5 The Elemental Detective

by Kirsten Weiss

  “Who do you suspect, then?” Donovan asked.

  “The most aggressive gang is led by a fellow named Kimo Kalani.”

  Riga arched a brow. “Gang?”

  Townsend tilted his head. It gleamed in the sunlight. “Technically, not a gang. More like a band of merry men. Some of their encounters with our responders have been… threatening.”

  “How threatening?” Riga said. “Verbally? Physically?”

  “Both, but they’re clever, use double meanings, use their size and body language to intimidate rather than their fists. It’s never enough to file charges, not that the police would do much anyway.” Townsend’s expression grew pinched.

  “The police aren’t sympathetic?” Donovan asked.

  “Oh, they are, just not to the plight of the seals. The seals are being assassinated – there’s no other word for it. And they’re federally protected.”

  “Where can we find Kimo?” Riga asked.

  Townsend blotted his head with the napkin. “Somewhere in the Koloa area, though I don’t know why you’d want to bother. He’s got a restaurant and fishing boat.”

  A boat sped past and the crush of the waves grew louder.

  “Any other suspects?” Riga asked.

  He laughed politely. “You sound like a detective.”

  “I am.” She watched for his reaction but he merely shrugged.

  “It could be anyone,” he said. “Kimo and his buddies are just at the top of the list. The seals have many enemies on the island. But why are you two so interested?”

  “I’m considering buying Dennis’s hotel,” Donovan said. “Finding his body on the beach beside the seal highlighted another angle I need to consider. Are there any other environmental issues I should be aware of?”

  Townsend mopped his head with a cocktail napkin. “Dennis did a good job creating a sustainable resort, but really, there shouldn’t be a hotel there at all. The more hotel rooms, the more people, the more pressure on the local environment – and not just to the seals. If I had my way, I’d turn back the clock. But I can’t, so all I can do is advocate for sustainable development, so we don’t ruin the very thing people come so far to enjoy. I suppose I stand with the local hippy colony on that one.”

  Riga took a sip of her drink. “Hippy colony?”

  “They live out along the Na Pali coast,” Townsend said. “They’re quite remarkable, actually, living off the land, only bringing in the supplies they can carry on their backs.”

  Donovan glanced at Riga. “We’re heading out to the trail after lunch.”

  “I hope you’re not going to try to hike the entire trail. It’s at least a two-day march in, and the trail becomes treacherous quickly, especially now during the rainy season. There’s another, shorter trail to a waterfall I’d recommend for day hikers. There’s also a cave near the trailhead, which is supposed to be haunted by menehunes, our local little people, if you’re interested in that sort of thing. But if you’d like to learn more about the ecology…” Townsend launched into a dissertation on the sad state of the environment, the Aquatic Protection Society, and its desperate need for funding.

  Riga’s gaze drifted to the beach. Something glinted at the edge of her awareness and she turned her head sharply, but saw only waves, sand, beachgoers in swimsuits and floppy hats. She relaxed her gaze, probed outward with her other senses. A psychic door slammed shut, cold, hard, and she winced.

  A familiar-looking Hawaiian shirt fluttered across the beach, caught like a kite in the breeze. The kupua. Dammit. He’d blocked her probing. She swallowed her pride, vowing to ask him how he’d done it next time they met.

  Townsend leaned across the table. “Are you all right?”

  “I just realized my glass was empty,” Riga said.

  “A crisis easily averted.” Donovan motioned to the waitress, then returned his attention to Townsend. “You were saying about the sea turtles?”

  *****

  The parking lot at the Kalalau trailhead was full, but Donovan maneuvered the Ferrari between two Jeeps on the street, across from a shallow, wide-mouthed cave. He extracted a backpack from the trunk and slung it over his shoulders.

  “Last chance to back out,” he said. “This is one of the most dangerous trails in the United States.”

  “Are you suggesting I’m unfit for duty?” She’d heard enough warnings about this trail along the Na Pali coast and had no intention of cutting short her honeymoon with a slide down a rock cliff. On the other hand, she hadn’t been regularly working out for over a month. Riga tucked some bottles of water in her satchel, and slung it diagonally across her chest.

  “I’m suggesting we probably got a better view of the coast from the boat, and this trail sounds like a lot of work, especially during the rainy season. It’s going to be a muddy mess.”

  “You’re not afraid of a little exercise, are you?”

  He grinned. “I can think of better workouts for our honeymoon. And there are other leads we can follow. This seems a bit thin.”

  “Exactly.” This is what it meant to be a metaphysical detective – following coincidences, hunches, the unusual. “I just have a feeling that shaman wants us here, and it’s somehow connected to this case.” She also suspected they might owe the tiny man. There had been magic yesterday along that coast – something had attacked them, and something had defended. The diminutive shaman had been there and something else, higher up, where the trail should have been. She badly wanted to know what that magic had been.

  She glanced at the cave. Two tourists in shorts and t-shirts stood inside, pointing at the ceiling. One snapped a photo, illuminating the slick, black rock with his flash.

  Donovan nudged her. “The menehune cave, you think?”

  “If it is, I’m not getting any vibes off it.” Just an odd sense of resignation. Probably sick of the parade of visitors, she thought wryly.

  They trekked along the road and past a kiosk to the red-dirt trail.

  When she stepped on the path a wave of energy flowed through her feet, a current that raced to the roots of her hair.

  “Did you feel that?” Donovan asked.

  Now this was magic, she thought, the magic of the earth, the magic of a place, and her heart leapt with excitement. “Donovan…”

  A muscular Polynesian in a loincloth materialized ahead of them, his form translucent.

  A hiker brushed past her and walked through the ghost. Oblivious, he shrugged the backpack on his shoulders, hurried forward, and staggered sideways in the mud.

  “You were right,” Donovan said. “There is magic here. Big magic.”

  Around the bend in the trail they saw more ghosts marching. Suddenly, she felt like an intruder.

  “We should ask permission,” she said in a low voice.

  “Nonsense. We belong here. Can’t you feel it?” He grasped her hand and they started off.

  But she couldn’t feel what Donovan did, and that disturbed her.

  The uneven trail was slick and climbed quickly through lush foliage. Riga slipped and clung to Donovan for support, sending a silent request for safe passage to whoever might be listening. Mud spattered Riga’s legs, and as she struggled up the hill, she found it difficult to admire the exotic climbing vines winding around thick tree trunks. She’d seen plenty of ghosts in her day, but the ghostly marchers unnerved her with their sheer, noiseless numbers. Some of the spirits wore skirts and capes of Ti leaves, but many were naked. All were barefooted.

  Water dripped from a wide leaf, splashing onto Riga’s cheek. The humidity which had been bearable at the beach clogged her lungs, and her shirt soon stuck unpleasantly to her skin. Several of the hikers who passed them in the opposite direction were covered in mud, and wearily, Riga predicted a mud bath was in her near future. The hikers going their way thinned out, defeated by the slick trail. But the ghosts tramped on by their sides, mute, determined.

  Donovan, surefooted, kept an easy pace, but Riga was gasping when they crested the first ridge and
glimpsed a slice of turbulent ocean in varying shades of blue. View followed upon view – the beach they’d left behind, the scalloped red-green cliffs and ocean, ocean, ocean.

  The trail leveled out after the first mile, and they paused beside a pandanus tree’s teepee of exposed roots. Riga dug the water bottles out of her bag and tossed one to Donovan.

  “This place is incredible,” she said, panting. She wiped the back of her hand across her forehead. It was a useless gesture, as both hand and head were covered in sweat. She wrenched the cap off and drank deeply. The bag had begun biting into her shoulder, and she’d rather drink the water than carry it.

  “It does have a certain feeling to it, doesn’t it?” he asked.

  Riga examined her legs. Her socks were coated with mud, and she was sure some of it oozed into her shoes. No, they had farther to go, and she couldn’t spare water to clean up, even though the sweat and muck left her itching like crazy. She replaced the bottle in her bag.

  Donovan took a sip, staring into the tangle of leaves and vines. He wasn’t even sweating, she thought crossly, and there was only a thin crust of mud near the soles of his boots. How the hell did he do that?

  He pointed. “There’s a heiau in there, one of the Hawaiian sacred places.”

  She peered into the dense brush. Saw nothing. “Where?”

  “Just past the ginger flowers. See the stones?”

  A line of ankle-high stones, jagged and uneven, disappeared beneath the greenery, nearly invisible. “How did you spot them?”

  He shrugged. “Good eye, I guess.”

  Rejoining the spirits of the dead, they moved on. They passed wild orchids and a battered, tsunami-warning sign, and then the trail descended. Donovan took her hand, steadying her when she slipped on a rock.

  He grinned. “Having fun yet?”

  “The views alone are worth it,” she said, sucking in air, hoping she sounded convincing. Donovan had been right – they were closeted in a jungle and the views from the boat had been more spectacular. But the trail had been her idea, and she’d be damned if she’d complain.

  A roar of water drifted up to them.

  They neared the bottom of the slope and the sound of rushing water grew louder.

  He frowned. “There’s supposed to be a beach around here somewhere.”

  They rounded a bend and the path ended in a fast-moving river.

  Riga balanced on a rock, hands on her hips, and caught her breath, relieved by the unscheduled break. They’d been hiking nearly two hours, and her knees ached from the strain of the downhill climb.

  Donovan crouched on a rock and placed his hand in the noisy torrent, snatched it away. “If this is the stream I think it is,” he shouted over the roaring water, “we’re at the end of the line. It’s moving too fast.”

  “What a shame,” she lied. “But it was lovely while it lasted.”

  Footsteps pounded behind her.

  “Look out,” a man snarled, knocking her sideways.

  She twisted, bracing herself, but the rocks slipped beneath her and she fell. Donovan shouted. Icy water clutched her legs, ripped her into the current. She bashed against a rock, and her knee exploded with pain. She grasped for something, anything, but the water moved too fast, and she was a helpless piece of driftwood caught in its flow. As she contemplated her fate (doomed), her mind had a moment of marvelous clarity and then one set of hands grasped her wrist. Another gripped beneath her shoulders, and she was dragged onto a rock beneath a broad-leafed banana tree.

  She untangled herself from her bag, strapped cross-ways over her shoulder and now near wrapped around her neck. Two men peered down at her: Donovan, white-faced and grim, and a shirtless twenty-something with a tangle of beard and a peeling tan.

  Panting, the stranger sprawled on the rock beside her. His feet were bare and muddy, broad and hairy. “Dude. That was, like, totally uncool.”

  Donovan ran his hands over her arms, her legs. Her knee was swollen, seeping blood, her palms raw. She trembled from the chill and damp.

  A muscle pulsed in Donovan’s jaw. “How badly are you hurt?”

  Cautiously, she flexed her knee. “Nothing’s broken.”

  “You were lucky,” the stranger said. “That guy was like, totally out of control.” He shifted forward into a squat and pointed to the other side of the creek, where a man with an expensive-looking pack and hiking gear clambered over rocks.

  Riga’s muscles tensed. Anger flared in her chest. The hiker must have known he’d knocked her into the raging river but he’d plowed onward, indifferent.

  Her fingers twitched and dark energy flowed through her. A rockslide would be easy work, tear him from the cliff, drive him into the river. And then…

  She blinked, shame flooding her face. God. What the hell was she thinking? She’d never used her magic for revenge.

  Donovan’s eyes narrowed, watching the man climbing the opposite slope. His lips peeled back in a snarl, and he started for the river.

  “Donovan,” Riga said.

  “He ain’t worth it man,” the stranger said. “If she was my lady, I’d be pissed too. But I’ve been hanging here for two days now waiting for the water to recede. That guy’s lucky he made it across. A woman drowned out here last month. Swept right out to sea.” He made a whooshing noise.

  “You know who he is?” Donovan’s voice was controlled, but Riga felt his fury, flowing from him in a black wave.

  “Nah, man. Just some tourist.” The stranger scratched at a mosquito bite on his shoulder. “But take my advice and chill. He’s got a bad attitude, and bad attitude’s got no place out here on the trail. The trail will eat you, man. With karma like that, he’s his own worst enemy.”

  She grasped Donovan’s hand.

  He looked down at her and blinked, shook his head, knelt beside her. “I don’t suppose you’ve got a first aid kit in that bag of yours?”

  “You know my motto: semper paratus.”

  Donovan smiled. “I think “always ready” is the Coast Guard’s motto.”

  “They can share.”

  Her bag was soaked. She dug past sodden towels and extracted a plastic container with a red cross on the lid. Thanks to the dunking, at least she was clean.

  Donovan took the tin from her hand. He paused, and reached across Riga, hand extended toward the stranger. “Thank you. The name’s Donovan.”

  He gripped the hand, let go. “Aw, it’s just life along the trail. I’m Trader.”

  “And this is my wife, Riga.”

  Trader tipped an imaginary hat.

  Donovan pawed through the tin, found a tube of lotion, and handed it to the man. “Here. Your need is greater.”

  Trader squinted at the label. “Itch be-gone! All riiiight. Told you – it’s all about the karma.” He unscrewed the top and rubbed it on the red bumps dotting his arms.

  Donovan smiled crookedly and splashed antiseptic on Riga’s knee.

  She flinched. “Mother… Mary that stings!”

  “Baby,” Donovan chided, his eyes glinting with humor.

  “Trader,” she said through gritted teeth, “how long have you been in Kauai?”

  His forehead wrinkled. “Just over a year, now. I live out at the other end of the trail.” He nodded to a duffle bag beneath a banana tree. “I’m bringing back supplies.”

  “Then you must know about the seal attacks,” she said.

  He nodded. “Too many people think it’s man against nature. But it’s just in their heads. Everything’s in your head, man. But your head is like, ginormous.” He knit his stained fingers together. “See, we don’t have to fight nature. We can, like, live in harmony. Killing seals ain’t right. They’re just seals, just swimming, just eating, just sleeping. The seals get it. And then… WHAM.” He slammed his open palm on the rock. “They’re dead. I’m just saying, it ain’t right.”

  Donovan taped gauze to Riga’s knee. “Is there any talk about who’s behind the killings?”

  He shrugged. “P
robably. But I don’t hear it. I keep myself to myself. I don’t like to listen to negativity. It gets in your head, and you can’t get it out.”

  “You say you’ve been waiting here for two days,” Donovan said. “How’s your food supply?”

  “There’s plenty of food out here. You just need to know where to look.”

  Donovan unzipped his pack, and drew out a baguette, round of cheese, and a bottle of wine, setting each on the rock. “We won’t be needing these. They’re yours if you want it.”

  He licked his lips, eyes fixed on the cheese. “Oh, hey man, I couldn’t take your food.”

  “Consider it karma.” Donovan shrugged, and tossed him the backpack. “May as well take this too.”

  “Thanks.” Trader jammed the food into the pack, and vanished into the brush.

  “I hope you don’t mind giving away our picnic,” he said in a low voice. “It seemed the least I could do after…” He rubbed his ear. “He got to you before I did.”

  “You sound jealous,” she joked.

  “I am. It’s my job to rescue you.”

  “I can’t wait to see how you’ll make up for this lapse.”

  Donovan examined her hands and swabbed them with more antiseptic. “Do you think you can stand?”

  She reached for him, and he helped her up. Gingerly, she put weight on her damaged leg. It throbbed dully. “I can walk out of here.”

  “Maybe. But it’s a steep trail, and you might make the injury worse. I’ll carry you.”

  “How? I am not letting you use a fireman-carry to get me out of here. That’s just uncomfortable. For me.” Donovan had been spry as a goat on the trail, but it was slick and messy. He was strong, but she couldn’t see how he’d manage carrying her.

  “Piggyback. I’ve had lots of practice with my nieces and nephews.”

  “I outweigh your nieces and nephews by… never mind by how much.”

  “I enjoy a challenge.” He turned around and bent at the knees. “Hop up.”

  She hesitated.

  “You’re not going to make me look foolish squatting here, are you?” he asked.

  She slung her bag over her back and pressed against him, her arms loose around his neck and chest. He grabbed her around the thighs, hefted her up.