by Toby Neal
He muttered at first, talking to himself. “I can feel the edge here…I think I’m headed downhill. Where this water goes I can go.” It was a lie, but he wanted to believe it. When he ran out of things to say, the silence felt as smothering as the blackness, so he began to sing.
He sang and he crawled, and he sang more and crawled further. He took a drink, curled up and rested a while, and then sang and crawled until he couldn’t anymore.
Chapter Nine
Agitated by Enola’s disruptive visit, Sophie could no longer settle down to setting up her camp in the spot she had chosen. There were still several hours of daylight left; it couldn’t harm anything to go further back into the valley and see what she could see.
She wasn’t investigating, no. But if Sandy Mason happened to see or hear something to help, that wouldn’t be a terrible thing, would it? Besides, she had a dog with a good nose. If Ginger could pick up the boy’s scent, she might be able to help find him.
Before she even realized that she’d made a conscious decision, Sophie had rigged up her backpack and was back on the trail, heading further into the valley toward the steep, rugged, drip-castle peaks that defined the apex of Kalalau.
Both she and Ginger were soon panting as they tackled the steep trail, studded with black volcanic rocks and slippery with nightly rainfall that turned the dirt to a red clay slurry. Clouds collected against the precipitous canyon walls, and soon a light rain misted down on her and Ginger, cooling them as it wetted Sophie’s clothing and hair, further matting Ginger’s muddy coat.
Sophie passed several offshoots of well-trampled path heading into groves of kukui nut and native hala trees, a form of pandanus that the Hawaiians used for basketry, canoe sails, roofing, and floor coverings. Sophie had seen many examples of intricate weaving using the humble-looking tree’s long, fibrous, spiny-edged leaves at the Bishop Museum on her date with Connor.
Hiking was meditative: a time when her mind mulled over the past, present, and future, but without the negative spirals that usually characterized times when she reflected alone and that led to her crippling episodes of depression.
Connor.
She tried to force the memory of his sea-blue eyes gazing into hers out of her mind. He’d betrayed her. Lied to her. Let her grieve him.
She was finished with him.
But with her ex-husband, Assan, gone from the picture, she was truly free. She didn’t have to worry about that specter waiting to pounce on her and anyone she showed an interest in.
But she was done with men. Her judgment clearly couldn’t be trusted! First, she’d married a sadistic sociopath, then she’d fallen for a devious, brilliant liar with a relentless agenda.
But what about Alika Wolcott? Her former MMA coach’s smiling brown eyes appeared in her memory. She’d been on the right track with her relationship with Alika. His muscled body, the way his black hair waved off his brow, the bold tribal tattoos on his arms, his confident moves in the ring were all impressed upon her. His challenging teaching and steady friendship had been authentic. Their heady kisses, unforgettable. Her only regret was that it had taken so long for them to even get that far.
Sophie was on Alika’s home island, Kaua’i, and of course that would remind her of him.
Assan had almost killed Alika for the simple fact that Sophie had kissed him. Cared about him. Wanted to love him. Alika had chosen to leave to protect them both. She couldn’t do anything about any of it; he no longer responded even to a text message from her. But if he had, would she have gotten involved with Connor?
It was hard to know the answer to that now. Maybe she could have spared herself heartache if Alika had given her any reason to hope, but he had chosen a clean break instead.
And she’d chosen the Ghost, and signed herself up for a world of hurt. She only hoped Connor was suffering a little too, the two-headed offspring of a mutant goat! He’d chosen his vigilantism over her and let her believe he was dead! She’d never forgive him, never let that go, never trust him again.
Trust. Jake’s face rose to take Connor’s place in her mind’s eye. Her partner must be anxious that she’d disappeared. “He’s freaking out,” she could hear Marcella saying. “For God’s sake, woman, tell him something or he’ll drive us all nuts.” But she hadn’t so much as texted him.
Sophie banished that guilt. She didn’t owe Jake anything. He might have had feelings for her at one time, but she was not responsible for that. She had never encouraged him, and now he was involved with Antigua, the lovely and talented chef and property manager at rocker Shank Miller’s estate in Wailea.
They’d both made choices, and with Sophie’s usual curse, she had chosen the wrong man. Again.
Next time she went out with someone, let alone slept with him, she’d ask her friends to choose for her! She almost smiled at the thought of Lei and Marcella hashing over her choices and making their best recommendations.
Who would they choose for her?
A moot point. She was done with men! “A pox on all their asses!” Sophie muttered aloud in Thai.
She hiked harder to get away from the buzzing noise of her thoughts, but Ginger gave a short, sharp yap that brought her out of her unpleasant reverie. They’d reached another kukui grove, this one in a wide, flat area. A path led off to the left, toward the trickling sound of the stream.
“Okay, girl. Let’s go look.” They walked down the path and Sophie spotted a knot of plastic-and-bamboo dwellings, hidden from the trail behind the broad, dark green leaves of small noni trees and the bigger, palmate-leaved ulu, or breadfruit trees. A ring of red ti leaf plants grew around the makeshift village, and though Sophie slowed, craning her neck to see if anyone was around, the place appeared deserted.
Perhaps they hid from strangers? But surely, they could see that she was no ranger or police officer, here to demand that they tear down their non-permitted dwellings…
Sophie studied the little village a moment. The houses were built of logs and branches nailed to living trees, with clear plastic walls. Roofs were made of heavy duty tarps pitched at an angle to allow water to roll down and off the crude dwellings.
Probably the villagers were nearby, watching her. She didn’t want to give them cause for concern.
“Come, Ginger.” Sophie tweaked the Lab’s leash and continued past the encampment, feeling a sense of relief as she did so—there was an oppressive feeling about the place.
Sophie eventually reached a spot she liked: a small native noni tree grove with a clear area in the middle of the trees and thick, concealing leaves to the ground that gave her a feeling of protection and privacy. She didn’t want any more disturbing incidents like Enola staggering into her peaceful camp.
She erected her deep green tent, pleased with how the camouflage fabric blended with the leaves and undergrowth. She went back out to the trail to try to spot it, and could not.
By then the light was going, and Sophie was too tired to make a fire. She had a quick wash in the chilly stream, rinsing away the sweat of the day with biodegradable soap, then made a simple meal of dehydrated bean protein and vegetables on her camp stove. Sitting on a rock above the stream, watching the sky toward the sea go salmon and gold, Sophie ate her dinner, then wrapped her arms around Ginger’s neck and felt gratitude sweep through her.
She might be on the run from a murder rap for killing her ex. She might be alone, an unknown in an unknown land. She might be nursing a broken heart and traveling under an assumed name, not even sure who she was anymore—but right now, she was in a beautiful place, with a loving dog, and she had no one to account to for the first time in her life. No one to tell her what to do, who to be, where to go. No rules, no schedule, nothing but nature all around her.
Freedom was a sweet elixir she drew in deeply with every breath. She shut her eyes and leaned her head upon Ginger’s back.
She heard something.
A faint human voice singing a song in Hawaiian.
And it was coming from
the very rocks around her.
The hairs on Sophie’s body rose as “chicken skin” broke out over her. Was this mana, the spiritual power Hawaiians claimed indwelled the trees, rocks, and very substance of the world? Could the singer be a Menehune, one of the legendary little people no longer seen in the Islands?
Fanciful thoughts. There was a reasonable explanation.
Sophie stayed very still and listened closely, seeking directionality, a source. Ginger’s ears were pricked, her eyes bright as she whined deep in her chest. The dog heard it too.
Off to the left.
Stealthy and silent, Sophie unwound her arms from around the dog. She crept forward, closer and closer to a rock formation, an unprepossessing pile of boulders that seemed to be the source of the sound. She reached the black stones, worn smooth by annual floodwaters and the elements.
The singing was louder here, the clear, high voice that of a child, and Sophie smiled as she recognized “Hawaii Pono’i,” the state song.
Sophie circled the rocks but could find no opening where anyone could be hiding. She couldn’t see a source of the strange amplification.
And then, abruptly, the song ceased, and the silence felt like loss.
Chapter Ten
Marcella tucked her neat white button-down shirt into the black gabardine dress pants she preferred for work at the FBI, her round, rebellious breasts strapped down into a no-nipple-show breastplate of a bra. Her personal indulgence, designer shoes, were limited today to a pair of conservative bronze Ferragamo pumps that peeked from beneath the hem of her slacks and gave her a little boost of confidence. She touched up her lipstick, made sure her hair was tight in its businesslike twist, and headed into the conference room at the district attorney’s office where she was to give her deposition regarding the death of asshole extraordinaire Assan Ang.
Marcella’s union rep, a well-turned-out young man wearing a Harvard tie, was already seated. He stood and extended a hand. “Kyle Lovett. FBI Legal Counsel.” Marcella shook his soft hand briefly.
Honolulu’s new district attorney, rumored to be sharp and ambitious, was a small Chinese man named Chang with friendly wrinkles surrounding bright, cold eyes. They exchanged introductions, but the DA never offered his hand.
So that’s how it was gonna be. Marcella met Chang’s beady bright stare. “I hope this won’t take long. I have actual cases that need my attention.”
“That is entirely up to you.” Chang had a tic-like smile that revealed bright white veneers. “We all have priorities, and mine is to determine whether or not the slaying of an escaped federal prisoner was justified.”
“I assume you have read over the case file,” Marcella said, “because it is extensive.” She sat and crossed her legs, lacing her fingers around a knee and keeping her expression neutral with an effort. “My friend and fellow agent has been through enough trauma as it is.”
“I assume you mean former agent? I believe Sophie Ang is now what we call a freelancer, a mercenary in the security business. But let’s get through the formalities before we begin, shall we?”
Marcella’s neck flashed hot at Chang’s dismissive tone. She inclined her head.
The DA switched on a wall-mounted video camera, stated the date, time, people present, purpose of the interview, and pushed a small black audio recorder toward Marcella. “Please tell us what you know about the relationship between Sophie and Assan Ang.”
“I have known Sophie for around five years, since she first escaped from her sadistic torturer ex-husband, Assan Ang, and joined the Bureau,” Marcella fired her words like bullets. “That Ang’s death is even being considered anything but self-defense is ludicrous.”
“Let’s refrain from judgmental statements about the victim.” Chang’s cold eyes had narrowed.
“You told me to tell you what I knew about the couple’s relationship. I have known Sophie for five years, as I said, and in all that time I have never seen or heard of Sophie interacting with her ex-husband except for occasions of trying to hide from him, escape him, or fight him off his deadly attacks toward her or toward people she cared about.” There was a special place in hell reserved for monsters like Assan Ang, with a frying pan set to eternal sizzle.
Chang refused to meet her eye, instead making little squiggles on a notepad. She leaned forward to eyeball them and recognized Chinese. She could smell the sexism on this jerk, a funky aroma like old cheese—because she had boobs, he didn’t take her seriously.
She had to calm down and stay objective or the DA would dismiss her testimony as biased hysteria. Marcella breathed out her anger and flicked at a bit of lint on her pants leg. “The few things Sophie told me about Ang and her marriage to him in Hong Kong were…terrible.”
Marcella had difficulty finding a word that captured the horror Sophie had described in that flat, understated way she used when talking about her past. “Sophie married Assan Ang at nineteen years old in an arranged marriage in Thailand, her mother’s doing, I understand. He held her captive in their apartment in Hong Kong until her escape to the United States to join the FBI. The Bureau had headhunted Sophie for her language abilities and tech talent through the computer college that she attended in Hong Kong.”
“We are aware she claimed to have suffered abuse at the hands of the victim,” Chang said.
“It was more than simple abuse. Sophie was not one to talk about it or draw attention to what she had been through. I think she spent a lot of time and energy trying to minimize the psychological damage Assan Ang had done to her. But I personally witnessed the violence against the first man she dated since her escape, inflicted during Ang’s brutal attempt to kill him. Alika Wolcott barely survived. He was in the hospital for weeks, and ultimately went back to Kaua’i to try to rebuild himself and his business. I also witnessed what Ang did to Sophie after murdering a surveillance mole he’d planted in Security Solutions to monitor her. Sophie survived that confrontation and took him into custody, but he swore to kill her the first chance he got. Sophie called law enforcement anyway to deal with him, trusting us to make him pay and keep her safe. We failed to do that when Ang escaped from FBI custody during extradition to Hong Kong. Sophie knew she was on her own to survive, in spite of our best efforts.” Marcella described the FBI’s investigation into Ang. “The man was connected to organized crime in Hong Kong and in the US, which is why he’d been so hard to capture. Honestly, it’s a miracle Sophie survived and escaped, let alone did what needed to be done to that piece of filth.”
Chang gave a humorless chuckle. “Please. Don’t hide your real feelings about the victim and the crime.”
“You called me in to make a statement. I am making a statement. Everything I have said has already been documented. Ang was a federal prisoner for his extensive drug and weapons smuggling, as well as murder and the attempted murder of an FBI agent.”
“Were you aware that Assan Ang was unarmed at the time of his death? And that his throat was slit from behind? Hardly the usual self-defense scenario.”
“Ang was holding our mutual friend, a decorated police sergeant, hostage. He was torturing her to gain Sophie’s compliance. Ang didn’t need to have a weapon on him to be deadly and to be leading Sophie to a death by torture and rape.”
“But in the end, she was the one with a knife, wasn’t she? And he was not.”
Marcella bit her tongue on the stream of curses she wanted to let fly. The man was blind to the nuances, to his own bias against women, and to the big picture of the case! But screaming profanities was unlikely to change Chang’s opinion. Perhaps there was room on Assan’s hell-sizzle frying pan for Chang, too.
“I believe my client has made her statement and we’ve now begun circling the airport, so to speak. Do you have any more specific questions for her?” Lovett spoke up at last.
Chang hammered at Marcella for a while from different directions, asking his questions in different ways and posing speculative scenarios about why Sophie had dispatched Ang the way sh
e had. Marcella did her best, sticking to her statements: that Sophie knew the victim’s mindset, knew Ang had only harm planned for both Sophie and Lei Texeira, and had killed him to neutralize that threat and rescue her friend as expediently as possible. “If Sophie had wanted revenge, she could have taken it, maybe tied Ang to his sex torture wheel and cut off his relevant parts with her knife after a good flogging—and that still wouldn’t have been enough to even the score, in my opinion,” Marcella spat. God forgives; Italians do not. Marcella couldn’t muster even a mental chuckle about that old saying. She couldn’t imagine feeling any differently than she did right now toward Assan Ang. He’d gotten off light with a quick death.
“And yet the forensic evidence suggests that the victim was fleeing, and that she dispatched him brutally from behind with no warning at all,” Chang said.
Marcella had had enough. She stood, straightened her blouse, and locked eyes with the DA. “I don’t believe I have anything to add to this witch hunt. Good luck painting Assan Ang as a helpless victim.”
Lovett stood, joining Marcella. “Let us know if you need anything further. The FBI always seeks to work cooperatively with local justice and law enforcement.”
Marcella snorted. She pushed out of the office and the young man trotted to keep up as she headed down the hall.
Outside, she whirled to face him. “Thanks for all the support in there.”
“You didn’t need my help,” Lovett said. “And well you know it.”
That was true. Maybe the guy did have a pair. Marcella scowled. “I don’t like the way he’s trying to set Sophie up.”
“I don’t either,” Lovett said, and Marcella felt a chill all the way to her bones.
Chapter Eleven
Connor’s Ghost program searched the internet for keywords related to District Attorney Alan Chang.