5 Murder at Volcano House Read Online Free PDF

five bills a day, the Maserati for four and a quarter, or the Boxster for three and a half. I have no idea if Donnie will pay, but I hear myself saying, “I’ll take the Porsche.”
    I sign the papers, grab the key, and slip into the yellow roadster. Twenty-three miles on the clock. Brand new. I put down the top and head for Volcano. This is hardly the kind of car to tail someone
. I hope she pays
.
    I take the airport service road from the rental lot and turn left onto the Māmalahoa Highway, more familiarly known as Hawai‘i Belt Road. Then I cruise the outskirts of Hilo town, savoring the whine of the flat six motor behind me.
How the other half lives. Or is it the 1%?
There’s little chance I can catch the Ransoms’ limo, but I can have fun trying. Too bad the Porsche is an automatic. Sports cars are for shifting.
    Not too long ago this part of Hilo was sparsely populated, but now I find myself passing Toyota and Honda dealers, Walgreens, Macy’s, Pizza Hut, and Jack in the Box. The national chains are sprouting like poisonous mushrooms in the lush soil of this island. Inspired by the lure of tropical paradise, tourists come from thousands of miles to eat fast food and shop in big-box stores, just like at home. Go figgah.
    The road begins to climb. The scent of ginger fills the air.
    I leave Hilo and its strip malls behind. The Hawai‘i Belt Road circles the entire island, but I’m only taking the thirty-mile portion that rises four thousand feet to Volcano. My quibble about the Boxster’s automatic transmission disappears when I feel how quickly and seamlessly it shifts. The Porsche purrs into the greener and cooler stretch of highway.
    By the village of Kea‘au I pass the turnoff for Kalapana, once famous for its black sand beach. That beach, a victim of flows from the East Rift Zone, is now buried under tons of lava.
Pele at work
.
    Moving into the goddess’s domain, where the evidence of seemingly supernatural power shows all around in the veryearth, sea, and sky, sparks a weird thought: What if Donnie’s right—I still can’t wrap my head around it—and Pele actually
is
out to get her husband? I remind myself that I agreed to this madness for one reason—and one reason only. I owe Tommy.
    I concentrate on the road ahead and try to catch the Ransoms. It’s a short road. And things could be worse. I could be driving a subcompact instead of this rocket.
    So I push the pedal and the Porsche instantly responds. The roadside becomes a blur of farms and forests and macadamia orchards. Ginger and lavender grow wild on the shoulder. The hamlets of Kurtistown, Mountain View, and Glenwood barely interrupt the countryside. Altitude markers count the climb: 2,500 feet . . . 3,000 feet . . . 3,500 feet. The air streaming through the roadster grows cooler.
    When the scenery changes from lush green to the greybitten of higher altitude, I catch the black Lincoln and hang back. We pass the village of Volcano. And just beyond it comes the entrance to Hawai‘i Volcanoes National Park.
    The limo turns left and stops at the ranger station. I pull off to the side of the highway and put up the top. I don’t want to sit directly behind the Lincoln while the driver pays admission. When the limo moves on, I pull up, pay, and swing into the Volcano House, barely a stone’s throw away. The Lincoln parks under the portico and the Ransoms climb out.
    I keep my distance.
    Beside the limo sits a white Ford Expedition with emergency lights on top and PARK RANGER emblazoned on the side. Did Ransom have an official escort? The Ranger himself is nowhere in sight.
    After the old man crawls from the limo he steadies himself with his cane and his wife takes his free arm. Once they disappear inside the hotel and the limo drives away, I park at the far end of the nearly full lot, as much out of sight as I can get the yellow Porsche.
    When I climb from the car, the odor of sulfur hanging in the cool air hits me like a wall. Fumes from the