He now knew exactly when it had all begun—the day, the time, the place. He had been driving from the post office at Waialua a few minutes past four o’clock on a Friday—the office had just closed for the day—and he’d seen a woman at the bus stop near the playground at the Waialua Elementary School. She’d been conspicuous, burdened by a large black bag. She was attractive at a distance, and when she signaled to him, he slowed down to look. Up close, she was fleshy, with greeny-gray eyes and a sensuality in her direct gaze, seeming to challenge him, not only with her eyes but with her full lips, even her posture, leaning at him. She was alone.

She had gestured to him with a tennis racket. That was to him her distinguishing feature. Without the tennis racket she was a brooding dusky woman, heavy for her height, standing by the road. With the racket in her hand, she was a tennis player, probably with a powerful forehand, heading home after a match at the school’s courts. And that was another thing—her being so near the school, an hour after the end of classes, suggested she was a teacher.

She was wearing a floppy-brimmed hat and white tennis shoes and loosely fitting shorts, and her black bag was full—of what? He could not see. But his calculations gave him confidence; even as he was slowing down he had decided who she was—a teacher; how she’d spent the past hour or so—playing tennis; that her car was at the garage—why else would she be at the bus stop? Sharkey believed himself to be a shrewd judge of people; a surfer who traveled widely had to be insightful in sizing up strangers, because a surfer, naked on a foreign beach, could so easily be preyed upon—the boys with rusty spears who had assaulted him on a shore in New Guinea were just one instance.

He raked at the clutter on the passenger seat—his hat, his keys, a water bottle, a pair of pliers, a damp towel—and tossed them into the backseat as he drew up and slowed beside the woman.

“You want a ride?”

Without a word—pressing her lips together in effort—she fumbled with her bulgy bag and the tennis racket and pulled the door open. She got in, seating herself heavily, then snatching the door shut hard enough to rattle the window, looking too fussed and preoccupied to reply.

Starting away, Sharkey said, “Where are you headed?”

The woman grunted and, lifting her free hand, pointed into the windshield.

“I’m going to Hale‘iwa,” Sharkey said.

Instead of responding, the woman sat back, resting her bag on her fat knees and placing her tennis racket on the bag.

“Playing some tennis?” Sharkey asked, and glanced at her.