The disconcerting creaks and pops of an old house settling were hardly restful, and she needed to fall back asleep. Knew it was not to be, despite the drugs.
Perhaps a stroll in the pre-dawn air—a quiet sit-down among flowerbeds. Allow the quiet murmur of Lake Michigan’s lapping waves to loosen the tension.
The garden air was thick with dew, the grass damp and cooling. In the distance, the splash of water licked the rocks far below her. As her eyes adjusted, Anne found her way to the edge of the promontory and leaned against the wall.
Soon the sun would creep over the horizon. Eyes closed, she drew breath from the sounds of dawn, the sensation of a cool breeze on her face as it wisped through the garden and down the ravine. The agitated cackling of a large seabird struggling with a catch perhaps a bit too lively for its ability.
What creatures dwelled in such a freshwater sea as this? Did Americans have their own monsters of the loch? A Great Lakes Morag? A North American Nessie? A freshwater Silkie?
Now there was a tragic tale to fit her mood. A seduction gone all wrong. Lesson: never fall for a supernatural being. And Anne would include in that group immortal apothecaries.
But Gaelan wasn’t supernatural. Hyper-natural, perhaps, but he was quite human, enhanced in a way science hadn’t quite figured out. Yet.
Was that what Gaelan was working on behind that locked door? Trying to understand the genetic mutation that had altered his telomeres such that they never degraded, rendering him essentially immortal?
Gold streaks slithered across the mirror-smooth surface of the water as the first rays of sun bled over the divide between sky and the vastness of Lake Michigan. An unfolding magical display of light as it reflected off the low morning clouds and refracted into every hue, painting them orange, red, purple, magenta, and colors she could not even begin to identify.
By the time the sky lightened to cornflower blue and the clouds began to burn off, her migraine had faded to a dull memory. She returned to the house much improved, greeted by the strong, nutty aroma of fresh coffee, and Mrs. O’Malley.
“Good morning, Dr. Shawe. I didn’t expect you to be such an early riser. I hope you slept well.”
“Late night. Bit of a headache earlier—”
“Going to be a scorcher today, dear. Upwards of ninety, they say. I’ll make sure the air conditioning is set. Oh. There’s a package for you. It was sitting on the front step. A bit early for FedEx, but perhaps it came late last night. I left it on the foyer table.”
“Thank you.”
“I’ve got good old-fashioned Irish oats in the cupboard, if you fancy.”
She was famished. “That would be amazing. Brown sugar?”
“Of course. Twenty minutes?”
Perfect. Enough time for a quick shower.
The cool marble of the shower stall contrasted with the hot water, coursing hard as needles on her neck, her back. She was content to stand in the stream, eyes closed, relishing the loosening of knots from her shoulders, from . . . everywhere. She breathed out, imagining all her cares washing down the drain at her feet.
She’d had such high hopes that this trip back to the States to sort Simon’s affairs would be a respite from the past months: blowing the whistle on Transdiff’s despicable actions; coming to the realization that Paul Gilles, her now ex-fiancé, was the most venal of men; losing a coveted research post at Salk.
Add to all that the real stunner about Gaelan Erceldoune. His genetics. The book. Her book . . . his book, not that it mattered anymore. The impossible ancient tome of healing and its complete understanding of modern pharmacology. Of genetics. Of medicine. Their familial tie—and the elemental bond between them she’d perceived tying them together heart and soul and mind.
That bloody book. She sighed, shivering as the water grew lukewarm, then cold.
Fairies, indeed! Yeah, life needed a good rethink.
Wrapping herself in an enormous, thick towel, Anne stepped onto a small rug, refreshed and clearer. Yesterday’s clothing would do her no good. Cigarette smoke from Gaelan’s flat clung to them with a vengeance. Wrinkling her nose, she tossed them in a laundry bin and selected a fresh set.
The sweet, rich aroma of caramelized bananas and hot porridge greeted her as she descended the grand staircase. Perfection.
“My dear Mrs. O’Malley! That smells amazing!”
“I had some overripe bananas; I hope you don’t mind.”
“Not a bit. I’m starved! Erm . . . I’ve a question. You are planning to leave the service of this household, yes? And soon?”
“Yes . . . as I explained.”
“Of course. Is there a chance you might delay it, at least for a bit? I have no skills about the house. I can’t cook, and I cannot begin to imagine keeping tidy even a small flat, let alone an enormous house like this one . . . I understand if you—”
Mrs. O’Malley joined Anne at the table, wiping her hands on her apron. “At the same salary? I don’t mean to be pushy, but Dr. Bell paid me quite well, you know.”
“I would gladly match your salary, if you would give me, say, a month? Six weeks tops. By then, I should be on my way back home to the UK.”
Mrs. O’Malley nodded. “Six weeks it is. But I think—”
“Fabulous. And by the way, I know for all these years you have come back and forth each day to work. Simon . . . Dr. Bell was quite jealous of his privacy, I am certain. I am much less so and would appreciate the company of having you stay here. Lord knows there are enough bedrooms to house three families at least, so—”
“Very well. You have a bargain. To be honest, I’ve always loved this house. And my apartment is a lonely place since my Henry died last year.”
Anne extended her hand. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. He was . . .”
“ . . . my dog. A beautiful red border collie. Fifteen years old.”
“Ah . . . well, then. Let neither one of us be alone for now.”
“You’d best eat it before it gets cold, you know.”
One taste of the porridge, the sweet crunch of the burnt bananas, and Anne realized exactly how starved she was.
“Oh, Dr. Shawe, don’t forget about the package.” Mrs. O’Malley placed the package on the table between them before leaving the room.
No return address. Likely more papers from Bell’s solicitor.
Inside, a large sheaf of papers banded together in brass clips. And a note.
Dear Dr. Shawe,
I don’t blame you for running away last night. I suppose I would have too. My reputation certainly precedes me, but not all things reported on the “Interwebs,” as I’m sure you’re aware, are true. Whatever you may think of me, despite the grains of truth, my aims are and always have been to find a way to help my young daughter live out a normal, full life. I lost my wife to a rare genetic disorder five years ago. GPC—guanipravis congenita. I’m pretty sure you’ve heard of it. My wife was forty-six. My eight-year-old daughter—her name is Erin—suffers from the same disease, diagnosed after my wife’s death.
I ask only that you read her attached medical records, and the academic papers I’ve also included. I have, literally, unlimited funds, and I would gladly spend every penny of them to find a cure and spare my daughter from this terrible disease. If others benefit, great, but not really my concern. All I ask is that you keep an open mind; forgive my aggressive behavior. I promise I was not stalking you. You have a reputation as a compassionate person and brilliant researcher in the field of telomeres. That’s all I needed to know. You have my number, so it’s your move. I await your call.
—P.A.
Yeah. A serious rethink!
Guanipravis congenita. GPC. A horror for its victims; sometimes the symptoms didn’t present until early midlife—after there were children, and a new generation left to inherit it. Anne took a deep breath and sank into the soft cushions of Simon’s sofa, Erin Alcott’s three-inch-thick medical file open on her lap.
Mother of patient developed pulmonar
y fibrosis at age forty-three. Patient exhibited no other characteristic signs at the time. Within one year, new symptoms presented, increasing in severity and at a rapid pace, including bone marrow failure, suppression of red and white blood cells and platelets, and death. Progress of disease from first diagnosis to death—three years. No mutations at any of the signature genes for the disease were identified in multiple genomic assays. However, chromosomal studies revealed extreme telomeric shortening in a high percentage of the samples examined.
Patient’s father did not recall other potential GPC sufferers in her family, although he did report that the maternal grandmother had a history of breathing problems and skin anomalies. Death in the grandmother occurred at an early age (mid-30s).
Damn. Anne would have to be heartless—and violating her medical oaths—to dismiss a priori a distressed father’s pleas. She didn’t need to read any more to know for certain that Erin Alcott had inherited her mother’s condition.
There was no treatment, full stop. Not enough was yet known about the disease origins to do much about it but treat the symptoms, and if you believed in God, pray.
What else might she add that other, more prominent, physicians hadn’t already tried? There were jacket notes from the National Institutes of Health Rare Disease Center, so they’d gone the best route, the best clinicians, the best research available. She’d spent a career studying jellyfish, not doing clinical trials and experimental protocols for telomere deficiency diseases.
Setting aside the folders, Anne glanced at her watch. Gaelan’s friend at Northwestern should be in her lab by now. The brief time she’d known him, she imagined Gaelan reclusive, studiously avoiding anything beyond the simple pleasantries of business. She had a hard time thinking of Gaelan having any social relationships.
Stopping at the fridge on the way out to the garden, Anne grabbed a water bottle. At the back of the shelf, sat the Styrofoam box with the blood sample Gaelan had given her that last night in Simon’s drawing room before . . .
A universe of his molecular secrets sealed in a Vacutainer—Gaelan’s parting gift. That and the labyrinth necklace. The blood sample, particularly the double helix of Gaelan’s immortal DNA, was much more valuable, and for her, far more interesting.
Infinite tissue regeneration. Perhaps Gaelan’s remarkably stable telomeres could unlock the elusive cure for Erin Alcott’s disease—if. So many “ifs.”
A cloudless day greeted Anne as she walked the garden; the lake had once again transformed, now a shimmering turquoise against a deep blue horizon. No sign of an oncoming storm—a perfect day to sit outside. An aromatherapy intensive at its most natural, no diffusers needed.
She punched in the number for Gaelan’s friend, Dr. Dana Spangler. A female voice answered.
“Dr. Spangler, please.”
“You’ve got her.” A young voice. Oh, great! Anne meant to Google her first. “Only got a couple minutes. Finals week. Gotta babysit a roomful of undergrads in ten. Lab final.”
“My name is Dr. Anne Shawe—”
“Why do I know that name?”
Anne hoped it wasn’t her connection to Transdiff.
“I’ve got it. Telomere research! Dr. Anne Shawe. Cambridge. I think we met at a conference a few years ago. Calais?”
Calais. Yes. She’d given a paper. She was ashamed to admit she’d no recognition of a Dr. Dana Spangler. “Yes. I was there. Three years ago?”
“Yeah. I was still an indentured slave . . . I mean . . . grad student. I have now vaulted all the way to postdoc. Not much of an upgrade in salary, but more prestige, I suppose. I still spend eighteen hours a day in the lab.”
Anne remembered those days all too well. “Listen, Dr. Spangler. Can we meet sometime over the next few days? I don’t want to keep you now, but I believe we have a common acquaintance. Mr. Gaelan Erceldoune?”
“Gaelan. You’ve heard, right?”
Heard what, precisely?
“Really sad. We all loved him. Hard to believe he’s dead. His shop was the best place in Evanston to get a cup of tea or . . . whatever. Brilliant mind—in everything. The real deal, you know. Look, I’m late now. Can you stop by tomorrow, say twelve-thirty? I should have the afternoon free. Find me at Califax. Evanston campus, not downtown.”
“Right. See you then.” Where the bloody hell was Califax? No matter; the gods of GPS would guide her.
Two bright orange birds with black wings fought over a worm, squawking angrily until it tore apart, and they each flew off, disappearing to their own corners of the garden, each victorious. Pure instinct, no rumination required. If only life for mere humans were that basic.
The rest of the day was free to have a go at Simon’s papers. Why had he not left it all to his solicitors to take care of? His literary agents and managers? Why her? Because she knew his secret? What difference would that make now he was dead?
The mobile’s ringtone interrupted her ruminations.
The caller didn’t wait for a greeting. “Dr. Anne Shawe?”
An unfamiliar voice. “Yes?”
“My name is John Fry. I am with the Evanston Lakeshore BIT.”
“BI . . . what? I don’t—”
“Biohazard Investigation Team. We have a question or two we’d like to ask regarding several missing tissue samples.”
Ah. Andrew Samuelson’s warning.
“Missing samples? I—”
“You did a consult last month on a trauma patient . . . a John Doe brought into the ER. Big deal case with some more-than-usual weirdness. Weirdest of all in some quarters, a few of the leftovers from his surgery disappeared from the biohazard disposal cabinet.”
“That was weeks ago. And you’re just now getting round to it?”
“Oh, we’ve been investigating since then, just got around to you. We know you weren’t directly involved in handling them, but we’ve had nothing but dead ends. So, can’t hurt to check if you might know something, right?”
Surgical waste was a big deal only when infectious. Maybe when a crime was involved. Or . . . perhaps when the case was strange enough to . . . “I’m sorry, I don’t know anything about missing biohazardous anything. I returned to the UK very shortly after the consult. I’ve been back home ever . . .” She’d better be totally honest. These days, it was easy enough to check. “I’ve only just returned to the States for a brief stay.”
“Why is that?”
“Beg your pardon?”
“Why you returned.”
“I don’t see as that’s really any of your business, to be perfectly honest. I have no clue about missing tissue or any other surgical waste. And I’m really terribly busy. You’d be better off to check with people at your own facility.”
She clicked off, annoyed at the intrusion. It wasn’t her fault they couldn’t bloody keep up with proper records keeping! If that’s what it was. If it was not . . . yet more reason to stay as far away as possible.
Preston Alcott and his daughter nudged at the edges of Anne’s thoughts. She couldn’t shake them off. Was he one of those poor, gullible souls who bought into every miracle cure offered up by online frauds with empty promises and phony science? A grasper at futile straws?
Didn’t much matter that he was a bioengineer, a hugely successful businessman. He possessed all the traits of an easy mark for medical sharks. How many fool’s errands had he already chased down, for his daughter, his wife before that?
A decision made. She would agree to examine Alcott’s daughter. Once. And, if at all possible, help her. But it was the most unlikely of “ifs.”
Apprehension shimmied up her spine as she touched his number on her phone. Three rings. She should hang up. Now.
“Dr. Shawe, I’m so glad you called. You don’t know how grateful I am. I was sure I’d never hear from you—”
“GPC is a death sentence.” She’d not meant to be quite so blunt. “But I will see her. Understand, I can’t promise a thing. Everything her doctors have done has been exactly as I would
have—”
“I’ll bring her to you,” Alcott insisted gratefully. “I can be there by tomorrow afternoon. A corporate jet has its benefits. And I do understand this is a ‘Hail Mary,’ and, believe me, I also get your skepticism about the disease, me—”
“I have no office, no examining room. I’ve no privileges at any hospital. No work visa—”
“Done. Taken care of. As soon as we’re off the phone. Major alumni donors can sometimes work, at least, nonmedical magic.”
“If all that can be worked out, I’d rather speak with her physicians first—before I see her. So it could be days . . . there’s no rush to get on a plane just yet—”
“There are no other physicians. I’ve fired every last one of them. They haven’t done a damn thing but waste my money on nonsense. Fuckin’ snake oil. I’m sure I can get you everything you need. State-of-the-art equipment, credentials, the works. I have plenty of connections at Northwestern. My alma mater, right? That good enough for you?”
Anne sighed. Alcott sounded . . . different. The brashness was gone, replaced by a desperation she well understood. An earnestness borne of hope. A flimsy, likely fruitless, hope. A father of a sick child with no future. She tried to ignore her unease that there was more at play here than a little girl and a genetic disease. And the fear this would all spin out of her control.
SCOTTISH BORDERS, PRESENT DAY
CHAPTER 16
Shadows crept the catacomb walls as Gaelan made his way through the narrow corridor. The last vestiges of lantern light faded and extinguished. And that damnable tinkling again. Where the fuck was it coming from? Burrowing into his head, it had become a discordant concerto, disorienting and setting the darkness to relentlessly spin around and through him.
With one hand, he held close to the greasy, slick walls to keep his balance; in his other, the useless lantern and the glass teardrop. In the far distance, the glow of the sconces he’d lit earlier; he would make it that far.
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