Page 3 of Chosen Path
“A death cluster?”
Al nodded. “That’s what Doctor Hart and I are thinking. I called Sasha because I had a recollection that one of her friends is an expert in that area, and she told me I was right—you’re the man to see about an unexplained cluster of deaths. Molly … er, Doctor Hart, could use your help up there.”
Bodhi eyed the vegetables. He yearned to hear about the death cluster. But his first obligation was to the sangha.
“Let me put these in the oven to roast, then we can have a cup of tea in the herb garden.”
* * *
The herb garden was a dense, tidy patch of culinary and medicinal plants laid out in straight rows along the left side of the community center’s backyard and abutting a tall wooden fence. A small brick patio sat between the garden bed and the community center’s kitchen door. There was a round black wrought-iron table and a pair of chairs in the middle of the patio, and this is where they sat. To the right was a large vegetable patch. A flower bed hugged the back fence. And at the far end of the yard, early magnolias and dogwoods bloomed, filling the air with their soft, sweet scent.
Al took in the sights and scents of the soothing urban oasis, then cupped his hands around the ceramic mug of steaming oolong tea and eyed the forensic pathologist. He’d heard of Bodhi King. Who hadn’t?
Several years back—nearly a decade, now—the forensic pathologist had been all over the news. He’d established a connection between several young women who’d died of a viral heart infection after they’d consumed a contaminated energy drink. Al had followed the media reports out of professional interest at first. Then, the case had taken a weird, and—for Al—surprisingly personal, turn. Another pathologist had stabbed Sofia’s granddaughter in an effort to cover up a political scandal. By Sasha’s account, Bodhi had saved her life.
So it was no surprise the forensic pathologist’s name had stuck in Al’s legendary memory. After Molly’s call, he’d spent the better part of an hour trying to track down the forensic pathologist. He’d found a handful of newspaper articles detailing Bodhi’s brilliant investigative work as a consultant in puzzling deaths (not one of which included a quote from the man) and several articles in medical journals that he’d authored or coauthored, but no professional presence. No office, no website, no social media profiles. Al may as well have been searching for a ghost.
In desperation, he’d finally called Sasha. Three minutes later, he had a description of both Bodhi and his bicycle as well as directions to the sangha.
Now, he blew on his hot beverage. “Sasha wanted me to tell you hello, by the way. She said you should stop by the house sometime on your way home. The twins would love to see you. She and Leo, too, of course.”
Bodhi smiled and nodded his head, sending his wild curls bobbing. “I’ll do that. About your colleague’s death cluster—”
“Right, right. Down to business.”
“Please understand, I’m not trying to rush you. I do need to get back to the kitchen soon, though.”
“Of course. I’m grateful that you’re taking the time to hear me out. I’ll give you the short version. Doctor Hart is the only physician in a small Vermont village called Scandia Bluff. The nearest medical facility is a community hospital with no trauma center and no emergency room. And it’s an hour and a half away in good weather, which I’m told is a rarity.”
“In bad weather?”
“The village is at very high elevation. It sits on a mountaintop. Many of the roads are impassible during the winter and during mud season, which apparently encompasses early spring to early summer. In a true emergency, IsupposeDoctor Hart could life flight someone down to a university hospital or over the border to Montreal.”
Bodhi wrinkled his brow as if he was trying to picture the small, remote village. Al wondered what he was envisioning. His own imagination failed him.
He’d always lived and practiced in major metropolitan areas and had lobbied his niece to turn down the job in Scandia Bluff. He’d tried to persuade her to continue her job search, find a thriving practice in Pittsburgh or Philadelphia, somewhere close to family, not to mention civilization.
But Molly had been unmoved. Scandia Bluff’s only physician was a general practitioner in his nineties who wanted to bring someone on to help with the practice so he could retire before he hit the century mark. She’d insisted Scandia Bluff needed her in a way Philly or Pittsburgh didn’t; and, when Al put emotion aside, he couldn’t really argue that point.
After she’d accepted the offer, but before she’d moved up to Vermont, the GP had died in his sleep. So Molly had, by necessity, hit the ground running. She was trying to find her way in the tight-knit community while keeping the practice alive. The poor woman had her hands fullwithouta death cluster.
Al shook his head at Molly’s predicament and returned to his narrative. “The village is very small. The population was just under six hundred people at the last census.”
Bodhi’s eyes widened. “So seven deaths is a significant loss.”
“Exactly.”
“What makes Doctor Hart think there’s a common cause of death? How are the patients presenting?”
“That’s just it. They’re not presenting. Nobody’s complained of feeling unwell. There’s no evidence of a viral infection spreading through the village. Folks are… well, they’re dropping dead without warning.”
“You and I both know otherwise healthy people don’t simply drop dead.” Bodhi cocked his head and eyed him.
Al spread his hands wide. “Of course not. I should say theyappearto be dropping dead without warning. That’s why she’s perplexed.”
“Any common threads among the deceased? Were they related? Did they all work at the same place? Share well water?”
Al shook his head. “She says half the town is related at least distantly, but none of the dead came from the same household or immediate family. They didn’t have a common employer. And I’ll confess I didn’t think to ask her about the water source. This isn’t my area of expertise, I’m afraid. I’m out of my depth—and so is she. That’s why I’m here. She needs help from someone who knows what he’s doing.”
