Unsound (A Lei Crime Companion Novel)

by Neal, Toby

  And, miracle of miracles, my right boot caught on something—an embedded rock. It held, supported my weight. I slowed my movements, set my left boot tentatively on the protrusion as well, and leaned forward flat against the side of the pit.

  I lifted my cheek off the stones and sand of the edge and looked up to see what the giant was doing.

  He wasn’t there. The edge arched up from under my armpits, blocking my view of anything above the guardrail—but I was surprised his face wasn’t looming over me, waiting to peel my fingers off the railing one at a time. Nothing but that mocking baby-blue sky, dotted with poufy white clouds, looked down at me.

  Pruitt’s disappearance could only be good. Maybe he’d been squeamish in the end and hadn’t wanted to see me disappear into blackness, hear my screams cut off. I shuddered with the power of the image of my broken body lying hundreds of feet down at the bottom of the lava tube in the pitch dark. More likely, Pruitt had just hurried off to set up his escape.

  I leaned as far forward as I could, pressing myself into the side, and by doing so I could let go of the railing with my strained left hand, my legs supporting me. I shook the hand, feeling cramps forming along my fingers and forearms, the nerves jangling with tiny electric shocks. I put the hand back up after I’d hung it down for a moment and had circulation again—and then I did the same with my right hand.

  I was delicately balanced on my protrusion, and I could stand there, with support of one hand or the other, for a while.

  I began to wonder how long a while was going to be.

  I could feel panic beating at the back of my mind with fluttery soft wings—and Constance was the one who pushed the tide of betraying moths back into their closet.

  You’ve been given another chance. Stay alive one minute at a time. Call out every few minutes. Everyone hiking down this trail comes over to look down the hole; someone will come.

  “Help me!” I called. The hole and the sand seemed to swallow my voice, and my throat was chalky. I worked up some spit and called again. “Help! I’m in the hole!”

  Okay then, this was the routine. Call twice. Give the arms each a break. Give the legs a shake.

  Shaking my left leg, I felt the cylinder of the barbeque lighter against my calf. Could the flashlight or the barbeque lighter help me climb out of the pit?

  The little penlight seemed useless.

  I hunched up onto the side, resting my cheek on sun-warmed sand and stones, leaned as much of my body weight on the soil as I could, consciously slowing down my respiration.

  In through the nose, out through the mouth. All was Zen. I was in control of my body and my emotions.

  When it seemed like five minutes had gone by, I rose, collected enough spit in my mouth to work my vocal cords, and yelled, “Help me! In the pit, help me!”

  Then, like a prairie dog, I held myself up, listening. All I could see was blue sky above me, the slope of the hole, and the painted wood of the barrier. I heard nothing, not even the wind. The crater was funny that way—sound carried, but there was so little of it. I could only hope my voice was escaping the black hole of absorption that was the sand-lined lava tube.

  I went through my routine. Flatten against the side. Shake out left arm for several minutes. Switch arms. Shake right leg. Shake left leg.

  Once again the barbeque lighter rattled inside my sweats and I wondered if I could use it. Narrower than the flashlight, perhaps I could work it into the soil, use it as a handhold to boost myself high enough to pull myself out of the pit. With my arms extended and limited upper-arm strength, doing so as I currently stood was out of the question.

  I did my Zen rest for a full five minutes against the side, then went through the routine again. Call out. Shake out and recirculate each limb. Rest.

  The sun was directly overhead, burning my scalp and exposed skin, and as the adrenaline ebbed out of my system, I became more and more aware of physical misery.

  My swollen face ached, one of my teeth loosened from Russell Pruitt’s openhanded slap. I could only imagine what would have happened if he’d actually punched me. My arms, exhausted and quivering, almost wrenched from their sockets, promised now and future reprisals. Bruises complained down my legs from the tumble over the side. I smelled of the urine I didn’t even know I’d let go in that last moment of utter terror.

  Standing in that stretched-out position began to send spasms of muscle pain up and down my back. The skin of my torso was scraped as if with a cheese grater and felt on fire. Thirst was beginning, like the tuning up of an orchestra that would build to a crescendo of suffering.

  Actually, you got off light, Constance said. You got in some good kicks and scratches on him. Got trace under your nails. He could have strangled you, smothered you, beaten you to death with a few blows, then thrown you in.

  She was right. I needed to stay positive, count my blessings. I almost burst into a fit of hysterical giggles but used my yoga breathing to control that.

  The gradual weakening of my arms convinced me I had to try something with the barbeque lighter. I was having to shake and dangle them more and more often, and it occurred to me that it might be better to die trying something possibly stupid than die by simply being unable to hang on any longer.

  I did my routine one more time before I was ready.

  I began by inching more to the middle of the protrusion, so I could lift my left leg with more stability. I shook the lighter around until I was reasonably certain it was caught in the stretchy elastic of the sweatpants, then lifted my leg, curling it up as high toward my buttocks as I could and reaching down with my left arm.

  All those long-ago yoga classes paid off a couple of tries later when I caught hold of my left ankle with my left hand. Groping along, I identified the shape of the lighter and eased it out of the elastic.

  Holding the little bulb in my hand, I looked at the long steel wand with a sense of wonder. Could this fragile-looking piece of plastic and metal really be a piton I put my weight on? I flashed on that moment in the cabin when I’d wondered how the hell a barbeque lighter could do anything to help me.

  I worked it into the soil about six inches above my right shoulder, then rested, recentering my feet, doing my breathing, imagining the molecules of my body opening to bond with the molecules of the ground, holding me effortlessly in place. I did my arms, did my legs, did my cries for help, then worked the pointy end of the lighter in another inch.

  The soil, if you could call it that, was actually tightly packed layers of cinder, volcanic sand, and ash, all complicated by little glassy pebbles spewed like breath from the volcano in its heyday. Not easy to penetrate, but that was good in its way because I was going to be putting my body weight on it, and the last thing I needed was to knock it out and go sliding into the abyss.

  Sliding into the abyss was actually beginning to seem appealing, and I knew that wasn’t good. I calculated it had been about an hour since Russell Pruitt threw me in, and every fiber of my body was strained by this ordeal.

  Fantasies of falling to a blissful death fluttered in the same dark place the panic had lurked, but Constance beat those back for me as I did my routine two more times until the eight inches of steel wand were buried in the rugged ground and only the plastic bulb with its metal banding protruded.

  I wriggled it. The barbeque lighter was in solid. I could twist it in a circle, but leaning on it yielded only a few grains of falling sand.

  I did an extra-long rest, followed by an extra-loud and -long calling for help, followed by one more shake out as I thought through what I’d do.

  I would put my elbow up on the bulb.

  I would push down on the lighter, using all my core strength, while pulling myself up with my left hand. I’d raise myself high enough to dig my knees into the side.

  I’d push up with my knees and heave myself high enough to get my right arm hooked over the lowest bar.

  Then I’d use my left hand to grasp the support pole and I’d heave myself through
the lower bars onto the ground outside.

  I took some deep breaths, filling my lungs, picturing the steps I’d take, feeling my heart accelerate to get ready—and I called out one more time. “Help me! In the pit! Help!”

  Nothing happened. No one came. This trip had been remarkable in that way. It was up to me and Constance to get out of this situation. I did a couple more deep breaths, went through my shaking-out routine, and by now my heart was up to trip-hammer speed.

  Panic fueled the jolt of adrenaline that fired all my circuits. I threw my elbow up on the striker, contracted my abs, hauled up my knees even as I pushed down with my right elbow and pulled up on the rail with my left hand.

  My knees wouldn’t get a purchase. A hail of pebbles and sand loosened as I heaved. I managed to wriggle and pull myself up anyway, by straining, trembling, frantic inches. The moment I had both elbows hooked over the lowest bar was one of the most triumphant of my life. From there I was able to get one knee up and eventually hoist myself gracelessly through the railing to land face-first, flat on the sand.

  Nothing had felt so good in my life. I spread my arms and legs, swung those poor abused limbs up and down in a sand angel shape and fell asleep like that for several minutes.

  Thirst woke me up. I raised my head off the hot sand, looking around in vain for help. What’s up with this damned trail? People are supposed to come through here all day! Constance bitched.

  I pulled myself up to my knees, and that’s when I saw Russell Pruitt.

  Chapter 21

  I stayed where I was, one hand on the barrier surrounding the pit, using it for support. Pruitt was lying face-up, and his eyes were closed. I looked around him and saw nothing but claw marks in the sand, his pockets turned out, some marks where his legs had spasmed, and a wet mark at his crotch.

  I wasn’t the only one to urinate when faced with dying. I felt better for that, somehow.

  Throwing me into the pit had killed him. Served him right, I thought, even as guilt twisted my guts. He’d died without his medication, and that was my doing.

  I crawled very slowly over to him, in case he was just sunbathing by some freaky chance. It was hard to approach him at all, but I wanted to make sure.

  “Russell Pruitt?” No response. His eyes didn’t open behind his Coke-bottle glasses. I leaned over and pressed two fingers to his neck. The flesh was warm, imitating life, but it had a spongy quality as I pushed in. I felt a tiny dim flutter, and I lay my ear on his chest. I could hear his great, swollen, damaged heart struggling. A thready thump, a swish. Another. Another. His chest rose and fell with tiny reflexive breaths.

  The sun glared down on us, the sand was hot, and there was no possible anything that could be done to save Russell Pruitt—but I somehow knew he’d been waiting for me.

  I stretched out beside him, put my arm over that massive chest.

  “I forgive you,” I whispered in his ear. “You can go now. Good-bye, Russell Pruitt. Thanks for the journey of self-discovery.”

  I stroked his dark hair off his brow and lay my cheek on his massive chest. He sighed his last breath, a long, slow exhalation that didn’t seem to end. His heart gave one last thump and swish. I lay beside him for a long time with my cheek on his chest.

  When I sat up, there was a wet spot on his shirt. I’d cried for him.

  I didn’t know how I had any water left in my dehydrated body. I pressed my fingers into his neck one last time—nothing. The dents of my two fingers remained on his throat for a long moment.

  Poor kid. He’d always been that, in spite of everything else he was.

  I looked around for the water bottle I’d carried while we were hiking. There was a chance it had fallen out of my pocket and was still in the sand. Yes, I could see it, lying half-full in the dune marked by the gouges and scores of my battle with the giant.

  Standing up, every muscle in my body aching, I staggered over to the bottle of water and took several large gulps. I left at least two good swallows for the way back to the cabin—because that’s where I was going, that’s where the Park Service would look for me, and that’s where there was a good supply of boiled water. I picked up my crumpled T-shirt and put it back on.

  I got on the trail and put one boot in front of the other on the way to Holua Cabin. I had nothing left physically but aches and pains and yet nothing in the world to do but get back to that cabin—so I walked.

  A half hour later, three horses approached me at a trot. Bringing up the rear, big as a refrigerator and twice as reassuring, was Bruce Ohale.

  I let my knees fold and crumpled onto the edge of the trail to rest. Bruce kicked his horse into gear and pulled up next to me.

  “Dammit, Caprice!” he exclaimed, sliding off his mount. “You look like hell!” He fisted his hands on his hips—I could tell he was restraining himself from scooping me up.

  “Been there, done that,” I said. “You’ve got some paniolo in your blood, Bruce. I can tell.” I guzzled my last sips of water, knowing there would be more. I pointed back the way I’d come for the benefit of the rangers on horses looking down at me. “There’s a body up ahead by the lava tube pit. Russell Pruitt, aged twenty-two, dead of a preexisting heart condition.”

  The two rangers spurred their horses and covered us with dust as they moved off to investigate. Bruce squatted beside me. His face was clenched into a fist of worry. “Are you okay?”

  “Never been better. I’m alive, I’m sober, and I’m stronger than I ever knew.” I burst into dry sobbing—there were no tears left.

  Bruce gave me a hug. It felt as wonderful as before.

  I got to ride and Bruce walked the horse back to the cabin. The rangers called in Maui Police Department and the coroner, and they flew Russell Pruitt’s body out on a helicopter. I watched it fly like a great mechanical dragonfly out of the crater with the yellow body basket fastened underneath. Russell Pruitt was so large his boots were hanging out of the basket—but that wouldn’t have mattered to him anymore.

  The rangers administered first aid, and finally, boots off, clothes changed, propped up in my bunk with an IV rehydrating me, I told Bruce my story.

  At least, all that I was willing to tell.

  “How did you find me?” Seeing Bruce ride toward me still felt like a mirage. I peeked at him sitting next to my bunk on the bench he’d dragged over, just to make sure he was real.

  “I tried to ring you back several times after that weird call. No answer, like the phone was turned off. Called Aloha House. You hadn’t checked in. Remembered you said you wanted to see Haleakala; called the ranger station. They said you’d hiked in alone, but I had a bad feeling, figured your stalker could have pinged your phone. I took the next flight out and got the rangers moving.”

  He’d done just as I’d imagined in my more hopeful moments.

  “So, as you guessed, Russell Pruitt was the stalker.” I took a sip of water. Even with the IV going, I was still thirsty.

  “I thought as much.” Bruce gestured to a tiny handheld recorder. “Okay if I tape this?”

  “Sure.” I filled him in on Russell Pruitt’s background, how he’d targeted me. His gigantism, his revenge fixation, his quest for identity.

  “He pretended he was going to let me live.” I took another sip of water. My lips were dry, and I found my voice thickening. “He lied. He was a very good liar.”

  “You said he was obsessed with psychopaths because of his father’s diagnosis. Do you think he was a psychopath?” Bruce leaned forward on the chair, his hands loosely clasped between his knees. I could see the tribal tattoos on the insides of his arms, and once again I wondered where they went.

  “He thought he was. I actually don’t. And that’s the saddest of a lot of really sad things.” I sat up, leaning my back against the wall and crossing my legs on the bunk. “He was damaged. Traumatized by an environment of domestic abuse, his mother’s murder, his father making him participate in murder, a life in foster homes, and the final straw, his gigantism.
He used his obsession with ‘dealing justice’ to me as a coping device to handle the terrible circumstances of his life. He was dying, and he was having a crisis of meaning. Trying to find out who he was. Trying to see if he was his father.”

  I covered my face with my hands. I was unable to think of Russell Pruitt with anything but a terrible, complicated grief.

  He tried his best to kill you, Constance said. You don’t owe him shit.

  “So he had an enlarged, weak heart,” Bruce said. This was what I’d told the rangers, what I’d told Bruce earlier.

  “Yes. The exertion of throwing me into the hole did him in.” I remembered that last long sigh of his breath. “In the end, I killed him.”

  “Caprice.” Bruce took my chilled hands in his big warm ones. “It’s not your fault.”

  “No. It is. He had heart medication. I took it and hid it.” I pulled a hand out of his and pointed a trembling finger at the closet with the Pres-to-Logs. “It’s hidden back behind the logs in there.”

  A long moment passed. Bruce held my gaze with hard brown cop eyes. “That doesn’t change a thing. As far as he was concerned, he killed you. It was only after he threw you in the pit that natural consequences took over and he got what he had coming. You’d have been justified in taking a lot stronger self-defense measures than hiding his medication.”

  I had no response to this, but there was some relief in hearing those words so strongly spoken. Bruce got up and went into the closet. I heard him moving the logs. “Lower right corner,” I called.

  Right or wrong, I knew I’d killed Russell Pruitt—and I’d have to live with that for the rest of my life.

  Bruce reappeared, carrying the bottle of nitro, and walked over to push the Off button on the recorder. “There will be a hearing with the coroner after Russell’s autopsy,” he said. “I’m tempted to just throw this medication away myself and spare you the hassle, but neither of our consciences would let that stand. Don’t worry. If you’d shot the bastard right in the face it would have been okay.”