by Cathryn Cade
Her warning had been the final match to the fire in Moke's belly.
This land was supposed to be his, not Timo's. It was supposed to be treated with care and respect for the riches Pele had given her islanders, not as a dump for a bitter old man and his loser pothead buddies.
Moke stripped off his work gloves and tossed them on the ground, then opened the cheap Styrofoam cooler he'd purchased with his groceries at the local market and pulled a water bottle from the melting ice inside. Tipping the bottle up, he drank deeply. He tossed it back into the cooler to recycle and pulled out another. Drinking this one more slowly, he surveyed the results of his morning's labors.
After he cleaned up the campsite, he'd also ripped out most of the weeds and vines that had taken over the garden and the outside of the house. Two piles of plant debris sat beside the trash.
The gardens looked a lot better now. With rich volcanic soils, frequent rains and water running down the mountains to be diverted wherever needed, plants grew fast and luxuriantly. Thus, every home from grass shack to gracious, luxury villa had gardens.
Not that anyone with eyes would call the Ahuelo homestead luxe. The view was priceless, but the house was so far down the luxury scale, it wasn't even on the scale.
This place where Moke had grown up was a shack with a couple of rooms, tin roof, and lanai all around. The shack's small size was no problem, with so much living here done outdoors. But after years of no upkeep, the little house had sunk into the same decay as the gardens. The rusty tin roof sagged, barely held up by rickety supports. The lanai held a couple of flimsy lawn chairs and a filthy barbecue.
And as for the inside of the house... Moke had stepped inside when he arrived, and he'd retreated, fast. Empty beer cans over-flowed the garbage, dirty dishes filled the kitchen. Cockroach paradise. He was pretty sure he'd heard rats scuttling for cover too.
The smell in there was even worse.
He hadn't bothered looking for his father in the bedroom. The dirt parking area beside the house, with room for a small pickup and boat on a trailer, was empty and had been since Moke arrived yesterday.
No surprise there—his dad was known for going fishing for days at a time, coming back when his fish cooler was full or his beer cooler empty. Timo also knew locals all along this coast, so he might stop in and stay the night with friends or family, or camp in a bay accessible only by boat or a hike over a lava field.
Moke was also not surprised when his dad failed to answer any of his calls or texts. He knew his dad had a cell phone, but Timo was as skilled at sliding away from confrontation with people as he was at fighting big fish.
But this time would be different. This time, Moke wasn't leaving until he confronted his father face to face and got what he flew thousands of miles out here for—his birthright.
And he wanted it more than ever now. If his father was this far into the bottle or the weed, that he'd let their home become a dump like this, there was no guarantee the place wouldn't be condemned as a toxic waste site by the next time Moke came around. Which would mean even more work to fix the place up.
No guarantee that Timo himself would be alive by then, either. Moke scowled to himself as he pulled his gloves back on. He might be pissed as hell at his dad, but he didn't wish him dead. He just wasn't sure Timo shared this wish.
The rumble of a vehicle penetrated the damp stillness of the afternoon. Moke tensed, his big muscles going taut, his gloved hands curling into fists. If this was Timo, or the squatters, he was ready. More than ready.
Though, this approaching vehicle was new, from the smooth note of the engine.
Above the edge of the property, behind a screen of giant leaf philodendrons, banana trees and vines, ran the Queen Ka'ahumanu highway. Affectionately known as the Queen K by locals, it was the main arterial on this south-west coast. To dive off, and navigate the steep, rutted road down to the Ahuelo place, a driver had to have nerves of steel and four-wheel drive.
The arriving driver would be either a local who knew this place was here, or a tourist who was lost. Likely not the squatters, in a new vehicle.
As he watched, a gleaming Toyota pickup eased over the brow of the hill and bumped slowly down the steep drive toward him. Since Moke couldn't see the driver through the shaded windows, he waited till the silver truck eased to a stop behind his own rental, a bright red Ford F150.
The truck door opened, and a long arm emerged in a wave. Heavily muscled, the skin even darker than Moke's, and covered in tribal tattoos. A local, then, that was cool.
Then, as a big Hawaiian stepped out of the Toyota, Moke's bad mood dissipated in a grin that started deep and broke out on his face.
Moke's size, the visitor was cut as roughly as the a'a lava that ran in black streaks down from the volcano. His ebony hair was pulled back in a bundle of braids, his tough face half hidden behind a short beard and mustache. He wore gray shorts and a blue tank, sandals on his feet.
"Daniel Ho'omalu," Moke called. "Whatchu doing way up here, instead of down at Nawea playing in the water?"
The other man held out his hand as he approached, and they clasped hands. "Aloha. Came to see if rumor was true. My old friend Moke Ahuelo back on da island? Had to see for myself." The local's tough face relaxed in a smile, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners. "Good to see you, brah. Long time. Too long."
"You too," Moke said, smiling back. "Man, good to see you too." Moke had grown up with Daniel and his younger brother, been friends with them all through school. The big, close-knit Ho'omalu family had been, to him, a shining glimpse at what a family could be.
Daniel looked around at the evidence of Moke's labors and scowled thunderously. "Holy hell, brah. This is worse than I thought."
"You heard, huh?" This didn't surprise Moke. The coconut telegraph worked fast, and the Ho'omalu family had always had ears and eyes on everything local. They were downright eerie that way.
"Heard Timo's been gone a lot. And that some 'friends' of his moved onto the place." Daniel shook his head. "Haven't had time to come see for myself. Sorry you had to come home to this, brah. Looks like you been working hard."
"Couldn't stand to look at it. Figured I might as well work while I wait for Timo to get back."
"You're not staying here, are you?"
Moke snorted. "You’d seen the inside of da shack, you wouldn't ask. Can hardly walk in there, he's got so much trash piled." Not to mention the smell.
"We heard dat too. Your cousin Lele's been working down at Nawea."
Huh. Moke hadn't seen Lele, or Moleleana, since she was a chubby kid. She must be sixteen, seventeen by now. Her mother was Moke's auntie on his mother's side.
"That's good. Your family's doing okay?"
Daniel's eyes twinkled. "All fine. Though, I'm a papa now, gotta behave."
"No ways. Really?"
Daniel looked smug. "Got a little boy, and another on the way. David has two keikis already." He chuckled at the look on Moke's face. "You don't believe me, come down and see for yourself. In fact, you need somewhere to stay while you're here? We got lots of room. No tour groups in. We're all headed over to Maui tomorrow for the art festival, but come on down, go for a swim, eat supper with us. Spend the night."
Moke's mood lifted. "Mahalo. I'll do the first two, anyway."
"Good. Come anytime you can get away. Supper at seven, but da moana always open for a swim or a snorkel, yeah?"
"Mahalo. I'll take you up on that." Hawaiian hospitality was not to be turned down.
The whine of another motor, this one small and poorly maintained, penetrated the quiet afternoon. Daniel turned, and Moke watched with grim anticipation as a sun-scalded, red Honda Civic with two banged-up surfboards on top bumped down the drive toward them.
"Ah," Daniel said, crossing his massive arms over his chest. "Looks like da cockroaches are back for their garbage, yeah?"
"Yeah," Moke said. "And I'm gonna geev 'em."
Daniel shot him a look. "You take any pictures
? Of the mess, I mean. Might be good to have."
"Great idea," Moke said. "I'll get my phone outta the truck."
"I got this," Daniel said. "I'll message them to you." He pulled a phone from a pocket of his shorts and began snapping pictures of the trash piles, and of the ground where they'd camped.
The Honda lurched to a stop, and both doors opened. Two sunburned males, one a beefy blond, the other a lean redhead, both with long, Rastafarian-style braids and scraggly facial hair, erupted from the little car. They wore dirty shorts and flip-flops.
Both their mouths and eyes were wide as they gaped at the pile of their belongings, then at Moke and Daniel.
"Hey!" The blond roared, waving his arms as if Moke was far away across a field. "What the fuck, dudes? You can't just come in here and mess with our camp."
"Yeah," echoed the redhead indignantly. "That's our stuff."
"Then you shouldn't have left it where it don't belong," Moke said. His deep voice carried clearly through the quiet afternoon air.
The blond stuck out his chin pugnaciously, his face scarlet with anger. "Does so belong here. We got permission. Who the fuck’re you, anyways?"
Moke's lip curled. "I'll tell you who I am. I'm the owner of this property. The owner whose permission you don't have."
The blond puffed out his chest, adorned with cheap shell necklaces. "You ain't the owner. That's Timo, an' he's our bud. He said we can stay long as we want."
Daniel held up his phone and snapped pictures of the two and their beat-up car. The blond glared at him too.
"Yeah, there's s'posed to be some primo waves this week," the redhead said hopefully. "We're surfers."
Moke eyed them with disbelief. "Do I look like I care if you catch any waves? Does my friend here look like he cares?"
Their eyes darted from one Hawaiian to the other. The redhead blanched under his sunburn. "Um... no?"
The blond swallowed, as if he had belatedly realized that Moke and Daniel were both bigger than him and his friend put together, and neither were friendly. He backed toward the car, scowling. "Fine, then. We're outta here. The place is all yours."
"Wait, our stuff, man," the redhead protested.
"That's right," Moke agreed. "You don't wanna leave without all your shit. Go ahead, grab it."
The two hustled over to the pile of their belongings. The redhead bent to pick up a pile of stuff, which Moke had bundled up in an awning. He blinked, sniffed, then scuttled away to the car to stuff the things into the back seat. The blond did the same with the other pile.
Which left their trash.
"Get that, too," Moke ordered.
The blond gave Moke a look of disgust. "No, man. That's just garbage. You can put it with your yard waste, there." He waved carelessly at Moke's piles of weeds and vines.
The redhead nodded but stayed on the other side of the Honda.
Moke brandished his shovel and moved to the car. "Oh, you're gonna take it—all of it. That is, if you wanna drive your POS car outta here. You see, I'm an auto mechanic. I know how to mess up this car so it'll never run again, and I can do it in a minute flat. Den you'll be on foot."
The redhead's mouth fell open. "That's a really shitty thing to say, man. I thought Hawaiians were s'posed to be all aloha."
"Yeah, Timo is," the blond echoed. "You... it's like you're not even Hawaiian."
These two were unbelievable. Daniel Ho'omalu agreed, judging by the low growl that rumbled in his chest as he prowled forward to stand near their car, looking every inch the warrior from which he was descended.
"Oh, we're Hawaiian all right," Moke said. "When you're friendly, you get aloha. This? This is what you get when you move in and squat on my property, and shit in my yard. Now you clean it up. Or I make you."
Cursing and mumbling, the two squatters gathered their trash and stuffed it hastily in the trunk, grimacing as they did so. The redhead looked like he might be sick. Moke knew just how he felt.
Then they slammed into the car and gunned it back up the drive. When they were a few feet away, they both stuck their arms out their windows, middle fingers extended.
"Now that just hurts my feelings," Daniel observed. "No aloha from them either, you know?"
" No kidding. Thanks for standing with me. You weren't here, I might've lost it with those two. Bad enough I gotta clean up after Timo's bad decisions. I don't wanna spend my time here in jail."
Daniel raised a brow at him. "Jail? Brah, if you don't remember how we get rid of bodies here, you been gone too long. Shahk bait."
Moke eyed him. "I'd ask if you're serious, but I don't really wanna know."
Daniel's dark eyes twinkled. "What'd you do to their stuff? You had a certain look in your eye when they were packing up, brah."
"Oh, did I forget to say? My shovel slipped when I was cleaning up the latrine they dug in our garden. Guess some of it landed on their camp equipment, so I wrapped it up in there. Like I told 'em, don't wanna leave their shit behind."
The other man tipped back his head and laughed, a deep sound of unfettered mirth. Moke joined in. "Just wish I could be there to see the look on those two buggah's faces when they open up their gear later," he managed, and then had to bend over and brace his hands on his knees as he guffawed.
"Knew I liked you," Daniel said, when they'd both calmed down. "See you later at Nawea, yeah?"
"Yeah. Wouldn't miss it."
"Good. Bring your swim trunks and your appetite. David's wife is a real chef. I could eat her grinds fo' days."
That sounded even better. Good company and good food? He hadn't had those since he left home.
Daniel strode to his pickup, and stepped in. As he drove away, he reached an arm out the window as the two squatters had. But he waggled his hand with thumb and pinky finger extended. The shaka sign, the friendly all clear.
Moke waved back and watched the truck bump back up the steep road. When the shiny silver tailgate disappeared over the rise, he got back to work. And since his phone was now charged via the rental truck battery, he thumbed to one of his many online music stations, slapped on his headphones and loaded the pickup bed to the hard-rocking music of the Scorpions.
Didn't make him forget why he was here, but it improved his mood a whole lot while he got back to work, getting this little corner of paradise back to the way it should be.
Free of squatters, thieves and any other intruders not approved by himself.
CHAPTER FOUR
One of the advantages of working the morning shift at a home-style cafe was that people were mostly intent on fueling up for their day with food, caffeine and their version of the news. Thus, they were quieter, and they might be grouchy but at least they weren't drunk.
And, many bought a newspaper from the stand in the front entryway of the cafe, read the articles they were interested in, and then left the paper behind.
On her break, Shelle liked to peruse USA Today and the local papers. This way she could catch up on celebs, interesting bits of world and national news, and the local news.
A few days after her annoying and somewhat scary drive up Slamamish River to deliver the wallet, she sat on a stool at the cafe counter eating a sausage rolled up in a pancake, each bite dipped in a puddle of syrup.
A headline in the Seattle paper caught her eye. 'Local King County DP Disappears; Police Suspect Foul Play'. Apparently, Craig McFarland, who worked in the King County Prosecutor's office, had left his office in the King County courthouse in downtown Seattle at noon on Friday, having told his secretary he would walk to a local eatery a few blocks away, for lunch with his wife.
He never arrived. And given his job, the police were immediately notified and put on alert.
Anyone with information on his whereabouts was asked to call a special tip hotline. A reward was offered for information leading to his whereabouts.
Shelle glanced at the accompanying photo of a slim, clean-cut blond guy in a classy suit, and frowned. Hmm, she'd seen him somewhere before. S
he thought about it and shrugged. Probably just on the local news another time. His was a high-profile job.
She read on. McFarland was involved in building a case against local businessman Darius Albany, who was suspected of, among other things, selling hard drugs. Ugh.
"Hey, girl, whatcha readin'?" Tawny demanded, leaning on the other side of the counter, arms crossed.
"Who's Darius Albany?" Shelle asked, picking up her coffee cup to take another drink. She'd heard that name before, recently.
Tawny's smile disappeared, and her dark brows shot together. "Why you wanna know about him? That mo-fo is bad news, even if he is a brother. Into some bad shit, according to Darren's pals on the force." Tawny's husband Darren was an ex-Army medic who now worked as a Seattle-area EMT. He had many friends in emergency and law enforcement.
"You don't wanna have nothin' to do with Albany," Tawny added for emphasis. "Nuh-uh, nope."
The hair stood up on the back of Shelle's neck. "Really? Oh, my God."
"Let's hope the Big Guy's listenin', 'cause according to what I heard, Albany is the devil."
Shelle shuddered. "Wow. How do guys like him manage to operate when the cops are after them?"
"Fancy lawyers, girlfriend. Even when they're guilty as sin, they get off on some technicality."
Shelle looked at the newspaper a last time. "And they get rid of anyone who comes after them, it looks like. This attorney from the prosecutor's office is missing."
She frowned at the photo again.
"Hey, you two mind giving a girl a hand?" Ronelle called as she hurried by with laden plates. "Gettin' busy."
Tawny straightened. "Looks like we're into the late breakfast slash early lunch rush."
"Okay," Shelle slid off her stool, sucking a last drop of syrup from her lower lip, and carried her plate around to a bus tray. She used a napkin to make sure her face was syrup free, and got back to work, her mind on her customers and their needs and wants.