Page 16 of Talk Story

My phone rang in my pocket; I pulled it out to see my friend Elle’s smiling face in a video call; we had Wi-Fi in the shack and could get those now. “Hey girl! What’s up?”

“It’s been too long since we got together!” Elle’s tawny skin shone, and she was wearing a tank top and a high ponytail. In addition to being the best event planner Maui had ever seen, she was a runner and athlete. “I was hoping you’d want to do something today.”

“Well, Keone and I are about to go up to Sacred Valley to do a little hiking for a case,” I said. “Want to come?”

Her gorgeous smile was the stuff of magazine covers. “I’ve always wanted to see it! Where do I meet you?”

After a flurry of dealing with Pua and arranging another early exit from the Post Office, Keone, Elle and I (with Tiki in her carrier) took Keone’s extended cab truck up the rugged, unpaved road leading out of Ohia to Sacred Valley.

We met Pali Moku at the unmarked trailhead above the valley at two in the afternoon. The sun was high enough that the trade winds had shifted, and the air smelled of green things and warmed earth.

Pali Moku was reserved—someone who sized up strangers before committing to them. He wore camouflage hiking gear with a ti leaf tucked into the band of his pack.

He shook my hand firmly but didn’t smile. “I’ve heard about you around town.”

“Oh yeah?” I raised a brow. “Nothing too crazy, I hope.”

“You’re crazy enough to get engaged to this guy,” he said with a gesture to Keone, and smiled at last.

“I’m Elle. Elle L. Beane,” Elle nudged me aside to extend a hand. “Event planner. Recent transplant to Ohia. Single.” She batted her eyes—the first time I’d ever seen her do it.

Pali Moku didn’t stand a chance.

“Elle. Hello.” Pali smiled right away this time. He was handsome, though shorter and more compactly built than Keone—which could compliment Elle’s willowy 5’9” very nicely, come to think of it. “What brought you all the way out here, Elle?”

Elle launched into her fascinating tale of leaving a tactical military position for a new start and finding it here, on the east side of Maui.

Pali appeared dumbstruck, as anyone would be. Only my story was more ridiculous than hers. I grinned, watching their chemistry develop until Keone elbowed me. “Uncle Kalani’s here.”

The elder pulled up in his truck and parked beside Keone. He got out and ambled over; he’d dressed practically in a pair of hiking pants, boots, and a tee that read “Move your okole.”

I pointed to the logo, a running chicken with a bare behind. “Proud to say I know that means ‘hurry up’ in pidgin,” I said.

Uncle Kalani smiled, showing a twinkle of gold tooth. “Bumbye you come one kamaʻāina,” he said, the words blurring together.

I shook my head. “Now you lost me.”

Keone smiled. “Don’t worry. He was encouraging you.”

Pali gave a jerk of his head. “Let’s go. I want to show you the area where the petroglyphs were taken from.”

Tiki, in her carrier, was quiet as I shrugged into the shoulder straps and settled her on my back. The petroglyph was carefully wrapped in tissue and tucked into a pocket on the back of the carrier. We set off in single file, with Pali in the lead.

Pali led us along and then took a side trail off the main path into the valley. This one was older, narrower, choked by ferns and branches. It traversed the eastern face of the ridge of the steep valley, dipping into gullies thick with fern, then climbing back up to a drier stretch where lava rock broke through the soil in dark ropy ridges.

This was a trail that still existed because people had used it for a very long time.

“How long have you been watching Chang’s operation?” I asked Pali at last. I’d moved in behind him after one of our water breaks.

“Eight months.” Pali moved through the brush and uneven ground with familiar ease. “I first noticed the permit applications last spring. He was careful and filed in small increments, nothing that would trip a community review right away. Eventually, the cumulative footprint was substantial.” He paused to let a bright green anole lizard scoot cross the path. “I filed objections on five separate permits. Two were upheld. One is still pending. The other two . . .” He made a gesture that covered the frustrating geography of bureaucracy meeting money. “Someone had already handled the paperwork before my objections were processed.”

“So his permits were expedited,” I said.

“Let’s call it that.” He shook his head in disgust. “Recently I noticed tire tracks on the old cane road below. At first I thought they were from hunters. But the timing didn’t make sense. They always appeared after midnight, but the vehicles were gone before dawn.”

“You were watching the road at midnight?” I swiped sweat out of my eyes; though the day was overcast, the humidity and exercise were heating me up.

He glanced back. “I camp up here sometimes. There are spots in Awawakapu where my family’s history is written on the ‘aina. I don’t want to lose track of those places.”