Kula (Surfing Detective Mystery Series) Read online

  Closing in on the pagoda I looked up again and saw the Tahoe’s doors open and Spyder Silva step out wearing his baseball cap, bill pulled down low. Then the old man hobbled out. Maile came next. The two men started walking with her toward the pagoda. She was in her jogging clothes, and her hands were bound behind her. Silva had his grubby mitt on her bare shoulder. I felt like planting a slug between his eyes for that offense alone.

  I walked through the pagoda to the kukui tree behind it, stopping under its outstretched limbs. The two men came toward me with Maile. I didn’t fear for myself or for Maile because I assumed Scanlon wanted the dog more than he wanted either of us. But suddenly I questioned that assumption. What if wanting the dog was just a ruse? What if Scanlon’s real purpose was revenge against the two people who’d ruined his revenge? Already he had Maile. And maybe he thought he’d soon have me. I wished I’d asked Tommy to keep me in sight.

  But it was too late. Here came the bald and bent old man hobbling along beside the pet thief, who still had his hand, his left, on Maile. His right was in his pants pocket.

  “Where’s the dog, mate?” Scanlon said. “You promised to bring him. No dog, no girl.”

  “I’ve got the dog,” I said. “He’s with my assistant within earshot. Once you release Maile there, my assistant will bring the dog.”

  Scanlon scowled. He didn’t like it. “That’s not what we agreed on.”

  “It’s the only way I’ll do it,” I said. “You want the dog—those are my terms. Release Maile first. Otherwise, what guarantee do I have that you won’t take them both?”

  “What guarantee do we have?” Scanlon said.

  “I’ve got one guarantee, brah!” Hotheaded Silva reached his right hand into his pocket, pulled his Berretta. Bang! He fired it into the ground.

  “Idiot,” Scanlon scolded him under his breath. Then to me: “You can see that we’re armed. And we mean business. You don’t want the girl hurt. So you’ll produce the dog like you said.”

  I said nothing. I was recalling my instructions to Tommy. If he heard the gunshot, he’d be on his way.

  We had a standoff. Silva kept his gun out, as if he intended to use it. Scanlon whispered in his ear long enough to make me nervous. Almost a minute went by while we all stood there.

  Finally, on Scanlon’s command, Silva let Maile go. She walked toward me. Her face was expressionless, like a practiced professional. But not for long. Her eyes widened, her mouth gapped, and she said, “Oh, my God!”

  Kula came out of the darkness on a dead run. The dog jumped on Silva and knocked him down. Kula started chewing on the pet thief. Silva shrieked and his gun went off again. The dog whelped and rolled on his side. Kula lay motionless.

  Silva jumped up, “You fuckah!” he said to me. Then he fired wildly in my direction. I pulled my .357 unloaded two quick rounds into him. He went down again. This time for good.

  Maile ran to Kula, who still wasn’t moving. “Oh, my God!” she said again.

  I subdued Scanlon. Then Tommy showed up with his Derringer pulled.

  “Hold this man,” I handed off Scanlon.

  Tommy showed the old Aussie his Derringer and said, “Stay put.”

  I ran to Maile, who was standing over Kula. His coat was already bright red. He was wheezing.

  “Where did Silva hit him?” I asked her as I unbound her hands.

  “He’s too bloody.” She knelt down beside him. “I can’t tell. We’ve got to get him to an animal hospital—fast.”

  “I’m on it.” I ran down the hill to my car and brought it up. I climbed the curb and pulled into the cemetery, stopping under the kukui tree where Maile still knelt beside Kula.

  “How’s he doing?” I asked her.

  “He’s still breathing,” Maile said. “I’m worried, Kai.”

  “Let’s get him into the car.” Maile and I gently lifted Kula and loaded him in. The upholstery quickly became a bloody mess. I gave Maile the keys, she climbed behind the wheel, and was gone.

  I checked on Silva. He lay on his back in a pool of blood. From the holes and expanding stain in his t-shirt, it looked like I’d hit him with both shots in the chest. He had stopped breathing. It didn’t appear there was much hope for Silva. There never had been. At the neck of his shirt I could see the border of his tattoo of the coiled cobra and the phrase: KILL ‘EM ALL, LET GOD SORT ‘EM OUT.

  It seemed prophetic.

  forty-eight

  I dialed 911 and requested police and an ambulance. Silva was dead before either arrived. I was not sad. Whatever made him the way he was, I didn’t know. But he had been a scum of the earth, preying on innocent people and their defenseless pets. I remembered what Maile had told me at the beginning of this case: of the many hardened criminals she’d seen during her years with HPD, none were so sick as those who abused animals.

  Next I called Frank Fernanadez. The homicide detective showed up about fifteen minutes after three HPD cruisers and the ambulance arrived. Delivering Scanlon to him all neat and tidy would have seemed like a favor under other circumstances, but Silva’s body lying only a few feet away with gunshot wounds from my revolver made things a bit more complicated. And I could hardly forget that not long before, Fernandez had liked me for the murders that my client Buckingham had committed.

  Before we rode with Fernandez to police headquarters on Beretania Street, I asked Tommy in private: “Did you see Silva shooting at me?”

  He nodded.

  “Good,” I said. “You’re my witness. And so is Maile.”

  “It was self-defense,” he said. “No question.”

  “Why did you let Kula out of the car? I suddenly found myself getting angry at Tommy. “He got shot, man! He’s fighting for his life.”

  “I didn’t mean to!” Tommy protested. “When I heard Silva’s gun and opened the door to come up and cover you, the dog jumped out. He ran off before I could catch him.”

  “Sorry, Tommy.” I had second thoughts. “It’s not your fault. You did the best you could.”

  “He was flying. Nobody could have stopped him.”

  “Must be Silva’s scent was strong enough for the dog to remember.”

  “Or maybe Kula picked up Maile’s scent or yours?” Tommy shrugged. “I thought golden retrievers were mellow dogs. Yet he attacked Silva.”

  “Instinct,” I said. “Did you hear about the golden on the mainland that fought off a mountain lion to save his human companion? The dog ended up a bloody mess, like Kula, but he survived. I hope Kula does too. Anyway, all I can figure is that he was protecting Maile.”

  “And you,” Tommy said.

  * * *

  In Fernandez’s office, Tommy and I had a long chat with the homicide detective. Frank was a bit torqued that we had not called him before the proposed hostage trade. But Tommy was conveniently and fortunately not only a witness to the events, but also my lawyer. I didn’t have to flip open my cell phone to call him. He was already there. And both of our weapons were duly registered in our own names. I had used mine, as Tommy and also Maile would corroborate, in self-defense. We make statements and were released shortly after midnight.

  * * *

  The first thing I did when I left the station was to call Maile. This time she answered.

  “How’s Kula?” I asked.

  “I hope he’s going to make it,” she said. “The doc stitched him up and thinks there’s a fighting chance he’ll recover. He’s sedated now and will be in the hospital overnight. I’ll go see him first thing tomorrow morning.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “In my cottage. I just got home.”

  “Ugh . . . Do you have a minute? I thought maybe we could talk—”

  “I got your phone message,” she said coolly.

  “If you’d just let me explain . . .”

  She didn’t say anything for a moment, then: “OK, I’m too keyed up to sleep.”

  “Can we talk in person?”

  “It’s after midnight,” she
said.

  “You’re right. It’s late . . .”

  There was a long pause. Then she said, “Oh, what the heck—”

  * * *

  I borrowed Tommy’s car and drove back to Mānoa wondering how to talk to Maile about the phone call from Madison. Nothing came to mind. It was very late.

  When I pulled up the lights were still on inside her cottage. I knocked. Then I heard Maile’s distant voice. “The door’s open.”

  I stepped in. No Lolo dashing into Maile’s bedroom. No Peppah and Coconut glooming onto me and climbing my leg. Maybe they were asleep?

  Maile looked tired and pale. She didn’t offer me anything to drink. Or eat. She didn’t even say hello. She just said: “I hope Kula’s going to be all right.”

  “Me too,’” I said.

  We sat down across from each other. Maile on the rattan couch. Me in a chair. The distance between us felt greater than the few feet that separated our eyes.

  She said: “You wanted to talk?”

  I took a breath and swallowed hard. “Now about that phone call . . .”

  About the Author

  Chip Hughes earned a Ph.D. in English at Indiana University and taught American literature, film, writing, and popular fiction at the University of Hawai‘i at Mānoa. He left the university in 2008 to write full time. His non-fiction publications include Beyond The Red Pony: A Reader’s Companion to Steinbeck’s Complete Short Stories—also translated into Japanese; John Steinbeck: A Study of the Short Fiction; and numerous essays and reviews.

  An active member of the Private Eye Writers of America, Chip launched the Surfing Detective mystery series in 2004 with Murder on Moloka‘i. The second book, Wipeout!, followed in 2007. The third, Kula, in 2011. Other titles, in various stages of development, include Murder at Volcano House, Barking Sands, and the Maui Masseuse. the series has been optioned for television and is currently in development. More at http://surfingdetective.com.

  Chip lives in Windward O‘ahu with his wife and two retrievers. He surfs when time allows.