by Cathryn Cade
And he wanted it more than ever now. If his father was this far into the bottle or the weed, that he'd let their home become a dump like this, there was no guarantee the place wouldn't be condemned as a toxic waste site by the next time Moke came around. Which would mean even more work to fix the place up.
No guarantee that Timo himself would be alive by then, either. Moke scowled to himself as he pulled his gloves back on. He might be pissed as hell at his dad, but he didn't wish him dead. He just wasn't sure Timo shared this wish.
The rumble of a vehicle penetrated the damp stillness of the afternoon. Moke tensed, his big muscles going taut, his gloved hands curling into fists. If this was Timo, or the squatters, he was ready. More than ready.
Though, this approaching vehicle was new, from the smooth note of the engine.
Above the edge of the property, behind a screen of giant leaf philodendrons, banana trees and vines, ran the Queen Ka'ahumanu highway. Affectionately known as the Queen K by locals, it was the main arterial on this south-west coast. To dive off, and navigate the steep, rutted road down to the Ahuelo place, a driver had to have nerves of steel and four-wheel drive.
The arriving driver would be either a local who knew this place was here, or a tourist who was lost. Likely not the squatters, in a new vehicle.
As he watched, a gleaming Toyota pickup eased over the brow of the hill and bumped slowly down the steep drive toward him. Since Moke couldn't see the driver through the shaded windows, he waited till the silver truck eased to a stop behind his own rental, a bright red Ford F150.
The truck door opened, and a long arm emerged in a wave. Heavily muscled, the skin even darker than Moke's, and covered in tribal tattoos. A local, then, that was cool.
Then, as a big Hawaiian stepped out of the Toyota, Moke's bad mood dissipated in a grin that started deep and broke out on his face.
Moke's size, the visitor was cut as roughly as the a'a lava that ran in black streaks down from the volcano. His ebony hair was pulled back in a bundle of braids, his tough face half hidden behind a short beard and mustache. He wore gray shorts and a blue tank, sandals on his feet.
"Daniel Ho'omalu," Moke called. "Whatchu doing way up here, instead of down at Nawea playing in the water?"
The other man held out his hand as he approached, and they clasped hands. "Aloha. Came to see if rumor was true. My old friend Moke Ahuelo back on da island? Had to see for myself." The local's tough face relaxed in a smile, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners. "Good to see you, brah. Long time. Too long."
"You too," Moke said, smiling back. "Man, good to see you too." Moke had grown up with Daniel and his younger brother, been friends with them all through school. The big, close-knit Ho'omalu family had been, to him, a shining glimpse at what a family could be.
Daniel looked around at the evidence of Moke's labors and scowled thunderously. "Holy hell, brah. This is worse than I thought."
"You heard, huh?" This didn't surprise Moke. The coconut telegraph worked fast, and the Ho'omalu family had always had ears and eyes on everything local. They were downright eerie that way.
"Heard Timo's been gone a lot. And that some 'friends' of his moved onto the place." Daniel shook his head. "Haven't had time to come see for myself. Sorry you had to come home to this, brah. Looks like you been working hard."
"Couldn't stand to look at it. Figured I might as well work while I wait for Timo to get back."
"You're not staying here, are you?"
Moke snorted. "You’d seen the inside of da shack, you wouldn't ask. Can hardly walk in there, he's got so much trash piled." Not to mention the smell.
"We heard dat too. Your cousin Lele's been working down at Nawea."
Huh. Moke hadn't seen Lele, or Moleleana, since she was a chubby kid. She must be sixteen, seventeen by now. Her mother was Moke's auntie on his mother's side.
"That's good. Your family's doing okay?"
Daniel's eyes twinkled. "All fine. Though, I'm a papa now, gotta behave."
"No ways. Really?"
Daniel looked smug. "Got a little boy, and another on the way. David has two keikis already." He chuckled at the look on Moke's face. "You don't believe me, come down and see for yourself. In fact, you need somewhere to stay while you're here? We got lots of room. No tour groups in. We're all headed over to Maui tomorrow for the art festival, but come on down, go for a swim, eat supper with us. Spend the night."
Moke's mood lifted. "Mahalo. I'll do the first two, anyway."
"Good. Come anytime you can get away. Supper at seven, but da moana always open for a swim or a snorkel, yeah?"
"Mahalo. I'll take you up on that." Hawaiian hospitality was not to be turned down.
The whine of another motor, this one small and poorly maintained, penetrated the quiet afternoon. Daniel turned, and Moke watched with grim anticipation as a sun-scalded, red Honda Civic with two banged-up surfboards on top bumped down the drive toward them.
"Ah," Daniel said, crossing his massive arms over his chest. "Looks like da cockroaches are back for their garbage, yeah?"
"Yeah," Moke said. "And I'm gonna geev 'em."
Daniel shot him a look. "You take any pictures? Of the mess, I mean. Might be good to have."
"Great idea," Moke said. "I'll get my phone outta the truck."
"I got this," Daniel said. "I'll message them to you." He pulled a phone from a pocket of his shorts and began snapping pictures of the trash piles, and of the ground where they'd camped.
The Honda lurched to a stop, and both doors opened. Two sunburned males, one a beefy blond, the other a lean redhead, both with long, Rastafarian-style braids and scraggly facial hair, erupted from the little car. They wore dirty shorts and flip-flops.
Both their mouths and eyes were wide as they gaped at the pile of their belongings, then at Moke and Daniel.
"Hey!" The blond roared, waving his arms as if Moke was far away across a field. "What the fuck, dudes? You can't just come in here and mess with our camp."
"Yeah," echoed the redhead indignantly. "That's our stuff."
"Then you shouldn't have left it where it don't belong," Moke said. His deep voice carried clearly through the quiet afternoon air.
The blond stuck out his chin pugnaciously, his face scarlet with anger. "Does so belong here. We got permission. Who the fuck’re you, anyways?"
Moke's lip curled. "I'll tell you who I am. I'm the owner of this property. The owner whose permission you don't have."
The blond puffed out his chest, adorned with cheap shell necklaces. "You ain't the owner. That's Timo, an' he's our bud. He said we can stay long as we want."
Daniel held up his phone and snapped pictures of the two and their beat-up car. The blond glared at him too.
"Yeah, there's s'posed to be some primo waves this week," the redhead said hopefully. "We're surfers."
Moke eyed them with disbelief. "Do I look like I care if you catch any waves? Does my friend here look like he cares?"
Their eyes darted from one Hawaiian to the other. The redhead blanched under his sunburn. "Um... no?"
The blond swallowed, as if he had belatedly realized that Moke and Daniel were both bigger than him and his friend put together, and neither were friendly. He backed toward the car, scowling. "Fine, then. We're outta here. The place is all yours."
"Wait, our stuff, man," the redhead protested.
"That's right," Moke agreed. "You don't wanna leave without all your shit. Go ahead, grab it."
The two hustled over to the pile of their belongings. The redhead bent to pick up a pile of stuff, which Moke had bundled up in an awning. He blinked, sniffed, then scuttled away to the car to stuff the things into the back seat. The blond did the same with the other pile.
Which left their trash.
"Get that, too," Moke ordered.
The blond gave Moke a look of disgust. "No, man. That's just garbage. You can put it with your yard waste, there." He waved carelessly at Moke's piles of weeds and vines.
<
br /> The redhead nodded but stayed on the other side of the Honda.
Moke brandished his shovel and moved to the car. "Oh, you're gonna take it—all of it. That is, if you wanna drive your POS car outta here. You see, I'm an auto mechanic. I know how to mess up this car so it'll never run again, and I can do it in a minute flat. Den you'll be on foot."
The redhead's mouth fell open. "That's a really shitty thing to say, man. I thought Hawaiians were s'posed to be all aloha."
"Yeah, Timo is," the blond echoed. "You... it's like you're not even Hawaiian."
These two were unbelievable. Daniel Ho'omalu agreed, judging by the low growl that rumbled in his chest as he prowled forward to stand near their car, looking every inch the warrior from which he was descended.
"Oh, we're Hawaiian all right," Moke said. "When you're friendly, you get aloha. This? This is what you get when you move in and squat on my property, and shit in my yard. Now you clean it up. Or I make you."
Cursing and mumbling, the two squatters gathered their trash and stuffed it hastily in the trunk, grimacing as they did so. The redhead looked like he might be sick. Moke knew just how he felt.
Then they slammed into the car and gunned it back up the drive. When they were a few feet away, they both stuck their arms out their windows, middle fingers extended.
"Now that just hurts my feelings," Daniel observed. "No aloha from them either, you know?"
" No kidding. Thanks for standing with me. You weren't here, I might've lost it with those two. Bad enough I gotta clean up after Timo's bad decisions. I don't wanna spend my time here in jail."
Daniel raised a brow at him. "Jail? Brah, if you don't remember how we get rid of bodies here, you been gone too long. Shahk bait."
Moke eyed him. "I'd ask if you're serious, but I don't really wanna know."
Daniel's dark eyes twinkled. "What'd you do to their stuff? You had a certain look in your eye when they were packing up, brah."
"Oh, did I forget to say? My shovel slipped when I was cleaning up the latrine they dug in our garden. Guess some of it landed on their camp equipment, so I wrapped it up in there. Like I told 'em, don't wanna leave their shit behind."
The other man tipped back his head and laughed, a deep sound of unfettered mirth. Moke joined in. "Just wish I could be there to see the look on those two buggah's faces when they open up their gear later," he managed, and then had to bend over and brace his hands on his knees as he guffawed.
"Knew I liked you," Daniel said, when they'd both calmed down. "See you later at Nawea, yeah?"
"Yeah. Wouldn't miss it."
"Good. Bring your swim trunks and your appetite. David's wife is a real chef. I could eat her grinds fo' days."
That sounded even better. Good company and good food? He hadn't had those since he left home.
Daniel strode to his pickup, and stepped in. As he drove away, he reached an arm out the window as the two squatters had. But he waggled his hand with thumb and pinky finger extended. The shaka sign, the friendly all clear.
Moke waved back and watched the truck bump back up the steep road. When the shiny silver tailgate disappeared over the rise, he got back to work. And since his phone was now charged via the rental truck battery, he thumbed to one of his many online music stations, slapped on his headphones and loaded the pickup bed to the hard-rocking music of the Scorpions.
Didn't make him forget why he was here, but it improved his mood a whole lot while he got back to work, getting this little corner of paradise back to the way it should be.
Free of squatters, thieves and any other intruders not approved by himself.
CHAPTER FOUR
One of the advantages of working the morning shift at a home-style cafe was that people were mostly intent on fueling up for their day with food, caffeine and their version of the news. Thus, they were quieter, and they might be grouchy but at least they weren't drunk.
And, many bought a newspaper from the stand in the front entryway of the cafe, read the articles they were interested in, and then left the paper behind.
On her break, Shelle liked to peruse USA Today and the local papers. This way she could catch up on celebs, interesting bits of world and national news, and the local news.
A few days after her annoying and somewhat scary drive up Slamamish River to deliver the wallet, she sat on a stool at the cafe counter eating a sausage rolled up in a pancake, each bite dipped in a puddle of syrup.
A headline in the Seattle paper caught her eye. 'Local King County DP Disappears; Police Suspect Foul Play'. Apparently, Craig McFarland, who worked in the King County Prosecutor's office, had left his office in the King County courthouse in downtown Seattle at noon on Friday, having told his secretary he would walk to a local eatery a few blocks away, for lunch with his wife.
He never arrived. And given his job, the police were immediately notified and put on alert.
Anyone with information on his whereabouts was asked to call a special tip hotline. A reward was offered for information leading to his whereabouts.
Shelle glanced at the accompanying photo of a slim, clean-cut blond guy in a classy suit, and frowned. Hmm, she'd seen him somewhere before. She thought about it and shrugged. Probably just on the local news another time. His was a high-profile job.
She read on. McFarland was involved in building a case against local businessman Darius Albany, who was suspected of, among other things, selling hard drugs. Ugh.
"Hey, girl, whatcha readin'?" Tawny demanded, leaning on the other side of the counter, arms crossed.
"Who's Darius Albany?" Shelle asked, picking up her coffee cup to take another drink. She'd heard that name before, recently.
Tawny's smile disappeared, and her dark brows shot together. "Why you wanna know about him? That mo-fo is bad news, even if he is a brother. Into some bad shit, according to Darren's pals on the force." Tawny's husband Darren was an ex-Army medic who now worked as a Seattle-area EMT. He had many friends in emergency and law enforcement.
"You don't wanna have nothin' to do with Albany," Tawny added for emphasis. "Nuh-uh, nope."
The hair stood up on the back of Shelle's neck. "Really? Oh, my God."
"Let's hope the Big Guy's listenin', 'cause according to what I heard, Albany is the devil."
Shelle shuddered. "Wow. How do guys like him manage to operate when the cops are after them?"
"Fancy lawyers, girlfriend. Even when they're guilty as sin, they get off on some technicality."
Shelle looked at the newspaper a last time. "And they get rid of anyone who comes after them, it looks like. This attorney from the prosecutor's office is missing."
She frowned at the photo again.
"Hey, you two mind giving a girl a hand?" Ronelle called as she hurried by with laden plates. "Gettin' busy."
Tawny straightened. "Looks like we're into the late breakfast slash early lunch rush."
"Okay," Shelle slid off her stool, sucking a last drop of syrup from her lower lip, and carried her plate around to a bus tray. She used a napkin to make sure her face was syrup free, and got back to work, her mind on her customers and their needs and wants.
Her shift over at one o'clock, she tried again to catch Harry in his office, to ask for extra hours. Again, he was already gone.
"Damnation," she muttered under her breath. She'd have to leave him a note, and hope he saw it. Given the state of his desk, she didn't hold much hope for that. Maybe if she pinned it on the door of the stairs leading up to the center management offices. He spent more than half his time up there trying to flirt with the gen manager's secretary, anyway.
She left the note, retrieved her things and clocked out.
Outside, it was overcast, with a cool breeze blowing across the parking lot. Brrr, typical Seattle weather—nice for one day and then back to normal. When she got her degree in youth counseling, she was going to look for jobs in sunnier places. Maybe someplace they had four actual seasons, instead of two-ish. Seattle had fall rain, winter
rain, spring rain and hurry-up-and-get-outside-it’s-sunny summer.
For now, she shrugged into her Seahawks polar fleece and climbed into her car. The motor turned over, then died. With a quick prayer, she tried again. This time the engine sputtered to life. One foot on the brake, the other on the accelerator, she backed out and swung around, ready to head home.
As she did so, she had to brake to avoid being run over by a semi-tractor with no load. "Thanks a lot, jerk-off." She flipped the driver off, and headed across the big lot, keeping a wary eye out for other trucks. She had a clear path to the street. There, as she waited for a pair of loaded semis to pass, a shiny black Hummer with tinted windows pulled up behind her.
Shelle turned onto the street, heading for her apartment. The SUV followed, and oddly, as she turned into the parking area of the SeaTac Shores, the other vehicle idled on the street until she pulled into her parking spot.
By the time she got out of her car, it was gone, so she forgot about it.
One thing about the lack of sunshine that afternoon—Shelle wasn't tempted to go sit in the park and daydream instead of working on her paper.
She'd decided to get her research paper out of the way first, so she was currently reading all about PTSD resulting from childhood trauma. Fascinating subject, although somewhat too close to the bone for her. She was a textbook candidate for the syndrome—parents with substance abuse resulting in troubled home life, and then in both their deaths, years spent in a succession of foster homes, and attempted sexual abuse in one of said homes.
But she'd made it through the system whole and healthy—well, pretty healthy. So what if she had one major hole in her armor? She'd been dealing with that, and for almost three years, she'd been clean. She hadn't stolen anything, not so much as a single grape from the produce section of the grocery store. And yesterday, she hadn't kept the wallet, or anything in it, except for gas money.
And by God, she was going to see to it that other kids from troubled homes made it through too. As many of them as she could help and protect, with the youth counseling degree she was working toward. She was half-way there, with all her general studies courses under her belt, and was now into the courses that were specific to her major.
