A/N: To Marian: no worries! This story is actually finished, but a couple of chapters don't read quite the way I want, so I rewrote one tonight, and I'll re-write the other in a few weeks. Unfinished stories annoy me, too! Aside from my Stargate story, I only publish stories that are completely finished; that way, I only have to do some minor edits each week before publishing the next chapter. (The Stargate story was finished, and then I ran into unforeseen problems with it and had to abandon.)

…

Mr. Okuma winced and rubbed his back stiffly as he stood up from his seat in the office. Balancing the books was not his favorite task, but necessity (and the IRS) demanded it. Stretching lightly, he went to the shelf, pulled down a box of tea that he hoped would help with the aching, and turned on the electric kettle.

The tea kettle was a gift from Lamar, last year on Okuma's birthday. Surprised by the unexpected present, Okuma had stumbled over his thanks, although Lamar hadn't seemed to notice. Lamar had simply smiled politely, shook his hand, and returned to work.

Despite the man's past, Okuma couldn't help liking him. Lamar was a steady, diligent worker who never complained about the difficulty of the job. It was apparent he was more accustomed to office work than manual labor, but unlike some of the younger people Okuma had hired in the past, Lamar was reliable, consistent, and trustworthy. Okuma felt comfortable leaving the shop to run errands knowing that Lamar was behind the counter; he couldn't say the same about some of his previous workers.

A bell chimed as a customer entered the shop, and Okuma moved to the office window to see if he was needed. A local Hawaiian man stood just inside, looking around uncertainly. Okuma watched as Lamar went to him at once and, after a few words were exchanged, led him in the direction of plumbing and pipes.

Okuma nodded appreciatively and returned to his work. Finding the funds to pay Lamar had not been easy, but Lamar had brought in business, interacting with the white haole customers in a way that Okuma could never seem to achieve, and soon the business he brought in more than paid for his salary. During his tenure, Okuma never observed a harsh gesture or foul word from his sole employee, even when faced with the most difficult of clients. He never would have guessed that Lamar could be violent, and had the parole officer not told him the man's full story, Okuma never would have believed it.

Another visitor entered the shop, an older man in a loose aloha shirt and pants. He looked around uncertainly, as though not sure where to begin. Okuma stood and opened his office door, but Lamar, efficient as ever, beat him to the front.

Okuma stopped with a small smile, again allowing Lamar to handle it. Turning around, he headed back to his office.

The phone rang as he closed the door.

"Aloha, General Hardware, Okuma speaking."

He listened a moment, brow furrowing.

"State police?" His frown deepened as the officer began to ask questions. "No, sir. He's been here all day… And yesterday, too, yes…"

The questions continued, and Okuma's confusion changed to concern. "No, but, ah- his car was there at 8 pm… Yes, I drive past on my way home."

Okuma lifted a finger to the blinds on the office window. Lamar and the customer were still standing by the entrance, and the customer had his hand on Lamar's arm, in a rather familiar manner. Okuma frowned.

"No, I have not," he said to the speaker on the phone. "But yes, I will let you know… Yes, mahalo. Aloha." Hanging up, he stood in the office for some time, deeply troubled. Lamar was still talking with the customer, and Okuma's brow furrowed deeply in thought as he watched them. The customer had bent close to Lamar and spoke in low tones, too low for Okuma to hear from his cracked office door. The man's face smiled, but his eyes told a different story, and Okuma, who had seen more than enough trouble for one life, decided he did not like the customer one bit.

Okuma exited the office as the customer exited the store. Lamar stood at the entrance, hands stuffed in his pockets, his eyes following the stranger out the door. "Well?" asked Okuma. "What did he want?"

Lamar shrugged, but his eyes were troubled. "I don't know," he said softly, and he turned away to resume his duties.

For the first time since he had met Lamar, Okuma found himself suddenly feeling uncertain. Standing by the entrance, he watched as his employee disappeared into the back of the shop while, with a spray of gravel, the stranger pulled out of the parking lot.

…

"I've got a present for you."

Gravel crunched under Lamar's boots as he walked carefully up the road in the dim evening light. 2-time convicted killer and Lamar's former cellmate, Scott Agaran, had seemed pleased, almost excited, as he had relayed the news. "I think you'll like it. You did me a solid in there and I owe you," Scott had added by way of explanation.

Lamar twitched his head uncomfortably, scanning either side of the road. He hadn't intended to wind up in a killer's debt. Favors were a means of saving one's life on the inside; he had befriended Scott Agaran out of necessity when the man became his cellmate. He certainly hadn't expected to have the favor repaid after his release.

"You ever been to the Arboretum in Manoa? Park down the road and hike in. The gate's usually unlocked- some lazy kid they hired to close up just hangs the lock from the chain- but you don't want to take a car back there- might be cameras. Follow the gravel road, then take the trail for the waterfall. When the trail forks, look to the left. There's an old, abandoned church up there. I left your 'present' inside."

Reaching into his pocket, Lamar pulled out a flashlight and looked around the forest nervously before turning it on. It was just after dark and the western sky still carried faint traces of light along the horizon. He had waited patiently behind a tree near the arboretum entrance while the last employee locked up and finally went home for the night. After he left, Lamar cautiously ventured inside the grounds. It hadn't taken long to find the hiking trail that Scott described. Now, seeing the trail split into two muddy tracks, he turned left, pushed between the heavy leaves and vines, and stepped into the jungle.

He'd only walked a short distance when his light fell on the old church. Once white, the walls had aged to a dirty tan, streaked with dark green moss and black mold from the heavy rains. The overzealous jungle had already reclaimed the front part of the building where a large tree sprouted through the roof and pushed out the boarded-up windows. In the harsh glare of the flashlight, it was easy to imagine the building haunted with the angry spirits of the island's ancestors.

Lamar shuddered briefly and wondered- again- if this wasn't perhaps some trick, but he had no reason to doubt Scott's words. The man might have been a killer, but on the inside he'd lived by his own rigid code. If Scott felt he owed Lamar a favor, then Lamar had a feeling the man would pay it back in spades.

Tucking the flashlight away, Lamar scrambled over a fallen tree, up a few branches, and finally dropped through the window.

Crunch.

His foot sank immediately through the rotten wood floor and hit the soft detritus underneath, and Lamar toppled backwards, landing on his rump with a grunt. The softness cushioned his landing somewhat, but his back and knees still complained.

Not as young as you once were, he told himself ruefully as he clambered up onto more stable flooring. Shaking the damp leaves off his clothes, he switched the flashlight on again and surveyed the empty space.

Four rows of weathered pews were the only remnants of the church's former occupants; everything else had long since been removed or rotted away. Lamar wasn't sure how Scott had gotten in- the door on the front was padlocked and there wasn't another obvious entrance except through the broken window where Lamar had crawled in. Turning, he eyed the loose cobwebs dangling from the exposed beams under roof. The front of the church- or so he assumed, though it was hard to tell- was drier and better preserved, and he moved carefully across the creaking floor until he was standing in what remained of the tiny choir loft.

Amidst the brown leaves and grey dust, a flash of white caught his eye.

A note, held down by a rock, lay in the middle of the floor. Lamar picked it up.

"Look under the floor here. He's all yours. I hope you don't mind if I had some fun with him first." The note was composed of cut out letters from a flyer, and Lamar immediately recognized the font and colors: it was promotional leaflet the hardware store had put out a week or so back. An odd thing for Scott to use, and Lamar wondered at that, but it was the pronoun in the second sentence that truly gave Lamar pause: 'He.'

Lamar's finger rested on the grimy, cut-and-pasted letters. Surely Scott had not…

But a faint noise hinted otherwise.

Stepping back, Lamar nudged the floorboards with his foot until one jerked loose. He pulled it up. Ancient wooden stairs dropped into a black crevice, and a waft of cold, stale air drifted upwards. Peeling the trapdoor up the rest of the way, he climbed down cautiously, mindful of the low ceiling.

The tiny basement had clearly been added after the building was completed, and tool marks were still evident along the earthen walls. Perhaps it was a product of the war, when fear of Japanese bombers had prompted a rush of cheap fallout shelters across the island, or perhaps the congregation had simply needed extra storage space; either way, it was cramped, musty, and pitch black.

And it smelled. Green, damp, mold, rot… and other odors. Unpleasant and uncomfortable.

Lamar wrinkled his nose and swung the light over the small room. Like the space above, it had been cleared of its former possessions and lay mostly bare, save for a few rotten pieces of wood and water-damaged books pushed into one corner. In another corner sat a few plastic grocery bags with some water bottles, protein bars, and electrolyte gel packets- obviously more recent arrivals.

But he saw nothing that looked like a 'present.'

Lamar moved forward cautiously, his light sweeping in a large circle. He'd almost come fully around when he spotted it: in the back, behind the stairs, a different shape appeared out of the shadows, and he froze.

It was a cage.

A large cage, big enough for someone to squat in. If they were short, perhaps they could even lay down. There was no floor; only stiff wires crisscrossing above the soft, red earth. And there was a figure. A dark, hunched figure.

Lamar moved forward cautiously.

The naked man in the cage didn't move as the beam of light swept over his bruised and battered body. Someone had beaten him severely, tortured him with maybe a cigarette and what appeared to be a knife, and left him bound tightly with electrical cables. A heavy blindfold was wrapped around his eyes and duct tape covered his mouth, but it was on his arms that the light faltered.

There was no mistaking the large, colorful tattoos on each bicep.

Lamar knew exactly who that was.

Yes, Scott had certainly left him a present. A wholly-unexpected present, and Lamar was not entirely sure what to do with it.

…

Scott Agaran couldn't help a small chuckle as he ordered another beer and checked his watch. He had 30 minutes before he needed to go to his late-night shift as a janitor at an office across town. "You're lucky to have a job," he'd been told repeatedly in the past two weeks. Even the parole officer seemed taken aback. The man had checked twice and called his superiors just to confirm, all while Scott stood there with his 'best behavior' face glued over his features. "Dunno how you made parole," the officer said, "but you're damn lucky. Don't waste it."

Scott had no intentions of wasting his newfound freedom. He'd already crossed one item off his bucket list earlier this week. The Five-0 commander had no idea what had hit him when Scott had whacked him over the head in the man's own bedroom, and McGarrett hadn't roused at all until Scott woke him with a bucket of cold water after they got to the jungle.

Scott downed the rest of his celebratory drink and checked his watch again. Twenty minutes until his shift started. He had time. He turned his attention to the television playing over the bar, the red news highlight reel at the bottom of the screen displaying the same information that had been scrolling all night, and the night before that: Five-0 Commander still missing; authorities baffled; Tip Line…

Scott was quite certain nothing could be traced back to him, but it didn't hurt to play it safe. If McGarrett were found by anyone else- and he doubted that very much- then the suspicion would naturally fall on Scott's cell mate, whose history with the commander was far more recent. Scott had left the man a present he couldn't refuse. Even if Lamar decided to turn Scott in, what then? There was no evidence of Scott at the old church- he had been very careful, had thoroughly cleaned up, and he had an alibi for the night of the kidnapping. Even the note he had made with gloves on, using letters cut from one of Lamar's own fliers. As far as Scott could tell, all the evidence would point to his poor 'friend', his former cellmate who had stupidly decided to visit the church for his 'present.'

It really was the perfect plan.

…

Seventy two hours. Seventy two very long hours, give or take, and they were no closer to finding Steve than they had been three days ago. Danny Williams groggily poured himself another cup of coffee and sat down at his desk to review- again- the evidence from the crime scene.

Door left open- had it been picked, or left unlocked?

Alarm not set- that was just stupidity or laziness on Steve's part.

Broken lamp in the bedroom- signs of a struggle? Or just carelessness?

Bed unmade, sheets trailing the floor- someone had surprised him while he slept, Danny initially thought, except Steve's usual PJs (shorts and Navy shirt) had been in the room, so Danny wasn't sure what to make of it. Perhaps the sheets had been used to drag Steve? Maybe Steve had never actually gotten to bed that night.

Blood on the rug- Steve's blood, according to the lab. No DNA from the perp.

No fingerprints, no fibers, no notification from the alarm system- no evidence from their perp at all.

Danny sighed and rubbed a hand through his hair. What was he missing?

…