Wild Girl: Chapter 3 of a mystery set in Hawaii

NOW, Kent

NOW, Kent:

The victim was distracted from telling Kent more about a perp named Koa by the emergency tech moving the silver blanket aside to inspect the cuts on his chest. He sucked in a breath of pain and bit down on his lower lip as  the wounds, already scabbed over, were re-opened by antibiotic wipes. 

Kent glanced around the area as the tech swabbed the man’s chest. Morning brightened, piercing clouds rolling by above. A car swished past on the nearby road.  Mourning doves courted near the ambulance’s back tire; a mynah squawked as it fluttered past to land above them in one of the large eucalyptus trees that cast shade over the area. 

The smell of blood was rust in Kent’s nostrils. Peaceful surroundings to hold such ugliness. Kent leaned in and took several photos of the wounds with his phone. The letters were crude block capitals that arched over the man’s belly and chest, laid out  to be read upside down. ABUSER was on top and RAPIST below, the letters a macabre double rainbow.

“Sorry this hurts,” the medical tech said. “There’s debris in the injury.”

“Salt and dirt,” the victim hissed through his clenched teeth. “She rubbed it on them.”

Kent’s attention sharpened. “How do you know?”

“It was in my mouth too. I spat it out.”

The med tech held up one of the wipes; it was stained with reddish soil common to the area. “Want to keep one of these?”

“We can verify the composition of what was in your wounds if needed.” Kent tugged an evidence bag out of his pack, shook it open. The EMT dropped the wipe inside.

“I told you. Not pressing charges. But it made the cuts sting like hell,” the vic said.

“And they will scar heavily. Were you restrained at that point?”

“Yeah.” The vic shook his head heavy and low, a bull bleeding from the picador’s lance. “She clocked me. While I was out, she tied me. I woke up here at the pole. With the cuts on me.”

“How did you get up from the Valley? It’s a long, steep road. Only four wheel drive or horseback possible.”

The vic scowled. “Don’t know.” 

His small eyes had gone glassy; his ordeal was catching up with him. Kent needed to complete the interview before the guy shut down.

“Adding the salt is a form of torture. Will increase the severity of charges if we catch whoever did it.” He was still hoping the man would change his mind about filing a report that could lead to an arrest. 

The EMT had moved on to bandaging as Kent took out his phone and flicked to an app. “Mind if I record this? Will save you having to repeat the info.”

The man’s eyes narrowed. “Long as I’m not in trouble.”

“I’d have to apprise you of your rights if you were.” Kent kept his gaze on the phone. “You’re the victim here, as I told you.”

“All right then.”

Kent hit the button on the recording app. He stated his name, badge number, the name of the EMT, the location, date and time. “And we need your name, sir.”

“Manuel Abalo,” the vic said with obvious reluctance. “I live in Waimalia Valley.”

“Address?”

He snorted. “No addresses in the Valley. I get my mail at the Honoka’a post office. Got a box there.”

“Okay.” Kent wanted to see the man’s ID, but it clearly wasn’t on him. The EMT continued wiping down Abalo’s blood-streaked body with an antiseptic wipe. “Begin at the beginning. Tell me everything that happened.”

“Can’t tell you much. She hit me on the head when I was going out to get in my truck.”

“Let me check your head.” The tech moved up to palpate Abalo’s scalp; the man winced as a goose egg at his temple was uncovered. “You’ve got another wound here. Let me deal with it.”

Kent gazed thoughtfully at the steel sign pole marking the place where Abalo had been left. 

 The road leading into the Valley was one of the steepest in the world, and poorly maintained at that. Kent hadn’t been out to the nearby town of Honoka’a in a while, let alone down into the Waimalia Valley. He’d visited the place few times over the years, fishing off the stony beach. 

Currently Waimalia Valley, owned by a private land trust, was closed to nonresidents except for licensed tours that went down a couple of times a day in heavily modified four-wheel-drive vans. These vehicles kept to strictly enforced designated areas and the tourists were closely supervised. 

Could it have been an outsider who grabbed Abalo? Seemed unlikely.