Dark Path

by Melissa F. Miller

  Ardently do today what must be done. Who knows? Tomorrow, death comes.

  The Buddha, Bhaddekaratta Sutta

  Therefore, to him who knows to do good and does not do it, to him it is sin.

  James 4:17

  Bodhi remained behind in the meditation room when the others filed out on bare, silent feet. He closed his eyes and waited for peace to come—a peace that had eluded him during the group meditation.

  His mind was clear. No thoughts flitted within it, niggling at him. He focused on the rhythm of his breath and the beat of his heart. He heard the chatter and song of the birds in the trees just outside the open windows. He felt the hint of a breeze ruffle his thin cotton shirt. He smelled the faint whiff of spices sneaking into the room from the curries cooking in the large kitchen at the end of the hall.

  He was as present as he could be. And, still, no peace.

  He sensed movement and opened his eyes. Daishin, the novice monk, sat lotus-style just at the edge of Bodhi’s mat and watched him.

  “You seem troubled.” It was an observation devoid of judgment.

  “I am.”

  “Wandering mind?”

  “No.” Bodhi shook his head, unsettled. He wasn’t sure he could put into words what he was experiencing. “My mind is focused. I’m not thinking. But I feel ill at ease. Jumpy.”

  Daishin was quiet for a very long time before he said, “Perhaps, then, the trouble is you should be thinking.”

  “Come again?”

  A smile creased Daishin’s face. “Yes, we learn we must quiet our thoughts on the cushion so we can be mindful. But if we face a decision or a choice, sometimes we need to be mindful of our thoughts.”

  Bodhi considered this. “I am faced with a choice—or the consequences of one, at least.”

  “Then, I suggest you sit with it until your thinking clears and you can surrender to your decision.”

  Dashin unfolded his legs and stood. “The mind has no schedule, of course. But if you can achieve clarity in the next twenty minutes, please join us for lunch.”

  The monk extinguished the candles on the windowsill and left the room.

  Bodhi resettled on his mat.

  He had told Saul no. He did not want to investigate a death cluster, especially not one that would put him in the public eye, giving interviews and tiptoeing through political minefields. He wanted to garden, and read, and meditate.

  His stomach tightened as he replayed his choice. He investigated the response.

  Why did his stomach clench as if he were tense? What was stressful about choosing a quiet existence?

  People are dying, and nobody knows why.

  Death comes for us all. It’s a part of life.

  But I must cultivate and encourage life. Maybe Saul is right. Is refusing to help no different than taking a life?

  His pulse fluttered in his throat.

  Yes. It is.

  Then you have to go to Florida and help.

  He sat with that decision, examining how it felt. It felt uncomfortable, like a pair of too-tight shoes. He dismissed his attachment to emotional comfort. Following the precepts didn’t promise a life free of trouble.

  Indulgent. The word formed in his mind.

  He was indulging his desires. How could he forsake physical comforts and excess but cocoon himself as if he were too delicate to face life? He couldn’t, not if he sought enlightenment.

  He opened his eyes. It was decided.

  He would join the monks for a bowl of curry and then call Saul and tell him to offer his services to the medical examiner in the Keys.

  Outside the room, he retrieved his sandals from the shoe rack by the door and removed his mobile phone from his right sandal. As he slipped it into his pocket, it vibrated in his hand to announce an incoming call.

  Detective Felicia Williams tapped her apple red fingernails against the surface of her desk and listened to the phone ring.

  C’mon, you crusty old coot. Pick up.

  “Hello?”

  She nearly dropped the phone. The voice that answered the number assigned to Dr. Bodhi King was gentle and welcoming. Very un-coot-like.

  “I’m trying to reach Dr. Bodhi King,” she said more tentatively than she would have liked.

  She figured the odds were 70-30 that the Allegheny County Coroner’s office had given her the wrong number. This polite guy did not sound like a cranky retiree. It was probably for the best, anyway. There’d be hell to pay if the chief found out she’d done an end run around him to help the medical examiner’s office.

  “You’ve got him.”

  Her nails stilled. “Really? I mean… um… Sorry, let me start again. This is Detective Felicia Williams, calling from the Florida Keys.”

  “Yes? How can I help you?”

  Her mind raced. She’d girded herself for a fight. She wasn’t prepared for … warmth, of all things. She decided to take his question literally.

  “You can help us by coming down here and investigating all these dead senior citizens,” she told him in her bluntest voice.

  “Okay.”

  She blinked. “What? I mean, could you repeat that?”

  “I’ll make arrangements to be there tomorrow. I’ll need the address of the medical examiner’s office. And I suppose someplace to stay—nothing fancy.”

  “I … really?”

  There was a smile in his voice. “I was just meditating on this very question and had decided I should help if I could. Then you called—as if the Universe wanted to give me a nudge. Consider me nudged. Four deaths in four weeks is—”

  “Five.”

  “Pardon?”

  She put aside her surprise and said in a grim tone, “There’s been a fifth death at Golden Shores. Esmeralda Morales was found last night, dead in her bed, a grimace of horror on her face.”

  The forensic pathologist was silent for a moment. Then he said, “I see. And has your medical examiner opined on the cause of death?”

  “No, look, Dr. Ashland is doing everything by the book. But the local paper is calling for him to be fired. The families of the dead are outraged. And the Golden Island Church leadership issued a statement calling him incompetent. He’s not. But he’s hit a wall, and he needs some help. He needs your help.”

  “Okay.”

  “Good. I’ll pick you up at the airport. Dr. Ashland or I will send you copies of the reports.”

  He took down her phone number and promised to call after he’d made his flight arrangements.

  Then he said, “I’m hopeful the three of us can figure this out together, Detective Williams.”

  “Me, too,” she murmured.

  As she ended the call, Felicia realized she actually felt hopeful—for the first time in weeks she thought there might be a chance they’d figure out what the devil was going on at Golden Shores.

  Chapter Six

  Tension and fear gripped the Men’s Advanced Bible Study Group. Bryce could smell it on their bodies—acrid and coppery. He could almost taste it.

  “The Devil has got ahold of Golden Shores!” Roger Howard moaned, voicing what they’d all been thinking.

  A babble of prayers and protests rose from the semi-circle of men gathered around the fire pit.

  Bryce had to regain control of them. For the briefest moment, he wished he were his daddy. Pastor Wilbur Scott had been a fire-and-brimstone preacher. A snake handler. And a speaker of tongues. Back in the day, he’d traveled the state, driving the devil out of Floridians from Jacksonville to Key West and everywhere in between.

  But Bryce was not his daddy. He’d never performed an exorcism. Or hollered at a crowd of sinners to let the Holy Spirit in. Or, heaven forbid, waved around a reptile.

  No. Because for all the passion Wilbur Scott had inspired among the believers at his tent revivals, he had always, always, been dirt broke. When Bryce decided to follow in his father’s liturgical shoes, he’d vowed that his family wouldn’t dress in rags.

  The abundance gospel he
preached gave his flock the keys to a life rich in blessings. It offered virtually no guidance, however, on dealing with a potential Satanic force that terrorized, tormented, and terminated senior citizens in the dead of night.

  He exhaled slowly through his nose then raised his hands. “Brothers, please. It’s true we’re being tested. But we have to have faith. You’re the elders, the most respected members of the congregation. If you panic, the others will follow. And it would be a grave detriment to the church’s coffers if attendance falls off.”

  His soothing tone had the desired effect. In the light cast by the fire’s flames, he saw several heads nodding in agreement.

  He went on, “If dark forces are at work, then we need to defeat them with light and love. We’ve made it a point to welcome residents to Golden Shores no matter what their religious affiliation might be. And that’s not going to change. But, the residents who are dying are all non-believers. That’s by design—Satan’s design. We have the opportunity to save souls here.”

  “Amen,” someone shouted.

  He went on, “As you know, the inaugural class of the Spread the Word Ministry is about to begin. We’ll task the invitees with visiting Golden Shores, talking to the residents about God’s eternal blessings, and holding some informal talks and prayer groups. We’ll flood the assisted care facility with the power of God.”

  Ron Porter spoke first. “I like this plan, Pastor. It will give the franchisees—er, lay ministers—valuable hands-on experience before they start up their territories and may vanquish the evil that’s taken up residence at Golden Shores.”

  Bryce smiled. As an associate director, Ron had great incentive to see the Spread the Word Ministry program succeed. After all, each of his initiates would tithe ten percent of his income directly to Ron.

  “Is everyone in agreement, then?”

  The men chorused ‘aye’ then bowed their heads. Roger led them all in a closing prayer, and they sat in prayerful silence watching the fire die down to nothing more than the glow of bright embers.

  As the group broke up and started walking up the lit path to the parking area and their cars in twos and threes, Bryce pulled Ron aside.

  “Has Arthur Lopez signed his contract yet?”

  Ron sighed heavily. “Not yet. He says he’s going to get the buy-in funds from his grandmother.”

  “Julia Martin.”

  “You know her?”

  “I met her last night. She’s a resident at Golden Shores. Why don’t you task Arthur with leading the outreach there?”

  “Even though he hasn’t met his financial obligation yet?” Ron’s voice was filled with surprise and disbelief.

  “Yes. I know it’s not our way. And he will need to make his investment or he’s out. But making him the face of the program at the assisted care facility might help loosen Mrs. Martin’s purse strings.”

  Ron’s laugh of appreciation rang out in the dark. “Of course. Once she sees her grandson doing ministry work, the Holy Spirit will surely move her to bless him with her money. You’re a genius.”

  Bryce smiled modestly. “I am but the vessel, Ron. He is the genius.”

  Chapter Seven

  The gleaming ground level of Key West International Airport was nearly empty—almost eerily deserted. Bodhi’s footsteps echoed across the floor as he walked toward the baggage claim area and the lone woman who stood holding a sign that read ‘Dr. King.’

  She wore a severe navy blue pantsuit that matched her severe hairstyle—jet black hair pulled back and secured in a tight, neat bun at the nape of her neck. Her shoes were sensible oxfords. Her fingernails were short but painted a glossy red.

  He shifted his duffle bag onto his left shoulder and stuck out his right hand. “Detective Williams?”

  She let her eyes drift over him for a moment. “Yes. What can I do for you?” she asked in a clipped, impersonal tone.

  “I’m Bodhi.” He looked down at his still-extended hand and then at the sign.

  “You’re the retired hotshot coroner who’s going to save our bacon?”

  “I don’t know about all that. But I am Bodhi King.” He smiled encouragingly.

  She flushed and held the sign against her left side. She gripped his outstretched hand in a firm handshake. “Sorry. I wasn’t expecting a … you don’t look like … Ah, crap—”

  “It’s okay. I’ll bet you were expecting a distinguished, slightly portly gentleman. Balding, but with a full white beard. Right?”

  “Well, yeah. Who’s that?”

  “That guy? As far as I know he doesn’t exist. But that’s who I think of when I hear ‘coroner’ or ‘medical examiner,’ too. Not a long-haired hippie-looking guy who smells like patchouli.”

  She threw back her head and laughed a tinkling laugh. It was an unexpectedly musical sound from someone so button-downed.

  “Can we start over? Hi, Dr. King. I’m Detective Williams.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Detective Williams. Please, call me Bodhi.”

  Her hesitant smile quavered. “Okay. But …”

  “I’ve spent lots of time with homicide police. I wouldn’t dream of calling you by your first name and undermining your authority with your colleagues. I get it, Detective Williams.”

  Her eyes widened. “Thanks. How was your flight?”

  “It was fine. The approach to the airport is gorgeous, all that brilliant blue water.”

  She jerked her thumb toward his canvas bag. “Did you check your luggage or is that it?”

  “This is it. I travel light.”

  “Figures. C’mon then. Car’s this way.”

  He fell into step beside her, and they crossed the lobby in silence. As he walked outside, the air-conditioned chill dissipated instantly and the humid Florida air dropped over him like a thick, soggy blanket.

  Detective Williams removed a pair of dark sunglasses from her pocket and covered her eyes while Bodhi squinted in the bright sunlight. He was about to dig through his bag for a baseball cap to shield his eyes when he spotted a dark gray sedan with a light flashing on the roof. The sedan was parked in front of a whimsical mural of a bright yellow sun on a blue background announcing the traveler’s arrival to the Conch Republic. Yellow paint along the curb and several ‘loading zone, no standing’ signs made clear that the car was parked illegally.

  “I take it that’s your car?”

  Instead of answering, she reached up and removed the light then popped the trunk and passenger side door. He grabbed his Pirates hat from the duffle bag then tossed the bag into the trunk.

  He slid into the seat next to Detective Williams and waited while she scrolled through her emails. She pulled out fast. As they merged into the flow of traffic, she palmed the steering wheel with one hand and cranked the air conditioning up to full blast with the other.

  He considered explaining that the car wouldn’t actually cool down any faster that way, but he didn’t. It wasn’t his place to point out another’s foibles.

  She accelerated, the car shot forward, and he pressed himself back against the seat.

  “Okay, we’ve got a little better than an hour’s drive up to the medical examiner’s office on Crawl Key—assuming no traffic. He’s going to autopsy Mr. Garcia today. Do you need to eat first?”

  “No, I’m good. But don’t you mean Ms. Morales? She was the most recent death, not Garcia. Right?”

  During the first leg of his flight, from Pittsburgh to Miami, he’d reviewed the file she’d emailed him. He was certain he had the order of the deaths correct.

  “You’re right on the order. But Esmerelda Morales’s family gave permission for her autopsy right away. Doc Ashland had to go through the church to get permission to do Garcia. And they dragged their feet.”

  “Why? I thought they wanted to get to the bottom of these deaths. Didn’t they offer to pay for an outside pathology consultant?”

  She glanced over at him. “They did. But they’re confused. They aren’t particularly clear
on their doctrine. There was some concern that the autopsy would violate their faith, ill-defined as it is.”

  He couldn’t miss the sneer in her voice. “Isn’t it a Christian church?”

  “Is it? I mean, nominally yes. But it’s not like any flavor of Christianity I’ve ever sampled. I’m Catholic,” she said by way of explanation.

  “I checked out their website last night—it seems like the Golden Island Church preaches a version of the prosperity gospel, right?”

  Privately, he might agree with her that the principles didn’t seem particularly Christ-like, but the ideas weren’t unheard of in some Evangelical circles.

  She shot him another look that he couldn’t read. Her eyes were obscured by the dark lenses of her sunglasses.

  “I shouldn’t have brought it up. One, I don’t know your religious beliefs. And two, they’re paying your fees. Forget I said anything.” Her tone was conciliatory.

  “One, I’m a Buddhist. And two, no, they’re not. I declined that offer.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “If the medical examiner’s office or your department can pay me a stipend, great. Otherwise, consider my services a voluntary offering.”

  “You’re telling me you’d do this for free?”

  “Yes.”

  They drove in silence for several miles while she chewed on this thought.

  “Huh. I’m sure the bean counters can swing some kind of payment. But I’ll tell you right now, your accommodations are definitely going to be downgraded from what Golden Island Church would have offered.”

  “I don’t need anything fancy. And, my independence is pretty crucial if I’m going to help you and Dr. Ashland figure out who or what’s killing all these people. So, why don’t you speak freely and fill me in on the church, the island, and anything else you think I need to know?”

  She didn’t respond right away. After another long silence, she gestured out the window.

  “We’re getting close to Big Pine Key. Golden Island’s just off the coast. There’s ferry service to the island from the marina there. And keep an eye out for our Key Deer—they’re miniature deer. They’re like local celebrities.”