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  “So it’s the equivalent of a nondenominational or nonsectarian church?”

  “Right. So, at Prairie, retreats are an opportunity for practitioners to expand their knowledge of other practices. That means there are lectures, meditations, and readings based on the various sects and schools, in addition to the usual mindful eating and working sessions, noble silences, and seated and walking meditations.”

  “Sounds boring.”

  Bodhi shrugged. “I could use some boredom.”

  He lifted a spoonful of soup to his mouth. An explosion of ginger, lemongrass, and chilies burst onto his taste buds. Nolan watched his face.

  “Pretty amazing, isn’t it?”

  “It really is.”

  Nolan laughed. “Told you.”

  They ate in silence for a few moments. Then Bodhi rested his spoon on the side of his saucer. “How are Katie and the kids?”

  “They’re great, man. Katie’s planning to join a pediatric practice in our neighborhood next year when the little one starts pre-K. It’s a wild ride with Noah and Serena; I won’t pretend it’s not. But they’re fun, you know? Exhausting, but fun.”

  Bodhi nodded. A week ago, Nolan’s idea of fun would have struck him as a messy attachment. But now? Well, now he didn’t know. That’s why he was headed to Onatah. To figure it out in a place of peace.

  Chapter Three

  Onatah, Illinois

  Monday, suppertime

  Chief of Police Bette Clark stifled a sigh and raked her fingers through her long white hair. She wasn’t old enough to have white hair, she thought for what had to be the eight thousandth time. It was her oft-repeated silent lament.

  Her job had drained the color right out of her hair. But it would hardly do for Onatah’s head law enforcement officer to be seen in Shelia’s Shear Beauty Salon, sitting under a bubble dryer with dye on her head. It was undignified. So, she rocked her white locks with authority but secretly planned to dye them mermaid blue the day she retired. Or maybe a shocking pink.

  Regardless, the mess she was dealing with right now was Exhibit A in the collection of evidence that her job was prematurely aging her.

  On the other side of her battered metal desk, Jason Durbin, red-faced and blustering, was struggling mightily to keep hold of his temper. Judging from the way the veins bulged out on his tanned forearms, he was losing the battle.

  A few feet away from him—just out of reach of Jason’s meaty fists—Mark Olson was sneering. Whether the sneer was directed at her or Jason, Bette couldn’t tell, but regardless of the target, it was pissing them both off. She allowed herself a brief fantasy of wiping the expression off Olson’s face with a right hook of her own.

  Then, she pushed herself to standing and threw back her shoulders. She reflexively rested her right hand on the butt of the gun at her hip. A wordless reminder as to who was in charge around here.

  “Now, that’s enough, you two.” She waited until the glaring men looked away from one another and met her eyes before continuing. “Jason, I know you know that Supra Seed has a commission especially to address the issue of crop death from pesticide drift. If you’ve got a problem with Mark’s spraying practices, that’s the venue to—”

  “And you and I also both know Mark’s been warned before about using Crop-Clear when the winds are up. Supra Seed’s just gonna slap him on the wrist again. Meanwhile, I’ve got a field full of withering corn, chief. That’s a lost harvest.” Jason was just about shaking with fury.

  Mark shrugged, unconcerned. “Take it up with the commission, Jason. Like she said, there’s a process in place. They’ll compensate you for your lost crop, if you can substantiate your damages. Or you could go to the state about it. Now, if we’re done here, Donna’s holding my dinner.”

  Bette narrowed her eyes. The crack about complaining to the state was just an effort to get under Jason’s skin. The state regulatory board had a backlog that stretched into the last millennium, which was the whole reason Supra Seed set up a private board in the first place.

  “You go on home, Mark. Give Donna my best. But I don’t want any more calls from you or her about Jason trespassing. Hear?”

  “Talk to him.”

  “I’m talking to you. If you see him near your land, go on out and offer him a cup of coffee, don’t call in a complaint. You’re neighbors for Pete’s sake.”

  Mark appeared to be chewing on the inside of his cheek in an effort to bite back his words. The effort failed. “You’re right, Chief Clark. We’re neighbors. So, let me give you some neighborly advice, Jason. Stop being a stubborn hippie. Sign up for Supra Seed’s grower program, already. You’ll increase your crop yield; your quality will be more even; and you can buy their crop management software and automate your growing. Embrace progress; embrace technology.”

  Bette massaged her forehead. Why would Mark give an organic farmer the Supra Seed hard sell? Was he trying to get Jason arrested?

  As if on cue, Jason lunged at him, shrieking, “Poison! You’re poisoning the earth and your children with that crap! What do you think is in your precious seeds? How do you think they can be immune to that blasted pesticide—do you think it’s magic?”

  Bette raced around to the front of the desk and shoved herself between the two men. Jason bumped up against her, trying to get at Mark, and she grabbed his forearms.

  “No, Jason. I think it’s science.” Mark laughed.

  “Get out of here.” She forced the words out from between clenched teeth. “Now, Mark.”

  Mark Olson tipped his ball cap at her before striding out of her office. “Good night, chief. Jason.”

  She waited until she heard his pickup sputter to life out front. Then she released Jason from her grip.

  He lowered his eyes to the floor and mumbled, “Sorry, chief.”

  She exhaled a long, exasperated breath. “Go on home. Call the Supra Seed commission in the morning, okay?”

  His face was dark, and she could tell he was fighting back tears. “For all the good it’ll do.”

  “It won’t do any good if you don’t call them.” She paused. “You have any of those free-range eggs to sell?”

  He wouldn’t meet her eyes. “I don’t want your charity, Bette.”

  “That’s Chief Clark to you. And it’s not charity, Jason. I need to eat, for crying out loud. Now, do you have eggs or am I gonna have to go to Bag-n-Buy?”

  “I’ve got eggs.”

  “Good. I’ll stop by the stand tomorrow. Now, Jason, you’ve gotta get a handle on your temper.”

  “Yes, chief,” he said in a subdued tone.

  He sounded for all the world like a chastened schoolboy, which, frankly, seemed fitting since she felt for all the world like a middle school teacher.

  “Good night.”

  He nodded and shuffled out of her office.

  She eyed the clock and started to fantasize about her nightly vodka tonic. It was her one vice—a parting gift from her predecessor. Chief Williams had told her in his somber baritone at his retirement party, “Bette, pick yourself a signature cocktail. Make a date with one every night after work. But only one. You never know when that phone’s gonna ring, after all.”

  At the time, she’d smiled indulgently. But in the five years she’d been chief, that promise of that nightly drink had become a lifeline. One large ice cube, the best tonic water Bag-n-Buy sold, and two fingers of vodka consumed in complete silence while she sat on her back deck, no matter the weather.

  Just forty-five more minutes. Then she could lock the door to her office and put her warring farmers out of her mind until morning—or until one of them shot the other one, whichever came first.

  Chapter Four

  The low-cost bus from Chicago to Terre Haute, Indiana, stopped in a handful of small towns on its roughly two-hundred mile journey. Onatah wasn’t one of them. But the bus driver had assured Bodhi Onatah was just a flat, ten-mile walk from the town of Elm, which was on the route.

  So when the bus wheezed
and rattled to a stop at the Traveler’s Haven in Elm, he followed the crowd down the steps and into the parking lot. They headed for the restrooms and donut counter, and he stood near the edge of the lot and oriented himself.

  The bus driver walked over, his unlit cigarette dangling from his mouth. “You want that two-lane road there. It’ll wind through a bunch of cornfields. You just stay on it, and it’ll take you to the heart of Onatah. If you’re lucky, someone will pick you up. Folks still do that around here.” He gestured at a thin ribbon of highway that intersected with the interstate.

  “Thanks.” Bodhi stuck out his hand.

  The driver blinked down at it and then gave it a cautious shake. Bodhi slung his bag over his shoulders and tightened the straps. He crossed the weedy patch that separated the parking lot from the interstate highway and waited for an opening in the flow of traffic. Then he hustled across to the cloverleaf and hiked down a grassy slope until he reached the road to Onatah.

  He squinted up at the hazy sky. The sun was low, ready to set. He checked his watch. He’d have to hurry if he didn’t want to travel most of the way to town in total darkness. He started walking.

  As promised, the road was flat. The scenery consisted almost entirely of tall cornfields on both sides of the asphalt. The occasional red barn or old farmhouse appeared back behind the fields. He encountered four trucks and one car; two deer; and a flock of migrating geese. And loads of hand-lettered signs stuck into the shoulder of the road. They read ‘Vote No on GMO’; ‘Preserve Onatah’s Family Farms’; ‘Home of a Proud Supra Seed Farmer’; ‘Hybrid Seeds = Better Yields, Lower Prices, Higher Profits’; and variations of those two apparently contrary sentiments.

  As the sun sank lower behind the small hills, a chill settled on the air. He jammed his hands deeper into his jacket pockets and quickened his pace. The tall steeple of a church was visible in the distance. He recalled Onatah’s layout from the online map he and Nolan had pulled up at the restaurant. The Lutheran church was situated on the town square right across from the feed store. The Prairie Center was just a half mile beyond the square. He was nearly there.

  A moment later, the purr of a car engine sounded behind him. He turned and saw a gleaming white sedan edging to the shoulder and slowing to a crawl. The driver was a woman, alone. She buzzed down the passenger window as the car came even with him.

  “Do you want a ride to town?” she called.

  He hesitated. Rural Illinois or not, it wasn’t safe for a single woman to be picking up hitchhikers. But his feet were numb from cold.

  “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

  She eyed him. “You look harmless enough. But just in case you’re a serial killer, you should know I’m a third degree black belt in kung fu. So if you try anything, I’ll have to break your arms. Maybe a leg, too.”

  His laugh came from deep within his chest. “Fair enough.”

  He stepped over to the car and she unlocked the passenger side door. He hurried inside and blew on his hands to warm them. He looked over at her as she pulled back into the travel lane and brought the car up to cruising speed.

  “Thanks for the lift. I’m Bodhi King, and I’m not a serial killer.”

  She smiled. “You’re welcome, Bodhi King. I’m Hannah Lee Lin. And I really am a black belt.”

  He believed her. Even seated behind the wheel of the car, she carried herself with an unmistakable air of strength and poise. She sat completely erect, hands light on the steering wheel, eyes alert and unblinking.

  After a silence, she said, “Where are you headed, anyway? There’s not much in Onatah.”

  “I’m going to the Buddhist retreat center outside town.”

  “The Prairie Center? I suppose I ought to have guessed—with a name like Bodhi.” She cut her eyes toward him and gave him an appraising look. “Zen or Theravada?”

  He felt his jaw hinge open. “Uh, a little bit of both, but I’m most familiar with Theravada practice. Are you … Buddhist?” He asked the question hesitantly. It was one thing for her to make assumptions based on his name, but he didn’t want her to think that he was stereotyping her because she was Asian.

  She took no offense, though. “Oh, no. Not me. I’m not religious. I’m a scientist,” she said as if that explained her beliefs—or lack thereof.

  “Oh? So am I.”

  She pursed her lips and studied him. “Really? What kind of scientist are you?”

  “I’m a forensic pathologist.”

  “Ah, you’re a medical doctor. It makes sense that you’d be a person of faith—you deal in life and death, after all.”

  “Well, I don’t treat patients—not living ones, anyway. I feel more like a scientist than a doctor.”

  She considered his answer. “I can see that. I’m a plant pathologist.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “It’s really a thing,” she assured him with a giggle. “I work with plant geneticists to create disease-resistant corn.”

  “Corn?” he echoed.

  “Right. My specialty is in phenotyping maize hybrids. Which is how a Chinese-American girl from San Francisco ended up in Onatah, Illinois—where the closest thing to decent Sichuan food is the rice curries at The Prairie Center’s community potlucks. I’ll give you a ride to the center.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Sure. It’s on my way home. I rent the second floor of an old farmhouse just about a quarter mile down the road from there.”

  “Maybe you can stop in and see if there’s any curry left from dinner.”

  “That’s tempting, but I’ve got an early morning tomorrow.”

  “Seed emergency?”

  “You laugh, but yes. There’s a big storm brewing.”

  “Why?”

  She slowed the car and turned to look at him. “Did you notice all the signs along the roadside?”

  “Sure. Half of them are railing against GMOs and the other half are extolling the virtues of Supra Seed, whatever that is.”

  “Supra Seed is the company I work for. We’ve developed Maize46, a disease-resistant corn seed that could help feed a lot of starving people while allowing farmers to be more efficient about their use of water and resources. It’s a big leap toward a sustainable global corn crop.”

  “But?”

  She sighed. “Yes, there’s always a but. But, the pesticide that the company developed to support the product is prone to drift.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “A farmer who plants Maize46 gets crop management software and Crop-Clear along with the seeds. Sensors positioned in the field send information to the software, which analyzes how the corn is growing. The software program lets the farmer know when and how much to water and when to spray Crop-Clear.”

  “Sounds very precise.”

  She let out a frustrated breath, and her long bangs danced over her forehead. “It is. But it doesn’t take into account the wind—although I’m told the engineers are working on that. That’s a big oversight. Maize46 is bred to resist Crop-Clear. The farmer can overspray the entire field without worrying if it gets on the corn. But, if there’s a breeze and it drifts into a neighboring field that’s not growing Maize46 …”

  “It harms the neighbor’s crop,” he finished for her.

  “It does more than harm it. It annihilates it.” Her expression was grim. “Our farmers are cautioned not to spray when it’s windy, but they’re human. They have their own investment to worry about. So, sometimes they spray anyway.”

  They fell silent again as they passed through the center of town. Only a handful of buildings were lit. Most of the commercial center was dark and quiet.

  “Human nature being what it is, maybe your biochemists should work on a formulation that sticks to the plants better—one that’s less prone to drifting.” Bodhi had to imagine the seed company had thought of that already, but it seemed that if they had it would be easy enough to implement.

  Hannah snorted. “That would solve our problem
but it would mean an uptick in business for you. One of our competitors did exactly that to make their pesticide stickier. And they’re being sued because it looks as if the combination of the pesticide and the chemical to make it adhere better may also cause it to adhere to human cells and damage them.”

  “Cancer?”

  “Cancer.”

  “Oh.” She was right. They were in a bad spot.

  When she spoke again, her voice was troubled. “It’s turned ugly. It’s getting near the end of harvest time now, so the farmers are starting to tally their damages for the year. And it’s getting heated in town. This is a black eye we really want to avoid. So there’s an all-hands-on deck meeting tomorrow at seven a.m.”

  She turned off the road and bumped up the long driveway to The Prairie Center’s main house.

  As she came to a stop near the house, he said, “Are you sure you don’t want to come inside? You have to eat, after all.”

  She smiled wanly. “Maybe some other time. It was nice to meet you, Dr. King.”

  “It was nice to meet you, too. Thanks for the lift and for not breaking my arms.”

  As he climbed out of the car, she leaned over and called to him. “Bodhi? Please don’t say anything to anybody about … what I told you. I’m probably talking out of turn.”

  He turned. “Then you’re in luck. Tomorrow morning, I start a seven-day silent retreat. My lips are sealed. Kind of literally. But don’t worry, I wouldn’t mention it anyway.”

  She gave him a level look. “No, you wouldn’t, would you? Thank you.” She raised the window and executed a tight three-point turn, spinning up gravel under her tires.

  Bodhi stood on the porch and watched until the car’s tail lights shrank down to pinpoints and then, finally, disappeared into the night.

  Chapter Five

  Tuesday

  5:00 A.M.