Lonely Path

by Miller, Melissa F.

  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? ”

  “Rest assured my drugs are pure. I don’t ‘cut’ them with anything.” He bristled at the idea.

  The unique flood of energy and rush of adrenaline that Solo provided were the result of a carefully calibrated cocktail of chemicals that Virgil had spent years perfecting. He tried to hit that sweet spot—the mixture that would deliver an intense, addictive high without causing paralysis and brain death. Most times, he succeeded. But the delicate interplay of neurochemical responses varied from person to person and were less precise than his dosages.

  That said, he didn’t need to explain himself to a street dealer. He ended the call and pulled out onto the winding road.

  He returned several hours later in the middle of the night.

  A ragged moan rose from the back seat as he parked the car. He tilted the rearview mirror to examine his passenger. Christian’s latest overdose had rolled from the bench seat to the floor of the car. He glanced up and down the deserted road then hurried to unlock the gate before dealing with the college student in the car.

  Contrary to Christian’s report, the man—although in fairness he was hardly more than a boy; nineteen at the most, Virgil guessed—had not been dead when Virgil arrived at the park and found him in the bushes. He had been in the same state as the others. Paralyzed, catatonic, barely breathing. But alive. Which meant Virgil couldn’t risk leaving him in Mont Royal Park. He’d have to be dealt with, like the others.

  He walked around to the rear driver’s door and heaved the man out on to the ground. Then he arranged the man’s arms around his own shoulders and dragged him up the pathway in near total darkness. The man was dead weight, and Virgil was breathing heavily.

  When they reached the rotting porch, he propped the man against the railing and caught his breath. Then he unlocked the door and hauled the man into the dark front parlor to the right of the hallway. Then he had to sit for a few minutes before he returned to the front door. He made a note to find the time to get back to the gym; his burning lungs and ragged breathing were evidence that he’d been spending too much time in the lab and not enough on the treadmill.

  He secured the door. Then, leaving the man where he rested on the parlor floor, he turned to the left and walked down the narrow passageway that led to the laboratory and packaging rooms.

  Chapter Four

  Chateau Frontenac

  Monday morning

  Bodhi finished his tea then turned his attention to the packet of conference materials he’d been too tired to read after settling into his room the previous night. The first item on the agenda was a meet and greet for each of the panels.

  It made sense. In his admittedly limited experience, conference organizers rarely scheduled such introductory get togethers, but when they did, the panels invariably ran more smoothly.

  He paged through the schedule until he found his panel, “Forensic Black Swans—When the Pathologist Confronts the Unimaginable.” He read through the list of panelists, noting with interest the titles of their various papers.

  In addition to his own piece, “Scared to Death: When Beliefs Kill,” his fellow panel members were presenting on topics as diverse as “Chimerism: The Case of the Twice-Dead Man,” “The MacGyver Technique: Getting a Fingerprint from Peeled Skin Using Disposable Gloves and Scotch Tape,” and “Plucked: When Traditional Tribal Death Rituals Collide with Modern Time-of-Death Determinations.”

  His eyes drifted back to the name of the author of the tribal death ritual paper—Eliza G. Rollins, M.D., St. Mary’s Parish Coroner, Belle Rue, Louisiana—and his pulse quickened. Oddly enough, he’d had a medical school classmate named Eliza Rollins.

  Could this Eliza Rollins be his Eliza Rollins?

  C’mon, Bodhi, he admonished himself. Neither the first name nor the last name was that unusual. Besides, the last he’d heard, Eliza’d moved to Texas to do her residency. Just a coincidence.

  He supposed he could confirm that it wasn’t the same Eliza Rollins by flipping to the speakers’ biographies printed at the end of the conference programming guide. But he didn’t.

  Instead, he poured a second cup of tea and consulted his walking map of Quebec City. It made sense to save the winding streets of Old Quebec’s upper and lower towns for tomorrow, when it seemed he’d have more free time.

  But, judging from the map, he would definitely be able to walk along Terrasse Dufferin then visit Battlefields Park, with its famed Plains of Abraham, this morning. If he left now he might even sneak in some time at the national art museum before the first scheduled activity of the day.

  With the promise of the famed art gallery spurring him on, he refolded his map and tucked it into his back pocket, rinsed his mug at the bathroom sink, and grabbed his wallet and cell phone from the desk.

  Eliza closed her eyes and slumped against the cool bathroom wall and felt her heart thump wildly in her chest. Her entire body trembled. She began to pant—rapid, shallow gasps for air—and then the sweating started.

  She forced herself to take a deep breath, letting the air fill her lungs and belly for a slow count of one, two, three, four. She exhaled for a seven count.

  The adrenaline was still flooding her system.

  She repeated the slow deep intake and release of breath. Again. And again.

  “You’re not really dying. You’re not having a heart attack. You’re having a panic attack. You are not dying.” She said the words in a firm voice. They echoed off the marble walls.

  She dug her fingernails into her palms and pressed the soles of her feet hard into the floor. By grounding herself in the real world, she would fight off the perceived danger.

  As her breathing became more rhythmic, her heartbeat slowed and she stopped shaking. Spent, she closed her eyes and spoke out loud again.

  This time, her voice was kind and soothing, as if she were talking to a frightened child. “You’re okay, Eliza. You’re just scared. It’s okay to be scared.”

  She sat on her bathroom floor for what seemed to be a very long time, breathing and telling herself she was all right. When her dried sweat made her shiver, she slowly stood and poured herself a glass of water from the sink.

  She leaned against the vanity and sipped the water, staring at her reflection in the mirror as she drank. Her hair was lank from perspiration. Her face was drained of color. She did not look like a woman who was ready to face a room full of strangers … and the man who’d been her lover umpteen years ago.

  Her eyes fell to the floor, where the list of panelists that had triggered her panic attack lay crumpled against the door.

  Bodhi King.

  The name conjured up a generous smile, warm eyes, and hands that explored her body in a leisurely way, like their owner had all the time in the world to learn every inch of her. And back then, she believed he did.

  Her hands began to tremble again.

  “No. Stop.” She leveled her gaze at her reflection. “You’re going to pull yourself together, Eliza. You’re better than this.”

  She turned and opened her toiletry bag. She found her lavender essential oils and turned the faucets to fill the bath with warm water.

  While the tub filled, she closed her eyes and imagined herself walking calmly into the meeting room. She would smile at the other presenters. Avoid Bodhi, if at all possible. Focus on her paper. And survive the next three and a hal
f days.

  Chapter Five

  Bodhi returned from his sightseeing at the last possible moment, having made it to exactly one of the spots on his itinerary.

  After strolling along the Dufferin Terrace, he’d found himself in Montmorency Park. He’d planned to walk through it quickly, but between the striking views of the Saint Lawrence River from the ramparts, the old cannons, the statues and the still, silent weight of history that hung on the air, he’d lost track of time.

  Stepping into the lobby of the hotel jarred him back into the present. The low hum of lively voices replaced the ghosts of soldiers and farmers, pioneers and artists. He checked the time and hurried toward the elevator.

  Guillaume Loomis emerged from a clutch of suit-wearing men and snagged him by the elbow.

  “Ah, Dr. King, right on time!” He began to steer Bodhi toward the cluster of men.

  Bodhi sneaked another glance at his watch. “Actually, Dr. Loomis, don’t I have a few minutes before the session begins? I was out walking around your beautiful city, taking in some of the sights. I just need to change my clothes and grab my name badge.”

  “Nonsense.” Guillaume tightened his grip. “We’re breaking into small groups. I’m sure your fellow panelists will be able to remember your name, and your attire is just fine. Just fine.”

  Bodhi eyed Guillaume’s tan suit then let his gaze travel to his own outfit—brown cargo pants and a green and white striped shirt. Guillaume watched him placidly.

  “Really, we know our American neighbors are more casual,” the Canadian assured him.

  “Okay, as long as it’s fine with you.” Bodhi had no intention of arguing his way into a suit and tie. In fact, he’d had a devil of a time finding his dress shoes to pack because it had been so long since he’d last worn business attire.

  “Quite fine.”

  As they approached the assembled group, an elevator bell dinged. Bodhi turned toward the sound as the doors parted. Eliza Rollins stepped off the elevator and scanned the lobby.

  Even though he hadn’t seen her in thirteen years, he would have recognized her anywhere. She looked exactly as he remembered her.

  “Eliza,” he called.

  Guillaume turned and waved. “Ah, you know Dr. Rollins?”

  “We were medical school classmates.”

  Eliza’s clear brown eyes met his and, for a moment, her smile faltered. Then she blinked and crossed the lobby to join them.

  “I understand there’s no need for introductions. Why don’t I let the two of you catch up for a minute? How lucky that you’re on the same panel.” He consulted his watch. “Your group is lunching in the Petit Frontenac Room.”

  He pointed vaguely down the hallway before making his way back to the waiting panelists to sort them into their various small groups.

  “How lucky,” Eliza echoed the organizer’s words in a dry tone.

  Bodhi searched her face and realized she didn’t share his joy at their chance meeting.

  He flashed back to April 2004.

  It was two weeks after Match Day, when medical students learned where they’d be completing their residencies. Eliza had matched with the University of Texas’s pathology residence program and would begin her studies in July. He’d gotten a spot in the University of Pittsburgh Medical Center’s pathology program and would do his residency in his home medical school—an unusual but welcome occurrence.

  As they walked along Forbes Avenue, headed for the Chinese restaurant she liked, she’d been light-hearted and chatty, mostly about her upcoming visit to Dallas to find an apartment.

  “Since you matched here and you don’t have to move, you can come out and help me get settled. We’ll find a new favorite restaurant.”

  She smiled up at him and a worry that had been floating in and out of his mind ever since Match Day rematerialized.

  He stopped walking and guided her out of the flow of pedestrian traffic. Then he said, “We need to focus on our residencies. There’s a lot at stake. After graduation, I think we both need to move on.”

  She blinked at him. “Move on? Are you breaking up with me?”

  “It’s not you. It’s just that this attachment’s not healthy—for either of us. All of life is a solitary journey, Eliza, we can’t—”

  “Spare me the Buddhist bullshit.”

  She shook his hand off her arm and refused to listen to any further explanation. Then she’d said she had a headache and didn’t feel like having dinner after all.

  Over the next month, he’d tried to talk to her, but she kept blowing him off. It was a busy time of year for everyone—completing their requirements, preparing for their residencies. The next thing he knew, they were graduating. A few weeks later, she was in Dallas, and he was starting his orientation.

  He’d never had the chance to explain himself. Or apologize.

  Now, standing in the elegant reception space of one of the world’s most romantic, iconic hotels and looking into the eyes of the only woman he’d ever loved, a deep sense of shame washed over him. He accepted it, allowing the feeling to settle in his bones.

  “Eliza—”

  “Don’t. Please, don’t. Whatever it is you’re going to say, don’t say it. Let’s just go join the others and get this over with.” Her voice was low but steady. Her clear brown eyes pleaded with him.

  He was quiet for a moment, noting the slight tremor in her hands.

  “I can’t wait to hear about your paper. The death rituals of traditional cultures have always been of interest to me,” he said finally.

  She let out a relieved sigh. “I think the Petit Frontenac Room is over here.”

  She flashed him a smile that didn’t reach her eyes and began to walk along the corridor.

  Chapter Six

  Seeing Bodhi wasn’t as painful as she’d thought it would be. This realization hit Eliza with full force while Dr. Bechtel, the cheerful pathology program director from the McAllen University Hospital Centre, was explaining how he planned to moderate their panel.

  She leaned back in her chair and looked through the wall of windows at the view of the river while she considered this surprising development.

  Perhaps time does heal all wounds. Or, perhaps, a certain gruff but charming small-town chief of police had healed her wounds.

  She craned her neck around Dr. Malvern and risked a glance at Bodhi. He sat two chairs away, leaning forward and listening intently. She could see the faintest hint of the intense student he’d been when they’d dated underneath his Zen-like calm and deliberateness. He twirled a pencil between his long, thin fingers—classic surgeon’s fingers—as he nodded along to Dr. Bechtel’s words.

  Bodhi must have felt her watching him because he turned his head toward her and locked eyes with her. She was about to look away when he flashed her a grin.

  Flustered, she dropped her gaze to her lap.

  “Would that be agreeable to you, Dr. Rollins?” Dr. Bechtel asked.

  She snapped her head up. “Oh. I … certainly.” She stammered her answer and immediately wondered what she’d just signed up for.

  He smiled. “Wonderful. I know some speakers don’t like going first, but you are our only female presenter. I didn’t want to appear discourteous.”

  Crud. Well, at least she’d get it over with at the very beginning.

  “After Dr. Rollins has talked to the room about the Atchafalayan death rituals, let’s move on to Dr. King and his voodoo deaths, then Dr. Ripple’s unusual fingerprinting technique, and, lastly, Dr. Malvern, who may have to join us to talk about chimerism once the panel has already begun. Is that right, Jon?”

  Jon Malvern, a forensic biologist with the Provincial Forensic Laboratory and an adjunct professor at the University of Montreal in the area of cellular biology and pathology, waved his hands in an apologetic gesture.

  “Yes, I’m afraid I may. It’s all hands on deck at the office with all these overdoses.” He turned to Eliza on his left then to Bodhi on his right and explained, �
��The entire province is struggling with a rash of drug overdoses. It’s quite sad.”

  “Not just Quebec,” Dr. Ripple chimed in. “Ontario is also getting hit hard—Toronto, in particular. There’s a brand new designer drug out there, and we don’t know what it is. The toxicology reports are baffling.”

  Bodhi made an understanding noise. Eliza imagined he would have more experience with synthetic street drugs, having worked in a major city. The last drug death she’d handled in Belle Rue had been the result of an unfortunate printing error on the dosing instructions for Effie LaForge’s chemotherapy pills.

  “Not to worry,” Dr. Bechtel assured him. “So, after Jon’s presented, we’ll open the floor for questions.”

  “Will you ask the audience members to direct their questions to a specific person or may we decide amongst ourselves who’s best suited to answer it?” Dr. Ripple asked.

  “I think the latter, Claude. And if more than one of you would like to respond, that’s also fine. I may even chime in from time to time myself.”

  Eliza felt her attention drifting again. One of the benefits of her situation was that she rarely had to sit through administrative meetings of this sort. She stifled a yawn.

  Felix Bechtel showed no signs that he was ready to wrap up the world’s most boring meet and greet.

  She shifted in her seat. Held back another yawn. Finally, she turned her attention to the remnants of her boxed lunch.

  She was chasing a grape around the container with her spoon when a shadow fell across the table. She lifted her head and spotted an amused-looking Bodhi standing a foot or so away.

  “Felix said we’re free to go.”

  Jon and Claude were already hurrying out of the room with Felix at their side.

  “Oh. I guess my mind must have wandered.”

  “I guess so.”

  She gathered up her boxed lunch container and napkins then looked around for a tray or trash can.