The Bone Code

by Kathy Reichs

  She spoke with proper Parisian grammar and an American, not Quebecois, accent. What I think of as textbook French. Her voice was somber, her expression grim.

  “I’m living in Laval, Quebec, under the alias Mélanie Chalamet. I’m employed—”

  The tape jumped abruptly.

  “—been just the three of us for so long. But should something happen to me, my kids deserve to know about their fathers. Not that sweet Ella ever will.” Melanie looked down, I presumed, at her hands. “The sad truth is, I haven’t a clue who Ella’s daddy is. I was pretty much out of control my final year in college.”

  “Lena’s father was a man named Jeff Russo. Jeff was in the Navy. We were going to get married, but the year Lena was born, he was killed in Iraq. Some of his family may still live in the—”

  Again, the tape skipped.

  “—unbearable at work. Arlo rides me constantly. I’m making this tape in French in case he gets his hands on it. The dolt doesn’t know a word unless it’s on a menu.”

  There was another disjointed cut-and-paste transition.

  “—thought the idea would help me. Help my kids. Score us some money. But I just can’t go through with it. So many people would be hurt. That’s why I want everything on record. In case—”

  Another break.

  “—met in the early ’nineties while we were working for the Human Genome Project at MIT. I was a lowly data analyst. Zero advanced degree, you know.” With a note of bitterness. “Arlo and Sullie were bigwig scientists, earning huge coin. I could barely scrape by.”

  Another downward glance. Another disconnect.

  “—were totally different animals. Arlo was flashy, the macho daredevil always bragging about riding his bike going ninety without a helmet. Sullie was an introvert, a whiner, always moaning about how his father ignored him when he was a kid. But from the get-go, they bonded. Both had PhDs and very lofty views of themselves. Both were into genomics, boating, hair products.” The last punctuated with a disparaging eye roll. “Maybe they were lovers, maybe not. I didn’t know, didn’t care.”

  The tape hopped again. Altered shadowing suggested a light source off to the left. I guessed some time had passed.

  “—not sure why the great doctors deigned to slum with me, but the three of us got into the habit of having a few beers after work.” Pause. “It all began as a joke. No, not a joke. A game. We’d construct these elaborate scenarios involving genome editing. At first, it was all hypothetical. What if this? What if that? Eventually, Sullie—”

  An icy chill took hold of my chest.

  “—chance to make big bucks. The plan was complicated, but in a nutshell, we’d edit a gene that controls immunity to some noninfectious condition. The mutation wouldn’t be harmful, since it couldn’t spread throughout the population. We’d introduce it through some pharmaceutical channel, maybe a vaccine or—”

  Holy, Christ!

  “—couldn’t put my finger on exactly when things changed, but after a point, it wasn’t mind play anymore. It got real. It was going to happen. Sullie launched a website in ’ninety-nine. GeneMe. In 2000, he got Arlo and me jobs at InovoVax through some friend of his father who’s on the board. Arlo is from Montreal. My role—”

  And that was it. The rest had been lost.

  The chill traveled along my spine. I grabbed my mobile.

  Ryan answered right away.

  “I was right, Ryan. Holy Mother of God, I was right.”

  “Right about what?”

  “Huger.”

  “Calm down. Then hit me with the two-minute elevator version.”

  “Huger and Murray figured out a way to manipulate a vaccine in order to alter a person’s genome.”

  A beat of silence.

  “Maybe a little more detail?” Ryan urged.

  I provided a crash course, including both old and new info. CRISPR/Cas9. mRNA vaccine production. TLR4. Capnocytophaga canimorsus.

  “TLR4 is a gene that gives an early shout-out when foreign bacteria enter the body,” Ryan clarified when I’d finished. “CRISPR/Cas9 is a genetic cut-and-paste tool.”

  “Exactly. Huger and Murray were using CRISPR to replace a person’s good copy of the TLR4 gene with a bad copy. A mutation that makes the person’s immune system partially blind to infection by capno.”

  “So Huger could hawk his genetic-testing service and homeopathic cures online.”

  “The stakes would be far bigger than online sales. Huger hoped to create real panic and sell his websites for tens, maybe hundreds, of millions.”

  Ryan took a moment to digest what I was saying. Then, “Murray and Chalmers were planted at InovoVax with the idea that they’d contaminate specific batches of flu vaccine.”

  “Yes. Melanie’s notes contained what Bangoboshe thought were batch numbers. I’m sure InovoVax will confirm it.”

  “Melanie got cold feet and threatened to blow the whistle.”

  “It’s all on her tape,” I said.

  “Murray or Huger capped her to make sure that didn’t happen. Ella was collateral damage.”

  A sudden confirmation. “Sorg didn’t overhear Melanie and Murray arguing about Christopher,” I said. “They were arguing about CRISPR.”

  “Fifteen years later, all the hard work is about to pay off.” Ryan continued the thread. “Out of the blue, Lena and Harmony show up at Huger’s office with information that would expose the whole bloody scheme.”

  Birdie’s ears shot up. He lifted his chin and sniffed the air. I stroked his head.

  “Here’s something that’s been troubling me,” I said. “Why such a long gap following the murders in Montreal?”

  “Maybe Murray and Huger were spooked. Maybe they were still tinkering with how to contaminate the mRNA process.”

  “Maybe they were waiting for the right moment,” I speculated. “The pandemic provided it.”

  “COVID-19 scared the whole world shitless.”

  I’d started to agree when a horrendous possibility broadsided me.

  “Or maybe they didn’t stop at all. Maybe the capno scheme is just the latest in a series.”

  Ryan got my meaning right away. “Maybe they’ve made other strikes, perhaps in other places, and capno is the first to succeed. Think about it. Avian flu. Swine flu. H1N1. West Nile virus. SARS. Legionnaire’s disease. Those are just a few that come to mind.”

  “But those are infectious. Melanie said on the tape that the plan was to stick to noninfectious diseases.”

  “OK. What about the periodic salmonella and E. coli outbreaks? Or the mad cow scare? When was that?”

  “I think the first confirmed case in an American cow was in 2003.”

  We both went silent recalling various CDC alerts over the past two decades. A full minute, then I switched tack, too horrified to continue.

  “Do you suppose Huger killed Murray?” I asked.

  “There’s some new intel on Murray, grâce à Claudel. The good doctor liked his cars and boats fast. And expensive. He was in hock up to his eyeballs.”

  “Maybe Huger viewed Murray’s financial woes as a threat. For years, their MO was to keep a very low profile.”

  “Or maybe Murray felt the hounds snapping, got tired of waiting, and decided to cash in early.”

  “By blackmailing Huger?”

  Something went thunk somewhere in the house.

  I drew a breath. Listened. Nothing. Only one possibility made sense.

  “I should go. I think Anne may be home.”

  “You’ll call Vislosky?”

  “I will.”

  “This asshole Huger could be your Disneyland AK psycho.”

  “Believe me. Vislosky is doing her damnedest to find him.”

  “I’ll rest easier when she does. Let me know?”

  “Will do.”

  “I’m off to the shower.”

  “Rinse well.”

  We disconnected.

  I sat for a long moment, phone pressed to my chest.


  No movement downstairs.

  Then, close by and unmistakable.

  The sound of a pistol slide ratcheting back.

  39

  SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 20

  I listened with every cell in my being.

  Silence.

  No way the solo thunk was Anne. She’d have announced her arrival with all the subtlety of Hurricane Inara.

  Had I imagined the sound?

  Then, from beyond my door, a whispered shhsssh.

  A forgotten ceiling fan?

  The AC kicking on?

  A serial killer brushing a wall?

  I eased from the bed and secured Birdie in the bathroom. Then, feeling a bit foolish, I dialed Vislosky.

  Voice mail.

  Leaving the line open, I placed the device on the bedside table. Moving as quietly as possible, I crept to the door and peeked out.

  The figure was cloaked in the shadowy darkness of the hall. And wearing a black tracksuit. White stripes running along one sleeve indicated a forearm flexed to waist level.

  My heart spiked hard.

  An intruder! With a gun!

  My mind splintered. Lock myself in the bathroom with Birdie? Bad idea. If the guy breached the door, I’d be trapped. Slip out onto the deck? Worse idea. The distance to the ground was a leg-breaking twenty-five feet.

  I tiptoed toward my mobile to try Vislosky again. As I was halfway there, a voice froze me in place.

  “Take another step, and I will shoot you.” Vowels as honeyed as pecan pie. Male. Familiar.

  “How did you get into this house?” Sounding light-years more confident than I felt.

  “You really must fix that back door.”

  “You were here earlier.”

  “I’d be foolish not to acquaint myself with the lay of the land. Don’t you agree, Dr. Brennan?”

  “You hurt my cat!”

  “I don’t hate cats. But yours definitely needs to acquire some manners.”

  “What do you want?” Seething inside.

  “Right now, I want you to lace your fingers on top of your head and turn around slowly.”

  I did as instructed.

  Sullie Huger had me in the crosshairs of a Glock 19.

  “Don’t be afraid,” he said.

  “I’m not.” I was terrified. When a gun is pointed at you, it’s all you see. “How did you find me?”

  “You’re a very intelligent woman. You should know better than to share personal details with the clerical staff.”

  Abilene Monger. I said nothing.

  “It’s such a shame this has to happen.” Huger’s tone was reptilian cold.

  Advice from a long-ago self-defense course managed to penetrate my fear. Stay calm. Be cooperative. Keep your assailant talking.

  “Your scheme was brilliant,” I said, eyes glued to the cold steel cylinder aimed at my chest. “I know everything.”

  “So I just overheard.”

  “Do I have it right?”

  “Mostly.” Huger’s eyes had the glow of too much booze. Of too much something.

  Keep him talking.

  “Melanie’s job would have been to spike designated batches of vaccine, right?”

  “Poor, weak Melanie. Such an error in judgment.”

  “When she threatened to blow the whistle, who killed her? You or Murray?”

  “Arlo was another unfortunate error.”

  “But Murray was your wingman.”

  “My wingman”—sarcastic—“grew reckless. And greedy.”

  “No choice but to take him out.”

  Huger said nothing.

  “Ella was ten years old. Why kill her?”

  “Wrong place, wrong time.”

  “And she could have identified you.”

  “And that.”

  “Same for Harmony and Lena?” I knew I should rein it in, massage his ego. But my revulsion was in control. “Wrong place, wrong time?”

  Huger shrugged.

  “Did the girls threaten to expose you? Or did they simply know too much for you to take a chance?”

  “Truth be told, I found them impudent.”

  “You’d gotten away with murdering Melanie and Ella, so you used the old tried-and-true. Bullet to the head, mutilate and strip the bodies, wrap the corpses in plastic, toss them into the sea.”

  “In Quebec, it was actually a river. But you know that.”

  I wanted to reach out and smash the arrogant grin from his face. Instead, I continued the exchange, hands clasped so tightly my finger bones ached.

  “Did you know that Harmony was your cousin?”

  “I truly did not. It was quite an embarrassment to learn I was related to white trash.”

  “That white trash almost succeeded in bringing you down. That and a hurricane.”

  A beat, then, “A pity your boyfriend is so very far away.”

  Suddenly, my mouth felt coated with ash. I swallowed.

  “Enough of this.” Huger’s face morphed into a look that chilled me.

  More advice trickled back from the long-ago course.

  Be compliant only to a point.

  Had we reached that point?

  Before I could decide, Huger lunged, pressed himself to me, and jammed the gun muzzle into the side of my neck.

  “Move.”

  Molded like a pair of conjoined twins, we lockstepped into the hall, down the stairs, through the kitchen, and out onto the deck. Huger was mashed so close I could smell his sweat and cologne and the curry he’d eaten for dinner. Feel the coiled tension in his muscles.

  Once outside, Huger dug the Glock even deeper into my flesh. I felt his head rotate left, then right. Pictured his eyes scanning the pool. Maybe the ocean.

  Kick up and back into Huger’s balls, then make a run for it? A run at him? Again, he took the decision out of my hands.

  In one fast move, Huger shoved my shoulders while simultaneously leg-sweeping the front of my ankles. I pitched forward, and my head cracked the travertine coping rimming the pool. The world dissolved in a white mist of pain.

  Before I could collect my wits, Huger pounced with a quickness I wouldn’t have thought possible in a man his age. Pinning me with his full weight, he forced my head over the pool’s edge and underwater.

  Adrenaline flooded through me.

  I tried to twist free, but Huger managed to immobilize my arms and legs.

  My chest began to burn.

  How long can a person survive without oxygen? One minute? Three?

  A rational fragment of my spiraling mind reached out.

  Don’t panic!

  Futile. Terror was overriding all logic.

  I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t scream. Couldn’t thrash. Nothing existed but a desperate need to pull air into my lungs.

  How long had I been under? A minute? Ninety seconds?

  Bizarre images flared. My body in a blue plastic shroud inside a polypropylene bin. A confused fisherman reeling me in.

  I lost all sense of time.

  Two minutes?

  Black clouds began gathering behind my closed lids. Coalescing. I was slipping over the brink into unconsciousness.

  Then the instinct to survive won out. Turning my dread inward, I bucked ferociously with my upper body. An arm popped free. I thrust it into the pool, oblivious to the pain of skin lost to stone.

  Huger pushed my head deeper under the surface.

  Feeling around blindly with my semi-numb fingers, I located an indentation six inches below the coping. The skimmer. Planting my palm on the box’s horizontal surface, I thrust upward with all the strength I could muster.

  This time, the element of surprise was mine. Caught off guard by the re-angling of my torso, Huger relaxed the pressure on the back of my skull. Taking advantage, I drove upward, twisted my limbs, and jerked my head wildly. The sudden movement pitched my attacker sideways onto the decking.

  I raised my head above the water and sucked air into my throat. Desperate for breath. Desperate for life.
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  Huger grabbed my hair and tried clawing me back. Gasping and blinking water, I lashed out and caught him with a thumb to one eye. He recoiled, yelping in pain.

  Forcing down a wave of nausea, I levered myself up onto all fours and scrabbled backward.

  Far off, a siren wailed. Or was it an auditory illusion, the product of oxygen deprivation?

  One gaggle of neurons was still receiving and processing input.

  The gun! Where’s the gun?

  My eyes swept the deck. No Glock.

  I struggled to my feet and, legs rubber, bent to search under the closest of the chaises. No gun.

  Realizing what I was after, Huger sprang up, bore down, and headbutted me in the gut. Arms pinwheeling, lungs in spasm, I stumbled backward, Huger again clinging like a leech. A flailing hand brushed one of Anne’s potted ferns. I wrapped my fingers around the stem, roundhouse-swung the plant, and clocked Huger on the temple.

  He cried out but held tight. We both went down. My head took dual blows, front and back. As my occipital smacked travertine, Huger sledgehammered his forehead into my frontal.

  My vision blurred. Shards of pain sliced through every lobe of my brain.

  Conjoined as before, Huger and I rolled in a turbulent mess of broken terra-cotta, scattered soil, and torn fronds. I was in good shape. But he outweighed me by a good fifty pounds. And, though older, was fit.

  After much sweating and grunting and thrashing, Huger muscled himself topside, planted a knee on each of my arms, and wrapped my throat in a viselike grip. I looked up into his face. A vein snaked one brow, bloated and throbbing. Below the vein, his eyes were dead and soulless. Not human eyes. Malevolent eyes. Black hole eyes.

  Desperate, I clamped both hands onto Huger’s wrists. He wriggled one arm loose and brought the side of his hand down on my larynx. I elbowed him in the gut, then, pumping my arm viciously, forced him off with a series of fist blows. Wheezing and trembling, I rolled sideways, then scuttled away.

  The gun!

  My gaze darted wildly.

  Sirens screaming in hot. Real sirens.

  Again, Huger came at me. Again, I dodged.

  Borrow from the bastard’s own playbook! the neurons screamed.

  Drawing a lungful of air, I launched myself forward and, using my head as a pile driver, slammed Huger’s face with the crown of my skull. I heard the sickening crunch of his nasal bones. A furious shriek. A dull thud as his body flew backward and landed.