Unsound (A Lei Crime Companion Novel) (20 page)

A half hour later, three horses approached me at a trot. Bringing up the rear, big as a refrigerator and twice as reassuring, was Bruce Ohale.

I let my knees fold and crumpled onto the edge of the trail to rest. Bruce kicked his horse into gear and pulled up next to me.

“Dammit, Caprice!” he exclaimed, sliding off his mount. “You look like hell!” He fisted his hands on his hips—I could tell he was restraining himself from scooping me up.

“Been there, done that,” I said. “You’ve got some
paniolo
in your blood, Bruce. I can tell.” I guzzled my last sips of water, knowing there would be more. I pointed back the way I’d come for the benefit of the rangers on horses looking down at me. “There’s a body up ahead by the lava tube pit. Russell Pruitt, aged twenty-two, dead of a preexisting heart condition.”

The two rangers spurred their horses and covered us with dust as they moved off to investigate. Bruce squatted beside me. His face was clenched into a fist of worry. “Are you okay?”

“Never been better. I’m alive, I’m sober, and I’m stronger than I ever knew.” I burst into dry sobbing—there were no tears left.

Bruce gave me a hug. It felt as wonderful as before.

I got to ride and Bruce walked the horse back to the cabin. The rangers called in Maui Police Department and the coroner, and they flew Russell Pruitt’s body out on a helicopter. I watched it fly like a great mechanical dragonfly out of the crater with the yellow body basket fastened underneath. Russell Pruitt was so large his boots were hanging out of the basket—but that wouldn’t have mattered to him anymore.

The rangers administered first aid, and finally, boots off, clothes changed, propped up in my bunk with an IV rehydrating me, I told Bruce my story.

At least, all that I was willing to tell.

“How did you find me?” Seeing Bruce ride toward me still felt like a mirage. I peeked at him sitting next to my bunk on the bench he’d dragged over, just to make sure he was real.

“I tried to ring you back several times after that weird call. No answer, like the phone was turned off. Called Aloha House. You hadn’t checked in. Remembered you said you wanted to see Haleakala; called the ranger station. They said you’d hiked in alone, but I had a bad feeling, figured your stalker could have pinged your phone. I took the next flight out and got the rangers moving.”

He’d done just as I’d imagined in my more hopeful moments.

“So, as you guessed, Russell Pruitt was the stalker.” I took a sip of water. Even with the IV going, I was still thirsty.

“I thought as much.” Bruce gestured to a tiny handheld recorder. “Okay if I tape this?”

“Sure.” I filled him in on Russell Pruitt’s background, how he’d targeted me. His gigantism, his revenge fixation, his quest for identity.

“He pretended he was going to let me live.” I took another sip of water. My lips were dry, and I found my voice thickening. “He lied. He was a very good liar.”

“You said he was obsessed with psychopaths because of his father’s diagnosis. Do you think he was a psychopath?” Bruce leaned forward on the chair, his hands loosely clasped between his knees. I could see the tribal tattoos on the insides of his arms, and once again I wondered where they went.

“He thought he was. I actually don’t. And that’s the saddest of a lot of really sad things.” I sat up, leaning my back against the wall and crossing my legs on the bunk. “He was damaged. Traumatized by an environment of domestic abuse, his mother’s murder, his father making him participate in murder, a life in foster homes, and the final straw, his gigantism. He used his obsession with ‘dealing justice’ to me as a coping device to handle the terrible circumstances of his life. He was dying, and he was having a crisis of meaning. Trying to find out who he was. Trying to see if he was his father.”

I covered my face with my hands. I was unable to think of Russell Pruitt with anything but a terrible, complicated grief.

He tried his best to kill you,
Constance said.
You don’t owe him shit.

“So he had an enlarged, weak heart,” Bruce said. This was what I’d told the rangers, what I’d told Bruce earlier.

“Yes. The exertion of throwing me into the hole did him in.” I remembered that last long sigh of his breath. “In the end, I killed him.”

“Caprice.” Bruce took my chilled hands in his big warm ones. “It’s not your fault.”

“No. It is. He had heart medication. I took it and hid it.” I pulled a hand out of his and pointed a trembling finger at the closet with the Pres-to-Logs. “It’s hidden back behind the logs in there.”

A long moment passed. Bruce held my gaze with hard brown cop eyes. “That doesn’t change a thing. As far as he was concerned, he killed you. It was only after he threw you in the pit that natural consequences took over and he got what he had coming. You’d have been justified in taking a lot stronger self-defense measures than hiding his medication.”

I had no response to this, but there was some relief in hearing those words so strongly spoken. Bruce got up and went into the closet. I heard him moving the logs. “Lower right corner,” I called.

Right or wrong, I knew I’d killed Russell Pruitt—and I’d have to live with that for the rest of my life.

Bruce reappeared, carrying the bottle of nitro, and walked over to push the Off button on the recorder. “There will be a hearing with the coroner after Russell’s autopsy,” he said. “I’m tempted to just throw this medication away myself and spare you the hassle, but neither of our consciences would let that stand. Don’t worry. If you’d shot the bastard right in the face it would have been okay.”

I looked down. “I’m sorry I didn’t go to Aloha House to get sober.”

Bruce gave a bark of laughter. “Whatever works, and I’m guessing this adventure worked. Are you sober?”

“Stone cold. And planning to stay that way.”

“Then no worries.” He sat beside me on the bunk, an awkward endeavor with his size. He slung an arm over my shoulders. “Let’s get you home and back to work. You’ve got people who need you.”

My eyes prickled with tears—his words warmed me right down to my bruised bones. Being needed was my personal kryptonite, always had been. “I’m going to be making some big changes when I get home. I’m going to need a few weeks.”

“I expected nothing less. We’ll be waiting.”

“Thanks, Bruce. For everything.”

Our words felt layered with meaning.

Because they are layered with meaning,
Constance said.
You like him.

I had to admit that, as usual, she was right.

Two weeks later, I handed Detective Freitas her folder—missing the notes I’d written on. “So sorry I missed the window for doing these profiles on your case. I promise it won’t happen again.”

“It’s understandable, after all you’ve been through. We got the case covered.” How I’d come to be hiking Haleakala Crater in the middle of a job was skimmed over. “How’re you doing? You look wonderful.”

Freitas’s big brown eyes were still concerned, as we sat in my counseling office and she took in the changes I’d made. I knew I was still thin, but the bruising on my face was gone and I’d had my hair cut and colored. It was a tousled mix of blond, everything from caramel to cream, and the new look did good things for my skin and eyes. Dressed in a sky-blue silk wrap dress and kitten heels, I was debuting Dr. Wilson’s new professional image.

The polo shirts and twill skirts had joined a lot of other stuff at the Goodwill. Constance’s influence was all over my life, and I felt more myself than ever. I was listening to that little internal voice saying “yes” to this, and “no” to that.

“Making some major changes, but they’re good ones,” I said, folding my hands over my knee. “How’s the department?”

“Something’s always cookin’ in paradise,” Freitas said with her big smile. “We’ve got some good cases. It’s a living.”

“There’s a lot more to life than catching criminals. I hope you’re taking time for some of those things.”

“Sounds like time-tested wisdom. What are you doing in that area?”

I smiled. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

Freitas laughed, standing and swinging the pebbled-leather briefcase containing the folder over her shoulder. “It’s great to see you looking so good. We’ll be calling you again.”

“You do that. Bye, Kamani.” I followed her to the door. She hugged me, that powerful squeeze from strong, toned arms—and this time it just felt good, a reminder I was loved more than I knew.

I shut the door behind her.

This had been my first day back in the office, and it had gone well. I’d made some changes here too, bringing in some of my favorite art pieces from Hidden Palms and my sheepskin bedroom rug, which lay invitingly in front of the sofa for clients to sink their toes into.

Detective Freitas was my last meeting of the day, which had been productive as I reconnected with each of my regular clients. I’d decided to throw away the items Russell Pruitt had gifted me with, except for the
world’s greatest grandma
mug, which I’d returned to Mrs. Kunia. In the excitement of telling me about her husband’s rescue by the rangers at his hunting cabin, she’d put it in her purse without comment. They were turning a corner in their grief at last, and she’d brought her granddaughter, Maile, in today.

My phone beeped with a message, and I listened to a voice mail from my real estate agent detailing upcoming showings for Hidden Palms, which was already attracting some solid offers. I closed the office windows, locked the door, and activated the alarm, clicking down the wooden steps in my pretty heels. I walked past the red gingers, which I’d had cut to waist height for visibility.

I unlocked the Mini Cooper and got in. Sighed with happiness, breathing in natural vanilla air freshener and leather cleaner. Coming back from Haleakala Crater, I’d walked through Hidden Palms and chosen only the things I really needed and left the rest without looking back.

The car I really needed, and I’d sent it to be detailed. That was the new way I was living—only the essentials. And those, lovingly cared for.

I turned the key, and the engine started with its low purring, a sound that somehow reminded me of the nene in the crater—a happy little conversation, just beginning. I pulled out and got back into the Hilo traffic, thinking over my various cases with the sound of Ottmar Liebert’s guitar rarefying the air.

I pulled up in front of my apartment building on Banyan Drive immediately on Hilo Bay, sandwiched between a couple of hotels. A little trade wind off the Bay lifted my hair and tossed it around as I beeped the Mini locked and walked up the path. Bordered by trimmed
naupaka
shrubs, it was a small building but well maintained. I wound around the cement walk to the entrance of my ground-floor apartment and unlocked the door.

Hector sat on the tile in the entry, his tail arcing back and forth. He greeted me with loud accusations.

“You can go out. Just in the front yard,” I reminded him, slipping my little heels off and setting them on the rack. I walked across the gleaming bamboo floors to the front deck, opened the slider, and let Hector out—he’d ignored his cat door in the screen window. Still piqued, he refused to acknowledge me and walked by, tail twitching. I had the lawn out front staked with one of those sonic pet barriers, and I followed him out onto my sweet little deck. The Adirondack chairs from the Palms house sat at inviting angles for me to look at the smooth evening waters of Hilo Bay.

Hector walked over the immaculate grass to the sonic barrier and yowled. The coqui frogs in a nearby banyan were just tuning up, and he and the ubiquitous tree frogs seemed to have a meaningful exchange.

“Russell Pruitt told me you’d get used to this,” I told Hector, feeling a pang as I spoke the giant’s name. “We’re both making some adjustments. It’s a good thing.”

He disagreed vociferously.

I walked back into the apartment and into the kitchen, a little galley style with a breakfast bar open to the rest of the condo. I poured myself a Perrier, dropped a couple of ice cubes and a slice of lime into it.

I hadn’t taken much from the Palms house. The good leather couch and that comfy chair for reading. A particularly fine painting Chris had done in high school hung over the couch, a seascape of Punalu`u Beach, with a turtle sunning itself on the black sand in the foreground. One bedroom I’d made into a guest room/office in hopes Chris would join me at the holidays. The other was mine, equipped with a new queen bed—just right for a woman alone.

I walked back outside. Hector was walking the perimeter of the fence, complaining, but when he saw me sit in the Adirondack chair, he came back, climbed into my lap, and turned on his motorboat purr. Hilo Bay was settling into evening glass, candy-pink clouds reflected in the water gilded by sunset happening on the Kona side of the island. Palm fronds clattered, the coqui croaked a jungle chorus, and mynahs chattered in their sleep tree nearby. This was where I’d always wanted to be—on the ocean, wide open and fresh. Sipping my Perrier, I even spotted the plume of a humpback’s breath near the mouth of the Bay.

I loved being here, in this cozy little space. I didn’t miss anything but a few memories from the Palms house.