Kathy Reichs - Spider Bones

Lots of page flipping.

“Following examination, I admitted the patient for reconstructive surgery.” Utagawa’s lips compressed. He was finished.

“Kealoha had suffered a distal metaphyseal fracture of the tibia?” I prompted.

“Among other injuries.”

“The tibial shaft was unstable, so you managed the fracture with calcaneal pin traction, is that correct?”

“And subsequent plaster of Paris casting. There were no pin track problems, and the break progressed to complete union.”

“How long did you treat Mr. Kealoha following his discharge?”

“Until removal of the cast. Though advised to continue therapy, the patient kept no appointment after that. During his final visit, he complained of slight residual subtalar joint stiffness.”

“Do you have Mr. Kealoha’s X-rays?”

Tight nod.

“May we compare Mr. Kealoha’s left lower leg films to those taken from our unknown?”

Utagawa rose and strode to a wall-mounted light box. Perry and I followed. A large black square had already been clamped into place.

As Utagawa flipped the switch to illuminate the fluorescents, Perry withdrew her X-ray and popped it beside that which Utagawa had ordered in 2003. Utagawa straightened both.

We all looked from antemortem to postmortem and back, and back again, comparing details of bony architecture and microstructure.

Everything matched. The shape and robusticity of the malleolus. The diameter and contour of the medullary cavity. The density and orientation of the trabeculae. The number and positioning of the foramina.

The size, depth, location, and angulation of the traction pinhole.

“Oh, my.” Utagawa spoke for all of us.

Minutes later, Perry and I were wending through the parking deck. She now carried two large brown envelopes.

“Lô and Hung plan to canvass Gloria Kealoha’s neighbors?” I asked. “See if Francis was known in the neighborhood?”

“They’re on it as we speak. If someone recalls Kealoha dropping from the radar, maybe they’ll remember a pal vanishing at the same time. A twofer would make my job a hell of a lot easier. And God knows I could use a break. My ass is in a sling over the Halona Cove closing.”

“Who’s unhappy?”

“Everyone.”

Wishing Perry luck, I headed to my car.

There seemed little point in returning to the CIL. Ryan and Lily were in Turtle Bay.

I dialed my daughter’s cell.

Katy was pumped. Her new blog post had stimulated a lot of response. She wanted to stay with it for a couple more hours, then she’d be up for some beach time.

Oahu’s windward shore stretches about forty miles from Kahuku Point in the north to Makapu’u Head in the south. Lanikai lies roughly three-quarters of the way down, between Kaneohe Bay and Waimanalo Bay.

I considered a moment. Decided.

Instead of shooting west on the Pali then down, I’d take the long way home, circling the island’s southernmost tip, then looping back north. The views would be spectacular and, with luck, might include whales. Or some buff boy surfers.

But kohola and naked kane weren’t the only draws. The route would also take me past Halona Cove, the inlet where Francis Kealoha’s ankle had been recovered. I’d been there before but taken little note of the landscape. I was curious to view the location in person.

After buckling up, I exited the parking deck and eased into traffic.

Bypassing Waikiki, I pointed the Cobalt toward Diamond Head and slipped through a neighborhood of opulent homes. Kahala. The Lapasa family turf.

Past Kahala, the H-1 dwindles to a narrow two-laner called the Kalanianaole Highway. Highway 72. The day was Hawaiian tropic perfect. I lowered the window and let the wind play with my hair.

I followed the Kalanianaole past Hawaii Kai, Hanauma Bay, and Koko Head, stopping at every scenic marker along the way. Forty minutes out, I pulled into an overlook near Makapu’u Beach Park and got out of my car. Two dozen vehicles crammed the small lot.

To the right, the craggy cliffs of Makapu’u Point rose in the distance. To the left, tourists circled the Halona Blowhole, cameras poised, willing the capricious waterspout to make an appearance.

Far below, off the southernmost railing, lay Halona Cove, a golden crescent cradled in the palm of towering black cliffs. From Here to Eternity Beach.

Not a single greased body lay on the sand. Not a single bronzed boarder rode Halona’s waves. Newly erected signs blocked the narrow path snaking down the cliffside. Kapu! Forbidden!

I stood a moment, wondering how Francis Kealoha and his unnamed companion had ended up in the cove. Had they picked their way down the rugged trail to swim? To fish? Had they died elsewhere, then their bodies washed in and been trapped among the rocks? Had the sharks attacked when the men were still alive? Had they scavenged following some deadly turn of events?

I had no answers. But, oddly, I felt better having visited the site.

Past Makapu’u Point, I skirted Waimanalo Bay; at three and a half miles, Oahu’s longest uninterrupted stretch of sand. Makai, oceanward, waves thundered toward a rocky shoreline, sunlight sparking the curves of their backs. Makau, inland, the mountains rose cool and green, as though posing to inspire a Monet or Gauguin.

I was stealing peeks at a line of surfers when I felt a bump and the Cobalt lurched.

My foot hit the brake. My eyes jumped to the rearview mirror.

A black SUV was riding my tail. Its windshield was tinted and afternoon sun bounced from the glass.

I squinted, trying to see the vehicle’s occupants. Two hulking silhouettes suggested a male driver and companion.

“Well, aloha to you too.” Glaring into the rearview, I lowered my speed.

The SUV dropped back.

My eyes returned to the road.

Seconds later, I felt another bump, this one harder than the first.

Through my open window, I heard an engine roar.

Again, my eyes sought the mirror, my foot the brake.

Horrified, I saw the SUV swerve wide, then cut back and smack my driver’s-side rear quarter-panel.

The taillight shattered.

The Cobalt’s back end shot right.

Anger fired through me, swiftly replaced by fear as the right rear tire dropped from the pavement.

Death-gripping the wheel, I fought for control.

No good. The left tire dropped.

The world hitched sideways as I spun.

The SUV was disappearing up the road to my right. A burly arm waved from the passenger-side window.

Though not a precipice, the shoreline at this point was pitched and rocky. There was no guardrail.

Surf pounded behind me.

I eased off the brake and depressed the gas pedal.

The engine whined, but the car didn’t budge.

I pressed harder. The wheels spit gravel into the air.

The Cobalt began a slow backward slide.

HEART THUMPING, I FUMBLED AT THE SEAT BELT.

The clasp slipped from my fingers.

The car continued its backward slide, angling more sharply with each foot.

Frantic, I tried again.

The metal gizmo came up, snapped back into place.

Crap!

Willing calm into my trembling fingers, I carefully raised the faceplate.

The lock clicked and the prongs slipped free.

With a lurch, the rear axle dropped. The car picked up speed.

Flinging the belt aside, I jerked up on the door handle.

Too late!

Metal crunched. The car plunged downward.

Adrenaline shot through me.

One second? Two? A thousand?

The Cobalt’s trunk slammed rock, snapping my forehead into the wheel.