Lonely Path

by Melissa F. Miller

  She gnawed on her lower lip, trying to decide how to say what she was about to say. “It sounds like fun. But … I’m seeing someone.”

  He looked at her blankly for a moment. “Today? You have a friend in town?”

  “No. I mean I’m dating someone—back home.”

  Understanding bloomed on his face. “I see. I promise my intentions are honorable.”

  She gave him a close look. They’d always enjoyed exploring Pittsburgh’s hidden nooks and crannies and overlooked neighborhoods during their limited free time back in medical school. And wandering around the countryside sounded more appealing than holing up in her room and worrying about her upcoming public speaking role.

  “I don’t know—”

  “I’d like to spend some time with you, Eliza. As an old friend, nothing more.”

  “Tell me more about this cheese.”

  “It’s called paillasson. It’s buttery and served grilled or fried or something. And the only place you can get it is at this one cheese shop on the island. How could you pass that up?”

  She had to admit she probably couldn’t, but she didn’t tell him that yet. Instead, she said, “Paillasson? Doesn’t that mean doormat?”

  A wide grin broke across his face. “I think so. Don’t you want to know the story behind it?”

  She tilted her head from side to side, weighing her answer. “I actually really do.”

  He laughed. “It’s settled then. Meet you in the lobby in an hour?”

  She took a moment to check in with herself. Her breathing was measured. Her heart rate was normal. Her hands were steady. She nodded. “See you then.”

  Chapter Seven

  Provincial Forensic Laboratory

  Montreal, Quebec

  Monday afternoon

  Jon Malvern hustled into his office and grabbed his lab coat from the hook on the back of the door. He hadn’t yet buttoned it when Lucy Kim, the senior toxicologist, knocked on his door and pushed it open.

  “Oh, good, you’re back.” She managed a harassed-looking smile.

  “Traffic was bad or I’d have been here sooner. What’d I miss?”

  “More of the same. I got the STAs on four more overdoses.”

  He shook his head. The STAs—or systemic toxicological analyses—that Lucy was running were comprehensive, state-of-the-art tests. Her team had been testing the urine, blood, and hair samples of the overdose victims for every known street and prescription drug and coming up empty. Whatever was killing these people was a completely new concoction, a chemical cipher that neither enzyme-linked immunoassay, gas chromatography/mass spectrometry, nor any of Lucy’s other tests could decode.

  That was the problem with designer drugs. The black market chemists who created them stayed a step ahead of the authorities by intentionally tweaking the components. And even when the recipe wasn’t being altered by design, because illicit drug labs lacked quality assurance or standardization procedures, ingredients and amounts could fluctuate wildly from one batch to the next. It made identification a nightmare.

  Although Jon wasn’t a toxicologist, there was ample cross-over between his specialty and hers. And they both knew the value of looking outside one’s area of expertise, especially when faced with a road block like this one. He wracked his brain trying to coming up with a novel next step.

  “Do you want to try analyzing bone marrow?” he ventured.

  “Maybe, eventually. I actually stopped by because I have an idea, but I need your help.”

  “Say the word.”

  “Thanks. I’d like you to culture some glial cells from the brain matter samples for me.”

  He blinked.

  The glia were the neurons’ often overlooked, but crucial and multifunctional partner. For decades, neuroscientists focused on the neurons and believed the abundant glial cells were unimportant. In reality, they played several critical roles that keep the central nervous system running. Glial cells built and pruned synapses, formed myelin to insulate neurons, enabled communication between neurons and synapses, and were involved in learning and creativity. In short, they were wonderfully diverse. But he wasn’t sure where she was going with this.

  “What are you thinking?” he asked.

  Lucy made a clicking sound with her tongue. “I’m not sure, Jon. I just keep thinking if there’s a new neurotoxin out there—or a slightly tweaked one that the tests aren’t picking up—we might find evidence of glial cell destruction or mutation, particularly in the microglia.”

  He nodded excitedly. It was a novel approach, but it was sensible. The microglial cells functioned as the brain’s immune system. Recent research had implicated chronic microglial activation and inflammation in a number of neurodegenerative diseases. If the synthetic drug they were dealing with was a neurotoxin, it was possible that it would damage the same pathways as the neurodegenerative diseases.

  After a moment, he tempered his enthusiasm and slid into the role of devil’s advocate. It was his duty, as both a colleague and a friend, to poke holes in her hypothesis.

  “We’re starting from an assumption that this drug, whatever it is, crosses the blood-brain barrier?”

  “Most addictive drugs do. And I think it’s safe to say our mystery drug is addictive, don’t you?”

  He shrugged. “Probably.”

  “I know it’s a long shot, but I have to do something.” Her frustration took physical form. She stiffened her spine and clenched her jaw.

  “Why don’t I prepare both—neuronal and glial cultures? You can run whatever assays you can think of to measure cell death, and I’ll see what I can come up with to identify demylenation, inflammation, and deterioration.”

  Her face eased into a grin. “You’re a gem, Jon. A total gem.”

  Chapter Eight

  The road outside Sainte-Anne, Île d’Orléans

  Bodhi glanced at Eliza. She had settled into the rental car’s passenger seat with a blissful sigh after they’d left the restaurant.

  “Who’d ever imagine a restaurant menu built entirely around black currants?” she asked when she caught his eye.

  “It was unique,” he agreed. The cassis, or black currant, farm and restaurant was only one of the charmingly unusual points of interest they’d encountered on the small island.

  After tromping across a suspension bridge at Montmorency Falls Park and marveling at the thrill-seeking zip liners, they’d stopped at the cheese shop so Eliza could taste the paillasson, served up by an enthusiastic cheese merchant dressed in seventeenth-century garb.

  Bodhi had found the story about the cheese delightful. Eliza had found the actual cheese less so. “I think I know why they call it doormat. It tastes like feet,” she’d whispered as they’d left the building.

  He’d made up for the cheese with the promised stop at the chocolatier. Followed by a vineyard. And a produce stand. Their gustatory tour of the island culminated with a meal of black currant-sauced duck confit for her and black currant, mushroom and onion confit for him, black currant wine and lemonade, and black currant sorbet.

  Watching Eliza eat and drink her way through Île d’Orléans was a treat in itself. She peppered the shop proprietors with questions and reacted with delight and surprise at each new treat, even the cheese. Spending the afternoon with her brought memories of their heady medical school romance rushing back to him.

  He let the easy companionability of the last several hours wash over him as the sun sank below the horizon and he pointed the car back to Quebec City.

  After several moments of contented silence, Eliza suddenly said, “Why did you break up with me, Bodhi?”

  Her voice was neutral, but he noticed how she tensed her body and wrapped her arms around her midsection.

  He was silent for a moment as he formulated a response. He owed her complete honesty, but he wanted to take care not to cause her new pain.

  Finally, he said, “I made a careless mistake. I was scared. We were both moving on to the next phase in our medic
al careers and I believed that the Buddha’s teachings on attachment meant that I should enter that phase alone. I was wrong, as it turns out. But I panicked. And I’ve regretted it ever since.”

  He let his eyes drift away from the empty rural road and meet hers.

  “Oh.”

  Neither of them spoke for a bit. Then he said, “And I was confused about the precept on sexual relationships.”

  He waited to see if she squirmed. He didn’t want to elaborate if doing so would cause her discomfort. The last thing he wanted to do was to hurt her anew.

  “What’s the precept say?” she asked, keeping her eyes fixed on the road ahead.

  “To refrain from committing sexual misconduct. The precept encourages us to cultivate and encourage open and honest relationships.”

  “That seems as if it would be doable without dumping your partner.”

  He winced. “I may have been a bit militant in my interpretation, Eliza. I knew that the monks were celibate in an effort to devote themselves to their studies of Buddhism. I thought I needed to be celibate, too, so I could devote myself to the practice of medicine. I was wrong.” He tried to deliver the explanation without a whiff of excuse or self-pity.

  She hugged her knees to her chest. Without taking her eyes off the road, she asked, “How long were you … celibate—after me?”

  His mind flashed to the women who’d briefly enticed his imagination but then had flitted out of his consciousness.

  “I still am.”

  His answer seemed to suck the air out of the car. A haze of regret for his candor began to envelope him. Then suddenly, she gripped his arm.

  “Bodhi! Stop the car!”

  He jammed on the brakes, a reaction to the panic in her voice. The car squealed to a stop.

  She kept a firm grasp on his upper arm and pointed to the right shoulder of the road. A very young woman, pale-faced and frozen, stood barefoot in the gravel.

  He eased the car off the road and killed the engine.

  “Look at her eyes,” he murmured.

  “I think she’s in shock. I’ll go to her first. Give me a few minutes to talk to her.”

  He nodded. Eliza had a calming way about her. Her decision to pursue pathology had always puzzled him. He understood she was introverted and shy, but her soothing, empathetic nature was a gift that was wasted on the dead. A live, distressed woman would find her manner comforting.

  His own affinity for pathology was much more understandable. He did not fear death. He accepted and respected it. And he wanted to help the dead tell their stories.

  He watched as she exited the car and slowly approached the woman. She stooped so that she was at eye level with the shorter woman before she spoke. After several minutes, she turned and gestured for him to join them.

  As he crunched across the gravel, Eliza faced him.

  “She’s in shock,” she said in a low voice.

  He noted the woman’s slack expression and wide, dilated eyes. She didn’t track his approach. Rather, she kept her unblinking and blank eyes on Eliza.

  “I’m Dr. King.” He announced himself in a low, slow voice.

  The woman didn’t respond. He took in her filthy dress and apron. Her mud-coated feet and the blood that had been trickling down her legs in fine lines and then dried, as if she’d marched through brambles some time ago. She didn’t tremble or shiver. She stood, rigid and straight, and stared at Eliza.

  “What’s your name?” he tried.

  No reaction.

  After a moment, he said, “Je m’appelle Docteur King. Elle est Docteure Rollins. Comment vous appelez-vous?”

  After a delay, the woman shifted her gaze and locked her eyes on his, although he could see no life behind them.

  “Tatiana,” she croaked in a slow voice that creaked like an unoiled door. “Je m’appelle Tatiana.”

  Bodhi called Guillaume, who patched him through to the Quebec City police, while Eliza performed a rudimentary exam on Tatiana in the backseat of the car. After saying her name, Tatiana had lapsed back into silence and didn’t seem to register Eliza’s touch as she checked her vitals and reflexes.

  Bodhi explained the situation to the police then twisted around to talk to Eliza and Tatiana.

  “Because you can’t tell us where you’re from or how you got here, we’re going to take you to Quebec City. The authorities will help you.”

  Tatiana looked forward blankly.

  “Say it in French,” Eliza suggested.

  Bodhi gestured in frustration. “My French is pretty rusty. What’s your name is about the best I can do.”

  Eliza flashed him a half-smile. She turned to Tatiana and repeated his words in impeccable rapid-fire French. He’d forgotten Eliza lived in Cajun country.

  He watched intently for the woman’s reaction. If he hadn’t been looking for it, he would have missed it. At the mention of the service du police, a light flickered in Tatiana’s eyes. But she didn’t speak. Or nod. Or otherwise acknowledge them.

  “Go ahead,” Eliza told him. “Take us to the station. I’ll sit back here and keep Tatiana company.” She picked up the woman’s limp hand and clasped it between her own hands as he turned the key in the ignition and the car rumbled to life.

  Chapter Nine

  Eliza crawled between the buttery high-thread count sheets and pulled the blanket up to her chin. She was bone weary and drained. The initial adrenaline spike from finding Tatiana had dissipated before they’d reached the police station.

  Then the long hours of bright lights, bad coffee, and repeated questions and forms had flattened what was left of her spirit. By the time they’d left Tatiana in the care of a social worker, a victim’s advocate, and a crisis counselor, Eliza could barely keep her eyes open.

  Bodhi had guided her to the car as if she were a child or an invalid. She hadn’t had the energy to protest.

  She turned out the light and surrendered to a heavy sleep.

  A ringing phone jarred her awake. She fumbled with the light and then squinted at her phone’s display. Fred was calling.

  “Hello?” she croaked, her mouth cottony from sleep and acidic from the cassis wine.

  “Were you sleeping, Liza Bean?”

  “Mm, yeah. It’s okay, though.” She suddenly wanted to talk to Fred more than she wanted to rest. She pushed herself up on to her elbows.

  “What time is it there? It’s only eight-thirty here.”

  She squinted at the clock. “Nine-thirty.”

  “Shouldn’t you be out hobnobbing with the other docs?” He laughed.

  “It was a long day. Do you have time to talk?”

  “Course I do. That’s why I called you.”

  “Okay. First, I had a panic attack because—”

  “Are you all right?” He cut her off in an urgent voice.

  Fred had been witness to one of her attacks for the first time just months ago, right before she was to testify at an inquest. It had terrified him so much that his worry had forced her out of her own hysteria.

  “I’m fine. I got a handle on it early. But the reason it happened was …” she trailed off, searching for the right way to explain Bodhi to Fred.

  “I know, babe. You were anxious about meeting all those other doctors, weren’t you?”

  “I was, but that’s not why. I … I know one of the other panelists.”

  “You do? That’s good, isn’t it? Having a familiar face on your panel should make you feel more comfortable.”

  “Not exactly. His name is Bodhi King. He was my boyfriend when I was in medical school.”

  “Oh.”

  “He was the last man I dated seriously before you, Fred.”

  She waited. She and Fred had never discussed their dating histories. She figured that they both realized she hadn’t reached her late thirties and he hadn’t reached his late forties without some stops along the way.

  Finally, he said haltingly, “Well, shoot, Eliza. Are you trying to tell me you’re hung up on this guy?�
�

  “No. I’m not. He broke my heart, that’s the truth. But you mended it. That’s also the truth.”

  A small ahh of relief sounded in her ear.

  “Happy to be of service, ma’am.”

  His jokey police officer voice brought Tatiana rushing back to her. “But something terrible happened today. We went sightseeing on this island right outside the city, and on the way back we found a woman.”

  “You found a woman? Do you mean a body? Was she dead?”

  “She wasn’t dead. But I’m not sure I could fairly call her alive either. She was just standing on the side of the road. We thought she was in shock at first, but I don’t know. She seemed … empty. She only spoke once. She said her name is Tatiana.”

  “Man, I’m sorry, sweetheart. That must’ve been rough.”

  “It was. But rougher for her. We took her to the police station. There’s a whole team working to help her. And I think they’re having her admitted to the hospital for observation. But I just can’t get her out of my mind. I don’t know if she has amnesia or locked in syndrome or she’s traumatized, but she’s not whole. And it’s haunting me.” She took a shuddering breath.

  “Hey, hey. You helped her, Liza Bean. You and your friend did what you could do. The police up there in Quebec City are top notch. They’ll take care of her.”

  His words swept over her like a balm, and the guilt and helplessness she felt over the sad young woman eased.

  “I love you, Fred.”

  “I love you, too. Now you go back to sleep. A good night’s rest’ll do wonders for you.”

  She murmured a goodbye and turned out the light. He was right. She needed to regroup and recharge. As she closed her eyes, she reminded herself that Tatiana was in good hands and that the authorities were best positioned to help her.

  Chapter Ten

  Tuesday morning