The Bone Field

by Debra Bokur

  “Still. Keeps popping up, doesn’t it? Be careful driving back. Lots of deer roaming around up there.”

  The image of the pig smeared across the road back on Maui flashed through her mind. “Yeah, I will be,” she said. “See you in a bit.”

  * * *

  They headed back toward the pineapple field, with Kali driving.

  “Do you remember Bobby Keawe at all?” she asked. “Tomas said he was here on Lna‘i, but going back a while.”

  “Yeah, but only vaguely. He was getting close to retirement when I knew him, though he was still running things over here.”

  “He’s not in the best of health, and is in a care facility over on O‘ahu somewhere. Tomas is sending his contact info. We should find out about that old missing person’s case involving Matthew Greene, and see if Keawe knows anything about churches that were in business over here while the plantations were still active. I feel like the anchor may be connected to them.”

  “You want me to call him?”

  “Do you mind? Maybe he’ll remember you.”

  “Sure. As soon as you have his number, send it along. Meanwhile, you can drop me off at the harbor. I’m taking the launch back to Maui.”

  “Okay. I’ll be back at the hotel for the evening, so let me know after you’ve talked to him.”

  “Do we have a name for the church?”

  “No, but I’m hopeful that maybe Bobby does.”

  * * *

  Kali left Walter at the dock and returned Tomas’s car to the makeshift parking area at the command center along the pineapple field’s edge. She found him and made her request that he send Bobby Keawe’s contact information directly to Walter, then tracked down a volunteer to give her a ride back to the hotel. After showering and changing her clothes, she went into the dining area to get a grilled fish sandwich to take back to her room. She sat at a small table next to the room’s window where her computer was set up. Her notes were spread out on the floor at her feet, and she leaned forward occasionally to lift a page and study it as she ate her sandwich.

  She sorted the notes, then resorted them into different stacks, trying to find a pattern or order to what had so far been discovered. She had just given up, and was stretched out across the bed staring at the ceiling when the phone buzzed and Walter’s name popped onto the screen.

  “Kali? I spoke at length with Bobby. He remembers the Matthew Greene case pretty clearly. Said he was pretty sure the guy was slapping his wife around, and he took a special interest because he’d heard the wife was dying and the idea of her being mistreated on top of that really got under his skin. After a neighbor called the police, Greene was brought in for questioning, but the wife was unwilling to make a complaint of any kind. Bobby says he used to park his police unit in front of Greene’s house at night, partly to reassure the wife that he knew what was going on, and partly to shake Greene up.”

  Kali frowned. Abuse was one thing, but abuse of a dying woman struck her as particularly appalling. “And?”

  “Then the daughter died. It was ruled an accident after she was found at the bottom of her front steps by a neighbor. She had grown pretty weak and wasn’t supposed to be out of bed, but the neighbor who found her said he saw her outside every few days, sitting in her garden in the sun.”

  “How long afterwards was it before Greene disappeared?”

  “Two weeks. There was an investigation into his whereabouts, but nothing ever came of it.”

  “Were the wife’s parents suspects?”

  “Both were questioned, but apparently they were off-island when Greene went missing.”

  She reached for a pen and pulled a page from her notes. She jotted down a few of the details that Walter had gathered, frowning.

  “How could the time of his disappearance be narrowed down specifically?”

  “Well, that’s where things get a little cloudy. The parents went over to Kaua‘i to have a private memorial ceremony for their daughter at an undisclosed location up in the cliffs on some path that she loved to hike. Bobby thinks they took her ashes there to scatter, but they never told him that for certain. That was on a Friday morning. Greene wasn’t with them. He went in to work that day, though the field was mostly closed. He was clearing up his end of things, but then he didn’t show up on Monday, and no one saw him anywhere around over the weekend—but no one was looking for him either. Production had completely stopped, and the plantation was in the final stages of shutting down, so no one was really keeping any kind of schedule. The parents got back to Lna‘i from Kaua‘i the next day, on Tuesday. Bragden had their ferry tickets for the crossings back and forth, and crew members on the ferry at the time positively identified them as having been on board going over and going back.”

  “That’s all very convenient. Who keeps their ferry ticket once they get home? I can’t remember ever doing that.”

  “Yeah, Bobby said as much. He felt like Bragden may have had something to do with Greene suddenly vanishing, but I don’t get the feeling he was very motivated to pursue it after an alibi had been established.”

  “Okay, so what about the church?”

  “Ah, the Eden’s River people.”

  “Catchy.”

  “Bobby said they were basically a bunch of pains in the ass, banging on people’s doors to try to share their view that native Hawaiians are all godless savages who need to be saved from practicing native witchcraft. Seems they just wanted to help everyone get into heaven.”

  “Wow. That’s quite a mission statement.”

  “Mission is exactly the right word. It was founded by a family, led by a patriarch by the name of Abraham Waters, who was apparently a true zealot. I just texted you his photo. Turns out his ‘church’ was actually both a cult and a commune based in Christian beliefs. But they used the anchor as one of several symbols in their ministry, along with a cross and that little fish you see on the backs of people’s cars that signals to everyone they’re better than you are. The group name was tied to Biblical imagery connected to water: water into wine, walking on water, all that kind of thing.”

  “Was he a con man or just delusional?”

  Walter took the question seriously. “Delusional, I think. I did a background check on him, and some interesting things came up.”

  “Such as?”

  “First, his name was originally Greg Waterson. He was a high-profile sports doctor—a surgeon—in the Chicago area, who’d gotten a lot of publicity for his so-called miracle touch in the operating room, successfully treating people for injuries that other doctors had given up on. Then Dr. Waterson became the focus of a big lawsuit following a botched knee operation that left a rising high school soccer star permanently sidelined. The Watersons had a second home in Napa Valley in the wife’s name, and they sold that house and used the considerable proceeds to fund their move to Hawai‘i in 1993. They also got huge donations from other like-minded people who still believed in him, and who were encouraging him to develop his vision of a healing retreat center out here in the islands.”

  Walter filled in more details, explaining that the Watersons had one child: a daughter whose name was Abigail. During the lawsuit, Waterson made several statements that alluded to a deep conviction that his skills as a surgeon had been divinely bestowed upon him, and that the botched knee surgery wasn’t botched at all—rather, it was proof that God didn’t want the young soccer player to play college-level sports, and had prevented the surgery from being successful in order to prevent a future that he wasn’t meant to have.

  “I’ve heard that a lot of successful surgeons come with—or develop—a kind of God complex.” She thought for a moment. “I think if I had to have major surgery, I’d want the doctor with the scalpel to be as confident as humanly possible.”

  “Yes, but maybe not crazy with power,” said Walter.

  “I guess a name change helped create distance from his sports surgeon identity and any negative publicity surrounding what happened.”

  �
��That,” agreed Walter, “plus the Biblical name fed into his project here. In fact, all members of the commune adopted the last name ‘Waters,’ and many of them, like Waterson, made it a legally recognized change.”

  Kali pondered the information Walter had gathered. “So, tell me how a successful surgeon parlays his skills into running a commune?”

  “Easy. As we know now, Waterson was pretty religious already. His daughter’s named for someone from the Old Testament, and he was very active in a number of Christian groups connected to his church. He had plenty of well-heeled friends who lined up to donate money after he pitched the idea of establishing a Christian wellness retreat on Lna‘i. Bobby says that for a while it even became a haven for wealthy creative types—musicians, actors, artists—flying under the public radar for a little rest and rejuvenation. For a while, Waters kept the religious aspects very subtle, and offered things like meditation and healthy cooking courses for guests, along with evening seminars on how to achieve goals. Life coach stuff. Hard to say when the shift occurred into cult and commune, but gradually that’s what it morphed into. He kept it small, and maybe that was a deliberate ploy to keep from attracting national attention.”

  “Where’s this guy now?” she asked.

  “No one’s quite sure. Bobby says he and his followers annoyed and/or offended too many people on Lna‘i and got run out of town.”

  “Before or after Greene went missing?”

  “Not until a few years later.”

  Kali was silent, considering all that Walter had just shared.

  “I still don’t see a strong connection between all of these things,” she finally said. “Did Waters have some connection to the Shandling pineapple operations?”

  “No record of that, but his daughter had an after-school job there for a while, before the commune was good-sized. She was pretty young. She was thirteen when the Shandling company closed up shop. Bobby says he thinks Waters planted her there to entice people to check out the retreat—so it’s likely that at least a few people who lived at Eden’s River over the years had jobs connected to pineapple production.”

  She sat on the edge of the bed, swinging her legs. She felt agitated, and wasn’t exactly sure why.

  “By establishing it as a church, Waterson was able to stay tax-exempt, and all those donations from visitors and residents added up. There’s no official estimate about other valuables that may have been given to the organization, like jewelry or art. He also ran a Bible-based school attended by his kid and a few of the children of commune members.”

  “Was the proselytization just about lending credence to the church claims?”

  Walter laughed. “Probably didn’t hurt the image, but Bobby told me the funny thing is, the members really bought into the agenda. He said they could be annoying as hell spreading their message, and that the locals didn’t like the whispers about Abraham’s policy of sexual freedom, but that they also did a fair amount of good. Donated tons of food to the local food bank, helped some of the older local citizens run errands and do yard work.”

  “What went wrong?”

  She could hear the grimace in his voice as he answered.

  “Seems like too much free love comes with a price. There were a lot of younger women that became followers. The doctor was quite a looker. Movie-star handsome. Some of them joined up after leaving behind concerned parents or pissed-off husbands. Several of those people made the trek to Lna‘i to entice their loved ones home, and things got ugly. Police had to be called to break up fights and shouting matches.”

  She looked at her phone, pulling up the photo that Walter had sent of Abraham Waters. She estimated that it had been taken when he was in his late forties. He was classically handsome, and she wasn’t surprised that he found it easy to influence women. “Okay. So it all goes belly-up on Lna‘i, and Waters moves his operation elsewhere, but keeps it on the down-low.”

  “No proof of that, but that’s what I’m betting on.” He sighed. “I guess you could say not enough went wrong to keep him from carrying on. Nothing, at least, that smacked of a potential Heaven’s Gate or Jonestown.”

  “Can you find him?”

  “Looking for him right now. Hara’s got a short list of past members; it shouldn’t take long to find a trail.” He yawned. “You coming back tomorrow?”

  “Yeah. I’m going to check in with the search crew in the morning just in case there’s anything else to see, then head for the harbor.”

  “Roger that. Get some sleep. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

  CHAPTER 12

  It was late afternoon the next day by the time Kali arrived back at the harbor on Maui. She was completely drained. There had been an exhaustive search of the remaining fields. The discovery of the trio of skeletons had galvanized the crews, and extra help had been brought over from O‘ahu and Maui, including Hara, who had been given the task of keeping the public at a distance from the field. Tomas had gathered additional trusted volunteers from the community, and an intensive search had commenced. Nothing more had been found.

  Her last night at the hotel had been marred by disturbing dreams: a pineapple field filled with upright corpses instead of pineapple plants, each one faceless, each one wearing a pineapple mounted on its shoulders in place of a head. They’d stood in rows, silent and patient, waiting to be named. She’d finally given up on sleep, and had lain on the bed, staring at the ceiling until dawn began to wash across the sky. In the morning, she returned to Maui with Hara and Stitches. There was little conversation; each of them was as tired as the next.

  She drove home slowly, stopping first at Elvar and Birta’s house to collect Hilo. She could hear the clank of Elvar’s hammer hitting steel as she made her way along the driveway. She parked and followed a path to the back of the house. Both Birta and Elvar were on the terrace. Birta had apparently been reading a book in one of the long lounge chairs set beneath the shade of the roof overhang, but was now holding it aloft in one hand while struggling to hold Hilo’s collar with the other. She looked up in relief when she saw Kali, and released the dog. Hilo bounded toward Kali, then ran a circle around her, delighted. Elvar stood next to his forge, watching and smiling.

  “Thank goodness,” said Birta, sounding slightly ecstatic. “Take this animal home, please. And expect him to be sick. He ate what I think was a mongoose earlier today. It was difficult to tell, as it was mostly rotted.”

  “Great,” said Kali, anticipating the likely drama of a moaning Hilo leaving bits of mongoose throughout the house.

  Elvar laughed. “She’s exaggerating, Kali. I got to him before he ate any of it. So he’s mad at me, I think. But happy to see you.”

  “Well, thank you both. Again.” She sighed. “And dinner’s on me, of course, whenever it suits you.”

  “Thank you,” said Elvar, bowing slightly. “It’s not necessary, of course, but we would be happy for your company.”

  “Yes,” said Birta darkly, “provided it’s somewhere that won’t allow dogs. It would be nice to enjoy a meal without being stared at the whole time by someone with slobber dripping from their oversized jaw.”

  Kali looked down at Hilo, who was gazing at her in absolute adoration. “Where are your manners, Hilo?”

  Elvar placed his hammer on the flat surface of his anvil. “He has excellent manners. Birta is just overly sensitive.”

  “Yes,” agreed Birta. “Overly sensitive to the possibility that your enormous dog views us as the dessert course.”

  Kali turned away, laughing. Hilo pressed his body against her leg. “Well, I appreciate your patience and generosity. Truly.” Her eyes twinkled. “Birta, maybe I should get you a puppy as thanks.”

  Birta took a sharp intake of breath.

  Elvar watched, hardly containing his grin. “Great idea, Kali! I’ll help you find one, and as soon as Birta’s forgotten, we’ll bring it home as a surprise to her.”

  “Oh no you won’t,” snapped Birta. “Absolutely not. I won’t have it. Animals an
d I . . .” Hilo trotted over to her, nuzzling her arm affectionately, then walked back to stand beside Kali. “Animals and I don’t really get along.”

  “Hmmm,” said Kali. “Hilo doesn’t agree. He loves you, Birta. He loves you both. But we’ll get out of your way now. Lots to do.” She made her way back to the driveway, turning to wave, Hilo in tow.

  “See you soon,” said Elvar.

  By the time she reached the driver’s side of the Jeep, Hilo was already waiting. She opened the door, and he leapt into the passenger seat. She pulled out onto the road, making the next turn into her own driveway, flooded with pleasure to be home. She brought her duffel bag inside, dropping it on the floor next to the sofa. She lay down on the soft cushions and fell asleep almost immediately, wondering how thorough the investigation into Matthew Greene’s disappearance had been, and if Bill Bragden or his wife had really been considered a serious suspect. Certainly there was motive if their only daughter, already ill, was being abused.

  After a half hour, she got up and changed into an old tank top and a pair of cutoff leggings, then made her way down to the beach, Hilo racing ahead of her. Gradually, she went from a slow jog to a full run, allowing her mind to wander while her body strained and sweated. She had tasked Hara with searching for anything he could find on Eden’s River, and had left Tomas gathering what information he could from his local contacts while they waited for medical records to be sent from Matthew Greene’s family on the mainland. She felt frustrated, running harder, her shoes digging into the damp sand along the water’s edge. She could feel the muscles in her legs burn, running harder still, until sweat had soaked her clothing and her breathing came in gasps.

  She climbed the short coastal path upward, walking slowly toward her house, allowing herself to cool down while her heartbeat returned to normal. The sight that greeted her as she left the trailhead and made her way into her own yard was an unwelcome one. The sun was already moving low toward the horizon, but she could see that the hammock on her front porch was occupied: it hung low with the weight of a visitor, swaying back and forth in a slow, deliberate swing, set in motion by the thin, brown leg stretching from the faded blue fabric of the hammock to the porch floor.