Page 50 of Talk Story

“I understand.” Patel hung her head; there was little of the pride with which she’d carried herself remaining.

Keone eased Madison to sitting in the grass, keeping his hand on her shoulder. Malia limped over to cuff her with the restraints she’s had on before.

Above us, the air ambulance thundered away and would be back soon. Below us, the valley breathed green and ancient and unbothered, keeping its secrets the way it always had. Beneath us, the cave waited for justice and restoration.

We had Patel and Madison. Souza would soon get the care he needed. Malia had her dignity but might need to go with Souza for treatment.

And somewhere on or below the mountain, Pali Moku carried an archive of priceless documents to an unknown destination, for an unclear purpose.

18

Keone’s green Tacoma jounced down the rutted valley road behind the police cruiser, and neither of us said much for the first mile.

Ahead of us, the cruiser took the ruts slow, its brake lights flaring red through the dust. Souza sat in the front passenger seat, upright, a bandage white against his dark hair, well enough to wave off the air ambulance and ride out the regular way. Malia was at the wheel—fortunately her left ankle was the injured one, and she was still able to drive.

In the cruiser’s back seat, behind the wire, were two pale shapes: Madison Chang and Dr. Susanna Patel, prisoners now, riding in silence from the valley that had broken open their schemes.

Keone’s hands stayed easy on the wheel, and I watched the cruiser’s brake lights and turned the morning over and over in my mind like a rock I couldn’t put down.

“I can’t stop thinking about the archive,” I said finally.

“Figured.”

“Pali wouldn’t give it up. Malia told him it was evidence, point-blank, he refused, and then she and Lei let it go because they had bigger concerns.” I picked at a rip in the knee of my nylon hiking pants. “I get why it happened that way, but I’m concerned about Pali’s action. He walked off a federal crime scene with documents that belong in custody, and we stood there and watched him do it and said nothing.”

“Because we trust him,” Keone said.

“No.” I blew out a breath. “Because it was a case of ʻgo along to get along.’ Not the same thing.”

Keone was quiet a moment, steering around a washout. “Pali Moku is the straightest shooter I know,” he said. “Grew up two houses down from me in Hana. I’ve watched that man fight for this valley his whole life—permits, petitions, standing in front of bulldozers, becoming an archaeologist so he can protect our heritage. He’s never once done a thing that wasn’t for the land and the people.” He glanced at me. “Whatever he means to do with that archive, it’s for Awawakapu. I’d stake my life on it.”

“That’s what worries me. People who are sure they’re serving something bigger than themselves are the types who decide the rules don’t apply to them.” I heard the edge in my voice. “And what about Patel? She was sure too: sure the archive belonged in a university, sure she deserved to take money from the Changs and put a rock through Souza’s skull, and get academic glory, too. Conviction isn’t innocence, Keone.”

“Patel.” He said the name dismissively, the way you’d brush off a fly. “She’s not from here.”

The words sat in the cab between us.

He’d meant that about Patel, that dismissive tone. That exclusion bias. He’d been referring to the rift that ran under everything in Hawaii, a line between the people who belonged to this place and the people who flew in to take from it: developers, speculators, tourists, even academics who saw precious relics as something to be used for career enhancement.

These were outsiders—people who didn’t understand that in Hawaii everything is connected. They came for what they could carry off, use, consume, or experience before they flew away to somewhere else.

But I’d flown here, too.

I’d come from a federal office on the continent; I’d had a badge and a caseload and no idea that bumbye meant by and by, that pilikia meant trouble, and that you didn’t go into a cave without asking permission of the ones who’d been there longest.

I was the haole girl. I would always, no matter how long I lived here, be one who wasn’t from here.

I turned my face to the window and watched the hala trees go by, and I didn’t say anything at all.

“Kat.” He’d felt the temperature drop; he always did. “That’s not—I didn’t mean you.”

“I know what you meant,” I said.

We rode the rest of the way out of the Valley in a silence that had gone from companionable to easily shattered.

At the turn where the valley access road met the highway, the cruiser turned toward Hana and the police station.

We would not follow. There was nothing more for us to do today; our statements would keep till morning. Instead, Keone pulled the Tacoma onto the shoulder and sat with the engine ticking.