Ohi'a Fire

Prologue

In ancient times the gods walked among mortals, embodied in human form. They desired and tasted and touched the mortals they chose, they coupled with them and this divine offspring became the ali‘i, the royal class. Since the gods controlled life and death, their sons also inherited this birthright. All life was controlled by the gods, and the ali‘i were the direct descendants of the gods; therefore all power was also theirs and all of life was in their control.

That is what it meant to be king.

In ancient times even the shadow of the Hawaiian ali‘i was sacred. If a common man, woman or child found themselves in the shadow of the King it meant immediate death. The King could demand a human life at any moment—one life, ten lives, a thousand lives.

But only the High Priest could make the sacrifice.

This was the natural law, passed down from generation to generation; a law that had been erased in modern times but still lived in the hearts of the chosen few.

The modern world had changed everything; but those special few who were truly connected by blood to the gods still had the power to see, to understand, and to make the sacrifice. They were still connected to the ancient power.

The sacrifice must be given to maintain the power.

This is what it still means to be a high priest.

The high priest understands sacrifice. It is the ultimate expression of his power—a surge of pure energy similar to sexual ejaculation only a thousand times in intensity. It is a cellular explosion, a tsunami of adrenaline and sensation unlike any other; a feeling of fire boiling blood and mind bending orgasmic destruction. So exquisite is this sensation that once experienced, nothing else can begin to compare with it. To the high priest, no other is more worthy of him. The high priest understands that the power of human sacrifice connects him to the gods, here and now. And this is the high priest’s place. Only he can make the sacrifice.

The power is his.

• • •

The recent sacrifice had been very satisfying.

The high priest had offered two again, to the god Ku. The kauwa had broken the kapu, and the gods had called for it. They had crawled before the high priest, lacerating their knees and palms on the razor sharp a‘a, begging for mercy, their eyes rolled back in terror.

Being women, their lives were of little interest to the gods except for their sex, so the king penetrated them, bound to rough boulders, each thrust cutting deep into their flesh. The king went from one to the other, back and forth, aroused to frenzy by their whimpers, then sobs and then dry, anguished screams. They were lost souls, they were slaves, and their end was fitting.

After the king’s divine seed had been spilled upon them, they were offered to the gods in the traditional way. The high priest had held his prize high, its fresh blood vivid against the brilliant blue of the sky. He had felt again the surging molten energy of power; of being even more powerful than the king.

He had felt the power of being a god.

And he wanted more.

Ku would decide when.

But there would be more.

• • •

A new moon hangs invisible over the Halemaumau caldera. Steam rises. Pele rests, dreaming fitfully; burning, jealous, angry.

Poliahu’s cold wind sweeps over her hot skin, her steam vents pulse and white vapors rise into the grey mist. Lehua blossoms burn red in the ohi‘a branches.

Streams of fire streak down Pele’s dreaming face to the pounding ocean, and red steam billows in the fading light. Back lit by the molten river of fire she resembles the very gates of Hell.

Chapter

One

Serra made her way over the sharp rocks, the a‘a, the lava that cuts. She was careful of the tiny life, the fragile lichen threads stretching through the black points. She moved on hands and feet now, making herself light, the lava pressing its razor edges into her palms and heels. Pausing, she looked towards the surf.

The water entered her through her eyes, vast and turquoise blue, flowing to her belly and through her being. The waves were curling, transparent, frothing white at the lip and breaking like liquid glass. Every beautiful thing breaks.

The surfers were in the water on their boards; gleaming brown in the distance. Serra’s pulse raced as she scanned the line up. He’s not there today. She could feel her blood shifting, and the longing to see him gently sluicing through her. Your drug. Your fix. Only not today, no fix today, no visions, no electric jolts, no rides. She looked again. Only glass waves breaking.

Serra searched yet again for a sign of him, exhaling deeply. The surfers cut through the water, paddling and arching like seals. She had fallen in love with one of them in a dream, a dream so vivid it had led her to this spot, and to him. And now the dream continues. She had never met him. He was a distant form, a stranger, unrecognizable and unknown. Just a surfer. He knows you’re watching.

Sometimes Serra wondered if the surfers saw her, but doubted it mattered if they did. In the water surfers think of nothing but the wave. That was the draw. She’d met plenty of old salts at the bar that had happily given up women for surf. She heard about it nightly at the Harbor Inn, where she worked. Surfing was a compulsion, they admitted, it was an addiction and obsession.

Those were three neuroses Serra Knight understood all too well.

Sometimes the surfer, her surfer, looked like a boy on his board; crouched low, his hair falling forward in a dripping lock. But when he cut through the waves, his muscles hardened and the low sun gleamed on his shoulders and his taut body, and he was all man. Serra felt desire for him then, strengthening and coursing through her until it was a familiar ache. Because that’s how it begins. Then her mind would take her closer. Her mind would take her so close that she could see the sparkle of water drops in his lashes and see the salt on his lips. Traveling through space, like light. Closer then closer still her mind took her, until she was inside him looking out through his eyes. Inside. And then she was riding his wave. Inside.

As him.

Serra always left before the green flash, the official death of the day. The surfers would stay, of course, remaining on their boards until every memory of the sun had been erased by the twilight. By the time they left the water she would be at work at the Harbour Inn.

Sometimes, in her mind’s eye, Serra would imagine her surfer at the bar. The mind doesn’t know the difference between the real and the imagined. As she took her drink orders from the rich ha‘ole tourists her honeyed tones were for him. You’re as crazy as a loon, girl. She moved through the tables imagining he was watching her. The mind is not limited to time or space or distance. It was a game she played with herself, because it excited her.

Now and then, to ease the burning pulse, Serra would let one of the young bus boys kiss her on the dock after work. The mind receives without limit.

She would immediately be reminded of why she was alone. Mad as a hatter.

And why she always would be.

• • •

Special Agent John Brandt watched the woman cross the rocks. This was the third day in a row. She’d come here at the same time, parked, made her way over the rocks, sat in the same spot for about 20 minutes, watched the surfers, climbed carefully back, got into her truck and drove to work.

She was a beauty alright; long black hair, petite frame, graceful legs, and a very fine ass. Brandt had been working cases for how many years now? How many in white collar? Too many, probably, but that was an ass. She moved across the lava gracefully. To his annoyance, Special Agent Brandt felt himself get hard.

It hadn’t taken a lot of coaxing to get him on this assignment. Hawaii. Who wouldn’t want to go to Hawaii? He’d imagined blue skies, white beaches, swaying palms, and on the weekends a beach chair and umbrella drink with his name on it.

What he’d gotten, however, was a savage bitch of an island; endless lava stretching under a charcoal sky split by five volcanoes, one highway, and a Police Department from Hell. And it was fucking hot.

The woman settled herself in her usual spot. Brandt reviewed her file mentally. She had been easy to find. Serra Knight. Clean record. Mid-thirties. Originally from California. Struggling artist type. Painter. Up and coming. Lots of work in galleries, hotels. Landscapes and portraits. Someone said that was unusual. Painted the same location from different angles. Not unusual.

Except for one thing.

Whether she was aware of it or not, Serra Knight had painted a crime scene; the scene of a bloody double homicide that a. no one was supposed to know about; and that b. for some twisted mind fuck of fate, he had discovered.

A detective assigned to the case had seen photos of her opening at a Hilo gallery. She had a ‘series’ of three paintings hanging front and center. She’d painted a slice of beach framed by kiawe and lava and a couple of palm trees.

Brandt wiped the sweat off his face with the back of his hand.

He’d seen another version of that landscape.

One with bodies mangled into shreds. Unidentifiable faces lacerated like they’d been rubbed over the lava, which was probably what happened. If you looked at the CSI photos it would be impossible not to notice that the setting was exactly the same, minus bodies of course, as Serra Knight’s paintings.

Fuck it’s hot, Brandt thought to himself.

The only thing worse than tailing someone on an island with one fucking highway, would be a target that did the same thing every day, like Serra Knight. In wide open spaces.

Welcome to paradise.

Brandt got into his car. He’d known from the start that he would have to change strategies.

Agent John Brandt also knew this wasn’t an official assignment and his surveillance of Serra Knight would probably piss off the boys in Hilo.

Screw it. He’d beat Serra to the Harbor Inn and become her new best customer. At least the bar was air-conditioned.

• • •

Serra Knight gazed into the water wishing she could turn her mind off. As if. Her mind. You have a gift she’d been told. Some people called it ‘the sight’ or ‘psychic intuition’ or ‘clairvoyance’. Most people called it ‘bullshit’. She didn’t call ‘it’ anything. It’s called knowing. It’s what you grow as skin when you’re a kid in constant danger. It’s a hyper awareness that attaches itself to something bigger, something connected. You can see what’s going to happen. More information comes in because it has to for your survival. You can taste danger. Every sense is heightened. You can smell lies. Intuition becomes the primary method of survival. You can see inside minds. You know precisely when to shut off.

Serra’s eyes moved over the black lava and pale shell beach splashed with olive green shrubs. The ocean stretched into azure eternity, melting with the horizon striped with the reflection of the gold and crimson bleeding sky. Serra’s eyes filled. The beauty hurt. The perfect curling glass waves and the immense color and sensation ached within. Serra sighed. Pain is knowing.

Then Serra felt him behind her.

Electricity shot through her in a jolt.

Don’t turn around.

His voice. She froze. It’s him. Deep. Soft. She knew it was him, as though the skin of her back could see him.

Serra had started painting the surfer months ago.

At first they were miniature, the perspective she had watching him from the rocks, small and perfect in the distance, a part of the wave.

Do you come here to watch me? the voice demanded.

Serra had hung the miniatures of him over her sink. She had fantasized about him there, running the warm water against her wrists, imagining his lips on her pulse.

Do you come here to watch me? his voice brought her back to the present.

I… come here… Serra stammered.

There was no way he could know. He knows.

… to watch. Why would I… I don’t know you. I’m going to turn around.

Don’t. he said "I need to know. Because I feel you watching me. I feel your eyes. Close. Like sometimes they’re inside me. And then I can see you."

His voice became rough.

So why? What are you doing? Is it… what? Witchcraft? Voodoo? What?!

Serra didn’t know how to reply.

Look, she said I don’t know what you are talking about, and you’re kind of freaking me out. I have to go.

Serra turned.

The sight of him hit her like a blow. His stormy eyes bored into hers.

Time stopped.

Jesus he breathed I did see you.

Serra tore her eyes away and moved quickly away from him towards escape, stumbling, feeling a sharp stab as the lava cut her.

You’re crazy. She stammered.

He did not follow.

I’m Cole! he called after her. And then as if he couldn’t help himself, You’re beautiful.

Serra felt him watch her all the way to her CRV. She couldn’t look back.

Her heart pounded all the way to work.

What happened to you, sister? her girlfriend and co-worker Nani questioned immediately.

Just tired, Serra lied.

How was she going to explain to her friend that she had just been caught with her psychic panties around her ankles and that it had felt very much like she had been discovered masturbating in public.

Serra shook her head and forced a smile. Bull me.

Nani handed a cold Red Bull to Serra, but her pretty face was not convinced.

Chapter

Two

The god Kamohoali‘i and his beautiful sister Pele were close.

Long ago it was Kamohoali‘i who guarded his sister’s flight to Hawaii, and it was he who later gave her shelter when she hid from her despised but destined lover Kamapua‘a. As keeper of the water of life Kamohoali‘i understood fire, and would not move to contain his passionate sister, or the lustful fire of her nature.

It was Kamohoali‘i who taught the goddess Pele to surf. At first he would enter his shark body, for Kamohoali‘i was also the King of the Sharks, and skim the waves under her feet. But soon Pele needed nothing to ride the waves, and enjoyed nothing more. She would rise up, always in the perfect peak; her black hair streaming around her, her glowing skin and graceful limbs at one with the wave, following it’s progression, reading it, leaning on it, and at last gliding through it to another.

There is no sight more beautiful than Pele surfing the waves. Those who see her are transfixed and mesmerized.

Let it be known.

Even when Pele chooses to not be seen on the waves, her presence is felt.

• • •

Special Agent Brandt had downed a pint and had a second in front of him before Serra got to work and tied her black apron tight around her slim hips. She looked a little shaken.

Brandt liked it when drinking on the job was deemed necessary, and he figured it was his duty to help the authorities find some killers, whether they wanted his help or not. Therefore, drinking was required. He studied Serra's small frame as she reached over to pick up her tray.

This girl had nothing to do with the homicides.

The day Brandt discovered the murders he’d rented a small boat to explore the Kona and Kahala coast. He was interested in checking out the house Neil Young had built around Puako, and the famous house that had been brought piece by piece for a palace in Bali.

Brandt stayed as close to shore as possible on the way back to the Harbor. Movement on the shore had caught Brandt’s attention. He looked and saw what he thought was a young dark skinned woman with long dark hair waving her arms. Brandt immediately scrambled to find his binoculars. He aimed them towards the woman, but she was gone. Brandt scanned the area closely and steered closer to shore. He could not find the woman, but his binoculars did spot something else, something that looked like a leg.

Brandt took the boat as close as possible to the shore. Where had the woman gone? A feeling of dread had crept through him. He dropped anchor, swam about fifty yards in and carefully exited the water, grateful for his reef shoes as he crept carefully over the rocks to a small patch of kiawe trees. As Brandt examined the scene, bile rose in his throat.

From looks of it, the victims had been dragged over the razor sharp lava. Their twisted bodies were tied to planks that rested on rocks with their arms tied behind their backs. It appeared that they received fatal head trauma from a blunt object, but their faces looked like they had been ground into the lava. Both of their necks had leather cords tight around. Their clothes indicated that they had perhaps been raped. Both victims were female, one adult and one child.

Special Agent Brandt had lurched away from the scene and thrown up his lunch.

Brandt collected his thoughts and moved from the bar to a side table he was pretty sure was in Serra’s section. He downed his beer.

Can I get you another? Serra’s voice was deeper than he'd thought, but sweet.

Could you recommend a local brew?

Her eyes were direct and warm. Did you just have the Longboard?

Brandt returned the warmth. It was pretty good.

Try the Kona Ale. Let me hide a sliver of lemon in it.

Brandt had a feeling this girl did very well in tips. ‘Mahalo' he said brightly and incorrectly.

Serra's eyes narrowed for a split second. She was profiling him. Her smile was warm as she politely corrected him and left.

It was impossible to not watch her ass.

Brandt’s initial analysis of the crime scene had been in sync with the HPD report filed later that day. He was not told that each victim was also missing their left eye. Nor was he told about the fish hooks.

Hilo had sent two detectives immediately to relieve Jaylyn Nobriga their overworked Kona equivalent, who was happy to turn the gruesome business over.

Both Dane Reynolds and Chet Kobayashi were thorough, personable and professional. They were also respectful and very low key and Brandt was not surprised to find out later that they were both local, and both surfed.

Brandt figured the victims had been bludgeoned and raped in some kind of order, within the past 48 hours. The murderer had help. Police Chief Daniel Souza reminded him that homicide wasn’t his department.

He was white collar FBI fringe.

He knew the protocol.

There had been a long uncomfortable silence when Brandt told the Chief Souza about the dark woman who had waved from the shore to attract his attention to the murders.

I shouted for her and I looked for her he had told them, but there was no trace of her—like she had disappeared. But there was nowhere to go, nowhere to hide, no way to get out of there except over the lava or in the water and I would have seen her. So there is a witness out there, gentlemen, or a beautiful long haired murderess.

Please do not leave the island until we’ve had a chance to question you again, Agent Brandt. This is a strange… coincidence.

Brandt hadn’t taken it personally. Shit, Souza was right. It was downright bizarre.

Brandt finished his beer and waved at Serra. He would return tomorrow and establish himself as an annoying bar fly and drunk. Good plan. Go slow. Enjoy the view. It’s Hawaii. John Brandt knew that the outcome of any questioning surrounding what he had found was going to be seriously fucked up.

Brandt left the Inn and ducked into the adjacent Mexican restaurant for a quick shot of Cuervo on his way out of Kawaihae. A pretty local woman gave him the eye, already a bit bleary. John Brandt smiled and strolled over. He was pretty sure that after a few drinks she would be happy to give a lot more.

Chapter

Three

The Hualalai party was in full swing. Every French door of the sprawling mansion was flung wide, laughter and music spilling out. Davis Gaines was pleased. Everything was perfect. His castle, stretching along the breathtaking Kohala Coast, his princess in 20 karats of diamonds, his subjects drunk on his champagne, eager to serve, eager to please, eager to give him what he wanted. All of them were willing to do anything he asked of them. The thought aroused him. Anything he wanted.

He strolled down by the pool. A nervous beauty from the catering staff came by with a tray of ‘bubbles’ which he waved off. He never drank. It dulled the senses and made people stupid at best but more often intolerable. In Davis Gaines’ opinion, liquor was the excuse of losers, which he was not.

A swell of laughter came from inside. The music got louder and the dancing began. get higher, baby! the sound system blared never come down! There were plenty of white lines at his party, plenty of pills, plenty of what ever they wanted. From one of the French doors a flawless woman and a much younger man emerged. Davis Gaines watched his princess. She’d had the best work done, and she was a thoroughbred, but the minute tucks, the tiny scars, the implants were all there underneath. Her backless halter showed off her designer trained body. Enormous chunks flashed on her fingers. She reached for the young man with a confident laugh and pulled him to her. His princess had whatever and whoever she wanted and was permitted. She was perfect.

Davis was repulsed by her.

She had no fear.

And she knew everything.

Almost everything.

Davis Gaines knew Vivian would take her secrets to the grave. Or she would be put there. But then, she needed his lifestyle, his wealth, and his faultless reputation. And he needed her: her society groups, her charity work, her various social organizations and her work in the community. Every one knew Vivian.

And Vivian got the girls.

Amazing party as always, David.

A voice broke through his thoughts.

Gaines’ voice was low and pleasant. He accepted the glass held out to him.

It’s always a pleasure to have you, Senator.

They stood in comfortable silence for a moment.

Are you in the Hibiscus Suite again, Senator? I hope The Seasons is treating you well?

Only the finest, the Senator replied his eyes flashing right to left, his voice dropping.

…last time you sent over… a … gift basket… Davis raised his glass to the Senator.

And I’m sure one on its way up as we speak. Come on, the guests are heating up. In no time they’ll be naked in the pool.

Davis laughed easily.

Relax, Senator. The night is…‘young’.

Both men laughed softly at the joke.

Davis Gaines led the Senator towards the pool. He had many important friends like the Senator. He had fought for everything he had. He had killed for what he had and he would again, in a heartbeat. But he didn’t need to. He had already found the Senator’s weakness.

• • •

Later, the Senator’s gift was well worth the wait, and the wrapping was exquisite.

The girl’s dark eyes were huge and drug-fevered, her mouth a perfect red bow, her hair in two high pony-tails held with pink ribbons. Propped up against the pillows her toes curled in her lace fringed ankle socks, her legs were spread wide. Her school girl blouse was unbuttoned revealing a white training bra, and under her short plaid skirt the Senator could see her hand in her white cotton panties, touching herself. He was immediately hard and so hot by the time he got his pants off that it went too fast. It was so hot, so forbidden. Her smooth baby skin, her pinked tipped fingers working herself, her mewing sounds. She was obviously enjoying it. These bitches are older than they look anyway, he told himself. Holding her hips he looked huge entering her tiny, hairless body. She cried out as he came, thrusting too hard into her, his own voice harsh. Jesus Fuck!

The Senator left a large tip with the girl, and left the room. He made it downstairs to the long koa bar right as the bartender was giving last call. He could tell the bartender recognized him from somewhere, something the Senator was used to, and liked.

What’s your pleasure, Sir? the bartender inquired.

The Senator smiled. If he only knew.

Chapter

Four

Serra did not return to the surf spot.

The following day she puttered around her studio and wandered through Kona trying to be interested in anything, only seeing in