8
The airborne copter had a slight forward lean, was now crossing the Hanakawii Channel like it was on a zipline. Evan, helicopter-rated, was not piloting. His Navy brass had insisted on this before letting him take Philo and Patrick onboard for their ride-along. Miakamii, the Prohibited Isle, soon overwhelmed the width of the copter windshield. An azure blue lagoon gained in definition, with white beach sand edging it on three sides and green scrub beyond the beach, and beyond the scrub, tall trees. Steep cliffs rose up to the right, where higher elevations led to a mountain ridge. Just off the coast of the island, the rim of an ancient volcano dominated the view.
Evan spoke into his headgear intercom, worn to better the chopper’s deafening blade noise. “You’re about to meet Douglas Logan, Philo. He and Miya were very close. He doesn’t need to know any more about the crime scene at her house than he already knows. It will only make him more upset. You copy?”
“I copy,” Philo said, wearing similar headgear. “But you gotta ask the police about the dry ice. Give them a chance to explain.”
“My assistant is checking on that.”
This was a struggle for Evan, obvious to Philo, the three of them plus their pilot strapped in tightly aboard the Navy Seahawk. Evan was intense, but he was also grieving, at a loss about the disturbing nature of the attack. Yet Philo knew Evan well. He would carry out his CO duties, would do his job, would put other necessary people in place for them to do theirs, too, so they could all get some answers.
“I’m impressed, Evan,” Philo said, the intercom chirping his comment.
“About?”
“Getting approval for us to hitch this ride.”
“Extenuating circumstances, and you guys are in the crime scene remediation business. That’s how I sold it. I also stressed that none of us would be armed, per Mr. Logan’s protocols. The Seahawk will hang out near the radar package on the northern tip of the island and wait for us to finish up.”
“Copy that.”
Over land now, the copter followed the coastline. Two heliports served the island, one for its infrequent tourist drops, one exclusively for the U.S. Navy. The pilot chose neither, instead found a small open space nearer the crash site, flat enough for them to land.
Whup-whup-whup-whup…
Dust and sand and loose scrub swirled as the copter touched down. The blades slowed their rotation, everyone remaining seated until the pilot gave the all-clear. They removed their headgear. Evan slid open a side hatch but wouldn’t let them exit yet. Visible now was another helicopter sitting silently at the end of the clearing.
“NTSB is here, too, still working their investigation. We’ll have to hoof it a hundred yards or so to the other side of those trees.” His tone turned somber. “You guys need to understand something about Mr. Logan and this island.”
“Fine. Where is he?” Philo said.
“Where we’re headed: the crash site. It’s visible from the beach, but not from where we needed to land.” He gestured for them to huddle up. They leaned in.
“You’ll be seeing parts of the island that are off limits. Mr. Logan never lets tourists into any of the populated areas, wants to maintain his family’s hundred-fifty-year-old promise. I believe we’ll see the church and the school because of their proximity to the wreckage. Do not get pushy if you have any questions. They need help—we all do—understanding what happened, but it won’t be at the expense of badgering him or any of the people who live here. And please, please, let’s all use our Sunday school language for this. We clear?”
“Shouldn’t be a problem,” Philo said. “Right, Patrick?”
“No shits or fucks, Philo sir.”
Evan led, Philo and Patrick maintaining stride alongside. They crossed white sand, then entered an open section with a heavy layer of volcano rubble that funneled into a wide dirt path with thick tree canopy overhead. In the wide expanse on the other side were two people in dark blue NTSB uniforms, one male, one female, plus another male Philo assumed was a plainclothes cop or detective from Kauai. With them was Douglas Logan, short and wiry, just as Philo remembered him from SEAL training decades ago, but with less hair, which was now all white. A tied-off yellow kerchief, a la John “Howdy, Pilgrim” Wayne, circled Mr. Logan’s neck.
In the far left corner of the clearing sat a tiny steepled church in gray-white clapboard siding. A few hundred paces from the church, and closer in, was a one-room schoolhouse, also gray-white. Solar panels highlighted both roofs. In between the wood frame buildings were large, mangled pieces of colorful helicopter, the copter’s nose planted in the dirt like an amusement ride gone bad, the windshield blown out, the interior exposed like a cracked egg.
“Not what I expected,” Evan said. “It looks like the flight deck split, but otherwise it survived the impact. No fire. Lucky, for the investigation at least.” He gestured at the wall of trees next to the clearing, the canopy thick and jungle-like. The diagonal path the copter and its rotating blades had taken to the ground had sheared the canopy, clearing the way.
Gathered copter pieces were strewn across portable folding tables. Hacked carcasses dotted the animal pens spread out between the two buildings. The blades had redistributed portions of the slaughtered animals in all directions, leaving behind dried blood sprays and large fleshy chunks that had slapped against the school, with other parts taking out one window of the church.
All of it—church, school, vegetable gardens, crumpled helo parts, animal carcasses, and the beach—were within shouting distance of each other, fully validated because that was what Mr. Logan was doing now, shouting in the direction of a man and woman at the water’s edge. Both
