The Bone Field

by Debra Bokur

  “Guess I know why we’re in this truck and not your cruiser,” said Kali, holding on to her armrest as the truck jolted along the rutted path.

  “Yeah. No grading back here, at least since the last heavy rains. Looks like most of the surface washed out, then dried into these ruts.”

  The area ahead of them became smoother and greener. The truck slowed, and Tomas eased to a stop beside a stand of trees. There was another vehicle parked there, an older, beaten-up SUV. A woman stood leaning against the driver’s door. Kali estimated her to be in her forties. She was tall and angular, and her auburn hair was cut short. Her jeans and cotton shirt, the latter with a row of gleaming buttons, struck Kali as being sensible, and she wondered what it was that she had expected to see—a woman in rose-colored glasses and jumbles of glass beads wearing a tie-dyed T-shirt with some old hippie slogan?

  “Aloha,” said Tomas. “You’re Anita Waters?” The woman nodded, and Tomas indicated Kali. Tomas held up his badge, and Kali lifted hers from where it was suspended at the end of the cord around her neck. “This is my colleague, Detective Kali Mhoe. She’s also part of the team looking into Eden’s River.”

  “Eden’s Abyss, more like,” said the woman dryly. She turned to Kali. “Nice to meet you both.”

  “Same,” said Kali, smiling. She looked around. “So this is where Eden’s River was located?”

  “Through here,” replied Anita, leading the way toward a bend in the path that revealed an opening in the foliage, and a glimpse of a wide meadow on the other side. There was a crumbling post-and-rail wooden fence running up from each side of the field to the gap in the greenery.

  Kali and Tomas both halted in astonishment as they reached the opening. There was a taller post on each side where the fence ended at the gap. Old, rusty hinges hung from them. There was no sign of the missing gate, and the post on the left had rotted and broken off near the top. It was the post on the right that had caught their attention—the top of it was decorated with a large, carved wooden pineapple. Its surface was weathered from exposure, but it was all too familiar in its size as well as the detailed carving.

  “Well, I’ll be,” said Tomas.

  Anita looked at him in confusion. “What’s that?” she said.

  “The pineapple,” said Kali, pointing to the fence post.

  “Oh yes. Pretty, isn’t it?” She frowned. “There used to be two. One on each side. I think the other one came off when the post began to rot. I wonder what happened to it.”

  Kali and Tomas exchanged glances, but refrained from commenting; it didn’t stop both of them from picturing the missing pineapple on the shoulders of the lonely skeleton. Not far from the entrance, a barn-like structure could be seen among the trees and thick brush. There were two smaller buildings behind it. Anita gestured toward the structures.

  “Well, here we are.” She looked more closely at the scene. “It’s been years since I came out here. I must say, it all looks a little worse for the wear. Smaller than I remember. There used to be some nice gardens. And things didn’t look so shaggy and unkempt.”

  “When did you leave the commune?” asked Kali.

  “End of 1996.” She turned to Kali, her face somber. “And I’d characterize it as a cult, not a commune—at least not in the strict sense.”

  They walked closer to the barn.

  “This is where we all spent the majority of our time when we weren’t cooking or cleaning or working in the gardens, or doing some other kind of chore,” said Anita. She reached into the tall grass and extracted an old clay flower pot. “I enjoyed being outside with the others. There was always singing. Camaraderie, you know? A sense that we were all here for the same reason, and glad to be together, sharing the day.” Her face clouded over. “But anything that seems too good to be true usually is, right?”

  “Almost always,” agreed Kali.

  “Is this where all of you lived?” Tomas asked Anita, eyeing the old building.

  “No, though I think some of us occasionally slept there. Most of us lived in our own tents or trailers here on the grounds.” She gazed up at the barn. “We used this space for meals, and for lectures and seminars. And for services and healing work, of course.”

  There was a picnic table beneath a stand of trees at the edge of the meadow. Tomas led the way toward it, and they sat down. Anita ran her hand over the scarred surface, slowly tracing the outline of initials that had been carved there. She told them of rising early to plant and weed and harvest before the sun grew too hot, and of looking forward to joining one another in the large kitchen to prepare the day’s first meal together.

  “Abraham would always be there to lead us in prayer,” she said. “While we ate beside one another at a long table, he’d share stories from the Bible and tell us their meaning.” She frowned. “I remember that when people tried to ask questions, he would demand silence. But then, later, he would walk among us and talk in more detail about the morning lesson.”

  The afternoons, explained Anita, tended to be much the same. There was more work and another shared meal, followed by a break of several hours. It was during this time that Abraham would choose certain members who would receive healing work.

  “Women?” asked Kali, revealing her suspicion.

  “Mostly. But not always,” said Anita. Her face brightened momentarily. “We all hoped to be among the day’s chosen ones,” she said. “But I realized at some point that he had his favorites. He always seemed to favor the youngest girls, though I sometimes wondered how he could tell them apart. They all seemed to be identical—starstruck eyes, long hair, childlike bodies.”

  Kali felt a shiver.

  “Was there ever any violence?” asked Tomas.

  “No . . .” she said slowly. “Not violence, but I would say there was definitely abuse. It didn’t start out that way, at least from what I can remember. There were couples here, and everyone seemed pretty happy. Gradually, things got . . . well, stricter, I suppose. And couples were discouraged.” She smiled wryly. “At some point, Abraham decided that the only person anyone would have sexual relations with was him.”

  Tomas nodded imperceptibly to Kali, and she looked directly at Anita.

  “Do you think you could be specific about the things you saw—and perhaps experienced?” Kali waited. “If you feel comfortable sharing the details with us, of course. And what would be truly helpful would be for you to give us a signed statement about all of this.”

  Anita looked off into the distance, then focused her gaze on the nearby buildings. “Sure. I can do that, though what good will that do? It’s been so long. The first time I came here, I was so excited. I’d received one of the brochures that was being distributed, and it spoke to me—you know, like it touched on things that I already believed in, and it promised that if I was willing to commit myself to the idea of existing peacefully in God’s love, that I would have no earthly cares. I could surrender to just being, and that would lead to healing on a deep and profound level.”

  Kali stared at the other woman. “Do you mean physical healing, as from an injury or illness?”

  Anita met her eyes. “Yes, but it was more. It went deeper than that. Maybe this will sound strange to you, but Abraham taught that if you have something wrong with your body, it’s probably because you have something wrong in your mind or deep in your heart.”

  Kali nodded. “It doesn’t sound strange to me at all. There’s a similar concept in Hawaiian healing traditions, and also embedded in the traditions from many other cultures. I think even modern medical science has come to recognize that holding on too long to strong emotions, like stress or anger or grief, can literally make you sick.”

  Anita looked at her gratefully. “It’s true. For me, it was debilitating back pain. I had a session with Abraham the first afternoon when I visited, after he showed me around. He asked me to lie on the floor, where there was a blanket and a cushion already prepared. I remember how warm and strong his hands were when he placed them on
my back. He began to ask me about myself, and somehow, in the midst of what was taking place, I told him all about how much anger I felt toward a man who had been a big part of my life, who had chosen another woman instead of me, even after leading me on with the promise of marriage and a family. I started to cry, really hard, and Abraham’s hands were pressing gently on my back, and his voice was so soothing—the prayer he said over me seemed so personal. I felt blessed. Truly blessed.” Anita’s eyes had filled with tears. “I felt as though I had been led to this place by something more powerful than I’d ever experienced before. That I was home. It was as though a powerful current jolted through me from my head to my toes, and the pain was gone.”

  Kali and Tomas waited for Anita to regain her composure. She looked up suddenly, smiling ruefully. “But I wasn’t special at all, as it turned out.” She got up from the table and began to walk toward the barn. She paused beside it, pointing to the small house in the rear.

  “Abraham lived there,” she said. “After I expressed interest in being an official member of Eden’s River, I was told that I would have to address him as ‘father’ from that point on, and that his house was off-limits. There was a gradual shift that began to take place, like my energy was being absorbed into the group. Once, when I asked a question about the day’s Bible lesson during our lunch break, Abraham chastised me in front of the others, and one of the senior members of the fellowship took my plate away from me. I was made to sit and watch the others eat, as if I had committed some minor crime. After the meal was over, I was told that to question Abraham was to question God himself, and that my arrogance was a danger to our family.”

  “And by ‘family,’ you mean the commune group?” asked Tomas.

  “Yes, exactly.” Anita went on. “There was a lot that bordered on bizarre, though it took me a few months to realize that. Public spankings, for instance. Abraham would sit on a chair and make the person who was being spanked bend over his knees, like a child. Then his wife, Ruth, would deliver the spanking. Once, when a member was late for a meal because she’d fallen asleep out under a tree, Ruth struck her repeatedly until the member begged her to stop. No one watching, including me, dared to intervene.”

  Kali recalled Bill Bragden’s story about his daughter being the victim of domestic abuse, and felt a wash of anger. She thought about Abigail’s passive demeanor, and her obvious deference to her father. The thought rose, unbidden, of Abigail as a child being mistreated and humiliated. With an effort, Kali kept her voice free of inflection. “Did the violence escalate? During the time you lived there, did you observe a marked change in Abraham’s approach to running things, or punishing people for challenging him?”

  Anita looked uneasy. “He wouldn’t have said so, I’m sure. But I believe he truly had himself convinced that we all belonged to him, like property.” She looked away, back toward the house. “He said everything he did, all of his decisions, sprang from God’s will, and though it might be difficult to understand at times, he had been chosen—just as we had—to fulfill a greater destiny.”

  Tomas shook his head. “And what was that?”

  Anita leaned toward them, her voice intense. “To create a race of devout people who carried his divine seed and would change the world and fill it with love.”

  Tomas stared at her in disbelief. “You’ve got to be kidding. So he was going to impregnate every woman who lived here?”

  “Oh yes,” said Anita, very seriously. “When I understood fully what my part in that was going to be, I left.” She shrugged. “Kids have never been part of my plan, even divinely conceived ones. I guess you could say it opened my eyes to what was really going on. The next time I was sent to run errands in the town, I headed straight for a friend’s house and never went back.”

  “Surely there were other men living on the farm,” said Kali. “Did they have sex with the female members of the group? It seems like it would have been hard to keep track of who was fathering which child.”

  Anita shook her head. “No. Only Abraham. His wife was part of it. She kept track of things, as it were. And she would prepare us—a ritual bath, braiding our hair, praying with us before we entered the chamber where Abraham was waiting.”

  Kali took a deep breath. “And the little girl, Abigail? His daughter?”

  Anita hung her head. When she answered, her voice was barely audible.

  “Yes. Abigail as well. I think she was about twelve or thirteen at the time. But honestly, I didn’t know for sure until right before I left.”

  Kali felt sick. She walked, half in a daze, through the gate and past the lone pineapple on its peeling post and on toward the truck, leaving Tomas and Anita to discuss the details of her statement. She watched as Tomas thanked Anita, who climbed back into her SUV and drove away.

  Tomas opened the door of the truck and climbed inside. He and Kali sat for a few moments in silence, digesting all that they had heard.

  “The pineapple is a solid link to Eden’s River and the body in the refrigerator,” said Kali. “And we have Manuel Raso’s identification of the anchor charms connecting them to a bracelet worn by Abigail Waters when she was a child doing her dad’s dirty recruitment work at the pineapple farm alongside her mother. That’s enough to bring him in, plus some.”

  “No argument here,” said Tomas. He turned to her. “I feel exactly what you’re feeling. But keep this in perspective: It doesn’t mean he killed anyone. It just means that he’s a depraved lunatic. There were other men living here too—plenty of people who knew about the wooden pineapple, and who could walk across the field to the old planation. Some of them may have even worked there for a time while living at Eden’s River. And they all knew what was going on with Abraham and the women—and his daughter—so they’re all to blame. There was probably a great deal of jealousy. I guess we all know how powerful an emotion that can be.”

  She felt her anger rising like a well of lava, threatening to spill over. “Sure. I know all that. But he’s still a total bastard.”

  Tomas nodded in agreement. “I’ll send a copy of Anita’s statement along to you. We’re getting close, Kali. I can feel it. Pretty soon there won’t be a single monster left anywhere on Lna‘i—not even in the deepest shadows.”

  CHAPTER 27

  Back on Maui, the air was humid. Kali ran the fingers of her right hand along the back of her neck beneath the collar of her light cotton shirt, feeling the dampness of her skin, realizing she should have opted for the air-conditioning rather than the open window next to her desk at the police station.

  In her left hand, she held a sheet of paper. It was a printout of a report sent a few minutes earlier by Stitches in response to the question Kali had left for her before she’d gone to meet Tomas and Anita on Lna‘i. Kali stared at the report in disbelief. She read it once more, confused, unable to grasp the details laid out before her in black and white. Sparked by the emergency room physician’s question to her about the father of Makena’s child, she’d requested a report on the pineapple-field baby in order to satisfy her curiosity about whether the father of Helen’s unfortunate child had been Reggie McCartney or Abraham, but the results of the DNA testing were unexpected. The baby carried Abraham’s DNA, but not Helen’s or Reggie’s. In the notes included at the bottom of the report, Stitches had written, Helen Stafford was not the mother of the infant found beside her in Grave Site Three. The DNA taken from the infant’s body shows conclusively that both mother and father had a close familial connection. Neither Helen Stafford nor Reggie McCartney was related at all to the child found with them.

  The steady hum of traffic going by on the Hana Highway sifted through the screen of the window, punctuated with an occasional blast of conversation or a honking horn. The station was quiet. Walter and Hara were on their way to bring Abraham in for questioning, and Kali sat at her desk, staring at the paper in her hand, waiting for them to arrive. One of the small anchor charms, encased in its evidence bag, rested on the desk surface beside a half-
full coffee mug. Absently, she folded the report and reached for the evidence bag, shoving both into the pocket of her jeans.

  The coffee was cold. She stood up and stretched, then wandered toward the table where the photographs and notes surrounding Eden’s River and the pineapple-field discoveries were laid out. Her mind was racing. The smiling faces of Helen and Reggie stared back at her from the table’s surface. The image of the anchor hung above them, and she peered closely at it, imagining it dangling from a bracelet worn by a child who was too young and innocent and brainwashed to know right from wrong. The now-familiar driver’s license photo detailing Matthew Greene’s long, stern face filled the photo beside the one of the harvest-gold refrigerator with the skeleton still nestled inside it, crowned by the carved wooden fruit that occupied the space where the skull should have been. Just beneath this image was a picture of Bill Bragden, as well as the smaller photo taken from Manuel Raso’s album, displaying the refrigerator in the employee break room at the pineapple plantation.

  Hara had already added the photos of Eden’s River that she’d taken during the morning excursion with Tomas. Kali ran her finger along the edges of the images in a wide circle, striving to see the connection that would explain why five people had died without anyone knowing why. The answer seemed to be close, but it was still out of her reach.

  The sound of Walter’s car pulling up outside interrupted her reverie. As she waited for Abraham to be ushered inside, the sound of a second vehicle could be heard, followed by the slamming of a door and a raised male voice, which she recognized as Nathan’s. The voice grew louder as Walter opened the door and ushered Abraham inside into the small reception area, where a wall with a counter and a window of bulletproof glass laced with wire separated the space from the interior of the station. The duty officer looked up, taking note of the small parade.

  Behind Abraham and Walter, Hara had blocked the doorway, preventing Nathan and an older woman from entering the room. Nathan was still shouting what sounded like Bible verses. There was a look of annoyance on Hara’s face, and he turned toward Walter, looking for direction.