Chapter 17: Now, Kent
Kent considers his next move and reviews the folder he took
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WILD GIRL
Chapter 17: NOW, Kent
Kent entered his house, a small plantation style rental on the outskirts of Hilo. He put away his keys, locked up his badge and gun inside the safe hidden in a lacquered cabinet, and plugged his phone into a charger in the same cabinet.
Dusk was already falling; he’d spent several more hours at the office after his meeting with Lt. Ohale.
From the back yard, the dogs barked hysterically in greeting. “Quiet!” Kent commanded as he reached the kitchen from which a door led to the small back yard.
The two subsided, though Pipi continued to whine; she was always pushing the limits because she was his favorite. He’d take them out soon, as was his habit.
Kent’s belly rumbled as he realized hadn’t eaten since he left the house that morning. Fortunately he’d started a pot of venison stew in the crock pot, but it would be better with rice. He opened the lid of the rice cooker. The device rested on the counter in front of a row of gallon-sized, wide-mouthed, clear glass jars lining a shelf above the counter.
Each jar was filled with a foodstuff: coffee, beans, rice, oats, trail mix, jerky he’d made from meat he hunted. Food displayed in this visually pleasing way was calming, a part of his aesthetic.
Kent took down the rice jar and, using a metal scoop his great-grandfather had crafted, measured out enough rice for his meal tonight. Returning the hammered antique scoop to a hook on the wall by its leather cord, he admired the greenish patina of age on the copper. He then added water to the rice and pressed the button, enjoying the small, tidy chore.
But his restlessness wouldn’t be quieted with a ceremony around food alone; he would take the dogs for a run before he ate.
Kent opened another jar, inhaling the spicy, mouthwatering scent of the venison jerky he’d made. That he’d hunted the axis deer on Molokai and then prepared the meat himself was satisfying. He took out a swatch of the jerky.
Kent chewed it, savoring the peppery flavor as the dense protein soothed his empty belly. He changed from work clothes into athletic ones in his simply furnished bedroom.
From outside the house, the dogs heard his movements. They began their cacophony again.
Kent tied on sneakers and slid his ever-present folding knife into the liner pocket of his athletic shorts. Not that Hilo was a dangerous place, but—“once a cop, always a cop,” his partner Dell used to say.
Dell.
As usual, remembering his friend brought a toothache pulse of loss.
Kent liked to think that pain was less, that it faded faster when he was reminded of Dell—but truth was, he still hadn’t made peace with how his friend had died.
The randomness of it. The lack of closure. No dignity or purpose.
Being hit by a drunk driver in broad daylight was just shitty, the kind of thing that shouldn’t have happened to a quality person like Dell.
Kent paused, considering as he stared for a moment at the blank wall before him.
He’d been clinging to shreds of a just world hypothesis, even after working as a cop for years. “Lose the naïveté, my friend,” Dell had told him. “Bad things happen to good people, good things to bad. We see it all the time.”
There was no justice. One more ideal to let go of.
His parents were Buddhists; particularly his mother. “Expectations of how things should be is the root of all unhappiness,” she’d told him the last time she saw him. A small hand, light as a wish, landed on his shoulder. She wasn’t a toucher, so he’d noticed. “Even so, I’m sorry you lost Dell. He was a good man.”
“But at least Manny Abalo got what was coming to him,” Kent muttered. “Maybe he’ll think twice before hurting his wife again.”
He would hope for that, but he didn’t actually believe the scarification and humiliation the man had suffered would end the abuse. In fact, he was worried for the wild girl. Abalo was already obsessed with her and might blame her for Ella’s disappearance, as well as what had been done to him.
Kent moved quickly through the house, trying leave his thoughts behind. He exited out the kitchen door into the back yard, locking it behind him. He kept his back turned, purposefully ignoring Pipi’s high-pitched whine and the deep bark Inu emitted every few moments, as if his sturdy body couldn’t contain it.
Kent stowed the door key in an opposite pocket from the knife. He avoided eye contact or any acknowledgement of the dogs, going across the short lawn to a sturdy gardening shed where their food was kept. He filled their bowls, then from inside the shed said, “Quiet.”
The dogs went silent. When he exited, leaving their bowls inside, they both sat on their haunches, facing him at the gate to their run.
Pipi, a freckled ridgeback with a plumy tail, cocked her head expectantly. Inu, a patchy gray and white Catahoula with one blue eye, one brown, licked his chops, his ears pricked.
Kent had adopted both as puppies and brought them up together. Now they sat side by side, waiting. Keeping control and maintaining the dogs’ training was important for their effectiveness in hunting.
Kent waited another beat, then tossed them each a piece of kibble, which they caught in the air. “Stay. Sit,” he said, and produced their leashes.
They remained sitting, though wiggling with anticipation. Pipi made a squeak like a stepped on chew toy. So cute that Kent smiled.
Once on their leashes, the two dogs flanked him. Kent set off down the sidewalk toward downtown Hilo at a slow jog. A mile or two passed before his muscles unkinked, his breathing to evened out, and the whirl of his thoughts turned to white noise.
Kent headed for Hilo Bay; he would run around the park with the dogs, get a look at the ocean, see what fish were biting off the jetty.
The wind dropped; the palm trees settled. Sunset reflected off the still water of Hilo Bay, showing a reverse scene of clouds, palm trees, structures. Someone was playing an ukulele and singing. The old men on the jetty weren’t catching anything. Traffic past the shops area was busy as people drove home from work and tourists looked for a place to eat. The mynah birds were loud in their banyan sleep tree.
Half an hour later, the trio headed home. By then, full dark had fallen. Kent passed a couple of bars and restaurants that were already hopping. Snatches of conversation and music reminded him that it was Friday night and he was alone, which should probably bother him.
It didn’t.
Kent lived like an old man and he knew it; but there was no one to tease him about it now that Dell was gone.
He worked the dogs through a few commands in the back yard, then put their food down and went in to take a shower. The smell of cooked rice and bubbling stew welcomed him.
Kent took his time in a hot shower. It soothed his muscles, relaxed him. Restlessness was gone, replaced by physical tiredness and real hunger; good, simple, real sensations.
Easier to endure than his thoughts from earlier.
Kent dressed in boxers and a tee, then put the dogs’ bowls away in the shed and let the two hounds into the house. They went and lay in their beds, gleaming eyes hopeful as he served himself a generous portion of stew over rice.
Kent sat down at the kitchen table with a Kirin beer, and dug into his meal. His parents had drilled into him the importance of being present for eating. “No phones at dinner. We eat, we talk, we notice the food and appreciate,” his father said.
That practice had become a habit, and though Kent considered fetching his phone and watching some hunting or fishing videos while he ate, he left it on the charger. Distracting himself while eating—that was weak. Self indulgent. A way to not feel alone, when being alone was his choice.
Using his wide, deep chirirenge spoon to scoop up the delicious stew and rice, he enjoyed the heat and savory taste of it. He ate rapidly until his belly began to settle and expand into contentment.
That wild girl. Alone in the back of one of those valley fingers.
What did she eat?
Did she make a ceremony of food, preparing it, sitting down, using utensils?
Or did she just consume as she went, shoving in calories when she had them?
What was her life like, with no electronics, no history of the world or elsewhere, no geography but the Valley, no one to talk to now that her mother was dead?
Ella was her only human contact. She would be alarmed when she came to visit her friend and found Ella gone. She would assume the worst. Might confront Abalo about it.
The thought chilled him; Abalo would kill Koa if he could. Kent was certain of it.
His appetite shut down. He had to find a way to contact her.
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