Cold Path
A Bodhi King Novel No. 5
Melissa F. Miller
Copyright © 2020 by Melissa F. Miller
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Author’s Note
Thank You!
Also by Melissa F. Miller
1
You shouldn’t chase after the past
or place expectations on the future.
What is past
is left behind.
The future
is as yet unreached.
Whatever quality is present
you clearly see right there,
right there.
from Bhaddekaratta Sutta, Majjhima Nikaya 131 (An Auspicious Day)
Rutherford Nature Preserve and Open-Air Museum
Jonah Bell Dig Site
Outside Huntsville, Alabama
Thursday, January 2nd, just after sunrise
Davina Truth Jones stifled a yawn, propped her elbows on the folding table, and studied the quad sheet set out on its surface. The table was slightly too low for her leaning posture to be natural. She stretched her legs out behind her and dug her toes into the rocky ground for support. Her back was tight—to be expected after twenty-two straight days of excavation—and the position, awkward though it was, provided some relief by creating space in the stiff muscles along her spine.
What she really needed was a long hot yoga class. Or a long hot bath. Or maybe a firm massage. Or one full night’s sleep. Or all of the above.
But self-care measures would have to wait. The Rutherford Family Foundation had made it clear to the university that the project was a top priority. And Davina’s department head had made it clearer still to her that keeping this major donor happy was Davina’s job.
Fast-tracked was the word everyone insisted on using, even though Davina made no secret of her view that fast-tracking had no place in archaeological work.
By definition, there were no historical emergencies. What she would find—or not find—under the Jonah Bell Sharecropper Cabin, circa 1865, had been decided over a hundred years ago. There was no legitimate reason to rush to complete the project before the ground froze.
There was one reason, she reminded herself: Money. It was always about money. Limited funding, expiring grants, and, in this case, a capital campaign by the Rutherford Family Foundation.
The foundation was counting on the discovery of some glitzy, glamorous artifact to splash all over the pleas for donations. This was, in her not-so-humble opinion, a plan that revealed desperation—or delusion. She was excavating a cabin that had been inhabited by a dirt-poor sharecropper, his wife, and their seven children. Whatever her team might manage to unearth, she was confident it would not inspire the denizens of Huntsville’s high society to open their gilded pocketbooks and groaning bank vaults.
And so far, at least, she was right. To date, they’d dug up one cracked chamber pot from beneath the collapsed boards of the outdoor privy and a set of dented tin cups in the earth near the house itself. These modest finds were the highlights of the dig. This fact had sent Sully Sullivan (christened Eugene Sullivan, III, but called Sully by everyone except his grandmother) into a fit of red-faced rage that straight-up made Davina giggle because it was so cartoonish.
But there’s nothing funny about losing your funding, girl. And Sully, the foundation officer who served as Davina’s main contact and prolific writer of checks to the university, had threatened to turn off the money spigot that funded her fieldwork if she didn’t find something splashy. And soon.
So here she was, working her tail off to discover something that would appease Margot Rutherford Sullivan’s grandson and keep the money flowing.
She sighed and squinted down at the grid. Methodical searching had yielded nothing to appease Sully. She might as well take a different approach.
She closed her eyes, made a circle in the air with her pencil, and jabbed it down on the map at random like a child playing Pin the Tail on the Donkey or a trust fund kid choosing where to travel during her gap year. The graphite tip hit against the table, and she opened her eyes. Her pencil was in square N-12, a spot roughly ninety-two meters from the south wall of the cabin.
Sure, why not?
She tucked her pencil behind her ear, grabbed her shovel, and left the tent, ducking under the white canvas flap, to announce the new location to her assembled team—or, at least, the handful of graduate students who weren’t still sleeping off New Year’s hangovers and had managed to drag themselves from their warm beds at this ungodly hour.
Five minutes later, she was digging under a gnarled black cherry tree. Seven minutes after that, her shovel struck metal. A frisson of excited surprise shot through her. She had to stop and steady her hands before she shoveled the next load of dirt out of the way.
Thank you, thank you, thank you, she whispered to the heavens.
She called over her shoulder for some help, then kept digging as students streamed toward her from all directions, shouting to one another and waving trowels and brushes. Sheila Mullins, a quiet woman from one of the midwestern states—Ohio, she thought—was the first to reach the spot.
“What’ve you got, Professor Jones?” Sheila’s excitement won out over her shyness as she stepped with exaggerated care over the string that marked the square.
“I’m not sure yet. I hit some metal. Let’s hope it’s not another tin cup.” She was trying to temper her own expectations as much as Sheila’s. Possibly more.
Sheila crouched beside her. “I can’t imagine how the cups would get all the way out here. We’re a good distance from the house.”
That meant nothing. Earth shifted over time, buried items migrated from one spot to another. And the Bells had had seven children. If Davina’s nieces and nephews were any indication, kids were always wandering off with kitchenware that they later abandoned in random locations.
At the same time, she was sure she’d located something much larger than a cup. Please let it be a plowshare or a harrow. But she wasn’t in a position to be picky. Large, photogenic farming equipment of any kind would be a godsend.
As she dug, her mind wandered, and she imagined the press conference the Sullivans would no doubt call to announce the discovery. She pictured herself flanked by Sully and his grandmother, explaining the significance of her find. A smile played over her lips.
Sheila’s sharp intake of breath dragged her back to the present.
Davina looked down to see a pair of sightless green eyes. They see
med to stare up at her from beneath a veil of dirt.
Her heart thudded in her chest.
“Is ... she’s ... dead, right?” Sheila breathed.
Davina swallowed the acerbic response that flew to her lips and nodded. She reached for her soft dusting brush and cleared the earth away with a gentle sweeping motion to reveal the top of an iron coffin. A square glass window set into the coffin displayed a woman’s face and part of her hair.
The window was small and dirty, but it was clear that the entombed woman had pale ivory skin. Her hair was pulled back into some sort of knot or bun, but the few tendrils that escaped fell around her face in graceful waves. A high collar that covered most of the corpse’s neck was just visible in the bottom of the window. The fabric was filthy, but it was intact, fastened closed with a tarnished brooch.
Davina rocked back on her haunches and caught her lower lip between her teeth. Her blood pounded in her ears. It barely registered when Sheila said her name.
“Professor Jones?”
“Let me think for a minute, Sheila. Please.”
She twisted and glanced over her shoulder. The others were still gathering tools and materials. When they finally made their way over to the black cherry tree, their eyes would fall on the most impressive find of Davina Jones’ career. Hell, this would be the most impressive find to come out of the entire department in decades—maybe ever.
A genuine Reconstruction-era iron coffin, intact. A shiver zipped up Davina’s spine. She almost wanted to pinch herself to prove that this was real life. But her excitement was tempered by doubt.
The well-preserved woman inside, while undeniably dead, couldn’t have been dead since the 1800s. Could she?
Davina was no forensic anthropologist, but she was pretty sure that after a hundred and fifty years, give or take, a body would be nothing but bones and goo—if that.
Please, please don’t let me be right.
If the woman, for whatever reason, hadn’t been dead since the 1800s, that would cast doubt on the coffin’s authenticity. Which would bring her work screeching to a halt while experts certified the coffin. She could almost hear Sully blustering about the delay.
She pitched forward to stare into the dead woman’s eyes: Who are you? And what are you doing here?
2
Huntsville, January 25th, 1870
Darling,
I miss you so. Even as my pen scratches out the words, I hear your sonorous voice forming your response, urging patience, caution, understanding. You are so steadfast, so committed to the cause.
I wish I were as you. But my desires threaten always to burst forth and overwhelm all else. As Mother says, my nature is impetuous, unpredictable, and uncontrollable. I am ruled by my passions. You are ruled by your vision.
Fear not, my darling. I shall follow that which I know you would counsel. Devote myself to the work, our work. The work is so important—the work is all. I know.
And yet.
I long to see you, to touch you, to feel your fingers fumble with my hair clip, releasing my hair, and, with it, me. Your lips covering mine bring hope and light. When I am with you, I am free. Free to be who I am. Free to be yours.
Always yours,
A.
Pittsburgh, PA
The tinkling sound of water flowing over rocks filled Bodhi King’s kitchen, the ringtone announcing the arrival of a text. Not just any text—a text from Bette. He put down his teacup and picked up his phone.
Thursday, Jan. 2 • 7:18 AM
BC: Morning. Anything on your calendar this weekend?
He scanned the words and thumbed out a response:
BK: No, all clear. Leigh gets back tomorrow. I can come to you.
They enjoyed a too-infrequent pattern of taking turns visiting one another for long weekends, quick pop-ins, and stolen moments. His schedule was more flexible than hers, so more often than not, he found himself on a bargain airline carrier, flying to Chicago, and then on a bus to Onatah. Bette seemed to find the trip a bit of drudgery, but he viewed it as a chance to hone his mindful attention.
The winter holidays had presented a challenge, though. As the only single, childless law enforcement officer in the department, Onatah Police Chief Bette Clark made it a habit to cover the Thanksgiving weekend shifts singlehandedly so her men and women could spend the time with their families. Then, she always spent five days at her sister’s place in the Pacific Northwest between Christmas and New Year’s. For his part, Bodhi had committed to housesit—and birdsit, Eliza Doolittle, the macaw, squawked a reminder—for his tenant for most of December.
The result? Six long, cold weeks of separation.
He retrieved his mug and sipped his morning tea as the little dots on his phone blinked to let him know Bette was typing.
BC: Better idea: there’s a conference of small-town police chiefs at some chichi resort in Alabama Fri-Mon. Town budget has a surplus. Will pay for my plus-one. I know it’s short notice but wanna meet me there?
He frowned down at the screen. A fancy resort in Alabama didn’t exactly scream ‘Bodhi and Bette.’ They were more of a ‘tent in a state park’ couple. And the thought of the citizens of Onatah paying for his boondoggle sent a squiggle of discomfort through his gut. He focused on the sensation in his stomach and considered his response.
BK: I need to think about it.
BC: What’s to think about? It’s a getaway. With me. ;-)
BK: The allure isn’t lost on me.
BC: But?
BK: But I don’t want to freeload.
BC: It’s not freeloading. Mayor D insisted I invite you.
He reached for the phone to compose a response, but the dots were blinking again. He waited.
BC: Grr. Fine, think it over. I have to run anyway.
BK: May your day be peaceful and safe.
BC: You could just say bye like a normal person.
BK: I could.
But you know you love it.
BC: Matter of fact, I do. Really gotta go. Talk later?
BK: OK.
BC: We need to book your ticket today if you’re coming.
He had no response to that, so he silenced his phone, returned it to the table, picked up his mug, and headed into the quiet living room. Unlike Bette, he had no pressing appointments. He could take some time to sit in meditation with his reaction to her invitation. With luck, he’d gain a better understanding of his hesitation.
He finished his tea, then lowered himself to the sun-streaked hardwood floor and reached for his worn, well-used meditation cushion. Eliza Doolittle peered around the corner, twisting her head at an angle to peer at him through the wire bars of her cage with one bright, black eye.
“Namaste, Bodhi. Namaste.”
He smiled at the bird. “Namaste, Eliza Doolittle.”
She withdrew her head and preened her feathers. He arranged his sit bones on the cushion and closed his eyes.
He focused first on his breath—in, out, in, out—and found his center. He zipped through a body scan, checking in lightly with each part of his body. His tension was in the twist of his gut and in the sudden tightness of his chest, his heart, really.
He addressed each in turn. His stomach was jumpy, uneasy. The feeling had grabbed hold of his belly during the text exchange with Bette. Specifically, when she’d explained that Onatah would pay for him to accompany her to the conference.
Was he having some macho reaction to his girlfriend paying his way—at least in a manner of speaking? He didn’t think it likely, but he held the idea in his mind for a long moment, considered it from all angles, then swiped it away. No. That wasn’t the source of his discomfort.
What then?
His mind was a blank. Quiet. No snippets of conversation, no images, no hints whirled through his consciousness to suggest what the problem might be.
He abandoned the effort and turned to a metta bhavana meditation, sending out good thoughts and warm wishes in turn to his loved ones, his friends, his riva
ls, and, finally, his enemies. The loving-kindness exercise softened his heart and relaxed his belly. So he continued to sit.
He sat and listened to the soft thud of his heart, the distant tick of a clock, the faint whistle of the wind through the bare trees outside.
He sat long past the time that his tea cooled in its mug.
He sat until Eliza Doolittle cawed, “Bodhi’s sleeping. Shh.”
He opened his eyes and twisted to look over his shoulder at the bird. “Not sleeping, Eliza Doolittle.”
She nodded, eager and excited. “Good. Time to feed the bird.”
He rose and headed to the kitchen. She was, after all, right about that.
She eagerly pecked at the handful of berries and nuts he offered. When she finished, he gave her fresh water then stroked her brilliant blue crown.
“Leigh is coming home,” he told her.
She trilled, a contented sound from deep within her throat.
Cold Path Page 1