BooksBarbecue
Back The Preserve
Chapters (56)
  1. Front Cover
  2. Half-Title Page
  3. Title Page
  4. Copyright Page
  5. AUTHOR’S NOTE
  6. 1.
  7. 2.
  8. 3.
  9. 4.
  10. 5.
  11. 6.
  12. 7.
  13. 8.
  14. 9.
  15. 10.
  16. 11.
  17. 12.
  18. 13.
  19. 14.
  20. 15.
  21. 16.
  22. 17.
  23. 18.
  24. 19.
  25. 20.
  26. 21.
  27. 22.
  28. 23.
  29. 24.
  30. 25.
  31. 26.
  32. 27.
  33. 28.
  34. 29.
  35. 30.
  36. 31.
  37. 32.
  38. 33.
  39. 34.
  40. 35.
  41. 36.
  42. 37.
  43. 38.
  44. 39.
  45. 40.
  46. 41.
  47. 42.
  48. 43.
  49. 44.
  50. 45.
  51. 46.
  52. 47.
  53. 48.
  54. EPILOGUE
  55. AFTERWORD
  56. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

He took out the first two in quick order. One now had wet gleaming blood for a face. The other was curled up but with one leg bent forward doll-like, as if he had no knee. He struck the third as he came at him, got on top of the man, digging into him, keeping him down.

Lett was choking the man below him with both hands, pressing down, twisting, making him wheeze.

“Stop, stop,” the man wheezed.

“You?” Lett loosened up a little but kept him down.

“Goddamn it, listen to me,” the man sputtered, words tumbling out like gravel into water. “We shoulda killed them when we had the chance, killed them in that tent, got me?”

“No. No . . .”

“I know you thought it. They’re gonna wreck you. He is. There is no fucking cure—”

“Let him loose, Lett! Stop.”

Lights flashed. Hands pulled Lett up. He reared around, but they had him by the arms and he floated. They dropped him down on his rear. Their flashlights shined on the bodies. The two lifeless ones wore small shorts, old boots without socks, burlap. They were dark. Natives. Dead.

“Holy mackerel,” someone said. “Man, oh man.”

The light shined on the third man. It was the commando. He was still gasping for air, moaning.

Frankie whistled in wonder at Lett’s work, and Kodama showed him a bow.

Then Frankie and Kodama carried the commando away, his feet dragging.

“Lett? You hear me in there? Lett?”

The flashlight pointed upward and found a long and delighted face, casting an eerie glow, making him a happy Frankenstein. It was Lansdale.

“Now that was some mighty fine handiwork,” he sang.

17.

Kanani could not wait. She didn’t have a choice. That ringmaster Edward Lansdale wasn’t at The Preserve. He seemed to have left and taken that Japanese thug with a thing for geishas with him. And Frankie, she had to assume, could show up any moment even if he had only been spotted once, on the other side of the island. She could’ve used trusty Wendell Lett here, but he was out on assignment. She wanted to wait for Miss Mae, but the clock was tick-tocking.

She’d been snooping around even more while they were all gone. All the clues, like the ones she wrested from that Japanese thug, always led away from the Territory of Hawaii, to places and possibly players she could not know. She needed clues back here, right here.

The only angle was probing any weak links.