The helicopter’s approach couldn’t be coincidence, not so soon after the killing.
Malia spent hours staring into the unsettled darkness, searching the ceiling of her tent for refuge, an escape from the horror she’d witnessed. Now she yanked a pillow over her head, her hair still damp with tangles, wishing she’d fled when given the chance—days ago.
Unlike the high-pitched whine of the flightseeing choppers that plagued the region like a mosquito nuisance, the incoming craft beat the air like a war drum. Its thrum advanced low over the valley, as if guided to their camp by a tether. But routine sweeps were rare, and squatters hardly warranted a predawn surprise. The police knew. But how? Kauaʻi’s Nāpali coast was a rugged, roadless wilderness where cell phone signals went to die. The only way to get a message out, if not by boat, was an arduous, eleven-mile hike. No time for that. Unless …
Dread tugged at Malia like an undertow. She clutched the sleeping bag to her chest, ignoring the summer mugginess, recalling the missing locator beacon. We used to call it yuppie 911, Tiki said. Push button in case of emergency. A comforting notion, but who sounds the alarm over a crime of their own doing?
The helicopter hovered overhead, bouncing their tarps like trampolines in its wash. Her instinct was to run. She reached for the zipper, to flee to Big Pool and cleanse herself of all she’d seen. But why? “I didn’t do anything wrong.” A plea whispered into darkness.
Craning to listen, she hoped to catch Tiki’s assurance that everything would be fine. She heard nothing over the racket of dirt and twigs pelting her nylon tent, the clashing of the sword-like pandanus leaves. Despite her fright, she could practically hear Tiki correcting her. Hala leaves, he’d say. Just like he’d known ihe was the Hawaiian word for spear.
A spotlight flashed on, penetrating the jungle canopy, illuminating the camp. She bolted upright and winced as her split lip cracked anew in surprise. The beam swept the valley floor, crisscrossing the camp. She tried to yell, but only managed a hoarse cry. “Tiki, what’s going on?”
As if in answer, a flurry of voices yelled amid a frenzy of flashlights. “Everyone out of your tents!”
“Kauaʻi Police with DLNR. Have your identification ready.”
KPD? Of course, she’d heard the stories of park rangers rounding up illegal campers on Kalalau Beach, but up-valley? And with a police escort? The searchlight slithered closer, like a snake stalking its prey. Grim certainty slid home: they’re here because of Inoke.
Malia held her breath, thankful her tent was the furthest from the trail. It was silly to think they wouldn’t see her or that, because she was a girl, the cops would leave her alone, but the thought comforted her. She didn’t move—didn’t even blink—hoping it merely an overblown effort to clear them from the valley.
The helicopter withdrew, taking its windstorm toward the beach, but the fury didn’t cease. Amid the shouted orders rang the bells of destruction: chairs and coolers kicked over, their makeshift shelving upturned, spilling pots and pans to the ground. Closer, their pyramid of water jugs toppled in heavy thuds, the plastic exploding underfoot as boots stomped them like they were balloons at a birthday party. Elsewhere, zippers shrieked open as tent poles snapped like wishbones.
“Quit it, braddah. You’re wrecking our camp.” It was Darren. “Ouch, watch the hair.”
“Grab your stuff and line up.” The command was harsh, urgent.
Malia huddled in place as the others offered a drowsy but futile resistance. She hated herself for remaining hidden but didn’t move. Self-preservation lodged in her throat like a mango pit. She remained kneeling as her home—the first place she ever lived without her parents—was destroyed around her.
Just as the tide of commotion began to recede, light flooded her shelter. “You in the blue tent. Come out.”
She raised a hand in defense, but her splayed fingers did little to screen the blinding beam. Her two months in the valley were over. She glanced about the tent in search of something tangible to take with her. Proof it had all been worth it. The necklaces and shells, ruined sarongs, and discarded paperbacks already appeared foreign to her. Relics of a shattered dream. She patted the empty air mattress beside hers. Cool to the touch. Of course. Anger brewed within her as she took a swig of water, her throat scratchy from the tumultuous midnight swim back from Honopu.
“Now!” The officer shook the tent, sprinkling her with condensation.
“Okay, okay.” Her voice cracked as she hollered, betraying her worry. She wrapped the sleeping bag around her waist and unzipped the tent door, thankful her lengthy black hair could screen the brightness. The bedding snagged as she crawled out, naked, exposed to a chorus of whistles and catcalls.
“All right, that’s enough,” barked one of the men. His voice carried the baritone certitude of authority.
The whistles tapered off, but not before someone taunted, “Nice birthday suit, wahine.”
“I said knock it off.” Then, shining the light in Malia’s face, the cop in charge asked, “You got any clothes?”
She shook her head, squinting at the ground, only able to see the half dozen pairs of boots fanned out around her. She’d been going topless for weeks, but never felt as vulnerable as she did right then, surrounded by police. Still, Malia refused to wilt beneath the heat of their gaze.
The cop peered inside the tent, then grunted and clicked a button, turning the spotlight into a lantern, bathing the forest floor in an unnatural white. It gave her pupils a chance to dilate. Thanks to the first pinkish rays of sunlight glinting over the cliffs, she could see Tiki and the others being marched toward the beach. The camp crawled with police, maybe a dozen. Malia expected to be told to collect her things and follow the others. But rather than order her to leave, the cop posed the one question she couldn’t answer.
“Where’s Jordan?”
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