Cold Path Page 3

  She’d almost opted for red, but she needed to come across as a responsible professional. Hence the brown lipstick, the hair coaxed into submission, and the fresh, crisp white lab coat she’d run home to fetch. And the ornate necklace. Although, if she were being honest, she was wearing the pendant mainly to shove it in Margot Rutherford Sullivan’s face.

  After one last mirror check and a final glance at the coffin, she strode purposefully toward the door. She took care to lock the lab behind her before she headed for the worn marble stairs that led from the basement to the main floor.

  Oh, and don’t forget the sensible heels in place of her mud-covered boots. They clicked and clacked against the marble as she hurried up to the wide front hall and careened across the gleaming lobby. She paused just inside the entrance to catch her breath.

  She stood there for a good five minutes. Her nerves settled into anticipation, then boredom, and, finally, irritation when she realized she was being stood up. She was pulling her phone out to check if the local culture reporter had left a message when Marvin Washington, the museum’s chief security officer, rounded the corner and beelined toward her.

  “Afternoon, Professor Jones.”

  “Hi, Officer Washington.”

  They were on a first-name basis. After all, she’d grown up around the corner from his uncle’s people. But here, in the museum, as the only two black professionals, they kept it formal.

  “I suppose you’re waiting for that reporter from WLAL?”

  The note of resignation in his voice made her pause, but, after a moment, she nodded. “Yes. Did she call? Is her crew running late?”

  Maybe there’d been an accident and they were stuck in traffic. Or maybe there’s been an accident and they were covering it. Or maybe—

  “No, I’m afraid not. But Mrs. Rutherford Sullivan and Mr. Sullivan want to see you. They asked me to send you up to the boardroom.”

  Oh.

  “Oh. Well, that’s going to be awkward. Lisette Chase from WLAL is coming out to interview me about the coffin I found this morning. I promised her an exclusive. And she’ll be here any minute.” She made a show of checking the time on her watch.

  “I’m afraid she won’t, Professor.”

  “Of course she will....” The expression on Marvin’s face stopped her cold. “What happened?”

  “Mrs. Rutherford Sullivan called Lisette up herself when she heard about the interview. She said the interview is canceled and said you aren’t authorized to speak on behalf of the foundation regarding the Bell dig site or any artifacts found there.”

  Fire roared in Davina’s belly. Her hands tightened into fists without her realizing. She shook her head. “She didn’t. She wouldn’t.”

  The inside corners of Marvin’s thick eyebrows turned up while the outside corners of his lips drooped down. He looked unspeakably sad.

  “She did. I’m sorry, Dav—professor. I know that coffin is a big deal in your field.”

  She couldn’t think of a single word to say. Not even a syllable or noise of acknowledgment. She swallowed, then stumbled into the elevator lobby, fear warring with rage inside her.

  Fear won out. When she raised her fist to knock on the door, her hand shook. She lifted and lowered her shoulders, shook out her trembling hands, and inhaled and exhaled several deep, slow breaths before rapping her knuckles against the door.

  “Yes?” Sully called as if he weren’t expecting her.

  “It’s me.” The words came out in a broken croak. She cleared her throat and tried again, pitching her voice lower. “It’s Davina.”

  “Enter.”

  She arched a brow at the order but pushed open the door. She crossed the threshold and stood in front of the twelve-foot-long mahogany table. Its surface was so highly polished that her drawn, anxious face stared up at her. She relaxed the muscles in her forehead and watched her reflected brow unwrinkle.

  Sully sat in one of the massive claw-footed leather chairs, a porcelain cup of tea at his elbow, staring down at a tablet. From just inside the doorway, she couldn’t see what he was reading. Financial statements, if she had to guess.

  He glanced up at her over the top of his reading glasses. “What’s a nine-letter word for ‘lacking essentials, such as food and shelter’? Starts with a ‘p.’”

  P words, none of which Sully had so much as a passing acquaintance with, ran through her mind: penniless, poverty-ridden, penurious—that had nine letters.

  “Oh, and it ends with an ‘n.’ Maybe.” He removed his glasses and twirled them by one titanium stem while he blinked up at her, waiting for her to provide an answer.

  “Try ‘privation.’” She bit back a laugh at the notion of Sully or any of his crowd trying privation on for size.

  He returned the glasses to his face and tapped his stylus against the screen. “That works.” He gave a satisfied nod, then powered off his digital crossword puzzle and set the device on the table next to his teacup.

  She waited for him to thank her, but he just looked at her with a raised eyebrow and an expression of the mildest interest.

  She cleared her throat. “Is, um, Mrs. Rutherford joining us?”

  He gave an airy wave toward the hallway. “Grandmother will be along eventually. Punctuality isn’t her strong suit.”

  Of course not. Another ‘p’ word more suited for the plebeian class than the posh. The bitter thought popped, unbidden, into her mind, but she kept her face neutral, an expressionless mask she’d perfected while defending her thesis back in the day. She clasped her hands together behind her back and waited.

  Sully poured himself a cup of tea and fussed with the silver tongs until he managed to fish a sugar cube out of a bowl that she placed as a mid-nineteenth century piece.

  A hidden panel in the silk-covered wall behind Sully’s chair slid open to reveal Margot. Talk about making an entrance.

  Margot fluttered her eyelashes at her grandson, who belatedly leaped to his feet and yanked out a chair for her. Once seated, she gestured with one heavily be-ringed hand for Davina to take a seat as well.

  “Professor Jones, don’t you look nice all dressed up. Pour the child a cup of tea, Eugene.”

  While Sully attended to the tea and passed it to Davina, Margot got right down to business. “Going behind our backs and reaching out to the media? Unacceptable, of course. We’re suspending your access to the dig site and the museum.”

  Luckily, Davina had just lifted the dainty porcelain cup to her mouth when Margot made her proclamation. She was pretty sure she’d have sputtered tea all over the expensive table if she’d had a mouthful. As it was, her hand shook as she lowered the cup, which clattered against the saucer.

  “Surely that’s not necessary.”

  “You disregarded a clear directive, Professor,” Eugene pointed out.

  Davina shook her head, and her words rushed out, tripping over one another in her desperation. “I didn’t mean to offend you. I wasn’t going to opine as to the age of the corpse. It’s just . . . such a significant find.”

  Margot narrowed her eyes. “Yes. And as we explained to you just hours ago, it will be announced in due course after the proper procedures have been followed.”

  “Respectfully, I think you’re making a mistake.”

  Sully leaned back and widened his eyes, surprised and maybe a smidge impressed at her spunk. His grandmother, however, was decidedly unimpressed. She pressed her lips together in a flat line and stared, steely-eyed, at Davina for a long, silent moment.

  She forced herself not to fidget under the woman’s gaze.

  Finally, Margot snapped, “I didn’t ask for your thoughts, Professor Jones. But, now, I’ll share mine. I think it’s curious that you’re in such a rush to claim your credit. It’s as if you want to make an impression before your story falls apart and you’re revealed to be a fraud.”

  “I beg your pardon?” She tried to match the older woman’s frosty, formal tone.

  She reached for her teacup then t
hought better of it. Adrenaline and anxiety still coursed through her body. She wasn’t sure her hands would be steady. So, she placed them palms-down on the table and waited.

  Sully cleared his throat, but Margot responded before he had the chance to speak.

  “If you must know, Lewis Dexter came out to see the corpse.”

  “Why?”

  “My dear girl, you found a dead body. The chief of police has an interest—and a theory of culpability.”

  “A theory of what?” She winced at how squeaky her voice sounded, then coughed and went on at a lower pitch, “Does Chief Dexter think someone on my team committed a crime?”

  “No, dear. He thinks you may have.” Margot flashed a knife’s-edge smile over her teacup.

  Davina’s brain froze. It simply stopped working for several seconds. Then it kicked into overdrive, and her thoughts raced so fast she couldn’t keep up.

  “What am I being accused of, exactly?” She managed to keep her tone level and calm, but she couldn’t still her fingers, which raked through her short-shorn curls as she struggled to understand.

  “The working theory, as I understand it, is that you were under pressure to find something impressive. And when all you turned up were some old cups and a cracked chamberpot, you improvised.”

  “And, by improvised, you mean … I buried a counterfeit iron coffin?” She turned her head from Margot to Sully, blinking slowly. “You realize that’s nonsensical, right? That would be archaeological fraud.”

  “Not to mention tampering with a corpse and who knows how many other crimes,” Sully noted.

  Her face heated. “That, too.”

  Margot took over in her calm ladylike way, “We have no doubt you will clear your name with the authorities and, equally important, the scientific community. But, until the coffin and its occupant are both examined and authenticated, we simply cannot acknowledge that you are affiliated with the Rutherford Family Foundation—or the museum. So, you are suspended until this is resolved. Appearances, you understand.”

  She didn’t understand. Not at all.

  “How long?”

  “As long as it takes.”

  “What about the dig?”

  “Suspended indefinitely,” Sully told her.

  He gestured for her identification badge, and she responded automatically. Her fingers moved to the clasp, unclipped the plastic badge holder, and deposited it in his outstretched hand.

  Margot was staring at her with laser focus. She shrank under the scrutiny and reached for her necklace, rubbing the filigree pattern with her thumb in an absent, self-soothing gesture.

  She felt someone standing behind her. When she turned, dazed, and saw Marvin looming in the doorway, she stood and stumbled out of the room. She followed him numbly down to the lab to gather her personal belongings and then out of the building.

  6

  Bodhi checked into the stone-and-timber Lodge on the Mountain several hours before Bette’s plane landed. He asked for directions to the Japanese Garden, dumped his bag in his room, then hiked the Rainbow Loop Trail to the meditation garden.

  He reached the red torii gate, stepped under the arch, and followed the groomed pebble path through a stand of towering bamboo. A short walk later, the bamboos were replaced by fiery red maple trees and short, squat hosta bushes. The path looped around to a scarlet-lacquered footbridge.

  He crossed the bridge and followed the path to a building styled like a Japanese teahouse. Solid cedar construction, a red-painted, paneless, circular window, and an inlaid floor made up the open-air structure.

  He explored the small building, then took the well-tended and raked spiraling path that led out into the garden’s cherry trees, the pond with lotus leaves floating on the surface, and the Alabama woods beyond. He turned his focus away from the tranquil landscape and toward his feet touching the ground. He chose a small circle within the concentric path and began his meditation.

  Walking meditation always cleared his mind; more than that, it crystallized his thoughts. He clasped his hands behind his back and slowed his pace.

  He raised his right foot and moved it forward.

  I lift my right foot. My foot greets the air.

  He placed it on the path.

  I lower my right foot. My foot caresses the earth.

  He raised his left foot and stepped forward.

  I lift my left foot. My foot greets the air.

  He returned his foot to the path.

  I lower my left foot. My foot caresses the earth.

  He lowered his eyelids until they were half-closed. Then he continued along the circle taking measured steps and using exaggerated motions. As he stepped, the hum of disquiet that had been buzzing in his ear all day faded, then dissipated.

  After he’d accepted Bette’s invitation, he worried whether he’d done so just to prove Saul wrong. He hoped not. That would violate his vow to engage in right action, as it skirted the edges of sexual misconduct by misleading Bette. But as he circled through the garden, his concern fell away.

  He enjoyed Bette’s company. He treated her with care and respect. He honored her. The time spent with her was a blessing to him. There was no reason to attach negative intent to it.

  He opened his eyes, exhaled, and keyed back in on his surroundings. He filled his lungs with the crisp winter air. Dry fallen leaves crunched and crackled under his feet as he took one slow and considered step after another.

  He was halfway back to the teahouse structure when he spotted a tawny deer peering out from behind a tall, ferny bush. The doe was thin and sleek and small. And curious and unafraid of him.

  He sank soundlessly to the ground and folded himself into the lotus position while the doe watched with liquid chocolate eyes. After he settled onto the gravel path, he extended his left hand toward the still, watchful animal, turning his palm skyward. She didn’t hesitate. She pranced out of the brush, crunching the gravel under her hooves.

  In a heartbeat, she was nuzzling his empty palm. Her nose was damp and warm against his skin. He reached out with his right hand and stroked the white spot on her forehead, an irregular star-shaped patch. They looked into one another’s eyes.

  A sudden, loud thwack echoed through the woods. The doe bolted, kicking up dried leaves with her hooves as she fled away from the sound. She melted away into the trees, and Bodhi tilted his head to place the noise that had startled her.

  After a moment, it came again: A sharp, cracking noise—not a gunshot, not a mechanical thing. It sounded almost as if someone were chopping wood. But the rhythm was wrong. Too slow, too irregular.

  He stepped off the groomed path and into the woods. The fleeting question of whether the northern Alabama mountains were home to bears flitted through his consciousness. He pushed it aside and continued to creep toward the noise.

  He spotted the source in a clearing about ten yards away. A tall, muscular black woman with cropped, natural hair was throwing an ax into a large pine tree stump. She stood roughly twenty feet from the stump. She squared her feet to line herself up with her target, squinted, and then took a step forward. As she stepped, she swung the ax down past her thigh then raised it over her shoulder in a quick motion. She brought her arm forward and released the ax. It arced and whizzed through the air, straight for the stump. It cleaved the wood with a crack and stuck. Before the air had stilled, she jogged forward to yank the ax out. Then she returned to her spot to do it again.

  Bodhi watched, shielded from her view by a row of fir trees. Through the branches, he could see that sweat dotted her brow and her step began to slow with each ax retrieval, but she showed no signs of stopping.

  Heave, thwack, retrieve. Heave, thwack, retrieve.

  Throwing the ax seemed to hold a meditative quality for the woman, not unlike his recent walk through the garden.

  He pushed up his sleeve to check his watch. Bette’s plane would be landing any minute. Time to turn back.

  As he stepped back from the copse of trees, a lar
ge twig cracked underfoot. The sound echoed through the woods. He froze and craned his neck over his shoulder. Sure enough, the noise had caught the attention of the ax thrower, who wheeled in his direction, gripping the weapon two-handed.

  “Who’s there?”

  Her tone was filled not with fear, but with anger. Of course, she was armed, so it was no surprise that she wasn’t scared. He’d once seen the victim of an ax murderer when he was working for the Allegheny County Medical Examiner’s Office. Gruesome didn’t do the sight justice.

  He quickly stepped off from behind the fir trees with his arms raised, his palms near his head. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  He took two paces toward her. She jabbed the ax in the air. “Stay where you are.”

  He complied.

  “Why are you creeping around in the woods?”

  “I’m staying at the resort back there. I was walking in the Japanese garden, and the sound of your ax throwing caught my attention. I came over to investigate the noise.” He inclined his head in the direction from which he’d come.

  “Well, now you know what the noise was.” She held the ax awkwardly in front of her.

  “I do. So I’ll be on my way.”

  They stared at each other for a long moment. Something in her tense expression made him add, “Again, I apologize for startling you. Have a peaceful day.”

  As he turned to leave, she barked out a short mirthless laugh. “That’s unlikely.”

  “Pardon?”

  “I’m unlikely to have a peaceful day seeing as how my professional life is falling apart.”

  Bodhi absorbed this news, then he nodded. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “Not unless you happen to be able to determine the time and manner of a death,” she snorted.

  His full-throated laughter sent her eyebrows shooting up her forehead. “There’s something funny about that?”