Lo was almost to the front edge of the pillbox when Pukui shoved his gun under Lily’s jaw and forced her chin up. She yelped in pain.
Lo froze.
Ryan braced with one hand against the concrete.
Pukui’s head swiveled from side to side.
“We got company?” Pukui shouted. “Do yourself a favor, bro. Get the hell out of here.”
Silence.
“Don’t fuck with me, man.” There was true venom in Pukui’s voice.
The next sixty seconds seemed to last an hour.
Lo tensed. Fired.
The shot and a scream exploded as one sound.
Pukui’s upper body twisted left. His gun flew from his hand and cartwheeled into shadow.
Lily broke free.
Pukui yanked her back by the hood of her jacket.
Lily went down hard on her bum, struggled for traction with her hands and feet.
Ryan sprang. Drove the heel of his hand into Pukui’s Adam’s apple.
Pukui staggered back.
Ryan grabbed Lily. Dragged her away from the edge.
Pukui doubled over, gasping. His face was just a mouth hole gaping in the deepening dusk.
Another shot rang out.
Pukui spun. Dropped to his back.
Blood foamed from his mouth and oozed from his chest.
One leg flexed in spasm. His hips bucked.
Before Ryan could move, Pukui rolled and dropped over the cliff.
A JET FLEW HIGH OVERHEAD, LEAVING A WHITE COTTON-CANDY trail to mark its passing. Hot breezes swayed the tops of the loblolly pines and rippled the grass like a bright green sea.
The grave at our feet smelled of freshly turned earth. A bouquet lay on the patchwork sod, the supermarket carnations brown and wilted. Beside it, a tiny American flag drooped on its balsa wood stick.
The old headstone was gone. Its replacement gleamed speckled pink in the sun. The inscription was sharp and bone white, a raw wound in the granite.
When JPAC failed to locate an Alvarez family member, Plato offered the grave at Gardens of Faith Cemetery. Said the spot belonged to Alvarez, that he’d be more at peace in familiar soil than elsewhere. Purchased the marker.
Behind us, beside a smaller stand of pines, another pair of headstones threw shadows on the lawn. Katy and I had placed flowers on the one marking a second new grave.
The other stone waited above unbroken lawn.
Sheriff Beasley was right. Plato Lowery was a good man.
Ironically, it was the science that Plato distrusted so fiercely that vindicated his faith in wife and family. DNA had confirmed my suspicion that Harriet was a chimera.
At my request, Reggie Cumbo turned over letters Harriet had mailed to her son following his departure for the army. Saliva on the stamps and envelopes yielded a testable sample. The DNA sequencing differed from that obtained from Harriet’s pathology slides, and matched the sequencing found in samples taken from the Hemmingford pond victim, Spider Lowery.
