Hidden Path

by Melissa F. Miller

  “That’s not what I’m saying. I’m saying the best way to approach them is with some finesse—not that you don’t have finesse,” he hurried to correct himself.

  “Hah. No one’s ever accused me of finesse before. But I can be diplomatic, Dr. King. Believe me. I wouldn’t have lasted as long as I have in what’s essentially a political position without possessing some tact.”

  “I don’t doubt it. But, unless I’m mistaken, you’re not well-acquainted with Buddhist teachings.”

  She conceded the point. “No, I’m not.”

  “If you push them, Sanjeev and Matsuo will flout your law in the service of a higher law. And then, nobody wins. If you let me help you, it’ll be easier for you and for them. I mean, who better to facilitate the investigation of a murder that occurred on the grounds of a Buddhist retreat center than a forensic pathologist who happens to be a Buddhist?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Are you?”

  “Am I what?”

  “Are you a forensic pathologist who happens to be a Buddhist or are you a Buddhist who happens to be a forensic pathologist?”

  He started to answer, then paused. “Is there a difference?”

  “I think there might be.” She kicked at the dirt with the toe of her shoe. “But I don’t know that I have much of a choice. Aside from your relationship with the monks, I have to face reality. Onatah doesn’t have its own coroner. We share one with Elm and Creekview.”

  “That’s fairly common,” he assured her.

  “Yeah? Well, our shared coroner isn’t a medical doctor.”

  “Veterinarian?” he guessed. That wasn’t unheard of.

  “Nope. Butcher.”

  Okay, that was unusual. “Oh.”

  “So, you’ve got a deal, Dr. King. But if I get so much of an inkling that you’re not playing straight or you’re trying to protect your spiritual leaders, our deal’s off.” She stuck out her hand.

  He shook it. Then he shivered as a cold breeze swept across the prairie, chilling his bare ankles. “Deal.”

  Chapter Seven

  Hannah Lee Lin frowned down at the corn kernel. She’d been frowning at the blasted thing off and on for two days. It simply wasn’t a Supra Seed product—she’d recognize it if it were.

  She hoped against all reason that at the meeting earlier this morning, someone would casually toss out a mention of some top-secret experimental strain that she’d never heard of.

  But that bit of wishful thinking hadn’t come to pass. For one thing, everyone at the meeting had been obsessing over the Crop-Clear issue. Apparently, the affected farmers were threatening to band together and file a class action lawsuit. The legal team had given a grim presentation about the potential scope of damages. For another thing, it would be impossible for the company to create a new seed without involving her. She wasn’t the most senior person in the research and development department, but she was the most experienced plant pathologist in the company. Supra Seed simply wouldn’t develop a product without her input. They paid her enough for it, they’d use it.

  She picked up the seed and turned it between her thumb and forefinger, staring at it from every angle. It was a basic principle of corn genetics that every ear of corn held multitudes. Each tiny kernel was a unique offspring, with its own genotype and phenotype, potentially different from the rows and rows of siblings with which it shared a stalk. Despite that, the kernels could only be the product of the genes they had inherited from their parents. And this seed did not have parents she recognized. It was the wrong color, the wrong shape. It was all wrong.

  Unless …

  She dropped the kernel back to the surface of her metal desk and gripped the edge of the desk, using it to push off. Her chair shot backward, rolling across the room until it banged to a stop against the locked cabinets that lined the wall under the window.

  Could the strange kernel be a genetic mutant that had changed in response to disease or pesticide or some other environmental stressor? Could it have evolved after an infection?

  She unlocked a drawer and flipped through the plastic sleeves she kept under lock and key. Any one of the samples in the drawer could wipe out every seedling currently growing in the lab. Fungi, bacteria, weeds, toxins. All devastating, all robust, but none that would account for the appearance of the kernel on her desk.

  So where had it come from? And how?

  Was this new seed the result of some as yet-undiscovered signaling pathway? She’d heard recently that a new pathway was believed to be responsible for increased yield. Perhaps a similar mechanism explained this kernel.

  She shook her head. She’d have to ask a geneticist if she really wanted to know. And doing so would invite questions she didn’t want to answer—couldn’t answer.

  No, she’d have to tease out the answer on her own.

  She needed more information, though.

  She closed the drawer and locked it. She stood and pulled the cord to lower the blind on her left window so that it stopped exactly one third of the way down. She idly noted the glow from one of the tall halogen lights that towered over the parking area wash over one of the omnipresent security SUVs that patrolled the perimeter just inside the gated entrance to the campus. Then she walked over to the right window and lowered its blind so that it covered the entire glass.

  She’d get her answers—one way or another.

  She traded her white laboratory coat for her warm purple jacket, which she belted tightly around her waist before hanging the lab coat neatly on the hook on her office door. Then she powered down her laptop, gathered her purse and keys, and turned to leave.

  The seed of corn on her desk caught her eye. She huffed out a breath and swept it back into its small envelope. She opened the top desk drawer and hesitated, her hand hovering over the tray.

  Just drop it in the drawer, she told herself. Removing a seed from the building was a fireable—not to mention, criminal—offense. It was presumptive evidence of corporate espionage. If she was stopped, she couldn’t exactly explain that she’d brought the seed from home. That would expose her to a line of inquiry she definitely wanted to avoid.

  And yet, it felt wrong to leave the seed there. It didn’t belong—she knew it in her heart. And the risk that it could somehow get mixed into Supra Seed’s careful breeding program and wreak havoc on their plans to feed starving global populations was too much to bear. She’d barely slept last night, worrying over it.

  She slammed the drawer shut and slid the envelope into her jacket pocket, ignoring the rat-a-tat drumbeat of her heart, and marched out of the office before she lost her nerve. She didn’t stop to turn out the lights.

  Chapter Eight

  9:00 P.M.

  Bodhi waited until after the evening Dharma talk to approach Sanjeev. Although he was, by necessity, not observing the rules regarding silence himself, he saw no reason to be disrespectful to the other retreat attendees. After the Dharma talk and before the final meditation bell sounded, the guests were welcome to discuss their progress with the monks, read, or otherwise attend to personal needs.

  Bodhi’s personal need was information. So, he lingered in the warm, dimly lit study after the session broke up, studying the titles on the spines of the books that lined the shelves until the last guest bowed to Bhikkhu Sanjeev and took his leave.

  “Come, let’s talk by the fire,” the monk said, flashing Bodhi a knowing look.

  He abandoned the pretense that he was perusing the bookshelves and joined Sanjeev at a pair of chairs in front of the hearth.

  “I enjoyed your Dharma talk.”

  The monk bobbed his head. “Thank you. But you don’t want to talk to me about the five niyamas, do you?”

  Bodhi smiled. “No, not really.” Although he’d long been fascinated by the Theravada interpretations of the five natural laws that governed the universe, he was currently more interested in learning about the murder victim he’d nearly tripped over during his morning walk.

  Sanjeev seemed to read
his mind. “I’m afraid I don’t know who that unfortunate man in the field was.”

  “I think that was by design, bhante.”

  “What do you mean?” Sanjeev wrinkled his brow.

  “Someone—he, himself, I imagine—went to a great deal of trouble to render him unknowable.” He recalled the findings he’d made in the space Chief Clark had managed to secure for him in the morgue of the county hospital. “The labels had been removed from all his clothes—including his underpants and shoes. He carried no personal effects, jewelry, or identification. His fingerprints were … obscured.”

  The monk blinked rapidly. “Obscured?”

  “They were deliberately altered. Every finger of each hand has a deep z-shaped cut across it. If his fingerprints are in any database—and if he went through the trouble to do this, you can assume they are—the cuts will interrupt the pattern and basically confuse the algorithm that’s trying to match his prints against the samples in the database. It’s crude, it calls attention to the fact that someone is trying to evade detection, but it’s ultimately effective,” Bodhi explained. Especially when the person is dead and can’t be questioned, he added silently.

  “And the … murderer … didn’t do this? This man did this to himself?”

  “They’re not new cuts.”

  “Hmm.”

  They sat in silence for a moment. Bodhi allowed his heavy eyes to be drawn to the dancing flames in the fireplace. After a long travel day yesterday, he’d planned to spend the day meditating and listening, not performing an autopsy and gathering forensic evidence.

  He didn’t realize his eyelids had fluttered closed until he heard Sanjeev cough discreetly, twice. He opened his eyes.

  “Do you think this man was a criminal, running from the law?” the teacher asked in a voice that quavered almost imperceptibly.

  “Possibly. Did any of the monks or early arrivals for the retreat talk to him that you noticed?”

  “No. He didn’t seem to speak English. Or Japanese. Or Tamil or Sinhalese, or any of the languages anybody here speaks.”

  “That’s convenient.”

  The monk shrugged. “Matsuo knows a few words of Tibetan and a few more of Mandarin. But when he tried to speak to the man, he answered in Cantonese. But, in the end, it didn’t seem important. People who come here don’t really need to be able to communicate with us. They simply need to be able to be still. Sometimes that’s more readily achieved when there’s a language barrier.”

  “Could he have been pretending not to understand or speak English?”

  “I suppose he could have been. But why would he?”

  Bodhi didn’t have an answer for that, so he asked his next question. “May I see his belongings? Did he have a suitcase or bag?”

  Sanjeev frowned thoughtfully. “He had a small pack. It was leather, so we showed him a place to store it in the old barn behind the garden. You’re welcome to take it to the police. But please don’t bring it into the house.”

  “Of course not.” The monks were strict vegans. Animal hide would be an upsetting and discordant addition to their household. “I’ll take it into town in the morning.”

  Sanjeev shifted forward, preparing to stand. “If there’s nothing else, Bodhi, I’d like to check in on a few of our friends who are struggling with their practice—before the noble silence begins.”

  “One last question?”

  His teacher acquiesced with a brief nod.

  “Thank you. The guest who disappeared this morning, Feng said he left behind his bags, as well. Has he returned?”

  “Not yet.”

  Bodhi could see the question forming in Sanjeev’s eyes. He watched the monk wrestle with whether to ask it. Finally, he did, forcing the words out in a strange staccato rhythm.

  “You don’t think there’s any connection between the man who left and the … murder?”

  “I don’t know,” he answered honestly. “I hope not.”

  If one of the guests of The Prairie Center had killed a fellow enlightenment seeker, it would be a terrible blow to the community. It seemed almost unimaginable. And, yet, Bodhi’s imagination made room for the possibility. It was too neat, one guest vanishing on the same day another was found murdered.

  “We can hope, but the reality will be what it is. If he’s not back by morning, perhaps you should have a look at his things as well, Bodhi.” Sanjeev’s voice was dull and heavy. He stood and nodded his good night.

  “Sleep well.”

  “Sleep peacefully.” Sanjeev left the room on silent feet.

  Bodhi stared into the fire, thinking.

  Chapter Nine

  Wednesday morning

  Bette was considering whether to walk across the street to the bakery for a muffin when her secretary buzzed her to let her know she had a visitor.

  “Chief, there’s a Dr. King here to see you.”

  “Thanks, Lindsey. Send him back.”

  She shoved her files into an approximation of order and swept the pile of junk mail into her recycling bin. Good enough.

  Bodhi appeared in the doorway, holding a leather drawstring rucksack in one hand and a white bakery bag in the other.

  “Hi.” He walked into the room and handed her the pastry bag. “I brought you breakfast to thank you for getting me credentialed at the morgue yesterday. You cut through red tape faster than anyone I’ve ever met.”

  “I have my ways.” She peeked into the paper bag. “A blueberry honey muffin. How’d you know those are my favorite?”

  “I have my ways.” He smiled slyly. “Also, I asked the woman behind the counter what she would recommend as a bribe for the chief law enforcement officer in town.”

  She broke off a corner of the muffin and popped it into her mouth. There was just something about the bright tang of the berries and the lazy sweetness of the honey that made the perfect taste combination.

  After she’d savored that first bite, she squinted at him. “Bribe? I thought this was a thank you gift.”

  “It’s a little of both. I need another favor.” He hefted the leather bag. “This belonged to our John Doe.”

  She dropped the muffin back into the bag and abandoned it on her desk. “Really? That’s great.”

  She walked around her desk, eager for a look at the contents of the bag.

  “Don’t get too excited,” he warned.

  He handed her the bag. She pulled the drawstring and peered inside. The smell of aged leather filled her nose. She felt around the bag. There was nothing in it.

  “It’s empty?” She looked up at him in disbelief.

  “Completely. And, just like his clothing, the label’s been removed.”

  “Who travels with an empty bag?”

  “Nobody.”

  “But, he did have clothes, shampoo, toothpaste, things like that, right?”

  “Apparently. Presumably he had some money, too.”

  “What the devil’s going on?”

  He shook his head sadly. “I’m as confused as you are. I spoke to Matsuo this morning. The man definitely didn’t wear the same clothes every day. And he attended to his hygiene, so he had personal items in this bag at one point.”

  “So where are they?”

  “The monks don’t know.”

  Anger flared in her belly. “Don’t know or won’t say? What are they hiding?”

  “I honestly don’t think Matsuo or Sanjeev are hiding anything. But someone is.”

  She clenched her teeth. “When are we going to catch a break in this investigation?” she muttered more to herself than to him.

  “There’s a second guest who’s gone missing.” His voice was soft.

  She gripped the bag. “Disappeared? Have you checked the field?”

  “Actually, I have—no bodies today.”

  “Thank goodness for small favors,” she said dryly.

  “But I don’t think he’s dead. The monks believe this man may have decided a week of silence wasn’t up his alley.”

&nb
sp; “So he just took off?”

  “It happens.”

  That was no surprise. She’d be climbing the walls by the end of the first silent day.

  She studied his face. “But you don’t think that’s what happened, do you?”

  “He left behind a suitcase.”

  “Wait, let me guess. Empty?”

  “No, this one wasn’t empty. It held sort of the usual things—clothes, an extra pair of shoes, hat and gloves. Some books, an envelope of cash. Toiletries.”

  “Does this guy have a name?”

  “The name on his luggage tag says Boris Badenov.”

  Finally, an actual lead. She grinned. “Great. Maybe if he’s not dead, too, we have our killer.”

  “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Besides, I’m pretty sure it’s an alias.”

  “An alias,” she repeated slowly. “What makes you think so?”

  “Didn’t you watch television growing up? Boris Badenov? Boris and Natasha? He’s the bad guy from The Rocky and Bullwinkle Show.”

  She stared at him as her excitement drained away. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” It came out as a growl.

  He widened his eyes and arranged his expression into an apology. “Maybe have another bite of your muffin?” he suggested.

  The mention of the pastry reminded her of his bribery comment. “Wait. What’s the favor?”

  “Okay.” He filled his lungs, exhaled slowly, then said, “I think you should call in the feds—”

  “No.”

  “Hear me out. I know they can be a pain in the butt. Believe me, I realize what I’m suggesting.”

  “Then why even bring it up? It’s out of the question.” She jabbed a finger at him for emphasis.

  “Chief Clark, they have tools that would prove helpful. Look at what we have. A dead Chinese man, with no identification, no name, no fingerprints. A missing Eastern European traveling under the name of a cartoon spy. This most likely isn’t a local issue.”

  “I can handle a dead guy and a missing guy. Just because they’re not a pair of blond, corn-fed farmers doesn’t change anything.”