Fire Prayer

by Deborah Turrell Atkinson

  “I think so.” Storm whispered the words.

  Poppy’s twitching subsided to trembles and she stood quietly with her head high. She’d be off like a shot at the slightest sign from her rider. But Storm wondered if that wasn’t what someone expected.

  And who was that someone? Could the gun have come from local pig hunters? Pig hunters in Hawai‘i usually used dogs, and she would have heard the dogs’ baying before the hunters fired a shot.

  “Is someone chasing you?” she asked Luke in a soft voice.

  “Maybe.” He looked around. “I think so.”

  “Who is it?”

  “I don’t know.” She could hardly hear his answer. “But he killed my mom.”

  “Hold tight.”

  They needed to get behind a thick stand of trees or a boulder. Where was the shooter now? Ahead of her or behind? She thought the shot was from a rifle, though she wasn’t sure. If she were shooting in the woods, that’s probably what she’d use. With a scope, she thought, and squelched a burble of panic.

  Storm tightened her legs on Poppy’s sides and the horse moved forward. Fortunately, the ground was soft and the mare’s hooves made little noise. Storm thought of the galloping racket Aunt Maile’s horse had made when he took off and swallowed hard. She wanted to cry out to her aunt, make sure she was all right. She also hoped, and was immediately ashamed of the impulse, that the shooter had followed the running horse. She bit her lip, hard.

  A copse of trees loomed ahead, and Storm stopped Poppy when they got behind the makeshift shield. Just long enough to ask Luke questions, and think about what to do next.

  “How’re you feeling?” she asked the boy.

  “Shaky, but a little better. The chocolate helped.”

  “Didn’t your dad feed you?”

  “Sure, he did.” The defensive note in Luke’s voice was unmistakable. No boy wants to believe his dad is mistaken, or has fallen in the eyes of others. She’d have to remember this.

  “Can you tell me who’s chasing you?”

  “I didn’t see him well enough.” Luke sounded very sad.

  “Did you tell the police?”

  Luke shook his head. Storm waited, and a few long moments later, the boy spoke. “I was staying with the Niwas. You know them?”

  “Yes, they’re nice people.”

  Luke seemed happy that she agreed. “I thought I’d get to talk to Uncle David, I mean, Detective Niwa, but Aunty Caroline took me to the hospital.”

  “What happened?”

  “My blood sugar gets low when I get hurt or tired. The doctor always wants to check it and make sure I’m eating right and taking my insulin shots.”

  “You need one now?”

  Luke grimaced. “I don’t know. Dad’s got my backpack.”

  Storm had guessed this was the case; the boy didn’t seem to be carrying anything. “So what happened at the hospital?”

  “The doctor adjusted my insulin and gave me some tests. She wanted me to spend the night.”

  “So why’d you leave?”

  “I was scared. The guy in my living room saw me.”

  “Can you describe him at all?”

  “He was bending over my mom, and it was dark, except for the light coming through the blinds.” The boy’s voice shook. “He had a tattoo.”

  “You couldn’t see his face or what he was wearing?”

  Luke just shook his head.

  “You remember where the tattoo was?” Storm was sure she already knew the answer to that question, and it was no surprise when Luke pointed to his upper arm.

  But his next words were, “Dad told me it was a vow.”

  “Does your dad have a tattoo, too?” Storm kept her voice even and warm, without a hint of outrage.

  Luke just nodded.

  “I don’t blame you for leaving the hospital,” Storm said. “I probably would have, too. Did your dad protect you?”

  Luke rushed to answer. “He doesn’t know who did it.”

  Storm looked behind. Speaking of Tanner, she’d really like to talk to him. Shouldn’t he and Uncle Keone be coming along? A terrible fear went through her. What if Tanner had faked his turned ankle? It would have been so easy to do. With all her heart, she hoped Aunt Maile had made it back to the beach, and that the buckskin’s dash along the winding path had kept them both safe. She also prayed Aunt Maile had been able to call the police.

  Storm let Poppy walk ahead, and she thought about Tanner. Luke was quiet, too, and his face was sad and thoughtful. Jesus, Tanner wouldn’t fire at his son, would he? She was sure he hadn’t been faking his concern when he’d handed over the sick child. No, the father’s quest for medical help was sincere.

  But maybe the riders had messed up his grand plan. Maybe he thought he could stop them and take the boy in on his own, as he’d originally planned. That didn’t sound right, either. Nor could he have fit a rifle in the backpack. Though it didn’t have to be a rifle. But Tanner had called her in the first place because he was worried about Luke. She didn’t think he’d have fired a gun of any kind in the direction of his son.

  So that left who else? Connor knew exactly where they were, though Skelly could have figured it out. And she’d told everyone she could think of they were going riding, let alone they’d hauled a big horse trailer for two hours on the only eastbound road on the island. The Goodyear blimp would have been less conspicuous.

  Chapter Forty-one

  There was nothing Storm could do when Poppy clopped across the stream except flinch at the noise. She also felt a twinge of guilt for pulling the mare’s head up when she lowered it to drink, but they didn’t have time for Poppy to dawdle in the stream. Storm was nearly vibrating with anxiety, and Luke’s knuckles were white in the mare’s mane. Poppy’s head bobbed in surprise at the urging pressure on her sides, but she splashed on through the water.

  Nor was the path on the other side, strewn with round river rocks, a quiet passage. Storm began to consider a trick she’d only read about, which was to wrap cloth around a horse’s hooves to mute the unmistakable clip-clop. She was just about to remove her T-shirt and tear it into strips, then ask Luke for his, when they rounded a bend in the trail.

  Poppy nickered a greeting. But neither Storm nor Luke welcomed the man who stood before them. Storm felt the boy shrink against her.

  Lambert Poele held a rifle in one hand and held the other hand before him in a stop gesture. He wore a long-sleeved cotton shirt and matching pants in a green camouflage pattern. Sweat had darkened the shirt to a mottled black. His long, disheveled hair and mud-streaked skin looked as if he’d been hunting for hours.

  “At last,” he said.

  Neither Storm nor Luke said a word. Storm’s mind raced to remember if she’d given Poppy a signal to pivot on her hind legs or if the horse had done it on her own. She wasn’t sure. All she knew was they had to do it again.

  Maybe they could get behind some trees before he got that rifle up and aimed. Maybe he’d hesitate to fire. Maybe he hadn’t chambered a round.

  Storm sat closer to Luke and hoped he’d pick up on her body language. She wanted to warn him, and ask him to hold on tighter. He must have felt her tension, because his fingers gathered in larger hunks of Poppy’s mane. He also straightened his legs, seeking a better seat, but didn’t have the experience to do it with stealth.

  Poele let out a yell, “No!”

  At the same time, Storm squeezed with her legs, harder with the right one, and simultaneously laid the right rein against Poppy’s neck to turn her hard into the narrowest part of the path.

  Poppy did it. She whirled. It was an unexpected move for Luke, who yelped with alarm and began to slide backward. Storm did, too, even though she knew what was coming.

  Before she was even upright, the horse bolted down the path, in the direction they’d just come. This sent Luke even farther toward the horse’s rear end.

  “Lie down,” Storm shouted. Luke w
ould have to lie forward, which would put his weight up, and nearer the mare’s shoulders. Storm hoped he’d be able to drag himself forward with his grip in Poppy’s mane. Meanwhile, she grabbed with every muscle in her legs and tried to do the same, flattening Luke to the horse’s back.

  Luke’s slide had pushed Storm back to where Poppy’s rump slanted downward, and her leg muscles, spent from holding on during the upward, twisting ride into the forest, could no longer grip the mare’s sleek sides. There she was, back near the animal’s tail, just like she’d done with Butterfly half a lifetime ago. But back then she’d been sixteen, her legs were accustomed to riding, and most important, she’d been able to grab the saddle strings.

  Here, she had only the reins and Luke. If she held on, she would drag the boy off with her. So she let go, and hoped she could roll off the path to a place that didn’t plummet her onto rocks six feet below.

  At the same time, another gunshot ricocheted through the trees. It even seemed to echo, but that could have been the crack of her head and shoulder when she hit the ground.

  Darkness gathered in her vision, while a searing pain pierced her upper chest. Storm lay in the mud, where she gasped like a gaffed tuna and sobbed with the knowledge of her miserable failure to protect Luke.

  Chapter Forty-two

  She must have blacked out, because Detective Niwa’s face swam into Storm’s view. He was pale, and looked about ten pounds thinner than he had two days ago.

  “Am I in the hospital? Am I shot?” she asked him, and realized he wasn’t wearing the blue gown she’d seen him in that morning.

  “You’re still in the forest,” he said, and put a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Try not to move. I think you broke your collarbone.”

  “Where’s Luke?” Storm still struggled to sit up, and gritted her teeth against the pain.

  “If you don’t stay quiet, you’re going to push that bone through the skin. Then we’ll have real problems.”

  Storm ignored him and used her good arm to push herself into a sitting position. “Where’s Luke? And Aunt Maile?”

  “Christ,” Niwa muttered, but this time he helped her by supporting her back.

  What was he swearing for? Her head pounded and her chest hurt so bad she could hardly breathe. “What happened? Where are Aunt Maile and Uncle Keone?”

  “Good thing I coached Little League all those years.” He took a big handkerchief from his pants pocket and folded it into a triangle.

  “Wear this.” He gently worked the makeshift sling over Storm’s head.

  He wasn’t answering any of her questions. “Where’s Poele?” she shouted. “He’s got a gun.”

  He lowered himself to a seat on a rock. “Poele dashed off after the boy and the horse. Probably scaring them worse. My partner is right behind. It’s a regular high-speed chase, Abbot and Costello style.” He didn’t smile when he said it. “I hope that kid doesn’t fall off.”

  “Me too.”

  “Can’t Nishijima bring him down?”

  “Who? The horse?”

  “No, Poele.” Storm wanted to scream with frustration. Pain, fear, and the knowledge of her failure to get the boy to safety were pushing her to the breaking point.

  “He’s trying to help.”

  Storm stared at him. “No, he’s looking for Luke because Luke saw him the night Jenny died.”

  “It wasn’t Poele he saw.”

  “The murder weapon’s the sculpture, you know.”

  “We know. Poele brought it in.” He squinted down the path. “Problem is, we thought Connor used it. You know, to hit Brock Liu.”

  “I don’t think so.” Storm took as deep a breath as she could and tried to gather her thoughts.

  “Me either, now,” Niwa said. “He called, told us you were on the way in here. Of course, I knew that.” Niwa winced in what looked like self-reproach. “I was still looking in the wrong direction.”

  “Did Hamlin tell you what was in the letter? Who Brock accused of starting the fire?”

  “It was Makani. And Nishijima went to talk to him. He was up at the ranch when Connor’s call came in.”

  “Jesus, it was Makani.” Storm wished she didn’t feel so fuzzy. But how could Makani be here, in the forest? “He couldn’t be after Luke, could he? He was with a new foal when Jenny died. Plus, how could he beat us here, and why didn’t he stop us at the ranch?”

  “Makani’s not back there.” Niwa looked down the path into the forest.

  He tried to explain. “Nishijima talked to Makani after you left. Makani takes responsibility for starting the fire. He’s carried that with him for ten years. He told us how bad Alika hurt Tia, and how he hated him for it. He thought Alika damaged his entire family.”

  “So he tried to kill him in a fire?”

  Niwa nodded. “Seems his dad taught him some of the old chants before he moved to New Mexico.”

  “Was Makani at the scene of the fire?”

  “No. The fire started about eleven-thirty on a Thursday night. Makani was studying for a test with a classmate. He was a junior in high school, and we found the other student, who verifies they were together. But Makani says he chanted every day for a week, and he’s convinced the curse worked.”

  “What do you think?”

  Niwa shrugged. “Who knows? I don’t know how a court of law would look at it, either.” He stared past her as if he looked for answers in the leaves of the trees. “Or whether they should.”

  Storm thought for a moment. “Could it have been Makani’s dad? Where was he?”

  “Seems Mr. Kekapu has been working with a Hopi shaman for the last fifteen years. Makani’s gone to visit, but the older Kekapu hasn’t been back since he left.”

  “Who do you think started the fire?” Storm asked.

  “I don’t know yet, but I still have some questions to ask.” He met her eyes. “What I do know is they all say someone else did it. At first I thought it was a big cover up.”

  “Isn’t it? Isn’t that why they got the tattoos?”

  Niwa shrugged. “I’m not so sure anymore. The tattoos, yeah. That’s a sign of solidarity. But when you question them separately,” Niwa met her eyes, “you get the feeling no one’s sure about the fire. They all cover for someone different.”

  “Makani told me Dusty thought Poele did it. But then he said he overheard Poele talking about protecting Connor.”

  “Poele’s still keeping a secret, but I have a hunch he’ll share it when we get back into town.” Niwa looked thoughtful. “I don’t think he cares all that much about himself anymore.”

  “I think Connor suspects Skelly.” Hadn’t Makani said something about that? “Skelly gave him that black eye, you know.”

  A look of distress crossed Niwa’s face. “Those boys have had troubles since their mom died eight or nine years ago.”

  “Makani tried to slow us down, didn’t he? He only gave us two saddles, and—”

  The crack of a rifle came from down the path. Niwa jumped to his feet. “Nishijima’s got an AR-15, and that was a larger caliber rifle.”

  A second shot rang out, a higher-pitched sound than the first. Niwa spoke a quick command into the radio transmitter on his shoulder.

  But the next noise stopped him mid-sentence. Storm’s blood ran cold. A child’s high, thin wail pierced the still air, and it went on for longer than either would have thought possible.

  Niwa was out of sight before Storm could react. It was all she could do to get to her feet and take a few shaky steps. The howl had been a chilling lament of unfathomable pain. Had Luke been shot? Where were Uncle Keone and Tanner? Most of all, why had Niwa avoided telling her whom he and his partner were chasing?

  She stood alone in the silent woods. The breeze had stopped and the leaves on the trees hung heavy and still. No birds twittered or called. The only sound was the nearby stream, but its babbling no longer seemed cheerful; instead, the water was one more obstacle in keep
ing her from the people she’d wanted and failed to protect. It was another reminder of her defeat.

  It seemed that she stood there for hours. Finally, the throbbing of her broken clavicle forced her to lower herself onto the boulder Niwa had been using. Later, she’d guess that fifteen or twenty minutes elapsed, but it seemed an eternity.

  Pain blunts the senses. Storm didn’t hear the trudging footsteps until they were close. Her first thought—more of a hope—was that Uncle Keone and Luke were on the way. A half second later, she knew the heavy tread belonged to a human rather than horses. He crunched leaves and squished mud with an uneven gait.

  “Detective Niwa?” She stood, not knowing whether to move in the direction he’d gone or dash the opposite way. Not that she could dash; she could barely get to her feet. The raw pain of grating bone was agony.

  It was Dusty Rodriguez who limped around the bend in the trail. Like Poele, he wore a camouflage shirt that was soaked with sweat. His shirt tail hung out, and one leg of his jeans was dark with blood. He reached out to Storm.

  “Dusty, what happened?” she asked, but she backed away. What was he doing out here? Niwa had said Poele was trying to help, but he hadn’t told her Dusty was in the forest, too.

  “I got caught in the crossfire. Damned cop aimed over me. Sights on his gun must be way off.”

  “Who was he shooting at?” She looked down at his leg. From his thigh down, the denim glistened with fresh blood. His left boot made a squishy noise. “Oh, God. You better put pressure on that.”

  Squish, clump, squish, clump. He made his way closer to the rock where she’d been sitting. “Good idea.”

  He almost fell trying to keep his injured leg straight and threw his arms out for support. One grabbed at a nearby tree and the other windmilled, looking for an anchor.

  Instinctively, Storm took a step closer, and he grabbed her arm.

  She yelped. “Ow.”

  “Just help me out a sec.”

  “I’m hurt, too,” she said.

  But Dusty yanked her toward him, and she stumbled from the stabbing shock to her injured arm and chest. He pulled her tight, until her face was smashed against his chest. She couldn’t move, and her shoulder hurt like hell.