by Kym Roberts
If he’d been here I might have been embarrassed. As it was, Mutt didn’t know about it. My casual trip to the sofa bed with the knife held close to my body in a white knuckled grip was met with wary eyes.
“Scoot over,” I ordered.
Mutt moved like a dog dragging its butt on the carpet.
I pulled out my bat and looked at my captive. Mutt’s lower lip pouted, but something else caught my attention. His right eye twitched.
Twitch. Twitch. Twitch.
His un-bandaged-but-not-so-scratch-free hand went up to rub the involuntary contraction. His hand shook. Mutt was in need of a fix.
Well, shit. My control probably had about a ten minute window before all hell broke loose.
Chapter Twenty-six
While waiting for the cavalry to arrive, I finally got most of the story out of Mutt. Apparently, he had an addiction to special K, or ketamine. It’s a controlled substance frequently used with marijuana or Ecstasy. In powder form, it can be used to lace another drug or a drink. In liquid form, it can be injected. Ketamine isn’t one of those drugs you mess around with. Besides being addictive, it causes mental illness and can cause fatal respiratory problems, but apparently the lure of the k-hole, a distorted vacuum that alters the user’s perceptions, was too much of a temptation for Mutt to resist.
MD supplied the drugs that Mutt needed to survive, while they killed him slowly from the inside out. MD scheduled jobs at night, stealing copper and anything he could find from different construction sites on the island to pay for his drugs. MD got Mutt his job at The Garden of the Gods. MD… killed Peter Johnson with a hammer. Daven Raines didn’t actually do the job, he just ordered it done.
And MD instructed Mutt to kill me.
As I held out a bag of ice for Mutt to apply to his nose, a part of me felt bad for him. Not a huge part, but a teeny tiny part way back in the recesses of my mind that could identify with the draw of the drug. I’d experienced a similar draw. The downright unstoppable, undeniable, all-consuming pull to get a fix, but my drug of choice had been Pai.
Was that what Mutt was feeling? If I’d had sex with Pai, would I be as miserable a human being as the one in front of me? Looking at Mutt was enough to make me abstain from sex for the rest of my life.
Maybe I should join a religious order. A convent. I’d seen reruns of The Flying Nun on TV. She was pretty cool, in an ultraconservative way. Could a nun wear a bikini and go surfing?
Right before my encounter with Mutt I’d experienced the exquisite high, then the horrible low of withdrawal. If I hadn’t been subjected to the intensity and appeal of an addiction, I probably wouldn’t have shown him any compassion. After all, his injuries were a hazard of the job he’d accepted as a would-be murderer.
When I’d felt the lure of the drug, I’d asked for help from Pai. When Pai became consumed by his ex-fiancée’s thoughts, emotions and drives mixed with his own he turned to his kapuna wahine. Peter Johnson had gone into rehab of his own accord because he’d recognized he was out of control.
Mutt sought out more drugs and turned to a life of crime. Strength of character was at play.
Makaio made it to my apartment in about five minutes. I heard the engine of his motorcycle splitting the peace of the night air. A rain of rocks struck more rocks and pinged off my scooter. His feet barely made any noise on his ascent to my apartment. I crossed the room and opened the door just in time to save it from his shoulder.
He stumbled in, gun at the ready, startled and breathing heavily. His chest rising and falling in a muscle shirt designed for his physique.
Damn, he was hot.
The muscles on his arms were sculpted, blood pumping their bulging contours up a notch. (What I wouldn’t give to watch him work out.) Makaio caught my sigh, his chest puffing out further. He strutted his masculinity for Mutt and his sexuality for me. I mentally smacked myself and hurt the cuts on the top of my head.
“Are you okay?” His eyes raked across my face before they reluctantly returned to Mutt.
“I am now. Thanks for coming.” The need for control no longer a necessity, I thankfully plopped down on the small bench next to my door before my legs shot out from underneath me. “Mutt was just telling me about how he was supposed to come here to kill me.” I was feeling powerful. I’d defeated my murderer.
“Have you checked him for weapons?” Even though he asked the question, I knew my answer didn’t matter. He was going to check him no matter what, and as much as I wanted to deny my stupidity, I had to warn Makaio. Another mental head slap. Ouch.
“No, but I will.” My willingness to help went on deaf ears.
“Lay flat on your stomach with your hands on the back of your head.”
Mutt’s eyebrows drew together as he pleaded for leniency. “Buth my nothe ith bro’en and my wristh ith cuth.”
Makaio’s gun raised a hair. His hands tightened around the grip. His jaw flexed. His voice deepened.
“Get on your stomach. Now.”
I prayed Mutt wouldn’t mess with him. If he did, he was going to lose. Real quick.
He didn’t. Slowly, he inched out flat and lay on his stomach. His bloody fingers intertwined on the back of his head.
My heart stopped. I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. Mutt’s shirt had risen with his arms extended to his head, and the black handle of a second knife stuck out of the rear of his waistband. I would have asked, ‘Who carries two knives?’ but my voice was gone. My body, aware of my deadly mistake, sent all my blood to my center mass. My fingers and toes disappeared in a sea of jellyfish stings. My inability to hold myself up had me leaning back against the wall. Weak. Mentally and physically. If I’d been standing, I would have fallen in a crumpled heap.
In contrast, Makaio’s voice was hard as steel.
“If you move, you are one dead mother-fucker.”
“I wathn’t ‘oing tho use ith. I wath done.”
All I could see was the knife. My mistake. My huge mistake. No. It wasn’t huge. It was beyond huge, but my mind couldn’t grasp any other words. Just…Huge.
Makaio placed the knife on the kitchen counter, then cuffed Mutt’s left wrist to his belt loop at the small of his back. I’m not sure who was shaking more. Mutt in need of a fix or me scared half to death. In the beginning, I had beat Mutt physically. In the middle, I got sloppy. In the end, Makaio had probably saved my life. What would Mutt have done if I’d let my guard down?
Mutt answered my question for me. His alter ego wiped away the man I’d been talking to. Gone was the whining, wimp of a man I’d given a towel and a bag of ice. He was replaced by a man with horrifying hostility and hatred.
“You thupid bitth. You juth had tho call the polith. I thould have cuth you to pietheth.”
Still holding my bat, I lost that piece of sanity I’d been clinging to. He thought he should have cut me to pieces? Anger consumed me. Anger at my stupidity. Anger at Daven Raines. Anger at Mutt. I didn’t hear the blood pounding in my ears. I didn’t feel my fingers grasp the bat in a home run grip. I didn’t feel anything but pure, unquenchable fury.
“You son of a bitch!”
I charged him. Scoring, my only goal. Makaio was faster. He was between Mutt and me in a blink. His hand splayed wide across my chest. Nothing sexual. Just stopping my forward progress. His face tight. His eyes dark and dilated. He said one word.
“Don’t.”
That was it. That was all it took for him to bring me down. I guess that’s the difference between a crazy person and someone who just went crazy for an instant. I lowered my bat and turned away, not wanting Makaio or Mutt to see my shame. Shame over my stupidity and loss of control. The ravenous ache to tear Mutt to pieces still gripping my insides with no way to extinguish it.
A thud, followed by a wheezing scream sent me on the defensive. Instinctively I lifted the bat and swung back around. Makaio held Mutt by his bloody shirt against the wall, his feet dangling off the ground. His face reddened as his airway constricted. M
utt’s eyes were round with fright. I shouldn’t admit this, but it soothed me to see his fear. Lifted my shame and that need for violence clawing at my gut.
“What were you supposed to do here?”
“Thill ‘er.” He said it so easily, as if I was just a cockroach to crunch on the floor.
“Who killed Peter Johnson?”
“M thee.”
“Who?”
I interpreted, knowing Makaio would never get the name with Mutt handcuffed. “MD, like doctor, but he’s not. That’s just what everyone calls him.”
Makaio nodded in my direction without taking his eyes off Mutt. “Where’s MD?”
Silence filled the air. Mutt didn’t answer and I held my breath, waiting for the hammer to strike. Makaio slammed Mutt against the wall with a thud. Despite watching the whole thing, I jumped. It startled me and forced me to intake oxygen, like coming up for air after being under water too long.
Makaio’s thoughts flooded my senses. MD might be on his way here to finish the job. His body erupted with testosterone and aggression. My bat cocked in awareness and anger, ready for the potential threat to come through my door.
“Where’s MD?” Makaio’s jaw barely moved. His teeth clenched through his words, his voice deadly serious.
“Thaines wath goin’ tho thend M-thee tho thill the dead thuyth wife.”
Makaio’s face drew back with a lack of understanding. Mine fell with comprehension. I felt my skin sag almost as much as the heart in my chest.
“Oh, God. MD is going after Misty, Peter Johnson’s wife.”
Makaio captured my gaze with his own. “Misty and her son?” He looked back at Mutt for confirmation. Mutt nodded.
My door slammed open, jump-starting my heart. I swung around with that home run swing I’d been dying to use. My Louisville Slugger going for the high and outside pitch. My favorite.
A head bobbed in a matrix type move. Slow motion. Inhuman. I missed the curveball. Strike one.
“Shit, Malia! My head’s not a baseball. I’m here to help.”
Pai. How had I missed his arrival? We were connected. Right?
Yeah, Baby Doll, we’re connected.
My lips dried. My body went from adrenaline dump to extreme sexual awareness in a matter of seconds. Milliseconds. Heat raced through my body. I wanted to push him away. I took a step toward him instead. Oh, God, not in front of Makaio. Turn it off, Pai!
He turned it off. Everything. Just like that it was gone, but when he spoke, his voice held a trace of sexual awareness laced with fear.
“What’s going on? Is that your blood?” Pai’s eyes nearly popped as he took in my battered apartment and my disheveled appearance.
I looked down to see my shirt a disgusting smear of blood in different stages of drying. Blek. Most of it wasn’t mine. “No, it’s not mine. I’m fine, but Misty and her son are in danger.”
Makaio dropped Mutt on the floor. In turn, Mutt began sputtering like the obnoxious handcuffed loser he was. I didn’t even bother trying to translate through his new lisp. It was all worthless dribble.
Help her!
I shook my head.
“That wasn’t me,” Pai stated the obvious.
“I know.”
“Was it Peter?” He asked.
“I think so.”
Help her! Peter sounded desperate.
“What’s going on?” Makaio asked.
“Misty Johnson’s in trouble. She needs help, now.” I pulled my phone out.
“Where is she?” Makaio was all business. Deadly business.
“You won’t know how to get there. I’ll call for a marked unit.” I didn’t want Makaio chasing after this MD. It was a bad idea. I felt it in my chest. The loss Misty experienced flashed through my mind. An endless ache that would never stop. The pain would lessen over time, but the hole would remain empty. Forever.
Help Misty and my son!
So in touch with that feeling, I didn’t expect a blindside. Not from Pai.
“I’ll take you. Let’s go.”
Makaio looked back at Mutt lying on his side, unable to get up and no longer a threat. I didn’t want to tell him it was okay to go, but I did anyway.
“Don’t worry about him. I got him. I already called 91l, so they should be here any minute. I’ll call them back and tell them to meet you at Misty’s apartment.”
Makaio turned and looked at me as if he was memorizing my face. Like he would never see me again. I’d heard his thoughts when fear for my safety had raced through his mind. Yet now I couldn’t hear anything. Nor did I feel that strong sexual need I’d felt with Pai. There was still a hell of a lot of attraction between us, but it was blanketed with uncertainty. Pain traveled through my side and arm, telling me something I didn’t want to know. Like one of us might not…
Frozen, I refused to acknowledge the meaning, lest it came true. Yet I knew I couldn’t tell him to stay. It would kill him not to go.
And he left, without another word. Pai hot on his trail and all I had to look at was Mutt’s ugly mug.
Numb. Wishing I’d stopped him from leaving. Wishing Pai didn’t know the way. Wishing everything was different and that I couldn’t hear Pai’s Jeep tear out of my apartment’s parking lot.
I pulled my cell phone from my pocket and dialed 911. Makaio and Pai needed backup. Now.
I gave the dispatcher the address. Told her Officer Natua was on his way in plain clothes with his cousin, and I described them both to a tee. I did not want them dying by friendly fire. I pushed the end button and stared at Mutt.
He seemed to be my focal point. My point of concentration. Not that I was in labor, but it felt like I’d been through labor. I was supposed to be connected to Pai, but every fiber of my being screamed for Makaio.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Forty-five minutes is a hell of a long time to wait when someone you care about has been shot. My worst fears had come true and I’d let it happen. Guilt left a hole in my chest a mile wide. Makaio had been shot when he raced to Misty’s rescue. MD was already at the scene, breaking into the screen door that I’d insisted Misty lock. (I was pretty sure it was Peter’s idea coming out through my voice.)
The confrontation left Makaio with two bullet holes in his body and MD missing a chunk of his brain. (The fact that I knew Makaio would be injured before it even happened was not comforting – I’d let him go.)
I paced in a small circle, waiting for more news about Makaio’s condition. My side and arm radiated with pain deeper than the strikes I took on my head. The whole thing didn’t make sense — my arm and side weren’t injured, Makaio’s was and I was quite literally feeling his pain…or I was certifiable. Either way, if I told my brother, he’d have me in a padded cell within the hour.
John insisted Makaio was stable, and since I’d already refused to go to the hospital for my own bloody scalp (there were tears in the flesh but nothing that would require stitches according to the paramedics)my brother thought it best I stay with him at my apartment. After all, I didn’t need medical attention; the bleeding had stopped even before my head was bandaged up in mummy gear.
He called my bluff when I threatened to call Dad and dared me to do it. Because we both knew Dad wouldn’t let me go anywhere, under the circumstances, even if he did want me to be with Pai. (I was pretty sure John would nix any chance of either cousin receiving a nod of approval after tonight. His protective big brother streak was in full-gear.) Besides, if Dad found out it was Makaio Natua I wanted to check on, he’d drive me straight to my parents’ house and lock all the doors. So I didn’t argue with my older, pain-in-the-butt brother. I stayed at the crime scene, blood covering the whole frickin’ place, and made John call every fifteen minutes for a status update. Two could play this game.
John stopped my hundredth circle. “We need your clothes.”
“For what?” I demanded. Not the least bit happy.
“For evidence that the whole thing happened the way you said it did.” John l
ooked down at his notes.
“You don’t believe me?”
John’s shoulders drooped before he closed his notebook and lifted his head. “I believe every word you said, Mal. I just have to be able to prove it eight months from now when this case goes to trail.”
“Fine.” I stomped to my closet, yanked a t-shirt off a hanger and grabbed a pair of shorts and undergarments from the shelf, before turning and making the same pouting march to bathroom. I know I was acting like a two year old. Having permission to change was music to my ears. Being forced to wait for John to tell me I could move in my own apartment, however, was like being in prison.
John stood at the bathroom door holding a brown paper bag. I snatched it from his hand and slammed the door behind me. I gave up my clothes as evidence, ditched the mummy hat, and took a quick shower while John supervised the crime scene tech photographing my bloody sofa bed, my bloody trash, the bloody floor. Blood everywhere. Like every speck told the story. I guess they did to a cop.
An attempt to towel dry my hair only resulted in shots of pain slicing through my side. My arm, and just below my right ribcage, burned from the inside out. I’d looked for injuries several times, but there wasn’t a mark on my skin. So the pain wasn’t real, or was it? My body kept telling me it was, while my mind insisted it was the shock of the whole night.
I’d been brain dead when I’d left Pai at Misty’s, with no idea I was a target on Daven Raines’ Murder-To-Do-List. It was hard to grasp that one of my surf buddies tried to kill me just to get a fix. The kinship we had within the small group of surfers I met on a daily basis was similar to ohana. We tested our skills against nature. Together. Not against each other. I never expected one of them to try and kill me, especially not someone like Mutt. You expect a dog to be loyal.
Deep down, I really believe he would have chickened out. Otherwise, he would have pulled that second knife and stabbed me in the gut when I gave him the ice, not left it stuffed down the back of his waistband. Right?