Hot-Blooded (3 page)

Their youngest brother, Bane, stood on the fringes of the garden, gaze cast downward. At only fourteen, he’d handled their mother’s sudden death surprisingly well. Keahilani assumed he hadn’t fully assimilated the implications of her absence. After he finished his next few surfing competitions and realizations kicked in, things might be different. For now, though, he seemed stoic.

Keahilani sucked in a long breath and stared at the cheap, paper-based urn in the cradle of her sweaty palms. Mahina had never said whether she wanted to be buried or cremated, but the latter was the family’s only option due to lack of funds. A couple of friends had collected some money to help with the cost of burning the body. She hadn’t yet figured out how they’d pay the ambulance bill. Maybe in one small way it was good that Mahina expired before the hospital staff had a chance to drive in their billing needles and bleed the rest of the family to death.

She rubbed a thumb over the urn. A tear caught at the corner of her eye and held. She shook her head. Mahina was so much more than this flimsy box of sand she left behind. A devoted mother of four. A fierce advocate for Natives. A charlatan to some. More droplets gathered, poised to break the dam of her lids.

Keahilani knelt, scooped up a handful of dirt, and let the winds carry it away. “As a
kahuna
of many things, you were always good at understanding nature,
Makuahine
. We know how special this garden was to you. It seems fitting to bring you back here. Rest in peace.” Turning to her brothers, she lifted a brow to see if they had anything to add. Kai and Bane shook their heads. Manō just stared, arms crossed, feet apart, motionless.

She carefully opened the box and shook out her mother’s remains as she walked the perimeter of the garden Mahina loved. The wind carried some of the ash away, but most settled into the rich soil where it was meant to be. So much energy condensed into … nothing.

Was that all Mahina’s time on earth was worth? Useless dirt? Forty-eight years of personal struggles, cultural passions, new lives given, and old ones lost. Forty-eight years of resistance and rebellion in the name of her people. Forty-eight years of caring for everyone except herself.

No. Mahina was bigger than what she left behind. Like her namesake, the moon, she possessed the strength of gravity, powerful enough to command the tides. She was a presence that couldn’t be quantified or defined or boxed. To Keahilani, Mahina was a symbol of freedom and protection and impossible dreams made real.

She didn’t have money, but she had a bigger soul than a hundred men combined, and that was worth much more than a padded bank account or fancy cars. Keahilani never told her mother how proud she was to be her daughter, but every minute Mahina breathed had been a lesson for those around her in how to
live
.

Keahilani sat on a rocky outcropping and stared across the small field ripe with bluish lavender and exotic native flowers of every hue. Mahina started the garden years before Keahilani and Kai were born. It was one of the few sources of peace in her tumultuous life. She said it grounded her. Gave her a place to connect with her ancestors and with nature.

Keahilani now understood why it was so important to her. This place was her mother’s escape from harsh reality, prejudice, and tragedy. She owed it to Mahina to keep it up—not for herself, but to honor her mother’s memory and devotion to the land.

Bane circled the gardens, kicking loose detritus away from the plants as if its presence somehow offended him. He paused every few steps to study the flowers, though he never really focused on them. She ached for him. Though he didn’t show it, he had to be hurting.

Manō clenched his jaw and trudged back to his motorcycle. The engine revved loud enough to break the sound barrier, and he peeled out, leaving a spray of gravel in his wake. Keahilani wasn’t sure where he tore off to in such a hurry, but she guessed the place stayed open late, the dress code was black extreme leather casual, and the cover price for entry was a missing tooth or a bloody nose. Or worse.

She faced Kai standing a few feet away and met a mirror of herself in his eyes. They shared a moment of silent communion.

Things will never be the same.
This wasn’t flippant mental commentary, dressed in black mourning clothes to be shed after the “funeral.” No, this was a threat balanced precariously on the tip of a blade stabbing the line that separated necessity from right and wrong.

They hadn’t talked about it, but Kai knew as well as she did there was no money. Though rent was covered by social programs, little else would be. Keahilani and Kai would have to assume joint responsibility for underage Bane. Manō wasn’t a suitable caregiver, nor would he
want
to assume custody even if he were. The twins had to find a way to keep the kitchen stocked, clothes on their backs, and gas in the tank. Neither of them had decent jobs. They’d have to get creative.

Or illegal, which was where Manō might actually be useful.

Whatever it took, Keahilani would see her little brother—Mahina’s baby—taken care of.

An orange and black butterfly fought against a sudden breeze toward her. A monarch. It hovered between Kai and her for a couple seconds. Odd how it seemed to study them before it danced away, surfing the currents to the back of the garden.

“We have to find some money. Mahina would want us to take care of Bane and even Manō.” Kai wandered after the butterfly.

Keahilani followed. “We’ve got no education beyond high school. Neither of us is gonna find a job that pays more than we’re making now.”

“We could try the big hotels on the west side.” Kai stopped and tracked the butterfly’s progress. “Maybe clean rooms. Work the towel huts. Or if we’re lucky, we might land a performance gig at a
lū‘au
or something.”

Keahilani could hear her mother’s protest—inflections, accent, and all:
Never promote cultural stereotypes with your words or actions. You’re Hawaiian, not a submissive dancer in a grass skirt with eyes downcast or a towel boy bowing to rich haole tourists. You’re descended from a noble people. Prove it.

She smirked and laid her hands on her hips. Kai scowled, started to speak, then shut his mouth when something to the left caught his attention. “Come on,” he said.

The monarch again. This time it hovered over a dense patch of overgrown vegetation. With an arm, Keahilani shielded her eyes from the sun. The butterfly flapped its wings like a beacon waiting to be noticed. She and Kai looked at each other. An unanswered question passed between them. When he lifted a hopeful brow, she shook her head.

“Uh-uh,” Keahilani grumbled. “That’s
not
her.” Surely he didn’t think so. He was too smart to believe in their mother’s spiritual nonsense.

He didn’t reply as he continued toward the beating wings. A dense layer of tall, thick-stemmed plants bordered the garden. Bamboo. The butterfly led him into the foliage. Kai navigated small openings between the green stalks and disappeared through. Keahilani was not at all interested in taking a field trip to the rain forest, which seemed totally out of place here. After warring with herself for half a minute, she glanced back to see where Bane was. Still kicking things. Against her better judgment, she stepped through the curtain of vegetation. Her jaw promptly dropped.

On the other side of the green wall lay twenty square feet of lush, star-shaped leaves. The dank, piney scent of strong herbs lit up her nose. The butterfly lighted on the nearest plant and pumped its wings in a slow goodbye before flying off to do whatever butterflies that hung out in marijuana fields did.

“What the … fuck?” Kai spun in a circle, arms out to his sides, marveling at the jackpot of potential commerce they’d just stumbled into. A wry smile commandeered his face, and for the first time in days, the dark cloud hanging over his head lifted enough to allow a few rays of sun to brighten his expression.

Stunned, Keahilani darted over to a plant, ripped free a star-shaped frond, and brought it to her nose. “Okay, so maybe the butterfly
was
her.” She laughed. It would be just like Mahina to come back as an insect ghost and share her coveted stash with her grown-up kids.

And what a stash it was. There had to be twenty or more full-grown plants here. Enough to keep a family high for a couple years. She scanned the environs. About an acre of flat space surrounded the weed. The overgrowth could be cleared without much effort. With the right planning, research, and proper cultivation, the crop could eventually be expanded into a sea of green big enough to keep an entire
community
stocked.

Her thoughts shifted tracks from worry, regret, and frustration to hope, possibilities, and a glimmer of relief. If they could keep outsiders at bay, they could farm the weed and sell it. The property didn’t technically belong to Mahina, so the cops couldn’t pin any illegal activity on them. As far as Keahilani knew, it was just government land that had been deemed unfit for commercial use.

“Kai, do you have any idea what this place could mean for us?”

Eyes wide, he surveyed the tract of land from the west corner to the east. His cheeks bunched under the weight of his oversized grin. “I absolutely do.” Kai loved his pot. Perhaps a little too much. If they were seriously considering dealing illegal marijuana, Keahilani would make sure he understood they were in it for business, not pleasure.

More disbelief atomized across Keahilani’s skin, but this time, it infused her with excitement rather than dread. Long before they lost Mahina, the family had struggled to make ends meet. Her mother must’ve had a damn good reason for keeping this place quiet.

Mahina had always been paranoid. Maybe she planned to keep it and sell off some of the marijuana to pay for college or weddings or a house one day. Whatever the motivation, it no longer mattered. Mahina had always said ‘ohana was everything, and Keahilani vowed to ensure every member of the family would be taken care of. Mahina’s gift was the solution to all their problems. Now it was just a question of how to manage it.

Medical marijuana had been legal in Hawaii since 2000, but you could only keep small amounts, and it was a pain in the ass to get a permit. Devising a “retail” operation for cultivating, packaging, marketing, and selling illegal pot in a state where it was legal would be tricky, but like her mother, Keahilani had never backed down from a challenge. It was risky, but doable.

Kai headed over, grinning ear to ear. Keahilani snagged a fistful of leaves and held them out to her brother. He accepted and inhaled the rich scent. Keahilani lifted a hand to his. Together they created a knot of curled, intertwined fingers.

“What do you say, little brother? Should we do this?”

He squeezed her hand. “Hell, yes. We’re gonna be rich.”

She nodded slowly and offered a silent “thank you” and “I love you” to Mahina for guiding them to her treasure. She might not be with them in the physical realm anymore, but their mother was definitely with them in spirit.

“The House of the Moon has risen,” Keahilani said.

Though nothing on the surface moved, she could have sworn something shifted deep under the ground beneath her feet.

Chapter Three

Oahu

Wednesday, September 17, 2014

Blake Murphy closed the door and scanned Scott’s office out of habit. As usual, every inch of wood was polished to a shine. Each sheaf of paper staring up from the open folder on the desk aligned perfectly with its mates. Not a speck of dust dared to show its fuzzy little face anywhere. The only thing out of place was the priest getting verbally grilled, drilled, and not-so-thrilled by the well-dressed man seated in the oversized leather chair. Blake eased behind the guy and yawned.

“So, what you’re saying is that you don’t have the money you owe me. Correct?” Scott steepled his index fingers and fixed his piercing blue eyes on his target. But the eyes didn’t snag Blake’s attention—the hands did.

Blake had always said manicures were for pussies, and his friend was a huge fan. Naturally, his stance on the issue instigated more than a handful of arguments—a few fistfights, maybe—and Blake usually walked away the victor. The ribbing, both verbal and physical, kind of got his ego off.

He couldn’t wait to dig into Scott about his new “gloss.”

The sweating holy dude in the fancy chair wriggled and mopped his brow with a black sleeve. He cut a line through the air with a shaking hand. “I don’t have it right this minute, no. But I’ll have it tomorrow. I swear.”

Scott nodded to Blake, who descended like a murderous hawk. A simple grab and twist of the neck, and Brah St. Francis was doner than a barbequed soul trapped in the flames of hell’s broiler.

Jerk. Snap. Dead.

What could he say? He had a gift. One of many.

Blake snatched the cigarillo perched behind his ear and stuffed it between his lips. He hit the flint on his Zippo and lit the neatly cut end with a sharp suck-inhale combo. A long, puffy white stream fled his nostrils. Smoke pilfered the clean air, stealing its freshness.