Twisted Path

by Melissa F. Miller

  Giles had found her kneeling by the trunk in the basement, clutching the afghan to her chest. He helped her to her feet, wiped away her tears, and pulled her against his chest in a tight embrace. Then he’d noticed the Bible cradled in the bottom of the trunk.

  Ever the historian, his eyes had lit with interest, and he asked if he could remove it from the trunk.

  She was trapped.

  So she’d nodded reluctantly, and he’d lifted the book gingerly from the trunk with all the eagerness one might expect from a historian. He’d run his hands over the cover with something approaching awe and had announced that it deserved a place of honor on their bookshelves. She willed him not to flip the pages open.

  “No,” she’d snapped. “I don’t want to see it everyday. It’s … too painful.” She’d stuffed it back into the trunk and turned the key in the lock.

  He’d gathered her into his arms and whispered soothing words about her dead parents, more concerned about her emotional state than the musty old book. But she’d spent weeks on edge, worried that he’d grow curious about it, go looking for the key, and flip through the pages. Every time she walked through the basement, she was hyper-aware of the Bible. She could feel its presence as it sat in the trunk, an unexploded land mine, waiting to blow her to pieces.

  But, Giles hadn’t shown any interest in it, and after a while, her anxiety had faded. Giles hadn’t been particularly religious, and despite its age, the Christian Bible probably hadn’t held much appeal for him. She forgot all about the thing.

  Then, last week, after she’d relaxed, it happened.

  She’d traipsed down the stairs in her yoga pants with her mat tucked under her arm and called his name to say goodbye before she left for class.

  “Hope?” he answered in a strangled voice. “I’m in here.”

  She headed into the family room and froze in the doorway. He was sitting beside the fire, a glass of wine in one hand and the Family Bible in the other.

  Her heart thrummed and her chest constricted.

  They locked eyes for what felt like a decade. Hope’s frantic pulse made it hard to think, let alone speak, but she managed to squeak out some words. “I’ve got to run. I’m picking Zoe up for class.”

  “Hope. We need to talk about this.” He gestured with the Bible.

  “Sure. When I get home.” She turned up the corners of her mouth in what she hoped was a smile.

  “No, we need to talk now.” He placed his wineglass on the side table with exaggerated care and flipped open the book to the family records pages.

  And she’d lost it. One minute, her mind was scrabbling like an animal trying to find purchase on shifting ground. The next, she was screaming at Giles, a jumble of accusations and excuses. He sat, motionless and silent, and stared at her. She didn’t know how long she’d railed—a long time, for sure. When her throat was raw, she sagged against the wall, limp and exhausted, until she stopped shaking.

  Then she took her purple winter jacket from the coat closet in the hall and put it on. Her movements seemed jerky and unnatural to her. She zippered the jacket up to her chin and jammed a hat down over her ponytail.

  “I’m going to class. We can talk more when I get home.”

  He nodded stiffly, his eyes never leaving her face as she walked toward the door.

  But when she returned later that night, Giles was already in bed.

  Hope shuddered at the memory and pulled her hand away from the Bible. She should have gotten rid of it for sure before she’d called the police. But, she’d panicked and tossed it in with the cookbooks. Now, here it was again. Her past threatening her future. She could only hope Bodhi King hadn’t opened it.

  She knew what she needed to do. She just had to have the will to do it.

  But first, she needed a solid night’s sleep. She shook out two sedatives from her prescription bottle. Then she poured herself a generous glass of wine and ascended the back staircase to spend one last night in the home she’d shared with Giles.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  By the time Bodhi biked home, the sun had set, and he was chilled through by the cold night air. He stowed his bicycle in the front hallway, turned on some lights, greeted Eliza Doolittle, and reheated a serving of the vegetarian chili he’d made earlier in the week.

  After he ate his fill of the hot, hearty chili, he cleaned up the kitchen then sat for a short, but necessary, meditation. It seemed indulgent to spend time sitting now, when time seemed to be very much of the essence. But long experience had taught him that hurrying was always a waste of precious time. Better to center his mind and energy so as to spend the hours ahead as productively as possible.

  So he sat, closed his eyes, and focused on his breath. Hope Noor’s pale, tortured face pushed its way into his mind’s eye, over and over. Over and over, he gently closed the door on the image and returned to his breath.

  The clock in the living room ticked softly. The macaw sang to herself. The cold seeped from the floorboards through his socks to his toes. And he sat.

  When he felt ready, he opened his eyes and allowed his surrounds to return to the foreground. It had been a long while since he’d had such a distracted meditation session. But thoughts of the widow had persistently intruded on him. Hope had an almost childlike quality about her—it stirred an instinct to protect her.

  Which made what he was about to do seem even more ethically questionable than it was. But he didn’t see another way.

  He rummaged through his backpack until he found his address book. As he flipped through it, looking for the contact who could help him, he remembered Bette’s exaggerated amazement at learning that he kept a paper address book, and he smiled at the memory.

  “Found it, Eliza Doolittle,” he informed the bird, marking an entry with his finger while he pulled his phone from his pocket.

  “Good for Bodhi. Good boy,” the macaw praised him. “Treat? Treat.”

  He checked the time. It was not quite five-thirty. There was a better than even chance of reaching Jim at his desk. He punched in the number. While he waited for the call to connect, he shook out a handful of dried cranberries for the bird and held out his palm. “I’m the good boy, but you get the treat. How’s that work?”

  “Smart bird,” she cawed.

  He tended to agree.

  “Cumberland County Criminal Investigations. Jim Shore speaking.”

  “Jim, hi. It’s Bodhi King. We met the year before last in Québec City at the North American Society of Forensic Pathology conference.”

  “Sure, sure, I remember. You were on the black swans panel. Your stories were some humdingers.” He chuckled.

  “Yeah, I guess they were. And I remember you mentioned your district attorney’s office had just gotten one of those new rapid DNA testing machines, right?”

  “That’s right! We only started using it the week before the meeting, and you know what? Right after I got back from Canada, we caught our first murderer with it.”

  “Really?”

  “True story. So what can I do for you?”

  Bodhi figured he might as well come right out with it. Shading the request or hinting at what he needed was disrespectful of Jim and his time.

  “I need a big favor. If I drive out there tonight, will you let me use your machine?”

  Jim made a humph noise, a cross between let me see and I don’t think so. Bodhi waited.

  “The thing is, the cartridges are pricey. We get a discount for buying in bulk, but even so, each one works out to about a hundred dollars. I’d be happy to run a sample for you … but I’m afraid you’d have to pony up for the cartridge. They’re single use, so it’s sort of a big deal.”

  “That’s no problem at all,” Bodhi assured him.

  “In that case, sure, I’d be happy to. How soon can you get here?”

  “Well, I’m in Pittsburgh, so it’ll take me three hours to get to Carlisle if everything goes well. Say between eight-thirty and nine?”

  “That’s f
ine. I’m a bit of a night owl. I’ll go home, grab a bite with the missus and plan on being back here no later than eight-thirty. But, surely, the Allegheny County crime lab’s got fancier machines that we do. They’re world class.” He laughed.

  “I agree, it’s a great lab. In fact, I need to test this sample for a matter the Allegheny County medical examiner has asked me to consult on. But, for reasons I can’t go into right now, it’s crucial that I use a different lab. And, as far as I know, they don’t have a rapid DNA machine.”

  “I knew we were one of the first in the state to get one, but I sort of assumed Pittsburgh and Philly got them soon after.”

  “As far as I know, Philadelphia’s medical examiner’s office doesn’t have one either, although some local police departments out that way may.”

  Bodhi knew from talking with Saul that the speed of rapid DNA testing was its sizable advantage, but that many pathologists and serologists alike agreed the downsides were legion and included such doozies as reliability, reproducibility, and sensitivity. But there was no reason to get into any of those issues with Jim. For Bodhi’s present purposes, a rapid DNA test would be more than adequate.

  “Well, how about that? Anyway, sure, I’ll help you out.”

  “Thanks, Jim. You’re a real lifesaver. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this.”

  “You bet; happy to help out. Is this your cell phone you’re calling from?”

  “It is.”

  “Tell you what—I’ll send you a text from my phone, so you’ll have my number. That way, you can give me a call or text me back when you get off the Turnpike and I’ll get in here, turn on the lights, and warm up the computers and the equipment.”

  “That sounds like a great plan.”

  “Drive safe. I’ll see you in a bit.”

  Jim ended the call. Bodhi tossed an extra notebook and a phone charger into his backpack, filled his water bottle, and refilled Eliza Doolittle’s food and water bowls.

  “You’re in charge until I get back.”

  “Eliza’s in charge always,” the bird corrected him.

  He shook his head and dug his tenant’s car keys out of her kitchen junk drawer. She’d told him time and again that he was welcome to drive her little VW bug whenever he liked, but aside from taking the bird to the vet, he’d been able to bike everywhere he needed to go. He grabbed a packet of post-it notes and a pencil so he’d remember to mark his mileage and reimburse her for the wear and tear on her vehicle. Then he put on his coat, patted his pocket to make sure he had everything, and turned out the kitchen lights, leaving the light over the stove on for the macaw.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chrys twisted the key in the ignition, killing the engine. Burton sat in the passenger seat and eyed the dark, deserted house.

  “Are we getting out or what?” she asked.

  He puffed out his cheeks and exhaled, craning his neck from left to right. “I guess. For all the good it’ll do. Look at this street. It’s dead.”

  The house Tenley had inherited sat at the bend of a curving street cut into one of Stanton Heights’ steep hillsides. The neighborhood was a seemingly random mix of ranch-style homes, traditional brick two stories, old rowhouses, and newer custom built homes. The assorted structures housed an equally eclectic collection of occupants. There were teachers, as well as municipal employees, firefighters, and police officers who were obligated to live within the city limits—although the Fraternal Order of Police had recently spent Burton’s dues arguing the issue all the way to the Supreme Court and, apparently, had won the right for the law enforcement officers to move out to ritzy suburbs they couldn’t afford anyway. In addition, there was the usual mix of senior citizens, empty nesters, and young parents. And, no doubt, an increasing number of gentrifiers who’d been lured to town by the influx of technology companies and who were gradually pricing the neighborhood out of the reach of its original residents.

  Given the aging sedans parked in the driveways and the naked awning frames fronting the faded but well-kept homes, this street skewed toward the older end of the neighborhood demographic. He pictured tightly rolled, striped fabric awnings, standing sentinel in every shed and garage, waiting for the spring thaw, when they’d be unfurled and replaced, just before the porches were broom-swept or vacuumed (depending on the absence or presence of outdoor carpeting).

  Chrys nodded in agreement. “I thought we’d catch some office workers coming home from work, but I don’t see a soul.”

  “This crowd is probably mainly retirees. If we start banging on doors now, in the dark, we’re begging for someone to slap us with a complaint.”

  “So what do you want to do?”

  “We’re here. We might as well take a quick walk around the perimeter of Tenley’s place. If we catch the attention of a nosy neighbor then, bonus, we get to have a conversation without banging on any doors.”

  She twisted her lips. “You do remember what color our skin is and the minor fact that we aren’t in uniform, right? I’d rather be hit by a complaint than a bullet.”

  “You worry too much, Martin. This is a quiet neighborhood.” All the same, he checked his weapon before they exited the vehicle.

  She gave him a dark look and mirrored his actions, muttering under her breath. They stepped over a pile of dirty slush and stood shoulder to shoulder on the sidewalk, looking up at the yellow house where Damon Tenley and Anastasia Kessler had grown up. A pair of green velvet curtains covered the picture window to the left of the frosted glass door.

  “I guess we ought to at least ring the bell first—in case someone’s squatting in there or a couple of teens are using the place as a love nest.”

  “Gross,” Chrys said.

  He didn’t disagree. But he wouldn’t be surprised to find someone inside.

  “Come on.”

  He mounted the green-carpeted steps a few feet ahead of Chrys and waited for her on the porch. He rested his right hand on the butt of his weapon. When she joined him, he stretched forward and leaned on the doorbell for a long moment before resuming his ready position.

  She tilted an ear toward the door and squinted as if that would help her hear better. “I didn’t hear a chime. Did you?”

  “Nah. Figures. The power’s probably been turned off for years.”

  He raised his fist and hammered on the door. The pounding resounded along the silent street. He and Chrys swept their heads in unison from left to right, looking for alarmed neighbors who might be peeking out from behind their curtains but saw no movement.

  “Knock again,” she said.

  He did. Louder this time.

  “Well if anyone is in there, they’ve had ample warning.” He sidestepped to his right and flipped open the black metal mailbox mounted to the yellow brick facade.

  “You’re gonna disturb a nest of spiders,” she warned him.

  “Do spiders even nest?”

  She shrugged. He grinned at her and dug his black leather gloves out of his coat pockets. After snapping them on, he plunged his hand into the depth of the box and emerged with a fistful of junk mail and zero spiders. He handed her half the stack. She pulled out her cellphone and activated the flashlight app. He moved a step closer, put his stack of mail inside the arc of light, and began to flip through the envelopes and advertising circulars.

  Resident, Resident, Frank Kessler or Current Resident, Current Resident, Lisa Kessler, Safe Driver, Resident, A. H. Kessler, Anastasia Kessler …. The rest were all addressed to Resident.

  “Nothing here. One ad for frozen yogurt addressed to Anastasia and one credit card offer for A. H. Kessler, presumably that’s her, too. What’ve you got?”

  “A whole lot of nothing. Mostly ‘resident’ crap. An offer addressed to Damon to save money and energy by installing solar panels—”

  “He’s saving even more as a permanent guest of the commonwealth.” Burton chuckled at his own joke.

  She went on as if he hadn’t interrupted, “Some catalogues ad
dressed to Anastasia …. And a schedule from one of those fancy exercise studios with the barre classes. It’s addressed to someone named Olivia Scott.”

  “Yes!” He pumped his gloved fist.

  “Can we celebrate in the car? I’m freezing my butt off out here.” She thumbed off the flashlight app.

  He blinked hard several times in an effort to help his eyes adjust to the dark. He was about to suggest they at least check out the backyard first, but when he refocused his eyes, Chrys was already on her way down the stairs.

  A bright white LED light clicked on at the house to the right of Tenley’s place. The door swung open, and a woman peered out at him. “Excuse me,” she called.

  At the sound of her voice, Chrys turned around and trotted back up the stairs.

  “Yes, ma’am?” Burton said.

  “Did our knocking disturb you, ma’am?” Chrys asked.

  The woman frowned and shook her head. She eyed their pantsuits and long wool coats. “No. Are you folks realtors?” she asked in a hopeful voice.

  “Ah, sorry, no. We’re detectives. I’m Burton Gilbert, and this is my partner, Chrys Martin.” He flashed his badge. Beside him Chrys did the same.

  The woman stepped out onto her porch. Then she came to the edge and hung over the railing to peer at their identification.

  “You here about Damon?” She shook her head in sorrow. “He was a good boy growing up. A polite young man. I can’t imagine what happened to him.”

  “Actually, Mrs….” Chrys trailed off to let the woman supply her name.

  “Angela Antolini.”

  “Mrs. Antolini, we’re interested in speaking to Anastasia Kessler. Do you know where we can find her?”

  “It’s cold out here. Channel Eleven says we’re gonna get snow overnight. Why don’t you two come inside?”

  They exchanged glances.

  “That’s very kind of you, Mrs. Antolini.” Burton gave her his friendliest smile, and they tromped down to the sidewalk and hurried up her steps before she could change her mind.