The Ultimate Equity: A Suspense Novel Set in Hawaii

By Wil Welsh

Trying to serve “investor” clients, Kauai real estate broker Parker Hendrix gets sucked into a sordid world he knows nothing about—kidnapping, murder, drugs. Will his wise-cracking sense of humor help him survive? Or will it get him killed?

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Nov 14, 2011
• ISBN: 9781618425348

Book preview

978-1-61842-534-8

Chapter 1

Price is No Object

Mr. Hendrix, is that you?

Who else would it be? Parker replied groggily. He pulled on a samurai-style black-and-white patterned bathrobe, manipulating the cordless phone from one hand to the other through the wide sleeves. Then he noticed the clock, a bloodshot digital number glowing in the murky dawn. Carla, do you know what time it is? he croaked.

Of course I know what time it is. Did she purposely exaggerate the nasality in her voice to further irritate him?

What could be so damned important at 6:15 on a Monday morning?

Mr. Hendrix, you have two escrows waiting for loan approvals, a newsletter to go out, half a dozen calls you asked me to make. On top of that, the place is a mess. You know that.

That's how I like it on a Monday morning, messy and late.

After dinner and drinks with clients the night before, and a past-midnight skinny-dip with Lorri at her apartment pool, Parker had hoped for an extra hour or two of sleep before showing up at the office at, say, nine or ten. It was a plan he hated to give up.

What are you doing at the office this early?

I’m always early, Mr. Hendrix, you know that.

Yeah, he knew that. Taking a deep breath, yawning, he also knew his usual calm tolerance of Carla’s intensity would return with a strong cup of coffee.

There's someone here to see you, she said. They were waiting outside when I came in, and they insist on staying until you get here.

Who?

Two men.

Locals?

Mainland. Wearing expensive suits.

Suits, he thought, lawyers or investors. The thought of investors woke him up a little. He hadn't made a sizeable sale in months, though he still lived on the fat of a beach-lot sale made a couple of months ago. He had the Cartwell deal in escrow, but it had so many problems, he was afraid to count on its ever getting to commission time. At least the closing celebrated last night would pay the mortgage for four or five months. Ah, the big ones, he thought, I love the big ones.

She read his mind. They don't seem like investors to me.

What do they seem like?

Maybe I shouldn't say this... She dropped her voice to a whisper, mouth close to the mouthpiece. They seem like gangsters.

Come on, Carla.

Well, maybe gamblers, she whispered.

You have quite an imagination. So what do they want?

They asked for you.

Can't they at least wait until, say, nine o'clock?

They want to talk to you, and they're not leaving until they do. She added, I believe them.

He carried the cordless receiver into the kitchen. Moving dirty dishes, he unburied the coffee pot and filled it with water.

What are you doing? she asked, alarmed, then realizing. Oh, God, you haven't had your coffee yet.

I don’t usually have my coffee until I’m up. Look, tell these gentlemen to go have breakfast. By the time they come back, I’ll be there, okay?

Carla produced a good imitation of a subservient employee. Yes, Mr. Hendrix, she said cheerfully.

Most days Parker considered shorts and aloha shirt adequate attire for the island real estate profession, a casualness which fit Kauai's laid-back business style. At the other end of the scale, especially when meeting foreign buyers, he wore a blue suit and tie (of which he owned two), as a more appropriate uniform. That day, as on most days, he opted for what he called his successful golfer look--an image of leisure, intensity, success and confidence projected through slacks, collared Polo shirt, deck shoes, socks the color of the pants, and the attitude of, say, the old Tiger Woods having just dropped a forty-foot putt on the eighteenth to win the PGA Grand Slam.

He decided to take the Toyota SUV instead of the beat-up army jeep on the assumption that if they actually were investors, the bigger car would more closely fit the image they would expect of a successful real estate broker. And it was more comfortable for showing property, even kicking into all-wheel drive as the terrain demanded. You had to be ready for anything.

He drove the pot-holed narrow dirt road in slow-motion, careful not to splash mud onto the sidewalls. The rough valley road, though public access, he considered his personal drive-way, its roughness diverting the merely curious.

Behind him, glimpsed in the rearview mirror, startlingly beautiful in its clarity, the top half of the mountain range was lighted by the rising sun.

Reaching the highway, he turned left toward Lihue, glimpsing the Marriott Hotel, Kauai’s only high-rise, ten stories of windows reflecting the morning sun above a golden beach. He drove through Hanamaulu, where crisscrossing telephone and electric lines and gigantic poles at every angle served as photographic framing for the former sugar mill there, now a lumber yard, visually interesting though undeniably ugly. He passed the foamy, breaking waves across from Kauai's grande dame of hotels, the gracious Coco Palms, still deteriorating, untouched after Hurricane Iniki so many years ago, then north past the Coconut Market Place through the coconut grove split by the highway, at last arriving in the heart of Kapaa, where his office occupied the front half of a small building sandwiched between a fruit stand and a convenience store.

Ordinarily, he parked in back, but today he pulled into the convenience store parking lot beside a rented Cadillac. Two men, obviously bored, both in suits and loosened ties, both sweating in the morning sun, one at the hood and the other at the trunk of the Caddy, leaned against the gleaming black car.

They seemed from another world, a foreign world, perhaps a television world, but certainly not the easy-going, balmy tradewind world of Kauai. They stood out to approximately the same magnitude as would a half-clad hula dancer on a Chicago street corner in the dead of winter.

You waiting for me? Parker asked them.

Both looked as if they hadn't missed their daily gym work-outs in years. The shorter, stocky one had a scar on his left cheek, eye-shaped, like a football. Beginning straight down from his ears, his strong neck sloped outward as it disappeared into his shirt. A very strong man indeed.

The taller man was maybe six-four, black-haired, Italian-looking, lighter in build, made of sinew. A basketball player with his football-tackle buddy, both in top shape. Football and Basketball, Parker named them.

Football straightened from his slouched position on the car, his body seeming to harden as he became alert. "You Hendrix?

That's me, he answered cheerfully, extending his hand, Call me Parker.

The man didn't take his hand or give him a name. You got someplace we can talk?

Sure, come in. Parker preceded them into his office, smiling at Carla as he passed her. Thanks for the wake-up call, he told her. She smiled, ever so slightly.

He closed the office door. Have a seat.

They didn't sit, but simply glowered at him.

Their unfriendliness seemed completely unnecessary, but he resolved to stay cheerful. So, what's up?

Copy Now, the tall, dark-haired man said. His voice was high, a clear tenor.

"Copy what?

Copy Now. You ever heard of it?

I don't think so. Maybe HP or Xerox could help? What do you mean?

You're in real estate ain't ya?

You must have read the sign.

We been sent to locate Copy Now.

Parker, suddenly understanding their pronunciation of a Hawaiian word, shouted Kapinau!

Basketball said, Property, near the beach. Copy Now. You know what I mean?

Yes, now I think I do. Are you interested in purchasing real estate?

We want to see Copy Now. Take us there.

All right, he said, but maybe we can take a little time to get acquainted. How is it you came to me? Word of mouth?

We was, well, referred to you. Somebody who said you knew the island. Knew it well.

Yes, I know it well. Not, of course, in the Biblical sense, he joked. Who sent you?

Culbertson. Albert Culbertson. You remember him?

Sure, I remember Al, he said, Lawyer. His clients, Timpsons I think, put a piece of land in escrow a long time ago which never came out, never closed. All the hours I put in on that one, I never saw a dime. They put in fifty thousand dollars and released it to the seller and never came up with the rest of the money. And never released a penny to their hard-working agent, me. That was ten years ago. Parker realized he was converting his nervousness at their dark presence into the flow of words.

This is the land known as Copy Now? Basketball asked.

"Kapinau is the name of a heiau on the property, he explained.

Huh? Basketball asked.

"Fifty of the most beautiful acres you could ask for--half a mile of beach, stream, waterfalls, and the ruins of a Hawaiian temple, a heiau.

This is the land we want to see.

I don't know if it's for sale. Maybe we can find something similar.

No, Football rumbled, this is the piece.

You want to buy it? Parker asked. His mind jumped to figuring what the property might be worth today. If it sold for a million ten years ago... Something like that would be worth four or five million today. Maybe more. Are you gentlemen in that bracket? Over the years, Parker had found that the best qualifying of a client was a direct question.

Price is no object, Basketball said, as if repeating a rehearsed phrase. We want to see the property.

Are there more beautiful words in the real estate world? Price is no object. The glitter of those words, like blinking Las Vegas neon, brightened Parker's mind and the entire office.

Let me make a couple of calls, see if we can take a look, Parker said, more casually than he felt. He dialed a Realtor friend on the north shore who would know about the property. The friend told him that the property owner would consider an offer, and that Parker was welcome to take a look anytime, no need for an appointment, as the property was completely vacant. His Realtor buddy would, of course, be happy to represent the seller in any transaction. I’ll bet you would, Parker told him.

Elated, Parker cheerfully turned to his strange clients, Your dreams are about to come true, gentlemen. Your car or mine?

Chapter 2

Pith Helmets

Parker drove. Basketball sat up front, his head nearly brushing the car headliner. Football sat in back, an ominous presence. In real estate, Parker thought, one deals with all types of clients, and the experienced agent ignores irrelevant gut-level reactions. Such as being scared shitless.

Covering his nervousness, he kept up a cheerful flow of conversation.

So, where are you boys staying? The Marriott? Hyatt? Maybe Princeville?

No answer.

That's a lovely hotel. Beautiful! They've spared no expense in making it first class, hey?

No answer.

So. What brings you to Kauai? Vacation? Business?

Business, Basketball said.

What manner of business are you in? Parker asked.

No business that's any of your business, Football said, growling in his ear from the back seat.

Startled, Parker managed to keep his composure. I can appreciate your wish for confidentiality, he said.

Yeah, sure, Football said.

If the property is everything we hope it is, will you be prepared to make an offer today?

Football began laughing, quieting a little when Basketball turned around and glared at him. Neither answered.

They drove in silence for a while, going beyond Kapaa, passing the long expanse of Kealia Beach, waves breaking white against the blue of the ocean, foamy water washing onto the wide golden beaches, surfers and sunbathers already arriving for the day. He had spent many an hour basking on this inviting beach. A few surfers cut back and forth on the waves, and his mind surfed with them a few moments before coming back to his unpredictable clients.

If you decide to make an offer, approximately how much of your savings are you considering for a down-payment? For all his learned-in-a-sales-seminar tact, his two passengers continued their stoic silence.

The silence began to irritate him. As they traveled past the brilliant purple bougainvillea and the red-dirt road banks toward Anahola, his cheerfulness turned sour.

Look, gentlemen, I'm used to a little more give and take in the conversation department.

Basketball glanced over his shoulder at Football, then back. Shut up, he said in his high voice.

Parker pulled off the road and stopped.

What are you doing? Basketball shouted at Parker.

Stopping the car! Parker shouted back.

Why?

I don't like talking to myself!

In the back seat, Football began swearing. Would you shut up? Basketball told him. Then, back to Parker. Drive the goddamn car!

Look, whoever-you-are, Parker said, his voice reasonable, I'm not driving anywhere until I know who you are and what you want.

Forget the chit-chat, Basketball said.

Chit-chat is what real estate is all about, Parker said, I like to know who I'm dealing with.

You're dealing with this, Football said. Behind his right ear Parker could feel the steel-cold muzzle of a pistol. Though he had never had a pistol pressed against the skin behind his ear, he knew immediately what it was. Now, if you could be so kind as to shut-the-fuck-up and drive, Football said with satirical pleasantness.

Sure, Parker agreed, I love driving. Silent driving with no chit-chat. You bet. Parker pulled onto the highway. You don't want to talk, don't talk. What do I care? I can turn on the radio. He did so. I love the radio.

Parker was petrified. And, being petrified, he felt the need to talk, flippantly. A defense mechanism. And right then, he needed all the defenses he could muster. I don't drive my best with a gun behind my ear, he said, I develop a rash. Allergic reaction to gun-oil, I guess. Or maybe it’s an allergy to dying.

I'll show you allergies, Football threatened.

Basketball ordered, Put the gun away! Reluctantly, Football did so.

The song on the radio was an oldie, On the Road Again. Where Parker wanted to be was back in bed again.

I don't believe I've ever had such determined real estate clients, Parker said pleasantly.

Shut up, Basketball said.

He did.

Somewhere a while back he had read an article in a real estate publication about how agents can become crime victims. Alone, they go with strangers to remote homes or properties. There, cut off, unprotected, vulnerable, agents may be attacked, robbed, or even killed. He read the article and, unfortunately, dismissed it. Damn, he thought, couldn't he at least remember the side-bar on what to do?

They passed through Anahola, past the papaya groves and grazing land beyond. Here and there, in the distance, there were glimpses of the blue ocean contrasted against lush green vegetation and the slashes of red Kauai dirt. Parker began to relax some. He had the ability to postpone worry, which, at its worst, led to procrastination, late tax returns, a certain amount of irresponsibility. On the other hand, it let him enjoy the moment, worry less about an unpredictable and uncontrollable future. Let him enjoy the fantastic Kauai scenery even though his price-is-no-object clients might, in fact, turn out to be axe murderers.

They were on the long stretch of highway preceding the sweeping left curve which would take them close to the property.

How much longer? Basketball wanted to know.

Not far, Parker said. Around this next corner, down a side road. We'll have to walk a little.

How far?

A couple hundred yards. Parker looked at their tailored suits. You're not really dressed for this, are you?

Why not? Basketball asked.

You didn't wear your pith helmets.

You're a funny man, aren't you Parker Hendrix, Football growled in his ear.

Parker turned off of the main road onto a jeep-path side road. It was clear of big rocks and dry enough the SUV could handle it. After a half-mile of slow going, the path narrowed to a single trail through the tall grass and guava. He parked. They all got out.

Where is it? Basketball wanted to know.

We're on the property. Stretches from here, over a ridge into a valley and down to the ocean. From the ridge we'll be able to see the view.

Never mind the view. We want to see Copy Now, the, uh, temple ruins, Basketball said. Where is it?

This way. Parker started down the brush-covered trail, the two of them following.

Basketball stopped. You have the car keys?

No, Parker said, nobody will steal it.

Basketball nodded at Football who sprang back to the car and removed the keys from the ignition. When he returned, Parker held out his hand for the keys, but Football put them instead into his suit-jacket pocket.

Insurance, Basketball said to Parker. Oh, by the way, do you have a cell phone?

Of course, doesn’t everyone?

Give it to me.

Parker took the phone from his pocket and handed it to Basketball. You need to make a call?

Nope. Just want to be sure you don’t.

Hey! Parker tried to grab it back, but Football effortlessly held him back. Basketball opened the clam-shell phone, then bent it backwards, ripping the phone into two pieces. He threw one piece high into the air to their left, then the other part in the opposite direction. It clattered on the rocks. You know, Parker said, I have that same aversion to technology.

Shut up, Football growled and pushed Parker up the path ahead of them.

Parker began to sweat in the mid-morning sun, glad to find the shade of tall java plum trees as they walked. The trail turned left and started up a slight incline into full shade.

It's not far now, he told them.

Where? Basketball wanted to know.

Just up the trail.

Basketball grabbed Parker's shoulder. You stay here.

He pushed past Parker and up the trail, Football following him, bumping Parker deliberately as he passed. Thirty feet up the trail, Football turned back, grinning, dangling the car keys tauntingly, then disappeared into the bushes.

Parker could hear the parting of brush as the two moved away from him. He decided to follow them. How else was he going to make the sale?

Chapter 3

The Rabbit Game

Even in their city suits and leather-soled shoes, the two-man sports team had progressed up the trail further than Parker anticipated. He was slowed by trying to keep his own steps quiet while straining to hear theirs ahead. After hiking two-hundred yards or so, Parker crested the trail and came up onto the soil-and-vegetation-covered platform that identified the main floor of the heiau.

Ahead, still not visible through the vegetation, at the lower end where the burial sites were, Football and Basketball talked. Parker knew the vegetation thinned on top of the platform, so, delicately, he stepped off of it, down the tumbled rock edge so that the sloping wall of the heiau itself would give him cover as he approached them.

Partly from the exertion, but mostly from the excitement, Parker's heart pounded, and his breath sounded loud in his ears. He shortened the depth of his breathing, opened his mouth wider, forcing himself to breathe quietly. He was both afraid and exhilarated. It reminded him of childhood days, playing Steal-the-Flag on warm summer nights. Back then, using whatever cover he could find, but especially the advantage of darkness, he moved as close to the flag as possible without being seen. Hiding then, his heart had pounded so much he wondered if it could be heard above the night's chirruping mid-western crickets.

Now, he carefully pushed the bushes aside, choosing his steps deliberately in the loose rocks, creeping within forty or fifty feet of the men where he could hear them clearly.

Okay, look, this must be the right area, Basketball said.

Why don't you look on the drawing?

I don't need the drawing. It shows the crypts on this side of the platform. There they are.

Rocks all tumbled in, Football said. Doesn't look like much. The space isn't very big.

Big enough to bury someone, Basketball said.

Football's voice changed pitch, a little fear coming into it. That's what they did? Buried people in these things?

That's what crypts are, Asshole.

You should've told me earlier.

Why?

I don't like dead people.

There aren't any people. A few bones. This was maybe a thousand years ago. They'd be crumbled to nothing.

Spirits hang around, Football said. My grandmother told me that.

Your grandmother knew about German spirits, Basketball said impatiently, she didn't know about Hawaiian spirits.

Football seemed to be thinking this over. Then, tentatively, he said, There isn't any difference.

Yeah?

Spirits are all the same.

That's what your grandmother said?

Football flared, No! That's what I say.

Just shut up and help me move these rocks.

Parker could hear them both straining, rolling rocks, tossing them down the rock slope of the edge of the heiau.

Jesus! You hear that? I don't like it here, Football said.

Wind in the goddamn trees, Basketball said. Just hurry up so we can get out of here.

More rocks tumbled down the slope.

Can anybody hear us up here? Football asked.

Do you hear anybody?

After a pause. No.

Then nobody can hear you.

Parker's neck, turned a strange angle to hear them, an angle exaggerated by his crouch, began to hurt, but he held the pose. He began to wonder about his wisdom in following them. How would he retreat down the trail in front of them without being heard?

You sure this is the right one? Football asked.

The right what?

The right crick.

You mean 'crypt'?

Whatever.

Sure it's the right one. The third one. Remember? Two there tumbled in. This is the third. Like the map says.

This one looks tumbled, too. The rocks are different. Like they been moved or turned or something.

Of course they've been moved, Basketball said. How do you think things got in here? It's not like a garage with an automatic door opener.

Football was suddenly excited. I see something! The steady pitching of rocks increased in tempo.

Fuck! Basketball shouted suddenly, Where is it? Parker could hear ripping sounds.

What is it? Football demanded. It's the package, right?

It's the goddamn package, but nothing's in it!

What do you mean, 'Nothing's in it'?

You can see for yourself, nothing. It's all just trash, Basketball said irritably.

Football sounded bewildered. This is what it was wrapped in.

Parker hedged around the rock cover, startling himself by their nearness, and pulled his head back quickly. It was enough of a glimpse to see what Football had referred to--blue plastic or a blue tarp, torn and crumpled amid the rocks of one of the burial sites, and crumbled pieces of white styrofoam.

Somebody knew about it, Basketball said. Then, accusingly, Who did you tell, Den? I told you to keep your mouth shut!

Hey, I never told nobody, Football said defensively. When would I tell them, anyway? I was with you the whole time on this stupid island.

Somebody might be watching us, Basketball said suspiciously. His words froze Parker’s blood.

Football said, Christ! Who?

Whoever took this stuff, Basketball said.

Ducking as low as he could, Parker began retreating slowly, quietly. The two toughs were bad enough when they were being friendly--Parker didn't want to be around to be accused of stealing from them. And what was it anyway? Drugs? Stolen money? Diamonds?

A rock turned under Parker's shoe, clattering against other rocks below it as it rolled. He froze, all ears and fear.

What the hell? Basketball shouted.

Don't move or I drop you!

Parker knew they couldn't see him. He heard Basketball scramble over the uneven rocks toward him.

He bolted. Keeping the wall of the heiau at his back, hopefully between them, he ran as fast as he could over the uneven ground. Imagining Football's pistol bead on his back, Parker veered abruptly left, then right again into the dense forest.

The two of them crashed after him like angry boars, shouting obscenities.

He knew they had heard him, but he didn't know if they had seen him. If they hadn't, it left the possibility of his getting back to the car before they did and pretending never to have left.

His only other choice would be to run for the main highway. He considered it, but since he was puffing already, he figured it would be too long a distance for his bit-out-of-condition 37-year-old lungs. In addition, before he reached the main highway, he would have to run across an open pasture, making it almost certain he would be seen and pursued.

Another option was to play the rabbit game. Hide. Be very quiet and hope they wouldn't find him. Stay hidden until they went away. But when would he dare to come out? And where would he go then? Carla, hardly thinking, if asked, would tell them whatever they wanted to know--where he lived, what hours to expect him, where he bought maitais Friday afternoons. She worked for a real estate company, not the CIA.

All of this he thought, or rather grokked in sudden realization, as he ran erratically through the jungle in the general direction of the car. The men behind were falling and slipping more than he was. And they were definitely swearing more.

Vaulting down the trail, reaching the car, he decided to try the innocent act. Gasping, he leaned on the car. He brushed the twigs and leaves off of pants and sleeves. He straightened the collar of the shirt, wiped perspiration from his forehead.

He could hear them charging down the trail toward the car. Then they came into sight, Football first, pistol in his hand, waving it erratically as he ran. Basketball, more in control, ran behind him. Seeing Parker calmly leaning against the vehicle startled Football so much, for a moment it seemed he might shoot Parker accidentally.

Parker raised his hands. I surrender, he said sardonically, and pointed down the road behind the car. That way, Parker said, he went that way. Football charged past him and past the car. But Basketball stopped, panting, watching Parker, his stare deadly and unwavering.

That way? Parker said, small voiced.

Basketball shook his head.

Football, breathing hard, sweating, returned to the car. I didn't see him. Couldn't even hear him. He must be hiding somewhere, he said.

He's right here, Basketball said, pointing at Parker.

Football's eyes narrowed. He asked, How much did he see?

Nothing, Parker volunteered, blindness is one of my strengths.

Basketball's eyes were dark and unreadable. You knew about this place. When you made that call, you could have had someone come out and clean it out before we got here. Or you took it earlier. Yesterday or the day before.

I don't even know what it was, Parker protested.

Was? Then you saw everything.

No, no! I saw nothing.

Because there was nothing to see, Basketball said.

Right.

Because, he continued, his voice hardening, you had already removed what was there.

Look, Parker said reasonably, I sell real estate. I grow orchids. I drive a jeep sometimes. I play racquetball. I like Keoki’s Sunrise beer and maitais--not at the same time, of course. What else do you want to know? I don't collect old bones. I don't crawl around in graves.

Who knows, you may have a chance to do that last one. Now, Mr. Hendrix, Basketball said coolly, almost gently, what did you do with it?

Football came up behind Parker, pistol in hand, and asked cheerfully, Shall I crack him one?

I'd rather you didn't, Parker said.

Basketball pushed himself right up to Parker's face. Your mouth is too big, Hendrix, and you've seen too much. And maybe you know exactly what happened to that package.

That's when Football cracked him, hard, and Parker's sky did funny things and went dark.

Chapter 4

Hook

He soared above the orchids, skimming thousands of delicate petals. Whites, mauves, purples, reds, blues, yellows. Dendrobriae, bromiliads. Below him, they blossomed, waved gently in the breeze. As the bee, Parker plunged in, flew out. Dived under, careened around. His buzzing back and forth accentuated the rhythmic rocking of his flight. Rocking. Rocking. Slowly, below and around him, visions of orchids diminished, dispelled by the smell of, what?

Oil. And rope.

The rocking was real. The buzzing, too.

Parker Hendrix woke up, his head hurting and heavy. The rhythmic churning of an engine pulsed through the heavy wood against his side, shoulder and head, a low, vibrant buzzing. He was in the hold of a boat.

Dim light seeped in around a hatch above him and through a few deck seams elsewhere. Coils of rope, life jackets, and a few dirty rags provided some cushion to his hips and legs. Sprawled as he was, apparently he had been pitched into the hold as carelessly as the jackets and rope coils.

His wrists hurt. They were tied behind by rope. He twisted around into a sitting position, a feat made difficult, not only by his tied hands, but by the movement of the boat thrown this way and that by the waves.

Each movement magnified itself in the pounding in his head. Parker tried to be glad he was alive, but his throbbing head and a rising nausea would probably have cast their votes, in a fair and open ballot, for Death. But Parker wasn't planning to hold an election.

Nose up, he breathed the thin current of air that came in around the hatch-cover. Mingled with the rope and oil and fishy smells, the fresh smell of the sea gave him hope. His head cleared a little. The throbbing diminished.

Remembering childhood cowboys and Indians games, Parker tested the tightness of the ropes on his wrists, hoping for looseness and quick escape. No such luck. The knots held so tight he couldn't turn his