Page 6 of Forgotten Path
Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania
The chirp of his mobile phone on the kitchen counter penetrated Bodhi King’s consciousness. He didn’t shift on his meditation cushion or open his eyes. Rather, he noted the sound—phone, phone—before releasing it from his attention and returning his awareness to his breath.
The phone continued to ring. Bodhi continued to breathe.
Eventually, the phone fell silent, and a familiar twinge in Bodhi’s right knee took its place in an effort to distract him. He noted it—throbbing, throbbing.Then he allowed the pain to float away just as the ringtone had.
Back to the breath.
And the phone started ringing again.
“Bodhi, answer the phone!” Eliza Doolittle squawked from her perch.
He opened his eyes. Technological interruptions and physical discomforts were easy enough for him to block out at this point in his meditation practice. But he doubted the Buddha himself could ignore the outraged screeching of a ticked-off macaw.
Slowly, he unfolded his long legs and rose from the floor. He walked out to the kitchen and soothed the bird by stroking her brilliant blue crown.
“You don’t like that noise, do you?”
“Bodhi’s phone.Bringgg. Bringgg.”
He laughed at her pitch-perfect mimicry of the phone’s shrill ringing.
“Sorry, Eliza.”
She peered at him, her glossy black eyes alert and curious. “Who is calling Bodhi?”
It was a good question. Whowascalling him? He wasn’t currently consulting on any cases, and his friends all knew he spent his free mornings in meditation and prayer. They typically didn’t call before noon out of respect for his schedule.
It was a good question with an easy answer. He crossed the room and picked up the phone. He was squinting at the missed calls, trying to place the area code, when the display lit up, and the ringtone blared to life.
He lifted the device to his ear. “Good morning. This is Bodhi King.”
“Hi, Bodhi. Oh, thank heavens I caught you.”
A woman’s voice—tight with worry, a hint of an accent, vaguely familiar—but he couldn’t quite place it. He shook his head.
“I’m sorry, who is this?”
She laughed. “Duh, no,I’msorry. It’s Felicia. Felicia Williams—down in Florida.”
Felicia Williams? Bodhi searched his memory, and the name and an image clicked into place. Detective Felicia Williams had worked the case that had dragged him out of early retirement to investigate a death cluster on a private island. “Detective, of course. It’s been a while. How’s everything in the Keys?”
She blew out a long, loud breath. “I’m not sure.”
He raised his left eyebrow and waited.
“Have you seen Joel, by chance? Is he up in Pittsburgh with you?”
His right eyebrow crawled up his forehead to join the left. “Joel Ashland? Your medical examiner?”
“Right.” The strain in her voice grew.
“No, he’s not here. I mean, I haven’tseenJoel since I was down there for the Golden Island Church case. When was that—2017, or thereabouts?”
“That’s right. So you didn’t keep in touch? Not even professionally?”
“Well, sure. We exchange emails from time to time. We coauthored an article about the case, and we’ve sent each other preprints of other articles we’ve written—for comments or suggestions, that sort of thing.”
