Dark Path

by Melissa F. Miller

  “Maybe, but …” Cleo seemed skeptical.

  “This part’s also borne out by science. There’s a condition called tetraphobia, which is fear of the number four.”

  “Of course there is,” Detective Williams muttered caustically.

  “Just eat your bacon and hear him out,” Father Rafael chided her.

  “In Japanese and Chinese, the word for the number four and the word for death sound very similar. So, much like the West considers thirteen to be an unlucky number, many Asian cultures view four as an unlucky number. So researchers examined over two hundred thousand death certificates of Japanese-Americans and Chinese-Americans and compared them to death certificates of Caucasian Americans. They found a pronounced fourth-day peak in cardiac deaths of the Asian-Americans, but not of the Caucasians. Significantly more Asian-Americans died from heart attacks on the fourth day of the month than any other day of a given month. And the effect was bigger in places that had cohesive Asian cultural centers.”

  “But how?” Arthur put down his fork and wrinkled his forehead.

  “The hypothesis, and I think it’s a good one, is that if you live in, say, Chinatown, and you’re ingrained in Chinese culture, everyone around you is stressed out on the fourth of the month, because four’s unlucky. Your stress is amplified by the stress and anxiety of the people around you and, boom, here comes the body’s hormonal stress response again.”

  “So, my lita and her friends were scared when Mr. Gonzales cursed them. Then he died, and they knew that made him more powerful. So they got more stressed out, and then one of them died. And …”

  “And every time one of them dies, it increases the fear factor for the survivors,” Cleo finished.

  “Right. But there’s another piece. I found a paper about a death cluster of Hmong immigrants. One hundred and seventeen men died of SUNDS.”

  “Do you mean SUD?”

  Bodhi smiled at the detective’s question. “Nope, as it happens, SUNDS stands for sudden unexplained nocturnal death syndrome. These men all died in their sleep.”

  “Were they cursed?” Father Rafael asked.

  “Not exactly. Do you know what sleep paralysis is?”

  “I do,” Dr. Ashland volunteered. “I’ve experienced it twice. You wake up from a dead sleep unable to move. It feels as if someone’s sitting on your chest, and you can just sense an evil, malevolent presence in the room. It’s freaking terrifying. And I say that as someone who knows it’s caused by an out-of-sync REM cycle.” He shuddered at the memory.

  “Right. Now, sleep paralysis is universal; it occurs in every known culture. But not every culture has a spiritual belief system that explains sleep paralysis as an evil spirit.”

  “Let me guess. The Hmong do,” Father Rafael said.

  “They do. And, in the case of the men who immigrated to the United States in the 1970s and 1980s, they didn’t live in the equivalent of Chinatowns. They were spread out; they had no community. So they were unable to worship properly, and they believed this failure on their part angered the spirits.”

  “Which probably triggered a hormonal stress response, resulting in their deaths,” Dr. Ashford surmised.

  “So because the residents have been unable to perform the necessary Santerían rituals that will protect them from a death curse uttered by a powerful, vindictive palero, they’re under psychological stress, which is peaking at night for some reason and killing them.” Father Rafael summed it all up as though it was the most logical theory imaginable.

  Bodhi relaxed back into his chair, a bit drained from having walked the group through the fruits of his overnight research frenzy in under ten minutes.

  But his respite didn’t last long.

  “So what do we do about it?” Cleo demanded.

  Bodhi smiled. “I’m glad you asked.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Cleo smiled as warmly as she could manage at Philomena and Charlene. They looked back at her uncertainly.

  “Thanks for coming in for a second day,” she began. “I appreciate it so much.”

  “We heard about Mrs. Johnson’s passing.” Philomena bowed her head then clasped her hands together as if she were praying.

  “It’s so very sad. I wish the residents would accept the Lord into their hearts. Pastor Bryce can offer them more than just salvation, you know. Blessings abound if you believe.” Charlene sounded genuinely pained at the thought that people were missing the riches boat.

  “Yes. Well, I wanted to talk about something much more mundane. Some of the guests have reported that some personal items have gone missing. When I asked Nurse Mumma about it, she told me that the cleaning procedures became much more stringent and detailed about a month ago. Right after Mr. Gonzales passed away.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I didn’t change the procedures. So who did?”

  “Oh, the instructions came from Pastor Bryce himself. He was appalled by the condition of Mr. Gonzales’s room. Now, I know the guests are all adults, but Ms. Clarkson, if you’d seen it. Piles of dirt and rubbish everywhere. Two big metal pots just filled with trash of every imaginable kind. It was disgusting,” Charlene remembered.

  “Pastor Bryce saw it with his own eyes and just, well, he was beside himself,” Philomena added.

  “So what are your new procedures?”

  “We haven’t seen anything quite like Mr. Gonzales’s room, thank the Lord. But we’re to remove all fruit, flowers, and open food—like nuts or cake—that people leave out in the rooms. You know, before it can rot or decay.” Philomena glanced at her friend, who nodded her agreement.

  “Does that happen very often?”

  “You’d be surprised,” Charlene told her. “That and candles—which are also prohibited now. No open flames. That’s just too dangerous.”

  “But for some reason, the Catholics are forever leaving food and dried herbs in front of their statues of the saints. And they fall asleep and leave candles burning!” Philomena was working herself into a state.

  “Couldn’t you just blow the candle out?” Cleo said as reasonably as she could.

  “Oh, no. If they can’t be trusted with using them safely, Pastor Bryce says they can’t have them. Falling asleep with a lit candle, my goodness,” Philomena countered.

  “Hmm. Of course.” Cleo studied the women. She considered herself a decent judge of character. They seemed to honestly believe they were simply keeping the guests safe and the rooms sanitary.

  “Is there anything else, Ms. Clarkson?” Charlene’s leg jiggled under the table.

  Nervous. But why?

  “What about wine? Did Pastor Bryce ask you to confiscate alcohol, too?”

  Both women slowly shook their heads no. They wore twin expressions of confusion.

  “Although I suppose if someone left a glass out, I’d dump it down the sink just like I’d dispose of the food,” Philomena mused.

  “Okay. Is there anything else Pastor Bryce asked either of you to do that I don’t know about?”

  Two sets of eyes dropped to the table. The room was completely silent.

  Cleo let the silence hang long enough to become uncomfortable. Then, in a soft voice, she reminded them, “You work for me, not for him.”

  To her surprise, Charlene cracked before mousy Philomena did.

  “There’s one thing, but it’s not related to my job here, it’s related to the church ministry.”

  “And what’s that, Charlene?” Cleo asked evenly.

  “After Mr. Gonzales died, Pastor Bryce gave me this little doll and asked me to leave it on Mr. Ruiz’s pillow when he wasn’t in his room.”

  “A doll?” Cleo was sure she’d misheard. “Why?”

  “He said that Mr. Gonzales and Mr. Ruiz had had a falling out, just before Mr. Gonzales died. You remember, the shoving match in the locker room?”

  “Yes.” The gossip mill had swung into high gear to spread that news. “But what’s that have to do with a doll?”

  “He
said that when someone exchanges harsh words with a person right before they die, it can cause lingering guilt. And even though Mr. Ruiz wasn’t a member of our church, the doll was a symbol of comfort to ease his mind.” Charlene paused and twisted her lips. “I’ll be honest, though, those little dolls are not well made. They’re downright creepy, if you ask me. Anyway, he swore me to secrecy. I didn’t even tell Philomena about it.”

  “Did you say dolls plural?”

  “Yes. I did the same when Mr. Ruiz died. Pastor Bryce gave me a doll to leave for Mr. Caldron …”

  “Let me guess, when he died, you left a doll for Mr. Garcia, then one for Ms. Morales.”

  Charlene’s eyes were enormous and her jaw was slack. She nodded mutely as she pieced together the pattern.

  “But you weren’t working last night,” Cleo mused.

  Charlene made a noise in her throat. “No, but he gave me the doll when we came in to meet with that lady detective. He said as long as Mrs. Johnson wasn’t in her room, I was to leave it on her pillow right before I left the building. Otherwise, I should keep it until my next shift.”

  Cleo massaged her forehead. “What in the world—?”

  “Ms. Clarkson?”

  “Yes, Philomena.”

  “Pastor Bryce also swore me to secrecy about something.” Her voice shook.

  Cleo looked up. “What?”

  “When Mr. Gonzales died, I found a big pile of creepy little dolls in his bedside table. Pastor Bryce saw them and took them before I could put them in a box to take to the storage closet. He made me promise if I ever found another doll like that I would bring it straight to him and not tell a soul. So, that’s what I did every time I cleaned out the room of someone who’d passed.” She swallowed a sob and turned to Charlene. “That’s why I always volunteered to clean the room after a passing.”

  “But you didn’t work last night either.”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Okay, thank you. Now, I’m sorry to be rude, but we’re done here and I have something I have to do.”

  She rushed out of the conference room, already placing the call to Bodhi as she crossed the threshold. She didn’t wait for him to speak.

  As soon as he picked up, she said, “Pastor Scott knew. All of it. He’s using their fear. I’m going to stay with my grandfather until this is over. You should tell Arthur to go to Mrs. Martin. I don’t want them to be left alone.”

  She ended the call and raced down the hallway to the room where she knew she’d find her grandfather sitting by the window reading.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  “You’ll be fine,” Felicia assured Arthur as she checked his wire and smoothed his jacket over the recording device taped to the small of his back.

  In point of fact, she had zero confidence in his ability to pull this off. His knees were actually knocking together.

  But even on the wafer-thin evidence Bodhi and Dr. Ashland had given her, she’d managed to convince Judge Young to sign off on a warrant, and she wasn’t about to back out now. She simpered and preened and tossed her hair around like she was dancing for money to get the judge to approve her surveillance request. She sure as heck was going to surveil somebody.

  As long as Arthur didn’t pass out or puke, it shouldn’t be too hard. He had one job: Get Scott to admit he was whipping up fear over the death cluster to incentivize the residents to join the Golden Island Church.

  She gave him a light punch in the shoulder. “Go get ‘em, kid.”

  Arthur gave her a sickly smile and started to walk, in slow motion, toward the cottage Pastor Scott used as his island office.

  She positioned herself behind a large, flowering hibiscus plant. Then, reflexively, she made the sign of the cross.

  Don’t screw it up, Lopez.

  Arthur forced himself to put one foot in front of the other. He’d always thought the saying was a cliche. But, as it turned out, it accurately described the process needed for him to make forward progress:

  His brain issued the command Move forward.

  His legs received the order and whimpered like cowards.

  Finally, after a fierce argument over which one was going to do it, one of his legs would reluctantly raise its foot off the ground and inch forward.

  Then its partner would wait for the brain to repeat the sequence.

  Move forward.

  He reminded himself why he was doing this. His lita. The woman who’d snuck him chocolate during the long, terrible eighth year of his childhood, when his parents had gone sugar-free. Who had taken him to see his first professional baseball game, where the Marlins had gotten the snot beaten out of them but she’d managed to snag a foul ball with her bare hand without spilling her beer.

  He stopped at the door and leaned on the doorbell. He heard the chimes echoing inside the cottage.

  After what seemed like a very long time, Pastor Bryce himself pulled the door open. Titanium-framed reading glasses were pushed up on his the top of his head.

  “Arthur? What do you need? I’m working on my sermon for this weekend. I’m staying here specifically so I can write without interruption.” He frowned.

  “I’m … sorry. I just really need some guidance.”

  Pastor Bryce sighed.

  “It’s my grandmother. She was ready to sign the check yesterday, but then her friend died. Now she’s a wreck, and I can’t seem to get her to focus. I thought maybe you could give me some pointers, so I can be a closer.” Arthur worried that he was rambling.

  Pastor Bryce looked past him, out into the garden.

  For an interminable moment, Arthur thought the pastor had spotted Detective Williams.

  It’s all over.

  His heart tightened in his chest. He tried to swallow, but the lump in his throat was a boulder.

  He made a noise that sounded shamefully like a whimper.

  But then a light sparked in Pastor Bryce’s eyes, and he smiled. He placed a strong hand on Arthur’s shoulder and squeezed it.

  “Arthur, son, I’m going to tell you exactly what to do. Follow my instructions to a tee, and your grandmother will be begging to write that check.” He laughed.

  “Uh … great.”

  “Listen, carefully. Your grandmother should be scared. Her friends are dying. Dying. And the reason why they’re dying is the Lord is angry with them. Tell her Father Rafael can’t protect her from His vengeance. But I can. You can. Tell her if she makes an offering to the Lord of your buy-in fee and joins Golden Shores with a prorated annual tithing payment, she will be protected. Then, ask her to pray with you.”

  Pastor Bryce reached into his pocket and found the doll he’d removed from Lynette Johnson’s pillow the night before. He pressed it into Arthur’s hand. “Hold her hand in prayer, and while her eyes are closed, place this doll on her pillow. Don’t mention it. Don’t point it out. Just wait and trust.”

  Arthur stared down at the clothespin. A crude face was painted on the wooden head. Black fuzz served as hair. A scrap of fabric was glued on as clothing. And a black heart was drawn on the doll’s chest.

  “What is it?”

  Pastor Bryce laughed again. “It’s better than a blue chip stock. It’s mortal fear.”

  Arthur blinked at him.

  “Now, go over to Golden Shores and do what I said. I need to get back to work. But tomorrow, I know we will be celebrating your success and praising the Lord.”

  Pastor Bryce stepped back into his hallway and shut the door in Arthur’s face.

  He stood, dejected, on the porch for several seconds then slumped his way back to the garden where Detective Williams was waiting for him.

  “I’m so sorry,” he moaned as she reached up his shirt to stop the recording and remove the device. “I blew it. He wouldn’t even let me in the house. And he gave me this stupid doll.”

  She punched him in the arm again. “Wrong-o, Arthur. That stupid doll nails him to the wall. You did it!”

  She smiled broadly.

  He s
tared at her, startled by the transformation in her whole demeanor from hardened to happy.

  “I did?”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Cleo and Mr. Santiago were playing chess when Father Rafael and Mrs. Martin appeared in the doorway to his room. The priest wore a white shirt. He looked unfamiliar without his head-to-toe black and clerical collar.

  “We need you to join us in the social club’s meeting room,” Father Rafael said in a grave voice.

  Cleo felt her eyes widen. “Is everyone okay?”

  “We will be. Detective Williams called and said it’s ‘go time.’ I presume that means those of us seeking protection should take the necessary steps.” He patted the satchel at his side.

  Mr. Santiago’s eyes darted toward Cleo. “Maybe not right now, Father.”

  Mrs. Martin shook her head. “It’s okay, Hector. Father Rafael says she knows.”

  “It’s true,” Cleo assured him.

  As Mr. Santiago and Mrs. Martin prepared the altar to Saint Theresa, who also represented Oyá, the orisha who guarded the gateway between Life and Death, Father Rafael kept up a running commentary.

  Cleo assumed it was for her benefit.

  “Because the palero Gonzales has cursed Julia and Hector with death, they will make offerings to Oyá, seeking her protection from Death. She will make sure they don’t pass her threshold too soon.”

  He reached into his pouch and pulled out several beaded bracelets, which he passed around.

  “Oyá’s favorite colors are burgundy and brown. Wear the bracelet on your left wrist,” he told Cleo as she started to fasten it around her right.

  She quickly switched it to the other wrist.

  Next from the satchel, came a bag of plums and a container of chocolate pudding.

  “Oyá likes sweet dark foods and red wines.” He nodded to Mrs. Martin, who took a bottle of wine and a corkscrew from her purse.

  “Is that Lynette’s missing wine?” Cleo asked.