You Can Run but You Can't Hide (26 page)

back to Kona, we stopped at a flower shop to buy a gardenia plant.

She loved gardenias. The fragrance always reminds me of her. She

put it in my living room before she flew back, deliberately picking a

spot I could see each time I came into the house. Every gesture, each

word she spoke, every gentle touch filled my heart with joy and my

eyes with tears.

When we got to the airport, Mom handed me a card but told me

not to open it until after she was gone.

That was odd. She said “after I’m gone.” Driving home, some-

thing struck me about the way she turned and waved good-bye. It

felt different than usual, as if it was a final farewell.

I opened the card when I got home. In her beautiful handwrit-

ing, the note said:

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Yo u Ca n R u n , b u t Yo u Ca n ’ t H i d e

Dear Duane,

I know you want this to say I loved you more than

everybody, but I didn’t. I loved you all the same. I

want you to know that I know that you loved me

the most. This is going to hurt you the worst, but

no matter what I will always be there. Remember,

you are the leader.

Love,

Mom

I cried like a baby. Was she saying good-bye? What did she mean?

Later that night, my phone rang.

“Hello, Duane. It’s Mom. What are you doing?”

The truth is, I had a girl there who wasn’t my wife. I wanted to

get off the phone, if you know what I mean, so I hurried the con-

versation along.

Mom softly said, “I just called to say good-bye. . . .”

I was completely oblivious and too preoccupied to hear what

she was saying. “Well, OK, Mom, ’bye.” I hung up.

The next day, Tim “Youngblood” Chapman, my long-time friend

and bounty hunting associate, came over to tell me to call my dad

right away. When I did, Dad said, “I can’t wake your mother.”

“What do you mean, Dad? Shake her!”

“Duane, your mother’s dead.” There was no cushion, no sensi-

tivity. Dad just blurted out those words as cold as ice. I didn’t want

to hear what he was saying. I refused to listen.

I became very angry and belligerent. Just then, Tawny called

me from my dad’s house. I told her, “You better put my Bible on

her chest, and raise her from the dead. If you don’t bring my

momma back, I don’t know what I’ll do!” I was out of control.

What made me think my soon-to-be ex-wife Tawny, of all people,

could bring my mom back from the dead? I wasn’t making any

sense at all.

“Duane, she’s dead. She passed away. I can’t bring her back.”

Tawny tried to stay calm, but I was a wreck. No one could get

through to me. I’d just lost my mommy. I wanted to kick myself in the

ass for having that whore over the night before. I should have taken

the time to talk to my mom.

M y Da r k e s t Da y

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I spent most of my life putting Mom through hell, and now she

was standing at the gates of heaven. Sixty years of stress killed her.

The doctors told me she died a peaceful death. No pain or suffering.

She just quit breathing. They wanted to do an autopsy. I wouldn’t let

them. I wasn’t going to let anyone slice open my mother.

I don’t remember much after getting off the phone that day.

Youngblood came over for a while, but there was nothing anyone

could do to ease my intolerable pain. I left the apartment and

started walking. It was a hot and humid September morning. I was

wearing my cowboy boots and jeans, no socks or shirt. I don’t usu-

ally drink hard alcohol. I was never the kind of guy who turned to

the bottle. But all I could think about was finding a fifth of whiskey

and getting drunk. I wanted to dull the sharp ache in my heart. I

drank as I walked more than twenty miles from Waikiki Beach to

Diamond Head and then on toward Sandy Beach.

Sometimes I feel like there are two guys who live inside of me.

There’s Duane and then there’s the Dog. I tried to pull Duane out

that day, but Dog is who emerged. When I drink, I’m not the same

man. Duane can’t handle pain or significant problems. That’s when

the Dog comes out. He’s got a hardened heart. He’s capable of han-

dling anguish and agony. He’s the boy who was kicked around in

the seventh grade.

I finished the entire bottle before collapsing on a curb alongside

the highway. I began to cry—no, make that
wail
. My feet were rubbed

raw, stuck to the insides of my leather boots. When I pulled the boots

off, a stream of blood dripped onto the gravel. My feet were unrecog-

nizable, swollen way beyond their normal size. Blisters had given way

to open sores. Whatever skin was left was inflamed and on the verge

of infection.

I looked up and saw a cop pulling over. I am sure I looked like a

homeless person or a strung-out junkie.

“Brother, what’s the matter?”

“Get lost, copper!”

Again, the cop said, “Brother, what’s the matter?”

“My mommy died. . . .” Once again I began to cry.

“Come on, get in the car. I’ll take you home.”

“Naw. Get lost.”

Thank God the cop wasn’t taking my anger personally. He finally

coaxed me into the car.

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I began to tell him about how my mom came to Oahu the day

before and how she wore her little scarf over her head driving

around in my car.

“All the things we talked about, I had no idea she was saying

good-bye. For real, man. Now I can look back and see God was

telling me something but I wasn’t listening.”

The officer stayed silent as I spilled my guts.

“She waved her hand this strange way when she left. She said,

‘Good-bye, son.’ ” On the ride home with the cop, it occurred to me

that I wasn’t walking close enough with God to know when He

was giving me messages. I needed to start paying more attention

to Him. From that day on, I’ve never been far from His side.

C h a p t e r Tw e n t y - n i n e

CRACKING UP

After my mother
died, I spiraled into an unfamiliar world

of darkness. Throughout my life, the Lord has challenged me in

ways I was always able to overcome. Beth was back in Denver, still

married to her first husband, Keith. Everyone she saw told her to

stay far away from me—that I had changed. Beth kept trying to find

me to see what was happening. She was hearing things about me

that didn’t make any sense. She wanted to come to my mother’s fu-

neral, but Tawny wouldn’t let her. Beth and Tawny were the best of

friends and worst of enemies. Do you know the old saying, “Keep

your friends close and your enemies closer”? That is a perfect de-

scription of Beth and Tawny’s relationship.

Tawny and I officially separated in 1994, but our marriage was

over long before that. I was having such a hard time after Mom

died. Tawny finally hit a wall. She handed me sixty Halcion and

told me to go meet my dead mother. I wasn’t thinking straight

enough to know what I was doing. I took the pills. Had it not been

for Baby Lyssa and Barbara Katie, I would be dead. They kept me

awake until the pills were out of my system.

After I broke up with Tawny, I began a relationship with a

woman. I met her after placing an ad in the local paper for a nanny to

help take care of my kids. I thought she was wonderful. She cooked,

took care of me, and looked after my kids like they were her own. I

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was shocked that thirty or forty women responded. I’d meet them in

a bar or have them come by the house for an interview.

Almost every time, the girls wanted to screw. They’d say things

like, “When I read your ad, I could tell you were really just look-

ing for love,” or “You’re looking for a mom for these kids, aren’t

you?”

As hard as it was for me to believe, they were right. When I

placed the ad, I didn’t even realize what I was really looking for.

It was great. I was getting laid all the time, but I couldn’t find

an appropriate woman to care for my children.

You know the old saying, “Love is blind.” Well, if that’s true, I was

a regular Ray Charles, because the woman I fell in love with was any-

thing but perfect. In fact, it seemed as though everyone could see her

for who she really was—except me.

The first time I introduced her to Youngblood, I was so proud.

In my eyes, she was attractive.

Right away, though, Youngblood pulled me aside and said,

“She’s a druggie. What the hell are you doing?”

I was almost offended by his comment. “No way, man. She’s no

druggie.” I found myself defending this woman in a way I had never

had to in previous relationships. She wasn’t as smart as most of the

women I’d been with, but that didn’t make her an addict, at least

not in my mind.

“Duane, she’s a drug addict.” Youngblood stood firm in his con-

viction. He knew me better than anyone. It wasn’t like me to be so

naïve. I make my living by reading people. How could I have been

so wrong?

I waited a few days to ask her if she was doing drugs. When I did,

she denied it. A couple of weeks later, I began to notice she was a lit-

tle hyper. She was zipping around the house, cleaning up, and get-

ting stuff done at a much quicker pace than usual. She wasn’t lazy,

but she wasn’t usually a great housekeeper. Once again, I asked if

she was on drugs.

“I do a couple lines of coke every now and then. It’s not a big

deal.”

“Well, it’s a big deal to me, honey. You can’t do that anymore.” I

was adamant. Since I got out of Huntsville, I didn’t do heavy drugs. I

smoked pot, but coke, crack, ice, Ecstasy, and heroin were all off my

radar screen. They are a no-no for Dog the Bounty Hunter. I tried to

C r a c k i n g U p

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explain how I could lose my bail bonds license if I got caught with

drugs in my house. As a convicted felon, it wouldn’t go down well if

that shit was a part of my life.

I decided to let the subject go. I didn’t understand her need to do

cocaine, because I didn’t need it. For six months, I didn’t connect

the dots. By now, we were living together. One night, she came to

me and said, “It’s time we take our relationship to another level. I’d

like to see you do the wild thing with my girlfriend.”

“Cool!” What guy wouldn’t dig his lady coming to him and say-

ing she wanted to get it on with another beautiful woman? I was to-

tally into the idea, but I knew I had to get drunk, stoned, or take a

Valium to go there, because I wasn’t normally the kind of man who

wanted to share sex with anyone except my old lady.

“OK, call your friend.” I began to drink before she got to the

house. I wanted to loosen up, be cool, you know how it is. I didn’t

want to be the nervous dorky guy. I thought a few drinks would

help calm me down. To be honest, I was as nervous as I was ex-

cited.

When her friend walked through the door, I thought I had died

and gone to heaven. She was spectacular—long reddish hair, big

tits, and full hips. She took off her coat as I poured her a drink. She

reached into her purse and pulled out a pipe. At first, I thought it

was a regular pot pipe. After taking a closer look, I realized there

was something yellowish white in the pipe.

“Wanna try some?” She purred like a kitten.

“What is it?” I had no idea what she was smoking. I thought it

looked like speed. If it was speed, I wanted nothing to do with it. I

hate speed. You can’t eat, screw, or sleep on that drug. She told me

it was the opposite of speed. She said it was an aphrodisiac. What-

ever it was, I wanted it.

The only thing I knew about smoking cocaine was what I read

about Richard Pryor blowing himself up and catching on fire while

freebasing. I had never heard the term
crack,
because that wasn’t

something anyone I hung around with was into. I didn’t need any

help feeling like a Spanish fly, but what the hell. I was willing to give

it a try. I didn’t have a clue what I was smoking, nor did I under-

stand the danger.

The girls lifted the pipe to my mouth, lit it, and blam! After one

hit, I lost my inhibitions. I ripped off all my clothes and began to

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live out my wildest fantasies. I kept asking, “Why don’t people mar-

ket this shit? This is the greatest feeling I’ve ever had!”

Eight days later I finally came up for air. I had lost a tremendous

amount of weight. One of the side effects of smoking cocaine is

a lack of appetite. I hadn’t eaten or slept for more than a week. I

didn’t leave the house or bathe. Girls kept coming over, bringing

more coke. In a little more than a week, I went from Dry Dog to

Drug Dog. I was snorting, smoking, freebasing, and drinking. I was

hooked. Bad.

I no longer wanted to be Dog the Bounty Hunter. Duane was

nowhere in sight. I began to call myself Kawani, which is Hawaiian