The Bone Field by Debra Bokur (the best ebook reader for android .txt) 📗

bed instead of the sofa where she usually fell asleep, and admitted to herself that her back was the better for it, despite the fact that Hilo was taking up an inordinate amount of the available space at the foot of the mattress.

She woke as the sun’s beams stretched through the open window of her room and across her pillow. A glance at the clock on the small wooden table beside her bed showed that it was far too early to call Walter, so she got up and walked into the living room, retrieving her worn blue yoga mat from the corner behind the sofa. Hilo followed her as she went outside, across the lanai, and down the steps that led to a wide, flat lawn. She spread her mat on the grass and stepped onto it. Bending down, she turned first to the left, then to the right, loosening her muscles.

Her mind was racing. She lowered herself to the mat and made herself sit still, breathing in and out deeply, savoring the salt-laced air, counting each inhalation and exhalation in an effort to concentrate. But it was no good. Instead of rising to test her thigh muscles in warrior pose, she found herself slumping slightly on the mat, staring blindly ahead to where the land sloped gradually down toward the sea in one direction, and abruptly to a deep cove in the other. Walter’s ramshackle fishing boat, the Gingerfish, was moored there, rocking slightly with the current. She drew her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them, letting her eyes follow the movement of the boat.

Hilo flopped down on the ground beside her. She stroked his head absently, her thoughts filled with images of the small, forlorn skeleton in the abandoned refrigerator, left to face eternity from the dubious vantage point of a pineapple field long starved of fruit. Why is his head missing, and where on earth is it? Who was he? Who placed his body in a kitchen appliance, and why?

The questions ran in an endless loop through her mind. “I think this is pointless, big guy,” she finally said aloud. Hilo whined softly in response, his tail thumping against the ground. “Let’s go make some coffee.”

She got up, rolling the mat and tucking it under her arm. Hilo padded along beside her and up the steps. She opened the screen door and let him in, leaving the mat next to the door. Her small kitchen was flooded with sunlight, which played against the cream-and-dark-green-patterned ceramic backsplash behind the countertop. Every other tile was decorated with the familiar Hawaiian motif of a honu, or sea turtle. Some of the tiles were cracked, and the grout had begun to wear away between them, but she loved the design, remembering fondly how pleased her grandmother, who’d lived in this house for most of her life, had been to have the tiles installed. Kali smiled to herself. That memory alone was enough to keep her from ever replacing them.

She made herself a carafe of coffee in the glass press that had been so treasured by her late fiancé, Mike Shirai. This small morning ritual of measuring the coffee beans into the heavy steel grinder, transferring them to the press, heating water in the electric kettle, and pouring the steaming water over the ground beans evoked a different set of memories than the ceramic tiles; memories that still carried a sense of grief—and a silent fury that Mike’s life had been cut short during a police raid and a frenzied volley of gunfire directed at him by a crew of meth dealers.

As she finished making the coffee, she poured herself a large mug, carrying it to the kitchen table where her computer was set up. Mike would have laced his coffee with a flavored cream, but she preferred hers unadorned, except for an occasional spoonful of sugar. For the next two hours and over the course of two more mugs, she did Internet searches on pineapples and what they represented, looking up what she could find about the pineapple industry on Lna‘i Island.

By the time her phone rang just before eight thirty, the pad beside her keyboard was covered with notes, many followed by question marks. She glanced at the phone screen before she answered.

“Aloha, Walter. You calling to share any good news?”

“I am not.” His voice sounded weary. “Stitches wants us to take a road trip to her office in Wailuku. I’ll pick you up in about twenty minutes. I missed breakfast. If you make me a sandwich, I’ll leave you something in my will.”

“You don’t have anything I need. Actually, you don’t have anything at all, do you?”

He grunted. “Boat.”

She laughed. “Yeah. Threatening me with your creaky old fishing boat isn’t going to motivate me to make you a sandwich.”

“How about this, then: Bring me something to eat, pretty please, or I’ll definitely leave her to you.”

He rang off before she could respond. She went to the table and collected her notes, stuffing them into her day bag, and checked Hilo’s bowls for food and water. The dog, recognizing all of the signs of Kali’s imminent departure, parked himself across the floorboards at the threshold of the front door.

By the time the police cruiser pulled into her driveway, she was already waiting on the steps of her lanai, holding a fried egg and Spam sandwich, topped with a slice of Maui onion and slathered with sweet mustard.

Walter parked in the limited shade offered by a stand of tall palms. He got out to join her, carrying an insulated travel mug. His face lit up when he saw the sandwich.

“I knew you’d do the right thing,” he said, reaching for it.

Kali raised her eyebrows. “I was only looking out for myself. The last thing I need is to be trapped in a car for however long it takes us to get to the morgue with you grumbling the whole way about how hungry you are.”

“Fair