Page 148 of The Bone Code
“You still there?” I asked.
“I am.”
I thought about Nguyen’s case. The damn MRI. The tapes. Harmony Boatwright’s diary. It was time to migrate again.
“Can you hold off a day on the hostel?” I asked.
“How did I know that was coming?”
32
Wednesday, November 17
Early the next morning, I was winging my way south. Ignoring the howls of my cat. And the scowls of those around me.
I’d been apologetic until the lady beside me in 12E offered to chuck Bird down the loo and the guy in 12F agreed to help. After that, I ceased giving a shit.
Having risen well before dawn, I lacked the energy to attempt any serious work, so I sat back, closed my eyes, and let my mind go where it chose.
It chose the recent trip down nightmare alley.
My dreams fall into one of two categories. Either A, my subconscious is blocking me from completing some seemingly mundane task. Or B, the id boys are rehashing current events, often throwing in macabre twists of their own.
Tuesday night’s extravaganza had been a fragmented mirror-in-mirror fun-house affair with one scene cartwheeling crazily into the next. At least, that’s how I remembered it. Definitely a selection from drawer B. And rife with Freudian symbolism. Or not.
The army boots stemmed from my worry for Katy. The white tube reflected my lingering anxiety over the aneurysm. Or maybe itwas simply a heads-up to schedule an MRI. Not sure the meaning of the tinny voice.I want out. You know too much.Sounded like dialogue from a cheesy spy novel.
HGP was Melanie Chalmers’s employer after she dropped out of Tufts and before moving to Canada. OK. Fair enough. Melanie and her kids were on my mind. That also explained Lena’s cameo in the morgue cooler and her mother’s solo on the autopsy table.
I grew drowsy.
Melanie’s lesions and eroded fingers? Perhaps a reference to capno? That was a stretch.
The cliff-climbing monk?Washe a monk? Why a monk? What was the meaning of his unfinished message?CRIS—Christ? Christopher? Melanie’s Christopher?
The plane lurched. My head bobbed, and I startled awake. Half awake. Undeterred by the turbulence, my sleepy mind drifted back to the dream.
The vignette with Ryan, though terrifying, was self-explanatory. But why the walk-on by Arlo Murray?Because the arrogant bastard is guilty, my lower centers tossed out.
Guilty of what? Murdering Melanie and her daughter? Maybe. But why? Jealousy over Christopher? Who the hellwasChristopher?
Christopher.
CRISPR.
When spoken aloud, the words sound similar.
Suddenly, my subconscious was fully alert.
Had Sorg overheard Melanie and Murray arguing about CRISPR, not Christopher? The term’s presence in Melanie’s notes had puzzled Bangoboshe. What was its relevance to vaccine production?
The plane bucked again, and I was wide awake.
Before going to InovoVax, Murray worked at the Whitehead Institute at the MIT Center for Genome Research. I decided to have a quick look-see.
Reaching under the seat, I furtively teased my laptop from the shoulder bag snugged beside the cat carrier. Birdie woke and unleashed a new volley of thunderous protest. 12E gave an audible groan.
After ponying up for Gogo Inflight, I googled “Whitehead Institute” and started with Wikipedia. I know. But I was tired.
