Those limestone eyes again. Alexa balanced like an old pro as the police skiff skimmed past the towering Maori face carved in the cliffs.
Pupil-less. Haunting. Watching.
A tour boat close to the carving looked like a bathtub toy. An even smaller boat, a kayak, was right next to the cliff. Alexa watched in horror as a swell smashed it into the rock wall, flipping it. She was about to shout to Officer Rangiora, who was skippering, when the kayaker popped up and righted.
Her scar itched; she contorted her arm down the inside of both life jacket and raincoat to scratch, not caring how unprofessional she looked, and turned forward, searching the horizon for Pirongia Island. The cool morning wind slapped her face. She hadn’t slept much the night before, seeing the face in the window every time she closed her eyes, and when she had finally drifted off, her dreams were harrowing vignettes that left her sweating and gasping.
Rangiora was maneuvering toward open water. She had been surprised he would captain the boat.
“No worries,” he had explained at the dock. “Passed the Boat Master’s course. Comes in handy.” He had thrown life jackets at each of them; Walker hugged his, but Cooper threw hers back. Glad for the extra warmth atop the loaner rain jacket, Alexa had zipped and buckled silently. She kept waiting for the day New Zealand would warm up, be in the eighties, but it hadn’t happened yet.
“Two boaties went missing last year. Lake can cut up on a whim. And one paddleboarder never returned, just an empty board. Keep an eye out.” He had laughed callously.
Alexa held her hair back, wishing for a scrunchie. Standing behind the double seat bench in the open craft, she listened to Walker, seated next to Rangiora. Cooper, encased in a whipping police poncho like the DI’s, was sitting on the bow, getting sprayed again.
“Two blokes, on a dare, my brother’s mates…” Walker was shouting to Rangiora. “Late at night. They took a canoe. Never seen either of them again.”
“Yer spinnin’ yarns,” Rangiora shouted back. “Shut up, bro.” But Rangiora didn’t smile.
Feet apart, knees slightly bent, Alexa was finding the rhythm of the waves until a big one caught her off guard. Ducking, her eyes landed on the waterproof backpack crime kit tucked under the bench. Conducting a mental inventory was calming: camera, fingerprint kit, tools, gloves, ruler, casting materials, notebooks, flashlight, batteries, forceps and tweezers, BLUESTAR, evidence bags, barrier tape, and rope. What was she forgetting? What exactly were they looking for? According to Rangiora’s conversation with Horne, Ngawata had reluctantly conceded to the search. He had claimed shock upon hearing about the “drowning” and explained that Herera lived in a small cabin on the island. They would start the search there.
Alexa looked up from the kit. The island loomed dead ahead. Landing was different this time. Rangiora steered into a smaller cove, turned the skiff around, and backed in deftly. After dropping anchor, he lowered a metal plank that bridged boat and shore. Alexa removed her life jacket as Cooper hopped off first. Lugging the eight-pound crime kit, she lumbered off next. “Positively civilized, Officer Rangiora,” she said on firm ground. Neither Ked got wet.
This beach was slightly smaller than the one from three days ago. Alexa did a systematic sweep of rocks, sand, and driftwood. Walker helped Rangiora pull the boat farther in and reset the anchor, and then the group gathered in a circle. Alexa took charge. “Okay. First destination is the cabin, but keep an eye out for anything suspicious.”
“Like what?” Walker asked, looking around nervously.
“Signs of struggle. Footprints. Trash. Anything that looks out of place.” She unzipped the crime scene kit and removed the camera. “Who wants to be photographer?”
“I will,” Walker answered, taking the camera.
Alexa looked at the looming tree line. Why wasn’t there a treasure map of the thirty-acre island, with an X-marks-the-spot? All she could do was ask Rangiora if Ngawata had given directions to the cabin.
“This is the beach Herera used,” Rangiora answered. “The cabin is through the woods toward the cave. Ngawata said there’s a path.”
“Did Herera use a boat to get here?” Alexa asked.
“A waka.”
“A what?”
“A waka, you know, canoe,” Rangiora said. “In the past, Maori used canoes like cars. The lakes, rivers, and coast were the roads. If he was abducted from the island, it’s probably still here.”
“Or it could have been cast adrift,” said Walker. “Or sunk.”
“But this isn’t the past,” Alexa pointed out, yet she didn’t believe herself.
They searched the beach and tree line for a canoe. The waves lulled and weak heat from a shy sun calmed Alexa until two birds, the funny ones that had dive-bombed Cooper, began to screech and come at them.
“Watch out,” Walker yelled, waving his hands.
“The birds are nesting,” Rangiora said. “We’re too close to their eggs.” He ducked as one whizzed by.
“Let’s get moving,” Alexa said. “There’s no sign of a canoe.”
Cooper, unperturbed, headed toward the woods, and they followed single file.
One by one, they slipped into thick forest. Rangiora and Walker removed sunglasses, and all four stood still in the sudden quiet to let their eyes adjust. The heady fragrance of woody litter infused the air.
“Look at this place,” Walker said, placing his hand on the trunk of a towering hardwood. “It’s Jurassic Park.”
“Let’s hope without a T Rex,” Rangiora responded. “It’s a podocarp forest.”
“A pod-o what?” Alexa asked.
“Podocarp. Remnants from Gondwana.”
She refused to ask for further clarification. Gondwana was probably some vengeful Maori god.
Cooper pointed to a narrow trail and began walking.
“So your uncle was buds with the guy who carked it?” Walker asked, close on Cooper’s heels.
Cooper rubbed her chin as she spoke. “Whatungarongaro te tangata toitū te whenua.”
“What the hell, Coop?” said Walker. “Speak English.”
“A man disappears from sight, the land remains,” Cooper translated.
“Still not making sense.”
“Herera is gone but not this island. Shut up.”
Walker turned and rolled his eyes at Rangiora but backed off. Alexa felt the slight uphill grade in her calves as the foursome wove through the undergrowth of ferns and shrubs. She had read Pirongia was a lava dome island. The forested middle was the caldera. The cliff edges surrounding the caldera had mostly eroded into the lake except for the northeast side. The cliffs were what gave Pirongia a military advantage hundreds of years ago. Warring tribes used the high point as a crow’s nest. Sneak attacks weren’t possible if guards were vigilant. Below the cliff was the cave where three hundred years ago, Chief Rangituata had been entombed.
This burial site was considered sacred by the Maori. It was also where the archaeological team was digging for artifacts in 2016, Alexa remembered reading. Someone had vandalized the site, and the whole shebang was canceled. Now Pākehā were forbidden to approach.
Paul Koppel and his friend had broken the rules.
We are too.
“Were any of you sent here to investigate the vandalism a couple years ago?” Alexa asked. She needed to look closer into that dig. Something about artifacts oozing out of the ground. Was Herera a part of it? Was anyone ever caught?
“Yeah nah,” Walker said. “Before my time.”
Cooper and Rangiora kept their mouths shut, kept hiking.
“Officers, I asked you a question.”
“Coop hadn’t joined the force yet. Still in nappies,” Rangiora said. He stopped walking and turned to face Alexa. “I saw photos. Dig site was near the cave. The tarp spread over the dig was slashed. Surveying tools smashed. Not much else. Some racist graffiti.”
“Were the vandals caught?”
“Nah. Someone just wanted the archaeologists out of there. They got what they wanted.”
“But why?” asked Alexa. No one answered.
Unfurling ferns, tiny mosses, leaves, liverwort, and orchids blanketed the forest floor, muting their steps, obscuring footprints. Above the forest floor, a canopy of silver fern, cabbage trees, and tall hardwoods dimmed the light. The scene was similar to the forest she had walked through with Cooper and Ngawata, and yet it wasn’t. Disorientation made Alexa wish Walker would say something, anything, to make her laugh.
Why was there no birdsong? Had something scared the birds off? A predator? Scanning the canopy, Alexa meandered off-path, dodging emerald ferns, and walked to the base of a cabbage tree. She leaned upward following the trunk with her eyes, and was unable to spot any birds. What gives? Traipsing back to the path, she tripped on a root.
“Damn,” she uttered, embarrassed to be on all fours.
The team stopped and stared but did not offer help. She inelegantly stood, brushed her knees, and tugged the strap of the crime kit, which had become entangled on the root. She pulled, met resistance, and then pulled harder. The kit sprung free, dislodging what looked like…she bent closer…a bone.
A large, human bone.
Alexa put a hand over her mouth to stifle the scream that had shattered the forest quiet.
A femur.
“What the frickin’?” Walker yelled. He stepped back while Cooper and Rangiora rushed forward.
The two officers and Alexa stood looking down at a long, tan-colored bone. Cooper reached down to touch it, but Alexa shouted, “Don’t!”
Cooper jerked her hand back. For once, her face showed emotion: fear.
Alexa’s mind raced. Treat this as a crime scene. She wished she hadn’t screamed. Show weakness and the pack attacks. “Let’s all take a couple steps back, and then you can photograph it, Officer Walker,” she commanded. “I’ve already disturbed the scene by pulling the object free. Let’s not move it further or touch it.”
“Take a squizz,” said Rangiora. “There are more bones here.” He ignored Alexa and was toeing an area of soft earth.
A rib cage poked through dark humus.
“Officer Rangiora, you are disturbing the scene.”
Again.
Alexa looked down, tried to calculate the age of the bones. She crouched near the rib cage. No cloth, no shroud clung protectively. Fibers like linen and wool break down in months and could disappear completely within a year. So the skeleton had been here at least a year. But longer, she’d guess.
Ashes to ashes, cellulose to cellulose.
A few areas near the grave had subsided. She cast her eyes around—no overt signs of digging.
“A bloody skeleton,” said Walker, who had moved forward an inch. “We’ve found our something suspicious.” The freckles across his nose stood out against his drained complexion.
Alexa stood and spoke, her voice level. “I repeat. Let’s not contaminate the scene. We’ll wait over here while you take photos, Officer Walker.”
“It’s a burial site,” Cooper said. “It’s not a crime scene. These bones are ancient.”
Alexa looked back at the bone she had dislodged. She imagined picking it up, feeling the smooth, hard, calcified surface, probably hollow, the marrow having dried up long ago. But why were the bones unearthed if this was a grave? There were no wild dogs or foxes to dig them up. There were no indigenous land mammals in the land of many flightless birds. She scanned for artifacts near the skeleton. Arrowheads or patu or fish hooks. Nothing…
“Look. I’m in charge. We need to photograph these remains and then tape them off. They might not have anything to do with Ray Herera’s death, but I’m not sure. It looks as if the grave has been disturbed recently. We’ll need a forensics anthropologist out here.” Alexa looked at her three colleagues, sensing they were weighing whether to challenge her authority. “Walker? The photos?”
A nod to his fellow officers came from Rangiora, who finally began stepping backward.
“Did that dig take place around here?” Alexa asked Rangiora.
“Nah. It was close to the cave, like I said.”
Walker began taking close-up and midrange photos of the rib cage, femur, and general area. No skull or other bones were visible. She fished crime scene tape out of the kit and tossed it to Cooper. Meanwhile, she dug out her cell phone to call in the discovery.
No service. Severed from civilization.
She stuffed the cell back in her pocket and began a crude sketch of the scene in her notebook as Cooper and Rangiora used sticks and saplings to four-square the area and enclose it with tape. The yellow ribbon was stark against the natural environment.
“Use a side measurement for scale.” She had stopped sketching and was monitoring Walker. “Here.” She dug out the ruler and marker cards. “After the initial midrange photo, start using these placards and numbers.”
Shut up. Let the man work.
But she couldn’t. “And put the ruler at the same height as the femur so they’ll both be in focus.”
Walker complied.
“The body might be that of a slave. Slaves were buried in shallow graves,” Cooper said.
“The Maori owned slaves?” Walker asked. He was finished.
Cooper looked him in the eye. “Sometimes Maori slaves were Pākehā.”
“No way,” said Walker.
“Way.”
“You’re joking, eh, Coop?” Walker asked. Cooper turned her back to him.
“What makes you think it’s a slave?” Alexa asked. Cooper’s knowledge of Maori culture was an asset.
“A commoner would be buried deep or released in the lake. Royals were interred in the cave.”
Alexa, surprised Cooper answered right away, decided the DI must have talked with her, told her to act more like a cop. “Do you think this is a burial area?”
Cooper shrugged.
Alexa said they’d better get back to finding the cottage. The forest—darker, warmer, weighted with secrets—continued converting carbon dioxide into oxygen, but Alexa was having a hard time filling her lungs.