I, SWEETIE.” I WAS FOLLOWING DANNY TOWARD A LIGHT BOX located against the left wall of the lab.

“Don’t you dare sweetie me. I can’t believe you made me do this.”

Katy’s tone was pure outrage.

“This vacation was supposed to be fun. Surfing? Diving? Aloha? Remember? Alo-Ha! I’m a friggin’ taxi service!”

I could hear traffic in the background. Something bluesy blasting from a radio.

“Where are you?”

“Heading home, that’s where I am. After cooling my heels for so long I thought I’d qualify for old-age benefits.”

I checked my watch. Four forty. Obviously the rendezvous had not gone well.

“Where is Lily?”

“No idea. Couldn’t care less.”

“You never connected?”

Behind me I sensed Ryan having essentially the same conversation.

“Oh, I found her. After sweltering in the car for almost an hour.”

How does one simultaneously swelter and cool one’s heels? I didn’t ask.

“The AC went out?”

“That’s not the point,” Katy said.

I caught a snippet of Ryan’s exchange.

“Katy, turn down the music.”

The noise level dropped a microdecibel.

“Did you leave Lily at the mall?”

“Do you have any idea how long I waited? I got there on time, early even. No Lily. I circled, thinking I might have misunderstood her instructions. No Lily. I waited some more. An hour after she told me to be there, the little bitch comes strolling out. Laughing, not a care in the world. And get this. She’s with some loser mall crawler thinks he’s 50 Cent.”

“You took off and left her?”

My gaze met Ryan’s. I could hear shrill indignation buzzing through his handset.

“As far as I’m concerned, Miss Island Diva can spend the rest of her life shopping her little black ass off.”

“Katy!”

“Ex-cuuus-ay-moi! Lily’s a prima donna junkie and everyone coddles her. Ask me, she’s heading for a smackdown.”

“Are you finished?”

Silence.

“Here’s what you will do.”

More silence.

“Are you listening?”

“Like I have a choice.”

I do not react well to histrionics. To me, drama queen displays are a waste of time and energy. My tone reinforced what my daughter already knew.

“Turn around. Go back to Ala Moana. Now.”

“Traffic is sick. It will take me forever.”

“You should have thought of that.”

“You’re down there, right?”

“Yes, I am.”

“You could pick her up.”

“Yes, I could.” Weighty pause. “Go back. Get Lily. Drive her to Lanikai.”

Ryan was laying parallel directives on his daughter.

“She won’t—”

“She’ll be there.” Sharp. “Ryan and I will be home at five thirty. At which time we will all have a nice little chat.”

I clicked off and looked at Ryan. He merely wagged his head.

Danny had 1968-979’s X-rays arranged beside the X-rays we’d just taken from Xander Lapasa’s file.

One glance told the story.

In both, a small white glob glowed in the first upper left molar. Though truncated on the postmortem film, the glob that remained in the molar was nearly identical to the top half of the glob on the antemortem film.

“Looks like Illinois,” I said.

“With everything south of Springfield broken off.” Danny pointed his pen at one of the bitewings. “And lookee here.”

I did.

An opaque line crossed the right mandibular ramus, near the junction of the vertical and horizontal parts of the jaw.

Danny shot out a hip. I bumped it with mine.

Dorky, I know. But we like doing it.

“What?” Ryan asked.

“When we examined 1968-979 we saw what we thought were old fractures. One in the shoulder and one in the jaw.” I tapped the jagged line. “That’s a healed break.”

“Nice,” Ryan said. “What about the dental work?”

“It’s a match,” I said. “One of the dentists will have to verify, of course, but 1968-979 is undoubtedly Alexander Lapasa.”

Hot damn. One down.

But other questions remained.

Was Lapasa on the Huey that crashed near Long Binh? If so, why?

Was Spider Lowery also aboard that chopper?

Why was Lapasa wearing Lowery’s dog tag?

Why was the tag boxed with 1968-979’s bones and not processed through proper channels?

If Lowery was on the Huey, how did he end up dead in Quebec?

If Lowery died in Quebec, as suggested by fingerprint evidence, who was 2010-37, the man I’d disinterred in North Carolina? Luis Alvarez? If so, who had screwed up?

* * *

Ryan and I have differing views on, well, most everything not work-related. Nevertheless, we’re like atoms interacting in space, our mutual positive and negative fields attracting, drawing us together. Until Lutetia, of course.

Was the old current still humming below the surface? Was that the reason for my snappishness at the ME’s office?

Maybe. But no way I’d test those waters with our daughters around.

That evening Ryan and I were in total agreement. Katy and Lily were being a double-barrel pain in the ass.

On the way to Lanikai, Ryan and I bought sushi, a foodstuff curiously approved by both sides of the warring home front. After much discussion, we opted for a policy shift. Since sanctioned separation had proved a disaster, we would now implement compulsory companionship.

That decision was wildly unpopular.

Dinner was eaten in glacial silence. Afterward, Hawaii was viewed from opposite sides of the living room. Kind of like a wedding. Groom’s on the left, bride’s on the right.

Katy liked Julie Andrews. Lily said Julie was lame but loved Max von Sydow. Katy thought Max was a pansy.

Ryan swore he spotted Bette Midler doing a walk-on as a ship’s passenger.

I was skeptical. Nineteen sixty-six? It would have been a very young Bette.

By eleven we were all in our rooms.

Maybe it was too much panko-crusted ahi. Or mango crab salad roll. That night I had one of the strangest dreams of my life.

When Katy was ten she attended equestrian camp. Her horse was a small chestnut with a white blaze and stockings, named Cherry Star.

In the dream I was riding Cherry Star bareback down a long white beach. I could sense the mare’s muscles rippling beneath me, could feel the sun hot on my back.

Beside us, water stretched clear and still as far as I could see. Midnight green kelp floated and curled just below the surface.

Cherry Star’s hooves kicked up spray as we galloped. Fat flecks burned my face like snowflakes in winter.

A tiny black speck appeared on the horizon. Grew. Took shape.

Katy, on horseback. On Cherry Star.

I waved. Katy did not wave back.

But I was on Cherry Star.

Confused, I looked down.

I was walking.

I looked up.

Cherry Star was thundering toward me. I watched her blaze grow bigger and bigger. Turn yellow. Gold. Sunlight shot from the shiny metal surface.

Blinded, I threw up a hand.

Surrounded by a halo of fragmented light, Cherry Star’s shimmering blaze changed shape. A diamond. A half-moon. An inverted mushroom with a bifurcated stem.

Suddenly Cherry Star was on top of me. Her back held no rider. Her reins were dragging in the sand.

She’ll step on them and break a tooth!

I lunged but couldn’t grab the trailing leather straps.

I could smell the horse’s sweat, hear the air rasping in and out of her nostrils.

Cherry Star threw back her head. Opened her mouth in a silent scream.

I saw amber teeth. Curled lips. Saliva foaming in glistening streams.

Heart hammering, I tried to run.

Every step sank me deeper into the sand.

The dream shifted.

I was treading water.

Using both arms, I rotated shoreward.

The land was very far off.

Kelp surrounded me.

I watched the green-black clumps slowly coalesce. The dark circle closed in.

Something brushed my foot.

I looked down.

Saw a snout. Membrane-hooded eyes. Cold. Primordial.

The shark stretched its jaws, revealing razor-sharp teeth.

I awoke, damp with perspiration, nails digging little crescents into my palms.

The sky was gray. A moisture-laden breeze wafted in from the window.

I checked the clock. Six forty-five.

The house was quiet.

I rolled onto my side. Pulled the quilt to my chin.

Much as I willed it, sleep would not return.

I tried every relaxation trick I knew, but my mind focused only on the dream.

My nighttime fantasies are typically not Freudian puzzlers.

Bareback on the horse? OK. Most of us know that one.

Katy? Fine. I was worried about her.

The gold blaze? The kelp? The shark?

At eight I gave up and went down to the kitchen.

Ryan had already cranked up the espresso machine. Good. The thing scared the crap out of me.

“Perry closed that beach.” Ryan pointed to the local section of the Honolulu Advertiser. “Got to hand it to the lady. She’s really something. And looking pretty good.”

Only if you’re sighting down a penis. This time I didn’t say it.

I skimmed the article. It reported that Halona Cove was closed to swimmers until further notice, but offered no explanation.

Sipping coffee and crunching toast, Ryan and I formulated a plan.

First, we’d visit the Punchbowl. The girls might not be thrilled. Tough. It was Ryan’s pick. And a good one. I’d been there.

The Punchbowl is an extinct volcanic tuff cone located smack in the city of Honolulu. The crater was formed when hot lava blasted through cracks in coral reefs extending to the foot of the Koolau Range.

Hot lava?

Relax. That eruption was 100,000 years ago.

There are various interpretations of the Punchbowl’s Hawaiian name, Puowaina. Most translate it as something like Hill of Sacrifice. Supposedly, native Hawaiians used the place for human sacrifice to the gods. Legend has it taboo violators were also executed there. Later, Kamehameha the Great had cannons mounted at the crater’s rim to salute distinguished arrivals and to kick off important celebrations.

In the 1930s, the Hawaii National Guard used the Punchbowl as a rifle range. Toward the end of World War II, tunnels were dug through the crater’s rim to construct batteries to guard the island’s harbors, Honolulu and Pearl.

In the late forties, needing a final resting place for World War II troops lying in temporary graves on the island of Guam, the U.S. Congress voted funds to establish the national cemetery. Eight hundred unknowns from the Korean War followed. In the mideighties, Vietnam casualties joined the mix.

Ernie Pyle is buried at the Punchbowl. So is Hawaii’s first astronaut, Ellison Onizuka, killed on the Challenger.

After the Punchbowl, we’d drive up to the north shore, hit the beach, and try some of Hawaii’s famous shave ice.

Finally, hours of camaraderie under their belts, Lily and Katy would stay home, together, and the grown-ups would enjoy a night on the town. We needed it.

Though our little band would not have been mistaken for the Brady Bunch, the day went reasonably well.

The adult night out proved pivotal.