steve's half-expecting it, too.  Take care, Jonny.  And watch yourself."

                "You bet.  'Bye."

* * *

                Within seconds of Jonny hanging up, Charlene stepped in the back door.  She closed the screen and glass doors tightly behind her.  Her hair was plastered to her scalp. Rain dripped down her face in streams from the saturated ends.  She pulled off her boots and carried them carefully through to the front door boot tray.  As she removed her coat, she looked up at her brother.

                "Who was that on the phone?"

                "Danny," said Jonny.  He chewed the inside of his mouth and shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

                "Danny?"  Charlene hung up her coat. "That's twice today.  What did he want?"

                Jonny realised he had the unenviable position of passing along what Danny had said.  Phrasing it properly was another matter entirely.  Charlene stared at him.

                "Wait a minute," she requested, "I'll be right back.  I need a towel."

                When she went into the bathroom, she unwittingly provided Jonny with the time he needed to organise his thoughts.  He went into the kitchen and put the kettle on.  His sister returned, rubbing her hair dry with a hand towel. She watched him silently.

                Jonny glanced up.  "Hot chocolate?"

                "Sure."  Abruptly aware he was procrastinating; Charlene's hand froze.  "Jonny, give.  What did Danny want?"

                Her brother stared out the window over the kitchen sink.  He had never been good at lying.  Or at prevaricating.  More often than not his sister second-guessed him by simply reading his expression.

                Still evasive, he asked, "Charley, is there any way we could take a short holiday?  Maybe visit Mama Lawry on the Big Island for a week or so?  You know how she's forever writing to invite us down there."

                Charlene snorted.  "With what money, Jonny?  And what about your mid-terms?"

                His shoulders gave a little hitch.  "I don't know."

                "Whatever made you ask that?"  She walked into the kitchen, running her fingers through her damp hair to organise it and remove the tangles.

                "I just thought maybe we could use a break," he suggested lamely.  But he could not meet her gaze.

                "Well, it was a bad idea."

                From the corner of his eye he watched her, but kept on preparing the mugs for when the kettle boiled.  As Charlene rubbed at her scalp, Jonny could have sworn a light clicked on over her head.  He marvelled at how clearly he envisioned the cartoon image as her head shot up.

                "It's that bad?"

                "Steve thinks so," Jonny said, grateful his sister had elected the easier track to her questioning, "Danny asked, but---"

                "No," she exploded.  "Absolutely not.  Dammit, why us?  All I ever wanted---all Mom and Dad ever wanted for all of us was to see us kids settled somewhere nice and quiet.  Somewhere for us to grow up and get jobs, and not have to worry---"

                She trailed off, leaning against the counter, clenched fists resting on the top.  Her face screwed up with frustration and anger.  Head tilted slightly down and away, her eyes squeezed shut.  She swallowed hard in an effort to regain control of her emotions.

                "Charley," Jonny stared at her helplessly, "Charley, it's okay."

                "No, it isn't, damn it.  And it won't be as long as there are nuts like this running around loose."  She rounded on her brother.  "Just how much did Danny tell you?"

                "Enough."

                The kettle whistled.  He picked it off the stove and carefully poured the hot water into the mugs, stirring each to blend the contents.  The spoon clinked pleasantly against porcelain.

                "I'll ask the guys to keep their eyes peeled for anyone hangin' around that shouldn't be in the neighbourhood," he said and offered her a mug.  Eyes fixed on him she accepted it.

                "I don't know if that's a particularly good idea," she cautioned over the rim of her mug.

                Jonny shrugged.  "It couldn't hurt."

                "It could," she countered.  She blew on the cocoa.  "This guy's a killer, Jonny.  He's got absolutely no scruples."

                "I'll tell the guys to be careful."

                "You tell them not to try any heroics.  The minute they see anything suspicious, anything at all," she reinforced sharply, "you tell them to call the police.  No trying to case the person out.  No seeing if they can catch this jerk. Okay?"

                "Okay."  The word exploded from Jonny with relief.  "So what's for supper?"

                "Leftovers," she retorted, "What else?"

CHAPTER XII

16 November 1977

                Willy sauntered along the Keeia-Kea Marina dock, studying the moored vessels with an expert eye.  Little over a month had transpired since he had been released.  Ironically, the only people who even considered employing him at this time of year had been the marinas.  There were few students with sufficient time out from studies to keep an eye on the winterised boats.  Even fewer employees with the spare time to wander along the docks, inspecting the vessels in the slips and racks to ensure nothing had broken loose after a storm.  Ideal work for an ex-convict, but his employer made it patently clear he was on probation, and would only be permitted to work part-time days.  That suited Willy just fine.

                The water was still rough.  Sizeable waves were infiltrating the slips.  Boats bobbed up and down rhythmically.  From time to time, they thumped protective floats against the docks, rubbing and squeaking as cork and foam guards slid up and down against the wood.  Lines rattled against masts.  Dinghies lay upside down on racks, along with an assortment of out-riggers and other pleasure craft belonging to the club's racing society.  Willy paused to tug on a bollard.  He was glancing at his wristwatch when footfalls rumbled along the dock behind him.

                "Good morning, Willy."

                Harrison Fredericks the Third sauntered up the dock, carrying a heavy toolbox.  Willy raised an eyebrow.

                "Trouble with your boat, Mister Fredericks?"

                "I think it's just a plugged fuel line," replied the owner.  He stepped across the distance onto the gunwale of his twenty-foot pleasure craft.  "Know anything about engines?"

                "Some."  Willy watched as the other man set down the box alongside the engine hatch.

                "Could use a hand, if you've got the time, Willy."

                Willy shrugged.  It was expected of him.  "Sure, Mister Fredericks."

                "It's Harry, Willy.  Come on aboard."

                Willy spanned the distance carefully.  The Little Miss was a neat ship, and expensive, as they went.  There were auto pilot capabilities, compass, the latest in navigational devices including radar and two radios, plus a distress beacon.  The small boat lay upside down on the dock beside the yacht, and Willy was well aware that the Fredericks kept a good supply of emergency rations on board.  Harrison Fredericks the Third was not a man who took sailing lightly.  A retired Naval Officer, married with no children, he generally went out alone.  Every so often his wife accompanied him.  Occasionally they took friends.  As Sunday sailors went, Missus Fredericks was nothing to sneeze at either.  She was a solid sailor and a classy woman.

                "Here," offered Harry, interrupting Willy's train of thought, "See what you think."

                Slipping down the hatch, Willy was closely followed by the owner.  Harry flipped the light switch, illuminating the engine well.  They spent most of the morning dismantling the engine, cleaning parts, and reassembling it.  When they started it, the engine ran smoothly.  But there was a peculiar noise from the prop when they attempted to engage the screws.

                "Sounds like you might have a warped shaft or blade, Harry," commented Willy.

                "You sure?"  The observation troubled Harry.

                "Don't know," Willy admitted.  He glanced upward.  "I could check over the stern.  Might just be something fouling it."

                "If you would."

                As Willy scaled the ladder, Harry switched off the engine.  In leaning over the stern, Willy discovered a batch of seaweed had floated in during the storm and tangled itself around the external prop shaft.  He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small Swiss Army knife.  Minutes later, he had cleared the obstruction.

                "Try her again," he yelled.  He put away his knife.

                Below deck, Harry thumbed the switch.  The engine purred into life.  As the prop blades churned the water to froth, the Little Miss strained against her mooring lines.  Harry switched it off.

                "Okay!"  He emerged from the hole, shoved the toolbox up over the lip, and sprang up the ladder with adeptness completely at odds with his seventy years.  "Now, let's see how she does off the main controls."

                The engine turned over smoothly.   Willy nodded.  Harry smiled with satisfaction.  Setting the engine on idle, he disengaged the prop.  Willy closed and dogged the hatch.

                "Excellent.  Now," Harry gestured to Willy, "could you lend me a hand checking the running lights and aids, Willy? It shouldn't take more than an hour with the two of us working on it."

                "Sure."  Willy moved forward.  "Where do you want me?"

                "Down the end of the dock, first.  I'll run the lights and you can let me know if any of them are burnt out."

                "No problem."  Willy swung back onto the dock. "Where's the missus today?"

                "Shopping."

                "Just like a woman," commented Willy.

                Harry laughed.  "No, not that kind of shopping.  We're planning to sail up to Kauai for Thanksgiving, if the weather holds."

                Willy forced a smile and turned away.  He sauntered casually down the dock until he was far enough away to see the lights in the rigging.  From there he flashed Harry a signal.  The older man threw the toggle.  Willy gave him a 'thumbs up'.  He returned to the boat.

                "Would be nice having a little boat like this," he remarked as he stepped on board again.

                "Yeah.  It is."

                They ran the navigational aids next.  After they were done, Harry went below to fix them some coffee with a 'little something' in it to fortify them against the cold wind knifing through the marina off the water.  While Willy waited, his eye caught on something metallic glinting off the side of the cupboard in the cabin kitchen nook.  He measured the indentations expertly.  It appeared to be just the thing.  He slipped down the stairs and leaned casually against the narrow counter as Harry prepared instant coffee for them with a dash of run.  While Harry's back was turned, Willy slid his hand smoothly up and liberated the spare key.

                "There," said Harry as Willy pocketed the key.  "See how that warms you."

                "Thanks."

After they had finished their coffee, Willy bowed out, pleading the necessity of returning to work.  He made his way along the dock, tugging lines and ensuring floats were in place.  When he returned, Harry had gone.  The Little Miss was locked and once more secured against foul weather.  Willy kept walking, his mind preoccupied with other things.

                His biggest stumbling block remained the unpredictable nature of his targets.  Instead of sticking to one routine, they altered them almost constantly.  Almost, he thought, as though they suspected they were being watched.  They kept to well-lit areas, remained in places with heavy pedestrian traffic, and never went anywhere alone.  Willy seriously doubted his ability to carry through with his scheme.  It infuriated him no end to be stymied.

                "One more week," he promised himself.  "Then we'll see."

                He concluded his rounds and returned to the clubhouse. Wayne, his employer looked up as he walked into the office. Willy wrote his observations into the log and secured the gate key in the key press.

                As he finished his duties, Wayne asked, "Everything all right?"

                "Yeah.  No loose boats. Bit of debris in the water, though.  Mister Fredericks was in.  He had weed tangled around the prop.  Could have caused a burnt-out engine."

                "Okay.  I'll send the skimmers out to clean the slips as soon as the weather settles."  Wayne slid the meteorological forecast across the desk for Willy to view. "It's going to clear for the next weekend, so we can expect a fair bit of traffic."

                Willy froze.  Then managed casually, "I'm off, aren't I?"

                "Yeah.  I think you are, but I might need you."  Still as rock, Willy waited.  "I doubt it, though.  I'll call if there's a problem."

                Satisfied, Willy nodded.  "Okay.  See you around."

                Without waiting for a reply, Willy left the marina.  As he slipped behind the Valiant's wheel, he glanced at his watch again.  There was lots of time to make another check of his primary target.  Perhaps the time between hits would work for the best.  McGarrett was probably wracking his brains trying to figure out who was responsible.

                'By the time he does,' reflected Willy, 'it'll be too late.'

                Satisfaction paramount, he stared into the rear view mirror, pretending his reflection was McGarrett and his forefinger was a revolver.  His features contorted in a warped grin.

                "Bang," he said.

                With that, he started the car and drove up the access.  It was rush hour by the time he hit the Pali, but Willy did not care.  The delay was well spent deciding how best to incorporate his latest coup, if at all, into his plans.

* * *

                Perched on the edge of the examination table, Charlene watched the doctor remove the bandage that Jonny had carefully wrapped around her arm the previous evening.  The gauze came away cleanly, revealing a puckered red scar, but no scab.  The doctor raised an appreciative eyebrow.

                "Well, Miss Mattheson," he remarked, "You certainly heal like a baby."

                "Thanks.  I think," responded Charlene.

                "No.  That is a compliment," he told her.  "Very few people heal this cleanly or quickly after a gunshot wound.  You've obviously taken good care of it."

                Charlene shrugged. "All I did was keep it clean and bandage it like you said."

                "Well, you've apparently done all the right things."  He probed the wound. "Does that hurt?"

                She winced.  "A bit."

                "Still tender.  That's to be expected.  Any stiffness in the arm itself?"  She shook her head.  "Any problems using it?"

                "No."

                "Did you finish the series of pills I prescribed?"

                "Yes," she replied obediently, now on a roll.

                "Still doing the housework," he smoothly inserted.

                "Yes."  Charlene instantly reddened as he walked her expertly into the trap.

                 The physician rested a thoroughly exasperated look on her.  "I thought I specifically told you to give it a rest?"

                "If I left my brother to look after the house," she retorted bluntly, "my place would resemble a disaster area."

                "And that's saying something," added Danny with a grin.

                "Still, you should do as you're told."

                "Give it a rest, Doc," requested Danny.  His grin broadened.  "The wound's healing up and there aren't any complications."

                "You stay out of this, Danny," parried the doctor shortly.

                Charlene flashed Danny an 'oops' look.  He shook his head, remaining silent.  Removing his note pad and pen from his smock pocket, the doctor began scribbling on it.  When he was done, he tore off the sheet and handed it to Charlene.

                "This ointment should help the scar tissue to heal with a minimum amount of pulling.  It ought to minimise the remaining scarring, too."

                "Thanks."

                Slipping from the table, Charlene picked up her coat from a nearby chair.  The doctor watched as she buttoned it up and collected her purse.  He looked at Danny meaningfully.  Dan Williams was trying very hard not to laugh.

                "Are you keeping an eye on this young woman, Danny?"

                Danny lost his battle with his smile.  "After a manner of speaking."

                The doctor appeared momentarily nonplussed.  "Make certain she does as she's told."

                Charlene slid an arm through one of Danny's.  He looked at her, then back at the physician.  "Doc, I've tried doing that.  It hasn't worked in over a year, so I doubt it's going to work now."

                With a shake of his head, the doctor wagged a finger at Charlene.  "You are to be more careful in the future."

                A snappy rejoined surfaced, but Danny wheeled Charlene adroitly out of the examination room before she could voice it.

                Far more attuned to her emotions and witticisms than any other woman he had dated over the years, Danny gently enjoined, "Don't say it."

                She took a breath and swallowed her words.  The doctor watched them depart, clearly unconcerned.  Charlene Mattheson was indeed healing well.  By Monday she would have only a fading scar to remind her of the incident.  He frowned at that thought and moved on with his rounds.

                Danny ushered Charlene into his private vehicle.  He had met her in town at a restaurant at mid-day to enjoy a rain check their aborted luncheon of the previous week.  She had assured him she had taken a roundabout route, keeping to well-populated areas.  Her pace had been brisk, raising appreciative male interest in the restaurant.  Now he found himself wondering, not for the first time, what her mother had been like.

                Conscious of his reticence, Charlene gently asked, "Is something wrong, Danny?"

                "Apart from the obvious," he countered, "No.  Just thinking."

                "Any leads?"

                "Charlene," he admonished.

                "Sorry," she said.  She fell silent as they drove back to the main bus loop.  They waited together until they saw her connection approaching before she left the car.

                "I'll call," he said.

                "Okay."  Charlene hesitated.  "Danny, it's the holiday next week," she began.

                "Charley---" Danny trailed off.  Regretfully shook his head.

                "I just wanted to do something," she pleaded.  "Anything.  We could drive up to the Pali look-out---"

                Unprepared to argue, Danny looked away.  She sighed heavily, knowing better than to push, and slipped from the car without another word.  He was not unsympathetic to her. Knew she was disheartened and annoyed.  But her emotions were not directed at him.  They were aimed at the situation in general that was interfering with their private lives.  He cursed as she boarded the bus and watched it out of sight before driving home.  The box in his jacket felt as though it was burning a hole in the fabric.  He still had not found the appropriate moment to broach the topic.

                "Damn," he cursed himself sharply, "Williams, get a hold of yourself.  This isn't going to work if you don't."