Spider Bones

by Kathy Reichs

  “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 Punch
bowl’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.

  RYAN CHOSE THE RESTAURANT. HIS CRITERIA? PROXIMITY TO Waikiki was the only thing I could come up with.

  We ate at the Ha’aha’a Seafood and Steakhouse, the Hawaiian Walmart of dining establishments. My first misgivings came with the table.

  We were seated in a dark corner, inches from a band whose repertoire was probably fixed right out of Moanalua High. I placed the graduation year at circa 1965.

  My second clue came with the menu. Six of nine pages were devoted to drinks, most with names formed from incredibly bad puns. Son of a Beach Daiquiris. I Lava Party Bacardis. O’Lei Margaritas.

  Ryan ordered a Kona beer and jerk mahimahi. I went with a virgin colada and cilantro shrimp.

  The drink wasn’t bad. Hard to mess up pineapple juice and coconut cream.

  Ryan and I chatted while awaiting the food. Shouted, actually. Over such memorables as “My Waikiki Mermaid” and “Pearly Shells.”

  Ryan apologized for Lily. I apologized for Katy. He offered to relocate from the Lanikai house to a hotel. I told him that was unnecessary.

  Overhead, a mirrored disco ball sent fragmented light spinning the room. Groovy.

  “Not exactly the way to a girl’s heart.” Ryan’s face went sapphire as a colored spot aimed at the stage lighted our table.

  “Depends on the girl. Why did you pick this particular place?”

  “Proud Seafood and Steakhouse. What could disappoint?”

  “I’m pretty sure ha’ahea means proud.” I’d seen the word in English and Hawaiian on a headstone at the Punchbowl. “I think ha’aha’a translates as humble.”

  “Oh.”

  The band picked up tempo. The lead singer crooned, “Oh, how she could yacki hacki wicki wacki woo.”

  Ryan’s neon brows climbed his neon forehead.

  Forty minutes after ordering, we were served by a waiter different from the one who had handled our drinks. This man had a leaping tiger tattooed the length of one biceps and a central incisor inlaid with what looked like a gold martini glass. His name badge said Rico.

  “Careful.” Rico lowered towel-held plates to our table. “These suckers are hot.”

  Doubtful. My shrimp were trapped in a pool of congealed grease.

  “That it?” Rico asked.

  Ryan ordered another beer.

  “Enjoy the show.”

  Ryan and I nodded politely.

  “It’s hapa haole music.”

  “Didn’t think it was the gospel hour.”

  Rico and I both frowned at Ryan.

  “Really?” I flashed Rico my most disarming smile. “What is hapa haole music?”

  Rico hitched one feline-enhanced shoulder.

  “Sometimes the song’s done traditional, you know, four-four time, but the words are in English, so that makes it half English, half Hawaiian. Sometimes the words are in Hawaiian but the beat is hyped, so that makes it hapa haole.” He thought a moment. “Not all Hawaiian songs with haole words are hapa haole. Sometimes the words are Hawaiian and the music isn’t.”

  All righty, then.

  The cuisine lived up to my expectations.

  As I chewed shrimp the texture of all-weather radials, the band played the inevitable “Tiny Bubbles.”

  “Did you know that Don Ho served in the air force?” Ryan asked.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Did you know that he had ten kids?” Ryan spoke between bites of incinerated fish.

  “Impressive,” I said.

  “As am I.”

  “Indeed.”

  Ryan reached over and brushed my jawline. My pulse jumped as fire burned a path below his fingers.

  “Have you thought about giving it another try?”

  “It?” I swallowed.

  “Us.”

  And Lutetia? Hadley Perry? I restrained myself by a thin, thin strand.

  “Mm. Tell me more about Don Ho,” I said, wanting safer ground.

  Ryan settled back in his chair. “Ho started singing at a bar called Honey’s out at Kaneohe. The joint belonged to his mother.”

  “Honey,” I guessed.

  “Yes, sugar lump?”

  The quip hit like a hot poker to the heart. Buttercup. Sweet pea. Though I’d always chided Ryan for his goofy endearments, secretly I’d loved them. I wondered who else was being so honored.

  “Honey’s was a hangout for marines from the base out there,” Ryan continued, oblivious to the emotions he’d triggered. “Ho moved the business to Waikiki back in the sixties.”

  “I thought he performed at a place called Duke’s.” My steady voice belied nothing.

  “That was later. Then he hit the big time.”

  “And the rest is history.”

  “Hi Ho.”

  I gave up on the crustaceans and laid down my fork.

  “Is Ho still alive?”

  Ryan shook his head. “He died a couple years back.”

  At that moment, a sequence of unrelated events coincided on the great space-time continuum that forms reality as we perceive it.

  As Rico placed a coaster on our table, a swirling light particle danced off his tooth. Glancing down, I noticed the coaster’s sole design element, a cheesy male totem from another time.

  Bang!

  The previous night’s dream flashed in my brain. A horse’s white blaze gone gold. Equine teeth.

  More images popped.

  A maxillary fragment.

  Crumbling adipocere circling a drain.

  A lopsided gold sliver with two tapering points.

  An open-beaked duck.

  A pointy-stemmed mushroom.

  Rico.

  My hand flew to Ryan’s wrist. “Ohmygod! I know what it is!”

  “My arm?”

  I released my grip.

  “The gold thing Danny and I found. I found.” I was totally psyched. “The fragment we thought was part of a dental restoration. Well, I did. Danny wasn’t sure. But the dentist didn’t think so. Craig Brooks. He was right. Well, he was wrong and right. It was dental but not a restor—”

  Setting his fork on his plate, Ryan raised two calming hands. “Take a breath.”

  I did.

  “Now. Slowly. In English. Or French. But comprehensible.”

  The band segued into a way-too-twangy rendition of “Hawaii Calls.”

  I reeled in my thoughts.

  “I’ll bet the bandstand the thing we found with 2010-37 is a broken dental inlay.”

  “Whose bandstand?”

  “Look.” I spun the coaster and pointed to the logo. “What’s that?”

  “A Playboy bunny.”

  �
��The whole Playboy shtick is passé now, but it was huge in the sixties. Did you notice Rico’s tooth?”

  “Shaken, not stirred.”

  I rolled my eyes, a gesture wasted in the dark.

  “I had a North Carolina case in which the victim had a dental crown with a gold symbol shaped like a Playboy bunny. It’s how we finally got him ID’ed.”

  “Did he also have Eat at Joe’s tattooed on his—”

  “The crown was strictly decorative. I did research. I learned you can get them as full gold crowns with cutouts shaped like crosses, martini glasses, stars, half-moons—”

  “The ever popular bunny.”

  “Yes. Or you can get what’s called a sparkle. That’s an acrylic crown that looks like a natural tooth with a gold shape affixed to the front.”

  “Are these little gems permanent?”

  “You can do it either way. Rough-backed sparkles are permanently bonded to the tooth. Smooth-backed sparkles can be slipped on or off at will.”

  “For that special night-on-the-town look.” Said with disdain.

  “Different people, different tastes.”

  “J. Edgar loved marabou trim. Doesn’t mean fluffy pumps will be filling my shoe rack.”

  I ignored that.

  “The North Carolina guy was a migrant worker missing since nineteen sixty-nine. He was Latino. My research suggested that the wearing of ornamental gold caps is popular among Hispanics. Some articles talked about the pre-Columbian roots of the custom.”

  “The Mayans also cut out people’s hearts. Doesn’t mean we should give that a whirl.”

  “That was the Aztecs.”

  Ryan started to comment. I cut him off.

  “Spider Lowery’s Huey went down with four crew members aboard. Three were recovered and ID’ed straight off. The fourth, the maintenance specialist, was never found.”

  “I’m guessing he was Latino.”

  “Luis Alvarez. He was Mexican-American.”

  “Wouldn’t gold hardware be mentioned in Alvarez’s dental antemorts?”

  “His file contains no dental or medical records. Besides, if Alvarez added the sparkle after his last checkup, that wouldn’t be in his record.”

  “Or he might have removed the thing when reporting for duty.”

  “Exactly.”

  Rico appeared at our table.

  Ryan requested the check.

  Rico pulled out his pad. As he summed, I tried observing his tooth. No go. His lips were compressed with the effort of the complex math.