When she looked up, her aristocratic smile was gone. Lopez was shocked by the change. Her tired face looked much older. But her eyes blazed with rage. “I trusted him,” she spat. “That miserable son of a bitch!”

“Trusted him with what?” Cohen asked.

“Two months ago, when we first heard about the aplastic anemia in the chimps,” she said, contradicting her earlier statement. “Luc got an e-mail. The sender said he would go to the FDA with proof of the side effect unless we paid him off.”

“How much did he want?” Cohen asked.

“Two million.”

“Two million!” Franklin whistled.

“That was nothing compared to what it would have cost us—cost me—if the FDA rejected Oraloxin,” she grumbled.

“So you paid the blackmailer?” Cohen asked.

“I supplied the money.” Byington looked defeated and sounded defeated. “Luc took care of the arrangements … or so he told me.”

Franklin tapped the table in front of him. “You think Martineau was the blackmailer all along?”

Byington laughed coldly. “I trusted him,” she hissed.

67 - West Chester, Pennsylvania

67

West Chester, Pennsylvania

Sitting in the pew beside Lopez and Cohen, Kilburn tried to focus on the Reverend’s words, but his mind drifted in too many directions. He was heartened to see how packed Third Presbyterian Church was, even though Ellen Horton was survived by no immediate family. Friends, colleagues, and former students crowded into the small church. SeptoMed had sent ahead a huge floral bouquet that bloomed in front of the dais.

The media and police had also shown up in large numbers, the latter primarily to contain the former. Both held out the faint hope that Luc Martineau might make a surprise appearance.

Kilburn knew better.

Though his apprehension prevented him from concentrating on the service, it didn’t lessen his sense of melancholy. With her casket on display and her photo on the front of the service’s programs, the senselessness of Ellen’s death sunk in.

Outside the church after the service, Kilburn noticed that the weather had finally changed. He thought it sadly apt that the clouds that had gathered all morning had finally erupted. He huddled under one umbrella with Lopez and Cohen on the church’s steps as the rain pelted down.

Holding an umbrella in his right hand, Neil Ryland limped down the steps to greet them. He wore a black trench coat slung over his gray suit and the sling supporting his broken left arm. His right eye was open now, but the bruising had turned yellowy-black and extended from his forehead to his chin. His other eye looked as bloodshot as the injured one.

“Beats the humidity, I guess,” Ryland said with a forced smile and tipped his umbrella to let the rain run off.

Lopez nodded. “How are you, Neil?”

He shrugged. “Lot of funerals these days.”

“Too many,” Kilburn said.

“No sign of Martineau?” Ryland asked.

“Not recently,” Cohen said.

Ryland shook his head.