Lonely Path

by Miller, Melissa F.

  At least you’ve got the light, she told herself.

  Bodhi had insisted on staying in the graveyard while she ran to find McLord and Dixon. He was concerned they wouldn’t be able to relocate the freshly turned ground if he left the spot. But that meant he was sitting in complete darkness until she returned.

  The thought propelled her forward even faster. She tried not to speculate on what they’d find in the cemetery. Nothing good, she imagined.

  She raced past the car and turned toward the row of houses where she’d spotted the police officers’ flashlights as she made her way back to town.

  As the ground beneath her feet flattened, she began to jog. She dodged the roots growing up between cracks in the uneven pavement as she rushed forward.

  She met up with the officers as they were coming out of a sprawling home, set away from the rest. It had a sort of faded gothic glamour to it even as shingles hung from the roof at odd angles and several floorboards were missing entirely from the large, wrap-around porch.

  She came to a stop outside the front gate.

  Officer Dixon frowned at her. “I thought we told you to stay in the square.”

  “We found something.” She gasped between breaths.

  “In the square?” Officer McLord asked in a knowing tone.

  “No. In the cemetery at the top of the hill. We’ll need shovels.”

  The police officers exchanged a look.

  After a moment, McLord said, “Well, you’re in luck.” He jerked his head toward the junior officer, who set off for a ramshackle shed set back from the street to the right of the house. He was muttering unhappily under his breath.

  While they waited, Eliza caught her breath and then asked, “Did you find anything interesting?”

  “Not until we got here,” McLord gestured to the house behind him.

  “This place? What did you find here?”

  “Well, handily, we found a toolshed with shovels, a wheelbarrow, and other garden implements. But inside, we found ... nothing. Too much nothing.”

  She pursed her lips. It would be just her luck if McLord was a Buddhist, too. “How much nothingness is too much?” she asked.

  “Let’s put it this way. There was no dirt. No dust. No cobwebs. No bugs.”

  “Oh. Someone cleaned it.”

  “More like someone scrubbed it down. Not only was there no dirt, it was sparkling clean. Cleaner than any inhabited house would be.”

  “Someone removed all traces of having been there?”

  “Exactly. We’re talking about a thorough job—a deliberate sterilization. This wasn’t a group of kids who broke in to party and then cleaned up the evidence. We’ll send in a team, but I guarantee you they won’t find a single print. Not even a partial.”

  Eliza let that prediction roll around in her mind for a moment. Someone who went through that much trouble to cover his or her tracks would be a difficult person to find.

  “Tatiana couldn’t have been here alone. She doesn’t have the capacity to think through a plan to remove all traces of her presence let alone the ability to execute it.”

  “So let’s just assume for now, someone was holding her here. And maybe not just her. This a big house. And all the rooms were clean. If they were all in use, there could have been a crowd.” McLord’s voice was grim as he considered this possibility.

  She shivered at the thought of more Tatianas.

  “Did you check the bathroom sink?” she asked suddenly.

  McLord eyed her. “Yeah. Why?”

  “Was it wet—the drain?”

  “As a matter of fact, it was.”

  “Tatiana said someone—she called him he—brushed her teeth.”

  McLord chewed on this piece of information.

  She had another question. “How is there running water? Surely the utilities were turned off long ago.”

  “There’s a well in the yard. And a generator in the basement, too. Somebody had set up most of the creature comforts.”

  Dixon returned, pushing a wheelbarrow full of digging tools and wearing a scowl. “You said uphill, right?”

  “Sorry, yes,” Eliza told him with a sheepish smile.

  He stuck his flashlight in the waistband of his pants and trudged forward with his load.

  Bodhi heard them coming before he saw their lights. The sudden noise was jarring against the complete silence that blanketed the cemetery. The rise and fall of voices, the dull thud of shoes pounding against the ground, and the rattle and clang of what he hoped were digging tools bumping together cut through the night.

  He finished his meditation on death and opened his eyes. Then he stood and brushed loose dirt from the seat of his pants with his dirty hands. A losing battle.

  The cones of light from their flashlights swam into view, and he turned in the direction of the light, blinking to adjust his eyes.

  “Bodhi?” Eliza called as one beam of light swung wildly from side to side. She must have turned in a semi-circle, looking for some sign of him.

  “Over here!” He waved his arms overhead in a wide arc.

  Light blasted him in the face for a half-second. He reared back his head, eyes watering. Whoever was holding the flashing quickly redirected it to the ground.

  Eliza and the police officers crested the hill behind the Lavoire family’s plot and came into view. McLord and Eliza in the lead; Dixon bringing up the rear with a wheelbarrow.

  “What’ve we got?” McLord asked while he was still several yards away.

  “I think at least four new graves. No markers.” Bodhi pointed to a wide strip of raw earth.

  McLord aimed his flashlight at the patch. Eliza did the same.

  “Well … hell.”

  Dixon dropped the handles of the wheelbarrow. “Pat, we can’t dig up four bodies in the dark with the help of two civilians.”

  McLord nodded slowly. “We can. But we’re not going to. Call it in. Tell them we need a team from the coroner’s office, at least one truck with flood lights, and some sandwiches and coffee. Have them send a patrol car out to take Dr. Rollins and Dr. King back to the city. It’s gonna be a long night.”

  Dixon nodded and reached for his phone.

  “You’ll let us know what you find?” Bodhi asked.

  McLord hesitated. “It may not be related to the Viant woman.”

  “It’s related,” Eliza interjected.

  They both turned toward her.

  “How do you figure?” McLord asked.

  “Too coincidental. We found a woman who was supposed to be buried outside Ottawa wandering along the road within walking distance of an abandoned town where there are fresh graves. And that house you said was too clean? Someone was using this as a base of … some sort of operation. When Tatiana vanished, he panicked. Whoever he is, he’s responsible for her and for these unmarked graves. I know it,” Eliza said with conviction.

  “Occam’s Razor. The simplest explanation is usually right, Officer McLord,” Bodhi added.

  McLord spread his hands wide and shrugged. “Maybe when you deal with dead people. But living people are as unpredictable as all get out. You just never can tell.”

  “All the same—”

  “All the same, I’ll let Inspector Commaire know that you’ve asked to be updated,” McLord agreed. “You’ve been rather helpful, after all.”

  Bodhi furrowed his brow. “When you’re looking for this person—whoever had Tatiana and likely dug these graves, you might want to track down some of the families that used to live here. These abandoned towns that you said aren’t uncommon … who handles the upkeep of the cemeteries there? Mows the lawn, makes sure the headstones don’t tumble over? Is that the government?”

  McLord shook his head slowly. “No. Except for one or two that’ve been turned into tourist destinations, they’re truly abandoned. If anyone hired a caretaker, it would have been former residents.”

  “Maybe something to look into,” Bodhi reiterated.

  Chapter Twenty-Three />
  Wednesday morning

  Bodhi scanned the room, looking over the heads of the chattering pathologists for Eliza. He spotted her in a corner, clutching a glass of juice and a bagel and nodding at whatever Felix Bechtel was telling her.

  He picked up his mug of tea and waded into the sea of people to join them. Halfway across the room, he was waylaid by Guillaume.

  “Ah, Bodhi, are you ready for the presentation?” The organizer gave him a hearty thump on the shoulder.

  “I’m looking forward to it. Looking forward to the whole symposium, actually.”

  Guillaume beamed. Then his smile drooped. “I heard from Inspector Commaire that you and Dr. Rollins discovered some bodies last night.”

  “Not quite. We found some fresh graves. The police brought us back to the city before they started excavating. Did Inspector Commaire share any details with you?”

  Guillaume glanced around the room then inclined his head toward the hallway. “Shall we chat somewhere more private?”

  “Of course.” Bodhi gestured for him to lead the way.

  They headed for the door, and Bodhi caught Eliza’s eye. She nodded and put a hand on Felix’s arm as Bodhi crossed the threshold and followed Guillaume outside.

  A moment later, Eliza appeared. Her efforts to extricate herself from her conversation had apparently failed. Felix was right beside her.

  “Sorry,” she mouthed.

  “Guillaume, Bodhi.” Felix gave them each a brief smile and a nod. “I was just telling Eliza I have some information that may prove helpful in the Tatiana Viant matter.”

  “Oh?” Guillaume’s eyebrows crawled up his forehead.

  Eliza pulled apart a chunk of her bagel and nibbled it while Felix geared up to retell his story. Bodhi couldn’t tell from her demeanor if she was disconcerted, bored, or, knowing Eliza, just hungry.

  “Yes. After we spoke yesterday morning, I asked around about Ms. Viant. My department shares a hallway with the Department of Psychiatry. I mentioned her name to a colleague, just in passing.”

  Bodhi wondered how Tatiana Viant’s name would come up in passing, unless Felix and his friend were in the habit of trading tidbits of juicy gossip from their respective departments. Judging by Eliza’s faint smirk, she was wondering the same thing.

  Guillaume, on the other hand, seemed unperturbed. “What did this colleague have to say?”

  “Before the reorganization of the mental health services on campus, psychiatry used to run some workshops and some studies through the counseling center. My colleague said Tatiana Viant participated in one.”

  “One of which—a workshop or a research study?” Bodhi asked.

  “Er, well, evidently, some of the workshops were also research studies.”

  “With proper consent, I trust?” Guillaume asked.

  “I don’t know the details, of course. But I’m certain everything was aboveboard and that all the researchers complied with the code of ethics. However …”

  “Spit it out,” Guillaume said.

  Possibly because he was startled by the bluntness, Felix did just that. “However, the board of trustees thought the optics were bad. It gave the appearance that residents were experimenting on students under the guise of helping them. It was frowned upon. So several workshops were cancelled and some experiments were shut down.”

  “Including the one Tatiana Viant had been enrolled in?” Bodhi asked.

  “Yes, according to my colleague.”

  “I don’t suppose your colleague has any idea what it was about?”

  “She doesn’t. And she said the person who’d been running the program left the university.”

  “Under a cloud?” Guillaume asked.

  “His fellowship wasn’t renewed.”

  Felix’s delivery was bloodless and dry, but his audience understood the subtext: the researcher had been unceremoniously shown the door.

  “Do you have a name? Anything?” Bodhi pressed.

  “I don’t. Her department chair came out of the men’s room and she stopped talking mid-sentence. I can certainly go back to her, if you have specific questions.”

  Bodhi and Eliza both looked at Guillaume. This was his show; they were just the unpaid help.

  He winced and sucked in a deep breath. “I’m not sure. Let me speak to Inspector Commaire after today’s meeting breaks up and get back to you. Thank you, though, Felix for bringing this to our attention.”

  Felix smiled and bowed from his waist. “Happy to be of service. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll just brush my teeth before the sessions begin. It wouldn’t do to have poppy seeds between my teeth.”

  As he walked off, Eliza looked down at the sesame seed bagel in her hand then whispered to Bodhi, “Check my teeth.”

  He peered into her mouth. “Seed-free.”

  Guillaume managed a small laugh. “If you’re quite finished, we have just enough time to fill you two in on last night’s discovery before the opening session.”

  Eliza turned, wide-eyed and serious, and said, “Yes, please.”

  “Four bodies were recovered from the cemetery in Sainte-Anne. Their vintage was quite a bit younger than that of the official residents of the cemetery—preliminarily, the coroner says they’ve all died within the past six months.”

  “How badly decomposed are they?” she asked.

  This time, Guillaume’s smile was heartfelt. “The cool weather and the soil pH helped no doubt, but the bastard who buried them did us a favor.”

  “Plastic wrap?” Bodhi guessed. Despite the fondness movie gangsters seemed to have for disposing of bodies in trash bags or wrapped in plastic, the material actually preserved bodies nicely. There was, after all, a reason people wrap their leftovers in plastic wrap, and it wasn’t to hasten rotting.

  “We weren’t that lucky. He covered them with lime.”

  Another mob movie favorite. But, here, too, the reality was counter to the expectation. Lime had the unexpected effect of slowing degradation.

  “Six months or fewer, covered with lime,” Eliza murmured. “So, facial features should still be discernible.”

  “I’m told they’re in quite good condition.”

  “Any idea as to who any of them might be?” Bodhi asked.

  “Sadly, they’re all quite young—late teens or early twenties. So, in light of Tatiana, Inspector Commaire is going to start with the universities in Montreal to see if there are any missing person reports that might match.”

  “Is he going there in person?” Eliza asked.

  Guillaume shrugged. “I’m afraid I’ve no idea. May I ask why?”

  “Bodhi and I were hoping to talk to some of Tatiana’s university friends. And now, with this news and Felix’s friend who says she was part of a psych experiment … well, perhaps we could tag along?”

  “I’d be happy to ask him,” Guillaume mused.

  Just then, a harried-looking redhead with thick glasses and a bright smile popped his head out into the corridor. “Oh, Dr. Loomis, there you are. The attendees are filtering into the main conference room and taking their seats. Looks like we’ll be kicking off right on time!”

  He tapped his watch then walked smartly down the hall, expecting Guillaume to follow.

  “Ah, death—not to mention a group of forensic pathologists—waits for no man.” He hurried away behind the redhead.

  “Do you need one final tooth check or are you good?” Bodhi asked Eliza.

  She tittered. “I’m good.”

  He grew more serious. “Are you?”

  He didn’t want to bring up the panic attacks that had plagued her during medical school if they were no longer a concern. But he wanted her to know he was in her corner if she needed him.

  Her eyes softened and she nodded. “I am. I’ve gotten pretty good at getting a handle on my nerves before things spiral out of control—most of the time.”

  He squeezed her hand. “I’m glad.”

  “Me, too.”

  Chapter Twe
nty-Four

  Côte-des-Neiges, Montreal

  Virgil’s hearty laugh boomed in the empty apartment. Too loud, he thought, too late.

  The leasing agent flashed him a nervous smile. “So, Mr. uh, Mann, what do you think of the space? Will this be adequate for your son Michael?”

  Virgil struggled to get a grip on his emotions. Perhaps a quarter tab of Solo had been too much. He was feeling so expansive, so powerfully strong.

  Ordinarily, he abided by the drug dealer’s cardinal rule: Don’t get high off your own supply.

  But the stress of moving his operation from the safety of Sainte-Anne to the heart of Montreal was eating at him. He’d had to do something to regain his composure. But, as the tingling in his fingers increased to a jolt and the buzz in his brain reached full crescendo, he realized the Solo had been a mistake.

  She was watching him with fearful eyes. He prayed she didn’t have a panic alarm somewhere on her person. Because if she did, he suspected she’d be summoning help at any moment.

  “Yes, yes. I think it will do quite nicely.”

  “And your Michael is a student?”

  “Yes, at the University of Montreal.”

  He had to make it through this interview.

  Although he wished he could find a place with the privacy of the old Lavoire Mansion, the reality was he didn’t have time to look for the ideal spot. The apartment would work just fine.

  Locating his illicit production center in Montreal was undeniably risky. There were too many people from his old life to run into near McAllen. And too many dealers from his new life to run into near Mount Royal Park.

  Côte-des-Neiges was the best he could do to mitigate the danger. The densely populated central neighborhood was perhaps the most ethnically diverse in all of Canada—neither English nor French was the majority language. Between the various immigrant clusters and the transient university students, he thought he would find anonymity. And, in the event someone encountered one of his workers, he or she would likely assume the uncommunicative person was merely someone who didn’t speak their language.