Lonely Path
Page 1
Lonely Path
A Bodhi King Novel
Melissa F. Miller
Brown Street Books
Copyright © 2017 by Melissa F. Miller
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Brown Street Books eBook ISBN 978-1-940759-31-9
Contents
Also by Melissa F. Miller
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Author’s Note
Thank You!
About the Author
Acknowledgments
Also by Melissa F. Miller
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The Sasha McCandless Legal Thriller Series
Irreparable Harm
Inadvertent Disclosure
Irretrievably Broken
Indispensable Party
Lovers and Madmen (Novella)
Improper Influence
A Marriage of True Minds (Novella)
Irrevocable Trust
Irrefutable Evidence
A Mingled Yarn (Novella)
Informed Consent
International Incident
Imminent Peril
The Humble Salve (Novella)
The Aroostine Higgins Novels
Critical Vulnerability
Chilling Effect
Calculated Risk
Called Home
The Bodhi King Novels
Dark Path
Lonely Path
Hidden Path
The We Sisters Three Romantic Comedic Mysteries
Rosemary’s Gravy
Sage of Innocence
Thyme to Live
Lost and Gowned
One whose mind
is enmeshed in sympathy
for friends and companions,
neglects the true goal.
Seeing this danger in intimacy,
wander alone(.)
The Buddha, Sutta Nipata
Chapter One
Smith House Parking Lot, Mount Royal Park,
Montreal, Quebec, Canada
Sunday, 30 minutes after sunset
The student meandered his way down from the angel statue, still buzzing and mildly dazed from Tam-Tams. He’d eaten perhaps one too many space cakes and decided this was the time to try his first dose of Solo.
He’d heard the hippies at the drum circle talking about it, about how the drug was no fun because it didn’t connect them to the Universe or make them feel part of the great cosmos. Instead it made a person feel contained and in control, powerful and self-possessed, with no need or desire to make any connections.
He wanted that feeling more than anything.
He lost his footing and stumbled onto the paved lot. Then he hesitated and looked around. Now what? He was only in his first year at university, and he had little experience in approaching dealers to buy drugs—or women to ask out, or professors to seek clarification about a lesson. Sweat beaded on his upper lip as he edged closer to the nearest loitering dealer.
The guy gave him a laconic once-over. “What you need, man?”
“Solo?” he squeaked. “Solo,” he tried again in a stronger voice.
“You a cop?”
He shook his head rapidly. “No. I’m a student.”
“Easy, man. I don’t have it. You want some Molly? I got pure Molly, the real deal.”
His friends had warned him not to buy Molly in the park—it was always cut with something, and sometimes had no MDMA in it at all. Better to get that on campus. “I want to try Solo.”
“It’s your life.” The dealer made a clicking sound, like a disappointed mother, then jerked his head to his right. “You want to see Christian. The African in the yellow hat.”
“Thanks.”
He took a few steps away from the Molly dealer and toward Christian then stopped. His high from the weed was wearing off, and this whole idea seemed stupid. But if he didn’t go through with the buy now, these guys might think he was a cop. They could jump him.
He lowered his head and hurried over to Christian before he lost his nerve. He waited, staring at the ground, while the man finished up a sale.
“You looking for something?” the dealer asked.
“Solo.”
“You ever do Solo before?”
The student lifted his head in surprise at the question. “Uh … no. Why?”
“This is serious stuff. You just starting out, maybe you want some pure weed, ganja?”
“I want Solo.”
He realized that he really did. He wanted to know what it was like to feel powerful and alone instead of lonely.
Christian appraised him. “Man, it’s your funeral. It’s twenty a pill.”
“One pill’s all I need?” He dug a crumpled bill out of his jeans pocket.
“Yeah. And it’s all I’m selling a virgin. You like it, you know where to find me.” He replaced the twenty with a small square of aluminum foil wrapped around a single pill.
“Thanks.”
The dealer turned away.
The student walked back toward the trail through the park to find a wide open space to take the pill. He sat down in the grass, unwrapped the tiny foil packet, and examined the bright purple tablet. He popped it into his mouth then lay on his back and looked up at the deepening night sky while he waited to feel different.
He didn’t have to wait long.
A surge of power coursed through his body and he sat bolt upright. He stretched out his arms and stared at his fingertips. They tingled and pulsed with energy.
He stood and turned in a slow circle, taking in the trees and grass that surrounded him. He was a god. He was separate from it all, in control of everything. No, he was everything—a self-contained cosmos.
He was the hero in his own epic story. He tipped his head back and laughed.
The laugh froze in his throat. Caught there as his thrumming body numbed. Panic invaded his high. He couldn’t move his fingers. He couldn’t move his feet. His breath turned to cement in his lungs as he crumpled to the ground.
His brain received the last weak electrical impulses from his neurons and processed them into his final thought: The end.
Chapter Two
Chateau Frontenac
Quebec City, Quebec, Canada,
Sunday night
Bodhi King brought the rental car to a stop in front of the
entrance to the iconic hotel. A smiling valet hurried over as Bodhi exited the car. Bodhi noted his name tag, which identified him as ‘Timothy S.’
“Welcome to Quebec City.” Timothy’s pride was evident in his voice, as if he were personally responsible for the historic old city and its charms.
“Thank you.” Bodhi shouldered his large backpack.
Then he stepped back to gaze up at the stately, castle-like structure. Its many copper turrets, peaks, and roofs gleamed in the night.
“Wow,” he breathed.
He’d seen pictures, of course—who hadn’t? The hotel even had an entry in The Guinness Book of World Records as the most-photographed hotel on the planet. But standing in front of it, seeing it in person, was staggering.
“She’s a beauty, isn’t she, Mr. …” Timothy trailed off, waiting for him to supply a name.
“King. Bodhi King.”
Recognition sparked in his eyes. “Ah, Dr. King, you’re one of the speakers, yes? For the conference?”
Bodhi blinked. “Yes, I am.”
The valet noted his surprise with a laugh. “The conference attendees will be most of the hotel guests later in the week—they’ve booked most of the rooms. But we were told that the speakers would begin to arrive today, and to make you feel most welcome.”
“I see. Have any other speakers arrived?”
Guillaume Loomis, the programming coordinator for the meeting of the North American Society of Forensic Pathology, had encouraged him to come in a few days early to explore the city. The conference itself didn’t begin until Wednesday, although Dr. Loomis had arranged for the panelists and presenters to meet informally on Monday and to attend a private session on Tuesday. Bodhi was hopeful he would be able to keep a low profile until the Monday luncheon.
“Some have. Mainly those of you with international flights and some of the speakers who live in distant provinces. Most people will check in tomorrow.”
Perfect. His plan to walk the city in the morning should go off without a hitch.
“Great. Well, good night, Timothy.” Bodhi handed over the keys to the subcompact and a folded bill.
The valet placed the latter in his pocket. “Merci. I’ll have your bags sent up to your room.”
“No need. I have everything right here.” He patted the backpack.
“Very good, sir.”
Bodhi took another look at the building’s grand facade before walking into the lobby.
Inside, the tan marble floors, dark oak panels, and shimmering chandeliers set into the blue coffered ceiling matched the splendor and glamour of the exterior.
Only one reception desk was staffed at this late hour, and a woman was checking in. Bodhi stood a respectful distance away and took the opportunity to gaze at the carefully arranged art and antiques while he waited.
“Good night,” the woman called to the man behind the desk and she disappeared around a corner, clutching her room key.
Her lilting voice held a hint of a Southern accent. Something about her inflection was familiar. It stirred old memories that tried, but couldn’t quite manage, to rise to the surface. Bodhi turned to get a glimpse of the speaker, but all he saw was the back of her head.
“Sir?” The registration clerk smiled at him.
“Oh, right. Hi.” He put the woman’s voice out of his mind and stepped up to the registration desk.
Eliza Rollins let herself into her room, switched on the lights, and dropped the key onto the desk. She crossed the room and swept the drapes open to reveal the historic city, agleam with lights.
She rested her forehead against the cool glass and looked out into the night. Quebec City was a far cry from Belle Rue, Louisiana. But at least the smattering of French she’d picked up during her years working in Creole country might come in handy.
She pulled out her mobile phone and found the icon for her contact list. She pressed ‘CoP’ to call the St. Mary’s Parish Chief of Police.
“Chief Bolton,” he answered formally in his gruff voice, even though she knew his phone would identify her as ‘Doc R.’
“It’s me, Fred.”
“I know. How’s Quebec City?”
She peered out the window. “It was dark when I got here, so I didn’t see much. But this hotel is indescribable. I understand where it got its name. It truly looks like a castle.”
“Yeah? Make sure you take some pictures. I doubt the Association of Small Town Chiefs will ever book one of our meetings there.”
They both chuckled at the thought. It was almost unbelievable that she, the coroner of itty-bitty St. Mary’s Parish, had been invited to present her paper at an international meeting of forensic pathologists. She’d pinched herself when Guillaume Loomis had called her.
“I miss you.” The words flew out of her mouth unbidden.
“Ah, hell, I miss you, too, Eliza. But I couldn’t very well leave Soldan in charge to go flitting off to Canada. The good people of St. Mary’s Parish wouldn’t be able to sleep at night.”
She sighed. Fred’s workaholic habits and his refusal to delegate made him a moderately bad boyfriend. Luckily for him, she was a socially awkward introvert who didn’t like to go out to dinner—let alone travel internationally. But presenting her paper at this conference would be an honor, possibly the pinnacle of her career. She could hardly have refused. It sure would have been nice to have had him come along, though.
“I know. It’s too bad. This place is so romantic.” She sighed.
“Eliza …”
“I know, you couldn’t.”
There was a heavy silence.
“Tell you what, we’ll go to New Orleans for a long weekend next month. We’ll eat some good food, listen to some jazz. You can pick the hotel—a haunted one, a romantic one, whatever you want. Okay?” He lowered his voice to a growl.
“Okay.” Her mouth curved into a smile.
“You oughta draw yourself a bath, have a soak, and relax. Rest up. You’re representing the great state of Louisiana, after all. You’ve gotta wow those Canucks.”
“Good night, Fred.”
“Good night, baby.”
She ended the call and glanced at the thick packet of conference materials that had been delivered to her room along with her bag. For a moment, she considered reviewing the papers while in the bath, but Fred was right. As a lifelong introvert, she wasn’t exactly relishing the next several days of socializing and public speaking. She’d be more effective if she was well rested and fresh.
The envelope could wait until the morning.
Chapter Three
Sainte-Anne, Île d’Orléans
The Quebec countryside
Virgil was leaving the plant when his cell phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled the heavy wooden doors shut and juggled the phone and the key ring.
“Hello?” He squeezed the phone between his shoulder and his ear and jiggled the padlock into place.
A stream of accented garbled French and English hit his ears. The man was screaming.
“Stop. Breathe.”
His caller did as instructed.
“Good. Now, who is this?” A great number of people had his telephone number, but he made it a point not to save any of their names as contacts. Why do the police’s work for them?
“It’s Christian, man.” The cadence of his caller’s voice had slowed, but he was still gulping for air.
African immigrant. One of the Mont Royal Park dealers. Decent producer.
“What’s the problem?” Virgil frowned to himself as he crossed the courtyard from the crumbling building to the gate. He hoped Christian wasn’t about to tell him about yet another sweep of the park. His lawyers would eventually secure the release of most of his dealers, but it would cost him time and money.
“Another dead white boy.”
Virgil stopped in his tracks, just outside the entrance gate.
“Solo?” he asked, although he already knew the answer. He pulled the gate shut, turned the key, and tested the
gate to ensure the lock was engaged.
“Yes. I sold him one hit. Just one. Then I damn near tripped over his body walking home. Just laying there in the grass, on the hill about fifty yards from the parking lot, eyes wide open.”
“You’re sure he’s dead?”
“What am I—a doctor? He didn’t have a pulse and wasn’t breathing. What do you call that?”
Virgil ignored the question. “Is he still there?”
“Yeah. He’s dead. He’s not going anywhere.”
“Take his identification out of his wallet and roll him into the bushes near the drinking fountain.”
“What? No, man. I’m not—”
“Do as I say. Drop the ID into the Saint Lawrence on your way home.”
A long pause, some indistinct mumbling. Then, “Fine. What about the rest of the wallet?”
“I don’t care what you do as long as you’re smart about it. Keep the cash, sell the cards.”
He slid into the driver’s seat, planning his next steps. If the buyer was dead, it was a simple matter to leave him in the park for the police to clean up. But on the off chance the man wasn’t quite dead …. No, he had to confirm it for himself.
He gritted his teeth as he started the car. This detour would throw off his schedule.
“Hey, man? What’s wrong with this stuff? You gotta stop selling it until you get it right.” The dealer’s voice shook.
Virgil laughed. “Ah, Christian—the drug dealer with a conscience. I’m sure the overdoses weigh heavily on you when you close your eyes to sleep. If it bothers you so much, find a priest and make a confession. I can stop supplying you at any time.”
“No, no, that’s not what I mean,” Christian protested right away. “Solo’s pure gold, my best seller. Just … why do people keep dying—are you cutting it with something nasty? ”