by Toby Neal
After fifteen minutes or so, I stopped. “I’ll follow you,” I told Falconer. “You lead.” I could feel my wound weeping damply, a wetness at my side. I handed Falconer the knife, and he moved past MacDonald to get in front of me.
MacDonald reared back at the sight of Falconer, snapping the vine, and lumbered away, his cries terrified but mercifully muted by the gag. I tried to pursue, but my wound pulsed at the exertion, and I halted, hunched over and sweating.
“Let him go. I’m tired of this shit,” Falconer said.
“We can’t! He’s bound and he’s off his nut. He’ll die for sure. Please. Get him.”
Falconer rolled his eyes, but he ran after MacDonald at an efficient trot. I’d have to remember to recommend him for some kind of medal. I squatted down, panting, and shook my head. Who knew what would set someone off? MacDonald had seemed so normal.
It seemed to take forever for Falconer to reappear. He’d tied a vine around MacDonald’s neck to lead him, because every few feet the man would rear back, trying to get away.
“This is getting old,” Falconer said ominously, and slapped the vine into my hand. He pushed forward through the underbrush, frustration in every movement.
“Come on, Devan. We’re gonna get through this, but you have to cooperate. We have to follow Falconer.” I gave a tug, and MacDonald complied, stumbling but obedient.
We caught up with Falconer as he was taking a heading on the compass knife. “The river’s that way.” He pointed. “We’ve run out of the luxury of taking our time. Between your wound and MacDonald’s breakdown, we need to get out of here sooner rather than later.”
“Agreed. Even if we end up back in the water.”
He gave a curt nod, and we struck out in the new direction.
Lei sat down in one of the visitor chairs in front of Captain Omura’s desk the next morning. Wayne had driven her to work and Kiet to school, and she’d given up on her hair, settling for restraint and twisting it into a ball at the back of her head with a rubber band. She and Kiet had both slept badly and then woken up late, and with that rough start, she was just happy she’d been able to get Kiet to school on time.
“I need a full catch-up on yesterday’s events.” Omura flipped through their file. The captain’s makeup was immaculate and her nails were glossy red—but she hadn’t had to get a fussy kindergartener to school before work like Lei had.
“Me too.” Pono arrived, carrying two chipped MPD mugs. He plunked one down in front of Lei. “I put creamer in for you. Because I’m a good partner like that.”
Lei picked up the mug. Chunks of white powder floated in the heavy brew. She stirred it with the little red plastic stir stick he’d thoughtfully included. “Thanks, bro. Yeah, that little field trip into the valley turned out to be more than I bargained for.”
Omura leveled a shiny fingernail at her. “What were you thinking, going up into that valley alone?”
“I was thinking that skull washed down from a deserted, overgrown little canyon, and I’d just have a look for any recently flooded areas and stretch my legs before I drove all the way back to Kahului. I tried to call Pono.” Lei sipped her coffee and made a face.
“And I got about every third word of your message. If you hadn’t called in later, I’d never have tracked you out there,” Pono said.
“Yes, you would. I started with Mrs. Yamaguchi, who found the skull. She’d have told you what I was doing.” Lei described her talk with the elderly Hana resident. “And then I thought, a little hike before that long drive back was a good idea. But everything went to hell once I got inside that secret valley.” She described the pot fields, the foster boys working, Boss Man, and the pit bull’s attack. “Hell is too good for that bastard,” she finished. “Any luck on the BOLO we called in?”
“Not so far. He’s gone to ground. But I have the coconut wireless fired up for any rumors. Someone knows him. A lot of someones, for him to move that much Maui Wowie pakalolo.” Pono’s network of confidential informants was legendary in the Maui Police Department. Her partner took a gulp of his coffee and smacked his lips in apparent enjoyment. “I thought I’d poke around with the tax maps, see who owns that property. That could generate a lead.”
“Hold on a minute.” Captain Omura’s forehead was smooth as porcelain, her hair as black and glossy as the first day Lei had met her. Did Cherry Joy Omura do Botox? No. Omura was just naturally sweatless, poreless, wrinkle-free perfection. Lei wished she could hate her for it as the captain went on. “This is a narcotics case. Your only part is finding out something about the skull.”
“Well, the foster boys that were working the place don’t know anything, but if Noah Whatshisname had them, he’s had others. He had a way of “graduating” the child slaves into adult service for him.” Lei described the teen she’d restrained and then rescued, and then the grenade scare one of the boys had perpetrated. “Tony wouldn’t talk yesterday, but a night in jail might have softened him up. Pono, you should tell Detective Shepherd that idea about the TMK maps.”
“Okay. You go down and interview that kid, see if he knows about any other kids he worked with who might have disappeared. This kid Tony might be willing to talk about that, even if he’s not willing to throw his boss under the bus. But be sure to coordinate with the narco detectives working this. Not too much interviewing the kid. I can hear the defense attorneys now, talking about Stockholm and trauma effects on a young mind.” Omura sat back. “Keep me informed. Speaking of, is there any news on Stevens?”
“Nothing yet.” Lei didn’t want to deal with Pono and Omura’s questions and exclamations, when what did she really know? Only that Stevens was still in danger and that there was nothing she could do to help him.
“Well, I called Dr. Wilson and let her know you were involved in a shooting incident. She’ll be contacting you to do your debrief sometime today.”
“Oh, good.” Lei thought of her son’s adjustment issues. “I have a lot to talk with her about.”
“You’re the only person I get that from when I tell them they have to talk to the psychologist.” Omura smiled. “But it means she does a good job.”
“She has spooky eyes.” Pono shuddered. “She can see the inside of my head.”
“Her eyes are just—very intelligent.” Lei defended her former therapist. “And very blue. I’ve gotten used to blue eyes.” Her eyes filled, and she looked away, blinking. “I better get going.”
“Keep me informed. Of everything,” Omura said. Lei sketched a salute and hurried out the door, Pono in her wake.
Chapter Twenty-One
The vegetation lightened up beneath the jungle canopy, which made moving forward easier, but it seemed a long, stumbling, slow and uncertain way before we reached an edge to the tree line.
“Looks like some cultivation ahead.” Falconer squatted and took cover behind one of the native kapok trees. Ahead of us, the jungle had been cleared away. Rows of corn blocked visibility to what I assumed was the river beyond. “Let’s watch a little while. See if we spot any people.”
I tugged MacDonald’s leash. He sat on the ground behind me, watching Falconer’s hunched, vigilant shape.
The light waned as evening approached. In spite of the pain throbbing in my side and feet, I enjoyed the sight of layered cumulous clouds in a sky streaked with the salmon of sunset after the smothering dim green of the jungle. It took me straight back to life on Maui, where days began with a sky festival and ended with a fireworks celebration—an ever-changing panorama of brilliant layered clouds playing around the great purple volcano that held down one end of the island: Haleakala, House of the Sun. A stab of homesickness hit me somewhere in the chest. “Please, God. Just get me home.”
“What?” Falconer turned to me, alert.
“Nothing,” I murmured. “What’s the plan?”
“I don’t see anyone. So let’s just keep moving forward across these fields and find the river. The corn is close to harvest. They’re bound to be watching
the fields, to keep birds and animals away, and maybe we can get help.”
“Farmers should be safe to approach,” I agreed.
We moved out of the shelter of the trees into the rows of corn. Unlike corn in the United States, these plants were short, only chest-high. The ears were smaller, and the stalks denser with them. I picked one as we passed through the rustling stalks, stripping the husk off and biting into the raw cob.
The kernels were juicy, sweet, and starchy. I touched Falconer’s back to stop him. “These are good. Let’s pick a few.”
“Not too many. We don’t want to piss off the farmers.”
I nodded agreement and caught MacDonald’s eye. He looked blank, checked out, but I addressed him as if he understood. “Will you be quiet if I take the gag off?”
He didn’t answer. I removed the cloth, and he licked dry lips gratefully as the gag fell away. I handed him the cob I’d already peeled. “Here. Eat.” He took it and bit into it.
I picked several more ears, and Falconer and I each ate one. The starchy sweet goodness broke across my teeth, delicious, but after only a few bites, I felt my stomach rebelling. “Maybe we shouldn’t eat too much.”
“Agreed.” We stowed the extra ears in our pockets and continued on.
The river, when we reached it, was dramatically different from the previous day. Chocolate-brown roiling had been replaced by a broad swath of brownish green. Boils and swirls still marked it, showing the speed and power of the water, but the foam and trees of flood were gone.
Falconer scanned the banks. Someone, the farmers probably, had shored the area up with stones to keep the muddy banks from eroding. A small dock had been built behind a sheltering curve in the bank.
“There.” I pointed. “Let’s wait there for someone to come along. Someone is taking care of this corn, and I don’t think they’re coming from the jungle.”
“Agreed. We should eat the rest of this pork before it spoils.”
A mango tree sheltered the dock, and the three of us squatted beneath the tree. Remarkably, my appetite was back, as if the starchy corn had been some sort of accelerant. MacDonald and I dug into the pork chunks Falconer hacked off for us, and with no difficulty, the three of us polished off the last of the pig.
I rinsed my hands in the deep jade water swirling around the legs of the pier. The color of it reminded me of my son’s eyes. I missed him with a sudden ache that dried my mouth and made my eyes prickle. I hoped the little man was doing okay. The voice mail he’d left for me before we were taken was etched on my memory as he told me he wanted me to come home and that he loved me. His piping voice had been wobbly.
Kiet was a sensitive kid. I had always wondered if his mother’s traumatic death, resulting in his abrupt birth, had done a number on his nervous system. He was alert to changes and, though a happy and loving boy, he liked to make sure we were both there and that everything was routine. If things got too stressful, he had night terrors, sitting up in bed and screaming, but still asleep. They were a terrifying experience as a parent, though the pediatrician had assured us that some kids just had them and he’d grow out of it.
Lei was a patient, loving, and physically hands-on mom. She was instinctively good with Kiet, but didn’t hesitate to ask for help when she didn’t know how to handle something that came up. Her fears about her past making her a bad parent had been unfounded—as I’d known they’d be. Her own childhood abuse had made her extra sensitive, if anything.
People assumed Kiet was our natural child—but I knew that someday we’d have to tell him about his birth mother. I’d dreaded it, until now.
Swishing my hands in the green water, I was willing to believe I’d seen Anchara’s ghost here in Honduras—and we’d made some kind of peace. I wasn’t apprehensive about telling Kiet about her anymore. I’d have the words I’d need when the time came. I was deeply grateful to Anchara. She’d given me Kiet. He was all she’d cared about in the last moments of her life.
Back under the mango tree, I addressed Falconer. “Let’s take turns watching and getting some rest. It’s getting dark. I doubt the farmers will be coming back until tomorrow.”
“I want to check out your ribs.”
I’d been afraid he was going to say that. Frankly, I worried about what we’d find when we took off the crude bandage.
“No point. We have no way to clean it or do anything about it, and right now it’s at least covered. I’ll deal with it when we’ve got some way to treat it.”
Falconer gave me a long look, then nodded. “You rest. But tie him up before you do.”
MacDonald was already lying on the ground on his back, snoring in the humid, deepening twilight. I tied the vine attached to his wrists to one of the pilings and lay down, bunching the smelly shirt that had wrapped the pig into a crude pillow and stuffing it under my head.
I fell asleep like falling down a well, and was thankful for the oblivion.
“I’m coming with you to interview Tony the teen hood.” Pono caught up with Lei as they left Omura’s office.
“What about our other cases?”
“Nothing too critical happening. We have that tourist floater that’s probably accidental, and the two overdoses. Kinda in between big ones right now. Got to admit, I never expected your cold case to get so hot.”
“Me neither. I need to call down to the jail and get him moved to an interview room, and follow up with Dr. Gregory about the age of the skull. It could turn out to be unrelated to the pot farm.”
“That would be good to rule out.”
Back at their cubicle, Pono booted up his e-mail while Lei worked the phone. She called Detective Shepherd and invited him and his partner to sit in so they didn’t duplicate efforts. “I just want to ask Tony about this one thing—the skull,” Lei told him.
“Glad you called. We were going to pull him this afternoon,” Shepherd said. “We’ve been trying to track Noah No-name this morning. We had some supposed sightings on the tip line, but nothing’s panning out. Can you push your interview back to then? Because I have some Hana PD officers going out to pick up the female foster parent, Selina Tahua. I’m hoping she’s willing to snitch on Noah in return for reduced charges.”
“That sounds good. I’ll wait to hear from you. In the meantime, I can go visit the other foster boys, see if anything new emerges,” Lei said.
“I’ll let you know as soon as I get anything on Selina Tahua.”
“Excellent. Speaking of, my partner had an idea.” Lei told him about looking up the TMK map of the property where the pot farm was located. “That place was so well-established. There must be some connection between the landowner and Noah. He couldn’t squat for long in that valley without permission.”
“Good lead,” Shepherd said. “I hear your partner, Pono, has a great CI network, too.”
“Yeah, and he’s put the word out.” Lei turned to smile at her partner, the phone wedged between her chin and shoulder. “He’ll call you if one of his people gets something.”
Pono’s dark eyes gleamed like polished kukui nuts as he nodded.
“Appreciate it.” Shepherd hung up.
Lei called Elizabeth Black next. She got the location of the boys’ crisis home and permission for a visit. “They keep asking for you, so I’m glad you called,” Elizabeth said.
“Have they talked any more about the fake foster parents?”
“We did a bare-bones intake interview, but my priority was getting them moved and settled. The foster family at the transition home says they’re doing okay, except for Dexter. He’s hardly talking, won’t get out of bed. I have a psychologist going out later on today.”
“Okay. Thanks. And, by the way, you were right to tell me no about taking the boys home. I’ve got my hands full with my son and with Stevens gone. But it makes me think we might try foster parenting someday.” Lei hadn’t realized that was what she was concluding until the words came out of her mouth.
“I think you’d be wonderful at that.
But you are also a workaholic. The two may not be compatible,” Elizabeth said. “Still, seasons change in people’s lives. Makes me smile to think about you as a foster mom.”
“Makes me smile, too.” Lei ended the call thoughtfully. If she and Stevens never had their own child, perhaps this was a way they could expand their family. The idea comforted her, warm as sliding her feet through sun-warmed sand.
“I thought we were going to interview that Tony kid.” Pono glanced up from his monitor.
“Later. I’m visiting the foster boys while Shepherd follows up with Selina Tahua, the fake foster parent.” Lei stood. “Want to come?”
“Nah. I’ll work on our other cases. Call me when it’s time to go to the jail.”
“Coward. You’re afraid you’ll end up bringing one of those boys home.”
“Exactly right. Tiare’s banned me from going to the Humane Society, too—we already have five former fighting cocks and three dogs.”
“Glad I’m not the only one.” Lei squeezed Pono’s bulky shoulder affectionately.
Out at the truck Pono had loaned her, Lei checked the satellite phone. No news on Stevens. She turned on the vehicle with a sigh and programmed her GPS to the boys’ foster home address.
The house was a modest concrete block ranch in Kahului’s warren of residential streets. An avocado tree shaded a yard dry as the California foothills. A mailbox painted in a black-and-white cow pattern proclaimed the address, and Lei pulled up and parked behind a couple of bikes lying in the driveway behind a minivan.
Lei approached through the garage, where a pile of rubber slippers beside the mat proclaimed the main entrance to the house. She knocked.
A short, round Filipina woman appeared, wiping her hands on a dish towel. Delicious smells wafted through the door—chicken, pineapple, and spices. “Can I help you?”
