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

Turns out there was a family birthday party on the same day, so that took precedence.” Walter looked at her arm, then lifted his gaze to her face. “You’re going to scare the hell out of the audience with your bruises and cuts,” he said, matter-of-factly. “Parents are going to warn their kids that hula is dangerous.”

She was going to agree that this was true, but only if there happened to be a cult leader around who thought there was something wrong with being Hawaiian. Her hand reached for her hip, and she lightly pressed the spot where her other, private tattoo lay safely hidden. If Abraham had discovered that one, she might have had a real excuse to duck out of the festival showcase. We like to think we’re so different, so evolved, with our computers and cathedrals, our art and our philosophy, she thought to herself. But are we? We plunder the earth and destroy what is beautiful and necessary; when we kill, it’s not just for food and territory, but too often for reasons that are selfish and spiteful and small.

Walter’s phone buzzed. He answered it, then looked at Kali. “Yes, she’s awake. She looks like she was thrown off a bridge onto a slab of concrete, but here she is.” He passed the phone to her, and she glanced at the screen as she took it, surprised to see that the caller was Stitches.

“Hello, Detective. Glad to hear you’re all right. The price we pay, yes?”

“I suppose it is,” said Kali. “Tangle with killers, and you might get killed, or something like that.”

“Yes. However, I’m glad you’re on the mend, and hope that there’s some satisfaction to be had knowing each of our nameless people has at last been identified.”

Kali frowned. “Well . . . we’re still missing a head,” she said. Walter looked at her, then shrugged.

“Unlikely that it will be found unless one of those cult people decides to be generous and tell us where it is,” said Stitches. “Well, I must get back to work. Feel better, Detective.”

The line went dead. “Is Abigail Waters being held in Wailuku?” Kali asked Walter.

“For the moment.” He folded his hands. “She’s not going to tell you anything, you know. She still doesn’t truly understand that her father did anything wrong, and talking to you just implicates her further.”

“She was a child.”

“She’s been an adult for a long time, sitting on the knowledge of four deliberate deaths and one stolen identity. I don’t think you’re going to get a confession out of her that she knows anything about anything.”

“That’s okay,” said Kali. “I don’t think we need it. Can you call Tomas and have a team go back to the plantation? Specifically to the building that was used as an office with the break room. Find out from Manuel Raso where Abigail and Joey planted their sunflower garden, and have a search team check the ground there. Tell them to be thorough. I think Abigail buried the head there.”

* * *

After Walter had left, Kali fell asleep again on the sofa, drifting in and out of slumber until Tomas called her. Her hunch had been correct. Joey Manu’s skull had been found buried in the old sunflower garden he’d created with his friend Abigail Waters. It, too, had been smashed in. Kali felt a sense of completion, and fell into a deep, untroubled sleep.

In the morning, she put more ice on her swollen face, surveying the damage in her bathroom mirror. The festival was two days away, and Walter was right. She was likely to scare anyone who got a good look at her. She sighed and changed her clothes, putting on her shoes. She needed to go next door to thank Birta for the food—and Elvar for saving her life.

CHAPTER 33

The turnout was far better than anticipated. The grounds of the park where the Fire Garden Cultural Festival was being held were packed. No one, thought Kali, not even people like Abigail and Abraham, had been able to quell the spirit of Hawai‘i. She smiled wryly, acknowledging to herself that now even the legacy of battles and darkness, of zealous missionaries and intoxicated tourists and horrendous traffic, were part of the story of the islands, woven indelibly into the fabric of her own personal history. Less beautiful or gratifying than brilliant sunsets and tales of goddesses, perhaps; but still chapters in a much longer tale.

She looked around, admiring the displays, savoring the scent of the foods that had been prepared as part of the celebration. Carrying a cloth bag that held the dress she’d given to Makena, she found her way to the seating area in front of the stage. She wasn’t sure why she’d brought it. She reminded herself that Makena had never actually promised to come.

The cheerful music of a ukulele band on the main festival stage was augmented by a larger soundtrack made up of laughter and chatter. The night was filled with the joy of locals participating in a beloved festival that celebrated their culture, mingled with the happy voices of visitors on a much-anticipated holiday, each of them reveling in the air of the warm, fragrant island night.

She glanced at her phone, checking the time, then searched the crowd with her eyes. There was no sign of Makena. She tried not to feel anything, but as the minutes ticked by and she failed to appear, Kali was startled at the level of disappointment that washed over her, both sudden and unexpected. Of course she hadn’t shown up. Disappearing, after all, was one of Makena’s most highly developed skills.

Near a display of handcrafted wood art, she caught sight of Elvar’s tall figure. He was examining a bowl created from a single piece of koa wood, turned by a skilled artist who had revealed the patterns swirling through the grain in a contrast of gold and a deeper brown, and who had celebrated the wood’s small imperfections in a live edge along