Free Unsound (A Lei Crime Companion Novel) by Toby Neal Page B

be stacked high with Pres-to-Logs. Even I could get the stove going with those. I put a log into the wood burner, checked the flue was open, and lit it with the barbeque lighter I found.
    After it seemed to be going and there was some promise that the cabin would eventually warm up enough that I wasn’t seeing my breath, I turned my attention to the mysterious propane grill. It was time to figure out the stove.
    I hadn’t used one of these since Richard and I used to go camping back in college. We had a gas barbeque at Hidden Palms, but I didn’t remember ever lighting it. Grilling had been Richard’s purview.
    A white tank rested under the sink, with a handle on it. I turned that on, then turned the dial on the wrought-iron burner, punctuated with a hundred tiny gas-emitting holes. I stuck the barbeque lighter in its general direction and recoiled from the explosion that burst into the air above the stove.
    I swear it singed my eyebrows. The flame settled into a blue, obedient circle.
    “Note to self. Don’t open the valve all the way,” I said aloud. I found a big black pot and turned the lever over the sink. Water so cold and clear it burned poured out to fill the pot. I put it back on the stove.
    There was really nothing to do now until it boiled, which could take a while. I hauled the backpack into the kitchen and unloaded all my food supplies onto the counter, lingering over the coffee and one-cup drip basket I’d brought from home. Yes, it looked like I’d have enough coffee for only one cup a day for the week, but that cup was going to taste so good—and I could have two if I reused the grounds.
    I could feel a headache beginning at the base of my punished spine. It was rising with slowness and inevitability toward my eyeballs. I got out the large bottle of Advil I’d also brought. There was nothing to take them with until the water boiled—but the vodka.
    I might as well enjoy my last sips—the pint bottle I’d bought at the Liquor Barn was down to half.
    I unzipped the sleeping bag and wrapped it around me, stepping outside into the clear morning.
    The cabin was snuggled against the precipitous wall of the vast crater, and the floor of it spread before me. To the east, the sun bloomed, a warming bonfire striking the rugged, unworn, jagged volcanic ridge across the valley floor with rich red gold. The air was so thin and pure, I could hear nothing—absolutely nothing—but the rattle of my own tired lungs. Then, ever so far away, I heard the honk of flying nene.
    My companions of the day before had flown, leaving little brown piles of scat and a lawn as well trimmed as a golf green. I put four Advil into my mouth and washed them down with vodka.
    I swear I meant that to be all I drank, but the next time I looked at the bottle, it was because nothing was left.
    But I felt good. Loose in the legs, optimistic. I was going to be cold turkey after this, but it was okay. It was going to be like a spiritual retreat—I’d figure out everything I wanted from life, and I’d visualize it, and it would manifest, like that pop psychology book The Secret promised. I was vibrating at the highest level of the universe. I was going to attract joy, health, prosperity, and love into my life.
    I squinched my eyes shut, visualizing hard.
    I went back into the cabin as the sunrise dissipated itself into the glory of full day in Haleakala Crater.
    The giant pot of water was boiling, and had been for some time. I turned it off, relishing the warmth from the stove. My empty belly was awash with vodka and Advil, and I didn’t need water or food. I crawled back into bed to enjoy my last alcohol buzz for a week at least, and hopefully the rest of my life.

Chapter 9
     
     
    The next time I woke, I could tell by the sharp shape of the shadows in the cabin that it was evening. I sat up. Headache. Dry mouth. I went into the kitchen and wrestled the pot to the sink, poured the cool, boiled water into a series of abandoned water