Spider Bones

His eyes widened, then tensed in anger. His upraised arms relaxed a hair. A downward move of one hand gestured me behind his back.

I scurried to him and dropped to a squat.

And noticed the boy.

He lay hidden in shadow cast by the pillbox, dreadlocks haloing his head like snakes around Medusa. His eyes were closed. His chest looked still.

I placed shaky fingers on the boy’s throat. Felt no pulse.

I was trying again when his lids fluttered. Half-opened.

I found and squeezed his hand. Bent close. Heard breath rattling in his chest.

“Sarah?” His words barely carried above the wind. “It’s so cold.”

I whipped my jacket off and spread it across him.

He frowned, puzzled, a faraway look in his eyes.

“It’s so cold. I’m freezing.” His limbs shivered uncontrollably.

“You’re going to be fine,” I whispered close to his ear. “We’ll get you to a hospital. You’re young. You’ll make it.”

“I can’t see, Sarah.”

“Hold on.” I tightened my grip, felt slight pressure in return.

“Everything’s black.” Mumbled. “Sarah, I’m dying.”

I trembled from cold or fear. Goose bumps puckered my flesh.

The boy coughed wetly. His mouth looked dark. Too dark.

I pressed my chest to his, willing my warmth and strength into his body.

Please, God!

“I’m scared.” His lips were right at my ear. “Shit. I don’t want to d—”

His words were cut off.

By death?

No! No!

Hot tears streamed my cheeks.

Beside me, I felt Ryan coil.

I raised my head.

Followed Ryan’s sight line.

Every muscle in my body went rigid.

A man was dragging Lily through one of the pillbox’s doorless openings. One beefy hand wrapped her throat. The other held a gun tight to her temple.

Pukui? It had to be. Out to collect his twenty grand.

Ryan tensed to spring.

Pukui forced Lily toward the seaward side of the pillbox. I could see that the path at that point was less than a foot wide.

Lily’s eyes looked like those of a terrified dog, the whites huge, and distorted with fear.

I craned over Ryan’s shoulder, terrified to watch, terrified not to.

In the gloom, Lô materialized atop the pillbox, hunched, Glock held two-handed and pointed at Pukui. He inched forward, feeling with his feet, not daring to glance down. One step. Two.

Lô was almost to the front edge of the pillbox when Pukui shoved his gun under Lily’s jaw and forced her chin up. She yelped in pain.

Lô froze.

Ryan braced with one hand against the concrete.

Pukui’s head swiveled from side to side.

“We got company?” Pukui shouted. “Do yourself a favor, bro. Get the hell out of here.”

Silence.

“Don’t fuck with me, man.” There was true venom in Pukui’s voice.

The next sixty seconds seemed to last an hour.

Lô tensed. Fired.

The shot and a scream exploded as one sound.

Pukui’s upper body twisted left. His gun flew from his hand and cartwheeled into shadow.

Lily broke free.

Pukui yanked her back by the hood of her jacket.

Lily went down hard on her bum, struggled for traction with her hands and feet.

Ryan sprang. Drove the heel of his hand into Pukui’s Adam’s apple.

Pukui staggered back.

Ryan grabbed Lily. Dragged her away from the edge.

Pukui doubled over, gasping. His face was just a mouth hole gaping in the deepening dusk.

Another shot rang out.

Pukui spun. Dropped to his back.

Blood foamed from his mouth and oozed from his chest.

One leg flexed in spasm. His hips bucked.

Before Ryan could move, Pukui rolled and dropped over the cliff.

A JET FLEW HIGH OVERHEAD, LEAVING A WHITE COTTON-CANDY trail to mark its passing. Hot breezes swayed the tops of the loblolly pines and rippled the grass like a bright green sea.

The grave at our feet smelled of freshly turned earth. A bouquet lay on the patchwork sod, the supermarket carnations brown and wilted. Beside it, a tiny American flag drooped on its balsa wood stick.

The old headstone was gone. Its replacement gleamed speckled pink in the sun. The inscription was sharp and bone white, a raw wound in the granite.Spec 2 Luis Alvarez, United States ArmyFebruary 28, 1948–January 23, 1968He died a hero

When JPAC failed to locate an Alvarez family member, Plato offered the grave at Gardens of Faith Cemetery. Said the spot belonged to Alvarez, that he’d be more at peace in familiar soil than elsewhere. Purchased the marker.

Behind us, beside a smaller stand of pines, another pair of headstones threw shadows on the lawn. Katy and I had placed flowers on the one marking a second new grave.John Charles “Spider” LoweryMarch 21, 1950–May 5, 2010He loved all living things

The other stone waited above unbroken lawn.Plato Maximus LoweryLoving husband of Harriet Cumbo LoweryFather of John and ThomasDecember 14, 1928–

Sheriff Beasley was right. Plato Lowery was a good man.

Ironically, it was the science that Plato distrusted so fiercely that vindicated his faith in wife and family. DNA had confirmed my suspicion that Harriet was a chimera.

At my request, Reggie Cumbo turned over letters Harriet had mailed to her son following his departure for the army. Saliva on the stamps and envelopes yielded a testable sample. The DNA sequencing differed from that obtained from Harriet’s pathology slides, and matched the sequencing found in samples taken from the Hemmingford pond victim, Spider Lowery.

Providing the letters was perhaps Reggie Cumbo’s final redemption. Shortly after that, he’d gone into hospice care.

Pinky Atoa had gotten it wrong about Cumbo’s status with the Sons of Samoa. Cumbo was an OG, yeah, but not an “original gansta,” just an “old guy” who owned an SOS hangout.

Cumbo had probably turned a blind eye at the Savaii, maybe taken kickbacks, but it was unlikely he’d sent Kealoha and Faalogo to Hawaii. Expansion into the islands was apparently their own brainchild.

Cumbo wouldn’t be charged with any crime. He’d soon be dead. We’d probably never know his full culpability.

I still wondered about Cumbo’s motivation for coming forward after so many years. Was it a Lee Atwater moment? A change in heart—and priorities—as his life drew to a close? Remorse for killing Xander Lapasa, as he claimed? Or the vision of a new business op, a score with Theresa-Sophia’s will? We’d probably never know that either.

I never quite understood Cumbo’s speech to an unseen Nickie Lapasa in Schoon’s conference room. There was no evidence they’d ever met. Perhaps Cumbo felt it was important as he faced death to make his confession to Xander’s brother. He’d researched the Lapasas on the Internet and taken the opportunity to go to Hawaii, probably expecting to see Nickie.

Nickie Lapasa had finally agreed to allow his sister to submit a DNA sample. I had no doubt Xander would soon be returned to his family.

I suspected my first guess about Nickie’s initial reluctance was right. Even if he now ran a clean business, Nickie schooled at Alex’s knee, saw his father’s troubles, probably absorbed the old man’s distrust of cops and government.

Hadley Perry survived the political storm created by her closure of Halona Cove, once again ruled her kingdom of death. I never learned if she and Ryan had history. Never would ask.

The boy at the pillbox also survived. His name was Barry Byrd. He was nineteen, played sax in a jazz band, attended university part-time with his sister Sarah.

Lily met Byrd during her visit to the Ala Moana mall that had so irritated Katy. The two kept in contact by phone. They had plans to meet the night Katy saw Byrd by our pool.