by Toby Neal
Stevens was sitting straight up on the couch, screaming, his eyes wide open but seeing something else.
Keiki, agitated, pawed his leg and licked his face. Lei, still scanning for threats, saw Stevens wake as he hunched over abruptly and embraced the dog.
“Oh, God. Help me,” she heard him say. And he wept into the dog’s coat, his arms around the sturdy Rottweiler.
Lei set the weapon on the coffee table, unsure how he’d respond to her. “Can I do anything?”
The harsh overhead light cast dark shadows under his eyes, beneath his cheekbones as he sat up. She saw the shape of his skull for the first time, as clearly as if the skin were peeled back.
“No. I just need to get through this. Something to drink would be great, though.” His voice was a harsh rasp.
Lei went into the kitchen and poured a large glass of milk. Her own throat felt rough from all the crying last night, but she felt better. Lighter. Determined. She’d had her say, had her cry. Told everything to her friend Marcella, who understood her conflicted feelings. Now she’d set her course. She’d do her best to be a mom to this baby. Whether she chose him or not, he was coming to them.
She poured herself a glass too, and brought one to Stevens, along with a sleeping pill from her stash. “Drink this whole thing and come back to bed. I’m done being mad.”
He took the glass, drank the milk, swallowed the pill. That was as alarming as the screams—he hated pills of any kind. He followed her into the bedroom and lay down. Keiki, keeping watch, hopped up and nestled at Stevens’s feet on her ratty old quilt.
Lei left them there and went back into the living room. She looked up a number in her phone, dialed it. “Dr. Wilson? I’m so sorry. I know it’s early. But this is an emergency. Can you come to Maui?”
Stevens woke up slowly. The sun was in his eyes. He expected the cottony pain of a hangover, but the milk and sleeping pill must have worked, because there was nothing but a slight ache behind his eyeballs, and he hadn’t dreamed again.
Keiki licked his hand, trotting back and forth in front of the bedroom door, clearly needing to be let out. There was no sign of Lei.
He got up and walked through the sunlit, empty house. Unlocked Keiki’s dog door in back and let her out. Lei had started coffee, and its aroma teased his nose with the memory of something he used to enjoy.
It didn’t feel like he could enjoy anything ever again, with Anchara dead on a slab in the morgue, gutted like a fish to get the baby out. He shuddered at the horrible thought.
So much blood. So wrong. So unfair.
He poured the coffee, then went to the front and retrieved the Maui News. He took it to the back porch, bracing himself. Sure enough: High-ranking Maui officer a person of interest in gruesome slaying of pregnant woman screamed the headline.
At least they hadn’t named him.
Yet.
He scanned the article and stuffed it in the nearby trash bin. Threw the ball for Keiki.
He was screwing together the wheeled legs of the crib the saleslady had encouraged him to buy when he heard the rumble of Lei’s truck pulling up, the sound of voices.
He’d never combed his hair or put on a shirt, and he didn’t care. Whoever had the nerve to arrive at their house unannounced had to take him as he was. That irritated thought was put to the test when he stood up, screwdriver in hand, to greet Dr. Caprice Wilson.
The petite blond psychologist had done something different with her hair, and she was wearing a pretty wrap dress. He’d heard she’d been through a hard time on Haleakala, but if anything, she looked better for it.
“Dr. Wilson. Welcome to our home. I assume you’re here to psych me out after last night’s screaming episode.” He knew his voice wasn’t welcoming.
Dr. Wilson kept her bright blue eyes on his, but he could tell it took an effort. “Michael, I hear you’ve been through a trauma. Would you mind putting on a shirt and putting down the screwdriver? You’re giving me a bit of a hot flash.”
Lei had gone into the kitchen, and he heard her snort of laughter, which echoed his own.
“Happy to get a break from ‘some assembly required.’” Stevens gestured to the lineup of tiny parts and detailed instructions surrounding the crib. “I’ll be right back.”
He went into the bedroom, pulled on a shirt, changed into boxers and jeans. Hot flash, right. He snorted again. He hadn’t spent a lot of time with Dr. Wilson, but he’d seen how effective she’d been in working with Lei over the years, and he’d always liked her quick wit and down-to-earth manner.
He came out of the bedroom, combing his hair with his fingers. Dr. Wilson sat on the couch. Lei was gone already.
“She had to go in to work,” the psychologist said. “She just went to the airport to pick me up and bring me back here.”
“Oh.” Stevens went back into the kitchen, poured himself a fresh cup of coffee, and joined her on the couch. “Better?” He gestured to his clothes.
She winked. “Much. I’m old, but I’m not dead. I can see why Lei had to marry you—to keep you away from other women.”
He shook his head ruefully. “Too late, because Anchara happened.” He took too big a gulp of hot coffee and burned his tongue.
“Anchara swooped in and snagged you when you were vulnerable. That’s how I see it.”
Stevens frowned. “Not how it was.”
“How was it?”
“She was being deported. She had nothing, no one. I felt responsible, like I had to do something—and Lei, she’d just left for the FBI. Chose that job over us. I was trying to move on.”
“We all know how well that worked out.” Dr. Wilson took another sip of her coffee. “I see you’re making the transition to dad without a hitch.”
He tightened his belly, then set down the coffee mug hard. “I’ve heard about your techniques, Dr. Wilson. Provoking. Well, I don’t appreciate it.”
“Angry, are you?” Dr. Wilson’s blue eyes were guileless over her mug.
“Hell, yes, I’m angry. This!” He stood to his full height, lifted open arms in an encompassing gesture. He could feel heat in his face. “I didn’t ask for this! This massive disruption in my life, becoming a murder suspect and a dad in one day! And as soon as I realize I’m angry about it, I remember Anchara and all she lost—her life. Everything taken from her. Horrific.” He shut his eyes, pushed his fingers into them. He swayed on his feet.
“Why don’t you sit down?” Dr. Wilson patted the couch.
“No. I’d rather do something useful.” He went back to the crib, knelt on the floor. “A goes into B. B connects to C. I wish this situation were like that. And just when Lei and I were finally settling into life.”
“How’s she dealing with this?”
“I’m sure she told you on the way here.”
“I want to hear what you think. You know her better than anyone.”
He slanted a glance at her, screwing the wheel socket into the crib’s leg. “I’d say you do.”
She flapped a hand. “Avoiding the question.”
“Lei believes me, that I’m innocent of hurting Anchara. That I didn’t know about the pregnancy. She wants to do the right thing, but her heart’s not there yet. She wanted us to have our own baby.”
“And why can’t you?”
He rocked back on his heels. “Seriously. We can accept having one—but dealing with the hassle of two? You’ve got to be kidding.”
Dr. Wilson shrugged. “People have twins all the time. Yeah, it’s a lot of work at first, but having two close together ends up being less work later, and the siblings are close. Besides, once you take the parenthood plunge, one can be as much work as two. Trust me, I know. We only had one.”
Stevens found the next part, screwed it together. Checked the instructions. Turned the slatted boxy shape over, set the struts to support it on the bottom and screwed them in while he digested this.
“So you think this shouldn’t change the path we were on.”
�
�You could think of this first baby as training wheels. The first one always is.”
Stevens snorted a laugh again. “What did Lei say about that?”
“Client confidentiality. You should ask her yourself.”
“Am I your client, too? Do I have confidentiality today?”
“Of course.”
“So you’re not fishing for answers for the prosecution.”
Dr. Wilson stared at him. “What do you think? Unless you are planning to hurt yourself or another, this conversation is protected.”
“All right, then.” He shook his head. “No. I’ve stressed Lei out enough. Continuing with our plan seems crazy.”
“Lei’s a big girl. She can make up her own mind.”
“Speaking of. Something that bothers me. Why did Anchara let herself get pregnant that last time with me? She was on birth control, and we hadn’t slept together in months. She seduced me that morning. She was saying goodbye. She knew what she was doing.”
“I don’t know, and sadly, she’s not here to ask.”
“Anchara never told me she was pregnant, and we were in touch on email, just little monthly updates. It seems like she might have got pregnant deliberately, and kept my son from me.” He could feel his heart thudding, the heat of anger flushing his body a second time. “I think she was going to tell me she was pregnant—she’d emailed me that she had something important to say—but it was right before she was killed.”
“It’s unlikely she planned to get pregnant, but you could have worked this out with her if she’d been alive. Maybe she forgot her birth control. Maybe she decided to keep the baby for religious reasons. Any number of reasons, actually. Women who don’t tell a man he’s a father generally don’t want the complication that relationship will bring into their lives, especially if things ended badly.”
“They didn’t end badly. But they definitely ended.” Stevens inserted the crib’s legs into sockets on the bracket he’d attached to the wooden bottom and stood it up. They both gazed at the small, pretty bed. Empty. Just waiting to hold an infant.
“Evocative. Makes me feel emotional just looking at it,” Dr. Wilson said. “Been a long time since I’ve seen one of these up close and personal. What do you feel when you look at it?”
Stevens tightened the screws all around the legs one more time and finally sat back, looking at the crib. “What do I feel? Exhausted and scared. But some part of me really wants my son. The more I think about him, the more I want to see him. Hold him. Bring him home.”
“Tell me about the murder.”
He tossed the screwdriver down, still gazing at the crib. Trying to suppress the memories of Anchara’s last moments. “I can’t wait to be done telling this story.”
“That’s the thing about telling a story. The more you do, the easier it gets. The more it lets the poison out. Lei tells me you had a bad nightmare last night.”
He went into the kitchen. Held up the coffeepot. She shook her head. He refilled his mug, remembered he hadn’t eaten last night, and brought an apple back to the couch. He bit into it, tasting the juice, hearing the crunch of the fresh, firm fruit. “Life. It’s so sweet, and over so quickly.”
“You’re thinking of Anchara’s death.”
“Her life was stolen from her. Her child, ripped out of her womb.” He bit again, chewed. His hand, holding the apple, trembled. He told the story again, and this time, describing the bed, he frowned, remembering the odd length of sheet hanging out from under her body. “I think there was something there I didn’t notice at the time.”
“Will you let me hypnotize you? We can really walk through the scene. There might be clues there for the investigation, for your peace of mind. I can also leave you with some suggestions about letting go of your responsibility for what happened. You didn’t kill her.”
“I might as well have.” He stood again. Keiki whined, watching him, brown eyes worried. “I want a drink. You want one?”
“No, thanks. It’s ten in the morning.”
“No shit? Well, that never stopped my mom, and I’m beginning to understand the appeal.” He went to the sideboard, splashed scotch into his coffee mug. “I guess we can try the hypnotizing. Will I remember what we talk about?”
“Only if you want to.”
“No, thanks. Can you make me forget the whole thing ever happened? What I saw?”
“No, but you can be free from the flashbacks.” Dr. Wilson shook her head, got up from the couch. “I don’t do party-trick hypnosis. I do the kind that you are in control of and that helps heal. I’ll tape it, though, so you can decide if you want to listen to it and see if there’s anything you forgot at the scene that might help the investigation.”
“But I don’t have to give it to them if it implicates me, do I?” He was pretty sure he hadn’t done anything wrong, but it never hurt to be cautious in the position he was in.
“Of course. You’ll own the recording.” She took out a small recorder and held up a tiny cassette tape. “One copy of this, okay? And it belongs to you. Now, why don’t you lie down on the couch, and I’ll sit in the chair.” She took the armchair facing the TV and turned it toward the couch.
Stevens swigged down the coffee and scotch, grimacing at the taste, and lay down, shoving a pillow under his head. His legs were so long that they hung off the end of the sofa. “I’ll do anything to get rid of the flashbacks from the scene.”
“And you no longer need to experience that trauma. That’s right.” Her voice had settled in to a lower register, soothing as his mom’s hand on his brow when he’d been a sick child. “Notice your breath. Slow it down. You don’t have to be anything to anyone right now. Just notice your breath. Breathing in relaxation, breathing out the tension. Relaxing. You’re safe now. Nothing bad will happen here. You will remember as much, or as little, as you want to.”
Stevens felt his body sink bonelessly into the couch, and his eyes closed.
Chapter Twelve
Lei got a call, the radio on her dash crackling to life, on the way back to the station after dropping Dr. Wilson off with Stevens. “Oh-four at Vineyard Street in Wailuku. G-15 and 16, respond.”
Oh-four was a murder. Just what she needed—a heavy-duty new case, with all that was going on. “Ten-four, responding and heading to the scene,” she said into the handset.
“Roger that. G-16 incoming,” Torufu’s voice confirmed.
Lei hoped like hell there were no new bomb threats today. Yesterday’s relatively simple shell retrieval had taken all day, and meanwhile, the cases kept coming.
The modest, locally run inn on Vineyard Street didn’t look like the kind of place for a murder. The landlady, an older Portuguese woman wearing a fuchsia muumuu and a pair of bright pink Crocs, was scolding the officers securing the scene when Lei walked up. “I have other guests, you know, and they have to get to their rooms! This is bad for business!”
“Murder is, generally, bad for business, especially for the victim,” Lei said as she walked up to the landlady. “I’m Sergeant Texeira. We’ll work as hard as we can to make sure the premises are safe for all your guests. Did you discover the body?”
“Yes!” She pointed to the upper floor of the two-story, false-fronted wooden building, one of several on the hundred-year-old street that had a feel of the old west. “Our apartment is up there. We heard a disturbance last night, yelling, thumping. My husband wen’ shout downstairs that he was goin’ call the cops if it didn’t stop. The noises stopped, but when I went down, I found the guest all bus’ up, lying on the floor.”
Lei had her notebook out. She collected Claudine Figueroa’s name, contact information, approximate time of the disturbance, name of the victim, a Norm Jorgenson, who’d paid in cash. She noted every detail she could get, while keeping an eye out for Torufu. Her partner finally arrived, at a jog.
The officer who’d responded to the call handed over the log for them to sign in. “Messy in there. You might want to wear booties.”
L
ei had brought her crime kit, and she bundled her hair into a ponytail to keep her own hairs from contaminating the scene. She slid blue paper booties on over her shoes and snapped on gloves, picking up her kit. “Dr. Gregory on his way?”
“He’s been called,” Torufu confirmed. Lei recapped the landlady’s story as they walked down a creaky wooden hall with closed doors on either side. Dim lighting barely chased the shadows away. “Seems like a low-rent kind of place, but it’s got historic atmosphere.”
“It’ll have more after this,” Torufu said.
They arrived at the victim’s doorway, crossed with crime-scene tape, another officer guarding it. He admitted them. Lei’s nostrils crinkled at the powerful smell of blood, a sweetish metallic odor that she’d always thought had a texture to it. Today it was almost unbearably strong to her. She wished she’d brought Vicks to put under her nose.
The victim was facedown on the wooden floor, and even from where they were standing, they could see the back of his head was bashed in. Blood spatter had flown off the murder weapon to decorate the walls and ceiling in a crisscrossing pattern of blood droplets and chunks of brain.
This was worse than Lei had braced herself for, and her stomach did an uneasy somersault. Lei’s shoe crunched on something as she moved forward. She stopped and bent to retrieve it. A shard of skull the size of a silver dollar reminded her of a chunk of coconut shell with the hairy husk still attached. She stopped where she stood, took out the camera, photographed the fragment, then picked it up carefully by a hair and set it next to the body.
Torufu put his hands on his hips. “Anger in this scene.”
“Seems pretty brutal.” She worked her way in closer to the body. The man’s clothes were good-quality sportswear, and he wore lightweight European hiking shoes. She could tell he’d been physically fit, though the muscles had begun to assume the shapelessness characteristic of the dead.
“Someone didn’t like the vic, that’s for sure.” Torufu looked through the man’s possessions. “Check this out.” He held up a metal toolkit, a yellow plastic case. “I think this is one of those hand-held jacks they use for mining and such. Expensive.”