“Oh, I know how you got here, all right. You came in on Leo’s afternoon boat from Waialua, causing quite a stir.” She opens her eyes. “I just don’t understand why anybody cares about so much ancient history.”

“It’s not so ancient. It just seems that way, because of the war. It’s hard to believe anyone ever cared about daring pilots and their daring flights to nowhere.”

“Well, why do you care? You’re a photographer. There’s no photograph here. God knows I’m no picture portrait.”

“I’m not here for photographs. As a matter of fact, I’m writing a book. A biography of Samuel Mallory.”

“Of Sam?”

“You thought I wanted to write about you, did you?” I wag a finger. “Everybody knows your story, Foster, right up until the moment you disappeared. But Mallory’s been forgotten.”

“That’s not true,” she says swiftly. Then she catches herself and drinks the coffee. “Anyway, you forget I haven’t said I’m this Foster woman at all.”

I wipe my mouth. “Look. If you’re afraid I’m going to expose you, don’t trouble yourself. If I wanted the scoop of the century, I’d have wired New York already, and every reporter and photographer in the Western Hemisphere would be bearing down on this airfield of yours like a locust army. You can keep your privacy, since you want it so badly. I won’t quote you. All I want is the inside story on Mallory. I think it’s time history resurrected him, don’t you?”

“I don’t think Sam would have cared, one way or the other. He didn’t give a damn about fame or history.”

“Oh? Then what did he give a damn about?”

Again, she bites back some piece of candor. She’s on to me and my tricks, and still she nearly slips. She wants to unburden herself, I can see that. Most people do. We all carry some burden or another, pressing into that tender spot between neck and shoulder, invisible to others, which we wouldn’t mind shucking off for a blessed moment. But we rarely do. To shuck off our burden is to show it to the world, and then what would the world say? The world would judge your burden, that’s what. The world would judge it, and how you’ve carried it all these years, and whether your burden is more or less than any other person’s, and what all this says about you. Sometimes you’re just better off carrying the damn thing into eternity.

Evidently Lindquist feels the same way. She shrugs and digs back into her omelet. “Don’t you know the answer to that already? You’re the one writing the biography.”

“But that’s why I’m here, Mrs. Lindquist. To hear the truth from the person who knew him best.”

“Me? What makes you say that?”

I reach for my pocketbook. “Do you mind if I smoke, Mrs. Lindquist?”

“Oh, for God’s sake, call me Irene.”