She also drew a heart in bright red Sharpie for everyone to see, along with the outline of a crow perched on top so they’d know it was her.
Time to go hunting for Hector.
Not that she had any expectations of finding him. Her advisor was right. Hector hadn’t survived and she needed to accept that. But she wanted to find that ohi’a grove and see how extensive it was—and make sure she was correct. If nothing else, she’d be laying the groundwork for her next attempt.
As her feet found the familiar trail, the sun filtered through the canopy, creating beams of magical green light. Splashes of red hibiscus flowers brightened the deep shaded areas, which were thick with ‘ie ‘ie woody vines and hala trees. She nearly tripped over an epiphytic fern that had fallen to the ground. Maybe a high wind had done it in.
When she reached the site of the plane crash, a torrent of emotions washed through her. That was where she’d first set eyes on Rory, pretending to be Lincoln. That was where a drone had fired bullets at her.
The plane was already starting to rust in places, and a flowering maile vine had climbed onto one wing. In another year, it would be hard to find the plane under the vegetation that would grow up around it and inside it. Another few years, and it would be nothing but rusted pieces of metal. She hated to think about the toxic fluids it carried. Maybe Lincoln would take some responsibility for it and send someone to drain those fluids before they poisoned this site.
Movement just past the plane made her shrink back into the shade of a hapu’u fern. Someone was here. Were they working on the plane? Maybe draining the fluids, as she’d just hoped for? Or scavenging? Had the menehune decided to claim it?
Silly. The menehune weren’t real. Everyone knew that, except Rory, of course. He probably knew by now, too, if he’d looked them up.
But what if they were? Maybe this was her chance to see for herself. She crept toward the plane, careful to stay out of sight.
Then she heard something that made her forget all about menehune.
The call of an ‘alala.
She froze, scanning the fringed leaves of the vines hanging from the ancient mango trees clustered around the crash site. She didn’t see anything shiny or black out there.
Moving slowly so as not to startle Hector—if it was him—she made her way around the wreckage of the plane. She kept one eye on the spot where she’d seen movement, but now didn’t see anything, or anyone. So she switched her attention to the slender trunk of the closest ohia tree, the one she’d glimpsed briefly months ago.
The call came again, the complicated warble that only the ‘alala could make.
She couldn’t hold back her excitement. “Hector!” she called—as if he would understand her goofy name for him.
A crashing sound came from that spot behind the plane, followed by a curse, then… “Mathilda?”
For a crazy moment she thought Hector had actually answered her.
Then she spotted Rory picking himself up off the ground. “Rory?”
He stood and brushed off the seat of his pants. He held a phone in his hand, which seemed ridiculous since he knew damn well there was no service out here. His face was even more brown from the sun, and he’d gotten a haircut. He looked like a dream, as if her own imagination had brought him to life.
In fact, she blinked to make sure he wasn’t a hallucination. “Why are you here? Is it—” She waved at the plane wreckage. “I mean, did Lincoln send you?”
“No, I don’t work for Lincoln anymore.”
“You don’t? Oh.” That struck her as a good thing. In her opinion, Lincoln didn’t deserve to have someone like Rory working for him. “That’s good news.”
His lips quirked. Those full, pillowy lips.
She realized she was staring at them and pulled her gaze back to his eyes, only to lose herself in those too. “Glad you think so,” he said.
“So…I mean…I’m very confused. I thought I was dreaming. I even heard the call of?—”
“You’re not dreaming. I need to show you something.” He came closer to her, stepping past a magnificent waist-high hapu’u.
His closeness made her heart go into overdrive. She had to force herself to pay attention to the phone he held up before her. He clicked a button and the call of an ‘alala rang through the jungle.
Sharp disappointment shot through her. It was nothing but a recording after all, not the bird she’d been searching for. “You looked up the ‘alala call?”
“No.” He cupped her face tenderly in his free hand. “I recorded that call myself. I’ve been here for days, camping out in the wreckage to stay out of the rain. Look.” He released her so she could look at his phone again. “I took these photos.”
They were blurry, since all he had was a phone and not a professional camera. But that black shape, those distinctive whiskers underneath the eye socket…
