Spider Bones(31)

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.
The car balanced a moment, front grille pointed skyward.
Thinking back, I remember vehicles pulled to the shoulder. Gawkers, eyes wide, mouths forming little round O's. At the time, none of that registered.
An eon ticked by, then, in slo-mo, the Cobalt toppled sideways into the sea.
Gravity, or the impact, sucked me down. My spine slammed the gearshift, then the passenger-side door. Somehow, I remained conscious.
Water soaked the back of my clothes, my hair. Above, through the driver's-side window, I could see sky and clouds.
Grabbing the steering wheel with my right hand and the seat back with my left, I dragged myself upward over the center console toward the driver's-side door. The car wobbled.
A voice screamed in my head.
Get out!
But how? Lower the half-open window?
No power!
Try to squeeze through?
Get stuck, you'll drown!
Already, six inches of water filled the Cobalt's down side.
Open the door?
Go!
Desperate, I lifted the handle and pushed upward with both palms.
My angle was off. Or my arms were too weak. The door wouldn't budge.
A gurgling sound filled my ears. I looked down.
Eight inches.
Think!
My eyes scanned the small space in which I was trapped. Floating sunglasses. A map. No purse.
Yes!
Yanking the keys from the ignition, I wedged the door handle in the up position. Then, panting from exertion and fear, I arm-wrapped the steering wheel and seat back, flexed my knees, and kicked out with both feet.
The door arced upward, swung back. Moving like lightning, I caught it before the lock could engage.
The passenger seat was now half submerged.
Muscling the door wide, I scrabbled through the opening and launched myself upward and outward.
Free fall, then I hit. Salt water filled my mouth and ears. Closed over my head.
I came up, gulped air. A wave broke, first battering me forward then sucking me back.
Blinking and treading, I gauged the distance to shore. Only a few feet, but the surf was gonzo.
Frantic, I swam a few strokes. Lost ground.
Don't fight the current! Go with it!
Ignoring every instinct commanding me to swim, I rolled to my back. Aware that waves come in sets, I waited for lulls. Tested.
Too deep.
Too deep.
Too deep.
Finally, my feet touched bottom.
I tried to stand, lost my footing on the algae-covered stones. A breaker threw me. Pain fired across one cheek and up one knee.
I tried again.
Again was tossed, this time pinned to a boulder. Waves pounded my body. I couldn't break free. Couldn't breathe.
From nowhere, a hand gripped my arm. Strong.
Another.
With rubber arms and legs, I pushed from the rock. Stood in water up to my waist.
Two strange faces. Male. Young.
"You OK?"
I nodded, gulping air.
"Can you walk?"
I nodded again.
"Man, lady. That was quite a show."
"Mahalo," I croaked.
We picked our way shoreward.
Once ashore, my rescuers insisted on calling an ambulance. I told them I was unhurt. They pressed. I refused, requested they phone the cops to report a single-car accident with no injuries.
When the young men had moved off, I sat, willing control over my trembling limbs. My pounding heart. My harried adrenals.
Again and again I asked myself what the hell just happened. How had a chain of events that started with an autoerotic death in Montreal almost gotten me killed on a highway in Hawaii? Was the accident linked to the Hemmingford pond victim? To Plato Lowery in Lumberton, North Carolina? To a case at the CIL? If so, which one? Lowery? Alvarez? Lapasa? To the fired anthropologist, Gus Dimitriadus? To the work I was doing for Hadley Perry? To the Halona Cove victim with the traction pin, Francis Kealoha? To his unknown companion? Or was the collision with the SUV just that, an accident? A case of wrong place, wrong time?
When composure returned, I moved toward the gawkers. A young woman lent me her phone. Susie. Nice hair. Very bad teeth.
Katy had no car. Danny was tied up at his arrival ceremony. Perry was being grilled by the powers that be.
Hating it, I dialed Ryan.
He went apeshit. As anticipated.
"You think these tools forced you off the road on purpose?"
"Probably. I felt three separate hits spaced apart."
"Did you recognize them?"
"No."
"The vehicle?"
"No."
"Did you get a tag number?"
"No."
"Were they drunk?"
"There wasn't time for a Breathalyzer."
"You're sure you're not hurt?"
"I'm fine." For the fourth time. "But the Cobalt is toast."
"Shit. Lily just went out for an SUP lesson."
"SUP?"
"Stand-up paddling. You float on a surfboard-looking thing and propel yourself with a paddle. Don't ask me why. Anyway, she's out of contact for another twenty minutes." Agitated breathing. "Look, I can run down there, take you to Lanikai, shoot back up here-"
"Where are you?"
"Wailea."
"That's at least an hour from here."
"Maybe I could-"
"Ryan, it's no biggie."