by Kathy Reichs
The Maybank Highway is a schizoid two-lane meandering across James, Johns, and Wadmalaw Islands. Parts are home to gas stations, strip malls, and fast-food joints. Parts are residential. Parts are unrelentingly rural.
Huger’s business was located on one of James Island’s busier commercial stretches. Set off from the pavement by Palmetto palms and artificial turf impersonating grass, the brick three-story structure could have been anything—a medical plaza, an office building, a mail order center. No sign hinted at the nature of the enterprise housed within.
I added my car to a half-dozen others parked on a rectangle of crushed oyster shells and entered through the unmarked glass door. The lobby was small, with a speckled tile floor waxed to a gleam, a single elevator to the right, and a glass-and-steel A-frame desk to the left.
The lady at the desk had silver hair swept high and fixed with copious spray. Harry Potter glasses hung from a chain around her neck. Hearing the door, she glanced up from filing one lilac nail.
“Good afternoon,” I added to be sociable. “It’s so beautiful out today.”
“Hasn’t the good Lord blessed us with the most glorious weather?” The drawl was so thick you could have poured it over Dixie Bell ice cream
“I’m here to see Dr. Huger.” Wording chosen to imply a prearranged meeting.
Face furrowing into gullies of distress, Dixie Bell set down her emery board, slipped on the Harry Potters, and began tapping keys. “Do you have an appointment?”
“I don’t.” Smiling so apologetically my face hurt. “But I was hoping—”
A hand flew to Dixie Bell’s chest. “Oh, my zip-a-dee-doo-dah! You scared the tar out of me. I thought I’d made a boo-boo.”
“Perhaps I—”
“I’m sorry. But Dr. Huger is away for a few days.”
Crap. I said nothing.
“Perhaps I can be of help?” Eyes enormous behind the thick round lenses.
“My name is Temperance Brennan.” I crossed to the desk.
Dixie Bell grabbed a plastic bottle, sprayed both her palms, wiped each with a Kleenex.
“A girl can never be too careful.”
“Never,” I agreed.
“Abilene Monger.” One sanitized hand shot my way. “Very pleased.”
“Have you worked here long, Abilene?” We shook, her grip as strong as the discarded tissue.
“Since before Jesus raised up Lazarus.” Not quite a giggle but close.
“This is a little embarrassing,” I said, going hard for embarrassed.
“Oh, darlin’. What is it?”
“I’m looking for my niece.”
“She’s missing?”
I nodded. “For a while now. I think she and a friend may have come here a few years ago. She had short dark hair streaked pink. Her friend was quite tall.”
“The pink porcupine!”
“I’m sorry?”
“I make up rhymes and jingles to help my visual recall. It’s a memory trick I learned on Oprah. Mnemonics.”
“I do that all the time.”
“I use it for faces and cars and things, not so much for voices or conversations. I have what doctors call an echoic memory. Ever heard of that?”
I shook my head.
“I hear a speech or a song or such, I can remember every single word. I’m so good at it a psychologist studied me back in high school.”
“I’m impressed.”
“So was he. Sit your sweet self down.” Indicating one of two gray velvet armchairs facing the desk.
I sat.
“Her hair. It was all spiky. Like a porcupine. And peony-pink.”
“Very clever.” Tone absolutely neutral, though my pulse was humming.
“Do you think the pink porcupine was your niece?”
I pulled the Shady Sam’s pic from my purse and laid it on the glass. Monger repositioned the Harry Potters, leaned forward, and studied the girl seated below the stage.
“Yes, ma’am,” she said finally. “What’s the poor lamb’s name?”
“Harmony.”
“How utterly charming.”
“Thank you.”
“What’s the child doing in a bar?”
“It’s a long story.”
Reproachful pause. Then, “Your niece and her friend were working on a science project for school. They hadn’t called ahead, but Dr. Huger very graciously agreed to see them. I was in his office catching up on filing, so I overheard most of what was said. Good gracious, I hate filing. That’s why I let it pile up.”
“What was their project?”
“I’m not totally clear on that. But they had lots of questions about genomes and DNA sequencing and genetic testing and such. And about GeneFree, of course.”
Monger stopped talking, distracted by the unfinished nail.
“Anything else?” I encouraged.
“They asked about pharmaceutical manufacturing. They knew that Dr. Huger had worked in that industry. They’d certainly done research, bless their hearts. They were particularly interested in vaccines. How they’re made. How they’re tested. Quality control, that sort of thing. They asked about a process called mRNA. I’ve no idea what that is.”
The cells in my id sat up. Huh?
Monger’s brows dipped toward her nasal bridge.
“Yes?” I urged.
“They also asked about viruses. I found that curious, since it’s not Dr. Huger’s bailiwick. But about then, I completed my chore and left the room. Are y’all worried your niece may have stumbled upon trouble?”
“I hope not.”
“It’s a dangerous world out there.”
“It is. Did Harmony mention a family connection to Dr. Huger?”
Monger’s brows now shot up in surprise. “What a very strange question.”
“I know.” Cursing myself for posing it so bluntly. “I’m just at a loss for what my niece’s thinking might have been.”
Monger shook her head firmly, sending the chains swinging to either side of her face. “I’d most assuredly have remembered her asking about that. As far as I know, the poor man has no kin at all.”
“Do you know when Dr. Huger will return?”
“I do not. This trip was last-minute and not on his schedule.” Miffed?
“Is that unusual?”
“Not really.”
“Do you know where he went?”
“I do not.”
I dug a card from my purse and handed it to her. She studied it.
“Charlotte, eh? Where y’all staying while here in Charleston?”
I told her.
“I love, love, love Isle of Palms.” Breathy with delight. “Where abouts on the island?”
I told her, in vague terms.
“Not that absolutely gorgeous house with the little spiral staircase going up to the roof?”
“Mm.” Apparently, my terms weren’t vague enough.
“When I go to the beach out there, I always take a spin around to check out the homes. That one is my tip-top favorite.”
I thanked her for the compliment and split.
* * *
While crunching across the oyster shells, I dialed Ryan. He answered as I was unlocking my car. Without any preamble, I shared what I’d just learned from Abilene Monger.
A moment of stunned nothing came from his end. Or maybe he was distracted. Either way, I filled the silence.
“Harmony and Lena met with Sullie Huger.”
“The GeneFree guy.”
“Yes.”
“Harmony’s distant cousin?”
“According to the genetic genealogist.”
“They were asking about his DTC DNA-testing business?”
“Yes. But they also had questions about vaccines and viruses and pharmaceutical production. The school science project was obviously a cover story. Why do you suppose they were interested in those topics? Why do you suppose they were interested in Huger?”
“Lena’s mother worked for a pharmaceutical company. Maybe they wer
e just sniffing out that lead?”
“Why go to Huger?”
“Hit up a relative?”
“Monger said a family connection was never mentioned.”
“She also said the girls had obviously done their research. Maybe they stumbled on the GeneFree website, saw that Huger operated out of Charleston, figured he’d be a good source.”
“Maybe.” I didn’t really buy it. Lot of hassle involved. Travel to Charleston in the hope of meeting him without an appointment. And there was the suspicious coincidence of Harmony and Huger being related, even if distantly.
After a brief pause, “Claudel’s been busting ass.”
“On his charm school application?”
“He’s not that bad.”
I said nothing.
“Claudel’s been pursuing the yacht club lead. Turns out some marinas are inordinately fond of record keeping.”
I waited.
“Murray joined the Royal St. Lawrence Yacht Club in 2009. From then until 2012, he docked a 2006 Wellcraft Scarab Sport there.”
“That’s a boat.”
“A fast one. In 2012, he replaced the used Scarab with a spanking-new Fountain 42 Lightning.”
“Atmospheric voltage sounds faster than a bug.”
“What?”
“A scarab is a beetle. Lightning implies—”
“Your thought processes never cease to amaze me. In 2018, Murray upgraded to a 2016 Cigarette Maximus 45.”
“Buying an older boat is an upgrade?”
“That Cigarette would leave any Scarab or Fountain in the dust. Spray. Probably cost him half a mil.”
“Does he still have it?”
“He does. Did.”
“What about back in 2002? That’s the significant time frame.”
“There’s no record of Murray owning a boat back then.”
“Did Claudel check—”
“Everywhere.”
“Your voice tells me that’s not the end of the story.”
“Claudel dropped by the Royal St. Lawrence and found an old-timer who’s very free with the gab. Balsé Piché. Goes by Ballsey. Ballsey, it turns out, allows short-term rental of his watercraft. Has for years.”
“And Ballsey keeps inordinately good records?”
“Am I the most beguiling and—”
“What did Ballsey tell Claudel?”
“Ballsey leased his eighteen-foot Ranger Cherokee to one A. Murray from July 28 through August 4, 2002.”
“Precisely when Melanie and Ella went missing!” Almost a shriek.
“Reel it in, honey bear.”
“Don’t call me that.” Deep breath. “Could Murray have gone by boat from Dorval to where that container showed up in Saint-Anicet?”
“Yes. But it would have been a bitch of a journey, west along the Saint Lawrence River, through the Beauharnois locks, then along the Beauharnois canal for about fifteen miles. The canal has two lift bridges—”
“Pont Saint-Louis-de-Gonzague and Pont Laroque.”
“Very good, captain.”
“I like maps.”
“Past the bridges, he’d have continued west into Lac Saint-François, which is actually just a widening of the river. A trip of about thirty miles in all.”
I’d started to comment when Ryan added, “But he didn’t do that.”
“He didn’t?”
“In 2002, Ballsey belonged to the Valleyfield Yacht Club.”
“That’s on Lac Saint-François, right up the shore from Saint-Anicet. But you canvassed every marina and yacht club in the area back then. Those rental dates would have raised a flag.”
“Ballsey has a cottage on Lac Saint-François. With a dock.”
“Where he kept the Cherokee. Private rental, private records.”
“Voilà.”
“Murray did it, Ryan. He killed Melanie and her daughter.”
“It plays.”
“Like a hymn on Sunday. But why?”
Ryan offered no suggestion.
“What’s the thinking on the explosion at InovoVax?” I shifted topics. But not much.
“Some douche nozzle blew the place sky-high.”
“Why was Murray there in the middle of the night?”
“Eisenberg said that was his habit.”
“But why?”
Ryan started to reply. I cut him off.
“My guess is he was involved in something shady. Skimming? Cooking the books? Jacking with production? Stealing drugs? Maybe he was out there trying to cover his ass. Maybe he’d planned to set a fire, destroy records or data or whatever. Maybe things went south, and boom!”
I was on a roll.
“Maybe,” I continued, “that’s the reason Murray killed Melanie. Maybe she’d discovered what he was up to and had threatened to expose him. Maybe that’s what her notes were all about. But why her daughter?”
“Deep inhale.”
“You sound like a masseuse.”
The oxygen intake helped some.
Not for long.
Way too many maybes. Way too much speculation.
35
FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 19
My mind spent the drive back to Anne’s spinning those maybes. Mixing them with unexplained references and unanswered questions.
Turning from the connector onto IOP, the mental turbulence ran aground on two specific items. A name popped to the foreground.
Off to my right, the late-afternoon sun was tinting the marsh and the waterway tangerine. I checked the time: 4:37 p.m. Not too late, I hoped.
I arrived at Anne’s house, rushed inside, and dug my mobile, a pen, and a tablet from my shoulder bag. After locating a number recently added to my contacts, I dialed.
“Alika Bangoboshe.” The flute.
“It’s Temperance Brennan. Tempe. I hope I haven’t caught you at a bad time?”
“Not at all. I am grading exams.”
“I don’t want—”
“I am ready for a break.”
I liked this woman.
“I wondered if I could roll a few more questions by you.”
“Of course.”
“When we last spoke about the materials that I sent, you said the presence of the term CRISPR surprised you.”
“Given that the notations appeared to focus on vaccine production.”
“It’s my understanding that CRISPR is a gene-editing tool.”
“That’s correct. The acronym stands for clustered regularly interspaced short palindromic repeats.” When I didn’t respond, she added, “Repeats of genetic information.”
“Right.”
“The full name is actually CRISPR/Cas9. Emmanuelle Charpentier and Jennifer Doudna were awarded the Nobel Prize in chemistry last year for their work with it. Two women. Isn’t that absolutely marvelous?”
“It definitely is. Can you tell me how it works?”
As Bangoboshe elaborated, I scrawled like mad. When she paused, I summarized what I’d written, leaving out the technical bits.
“So Cas9 acts as a molecular scissors to snip a DNA strand at a precise location.”
“Yes.”
“Snip it for what purpose?”
“To delete a segment, perhaps to insert a new gene. Gods above, my colleagues would be appalled at my oversimplification.” The flute whooped in laughter. Made me think of the clarinet glissando at the opening of Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue.
“So CRISPR/Cas9 is basically a genetic cut-and-paste technique,” I said.
“I suppose you could view it that way.”
“Is it used for people?”
“The first human study took place in 2016 in a clinical trial at China’s Sichuan University. So the application of CRISPR/Cas9 to humans is relatively new.”
“I assume its primary function is to fix defects and cure disease?”
“Scientists are exploring the use of CRISPR/Cas9 in correcting a wide variety of conditions, including single-gene disorders like cystic fibrosis, hemophilia, and s
ickle cell. The technique also holds promise for the treatment and prevention of more complex ailments such as cancer, heart disease, mental illness, and human immunodeficiency virus, HIV.”
“Didn’t I read an article not long ago about a doctor in China altering the genomes of unborn babies?”
“He Jiankui.” Coated with disdain. “He revealed at a conference in Hong Kong in 2018 that he’d created the world’s first genetically edited infants—twin girls. The announcement sent the scientific community into an uproar. Exactly the effect Dr. He wanted.”
“I’m sensing you don’t approve.”
“He and his colleagues violated internationally agreed-upon rules and crossed a line on medical ethics. Their goal is fame and fortune.”
“What did they do, exactly?”
“He used the CRISPR/Cas9 technique to disable a gene called CCR5. CCR5 is used to make a protein needed by HIV to enter cells.”
“He and his colleagues created babies immune to HIV? Why is that so bad?”
“The subject is so very complicated.” The flute paused, I assumed to simplify for my benefit. “Most changes introduced via genome-editing technologies such as CRISPR/Cas9 are limited to somatic cells. Do you understa—”
“Cells other than egg or sperm.”
“Correct. Changes in somatic cells affect only certain tissues in an individual and are not passed from one generation to the next. Not so with alterations made to genes in egg or sperm cells or in the genes of an embryo. Those alterations could be passed to future generations. So making such changes prompts serious ethical questions, including whether it’s permissible to enhance normal human traits.”
“Things like eye color, height, intelligence.”
“Exactly. Based on ethical as well as safety concerns, cell and embryo genome editing are currently illegal in many countries. Some governments, including that of the United States, have banned such work, fearing its misuse to create designer babies.”
“What happened to He?”
“A Chinese court sentenced him and two of his coworkers to prison time and heavy fines.”
I glanced at my tablet. Put a check beside CRISPR.
“Can you explain the relevance of mRNA to vaccine manufacture?” The term used by Abilene Monger. The term that had roused the diligent cells in my hindbrain.
After a pause, “We’ve discussed traditional production methods.”
“Egg-based, cell-based, and recombinant.”
