Blood Orchids

by Toby Neal

  “Yeah.” He put his arm around her, pulled her over in a rough hug. His voice was harsh with emotion. “I’m glad you did what you had to do. I just wish I could have done it for you. I figured you were missing when I called and your phone kept going to voicemail. I went to the house and found it in the driveway. I knew he’d just outwaited us then. I was going crazy.”

  She shuddered, a flash of memory making her shut her eyes. “God—I hope that was the last time I ever have to kill someone. And it’s not like I got to shoot him. It was gross, so up close and personal, both of us naked . . I didn’t have time or room to think about my plan not working, but it almost didn’t work.”

  “You did what you had to do,” he repeated. “And I’m proud of you.” Abruptly he got up, paced back and forth. “Guy was the worst kind of scum, a police officer preying on women. It’s going to take me awhile to stop wishing I could be the one to kill him.” He scrubbed his hands through his hair in that familiar gesture, took a breath. “I’ll be back to pick you up at ten-thirty. Oh, and after the press conference you have an appointment with Dr. Wilson.”

  “That was inevitable, but I’m not sure I’m ready to talk about it.”

  “Lieutenant’s orders,” he said, leaning down to give her a kiss on the forehead. “See you soon. Put your game face on.” He hooked his jacket off the chair and closed the door behind him.

  It seemed like only a short time later she was standing in front of the police station behind a lectern, surrounded by bristling microphones, lights shining in her eyes. It wasn’t hard to look pale. She leaned on Pono for support.

  “Officer Texeira was abducted two nights ago,” Lieutenant Ohale started off. “She was able to overpower her assailant and he is now deceased. We then searched his home, and have found proof that he not only killed Haunani Pohakoa and Kelly Andrade, but was responsible for a series of kidnap rapes that began on Oahu and ended here with the recent kidnapping and murder of another police officer from Puna. The perpetrator’s name is Jeremy Ito and he was a detective here in Hilo.”

  The crowd of reporters exploded with questions, and he raised his hands and outstretched them, Moses calming the Red Sea.

  “And now if you’ll settle down, Detective Stevens will take questions.”

  Stevens replaced him, taking questions from the crowd. Pono sheltered Lei with his bulk, and then steered her by the elbow through the reporters as the press conference ended. He pushed open the double glass doors of the station and walked her to her cubicle.

  She held court for a while in her creaky office chair with the officers that stopped by. It seemed Jeremy had not been well liked, and she nodded and smiled as different staff came up to tell her “something was off about him,” and how glad they were she had survived. Finally Lieutenant Ohale shooed her visitors away.

  “So of course you know you’re on admin leave until your investigation wraps up. Take it easy, get better. Now it’s time to go see Dr. Wilson. No arguments,” he said as he hoisted her up gently from her chair, giving her an affectionate pat that pushed her down the hall.

  She walked to the office and seemed to fall into Dr. Wilson’s arms as the psychologist opened the door.

  “Thank God you’re alive. Come in here and tell me all about it.” And Lei did.

  Chapter 40

  Lei showered, letting the hot water pummel the hurts on her body, careful with the plastic bag that kept her cast dry. Getting out of the shower, she grimaced at the ragged bite on her collarbone, and swallowed one of the antibiotics the doc had sent home with a swish of water. She daubed the oozing wound with ointment and re-covered it with a big, square band-aid. It looked like it was going to leave a scar.

  Her lip was puffy and split where she’d bitten it, and bruises peppered her torso where Ito had punched her during the struggle. She stripped off the plastic bag on her arm and slipped on a silky tee shirt that managed to cover all the bruises.

  She wanted to look as nice as she could—Stevens was on his way over for dinner.

  She was checking on a pan of reheated, roast kalua pork from Aunty’s restaurant when the doorbell rang. She glanced at herself in the mirror next to the front door and was not reassured. After checking the peephole, she opened the door, her heart racing.

  “Hi Michael. Thanks for coming.”

  He held up a bottle of wine. “Medicinal purposes.”

  “Thanks.” She took it, laughed. “I’m really going to enjoy this with my Vicodin.”

  “You’ll have a helluva hangover.” He followed her into the kitchen.“Got a present for you.” He set the bulky bundle he had been carrying down on the table. “New gun. Thought you should have a backup.”

  “Michael!” She hugged him, hard. “That’s what I like about you—you bring me alcohol and a gun. I can’t think of anything I want more.”

  “I can,” he said softly, intent. He raised her arms slowly from his waist and put them around his neck, then pulled her in tight, his hands cupped around her bottom as he lowered his head to hers. She hardly noticed her bruised mouth as their lips met, asking and taking.

  She’d wanted him so long, and his touch seemed to erase those other hands that had left invisible prints on her. She pressed into him, her hands filling with the springy texture of his hair, the broad column of his back.

  “You’re too short,” he said, bending over, smoothing her body with long strokes. She felt him learning the shape and feel of her.

  “You’re too tall,” she said, straining upward to reach his neck with her mouth. He pushed her back and lifted her up onto the counter. She wrapped her legs around his waist, rubbing against his jeans.

  Hungry to feel the roughness of his chest against the curves of hers, she unbuttoned his shirt, sliding her hands in around his waist, stroking the contoured muscle. He made a low noise and whispered in her ear, kissing and nipping as he peeled her shirt off over her head, pausing to look at the bandage on her collarbone with a grimace.

  He kissed the bruises on her torso gently. His tongue was a balm as he bent her back over one arm, his other hand caressing her. Lei closed her eyes and gave herself over to the waves of sensation pooling in her lower body, need stabbing almost like pain. Everywhere his mouth and hands touched felt like it was being healed, coming alive.

  She sat upright again, keeping her legs tight around his waist as she trailed her fingertips and tongue over all she’d longed to touch and explore: the hollow of his throat, winged line of his collarbone, the tender whorl of his ear.

  When neither could stand it any longer he carried her to the bed. The last of their clothes came off and passion made him clumsy with the condom, but when he slowly moved into her, cradled in the frame of his arms, she felt something entirely new.

  Safe.

  It was a long time later when she raised herself on her elbow.

  “I didn’t know I could do that,” she said wonderingly. “Or that you could do that. Whichever.”

  He lay as though felled, but a rumble of laughter came up from somewhere deep.

  “Told you I’d make you scream.” He’d whispered it in her ear in the kitchen.

  “I did not.” She smacked his shoulder.

  “Ask the neighbors,” he said, his eyes still shut but a little smile on his mouth. She tugged a bit of chest hair but he only rolled over.

  “C’mon. Dinner’s ready,” Lei said. The smell of her aunt’s cooking had filled the house.

  She washed up and pulled on her old kimono before padding back into the kitchen and dishing up the meal. Stevens appeared in the doorway, clad only in his jeans. He gave a jaw-cracking yawn.

  “If I wasn’t so hungry I’d have stayed in bed,” he said, finding a wine key in one of the drawers. He splashed the pale liquid into a pair of jelly glasses as Lei set their full plates on the table—steaming kalua pig slow-roasted in an underground oven, rice, and limp, overcooked green beans. He prodded these with his fork.

  “You distracted me,” she said, p
icking up her glass. “To my aunty’s cooking.”

  “I’ll drink to that.”

  “So.”

  With dinner over, he refilled their glasses.

  “I love presents,” Lei said. She pushed her dishes aside and pulled the sturdy molded plastic gun case over.

  “You were lucky. They only had one left.”

  She popped the clasps and opened it. Nestled in the gray foam was the clean, matte black shape of a new Glock .40.

  “Oh,” she said, sighing, “so pretty.”

  She took it out, checked that the magazine was removed, racked the slide a couple times to make sure the barrel was empty, and dry-fired it, disengaging the slide and setting the grip, slide and firing pin mechanism in a neat row.

  Stevens watched, sipping his wine as she got up and brought a small zippered carryall to the table out of one of the drawers. She took a moleskin rag and rubbed each piece of the gun; padded a steel rod with a cloth patch and rammed it back and forth in the barrel; and lightly touched the top four points of the slide track with gun oil, polishing the excess off. She blew the interior of the grip out with compressed air. Her movements quick and economical, she reassembled the gun, racking the slide a couple more times just to hear the smooth snick it made, dry firing and enjoying the fat muffled click of the trigger. Grinning, she turned to him.

  “I love this gun. Nothing works for me like a Glock.”

  “Works for me too,” he said, hooking her neck to pull her into a kiss that left the Glock dangling, forgotten, from her hand. “That was the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen,” he whispered.

  The crowing of wild roosters heralded the morning. Mynah birds squabbled in a nearby mango tree and wafting plumeria perfume tickled her nose as Lei misted her orchids, savoring being in her little backyard and the well-being that filled her body in spite of its injuries.

  The orchids were a little dry and leathery, but they looked like they would recover from the brief stint of neglect when she’d been too distracted to care for them. Keiki sniffed around the edges of the yard, checking the perimeter.

  “Good morning.”

  She turned, mister in hand, and smiled at the sight of Stevens in the doorway, a mug of coffee in his hand and jeans riding low on his hips. It was a replay of a scene not long ago, one she’d been too distracted by Mary’s death to appreciate.

  She didn’t realize she was still staring until he came down the steps, set the coffee on the orchid bench and kissed her thoroughly.

  “You can’t look at me like that without paying the price.”

  “Okay,” she said meekly, and let herself be led back inside. It was the first time she remembered ever being meek, and it felt damn good.

  Later, Stevens got out of the shower, sighing as he toweled his hair.

  “I hate to go to work,” he said. Lei watched him from the rumpled bed. He put on his low-key aloha shirt, chinos, a pair of tan running shoes. Threaded his belt through the loops, holstered his weapon, clipped his badge on, pocketed his cell phone and wallet.

  “Duty calls,” he said. “Get some rest.”

  She continued to watch, fascinated by the brisk, economical movements. He put his hands on his hips.

  “You okay?”

  “Can’t remember ever watching a man get ready for work before.”

  “You telling me this is your first morning-after experience?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Damn. I got to be sure to do things right then,” he said, and crawled across the bed to kiss her some more. She was still smiling when the door clicked shut behind him.

  Chapter 41

  That afternoon, Lei held her arms straight out, the new Glock level, sighting down the barrel. Fortunately her trigger finger was on her good hand. She squeezed and shot out the center of the hanging target in a circle of neat round holes. Both the kickback and report were more than she remembered, and her broken wrist thumped a protest.

  Fuck physical therapy, she thought. This will strengthen my wrist just fine, and boy, do I love the practice.

  She lowered the weapon, expelling the empty clip, ramming in a full one. Felt a tap on her shoulder, turned. It was Ray Solomon from class, hazel eyes crinkled in a smile behind clear safety goggles.

  “Hey, there.” She pried up the soundproof earmuffs, dropping them around her neck. “Howzit going, Ray?”

  “Hey, yourself. Where you been, girl?” He gave her a brief hug, pointed to her cast. “Problems?”

  “Long story,” she said. She holstered the Glock. They exited her booth into the foyer area. “Didn’t know you came here to shoot.”

  “Not many places besides here,” Ray said. “Hilo Gun Club’s the only show in town. So what’s the story?”

  “Tangled with a perp.” Lei shrugged. “I’m on recovery leave.”

  “Hope he got the worst of it.”

  “No worries there. So what’s new?”

  “Not much. Still trying to get on the force. Can you put in a word for me? I’ve got an interview with Lieutenant Ohale next week.”

  “Maybe.” She cocked her head. “Anything I should know about your shady past?”

  “No.” He laughed deprecatingly. “I got busted selling weed as a senior in high school. They decided to make an example of me, sent me to juvie for 6 months.”

  “That’s too bad. Learned your lesson, did you?”

  “Of course.”

  “So where you been? Haven’t seen you at class lately.”

  “Family problems. Had to work some things out.” She wished she could see his eyes, but it was hard to tell behind the safety goggles. “Hey, I’m about done. Want to get something to eat?”

  “Thanks,” Lei said, “but I just put in another clip. I’ve got to get in at least an hour. I’m so rusty.”

  “Some other time.” He swung his equipment bag up onto his muscular shoulder. “See you around.”

  “Bye.”

  She watched him go, frowning a little as he brushed out through the double doors of the firing range and crossed the parking lot, heading toward a charcoal-dark Toyota Tacoma.

  No way. Another dark Toyota truck?

  Her heart slammed against her bruised ribs. Oh yeah, she’d killed the guy, and it wasn’t Ray Solomon.

  He looked back as he climbed into the cab and she quickly bent over, pretending to be tying her shoelace. She then ran to the window and looked at the license plate as the truck pulled out, memorizing it and taking her cell phone out of her windbreaker pocket.

  “Pono. You at your desk?”

  “Yeah. What’s up?”

  “Can you run a plate for me? HLMGH44.”

  “Just a minute.” She heard keys clicking. “Ray Solomon, age twenty-six. High school record for dealing in California—nothing current.”

  “Would that keep him off the force if he tried to become a police officer?”

  “Probably. It’s a felony conviction at age seventeen. Looks like they gave him maximum sentence. What’s this about?”

  “Not sure. Ran into him here at the firing range.” She put her finger in her ear against the muffled thump of shots from the soundproofed booths. “He’s in my Criminal Justice class. He’s asked me out a couple times, and he’s just—a little off.”

  “You got the stalker though. Not every guy in a dark Tacoma is a criminal, sister. Sure you don’t need to go see Dr. Wilson again?”

  “Already did. Never mind.” She shut the phone abruptly. Her gut was out to lunch on this one. She went back in to use up her ammo.

  She put Keiki on her leash and set off on an afternoon walk, her cast stabilized in the sling the doctor had sent home. The straps from the sling and the holster rubbed uncomfortably and her stride was slow as she made her way down the block, keeping her casted arm clamped over the gun and handling the leash with her good hand. Leaving the gun home had somehow seemed like a bad idea.

  The prevailing wind that usually blew Kilauea Volcano’s belching smoke out to sea had changed
direction today, and thick ‘vog’ had settled over the town, a gauzy haze that softened the edges of everything.

  She went along her favorite route beside the Bay, watching the mynahs hopping on the grass of the park. The light breeze clattered through the leaves of the coconut palms, a soothing harmony with the hushing of waves against the rocks. She found a place to sit on the jetty, perched on a boulder. Keiki gave a sigh and settled her big square head on her paws, watching the restless, turquoise water.

  Her phone buzzed in her pocket and she dug it out with her good hand. It was an unfamiliar number.

  “Hello?”

  “Lei? It’s Wayne. Your dad.”

  “Oh, hi.” Long pause. She remembered she had given him her number. She stared, unseeing, at the foaming surf. It was weird hearing his voice after so long, weird that he could just call her—and yet not unwelcome.

  “What happened with the Changs?”

  “Oh yeah.” She’d forgotten about that. “The stalker was somebody else. He came after me, and . . . I killed him.”

  “What, seriously? Are you okay?”

  “Few bumps and bruises. Broken wrist. But he got the worst of it.” She squeezed her eyes shut to block out the memory of Jeremy Ito’s ruined eye, the wire rising out of it.

  “Thank God you’re all right. Well, I guess that was a dead end then.”

  “Yeah.”

  Awkward silence. Finally he said, “I’m glad nothing I did had anything to do with you getting hurt. I was really worried about it. Those Changs are bad news.”

  She nodded. Remembered he couldn’t hear that and tried to speak but nothing came out.

  “Well I just thought I’d follow up. I don’t expect you to say anything. Just know I—miss you.” He hung up.

  A criminal, flawed, he was still her dad. He missed her. That felt good.