The Bone Code

by Kathy Reichs

  “Monger said he was out of town.”

  “She say when he’s due back?”

  “No. I’ve asked Ryan to see if Huger entered Canada recently.”

  “You’re thinking the prick might also be good for Murray?”

  “I don’t know what I think.”

  “By the way, the e-nerds got into that tape we found at the hostel. Most of the footage was toast, but they managed to salvage and digitize parts.”

  “Was the recording made by Melanie Chalmers?”

  “Yeah. I had them transfer a copy onto a thumb drive. I want you to take a look at it.”

  That surprised me. “Of course.”

  “I’ll be in Mount Pleasant tomorrow.”

  That also surprised me, since the town has its own police department.

  “There’s a protest at city hall because of this capno crap. I’m doing freakin’ crowd control. You’re on IOP, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “You know the Sea Biscuit?”

  “I do.”

  “Meet me at noon?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  Vislosky disconnected.

  After killing the light and the TV, I lay back and closed my eyes. Birdie molded his body to my rib cage.

  The ocean boomed its relentless rhythm, muted by the glass. The empty house hummed hollow around me.

  Images danced on the backs of my lids, specters raised by my incipient theory.

  It’s impossible. No one could be that evil.

  I rolled to my side.

  The cat relocated.

  I punched the pillow. Rolled to my other side.

  Tomorrow I’d be viewing what may have been Melanie Chalmers’s final communiqué.

  Thinking about it made my stomach pitch.

  37

  SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 20

  I opened my eyes to a room that was strangely silent and dim.

  After disentangling from the bedding—I’d slept fitfully—I crossed to the French doors. Beyond the glass, the fog was thick enough to make snow angels.

  Sliding open one panel, I stepped onto the deck. The air felt velvety damp on my skin, the wood slippery cool on the soles of my feet.

  The seabirds were mute, perhaps disoriented by the hazy gray blanket enveloping their world. Not a single palm frond rustled.

  I breathed in the mix of seaweed, wet sand, and salt air. Listened to the acres of silence. Felt momentarily comforted.

  Then, goose bumps. Maybe the morning chill. Maybe thoughts of the dead woman who’d speak to me later that day.

  I went back inside. Birdie was gone, no doubt miffed that his breakfast order would arrive later than his requested time. I checked the bedside clock.

  8:17 a.m. Hours until my meeting with Vislosky.

  Caffeine? Exercise?

  Strongly preferring the former, I nevertheless donned running shorts and a hoodie and laced on my Nikes. After feeding the feline, I set out in the direction of the Front Beach pier, a route of roughly three miles round trip. Plenty, given that I’d barely had a nodding acquaintance with exercise of late.

  The tide was high, leaving only a narrow ribbon of hard-packed sand skimming the shore. My footfalls pounded to the rhythm of the shrouded Atlantic sucking in, then spitting out the surf.

  At the halfway point, I slapped my usual barnacle-studded pylon—an OCD ritual, I know—and hooked a U-ey. On the homeward leg, the sun began poking encouraging rays at the mist. The heavy veil grudgingly started to lift. Ghostly figures materialized. Walkers. Shell collectors. Dogs chasing balls or Frisbees, then racing back to their owners.

  My breathing was steady, my muscles finally loose. I kicked into high. For the first time in days, it felt good to be alive.

  * * *

  I showered, then pulled on yoga pants and my favorite long-sleeved jersey from Skagway. Was indulging in the deferred coffee and a side of Cheerios when Ryan called.

  “Bonjour, mon cowboy.” Close to a line by Mitsou, a Quebecoise singer.

  “Tabarnac. Don’t we sound perky.”

  “I just ran on the beach.”

  “Are you all hot and sweaty?”

  “I took a shower.”

  “Are you still naked?”

  “I’m in the kitchen eating breakfast.”

  “I don’t suppose you’d want to get nake—”

  “What’s the haps?” Through the crunch of Os.

  “What are you, twelve?”

  “Blame the endorphins.”

  “The haps are twofold. First, traces of Semtex were found at InovoVax.”

  “A plastic explosive.”

  “That very thing.”

  “The one that brought down Pan Am flight one-oh-three over Lockerbie, Scotland.”

  “Eight ounces in a Samsonite suitcase.”

  “Jesus in a pear tree.”

  “It’s powerful stuff. And easy to use. Stick a couple of ounces behind the crapper, hide in the alley, detonate with a call from your cell phone.”

  “Is it hard to get?”

  “Ehhh. Semtex is used in commercial blasting, demolition, mining, that sort of thing. Access is regulated, but with a good source, you can score a hunk.”

  Ryan paused, thinking about Semtex, I supposed. Or good sources.

  “Back in the day, Semtex was a bitch to detect. Now a taggant is added.”

  “Which does what?”

  “Produces a distinctive vapor signature that helps sniff the stuff out.”

  “The cops are thinking Murray botched what he was doing and blew himself up?”

  “They’re considering all options.”

  “The guy’s a snake, Ryan. He’d rake Disneyland with an AK if he felt threatened.”

  I sensed Ryan shrug, unwilling to speculate. Or not fully convinced.

  “And the second hap?” I asked.

  “Huger’s a fan of the Great White North.”

  “He’s been to Canada? When?”

  “Many times, his last trip being this past week.”

  “Seriously?”

  “According to customs and border patrol, Huger arrived Wednesday, left yesterday. His points of entry and departure were our very own Pierre Elliott Trudeau Airport.”

  “He was in Montreal at the time of the explosion at InovoVax.”

  “He was.”

  Something rolled over in a murky corner of my mind. What?

  “That changes the picture,” I said.

  “It does.”

  We rode out quite a long moment of silence.

  “Listen, Tempe.” Ryan uses my first name only when deadly serious. “I want you to be careful.”

  “I’m always careful.”

  “I mean it.” Ryan put steel in his voice.

  “So do I.”

  “This guy Huger is bad news.”

  “What’s his motive to kill?” Though I didn’t disagree.

  Ryan had no answer to that.

  * * *

  The Sea Biscuit Café is an island tradition. The main room seats maybe twenty, the screened porch a few more. Cash or check only. Nothing matches. The waitresses are local and wear unstylish Levi’s or cutoffs.

  When I arrived, every inside table was taken. Vislosky was at one, drinking coffee and looking generally pissed. First time I’d seen her in uniform.

  “How’s it going,” I asked, hooking my shoulder bag onto a ladderback chair.

  “Folks are having a whale of a time out there. My humble opinion? We tear-gas the whole lot.”

  I forced my best imitation of a smile.

  “Can’t tell if these assholes are in a lather for themselves or their dogs.”

  “Capno made the national news last night.”

  Vislosky glowered at me.

  “According to CNN, the outbreak isn’t confined to Charleston. There are clusters in Greenville, Columbia, Beaufort—”

  “I’d say that misery loves company, but I don’t wish this crap on anyone.”

  A waitress came
and poised pen over pad. Shyla. Shyla had worked at the Biscuit since Sherman set off for Savannah.

  I ordered a grilled crab cake sandwich. Vislosky chose tomato pie. She spoke again when Shyla had gone.

  “We’re briefed daily on capno, but I still don’t get it. The CDC says the disease isn’t contagious. It’s not like COVID. People can’t pass it to each other.”

  “It’s my understanding that human infections almost always come from dogs or cats.”

  “Right. So one schmuck gets bitten and he’s fine, another gets scratched and he’s totally screwed.”

  “I’m not an expert, but I believe I read that a person’s level of immunity is genetically determined.”

  “Then how come all of a sudden everyone’s catching this shit?”

  I had no answer to that.

  Shaking her head, Vislosky pulled a thumb drive from a hip pocket and set it between us. Added a folded sheet of paper.

  I reached for the drive. She blocked my move with one NBA hand.

  “I’m letting you view this for one reason and one reason alone.”

  I cocked a brow.

  “She’s speaking fucking French.”

  “Melanie?”

  “No. Brigitte Bardot.”

  I let it slide. I had more important things to deal with than Vislosky’s attitude.

  “I’m happy to translate,” I said.

  “The quality’s shit. The e-geeks patched together the portions they could salvage. So it’s not exactly Steven Spielberg.”

  Vislosky withdrew her hand and hooked a thumb at the paper. “That’s a photocopy of a page we found wadded up inside the videocassette case. Maybe you can translate that, too.”

  I took the thumb drive and paper and placed both in my bag.

  While eating, I updated Vislosky on Ryan’s two haps: the Semtex and Huger’s recent cross-border sortie. She responded with a series of guttural noises.

  When I’d finished, Vislosky said, “So the bastard went to Montreal.”

  I nodded.

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What’s his connection to Murray?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Border patrol find any record of Murray coming down here?”

  “I didn’t ask.”

  “The Montreal cops thinking Huger might have done Murray?”

  “They’re considering many options.” Quoting Ryan.

  We ate in silence for a while. Vislosky spoke first.

  “You must live right, doc.”

  “Meaning?” I was lost. Doc? That was a first.

  “You realize how many breaks we’ve caught on this case?”

  I raised a questioning palm, still not following.

  “So many witnesses staying put for so long? Never happens.”

  Actually, I had thought about that. “Dora Eisenberg is convinced she’s unemployable should she leave InovoVax,” I said. “Florence Sorg is in her nineties and has owned her building for decades. Gertrude Pickle is a widow and fearful of living alone. Digger France has retired to the city that made him famous.”

  Bunching and tossing her napkin, Vislosky shook her head. “The only one with wanderlust seems to be Huger. The bastard up and hauled ass to Canada.”

  “He’s back in town now.”

  “You can take this to the bank. I’m gonna net this knuckle dragger, shove him into a cave, and roll a big fuckin’ stone over the entrance.”

  Sounded good to me.

  “Have a nice day,” I said in parting.

  “Yeah. Blue skies and butterflies.”

  I drove home, not anticipating the calamity awaiting me there.

  The first of two that night.

  * * *

  Birdie didn’t greet me at the front door. He didn’t answer my calls. Not normal, especially since we were staying in a strange house.

  I dumped my purse on the sideboard and searched the first floor. No cat.

  In the kitchen, my heart catapulted into my throat. Bloody pawprints tracked from the deck doors to the back stairs. I followed them up to my bedroom, calling Bird’s name. Inside, red trails crisscrossed the floor.

  “Birdie?” Struggling to hide the panic.

  No response.

  I dropped to all fours to check under the bed. Two round yellow eyes peered from the shadows.

  “Come here, big guy.” Low and soothing, though my heart was hammering.

  The cat didn’t move. Reaching in, I hooked him under his forelimbs and gently slid him out.

  The fur on Birdie’s right rear leg was a matted red mess.

  “What happened, sweet boy?”

  Of course, he didn’t answer.

  I glanced at the French doors. One was slightly ajar.

  Bolting to the bathroom, I grabbed a towel, wrapped the cat, dug his carrier from the closet, and eased him in. Not an easy ease, given his agitated state. Then I raced for the car.

  The Sandy Cove Veterinary Clinic was minutes away on Palm Boulevard. I’d passed it a dozen times when driving to the Harris Teeter. I burned every speed reg getting there. Screw it. If an island cop took issue, I’d outrun him and swallow the fine.

  The lobby was packed with owners holding leashes and owners pacifying pets. They all followed my progress from the entrance to the desk, smiling sportingly, secretly hoping my emergency wouldn’t prolong their wait.

  The receptionist wore a name badge ID’ing her as Brooke. Brooke whisked Bird into the bowels of the clinic. Returned and presented me with a stack of forms.

  I sat down to fill them out. Realized that in my rush, I’d left my bag at Anne’s house. Entering all but my credit-card information, I returned the paperwork to Brooke and joined the waiters.

  For almost an hour. Then the vet appeared to report that my cat had deep lacerations on his right rear leg. No shit, Sherlock. Birdie had been anesthetized for suturing and now needed X-rays.

  While signing yet another form, I asked if I’d be taking Birdie home with me. That depended on the X-rays. I queried how long that process would take. My pet was the next one up.

  I resumed my vigil.

  Animals and masters came and went. Mostly dogs and cats. One cockatiel. One pig.

  Another wasted hour. I wished I’d brought my purse. And my laptop. And Vislosky’s thumb drive. After another, I wished I’d brought strychnine.

  Eventually, word came. No broken bones.

  It was past five when Brooke finally delivered my pet. The patient was now totally cool with the carrier.

  Back home, I settled Bird on my bed. The cat looked mellow as a toked-out pothead.

  Puzzled about how Bird had hurt himself, I returned to the kitchen. Spotted traces of blood and fur low down on one of the deck doors.

  Had I left it open a crack? Had Birdie tried to squeeze through and become wedged? Security lapses weren’t my habit, but honestly, I couldn’t be sure.

  A quick ham and cheese sandwich, then I dug out Vislosky’s photocopy and thumb drive, collected my laptop, and clomped back upstairs. Sitting cross-legged on the bed, I decided to start with the folded paper.

  I’ve no idea what I was expecting.

  It wasn’t what I read.

  And, to my horror, it was.

  38

  SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 20

  I opened the paper. Intersecting dark lines suggested the original had been folded many times.

  A quick scan revealed disturbingly familiar features. On two levels.

  First, the script was small and cramped, the language a type of adolescent shorthand.

  Like the entries in Harmony Boatwright’s diary.

  Second, certain acronyms recurred throughout. mRNA. CRISPR.

  The same acronyms recorded by Melanie Chalmers in 2002.

  Melanie had been interested in vaccine production. So had her daughter Lena, fifteen years later.

  My appalling theory elbowed toward my forebrain.

  Impossible.

 
I continued deciphering the girlish scrawl. Spotted names. InovoVax. Arlo Murray. GeneFree. Sullie Huger.

  Not surprising that the girls knew of Murray and InovoVax. Lena had visited the director at the pharmaceutical plant in Laval. Ditto for Huger. Lena and Harmony had interviewed him at his office on James Island.

  I plowed on. Spotted words and phrases that hadn’t appeared in Melanie’s notes.

  Capnocytophaga canimorsus. TLR4.

  The theory finger-tapped a cerebral mic.

  Could I actually be right? Could any human really be that evil?

  I booted my laptop, hopped online, and went to the Human Gene Database.

  The TLR4 gene codes for a protein that is a member of the toll-like receptor family.

  The more I read, the more the theory demanded attention.

  TLRs play an important role in pathogen recognition and in the activation of immunity against infectious agents.

  God almighty!

  I went to the bathroom for a drink of cold water. Checked Birdie. Returned to Vislosky’s photocopy.

  Six lines from the bottom, there it was. Confirmation in two short paragraphs.

  “Holy freakin’ shit!” Grabbing my mobile.

  Bird raised his lids to half-mast. A long, bleary look, then he lowered them.

  “You’re right, Bird.” Forcing myself calm. “We both know Ryan’s motto. Cautious, composed, completely cognizant.”

  After tossing my phone onto the comforter, I inserted Vislosky’s thumb drive into the USB port. The tiny device contained a single file. Chalmervideo.mpv.

  I downloaded then dragged the MPV file into my File Viewer app.

  Deep breath.

  It was clear the opening portion had not been salvaged. The action started in mid-scene.

  My first thought was that Lizzie Griesser’s facial approximation had been remarkably accurate. The woman speaking had large green eyes, a long, narrow nose, and a tapering jaw. But the phenotype sketch hadn’t captured how striking Melanie was. Only an overly prominent chin had kept her from being truly beautiful.

  My second thought was that the setup looked like your typical hostage video. Melanie sat squarely facing the camera. She wore no makeup, and her hair was knotted on top of her head. There was nothing behind her but bare wall.

  “—this is working now. Hopefully take three is the winner. I’m not sure if this part recorded on my first try, but it’s January 15, 2002. My name is Melanie Chalmers.”