They all nodded in agreement, and the meeting broke up.
With Tony Pwalú’s address in hand, Koa and Basa drove across the island and up the slope of Mauna Loa.
“This KonaWili thing gives me stomach acid,” Basa said. “I mean the accident last year with those teenagers gettin’ scalded in a steam vent over in the national park was bad enough, but this. This was deliberate. Boyle put those poor kids in danger. Makes me worry if Samantha’s safe in school.” The KonaWili disaster enraged the police sergeant, and he’d come to Koa’s office begging for a major role in the investigation.
“I don’t get it. What kind of sicko puts kids on top of a volcano?” Basa asked.
“Not just one sicko,” Koa replied. “It wasn’t the work of a single person or even two. The KonaWili disaster was a group effort, a conspiracy.”
“You mean some group of wackos sitting around a table, like Wall Street executives, planned this fiasco?”
“Not necessarily. Doesn’t have to happen in one big meeting. Could have been a series of one-on-ones.”
“Jesus,” Basa swore.
“And why?” Koa added. “That’s the most important question. Why would a group of professionals put kids at risk?”
Koa looked over at Basa, noticing a camera fastened to his uniform. “You wearing a body cam?”
“Yeah. The department’s running a pilot program. It’s really just a souped-up GoPro. You know, those little action cams the sports guys wear.”
“Sure, Nālani got me one for Christmas. I’ve been fooling around with it. Shot some on our walks through the national park. Took some neat videos of the steam vents around Halema‘uma‘u crater before Pele closed the park in May.”
“Cool. I got one for my kids. They shot some funny stuff at the playground an’ around the house. Jason hams it up like a professional clown.”
“How’s the body cam different from a GoPro?” Koa asked.
“A bunch of ways, but the biggest are battery life and access. These VieVu things have a twelve-hour battery life, a hell of a lot more than a GoPro, and the wearer can’t access the pictures.”
“So, no selfies?”
Basa laughed. “Ugly cops don’t make great selfies.”
“Speak for yourself.”
They rounded a curve and approached a ramshackle farm at the end of a long, rutted lane. An old farmhouse with a dozen additions tacked on hadn’t seen a coat of paint in thirty years. A rusted bulldozer along with other construction equipment in various states of disrepair littered the property. “Looks like a graveyard for dozers.” Basa shook his head.
When the two policemen climbed out of their vehicle, twenty children, most in dusty shorts and some still in diapers, came running to greet them. Koa spotted more faces peering from the doors and windows of the farmhouse, sheds, and other makeshift structures.
Squatting on his haunches, Basa ruffled the hair of a couple of the young boys and let them touch the decorations on his uniform. Basa enjoyed a natural way with kids. His empathy underlined Basa’s outrage at the KonaWili disaster and his determination to help Koa track those responsible. After a minute, a young Micronesian girl, probably no more than four years old, perched on Basa’s knee with her arm around his neck. The scene reminded Koa of the way his Army buddies in Afghanistan treated village kids to chocolates, except in the war zone you worried about kids carrying explosives.
The handsome, dark-skinned kids, many with curly black hair, belonged to a miniature Micronesian community. Under the Compact of Free Association between the United States and Micronesia, the U.S. secured continued military access to the Micronesian islands—where it once tested nuclear weapons. The peoples of those islands won unrestricted access to the U.S. and the full array of its educational, medical, and social services. As a result, thousands of Micronesians flocked to Hawai‘i. Unfortunately, the federal government picked up only a small portion of the cost of complying with the pact, straining Hawai‘i’s social service budget. Resentment and discrimination oppressed this new underclass. Like many immigrant groups, they hung together, a pattern reinforced by the powerful family ties traditionally binding not just blood relatives but all Micronesian islanders.
The kids scattered when an old man, plainly an elder of the group, approached. Basa stood, and Koa extended his hand, identified himself, and asked for Tony Pwalú.
“He much sick,” the old man responded, motioning them toward the farmhouse. Once inside the man led them down a hallway past several small bedrooms with multiple bunk beds and sleeping mats blanketing the floors. Koa didn’t have to resort to higher math to know more than a hundred people lived in this mountainside community.
At the end of the hall, they emerged onto a decaying lānai overlooking a small farm pond where naked children swam. “Tony Pwalú,” their guide said, pointing to an emaciated man sitting in a rocking chair at the end of the veranda. Although Piki’s research put Pwalú in his fifties, this gaunt, withered skeleton looked more like a frail eighty. Some terrible disease, probably cancer, had ravaged his body.
“Tony Pwalú?” Koa asked as he sat down on a stool facing Tony. The man nodded and turned to look at Koa. Tony’s bony arms stuck out of an ill-fitting tee shirt and a small crucifix on a steel chain hung around his turkey-like neck. He’d lost his hair, and his face bore a shrunken, hollowed-out look, but his black eyes shined sharp, under nonexistent eyebrows. Perhaps his illness hadn’t dulled his brain.
Koa introduced himself and Basa before turning to the point of their visit. “You worked on the KonaWili school project?”
The man nodded. “This terrible thing. Those poor children. It didn’t have to be that way,” Tony said in a hoarse, halting whisper.
Koa’s mind raced at the words—“it didn’t have to be that way.” Tony knew something. Koa didn’t like tape-recording interviews. People frequently refused to talk with the machine running, and even if they did speak, they became guarded. But Tony didn’t have long to live, and Koa wanted to capture his words before he passed. He started to pull out his cell phone but then thought of Basa’s body cam. He looked inquiringly at Basa, who nodded. “Tell me about KonaWili.”
“I never tell anyone,” Tony responded with an effort in a raspy voice.
“You can tell me,” Koa replied.
Tony stared at Koa for a long time, his coal-black eyes searching Koa’s face, before finally saying, “I keep secret for Hank.”
“You mean Hank Boyle?”
The man coughed and took a moment to recover. “Yes. Hank good to me. Much work Hank give me.”
“Tell me about the secret.”
“Pele’s secret.”
Koa leaned forward to reinforce his connection with the frail man. “Tell me about Pele’s secret.”
“Hank give me work on school. I dig hole, move rocks. Find much yellow powder. Bad smells.”
Yellow powder meant sulfur, and in Hawai‘i, sulfur deposits meant volcanic activity, but Koa needed to be sure. He and Nālani had often visited the sulfur banks at Hawai‘i Volcanoes National Park, so Koa knew exactly what to ask. “Bad smells?”