by Robert McCaw
CHAPTER THREE
KOA WAS UP at five and in the mess hall by five thirty. The place was swarming with artillerymen, chopper pilots, and grunts in from O‘ahu for a combined arms live-fire exercise. The air was thick with testosterone, and when the rotorheads discovered Koa was a former snake eater who’d lived through the Black Hawk Down episode, they had him retelling the tale. Even years later, it still hurt to describe the brutal firefight in which he’d lost two of his service buddies, including Jerry.
Jerry, the fellow soldier who’d helped him through ranger school and become his best friend, had died in Koa’s arms, killed by a sniper’s bullet meant for Koa. That had been the second turning point in Koa’s life. Jerry had always planned to become a cop, and since Koa owed his life to Jerry, Koa committed himself to fulfilling Jerry’s life ambition. Devoting himself to the pursuit of justice salved his guilt at having killed his father’s nemesis.
Time had blurred the pain, but not his anger at the damn politicians who had sent his unit into harm’s way without adequate backup. Somalia was one of his darkest memories.
In the ensuing banter, he was amazed at how in just a few short years technology had revolutionized the battlefield, but left soldiers with the same old gripes—dull food, inadequate equipment, lack of spare parts, insensitive commanders, and the infamous hurry-up-and-wait approach to everything. Maybe, he thought, as he finally walked out of the mess hall, the life of a Hilo detective had its advantages.
Koa and Zeigler, along with their respective teams, reassembled at the crime scene just after dawn. A dead māmane tree, silhouetted against the eastern sky, stood like a tombstone over the murder site. Koa eyed its twisted branches, idly hoping for some glimmer of motive for the murder, but he wasn’t surprised when it remained just a dead tree. That sort of stuff worked only in old Hawaiian folktales.
Zeigler had requisitioned a helicopter and pilot for an aerial tour of the crime scene. Once they were strapped into their seats, Zeigler handed Koa a headset and a pair of binoculars. Once again, Koa braced his back as the pilot took off. “Can you hold here?” Koa shouted into his microphone as the chopper passed just east of the murder site. The chopper slowed to a halt and steadied.
Below, the entrance to the lava tube lay in a pit thirty yards west of the rutted jeep trail and 150 yards east of a small pu‘u. Rough ground surrounded the pit, but as Koa studied the terrain from above, he noted a possible route—between a small ravine and some scrub trees—that appeared to offer access. The killer or killers must have driven along the cinder jeep trail, cut off on the rough track nearest the lava tube, and walked the last thirty yards. Koa made a quick sketch of the scene.
“They must have driven out here. Too far from anywhere to walk.” Zeigler’s voice boomed in Koa’s headset.
“You’re right, but wouldn’t the MPs notice a vehicle?”
“It would be pretty hard for a vehicle to escape detection during the day. Most days, the command’s got choppers up, and the pilots know to report intrusions. Still, it’s different at night. You could run a moving van in and out of here after dark. Nobody would ever spot you.”
“But to rendezvous out here at night … walking over that lava in the dark would be begging for a busted ankle or worse.”
“Yeah, but out here in the east end—six, maybe eight miles from the barracks, you could use lights.” Zeigler pointed toward the PTA headquarters to the northwest. “Nobody would spot flashlights or even car lights.”
Koa spun it out further. “If the killer met the victim out here then they must have come in separate vehicles. Separate vehicles mean two killers—or an accomplice—because somebody had to drive the victim’s car out of here.”
“Yeah, I guess that’s right, Koa, but I have trouble seeing two killers. I mean, Jesus, the scene inside that tube … I’m no criminologist, but it takes a twisted mind to cut a man up and mess with his eye. Doesn’t seem like a group effort.”
Koa saw his point. “If you’re right, the killer and the victim came together … maybe with the victim unconscious or restrained.” Koa turned to look at the young Army officer, catching a particularly unflattering profile of the former hockey player’s uneven nose.
“Jesus. Can you imagine cutting up a friend or at least somebody you knew? Gives me the creeps.”
Koa had seen worse sights, some of which still haunted his dreams. Like the time in a tiny Afghan town where he’d watched as villagers stoned a girl to death for loving a boy from the wrong family. More recently he’d found a young man stabbed over fifty times in a Hilo back alley. Images of the man’s flayed face still came flaring up out of nowhere in his nightmares. Still, he too had trouble imagining how anyone could slice up and abandon a friend in a lava tube. “I don’t know, Jerry. Some people are capable of incomprehensible violence.”
As the helicopter approached the dirt road just outside the search area, Koa saw Sergeant Basa waving. After landing, Koa joined Basa and a young enlisted man about halfway between the closest trail and the lava tube. Several scrub trees dotted the slope on his right, and a rocky gully posed an obstacle to his left. They were close to the possible access route Koa had spotted from the air. A man walking from the trail to the lava tube might well have passed the exact point where they stood.
“This is Pedro,” said Basa. “He’s one of Zeigler’s MPs, from Texas. Been here on the island only a couple a months, but he’s got sharp eyes. He spotted this key lying on the ground. We haven’t touched it. I thought you’d better have a look.” Basa pointed at a single detached key.
“Good work, soldier,” Koa said.
“Thank you, sir.”
Keeping his back straight, Koa stooped to inspect the silver key on porous gray-white lava, half-concealed beneath a leafy shrub. He ordered it photographed. Although the standard Yale key bore no identifying marks, it was clean and shiny. A fingerprint check yielded only a badly smeared partial print of dubious identification value. Yet the oily print was enough to confirm that the key had been dropped recently. Maybe, Koa thought, it had fallen from the victim’s pocket, if his body had been carried.
Just before eleven o’clock, the MPs radioed that Jimmy Hikorea, the park service archaeologist, wanted access to the crime scene. A bright red Ford Bronco soon bounced up the rutted trail. Koa started toward the vehicle as it jerked to a halt but stopped short as the driver swung the door open. Koa watched intently as Hikorea reached into the back to lift out a wheelchair, placed a cushion on the seat, and swung himself down.
The shrill voice from the previous evening’s telephone call flashed into Koa’s mind. He remembered how the archaeologist responded to his invitation to drive forty miles across the island to Pōhakuloa: “No trouble at all.”
Koa smiled. This was going to be interesting.
The barrel-chested man maneuvered the wheelchair, which twisted and bounced like an amusement park ride, over the rugged terrain. How many wheelchairs does this guy destroy in a month? Koa wondered. Jimmy’s upper arms were huge, yet his legs ended above his missing knees in thick rubberized stubs. As if in sympathy, a spear of pain shot down Koa’s right arm. Hikorea’s vehicle, Koa thought, had to be equipped with hand-controlled brakes and accelerator.
He wore a black windbreaker with the National Park Service logo, beneath which appeared the words “Federal Archaeologist” in yellow letters. He sported a black baseball cap with the Marine Corps logo in gold. It looked incongruous with his shoulder-length black hair.
“Jimmy Hikorea here. Are you Detective Koa Kāne?” Jimmy extended his right hand while continuing to drive the chair forward with his oversized left arm. Never once did he take his hard-black eyes off Koa’s face. Koa recognized the high-pitched squeak, and somehow knew it wasn’t natural; it was the legacy of some injury. Had Jimmy really been a marine? The lines in Jimmy’s chiseled face told Koa that he was old enough to have served in Iraq despite his long hair.
When they shook hands, Koa felt the man’s life
-force crush his grip. He seemed to radiate power.
“Yeah, I’m Koa. I appreciate your coming out here on such short notice.”
“No trouble. I’d walk to hell and back for a new dig.”
Koa studied the archaeologist. He had light brown skin and, despite his masculinity, the finely sculptured features of an Indian princess.
Jimmy’s smile disappeared and his eyes darkened as Lieutenant Zeigler joined them. A vein in Jimmy’s neck bulged. Zeigler held out his hand to the newcomer, but the archaeologist ignored the military policeman. Zeigler stood awkwardly for a moment before slowly withdrawing his hand. A puzzled look came over his face.
“I came up here out of respect for Nālani and to help the county police. I’m not here to help the goddamn Army.” Jimmy glowered at Zeigler as though the man had committed a crime.
“Whoa! I know when I’m not wanted.” Zeigler took two steps backward, turned on his heel, and strode back toward his jeep.
“Bastards,” Jimmy snarled.
Koa resisted the urge to go after his friend, and instead informed the crippled archaeologist, “That wasn’t necessary. Zeigler’s a good man.”
“I’ve had my fill of the fucking Army. Show me what you’ve found.” Although the voice squeaked, the words came out with the assurance of a man used to being in command. Nālani’s words came back to Koa: “Don’t be put off; he’s as sharp as a razor.” Had Nālani been referring to Jimmy’s intellect or his personality?
Koa hesitated, weighing the man’s odd behavior against the needs of his investigation. The Army must have had something to do with Jimmy’s injuries. On the other hand, Koa needed Zeigler’s cooperation. Plus, he resented the mistreatment of his friend. And he wasn’t about to cede control to this archaeologist. “Maybe I made a mistake in inviting you out here, Mr. Hikorea.” Koa held the man’s gaze. “Either play nice or climb back in your truck and head out of here.”
Jimmy straightened in his chair, eyebrows raised, a look of surprise on his face. He wasn’t used to being challenged. The two men glared at each other until a smile slowly spread across Jimmy’s face. “Nālani told me you were one tough cop,” he said. “Shall we start over?”
Koa decided to give the archaeologist a second chance. “The body’s in a lava tube off the bottom of a pit. We’ll have to carry you down.”
“Fine by me, if you’re up to it.”
A year ago, Koa would have grabbed one side of the wheelchair, but with his neck problem, he let one of the soldiers help Basa carry Jimmy. Gradually, they jostled the archaeologist down the sloping side of the pit. Once on level ground, Jimmy powered his wheelchair into the lava tube, which was still illuminated by arc lights. Koa followed, leaving the others outside, and handed Jimmy a glossy color photograph. “We found this next to the corpse.”
Jimmy studied the picture.
“It’s an adze preform, like I told you last night—the unfinished head of a stone hatchet. The color says it came from the adze quarry up the slopes of Mauna Kea.”
Jimmy rolled his wheelchair around the site. Around and around he circled, his black eyes darting from place to place. When he reached the piles of stone chips for the third time, Jimmy locked the wheels of the chair, eased himself forward, flipped the seat cushion onto the floor, and lowered himself down. Producing a magnifying glass from a pouch attached to his belt, he examined the stone fragments while Koa moved one of the arc lights closer.
Incongruous, Koa thought. Barrel chested and a squeaky voice. Hates the Army, but he drives halfway across the island to an Army training area. A football player’s neck, yet he handles a magnifying glass with the finesse of a jeweler. Jimmy sat next to the pile of stones, staring off into the floodlit space.
“Something wrong?” Koa’s voice reflected his rising impatience. He still questioned the wisdom of bringing this strange man into the investigation.
“These are quarry flakes—pieces of rock that flake off when a workman shapes stone. Here, see these fluted edges?” Jimmy held out one of the stone chips for Koa’s inspection. “Those edges are characteristic of quarry flakes.”
“So?”
“So, stone workers quarried and shaped stone on the mountain. Why are there piles of stone flakes here in this cave?”
“You tell me.”
“I can’t. That’s what bothers me.”
Jimmy moved farther back into the lava tube. Placing his hands firmly on the rough floor, he nudged the cushion forward and swung himself onto it, covering the uneven floor with the measured hops of a monstrous frog. Koa would have laughed at the odd movement had the man not been disabled.
Hop by hop, Jimmy jumped his way into the narrow, low-ceilinged area at the back of the cave where it ended in a jumble of broken rocks. Koa followed with an arc light and stooped to watch the archaeologist sitting in the confined space. Koa eased himself down onto his haunches as Jimmy continued to sit immobile, staring at the back of the cave. Seconds passed. A minute passed. Koa shifted impatiently.
Jimmy withdrew a matchbook from his pouch. Koa expected the archaeologist to light a cigarette, but instead he struck a match and held it aloft, watching the tiny flame dance as if caught in a breeze. Koa watched the flickering light reflected in Jimmy’s bright black eyes. What was this strange man thinking? The flame ate away at the match. Was Jimmy checking for gas? Koa thought the archaeologist would scorch his fingers, but the man snuffed the match out just in time.
Jimmy reached upward and began to push and pull upon a large rock near the ceiling. The rock shifted. Jimmy wiggled it. Back and forth. Back and forth. Koa watched, puzzled by the archaeologist’s actions. Gradually, Jimmy worked the rock loose. As it began to slide free in a shower of loose dirt, Koa saw that it weighed seventy-five, maybe a hundred, pounds. Yet Jimmy pulled it loose and set it to the side as though it were a pebble.
With the first rock removed, Koa realized there was an open space behind the rocks and joined Jimmy. Working together, they quickly shifted rock after rock from the back of the lava tube until they’d opened a hole nearly two feet in diameter. Koa pointed his light through the hole. The jumble of rocks that had appeared to be the end of the lava tube was only a rockfall. The lava tube extended much farther, far enough that the inky depths absorbed the beam of light, making it impossible to judge the depth of the tunnel.
The two men worked together to clear away additional rocks until they had an opening large enough to crawl through. Koa scrambled forward first, ignoring the pain in his shoulder. Scrape. Scrape. Koa heard Jimmy’s cushion slide across the rough floor as he followed. Koa crawled two dozen feet along a narrow tube until it opened into a rock chamber the size of a small room. Koa blinked rapidly, trying to assess the strange sight revealed in the narrow beam of his light.
He illuminated a long, curved object, like a log from some long-fallen tree. From its center a black stone figure spiked upward. Koa stared transfixed at the thing. Its form was recognizable as female through the dust—heavy breasts, weighted down with age, nipples drooping; legs open, crooked outward at the knees. Human, yet not human. A great beak jutted from the center of its elongated head and its huge unseeing eyes seemed to glower with a warning. Beneath a covering of dust, the unornamented figure had the glow of polished obsidian.
Koa felt the hair on the back of his neck rise. He could almost hear the bird woman screaming, demanding to know who dared intrude upon her secrets.
“What is it?” Koa asked, as Jimmy pulled up next to him.
The archaeologist had a wide-eyed expression and seemed as stunned as Koa. “A talisman … but unlike any other in the islands.”
“It’s awe-inspiring. She must have perched there for centuries.” Koa heard the reverence in his own voice. His heritage stared him in the eye, bringing back his grandfather’s stories about a time when men worshiped idols. Slowly, he shifted the light down below the base of the figure to the object below. As he moved the light from side to side, Koa recognized the shape. Th
e raised bowsprit and curved gunnels had the unmistakable shape of a Hawaiian war canoe. “It’s a canoe.”
“Painted red … the color of the gods,” Jimmy added.
“What’s a canoe doing here in a cave in the saddle, miles from any water?” Koa’s voice echoed eerily from the walls of the small cavern.
“It’s a coffin.”
“A coffin?” Koa nearly choked on the word.
“We’ve entered the secret royal burial crypt of some ancient ali‘i, some man of enormous power in his time.”
“You mean, there are bones inside the canoe?” Excitement registered in Koa’s voice. “The bones of a Hawaiian king?”
“Yes. Every royal family had a trusted retainer charged with hiding the bones of deceased kings,” Jimmy squeaked. “The canoe was probably already placed here, poised to transport the spirit of the ali‘i forever.”
Koa turned toward Jimmy. “What king?” Koa asked, a feeling of excitement rippling through him.
“The talisman should tell us,” Jimmy said, his high-pitched voice becoming tentative again, “but I’ve never seen such a female bird figure.”
“Could this burial site have anything to do with the dead body?”
“I don’t know. It didn’t look as though anyone had disturbed those rocks in recent years. But I can tell you that in pre-contact times, before the haole missionaries arrived, almost any member of a deceased ali‘i’s family would have killed to prevent the theft of his bones.”
Koa studied Jimmy’s animated face, searching for some hint that the man was joking.
“You’re serious?”
“Quite. Under the old system of beliefs, the family or a loyal retainer protected the bones forever.”
“What happened when the retainer died?” Koa asked.
“The man who secreted these bones would, as he neared death, have revealed their location to a trusted member of the next generation.”
At this point, Koa’s native fascination began to drain away. He could buy into the old traditions only so far. “No one still believes power can be secured from the bones of a king or prince who died hundreds of years ago.”