Shadows of Lancaster County (32 page)

Tires squealing, the van took off. As we careened around a sharp turn, I struggled to break free from the grip that pinned me to the floor. I tried to look around, but a hand clamped firmly against my eyes, blocking the view. We turned again. I tried to scream, but another hand clamped over my mouth and nose.

I couldn’t breathe.

“Do you want me to take my hand away?” a voice whispered near my ear.

I nodded frantically, desperate for air. “No screaming.”

I shook my head no. When they let go, I couldn’t have screamed if I wanted to. I could only breathe, sucking in deep gasps of air.

“Where are the rubies?” the voice demanded.

“The Beauharnais Rubies,” a second voice added.

I was too scared to reply. Finally, I muttered that I didn’t know what they were talking about.

“Are you sure she’s the right one?” I heard the driver ask.

“We’re gonna make sure once you stop,” a voice said.

The van squealed around another turn and another and then screeched to a halt. I felt someone grip my hair and jerk my head backward. I opened my mouth to scream but instantly realized as I did that something had been thrust between my teeth and was jabbing the inside of my cheek. I let out a garbled yell as the sticklike item was just as quickly removed from my mouth.

I heard the sound of the door sliding open and then I felt myself being pushed. The hands let go of my hair, my eyes, my body, and I was falling. I landed on cold, hard pavement with a thud. Behind me, the door slammed shut and then the van screeched away, just barely missing one of my legs with a back tire.

“Whoa! Are you okay?”

I looked up to see a group of students staring at me from where they stood on the sidewalk. After a beat, they all began moving toward me. They helped me up and brushed me off and asked me what had just happened. Blinking, I looked around and realized I had been driven in a circle
and that I was back where I started, directly behind my car which was still sitting in its parking space, engine running, door open.

Too dumbfounded even to reply, I let them help me to the curb where I sat, my legs suddenly too wobbly to stand. There, one of them pulled out a cell phone and called for campus security. I remained silent, still too stunned to speak, dismayed to hear my helpers argue among themselves about what they had just witnessed. They had conflicting ideas about the color of the van, what the people inside looked like, even how many there had been. About all they could agree on was that none of them had thought to look at the license plate.

Finally, one of the group sat next to me, a pretty young woman with dark hair and a calm demeanor. She gently asked if I had been violated in some way. Did we need not just campus security but the Hershey Police?

How could I respond to that?

I hadn’t been raped, punched, stabbed, or shot, but I had been violated. Rubbing my tongue against the inside of my cheek, I suddenly realized what had been shoved in my mouth: a swab.

Whoever abducted me had taken a sample of my DNA.

For the next forty-five minutes my emotions vacillated between fury and terror. The campus police secured my vehicle and brought me back to the station, but other than giving them Reed’s name and number, I didn’t tell them much. I was simply too overwhelmed to speak.

When Reed finally came dashing into the station, eyes frantic, all I could do was collapse against his strong shoulders. He held me as I cried, and for a long time we just stood there like that in the middle of the empty waiting room, rocking back and forth, arms around each other. After a while he handed me a tissue and suggested that I clean myself up while he spoke to the people in charge.

In the station’s restroom I rinsed my face, fixed my hair and makeup, and cleaned up my disheveled clothes as best I could. When I came out, I was relieved to see that Reed had taken charge of the situation and had asked for a copy of their report and my keys. Once he had those, he thanked them for their help, saying that the matter would be referred to the FBI from here.

We went out to the warmth and privacy of Reed’s car, where I found my voice at last. Sitting there in the dark quiet, I described what had taken place in the parking lot as well as what I had found in Bobby’s locker and what I had learned on the phone from Lydia. When I was finished with the whole tale, Reed agreed with my conclusion that my captors had been swabbing my cheek for DNA, though he had no better idea of why someone would do that than I did.

He also agreed that the situation with Bobby and Lydia would have given Dr. Updyke a unique opportunity for gene tampering at the most opportune stage of growth. According to the medical files Doug faxed to Reed the night he was killed, the doctor’s previous attempts at gene therapy had been done during pregnancy or immediately following birth—never prior to implantation. Those procedures had failed, but perhaps by treating the embryo at such an early stage, the doctor had finally managed to succeed—to a degree. What was happening to Isaac now was anybody’s guess.

I listened as Reed called his friend with the FBI and relayed our conversation. It didn’t sound as though they were ready to move in on the lab just yet, though he promised to get back to us as soon as he knew anything. Concerned for Isaac and Lydia’s safety, I asked Reed if they could be put into some sort of protective custody in the meantime.

“That’s not a bad idea,” he replied. “Let’s give it an hour or two and see if we hear back. If not, I’ll make another call. Bobby seemed to think they’d be safe at the farm, and I have to agree, for now.”

Suddenly, I remembered my dinner in Lancaster, and I looked at my watch, relieved to see that I could still make it to the restaurant on time if I didn’t go back to the farm first. Now that I had been kidnapped, albeit briefly, and once again pressured to produce the Beauharnais Rubies, my meeting with the mysterious Mr. Villefranche was more important than ever. Still, I no longer had the nerve to go alone, so Reed agreed to go with me.

Leading the way in my car with him following behind in his, I zigzagged us over to Hershey Road and got on it heading southeast. I called Remy’s cell phone on the way, and though he didn’t answer I left a message
in his voice mail saying I was bringing a friend with me to the restaurant and that I hoped that was okay. Once we finally got there, I chose a well-lit spot in the parking lot, one with an empty place next to it for Reed to pull in. Getting out of the car, I felt myself shivering, though whether that was from the cold or my nerves I wasn’t sure.

“You okay?” Reed asked as he held out his elbow. I told him I was fine as I took his arm and we walked together to the restaurant. Fine or not, at least I had him there by my side.

Hesitating at the door of the beautiful old eighteenth-century converted farmhouse, I wondered aloud whether jeans would be allowed in such a nice restaurant. I was sorry I hadn’t had the chance to change for dinner, but at this point all I cared about was getting answers to my questions.

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” Reed replied, opening the door for me. “You’re beautiful no matter what you’re wearing.”

Surprised by the compliment, I stepped inside, heat flushing my cheeks. As Reed stepped in behind me, I told him how stupidly I had packed for this trip, saying that my only alternative would have been a summer dress and strappy sandals anyway.

“You California girls are all alike,” he teased, clicking his tongue. “Some parts of the world still have four seasons, you know.”

The cozy restaurant was humming with activity. Hovering near the hostess stand was a short, silver-haired gentleman holding a leather satchel, dressed in an elegantly cut suit and wearing a maroon tie. Our eyes met and when I gave him a nod, his face burst into a broad smile.

Greeting us both with enthusiasm, the man shook our hands, thanked us for coming, and insisted that we call him by his first name. With a nod to the hostess, we were escorted through the main dining room, past a crackling fireplace, and up the stairs to the balcony. There, we were led to a table off by itself that was neatly set for three.

We sat and engaged in polite small talk until the waiter came to take our order. As Remy tried to decide between roasted halibut with hollandaise and the restaurant’s signature seafood and pasta, Reed held the menu high, over his face, and gave me a wink. Our host was quite a character. Finally, Remy decided on the halibut, Reed ordered the roast pork, and
I chose the filet mignon. Once the waiter departed, Remy’s demeanor changed, and suddenly he was all business. He leaned forward, focusing in on me.

“Now that we’re here, I must ask you the question I have asked every one of your relatives that I’ve been able to track down: Are you in possession of the Beauharnais Rubies, or at the very least do you know where they are?”

The man stared at me with such rapt expectation that the trauma of the last few days began roiling up within my stomach. I swallowed hard, trying not to feel again the shock of the masked intruder in my bedroom or the horror of my abduction on the campus. Those people had wanted to know the same thing, the only difference being the manner in which they had asked. Suddenly, I viewed the man across from me not as a kindly old scholar but as a similar threat. Reed put a warm hand on my arm, obviously sensing my panic and understanding I was so upset I couldn’t even form a reply.

“You’re not the first person to ask her that,” Reed said on my behalf. “Anna has been attacked twice in the last three days, first with a gun to her head and then while being held down in the back of a van. Both times, they demanded that she hand over these rubies, whatever they are.”

“Attacked?” Remy cried in dismay. “Were you hurt?”

Finding my voice, I said I was okay but that my housemate hadn’t been so lucky. “Look, I don’t even know what the Beauharnais Rubies are. I never even heard of them until the other day. Now people are crawling out of the woodwork trying to take them from me. I came here tonight because I want to know what’s going on.”

The older man seemed genuinely disturbed. He fidgeted nervously with his silverware, adjusted his tie, and accepted with relief the pot of tea the waiter brought. Dipping the tea bag up and down in the steaming water, Remy finally spoke.

“I’m afraid these attacks may have been partly my fault,” he said. “Sometimes I get so caught up in the hunt, I forget that not everyone’s interest is quite so…scholarly. In my excitement, I may have said too much on too public a forum.”

I glanced at Reed as we both waited for Remy to go on, which he did, albeit reluctantly.

“You see, in researching my latest book I have filled the Internet with queries, assigning tags to all sorts of names and terms. Whenever one of those terms pops up on a website, in an article, or even as a comment or a question to a message board, I get an electronic alert. Several weeks ago, I received a number of alerts for ‘Grand Duchy of Baden,’ which is one of my tags. In taking a closer look, I realized that someone was doing genealogy research and had been asking about that region of Germany in the early 1800s. That someone was Bobby. When I saw his posts, one post in particular, I was so excited that I jumped in with both feet. Eventually, I’m afraid I may have blabbed too much on my blog, putting it out there for all the world to see.”

“Blabbed how?” Reed demanded. “What did you say?”

Remy left the tea bag alone and guiltily met our eyes.

“That Bobby Jensen of Dreiheit, Pennsylvania, might hold the key to a two-hundred-year-old mystery, namely whatever happened to the priceless Beauharnais Rubies, which disappeared from the royal vaults of Baden in 1830 and have never been seen again.”

I sat back, trying to think of the implications of what Remy had done.

“Actually,” he added, even more guiltily, “I may even have implied that Bobby or one of his family members was in possession of these priceless jewels today. I’m sorry, Anna. I realize now how ignorant that was. My blog is about scholarly research, not a how-to guide for criminals. But if strangers are accosting you and demanding the jewels, then I have a feeling they’re simply picking things up where my blog left off. Bobby said he’d never heard of any such jewels, but I’m afraid I didn’t quite believe him at first.”

“The group that nabbed her tonight swabbed her for DNA,” Reed said. “Why?”

“Oh my,” Remy replied, shaking his head, “that means you have more than mere treasure hunters on your tail. I’d say they were descendents of the last documented owner of the jewels, trying to prove they have a
stronger claim to them, genealogically speaking, than you do. We are talking about the resolution of one of the greatest mysteries of the jewelry world. If the Beauharnais Rubies are found, there’s going to be a mad scramble for ownership rights. The fact that someone is willing to retrieve your DNA forcefully is a bad sign, as it means you probably don’t have a solid claim. These thugs accosteswabbed you because they need to know who they’re dealing with and how your DNA stacks up against theirs.”

“Accosteswabbed?”

“Yes, I coined that word in an article I wrote for
Vanity Fair
. You can’t imagine the radical steps people take in order to trace genealogy these days—from swabbing the cheeks of strangers to plucking hair from corpses.”

“You’ve got to be kidding,” I said.

“Sadly, no. Genealogy used to be a pleasant little hobby, like a guessing game or a jigsaw puzzle,” Remy explained. “But once ancestral DNA testing was made available to the masses, the whole nature of things shifted. Some folks get so intent on their search that they push it too far.”

I let Reed have the paper and sat back, looking at Remy.

“I know DNA is used in paternity cases, but can it really tell you all that much about your family tree?” I asked, thinking of the ancestral DNA report I had found among Bobby’s email.

“Oh, my. Yes,” Remy said, explaining that because markers on the Y-chromosome passed through male generations relatively unchanged, it was now possible to confirm through DNA testing all sorts of genetic connections, even distant ones. “For example, once your brother obtained his genetic signature, he used some online databases to compare it with other known male Jensen descendents and construct a family tree. That’s what led him to write the post that caught my eye. You see, those comparisons showed that Bobby was a descendant of a man named Karl Jensen, but not of Karl’s father, Samuel Jensen. That’s what’s known as a ‘nonpaternal event,’ when two men are not biologically related, even though they’re legally considered father and son.”