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Back Under the Wave at Waimea Save as PDF
Chapters (54)
  1. Cover
  2. Copyright
  3. Epigraph
  4. Part I
  5. 1
  6. 2
  7. 3
  8. 4
  9. 5
  10. 6
  11. 7
  12. 8
  13. 9
  14. 10
  15. 11
  16. 12
  17. Part II
  18. 1
  19. 2
  20. 3
  21. 4
  22. 5
  23. 6
  24. 7
  25. 8
  26. 9
  27. 10
  28. 11
  29. 12
  30. 13
  31. 14
  32. 15
  33. 16
  34. 17
  35. 18
  36. 19
  37. Part III
  38. 1
  39. 2
  40. 3
  41. 4
  42. 5
  43. 6
  44. 7
  45. 8
  46. 9
  47. 10
  48. 11
  49. 12
  50. 13
  51. An Excerpt from THE BAD ANGEL BROTHERS
  52. 1The Rejection Ritual
  53. About the Author
  54. Connect on Social Media

“They gave you a pass. They were dazzled. You could have set them straight.” Olive stepped away from him. “The worst of this isn’t that you lied to them, or concocted a false accident report. The kicker is that you lied to yourself.” Her voice frail and tearful, she said, “I loved you—and you lied to me.”

He walked away from her, into the half-shadow at the corner of the station. She watched him for a while and, standing there, she saw a squad car pull in. After a slamming of car doors, a policeman marched a barefoot, handcuffed man up the stairs to the terrace. The man’s long hair was flopped over his face, his shirt torn. Another policeman met them at the station entrance with a flashlight, which he shone on the face of the handcuffed man, who averted his gaze.

“This the ten-sixteen?”

“Yah. Lemi Street. Domestic.”

Seeing Olive, the cop with the flashlight turned it on her and called out, “Can I help you?”

“I’m fine, but can I ask you question?”

“Make it quick—we gotta book this guy.”

“When you get a fatality—accident or homicide—you send the body to the medical examiner, am I right?”

“Yeah. In town—Iwelei.”

“How long do they hold the body?”

“Till they ID it, so they can issue the death certificate,” he said, standing against the door, propping it open for the other policeman to lead the handcuffed man into the lobby of the station. “That all you need to know?”

“Thanks. That’s it.”

When they had gone inside, Olive walked over to Sharkey, who was still half in shadow, his upcast face peering into the darkness.

“That night,” Olive said, “you were standing right there on the terrace. Do you remember what you said?”

Sharkey began to speak, then sighed, an irritable fumbling to make a reply, thought better of it, and finally lowered his head.

Using his careless voice, Olive said, “I ran into a drunk homeless guy.”

Sharkey nodded, rubbing his face with the back of his hand, chafing his mouth with his knuckles.

“Tell me what you did.”

“Killed him,” he said. “I killed a guy.”

“Who was he?”

Sharkey’s hands went to his face as though to mask it.

2

“Unidentified Male”