Page 47 of Talk Story

I watched the disc of his headlamp bounce as he worked to ease the wide dark shape out from under Victor Chang’s slack weight.

Pali Moku, Keone’s oldest friend, the man who’d guided us through this whole tangle, was securing priceless documents the sensible way—getting them out of a damp pit and into a drypack before anyone hauled a stretcher down that cliff.

That was all. That had to be the plan.

“Air ambulance is rolling,” Lei called across the pit; she’d had her radio up the whole time, working it low to bring in help while I’d been fixed on Pali and Chang. “I called it the second we verified he’s alive. They’ll set down on the north—our side’s the way out. We’ll guide the first responders in, rig him up, and have him flown straight to the hospital.”

“Copy that,” Malia said.

“Pali, package him up for the EMTs. Do you think we can bring him to the rim with your gear?”

“Better not to,” Pali said. “He’s got broken bones, and I can’t tell what they are yet.” Pali had removed one of those silver space-age blankets from his pack; he tucked it around the man.

“Okay, we’ll wait for the ambulance team,” Lei said. “Hopefully they have a winch to hoist him out.”

Eventually what followed was a half hour I’d remember for the rest of my life: watching relayed shouts and swinging lights as Pali, alone on a ledge determined to be too narrow to hold anyone else, padded Chang’s head as best he could, then worked a rescue harness around an unconscious man with broken bones, moved him onto a metal frame, and clipped the frame to a line connected to a small portable winch.

Keone, who knew ropes, murmured interpretations of the technical jargon he was hearing into my ear, so I’d understand it: a “mechanical advantage,” a “haul system off the spur anchor.”

Victor Chang rose out of the pit like a caged mummy wrapped in aluminum foil, an elaborate baker’s joke.

“He’s up,” Lei called. “He’s up and he’s stable as we can make him. Let’s get him to the hospital, folks.” The EMTs converted the basket that held Chang to a gurney, and they pushed it, slowly and with difficulty, over the rough terrain, heading out of sight with a clatter of wheels.

But relief didn’t run through our side of the pit like a loosened knot until Pali came up the rope, hand over hand, easy as climbing a ladder. We only breathed easy when he stood safely on the far lip beside Lei.

Pali settled his pack on his back; it was thick and bulky with the archive in it.

Malia’s flashlight caught him adjusting his straps.

“The satchel in your backpack, Moku.” Malia’s voice was even but hard. “That’s evidence. Hand it over to Lei. It goes into custody with everything else from the case.”

Pali settled the pack higher on his shoulders. “No,” he said. “No.” The word dropped into the pit, and darkness poured around it. “This archive documents the ownership of Awawakapu,” Pali went on. His voice held that steadiness, that inexorable quality that was such a part of his personality. “Hannah Chang’s brother hid the archive here so it could be used, if need be, to right a wrong done to the people of this valley. It has big repercussions and deserves to be protected with the highest standards of archaeology—not thrown into an evidence locker in Kahului where it sits in a box for three years while lawyers hassle with and extend a case involving big-dollar defendants like Chang and Santos.” He paused to draw breath. “I’m a descendant of this valley, and I’m claiming it for safekeeping on behalf of our people.”

Silence fell and echoed around the dimly lit, chilly space.

I could feel Malia’s inner conflict—she too, was a descendant. Lei was also part Hawaiian. They had skin in this game—so did Keone. I alone was an outsider.

Lei shook her head as she stood beside Pali; both of them were filthy and exhausted. “Pali . . .”

“Lei.” He turned to face her, his hands on the backpack straps. “You’ve got a wanted man with multiple broken bones on his way to a helicopter. You’ve got another suspect in custody on the other side—and meanwhile, this archive isn’t safe.” Pali’s tone gentled, but he didn’t bend. “Fight me about a bag of old papers later. Right now you’ve got bigger fish to fry, and you know it.”

Malia’s jaw worked as she stared at Lei. Lei gazed after the gurney and then over at Malia. Something passed between the two women across the dark.

Lei said flatly, “We’ll deal with the chain of custody and this evidence when everyone’s out of here alive. Let’s go.”

Should I say something more? Argue with Lei about her decision?

I stared at Pali standing there with the archive on his back. He was Keone’s oldest friend, a man of integrity who’d helped us through all of this case. He’d spent his whole life trying to protect this valley. Of course he wanted the papers to be preserved and kept in the right hands.

Or so I hoped.

“Go,” Malia called. “We’ll bring Madison out the south side and meet you at Hana Police Department.”

“We’ve got it,” Lei called back. “Go carefully, Peahi. Get your people out unharmed.”

“Copy that, and right back atcha,” Malia said.

We left Lei and Pali behind us to make their way after Victor Chang and the medical team as we made our way back from the pit and retraced our careful steps: Malia, then me, then Keone. We did the slow crawl back along the narrow shoulder and passed the pool and began through the rocky stream tunnel, heading toward the second chamber. The return out felt longer than the way in as my adrenaline crashed, but that’s always how things go on a high-stakes operation.