Unsound (A Lei Crime Companion Novel) (8 page)

I couldn’t look at the views without stumbling, and that meant stopping. It didn’t take long to realize that the more I stopped, the harder it was to start again. My boots sank into the sand at least two inches with each step.

I set a goal to make it to an outcrop below, one that looked like it had a rock or two to put the pack down on, probably a mile ahead.
I’ll put the backpack down
, I told myself and have a nice big drink of water.
And some vodka
, a sibilant voice in my mind whispered. Booze had a voice too, and it was weighing in.
Just a little sip. Everything will feel so much better.

Because things already weren’t feeling good. The stiff new leather of the boots rubbed my ankles, and I hadn’t remembered to change into thinner socks so the dread toe jam continued. I was winded already, sucking air like an asthmatic. I felt perspiration springing up along my hairline. I knew I smelled like the alcohol working its way out of my pores and sweat: a reek with a musty, sharp edge to it like old people and chopping garlic.

I bet the Acrobat never smelled like this. I bet she’d bounce down the trail with a forty-pound pack at a jog, and if she sweated at all, it would smell like vanilla and pheromones. I couldn’t even hate her. She was twenty-two, barely older than Chris. Just a child. She couldn’t possibly know what she’d done to me—and her “prize” was getting Richard, for God’s sake.

I imagined him asking her to check if the electrolysis he’d had done on his back hair was still working, like he’d done with me. He was so lovably vain. Or at least I’d thought it lovable. Just goes to show the power of rationalization. But maybe he’d pretend for her, as if he didn’t hang on to every vestige of youth with all ten manicured nails.

Richard was a good man in a lot of ways. He was a hard worker, did a lot of
pro bono
for the Hawaiian community. He’d had a way of really listening to people, his handsome head cocked, his clear blue eyes intent, that made people feel like they were the most important person in the world. He’d had a big laugh, and he’d known his vanity was silly. We’d even had our own inside jokes about it, and I’d checked him over regularly for moles and stray hairs, like a good baboon wife.

He’s a son of a bitch. Hope he gets a disease and his dick falls off
, Constance said. She sounded really angry on my behalf. Angrier than I was, come to think of it.

I stumbled over a rock in the trail, and the lurch forward pitched me off balance. I overcompensated, listing to the right—dangerously close to the long, unbroken sweep of harsh cinder that didn’t stop until the bottom of the crater, at least a mile straight down.

I landed on my hands and knees, deeply grateful for the rock biting into my palms, the sharp-edged sand grinding into my kneecaps. I rolled onto my butt and took the pack off. It promptly flopped over, dust obscuring the new fabric in a whoosh. This was a good spot for a pit stop rather than the outcrop, I decided. I made the mistake of looking back up the trail.

It didn’t look like I’d come a hundred yards.

Distance is deceiving here,
Constance said
. You can do this. Besides, if you quit, you have to walk back up that, hitchhike your ass back down to the car, and then go to Aloha House with its “medically supervised detox and counseling.”

Ugh. This hike couldn’t be as bad as the alternative. By the time Bruce found out I’d ditched Aloha House, I’d have kicked the booze and figured out what to do with the rest of my life.

I got out the water bottle, took a long pull. Got out the vodka bottle. Took a smaller pull. I had only one bottle to ease me through detox, and it would be better to wean myself off than end up totally cold turkey with more hard physical hiking to do.

I dug into the backpack and found the tightly rolled packet of thinner socks. Loosening the laces of my boots, I was dismayed to see red marks on my legs from the chafing of the tops of the boots and that my toes were already reddened, pulsing with pain as circulation reentered them.

There was nothing to do but put the lighter socks over my sore toes, work the boots back on. This time I tucked the abused yoga pants down into the boots and laced them over the lightweight fabric.

A gust of wind kissed my cheek with spitting grit. It would be bad if I didn’t make it to the cabin tonight—it was going to be very cold in not too long. Getting up and getting the backpack on was a multistage process, one so difficult it made me decide I didn’t get to stop again until I had reached the bottom of the crater.

Always a student of the mind, my own included, a part of me observed the free-floating anxiety I experienced, the mulling over my cases, the possible stalker, the hundreds of tiny unfinished bits of business I’d left uncompleted on the Big Island, including Detective Freitas’s case—which I’d at least thrown into the backpack in its folder.

There is a Zen that occurs after that first hour or so when the decision has been made not to stop anymore. Gradually the swirling of random thoughts settled, like those tiny white snowflakes in a plastic globe, and all that was left was the physical discomfort. My breath tore through my lungs with a sound like ripping cloth, and I concentrated on slowing it down, trying not to hyperventilate as my lungs looked for oxygen that simply wasn’t there.

My feet were better in the thin socks, but the downhill angle continued to pinch my toes into the boots. I felt my lower back begin a deep ache that had to do with being unused to bearing burdens of any kind, let alone forty-pound ones.

And I could smell myself. That was the worst thing of all. I’d always disliked body odor, my own especially.

I reached the bottom of the crater with what had to be the slowest time ever in the history of hiking and felt the sharp afternoon sun wicking that rancid sweat up into the dry air, surrounding me like a really bad Pier 1 fragrance dispenser. I headed for the only shade around, a large clump of
mamane
bushes with a churned-up tie-out rail in front—apparently some people got to ride into the crater in saddle-sore comfort.

Under the bush, I took the pack off. I felt dizzy with exhaustion. I got out my beef jerky and chewed a piece, drinking water, and that helped a little.

The desert floor of the crater spread before me, rugged grasses beginning the process of taming raw lava into soil. Sunbaked hardy ferns and the tough little native shrubs called
pukiawe
were making inroads, and silverswords continued to punctuate the expanse, explosions of symmetrical grace notes. Over the whole spare, vividly colored landscape, the extravagant blue sky was the only excess.

Chortling and bobbing, several grouse approached me, dancing back and forth as they begged. They were bright and round, unfamiliarly marked. I was sure they weren’t native, and they were panhandling like pros.

“You don’t want my beef jerky,” I said. The birds were not discouraged. One trotted up and pecked my bootlace.

A little energy came back eventually, and I rewarded my tired body with a lot of water. I could feel the withdrawals beginning, a gathering of misery like clouds massing on the horizon. I got on the trail again, taking the left-hand turn marked Kapala`oa Cabin, my first stop.

The trail was flat now, but there were two more miles, and the sand was still deep and soft. I breathed, and walked, and throbbed, my eyes on the fine volcanic gray dust my boots sank into. Periodically I would put my butt up against a boulder and rest the backpack’s weight on it and pant for a while, taking sips of water. The arc of sky had flamed with sunset deepening to rose and then purple by the time I finally spotted the cabin ahead.

It was a little, square, surprisingly modern-looking building, and in front of it was a verdant patch of green plushy grass like an oasis. As I got closer, I could see that the grass was nurtured by a spigot, and chuckling and cooing in gentle snorting commentary were a pair of nene
geese.

They approached me fearlessly, these beautiful endangered birds, cocking their heads, blinking shiny chocolate eyes to check on my intentions. I collapsed onto the grassy patch, immobilized by tiredness, and they circled me, clacking their beaks sympathetically. A soft buff like a soldier’s waistcoat, they were barred in black and cream with pearly gray breasts.

I unlatched the belt and the backpack loosened, and I took my arms out of it. I was here, where I would be for the next four days.

I unlaced the boots, rubbed my wounded toes in the verdant grass, which looked mowed—and I saw why as the nene went back to grazing, plucking blades of grass and eating them with the delicacy of dandies.

I walked barefoot to the water and ran it, clear and icy, over my red, hot, sore feet. When they were sufficiently numb, I padded over to the door of the cabin and plugged the code the rangers had given me into the key box and went inside.

One large room, framed in by walls lined in triple bunks, was bisected by a long wooden table notched with graffiti and scorch marks. The kitchen, off to the left, sported a stove, a sink, and a gas grill. Mismatched melamine plates, glasses, and pots were piled in a drainer on the sideboard. A paned window over the sink looked out at the breathtaking view as the sunset flamed along the ridge of a nearby cinder cone.

I hauled the backpack inside. I didn’t have to pee, which I knew wasn’t a good sign, but I was too tired to do anything but drink the rest of the water I’d carried, take several Advil and a Tylenol, and crawl into my sleeping bag on the lowest bunk of one of the tiers.

I woke sometime in the night.

It was dark, so dark I couldn’t see anything with my hand held up to my face.

I finally had to pee, and I had the shakes—maybe from withdrawal, maybe from the chill that slid over my feet like cold oatmeal as I put them outside the chemical-smelling, brand-new sleeping bag.

I felt around for the backpack and found the thick socks that hadn’t worked for hiking. I put them on and came across the tiny flashlight the woman at Sports Authority had stuck in my cart.

The flash blasted the darkness away with a high-powered white beam that made me blink with its ferocity. I had spotted the outhouse near the main cabin, so I padded to the door and opened it.

Stars flamed fiercely across the nearby sky.

Wow
, Constance said. I remembered how she’d always loved the night sky, taking the side in our bedroom against the window and making sure her bed was right underneath it. She’d fall asleep looking out the window every night.

It was her idea to reach my hand up, feeling in that velvet darkness for the diamonds that were so close—but of course my fingers just got cold. I pushed my heavy, sore, leaden legs to walk to the outhouse. I went inside its tiny musty space, applying my bare rear to the chill plastic rim of the hole with a little hiss of breath.

I did my business and remembered I had not brought TP and had to pack out my waste. I shone the flashlight around inside the enclosure and discovered a small stash of paper napkins held down by a rock. I tore a square off, used it, and feeling rebellious, dropped it into the hole. I wasn’t ready to carry that back to the cabin and figure out how to dispose of it.

Back in the cabin, I felt a thirst begin, my tissues crying out for water and more—but I’d used up all the clean water I had. I took a measured hit of vodka and immediately felt myself relaxing. I got into the sleeping bag and fell back into the dark.

I woke with the cottony lip-cracking of dehydration, the gray wash of dawn rendering everything in the cabin the colors of angst. I got out of the sleeping bag reluctantly, feeling every screaming overused muscle from yesterday’s hike. I tried not to think about it. Now was the time to “get ’er done,” as my mom used to say.

I’d had a lot of “get ’er done” when I was younger, propelling me through college and grad school while working as a waitress. There hadn’t been extra money after my parents’ divorce. I hadn’t had the silver spoon the ex had—a good thing since silver spoons are dated and not a part of my future.

A closet off the kitchen turned out to be stacked high with Pres-to-Logs. Even I could get the stove going with those. I put a log into the wood burner, checked the flue was open, and lit it with the barbeque lighter I found.

After it seemed to be going and there was some promise that the cabin would eventually warm up enough that I wasn’t seeing my breath, I turned my attention to the mysterious propane grill. It was time to figure out the stove.

I hadn’t used one of these since Richard and I used to go camping back in college. We had a gas barbeque at Hidden Palms, but I didn’t remember ever lighting it. Grilling had been Richard’s purview.

A white tank rested under the sink, with a handle on it. I turned that on, then turned the dial on the wrought-iron burner, punctuated with a hundred tiny gas-emitting holes. I stuck the barbeque lighter in its general direction and recoiled from the explosion that burst into the air above the stove.

I swear it singed my eyebrows. The flame settled into a blue, obedient circle.

“Note to self. Don’t open the valve all the way,” I said aloud. I found a big black pot and turned the lever over the sink. Water so cold and clear it burned poured out to fill the pot. I put it back on the stove.