Spider Bones

by Kathy Reichs

  “How long did you treat Mr. Kealoha following his discharge?”

  “Until removal of the cast. Though advised to continue therapy, the patient kept no appointment after that. During his final visit, he complained of slight residual subtalar joint stiffness.”

  “Do you have Mr. Kealoha’s X-rays?”

  Tight nod.

  “May we compare Mr. Kealoha’s left lower leg films to those taken from our unknown?”

  Utagawa rose and strode to a wall-mounted light box. Perry and I followed. A large black square had already been clamped into place.

  As Utagawa flipped the switch to illuminate the fluorescents, Perry withdrew her X-ray and popped it beside that which Utagawa had ordered in 2003. Utagawa straightened both.

  We all looked from antemortem to postmortem and back, and back again, comparing details of bony architecture and microstructure.

  Everything matched. The shape and robusticity of the malleolus. The diameter and contour of the medullary cavity. The density and orientation of the trabeculae. The number and positioning of the foramina.

  The size, depth, location, and angulation of the traction pinhole.

  “Oh, my.” Utagawa spoke for all of us.

  Minutes later, Perry and I were wending through the parking deck. She now carried two large brown envelopes.

  “Lô and Hung plan to canvass Gloria Kealoha’s neighbors?” I asked. “See if Francis was known in the neighborhood?”

  “They’re on it as we speak. If someone recalls Kealoha dropping from the radar, maybe they’ll remember a pal vanishing at the same time. A twofer would make my job a hell of a lot easier. And God knows I could use a break. My ass is in a sling over the Halona Cove closing.”

  “Who’s unhappy?”

  “Everyone.”

  Wishing Perry luck, I headed to my car.

  There seemed little point in returning to the CIL. Ryan and Lily were in Turtle Bay.

  I dialed my daughter’s cell.

  Katy was pumped. Her new blog post had stimulated a lot of response. She wanted to stay with it for a couple more hours, then she’d be up for some beach time.

  Oahu’s windward shore stretches about forty miles from Kahuku Point in the north to Makapu’u Head in the south. Lanikai lies roughly three-quarters of the way down, between Kaneohe Bay and Waimanalo Bay.

  I considered a moment. Decided.

  Instead of shooting west on the Pali then down, I’d take the long way home, circling the island’s southernmost tip, then looping back north. The views would be spectacular and, with luck, might include whales. Or some buff boy surfers.

  But kohola and naked kane weren’t the only draws. The route would also take me past Halona Cove, the inlet where Francis Kealoha’s ankle had been recovered. I’d been there before but taken little note of the landscape. I was curious to view the location in person.

  After buckling up, I exited the parking deck and eased into traffic.

  Bypassing Waikiki, I pointed the Cobalt toward Diamond Head and slipped through a neighborhood of opulent homes. Kahala. The Lapasa family turf.

  Past Kahala, the H-1 dwindles to a narrow two-laner called the Kalanianaole Highway. Highway 72. The day was Hawaiian tropic perfect. I lowered the window and let the wind play with my hair.

  I followed the Kalanianaole past Hawaii Kai, Hanauma Bay, and Koko Head, stopping at every scenic marker along the way. Forty minutes out, I pulled into an overlook near Makapu’u Beach Park and got out of my car. Two dozen vehicles crammed the small lot.

  To the right, the craggy cliffs of Makapu’u Point rose in the distance. To the left, tourists circled the Halona Blowhole, cameras poised, willing the capricious waterspout to make an appearance.

  Far below, off the southernmost railing, lay Halona Cove, a golden crescent cradled in the palm of towering black cliffs. From Here to Eternity Beach.

  Not a single greased body lay on the sand. Not a single bronzed boarder rode Halona’s waves. Newly erected signs blocked the narrow path snaking down the cliffside. Kapu! Forbidden!

  I stood a moment, wondering how Francis Kealoha and his unnamed companion had ended up in the cove. Had they picked their way down the rugged trail to swim? To fish? Had they died elsewhere, then their bodies washed in and been trapped among the rocks? Had the sharks attacked when the men were still alive? Had they scavenged following some deadly turn of events?

  I had no answers. But, oddly, I felt better having visited the site.

  Past Makapu’u Point, I skirted Waimanalo Bay; at three and a half miles, Oahu’s longest uninterrupted stretch of sand. Makai, oceanward, waves thundered toward a rocky shoreline, sunlight sparking the curves of their backs. Makau, inland, the mountains rose cool and green, as though posing to inspire a Monet or Gauguin.

  I was stealing peeks at a line of surfers when I felt a bump and the Cobalt lurched.

  My foot hit the brake. My eyes jumped to the rearview mirror.

  A black SUV was riding my tail. Its windshield was tinted and afternoon sun bounced from the glass.

  I squinted, trying to see the vehicle’s occupants. Two hulking silhouettes suggested a male driver and companion.

  “Well, aloha to you too.” Glaring into the rearview, I lowered my speed.

  The SUV dropped back.

  My eyes returned to the road.

  Seconds later, I felt another bump, this one harder than the first.

  Through my open window, I heard an engine roar.

  Again, my eyes sought the mirror, my foot the brake.

  Horrified, I saw the SUV swerve wide, then cut back and smack my driver’s-side rear quarter-panel.

  The taillight shattered.

  The Cobalt’s back end shot right.

  Anger fired through me, swiftly replaced by fear as the right rear tire dropped from the pavement.

  Death-gripping the wheel, I fought for control.

  No good. The left tire dropped.

  The world hitched sideways as I spun.

  The SUV was disappearing up the road to my right. A burly arm waved from the passenger-side window.

  Though not a precipice, the shoreline at this point was pitched and rocky. There was no guardrail.

  Surf pounded behind me.

  I eased off the brake and depressed the gas pedal.

  The engine whined, but the car didn’t budge.

  I pressed harder. The wheels spit gravel into the air.

  The Cobalt began a slow backward slide.

  HEART THUMPING, I FUMBLED AT THE SEAT BELT.

  The clasp slipped from my fingers.

  The car continued its backward slide, angling more sharply with each foot.

  Frantic, I tried again.

  The metal gizmo came up, snapped back into place.

  Crap!

  Willing calm into my trembling fingers, I carefully raised the faceplate.

  The lock clicked and the prongs slipped free.

  With a lurch, the rear axle dropped. The car picked up speed.

  Flinging the belt aside, I jerked up on the door handle.

  Too late!

  Metal crunched. The car plunged downward.

  Adrenaline shot through me.

  One second? Two? A thousand?

  The Cobalt’s trunk slammed rock, snapping my forehead into the wheel.

  The car balanced a moment, front grille pointed skyward.

  Thinking back, I remember vehicles pulled to the shoulder. Gawkers, eyes wide, mouths forming little round O’s. At the time, none of that registered.

  An eon ticked by, then, in slo-mo, the Cobalt toppled sideways into the sea.

  Gravity, or the impact, sucked me down. My spine slammed the gearshift, then the passenger-side door. Somehow, I remained conscious.

  Water soaked the back of my clothes, my hair. Above, through the driver’s-side window, I could see sky and clouds.

  Grabbing the steering wheel with my right hand and the seat back with my left, I dragged myself upward over the ce
nter console toward the driver’s-side door. The car wobbled.

  A voice screamed in my head.

  Get out!

  But how? Lower the half-open window?

  No power!

  Try to squeeze through?

  Get stuck, you’ll drown!

  Already, six inches of water filled the Cobalt’s down side.

  Open the door?

  Go!

  Desperate, I lifted the handle and pushed upward with both palms.

  My angle was off. Or my arms were too weak. The door wouldn’t budge.

  A gurgling sound filled my ears. I looked down.

  Eight inches.

  Think!

  My eyes scanned the small space in which I was trapped. Floating sunglasses. A map. No purse.

  Yes!

  Yanking the keys from the ignition, I wedged the door handle in the up position. Then, panting from exertion and fear, I arm-wrapped the steering wheel and seat back, flexed my knees, and kicked out with both feet.

  The door arced upward, swung back. Moving like lightning, I caught it before the lock could engage.

  The passenger seat was now half submerged.

  Muscling the door wide, I scrabbled through the opening and launched myself upward and outward.

  Free fall, then I hit. Salt water filled my mouth and ears. Closed over my head.

  I came up, gulped air. A wave broke, first battering me forward then sucking me back.

  Blinking and treading, I gauged the distance to shore. Only a few feet, but the surf was gonzo.

  Frantic, I swam a few strokes. Lost ground.

  Don’t fight the current! Go with it!

  Ignoring every instinct commanding me to swim, I rolled to my back. Aware that waves come in sets, I waited for lulls. Tested.

  Too deep.

  Too deep.

  Too deep.

  Finally, my feet touched bottom.

  I tried to stand, lost my footing on the algae-covered stones. A breaker threw me. Pain fired across one cheek and up one knee.

  I tried again.

  Again was tossed, this time pinned to a boulder. Waves pounded my body. I couldn’t break free. Couldn’t breathe.

  From nowhere, a hand gripped my arm. Strong.

  Another.

  With rubber arms and legs, I pushed from the rock. Stood in water up to my waist.

  Two strange faces. Male. Young.

  “You OK?”

  I nodded, gulping air.

  “Can you walk?”

  I nodded again.

  “Man, lady. That was quite a show.”

  “Mahalo,” I croaked.

  We picked our way shoreward.

  Once ashore, my rescuers insisted on calling an ambulance. I told them I was unhurt. They pressed. I refused, requested they phone the cops to report a single-car accident with no injuries.

  When the young men had moved off, I sat, willing control over my trembling limbs. My pounding heart. My harried adrenals.

  Again and again I asked myself what the hell just happened. How had a chain of events that started with an autoerotic death in Montreal almost gotten me killed on a highway in Hawaii? Was the accident linked to the Hemmingford pond victim? To Plato Lowery in Lumberton, North Carolina? To a case at the CIL? If so, which one? Lowery? Alvarez? Lapasa? To the fired anthropologist, Gus Dimitriadus? To the work I was doing for Hadley Perry? To the Halona Cove victim with the traction pin, Francis Kealoha? To his unknown companion? Or was the collision with the SUV just that, an accident? A case of wrong place, wrong time?

  When composure returned, I moved toward the gawkers. A young woman lent me her phone. Susie. Nice hair. Very bad teeth.

  Katy had no car. Danny was tied up at his arrival ceremony. Perry was being grilled by the powers that be.

  Hating it, I dialed Ryan.

  He went apeshit. As anticipated.

  “You think these tools forced you off the road on purpose?”

  “Probably. I felt three separate hits spaced apart.”

  “Did you recognize them?”

  “No.”

  “The vehicle?”

  “No.”

  “Did you get a tag number?”

  “No.”

  “Were they drunk?”

  “There wasn’t time for a Breathalyzer.”

  “You’re sure you’re not hurt?”

  “I’m fine.” For the fourth time. “But the Cobalt is toast.”

  “Shit. Lily just went out for an SUP lesson.”

  “SUP?”

  “Stand-up paddling. You float on a surfboard-looking thing and propel yourself with a paddle. Don’t ask me why. Anyway, she’s out of contact for another twenty minutes.” Agitated breathing. “Look, I can run down there, take you to Lanikai, shoot back up here—”

  “Where are you?”

  “Wailea.”

  “That’s at least an hour from here.”

  “Maybe I could—”

  “Ryan, it’s no biggie.”

  Actually, it was a real pain in the ass. I was soaked, my knee hurt like hell, my face was hash from the lava rock, and, obviously, I had no wheels and no wallet.

  “How will you get home?”

  “The cop probably has reams of forms I have to fill out. Maybe he’ll take pity on me. Or order a taxi.” If Samaritan Susie has left with her phone.

  “Would the rental agency send someone to pick you up?”

  “Right. I’m going to be très popular with Avis.” I was dreading that call.

  “The accident wasn’t your fault.”

  “They’ll be gratified to know.”

  “Yo?”

  I turned.

  The cop was shouting at me from outside his squad car. Older guy, probably fifty. Palenik. I was très popular with Officer Palenik, too. No ID. No license. Car resting in ten feet of water.

  “Your story checks out,” Palenik bellowed, to the interest of the onlookers. “How about we move this along?”

  “I’ll be right there,” I shouted back. To Ryan. “Look, I’ve got to go. I’ll see you at the house.”

  I was right. Tolstoy devoted less paper to War and Peace than the Honolulu PD does to a traffic accident.

  I was finishing the last form when a white Ford Crown Victoria made a U-ey and slid to a stop on our side. The shoulder was empty now, save for the cruiser in which Palenik and I sat.

  The Crown Vic’s driver got out and walked in our direction, hitching his pants. Which were white. His untucked shirt was aloha blue and red. His left hand gripped a gym bag.

  Based on size, I wasn’t sure if the guy was full grown.

  Palenik watched, never budging from behind the wheel.

  No alarm. OK. I was cool, too.

  Proximity resolved the question of age. Though standing five-three and weighing maybe 120 wet, up close our visitor’s face said he was in his forties. High cheekbones and hidden upper lids suggested Asian ancestry. Turquoise eyes and ginger hair suggested input from elsewhere.

  The man placed a forearm above the driver’s-side window, leaned on it, and spoke to Palenik.

  “Aloha, Ralph.”

  “Aloha, Detective.”

  Detective?

  “How’s it hanging?”

  “Can’t complain.”

  The turquoise eyes roved to me. “Dr. Brennan, I presume?”

  Palenik grinned. A first. “How long you been waiting to deliver that line?”

  “It’s nice when you can give an old classic your own spin.” Detective Nameless also grinned.

  My clothes were molded to my body. My makeup was soup on my face. My hair was hanging in salty wet tangles. My car was in the drink. I was not amused.

  “So, Ralph. We know who I am. We know who you are.” My frown slid from Palenik to the face hanging outside his window. “Perhaps an introduction is in order?”

  The men exchanged one of those smirky ain’t-testosterone-grand glances, then Detective Nameless straightened, rounded the cruiser, and ope
ned my door.

  “Ivar Lô.” A diminutive hand shot my way.

  Surprise made me blurt, “Hung and—”

  The hand was withdrawn. “My partner’s handling a domestic dispute.”

  “How did you know—”

  “Detective Ryan thought you might need dry clothes.” Lô tossed the gym bag onto my lap. “Sorry, no undies.”

  I should have been grateful. Instead, I felt peeved. And embarrassed.

  Lô circled back to Palenik. “Got a call from a guy on the job, homicide, Montreal. He’s stuck up on the North Shore. Asked me to deliver the little lady to a rendezvous point.”

  Deliver the little lady?

  “Her lucky day. She gets a little ride-along.”

  Lô smiled in my direction.

  Ride-along? Not only had Ryan kicked into shining knight mode, Lô was treating me like some dimwit TV viewer with cop fantasies. The old anger switch tripped in my brain.

  I reined it in. No reason to antagonize the little twerp.

  “I am perfectly capable of calling a taxi.”

  “And paying with what?”

  “I’m certain—”

  “You done with that form?”

  I handed the clipboard to Palenik.

  “Ryan says you come with me.” Lô was bending in, speaking to me.

  “Does he.” Tundra cold. “I do not need a ride-along, Detective Lô. I’ve spent a great deal of time on police investiga—”

  “You can change in my car.”

  “I have no intention—”

  “Wrecker’s on the way.” Palenik cut me off. Why not? Lô was doing it. “I’ll deal with the tow.”

  “I owe you, buddy,” Lô said.

  Palenik started his engine. Subtle fellow, Ralph.

  Clutching Lô’s gym bag, I got out of the cruiser and slammed the door. Hard.

  Lô pointed at the Crown Victoria. “I’ll wait here.”

  “And where will this little ride-along take me?” Barely civil.

  “Your partner’s meeting us in Kalihi Valley.”

  Oh?

  “I’ve got a CI says Francis Kealoha was murdered.”

  THE CROWN VIC’S INTERIOR SMELLED OF SOY SAUCE AND GARLIC.

  Lô drove like Ryan. Gun it. Brake. Gun it. Brake.

  Or maybe it was the gallon of ocean sloshing in my gut.

  Ten miles out, I felt queasy.

  I suspected I was wearing Lô’s clothes. The parrot shirt and waistband fit reasonably well, but the pants legs stopped three inches short of my soggy sandals.