by Mark Troy
My shoes were not made for climbing nor my dress for preserving modesty. I exposed a lot of myself unintentionally to Gillespie and he made sure Lance knew it.
"Yee haw, now that sight sure extends my telescope, Dawkins. Pity yours don't work."
I was now sitting on the top rail above Terminator with my legs inside the pen. Gillespie climbed up beside me.
"Get that bull hooked up, Dawkins."
I knew Gillespie didn't plan to let us go, but Dawkins asked the question. "You gonna kill us too, Doyle? You'll have to explain more dead people."
"What's to explain? They'll find the lady detective here, and figure she caught you in the act of sperm-jacking and you killed her. I'll allow I hired her and she died bravely in the line of duty. Hell, I'll say good things at her funeral."
"The police can trace the gun." I said.
"Not mine, they can't. What guns I own are my business, not some limp-dick government clerk's."
Dawkins said, "You'll still have me to deal with me and I'll kill you myself if you harm her."
"Brave talk, but I got a plan for you."
Then I realized what Gillespie intended. "Lance, get out!"
Gillespie reached for the flanking strap. "Time to cowboy up."
I slammed Gillespie's gun hand against the top rail as he yanked the strap. His gun dropped into the pen. Terminator bucked and kicked Dawkins with his hind hooves, throwing him against the back wall. The whole pen shook. Gillespie lost his balance and tumbled backward onto the dirt of the arena.
The only way I could help Dawkins was to release the flanking strap. I lunged for it, but another wild buck by Terminator threw me off balance and . . . Shit! . . . I fell forward, desperately grabbing the bull rope to keep from falling between the wall and his body where I would surely be crushed. Holding tight to the rope, I swung my legs over so I was straddling his back and reached for the flank strap.
Terminator crashed the gate and it flew open. He burst into the arena, bucked high and turned to his left where Gillespie struggled to his feet. Terminator lowered his head and charged. I lost my grip on the bull rope but found the flank strap. Terminator caught Gillespie on his horns and lifted him, inches from my face.
Terminator tossed us both. I landed hard on my ass and rolled, desperate to get out of the way of Terminator's hooves. I needn't have worried. The flanking strap had come loose on the last buck and Terminator ambled to the far side of the arena.
I felt like I'd been caught in a blender. My flimsy spaghetti straps hadn't survived the ride. I had to hold the top up to cover my breasts, but Gillespie had copped his last peek. His eyes were open and unseeing, his neck broken.
Dawkins was in bad shape, too. He lay on the floor of the pen. "Should have worn a flack vest," he said through a grimace. "Think he broke some ribs. Afraid to count how many."
"Don't move. You might have other injuries." I used Dawkins's phone to call for help.
"Think Terminator ended my rodeoing." He grimaced again. I couldn't tell what hurt him the most, his ribs or the end of his career. "Not much rodeoing in jail anyway. You going to turn me in?"
"This thing," I pointed at the Dyno-jac, "you found in Higa's truck is all I have to tie anyone to the. . . uh. . .sperm-jacking. Gillespie won't be talking and I'm done with this investigation. I've had enough bulls, bullshit and semen."
Dawkins sighed in relief. Then he said, "You and me, we're not going to work out, are we?"
"No, Lance, but not because of . . ."
"Right. Helluva ride you had, for your first one."
"Yeah, but I didn't go eight seconds, did I?"
"Three at most."
"It seemed like forever."
"They all do," he said. He levered himself up on his elbows. "Got your blood jumping?"
"Yes."
"Almost as good as sex, right?"
I turned away so he couldn't see my face. Those three seconds were awesome.
END
Horns was originally published in The Thrilling Detective, 2009
RIPPER
The searchers found the remains of Alana Nichols's board wedged among some breakers, a mile from the North Shore beach where she surfed, twenty-three hours after she was last seen and ten hours after the search was mounted. A shark had bitten through the board.
I was walking Sunset Beach on Hawaii's North Shore with Alana's mother Terri, my friend and teammate in an all-women outrigger club, when the news reached us.
Terri screamed her daughter's name and fell to her knees in the sand. Of all the possible outcomes, this was the least expected and the most feared. Not one of the hundreds of searchers had voiced the possibility of a shark attack, at least not within earshot of Terri.
Terri was an accomplished water woman and she'd taught her daughter about wind, waves and currents—lessons that Alana had learned well. At thirteen, Alana won her first pro-am surfing championship. At sixteen she turned pro and now, barely a year and a half later, she was making the cover of surf magazines around the world.
I knelt beside Terri and pulled her close. "It's not over, Terri. All they found was her board."
I looked at the man carrying Alana's board. "Right? All you found was her board? She's still out there somewhere."
He pointed sadly to the exposed foam where the half-moon chunk had been ripped from her board. The foam was splotched with blood.
Beach officials called the search off after dark.
In the morning I returned to Terri's house where searchers were organizing in the pre-dawn darkness for a second day.
"Val," she said, "I'm glad you came." She took my hand and led me away from the group. The dark circles under her eyes told me she hadn't slept. We went into Alana's room at the back of the three-bedroom house they shared.
Alana's room was small, made smaller by all the stuff a teenage girl accumulates. Alana collected big stuff—a surfboard, three polished wooden canoe paddles, and a plush woebegone penguin that filled a chair in the corner. Alana had once explained that she felt awkward and ungainly everywhere but on the water. Hence the affinity for penguins.
A double bed dominated the room and, on it, Terri had laid out the items retrieved from Alana's car—tatami beach mat, rubber thongs, a terry cloth hoody and a backpack. The hoody and backpack were both pink, Alana's signature color. The backpack had the word, "Ripper," her nickname for the way she carved the waves, stitched in white.
Terri unzipped the main pocket of the backpack. She held it open for me to see and said, "Alana's tablet computer is missing. This is where she carried it."
"Could it still be in the car, or even somewhere in this room?" I didn't see the significance of the missing tablet, but its absence clearly distressed Terri.
"She's journaling."
"About the surf tour?"
Terri paused to summon some inner resources. She nodded. "Balancing high school and competition. Boys. Life. She's never without it."
"Have you read the journal?" I asked.
Terri shook her head. "It's just the two of us. The journal is her private area and I respect that. She'll read parts of it to me, but I don't pry."
From the living room, one of the organizers called, "We've got enough light, Terri. We're heading out now. Are you going to wait here?"
"Go ahead," she answered. "I'll catch up."
"I should go with them," I said.
"No," she said. "I need you here. I need you to find her."
When they gone, she continued, "That's a dive team assembling out there. They have only one purpose—recovery, not rescue. They're looking for a body, but they won't find one. Alana's alive. I know she is."
"Terri, I'm your friend and I loved Alana. I would do anything to get her back, but you saw her board."
"I know what I saw. I'm not in denial, Val. Something terrible happened out there. Everybody thinks it was a shark. Last night I agreed one hundred percent with them. This morning, I agree about ninety percent."
&nb
sp; "What changed, Terri?"
"I've been thinking. Something isn't right. I want your advice, not as a friend, but as a detective. I'll pay you for your time, of course.
"That isn't necessary."
"Yes it is. I need your services."
"We'll talk about that later," I said. "What's not right? Is it the missing tablet?"
Terri nodded. "It was her life. Alana took it everywhere except when she was in the water."
I understood where Terri was going. "Do you think Alana ran away?"
Terri's silence was my answer.
"Terri, did you two have a fight?"
"She's been seeing a boy. He's not right for her and I let her know how I feel."
"Who's the boy?"
Terri's gaze went toward Alana's desk. I followed her direction and saw a photograph in a cloisonné frame. The picture showed Alana at the beach with a guy who looked to be about eighteen. He was a good-looking kid with a mass of unruly dreadlocks and a surfboard under one arm. He beamed with pride as his arm encircled Alana's waist. What boy wouldn't? Alana was a head-turner like her mother. With her sun-streaked hair, her golden complexion and her model's looks, she could have any guy she wanted.
"Him?" I asked. "Who is he?"
"Kimo Hutto. She was seeing him for about ten months. They broke up recently."
Terri's tone indicated Alana might have inherited more than beauty from her mother. Her inexplicably bad taste in men, perhaps. Alana never knew her father. According to Terri, the only good he ever produced was Alana.
"Local kid?" I asked.
I sensed someone come into the room behind me.
"My brother," a man said.
I wheeled in the tight space and almost bumped him. My breasts brushed his arm and he backed away quickly
"Didn't mean to startle you," he said.
I recognized him immediately as the man who had found Alana's board. He stood a little taller than me, but not imposingly so. Six feet tall, weight about one-eighty, hair and eyes brown and brown. He had on a navy blue shirt with a white breadfruit pattern. The throat of his shirt was unbuttoned two buttons down. He wore pressed chinos that broke over brown loafers. I couldn't see if he wore socks. Yesterday he hadn't worn socks or shoes. He'd had on surfer slippers, jams and a tank top. His legs had looked nicely cut and his body nicely trim.
"Phil," Terri said. "Thank you for coming. I want you to meet my friend."
"Val Lyon," I said, extending my hand.
"Phil Fryer," he said. His grip was strong and he held my hand longer than a perfunctory introduction.
"Phil teaches biology at the school," Terri said. "The honors class."
For the first time since the ordeal began, I saw a light in Terri's eyes.
"The kids love him," she said.
Fryer released my hand and waved away Terri's compliment. "I just want them to love learning."
"Must be quite a challenge," I said.
"Val's a detective," Terri said.
Fryer cocked an eyebrow. "Really? Police?"
"Private," I said.
"Now that must be a real challenge."
"Not for me. I'm good at it."
I'd been studying Fryer and comparing him to the picture on the desk. Except for the dark hair, I wasn't catching a resemblance. Fryer was at least a dozen years older, maybe even fifteen. And then there was the matter of the different last names. "You and Kimo are brothers?"
"Half-brothers, actually. Mom's third husband. I was in high school when Kimo came along. We have about a quarter of our genes in common." He laughed. "Sorry. That's the biologist talking."
Terri said, "It's hard to imagine there's that close a connection."
"You don't think much of Kimo?" I asked.
Terri snorted. "Kimo's got no ambition except smoking pot and surfing, which he's not even good at. I'm sorry, Phil. That's how I feel.
Fryer shrugged. "No argument from me."
Terri said, "Alana's got so many options—surfing, modeling . . ."
"A scholarship to UCLA," Fryer said.
"You think she threw all that away to be with Kimo?"
"I don't know what else to think," Terri said.
"I don't believe it," Fryer said. "You called it exactly. Kimo's a loser. Alana's got too good a head on her shoulders."
"I know," Terri said. "But if she didn't run off, how do you explain the missing tablet?"
I could think of any number of reasons for the tablet to be missing, but none of them would convince Terri. She had fixated on its absence as evidence that Alana was still alive. At this point it seemed best to let Terri hold onto any thread she could grasp. Fryer apparently felt the same way.
I reminded Terri that Kimo and Alana broke up. "Did they get back together?"
"I don't think so. Their relationship's always been tumultuous. They break up. Alana sinks into depression. Then suddenly they're back together and Alana's riding high. I know how those highs are. They're like waves. The deeper the trough, the higher the crest. This time was different."
"The last break-up was bad?" I asked.
"It depressed Alana. Made her angry, but she got through it. Afterward, she was a changed person, stronger, more determined. She wouldn't talk to Kimo. Two nights ago he called and I heard her tell him to stay away from her or he would get hurt."
"She's a tough, girl," Fryer said.
"Not tough enough," Terri said. "I think she went back to him."
"If I'm going to find him, I need a place to start. Do you have his address?"
Fryer looked at his watch. "Better yet, I can take you there. I've got some time before class. But what good will it do if they've run off together?"
"He might have left some clues to where they've gone."
* * * * *
I followed Fryer's Cherokee onto Kamehameha highway. The highway ran through the shadow of Mount Pupukea and, even twenty minutes after sunrise, we had to use our lights. We passed a convenience store and the entrances to narrow lanes leading back to homes and farms. Trees and shrubbery crowded the road. Fryer's turn signal came on, followed by his brake lights. He made a quick right turn into a narrow opening in a tall hedge. I followed, branches grazing both sides of my 'Vette, and parked behind him. We were in the front yard of a small frame house.
I cut the engine as Fryer appeared alongside my car and pulled the door open.
"I'm an idiot," he said. "I didn't make the connection until I saw you behind me. You're Auntie Val and this is Auntie Val's 'Vette. I heard all about it from Alana."
"I'm not really her auntie, just a family friend."
"And not at all the image of an auntie in my mind."
"Sorry to disappoint."
"You're not. I'm forming a new image as we speak."
"Yeah? Would I like it?"
Fryer shrugged. "I like it."
At another time, I would have pursued the issue, but at that time all I wanted was to find Alana's tablet and give Terri some solace.
"Your mother lives here?"
"My step dad," Fryer said. "Mom's in Peru chasing husband five or six. I quit keeping score a few years ago."
"Must've been rough growing up like that."
"I survived," he said, "without any scars. Different for Kimo. I think he's the way he is because of how we grew up."
"How exactly is he?"
"You heard what Terri said, no ambition, a pot head, a jerk. She was being kind."
The sun had gotten high enough now that we didn't need lights to show the way to the house. We climbed three worn steps to a small wooden porch crowded with a large ice chest, two folding captain's chairs, and a pile of fishing nets. The house was framed with tongue and groove siding from which the paint peeled like candle wax.
Fryer said, "Let's find out if the jerk's home." He knocked on the door.
A middle-aged Hawaiian man with tea-colored skin and a short gray beard opened the door. Some bits of unrecognizable food stuck to bristles on his chin.
We'd interrupted breakfast.
"We're looking for Kimo, Pops," Fryer said. He didn't introduce me.
"Ain't here," Pops said. "He gone trail riding, yeah?"
"Motorcycle," Fryer explained. "He has a trail bike."
"Where?" I asked. "We need to talk to him."
Pops shrugged. "Sometime in the mountains. Maybe Kaena Point. Plenty trails there."
"How long has he been gone?"
"Two days, yeah? What's this about?"
"Is that unusual, not coming home at night?" I asked.
"He's stayed away before," he said. "Sometimes he fishes all night with his friends."
"What about school?"
His father shrugged. "He makes it to school. Most of the time. He's a senior. They don't much care."
"I'd like to look at his room," I said.
Pops looked at Fryer. "He in trouble? You trying to jam him up again?" To me he said, "You the police?"
"We're helping in the search for Alana Nichols, Mr. Hutto. We think he might have some information that could help us."
"He's not in trouble, Pops. We're not looking for his stash."
Hutto stepped aside and we went in. The inside was larger than I expected. It appeared to be a fishing shack to which rooms were added as supplies and time permitted, without benefit of design and probably without benefit of inspection. The first room was clearly the oldest and in need of repair. Openings in every wall led to other rooms of more recent construction. One room was nothing more than a frame covered by a blue tarp. Furniture was a mix of cast off pieces and patio furniture. The house smelled strongly of beer and fish.
Kimo's room was one of the newer rooms. It was sparsely furnished with a bed, some clear plastic storage boxes that he used as a dresser, and a surfboard set on saw horses as a table or desk. Two other surfboards leaned against the wall and a large storage bin with what appeared to be motorcycle parts sat in a corner. The walls were decorated with surfing pictures cut from magazines. A large poster of Alana paddling her board and another of her dropping down the face of a huge wave hung above the surfboard desk.
I examined the desk. It had a few school books that looked like they hadn't been cracked and some notebooks. A plastic photo cube contained more pictures of Alana alone, with friends, and a copy of the picture of she and Kimo that was in her room. I pulled one of the pictures from the cube. Behind it was a picture of a topless Alana.
"That little prick," Phil said.
