The kettle whistled.
“What’s it about, then, Saul? Is something wrong?”
He glided across the kitchen, taking down mugs, assembling a tray, choosing spoons. His movements were spare and fluid and didn’t belie the hum of worry rising in his throat. People found him to be a calming presence in a crisis: as a result, friends seemed to seek him out to share their tragedies.
Saul had known him for a long time, though, and picked up on the frisson of concern.
“I’m fine. It’s not a personal issue. I got a call from a medical examiner’s office down in Florida. In the Keys.”
Bodhi carried the bamboo tray of tea supplies to the table. “Here or outside?”
“Here’s fine.”
He sat. “And why would a call from an ME in the Florida Keys bring you to my doorstep?”
“Four sudden, unexplained deaths in a small population. They’re stymied. They need someone who understands what to do about a death cluster. Apparently, when the coroner started asking around, your name came up—more than once.”
Bodhi nodded. It would have. A handful of years ago, he’d traced the deaths of five young women from myocarditis to the wild red ginseng sold in a sports beverage. The case had made the national news, the medical journals, the legal journals, and a ‘ripped from the headlines’ episode of a popular police drama. And the spotlight had driven Bodhi from the job he’d loved.
He’d sought solitude in a series of remote locations—beginning at a banana plantation in Costa Rica and ending at a Japanese monastery in Hawaii. He was at peace, reading, house-sitting, volunteering, and meditating. The challenge of a puzzle to solve tempted him, but not enough.
“I’m not interested.”
“Why not? Nobody’s asking you to make a long-term commitment. It’s a consulting gig. In the freaking Florida Keys. I mean, how is that not a dream job?”
“Where in the Florida Keys?—not that it matters.”
“The deaths have all occurred at an assisted care facility on a private island owned by some church.”
“A church owns the assisted care facility, you mean?”
“The church owns the entire island. The preacher’s some television guy, Bruce or Bryce Something or Other. And the church is willing to bankroll the investigation, so we’re not talking about a consulting fee that a county medical examiner has in his budget. They’re willing to pay you well. Not that you care about the money,” Saul hurried to add.
“You’re right, I don’t. But a small, insular community suffering under the strain of a spate of deaths? No, thanks. I’d be an outsider, someone to focus on.”
“You’re afraid they’ll blame you if you can’t come up with an answer?”
“I’m not worried about my reputation. I don’t want the attention.”
Saul rubbed his face. “Let me ask you this. Do you think you could solve it—figure out what’s killing those people?”
Bodhi sat and considered the question in silence for a moment. Then he gave a small shrug. “I think I could.”
He said it with no bravado. But it was the truth. He had a scientist’s analytical mind for creating patterns and a priest-like ability to tease out the silent stories of the dead.
“I think so, too. So don’t you have to?”
“Have to?”
Saul squinted at him through the late afternoon light that streamed through the white crocheted curtains and left lacy shadows on his face. “Yeah, what’s the First Precept? The one that’s basically ‘thou shalt not kill’?”
“Abstain from taking life. But the precepts aren’t the equivalent of the Ten Commandments.”
Saul waved his hand. “Right. There are all sorts of ethical considerations, blah, blah. But the bottom line is a Buddhist shouldn’t rejoice in killing, encourage killing, daydream about killing, even.”
“Basically.”
“And allowing these deaths to continue when you could stop them—how’s that square with your precept?”
Bodhi narrowed his eyes. “You didn’t say the medical examiner suspects homicide. It’s an assisted care facility, after all. Dying of old age isn’t tantamount to a killing.”
Saul stood up, his tea untouched. “I don’t have a clue if the ME knows his tuchus from a hole in the ground, to tell you the truth. But he knows something’s not right, and he was smart enough to know he needs an expert. And if you ask me, no matter what’s behind that death cluster down in Florida, if you can stop it and you don’t, then you’re taking life through your inaction.”
He dropped a heavy hand on Bodhi’s shoulder as he passed the chair on his way to the door. “I’m sorry, Bodhi. It’s how I feel.”
He let himself out. The wooden screen door thudded silently into place. After a moment, a car engine came to life.
Bodhi stared at his hands and focused on his breath until the echo of Saul’s words had faded from his ears.
Chapter Four
Arthur pressed his palms down hard against the tops of his thighs, trying to control his nerves and keep from losing his patience. He’d tried again and again to bring up his request over dinner, but his grandmother had repeatedly steered the conversation off-course.
He watched her now as she fiddled with her rosary beads. He listened to the just-audible soft music piped into the dimly lit room. He inhaled the scent of her flowery perfume.
“Arturo, I just don’t understand.”
He tried again to explain. “You know the church that runs this place—Pastor Scott’s church?”
“Yeah, sure. The Golden Gate Church.”
“No, no, lita, that’s the bridge in California. It’s the Golden Island Church. That’s the name of this island, remember?” he said as gently as he could.
“Ah, right. Golden Island, Golden Shores. Why is a man of God so worried about gold, hmm, nieto?”
His grandmother cocked her head to the side and watched his face, waiting for his answer.
“I suspect it’s because the island is called Golden Key.”
“How did you end up so naive?”
“Lita, this is serious. I have a business opportunity.” He reached over and straightened the light cotton cardigan that had begun to slip from her shoulders.
“Atch, business, at a time like this.” She mimed spitting in disgust.
“A time like what?”
She arranged her lined face into a frown. “A time of death, Arturo. Señor Garcia has died.” She made the sign of the cross.
“Someone’s always dying around here.”
She clucked at him and murmured a prayer in rapid Spanish. At least, he thought it was a prayer. He only caught one phrase—San Lázaro, Saint Lazarus.
He reached for her thin hand. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
She cast a conspiratorial glance around the otherwise-empty sunroom then whispered, “No, it’s true. There are bad spirits here. I need you to go to Miami, to a botanica. The good one, near the restaurant your mom used to like. Get me a seven-day Ajo Macho candle, a gold one if you can—to chase away evil spirits and provide protection from the evil eye. ”
Now his eyes darted around the room. The last thing he needed was for her to start with her superstitious, black magic mumbo-jumbo and have someone from the church overhear her.
“Grandmother,” he said loudly. “You should pray the rosary. And you don’t have to wait for Father Rafael to come for Mass; watch the Golden Island service on the television. I think it will bring you a lot of comfort.”
“Oh, you and your smiley-faced Pastor Scott.”
He felt sweat beading on his forehead. Was she trying to get him in even more trouble with the church?
“Please, lita,” he pleaded with her.
“Don’t lita me. Do what I ask. Get me my garlic candle. Now, I’m tired. Please take me back to my room so I can rest until my shows come on.”
Her tone was haughty, but he could hear the underlying anxiety threatening to crack through to
the surface.
“What about my business opportunity? You haven’t let me explain. Pastor Scott is opening up a limited number of positions for people to join the Spread the Word Ministry. I’ve been chosen.”
“That’s nice for you, nieto. It’s good money, like the computer job?”
“It’s not about the money, It’s about spreading the Good Word. But yes, the compensation is very generous. Better than the computer job. It’s like … a franchise. I would be an owner. But, I need to buy in. To make an investment. That’s why I thought …”
He trailed off as she reached for her handbag. His heart thudded. She was going to do it. She was going to write him a check. He could feel his palms growing damp with anticipation.
She rifled inside and removed her beaded change purse. She unsnapped the closure and carefully took out two folded ten-dollar bills.
“When you go to get the candle, get one for yourself, too. The red San Sebastian. It brings luck and prosperity to business.”
She proffered the creased bills with a wide smile. He stared at her in disbelief as she pressed the money into his hand. He wondered what color candle he could light to make her stop with her ignorant nonsense and take him seriously. She had the money. She could give it to him—call it a loan, a gift, he didn’t care which. He’d make it back a hundred-fold.
He opened his mouth and might have said something cutting, something that would have damaged their relationship beyond repair, but his words died in his throat. Raised voices calling for medical equipment rang through the hallway. The pounding of running feet echoed from every direction.
Bryce raced down the deserted hallway. He skidded to a stop when he reached the vortex of activity outside Esmeralda Morales’s room.
“What’s happened?” he demanded of the nearest medical professional.
A man, dressed in nursing scrubs, wheeled around. When he saw who’d addressed him, his eyes widened.
He stammered. “Oh, Pastor Scott. Did someone call you? They shouldn’t have bothered you. There’s nothing you can do.”
Bryce waved his hand impatiently. “No, I was using the helipad on the roof. I have meetings tomorrow in Miami, and my plan was to go out and sleep on the mainland so I’m fresh in the morning. I heard the code called over the radio in the guard booth. What happened?”
The nurse lowered his eyes. “Esmerelda has been out of sorts ever since Carlos Garcia died. They were very friendly. They played pinochle and took water aerobics together. Some of the nurses think they might’ve had a romance, too. I’m not sure about that, but they were quite close. Esmeralda hasn’t been sleeping well since he passed away.” He hesitated.
Bryce nodded his understanding and motioned for the nurse to continue.
“She decided to skip dinner tonight and try to get some rest. One of the aides went in to check on her to see if she wanted some broth or toast and tea. She found her … already gone.”
“Have the authorities been called?”
“Yes,” the nurse answered, then looked at him, awaiting more questions or some instruction.
Bryce made up his mind. “I’d like to see her.”
“Uh, … Detective Williams told me not to let anybody in the room until she gets here.” The nurse’s expression was pained, and his voice was apologetic.
Bryce’s nostrils flared, but he managed to keep his temper in hand. “Nurse Martinez, this is my island. And if I want to go in that room, I’m going to go in.”
“Yes, sir. Of course.” The nurse yanked the door open and held it for him.
As he walked across the threshold, Bryce turned and said, “Thank you. I do understand you’re following protocol, but I’m a man of God. It’s my duty to hasten Ms. Morales’s spirit on its journey to its eternal resting place in heaven.”
The nurse’s face was an unreadable mask. But he nodded then hung back in the doorway as Bryce crossed the room and looked down at the woman.
Esmeralda Morales had been one of the younger residents of Golden Shores. She was a spry and lively sixty-four. She really didn’t fit in at the assisted care building and would have been offered a spot in one of the island’s independent cottages had she not broken both of her wrists the previous summer during a jet skiing mishap.
Her physician thought, given the frailty of her bones and the advanced state of her osteoporosis, she’d be safer someplace like Golden Shores rather than on her own in her waterfront condo on Big Pine Key. But looking down at her now, Bryce wasn’t convinced her doctor had been right.
Her mouth hung open. Her lips were curled back and and her eyes were wide and unfocused. Her mouth was open, contorted into an unnerving scream of fear.
Bryce had been told the other four residents had had similar terrified expressions when they had been found. But seeing it with his own eyes chilled him. He was reminded of a medieval painting of a woman confronted by a hellish demon. Reflexively, he dropped to his knees at her bedside and began to pray.
Bryce didn’t know how long he stayed by her bedside with his head bowed. After a while, he recited the Lord’s Prayer. Then he rose and clasped his hands in front of him, like a bridesmaid clutching a bouquet.
He took one final look at the body stretched out in the bed before turning and walking back into the hall. His movements felt jerky, awkward.
As he passed Nurse Martinez, he said, “Someone should at least close her eyes.”
The nurse nodded. “The police don’t want us to touch her until they’ve taken photographs. And the Medical Examiner’s Office wants to see the body in the state in which it was found. But it’s my understanding, the funeral home on Sugarloaf Key does a very nice job. I’m told the deceased always look as if they’re at peace.”
Bryce had no response to that assurance, so he simply said, “Good night.”
He turned to walk toward the elevator and found the nurse jogging along beside him. “Wait. Pastor Scott, sir. Since you’re already here, don’t you think you should stay and talk to the detective. She’ll be here in another twenty minutes. A half hour at the most.”
Bryce checked his watch. “I can’t. You know twenty minutes can turn into an hour on the Overseas Highway. Then, she’ll need to take a ferry …. No, I have to get to Miami. This is an important meeting. But I’ll have my office fill me in on the police investigation tomorrow.”
He blasted Eduardo with the full power of his smile before turning away.
He’d only walked about fifteen feet, when he saw Arthur, the hapless unemployed IT guy, poking his head out from one of the spacious sunrooms set aside for residents to visit with family members. He stopped, genuinely surprised to see the man.
“Arthur, what are you doing here?”
Arthur looked guilty, as though he were embarrassed to be caught there. He inched his way out into the hallway.
“I’m visiting my grandmother. Is everything okay? There was a lot of commotion a little bit ago.”
Bryce ignored the question. “I didn’t realize you had a relative staying with us here.”
“Yes, my lita, er, grandmother. She moved in not long after you opened the facility.”
“What’s her name? I don’t recall seeing anyone with your surname on the list of congregants on site.”
“Oh, she’s my mother’s mother, and she remarried. We don’t share the same last name. Her name is Julia Martin.”
Bryce noticed that, while Arthur had answered his question, he’d done it in a way that didn’t confirm whether his maternal grandmother attended Golden Shores services. It would have been useful information to have, if only because he would have a better sense of Arthur’s financial situation if he knew how much or whether his grandmother was tithing.
“Does she attend services here?” He asked point blank.
Arthur’s face flushed.
But before he could answer, the door swung open, and a small, thin woman stepped out into the hall beside him.
“Who are you talking to, Arturo?”
<
br /> Then she turned and fixed her alert eyes on Bryce. “Oh, Pastor Scott. What was that racket. Who’s dying now?” Her tone was sharp and knowing.
And, although he had no trouble deflecting the very same question from her grandson, Bryce found himself answering the old woman. “I’m sorry to say Esmeralda Morales has passed away. May she rest in peace.”
He dropped his eyes but noted that she made the sign of the cross. That answered the question of whether she worshipped at the Golden Island Church. She did not. She was one of Father Rafael’s Roman Catholics.
“I was just telling my grandmother about the Spread the Word Ministry,” Arthur interjected. “Wasn’t I, lita?”
The old woman cut her eyes toward her grandson. “You were. You’ve been offered a franchise, I believe,” she said dryly.
Bryce dialed his smile up to eleven. “I wouldn’t think of it as a franchise, so much as a growing family. We’re very fond of Arthur at the church. He’s a great addition to our lay ministry program. And I know he could do well as an affiliate.” He put a fatherly arm around the younger man.
Arthur blushed. His grandmother shot Bryce a look that indicated she was not impressed.
“’I’m afraid I have to go. My helicopter’s waiting.”
“What are you going to do about all these people dropping dead, Pastor Scott?” the old woman said, while at the same time Arthur was saying, “Let me walk out with you, Pastor Bryce.”
Bryce blinked at them. “May God bless you both richly. But I really must leave now; I’ve got an important meeting in the morning.”
He turned and strode down the hallway before either of them could respond. Over his shoulder, he heard Arthur’s grandmother railing at him.
“Did you hear that? Another death. Esmerelda was as healthy as they come. Don’t you roll your eyes at me, Arturo. I’m serious. I need that candle. With the oil to dress it to be sure it works.”
The gleaming golden doors to the elevator opened, and Bryce stepped inside and allowed the car to sweep him up to the rooftop.
Chapter Five
Dark Path Page 2