Robert Walker - Primal Instinct

Still, she carried it along with her on the trip as something of a crutch, expecting the old wounds to flare. Besides, she'd become somewhat attached to the cane, knowing that it kept men at bay, giving her an extra edge when coming into a new situation, like today. The cane gave her a more doctorly look, and it most certainly made her feel more like what people had come to expect, having learned of her accomplishments in previous serial killer cases, most of them looking for someone who might appear psychic, which she certainly was not. And not that she needed a crutch, she assured herself, but otherwise people looked at her and they saw only the superficial: a tall thin woman with flowing auburn hair and an hourglass figure, instead of an expert medical examiner whose victories with the FBI had already gone into the academy casebook files. Besides, the cane had become something of a comfort and a friend; it'd taken on a character of its own, and after all, it had been a gift from all those who appreciated her most, back at the crime lab in Quantico.

The plane landed with several shuddering bounces, a near- constant surge of wind over the runways here, but they were soon taxiing rather brusquely toward the terminal. Jessica waited for all the other passengers to deplane before she got up and started for the exit.

She wondered what King Kamehameha would've thought of air travel. Just as she got to the exit, lugging her carry-on and tapping her cane, the pilot stepped from his cockpit and offered her a warm smile and an apology.

“ Sorry for the rough landing.”

“ Don't be silly,” she replied. “I loved every second of it.”

The pilot watched her go out of sight along the ramp, wondering about her and her cane.

The Honolulu Airport was enormous and bustling, filled with travelers from all parts of the globe, giving credence to Hawaii's reputation as the Midway of the Pacific. Save for the leis being placed around tourists arriving from the mainland and the many “alohas” all about her, she might have been in a terminal in O'Hare Airport in Chicago, but a single glance at the window and the towering, cascading, green mountains reminded her of the island paradise outside. A large corridor of the terminal which she now passed was also open-air, so that the traveler passed outdoors in order to locate the baggage-claim area. It was a delightful airport for this reason. She passed a McDonald's along the way, and was wondering if she had time for a quick bite when she heard a male voice shout her name. “Dr. Coran! Dr. Jessica Coran?”

She turned, expecting to find Bureau Chief Jim Parry in suit and tie. Her caller instead wore a flowered Hawaiian shirt, his face a deep ochre, his features those of a Hawaiian national creased with worry lines which seemed uncharacteristic of the race as a whole from what she'd seen on Maui.

“ My name is Joseph Kaniola. My son was killed along with Officer Hilani.”

“ How did you know I-”

“ I'm a newsman. It's my job to know. What I wanna know now is, are you gonna get the bastard who killed my boy, Alan, and left my grandchildren without a father?”

“ I'll do everything in my power,” she said, gripping her cane more tightly.

“ From what I hear, that's a lot; that's all I ask.”

“ Kaniola!” shouted a second man, recognizing the bereaved father. “I told you to let us do our job.” The more officious-looking man with suit and tie stuck his hand out to Jessica and firmly shook hers. “I'm Parry.”

“ Well, Inspector, so we meet.”

“ Parry,” interrupted Kaniola, “you promise you won't let the Honolulu cops dust this under the rug?”

“ Not a chance, Mr. Kaniola. Now, please, allow us the time and space we need to get under way.”

“ My boy was onto something up there at Koko Head. He was a smart boy, and he wasn't involved in no drugs like some are saying.”

“ We know your views, Mr. Kaniola… now, please.” Parry, with a slight movement of his eyes, had two men intervene and usher Kaniola away. The aged Hawaiian's protests fell on deaf ears save for a few curious onlookers passing by.

“ I'm not-goddamn you-here as a newsman! I'm here as a father!”

“ He's hardly had time to get over the shock, I'm sure,” she said to Parry. “I'd like to hold his hand longer, but who's got the time? Besides, we need to talk privately.”

She glanced around. “What'd you have in mind?”

He ushered her into an area marked private where a number of airline stewardesses were having coffee and chatting. He flashed his badge and asked them to give him the room, and they complied with only a few veiled looks and mutterings. “We got some political problems here, like any big city. I just want you to know about the kind of pressure we're getting and will continue to get from the kanakas.”

“ Kanakas? The Hawaiians, you mean?”

“ They've become quite vocal about the double standard they perceive-”

“ Perceive?”

“- by which the cops here operate, one for whites, another for any other or mixed race, and now with two Hawaiian cops shot down in cold blood… Well, all hell's ready to break, and Kaniola's paper's right in the thick of the argument. Always has been.”

“ County and state mirror this same public image as the Honolulu Police Department?”

'To some degree, 'fraid so.”

She assessed Inspector James Parry, a tall, sand-and-buff-haired man who'd somehow maintained his light features in this sunbathed world. She guessed that he had been bureau chief only a short time because he was still doing things for himself, such as coming to fetch her. He was handsome in a Norse kind of way, clean-shaven, only a loosened tie left unattended, and his charismatic smile, which only fleetingly showed, might be enticing if there was more of it, and if the stakes here were different.

He pulled from his pocket a series of photos and spread them across a table. They were shots of young native island women, all smiling up brightly at the camera, all vivacious and squinting against the sun rays or the flashbulb. Each had dark, lovely features, frosty white teeth, smooth, tanned skin. One looked as healthy and carefree as the next. Any one of them might be a poster girl for Enoa or any of a dozen other Hawaiian tour companies. There were some nine photos in all.

“ Seven disappeared last year without a trace and then the disappearances just stopped. None of them have ever been located, until now.”

“ So there've been two this year?”

“ Yeah, with the return of the trade winds, 'fraid so.”

“ But you've located one of the bodies, yes?”

“ Well, not entirely, no.”

“ What do you mean, not entirely?”

“ We have a… a piece, a limb…”

“ And”-she took a deep breath-”just what part of the body do you have?”

“ Most of an arm.”

“ Most of an arm?” she repeated.

“ Missing the hand at the wrist.”

“ So you naturally thought of me,” she weakly joked.

He chewed on the inside of his cheek and lowered his eyes to her cane. “I've been trying to get D.C. to send someone like you out here for a long time, but since we had no physical evidence till now, well, your superiors reluctantly declined.”

She scratched her forehead, snatched her cane and stood to pace. “Pacing helps me think. Where was the limb found?”

'The Blow Hole.”

“ Say again?”

“ It's a popular tourist attraction, temporarily closed since the find.”

“ Blow Hole?” she repeated.

He explained the term and the location. “And it was at this site that Hilani and Kaniola's bodies were also discovered.”