BooksBarbecue
Back The Preserve
Chapters (56)
  1. Front Cover
  2. Half-Title Page
  3. Title Page
  4. Copyright Page
  5. AUTHOR’S NOTE
  6. 1.
  7. 2.
  8. 3.
  9. 4.
  10. 5.
  11. 6.
  12. 7.
  13. 8.
  14. 9.
  15. 10.
  16. 11.
  17. 12.
  18. 13.
  19. 14.
  20. 15.
  21. 16.
  22. 17.
  23. 18.
  24. 19.
  25. 20.
  26. 21.
  27. 22.
  28. 23.
  29. 24.
  30. 25.
  31. 26.
  32. 27.
  33. 28.
  34. 29.
  35. 30.
  36. 31.
  37. 32.
  38. 33.
  39. 34.
  40. 35.
  41. 36.
  42. 37.
  43. 38.
  44. 39.
  45. 40.
  46. 41.
  47. 42.
  48. 43.
  49. 44.
  50. 45.
  51. 46.
  52. 47.
  53. 48.
  54. EPILOGUE
  55. AFTERWORD
  56. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

He stared down at the plank floor; the wood was bare unlike the rest of the little church. Maybe Frankie was just an ex-boyfriend. Maybe the guy couldn’t give her up. Or maybe it was worse. Lett shook his head. And here he was thinking he was the only one with a past.

“We’re heading for The Preserve,” he said eventually. “Right? So whoever was in that Packard will not be there. No sentry worth his salt is letting in the likes of them.”

Kanani showed him a pout. “Oh, Wendell Lett. You really haven’t been in the Territory long, have you?”

3.

Lett and Kanani kept moving, on foot, heading inland and uphill. “Mauka,” Kanani called it, “up mountain.” They weren’t about to backtrack to Kona Town for the daily transport to The Preserve. It was only about ten miles to the camp’s location, Kanani told him, but roads narrowed and twisted and ended dead, and they had some rock walls to hop and NO TRESPASSING signs to ignore.

As they walked along, Lett congratulated himself for not acting, once again, on his wonder-filled urges back in that little chapel.

“I feel bad about that church,” Kanani told him as they trudged up a pitted old road.

“You’re Catholic?”

She gave him a look Hawaiians called da stink eye. “That church is on top of a sacred Hawaiian site. It’s desecration.”

“Kapu,” Lett said.

She nodded.

Lett knew what was coming next.

“Tell me about your wife,” Kanani said.

“If I tell you about her, I have to tell you something else: I was a deserter.”

“You? Private Bust-em-up? I don’t believe it.”

He told Kanani how he had walked away from battle in December of 1944. Thousands of Americans had, but no one ever talked about it. Since then he’d been living under the bogus identity of one John Macklin, discharged US veteran.

“By October of ’44 I had reached my limit in combat, constantly on the line for months, still running patrols after every other good GI I knew was either dead or cracked or both. I was all outta change, believe me.”

They kept walking as he spoke. Kanani kept throwing him sidelong glances.

“Heloise is her name. Heloise was the one who’d truly saved me from the war,” he said. She had urged him to desert. He and Heloise, and later their young son, were living in her small Belgian town of Stromville near the Ardennes Forest. But things were not going well. “We’ve drifted apart. Because of the way I am. She doesn’t even know where I am right now.”

“It’s not your fault,” Kanani said.

“That’s what Heloise used to say. And then she stopped saying it.”