Hidden Path

by Melissa F. Miller

  “Corn,” Thurman answered.

  “Corn?”

  “Corn.”

  Bodhi thought this over. “And your interest in him is—?”

  “Classified,” Clausen told him.

  The car bumped over a small dirt lane and came to a rest beside a hand-painted sign advertising fresh eggs and organic produce. Someone with a measure of artistic talent had done the lettering. The brush strokes had whimsical, tidy swoops and curly tails. The daughter in high school, Bodhi guessed, based on nothing at all.

  He leaned forward, orienting himself. The farm stand was just up the hill to the left. To the right, set back several feet from the drainage ditch, a wire fence with wood posts marked off a square cornfield that ran back as far as Bodhi could see. Chief Clark’s truck was parked parallel between the fence and the ditch. She stood about twenty feet away, wearing a blue windbreaker and a deep frown. She raised her head at the sound of the car’s engine and gave them a short wave of greeting.

  They exited the car. Bodhi left the bag on the seat. Clausen pointed up the hill as they walked toward the field where Chief Clark stood, still staring down at something lying between the cornstalks. Not something, Bodhi corrected himself. Someone.

  She narrated, “The cornfields end at an asphalt lane that runs up to the house, over to the farm stand, and back to the vegetable gardens and the fenced-in area for the chickens.”

  “I thought they were free-range.” Bodhi had imagined the chickens running freely through the ten acres.

  Thurman gave him an indulgent smile. “My folks had chickens. You have to contain them somehow or they’ll wander into the road. The Durbins give them a wide swath of grass. It looks like the Durbins also move theirs around every so often, so they can eat some new bugs and crap in a new area.”

  Clausen wrinkled her nose but made no comment.

  “City girl,” Thurman whispered loud enough for her to hear.

  She ignored him and led their trio into the grass and around to the side of the square that was farthest from the road. A gate was set in the fencing, already unlatched.

  Thurman gestured for Bodhi to go through ahead of him, so he did.

  They walked through golden stalks of corn that were nearly as tall as Bodhi.

  “Isn’t it getting kind of late in the season to harvest?”

  “It’s been a warm autumn,” Thurman explained. “By this time of year, the harvest’s usually ninety percent complete, if not more. I think at the end of last week, only about sixty-four percent of the corn in the state had been harvested. The Supra Seed farmers growing Maize46 are harvesting late because the company asked them to. For research purposes.”

  “Jason Durbin was harvesting late because he planted late this year. His wife told us he tried to time his harvest so that he wouldn’t have vulnerable plants at the height of spraying season,” Clausen added.

  “Because of Crop-Clear and the drift,” Bodhi guessed, recalling what Hannah Lee Lin had told him.

  “That’s right.” Clausen threw him a surprised look.

  They joined the police chief in between two rows of corn, about twenty yards from the fencerow nearest the road.

  “I walked away for a few minutes to use the bathroom,” she said without preamble. “And his wife came out here and covered him with the blanket from their bed. She said he looked cold, just laying there on the ground. Did she screw up your forensics?”

  Bodhi looked down at the lumpy shape under the soft, gray and white marled blanket. “He was shot in the stomach from a distance, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  He shrugged. Yes, Mrs. Durbin had contaminated the crime scene. But, he suspected draping a blanket over her husband’s body had given her some comfort. And the truth was, a rifle wound from a distance didn’t lend itself to lots of useful fiber or DNA evidence. At least not usually.

  Thurman cleared his throat. “Any word from Mark Olson?”

  Clausen turned to Bodhi. “Olson came over here yesterday afternoon and confronted Durbin about the fire. The conversation got … heated.”

  “Mark’s retained an attorney out of Elm. Any questions need to go through him,” Chief Clark announced.

  “Just great,” Thurman grumbled.

  Clausen was more philosophical. “Of course he did. I bet Supra Seed’s paying for it, too.”

  Bodhi returned his attention to the blanket. “I should really get started. Anybody who wants to walk away, this is your chance.”

  By the time he’d crouched beside the body to remove the blanket, the law enforcement officers were three-quarters of the way to the gate.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Gavriil crouched in the barn and watched the activity at the organic farmer’s field. The police lady had been there since just after midnight. Even from this distance, she looked drawn and tired.

  A car sped past on the road in front of the barn and came to a stop at the side of the road near the crime scene. Three people climbed out. A tall, rangy man with curly hair; an angular blonde woman who vibrated with intensity, and a broad-shouldered, buzz-clipped guy in a suit, who hurriedly shoveled the last bites of his breakfast into his mouth.

  He adjusted the focus on his binoculars and followed their progress up the hill.

  The woman and the guy in the suit were federal agents, no question. Given the circumstances, he’d have expected the FBI to send in a team, but these two lacked the swagger of FBI agents. There was a certain cerebral quietness to them.

  Could they be CIA? But the Central Intelligence Agency claimed not to operate on U.S. soil. He rocked with silent laughter at his own naïveté. Why would he, of all people, trust a spy agency’s public positions?

  He worried that the lack of sleep might be catching up with him. There was nothing funny about that. He needed to stay sharp until this assignment had reached completion. He reminded himself that it was almost over. Although the dead farmer was going to prove to be a complicating factor. He could feel it.

  His eyes drifted back to the tight cluster of people walking out to meet the policewoman in the field. The suits couldn’t be CIA. Why would the CIA be poking around in the death of a small family farmer? Department of Homeland Security? But, again, that possibility raised the same question. What interest would they have?

  Maybe the recently deceased farmer had been growing weed, he thought impatiently. That might fit. The pair could be agents with the Drug Enforcement Agency.

  But who was the other guy? He wasn’t a federal agent. His gate was too loose, his posture too relaxed. And he wasn’t a local cop. Gavriil had researched the locals. The lady chief, one Army vet, and two wet-behind-the-ears kids who’d just graduated from the police academy.

  He frowned. He didn’t like surprises.

  And he didn’t want any further delays. He hated it here. The days were short, the food was bland, and the people were too friendly. He wanted to go home before the weather grew any colder.

  He tracked the trio’s movements through the field until they reached the point where the body had fallen. There was a brief conversation. The police chief gestured to the blanket; and the stranger shrugged. Then he crouched beside the corpse. The others walked away.

  Gavriil watched as the man removed the blanket from the dead farmer. He knew what would be revealed. He’d already seen it through his tactical binoculars. The bullet had ripped through the farmer’s lower abdomen. Based on the amount of blood covering the corpse’s pelvis, legs, and the plants where he’d fallen, Gavriil figured the bullet had hit a femoral artery right where it branched down into the thigh.

  The curly-haired man leaned forward and examined the gaping wound with a thoughtful expression.

  Ah, a medical doctor—the kind who worked with dead people. Gavriil rolled his shoulders. This man presented no threat to him.

  After watching for another couple of minutes, Gavriil lowered the binoculars and rubbed his eyes. He glanced over at the horse blanket he’d spread over a bed of fres
h hay in the corner. Maybe just a quick nap. He wouldn’t miss anything. The coroner, or whoever he was, would likely take hours to do whatever coroner-type things he intended to do.

  He set the alarm on his complicated wristwatch to go off in ninety minutes. Then, out of habit, he took one last look at the subject. The federal agents were getting into their car. The woman was behind the wheel. Then, the passenger door opened. The man jumped out and ran over to the cattle fence cradling something in his arms.

  Gavriil rotated the turret to move the rectile and increase the magnification. He read the male agent’s lips. ‘Almost forgot your bag,’ he called out to the doctor. The doctor stood and walked to the fence. The agent handed over a weathered-looking brown leather backpack. The doctor nodded his thanks.

  Gavriil nearly dropped the thousand-dollar binoculars. He gripped them tight and stared hard. The doctor was holding the Chinese agent’s bag. The Chinese government had sent in a replacement much faster than he’d imagined they could. And a white man with access to law enforcement records, at that.

  All thoughts of a nap evaporated. He paced around the barn’s low loft. He had to hunch his shoulders and take care not to fall to the ground below, but he needed to move to burn off some of the adrenaline that was spiking in his system.

  He’d left that bag where it would be completely safe—or so he’d thought. If the doctor had access to the monk’s barn, that was bad. If he had access to the main house, that was catastrophic.

  He fumbled for his mobile phone in his pocket. He powered it on and began to call his employer. Then he stopped. He reminded himself his first commander’s rule: Don’t bring me a problem; bring me a solution.

  He returned the phone to his pocket and thought hard. He squeezed his eyes shut and dismissed the first thought that came to mind. His first idea was usually lazy. He’d learned that about himself. He dismissed his second idea, too. That was usually trash. After several quiet moments, he smiled. The third idea, now that was the winner.

  First, he had to slip back into the barn and the basement at the monk’s place and retrieve what was his. It would take careful planning and execution.

  Next, he would have to kill the doctor. And the Chinese woman. There was no room for error.

  The matter settled, he stretched and yawned. He clambered across the loft to his makeshift bed and lay flat on his back on the scratchy hay. He pulled the equally scratchy blanket over himself and closed his eyes. Within thirty seconds, his breathing slowed and his heavy eyes closed.

  He slept the sound and peaceful sleep of a man with a plan.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Hannah lay flat on her back and stared unblinkingly up at the ceiling. She pulled her soft fleece blanket up to her chin and stared some more. She pushed it off and turned on her side. She stared at the wall. She closed her burning eyes, swollen from crying and lack of rest, and willed herself to sleep.

  It was no use.

  She flopped to her other side and checked the time on the bedside clock. It was nearly seven. The sun was rising. She should be out of the shower by now, eating breakfast.

  But there was no way she was going into the laboratory today. She’d nearly been killed less than eight hours ago. She flinched at the memory. The shouted warning, the crack of the gun. The feel of the slick grass, slippery under her feet as she ran. The fear that rose in her throat. And the burnt smell hanging in the air, thick and sickly sweet.

  Tears welled in her eyes. She reached to take her cell phone from the charger. Maybe if she spoke to her mother, she’d feel better. She hesitated, her hand hovering over the phone.

  If she called, her mother would know she was upset and would press her for the reason. She couldn’t tell her mother what had happened without admitting what she’d done.

  No. She couldn’t tell anybody. She’d take the day off, watch reruns on the science fiction channel, and eat toast and jam. She’d forget all about gunshots in the night, missing secret agents, and fields of burning crops.

  She picked up the phone and called her supervisor’s line. He wouldn’t be pulling into the lot for another twenty minutes, so at least she wouldn’t have to talk to him in person.

  After his recorded greeting finished, she cleared her throat:

  Hi, It’s Hannah. I’m not going to be able to make it in today. I feel really lousy. I can’t even get out of bed. I’ll try to be there tomorrow. In the meantime, I’ll keep an eye on my email in case anything urgent comes up. Thanks.

  She hadn’t rehearsed it, but it was perfect. It was one hundred percent truthful and defensible. Given all the lying and subterfuge she’d been engaging in, that fact was a small but critical triumph.

  She rested the phone on the bedside table and took her laptop from the shelf below the clock and lamp. She powered up the computer so she could sign into the streaming television service. But after keying in her login information and going to her home screen, she forgot all about her science fiction marathon.

  The local news feed from her Internet provider popped up as a notification. As she read the first five words of the top headline, her heart skipped a beat: Onatah Farmer Slain in his Field.

  Her hands trembled. It took her two tries to click on the link for the full story. She read it rapidly. Her stomach lurched as she scanned the short article:

  Jason Durbin, of Onatah, was found dead from a single shotgun wound at the Durbin Organic Farm on County Road 113, just after midnight. An unknown female caller alerted authorities to a shot fired. When the police arrived at the scene, Mr. Durbin was already dead. Onatah Police Chief Bette Clark would not comment on the ongoing investigation but did ask that any citizens with information contact the police department. Mr. Durbin leaves behind a wife, a sixteen-year-old daughter, and a ten-year-old son. This is a developing story and will be updated.

  She covered her mouth with her hand. A man was dead. Because of her. She hadn’t known. He’d made no sound when he was hit. She told herself she wouldn’t have run if he had. She would have gone to him, tried to stem the flow of blood until help arrived.

  She swallowed hard, trying to push back the bile that rose in her throat. She glanced back at the screen, feeling lightheaded. There was a picture to go along with the short article.

  A tall, thin man—the medical examiner, presumably—caught mid-motion. He was bending his knees, getting ready to crouch down in the high corn. He was facing away from the camera. Curly hair and a glimpse of an angular jaw were all the photographer caught.

  It was odd, she thought, that he wasn’t wearing an official navy windbreaker like Chief Clark, captured standing by the fence. She looked again at the curly hair. The casual khaki pants and the long-sleeved shirt. It was Bodhi King, the Buddhist forensic pathologist.

  Wheels began to turn in Hannah’s stressed-out mind.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Bodhi ran the hot water until it came up to temperature then washed his hands at the stainless steel sink. He’d double-gloved to examine Jason Durbin, but an arterial wound was always messy. This one, particularly so. The bullet had severed the man’s femoral artery in the inguinal region where it branched down from his groin and thigh. He’d probably bled out well before the news of the shot made it to the 9-1-1 operator.

  He dried his hands carefully then waited for Chief Clark to come out of the ladies room across the hall. She emerged pale but dry eyed. She’d watched the autopsy wordlessly, her lips pressed into a thin line behind the clear visor.

  “Let’s go. We don’t want to keep the Wonder Twins waiting,” she said with a resigned sigh.

  They took the wide stairs from the hospital basement up to the cafeteria where they’d arranged to meet up with Agents Thurman and Clausen. The police chief glanced at him twice as they mounted the staircase but looked away quickly, as if she couldn’t quite make up her mind about asking him a question.

  “It would have been quick.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Jason Durbin would have
bled out quickly. He didn’t suffer long.”

  She blinked at him. “How did you guess—?”

  “It’s what any compassionate person would want to know.”

  She fell silent for a moment. Then, in a quiet voice, she asked, “Is it true—it would have been that fast?”

  “I wouldn’t lie about it. It’s true. Probably a matter of seconds, not minutes.”

  It was true. A direct hit to an artery was a quick way to die. He thought of Sasha McCandless, a friend from home, who’d been knifed in her brachial artery. She was considerably smaller than Jason Durbin. If he hadn’t been present when she’d been stabbed, she wouldn’t have survived. Of course, if he hadn’t been present she wouldn’t have been stabbed in the first place—but that was a separate issue.

  The femoral artery was the second largest artery in the body, second only to the aorta. And unlike Sasha, whose artery had been cut but not severed, Jason Durbin’s had been completely detached when the bullet tore through his lower abdomen.

  “Okay. Thanks.” She gave him a tremulous smile.

  He pushed open the swinging doors and they walked into the quiet cafeteria. It was nearly two in the afternoon. The lunch rush had come and gone. Only a few tables were occupied. Their occupants sat hunched over cups of coffee whispering to one another in the hushed tones that became automatic in hospitals.

  He spotted Clausen and Thurman at a rectangular table near the window and waved. Clausen nodded a greeting. Thurman twisted around and grinned.

  He followed Chief Clark through the line. She selected a bag of chips and a slice of pizza that was being kept nominally warm under a heat lamp. He chose a clear plastic cup of nuts, a container of olives from the salad bar, and an apple. From the refrigerated case near the cashier lanes, she got a paper carton of milk. He filled a courtesy cup with water from the dispenser on the counter.

  The cashier waved them through. “No charge, chief.”

  Chief Clark smiled wanly. “Thanks, Sandra.”