After the funeral, Isis took Jack to the Coyolxauhqui Stone where they had first met, and asked him a favour. She asked him to write a detailed account of everything he had discovered, leaving nothing out. Jack sensed that feeling empty and terribly alone after her grandmother’s death, Isis needed him, and would do everything she could to keep him close. He was right. Isis offered him something she knew he wouldn’t be able to resist: to write her biography. At first, Rebecca – Jack’s literary agent, publicist extraordinaire and self-appointed minder – couldn’t quite believe it and reminded him that this was an opportunity of a lifetime he couldn’t afford to miss. And then, of course, there was the matter of his publishing house … Jack had readily accepted the assignment and thrown himself into endless interview sessions with Isis. For Isis, this was the cathartic experience she so needed, to help her understand what had happened to her and her family.
A few days after the funeral, Isis returned to the Kuragin Chateau, which would become her home away from home during her recovery. Sir Humphrey had advised against going back to the inevitable stress and glaring publicity of London, and welcomed the decision. Countess Kuragin was delighted and willingly opened her home. Isis, Lola and Jack had become members of her household, and in some way, her family. Tristan had gone back to school and was living the dream. Isis, the megastar, was staying at his home with Jack, his closest friend and mentor, who was quickly turning into the father he never had. Boris and François had become good mates – an unlikely match. Boris was teaching Tristan to play the balalaika, and François promised him driving lessons, soon. Several times a week, they even cycled to school together, and Boris, the gentle giant, had become a popular curiosity with Tristan’s school friends.
Anna too, appeared to be changing for the better. She had become more animated and outgoing and had formed a close bond with Isis. They were communicating in a way and on a level only Tristan could relate to and understand. Jack called it the language of intuition, reserved for the gifted few.
Jack and the countess sat in the garden and watched Isis and Anna through the open conservatory doors. Anna was painting as usual, and Isis was sitting next to her, composing the next hit by The Time Machine on a portable electronic keyboard. She was working on her new album, and watching Anna paint helped her concentrate and inspired her creativity.
The countess turned to Jack. ‘You do know of course what they all have in common?’ she said.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Pain. They are all sharing pain – Anna, Tristan … Isis.’
‘What an extraordinary thing to say.’
‘Perhaps. But think about it …’
‘I’ve never looked at it that way,’ said Jack. ‘They are different, no doubt about it. But pain?’
‘Not just any pain. Lonely pain; the worst kind. They’ve all been to the edge and looked down into the abyss.’
‘Haven’t you?’
‘Not like them.’
‘Because you had your faith?’ speculated Jack.
The countess looked at him, surprised. ‘How incredibly perceptive of you,’ she said. ‘Yes, I believe you’re right. Even in my darkest hour, I was never alone. They were. That’s the difference.’
‘How do you know this?’
‘I can feel it. But enough of that.’ The countess turned around and pointed to a bundle of papers tied together with string on the table in front of Jack. ‘What’s that?’ she asked.
‘A present. For Isis.’
‘And the ice bucket and the champagne? At ten in the morning?’
‘You’ll find out in a moment. Here she comes now.’
Wearing a pair of flared, white linen culottes and matching blouse accentuated by a sky-blue silk scarf and a pair of bright red earrings that would have made a nightclub singer proud, Isis looked as if she were about to have lunch with the Great Gatsby. Her hair, which had slowly grown back, was still very short. Combed straight back, it suited her strong features. The large, tortoiseshell sunglasses reminded Jack of Sofia Loren with Cary Grant by her side in some schmaltzy nineteen fifties romance.
‘Are we celebrating something?’ asked Isis. She pointed to the champagne in the ice bucket and sat down next to Jack.
‘We are,’ said Jack, and expertly popped the cork.
‘What’s the occasion?’
Jack reached for the bundle of papers and handed it to Isis. ‘You.’
‘You finished it?’ Isis said excitedly.
‘It’s a draft. Needs more work, but good enough for you to read and tell me what I’ve got wrong.’
‘I can’t wait. And you’ve included everything? All the recent stuff?’
‘I have.’ Jack poured the champagne. ‘A toast.’
‘Wait. Here comes Lola,’ said Isis.
Lola stepped out of the conservatory and came walking towards them. ‘Was that a champagne cork I heard just now?’ she said, laughing.
‘You’ve obviously got bubbly-ears with acute alcoholic hearing,’ said Jack and handed Lola a glass.
‘All right, Jack, what are we drinking to?’ asked the countess.
Jack turned to Isis and lifted his glass. ‘To an extraordinary life,’ he said. ‘Not that long ago, we both took a leap of faith into the unknown and jumped, together. Little did we know where that would lead us. Now we do.’
‘To an extraordinary life,’ repeated the countess and touched glasses with everyone.
‘Thanks, Jack. I too, have a little surprise,’ said Isis, turning serious. ‘Lola, would you mind?’
Lola stood up, hurried into the chateau and returned moments later with an envelope.
‘This is for you, Jack,’ said Isis.
‘For me?’ Jack looked up, surprised.
Isis motioned to Lola. ‘Give it to him.’
Lola handed Jack the envelope. He opened it and looked inside. ‘What is this?’ he asked.
Isis was enjoying herself. ‘A share certificate. From now on, you can publish your books without having to worry about deadlines, demanding publishers, or pushy editors. Why? Because you own a big chunk of the company. Cheers!’
After they had finished their second bottle, Isis excused herself. Feeling pleasantly tipsy and content, she picked up Jack’s manuscript and went to her favourite spot in the garden – a small gazebo overlooking the duck pond – and began to delve into her past.
‘She looks happy,’ said Jack.
Lola reached for Jack’s hand and squeezed it. ‘You make her happy,’ she said. ‘You make everyone happy, because you care. It’s a gift. Never lose it.’
‘No chance. Incorrigible rascals never change. I’ve been told countless times—’
‘Here we go,’ interrupted the countess, shaking her head. ‘Somehow, he always falls on his feet.’ The countess held up the envelope. ‘Just look at this. Let’s go inside and have some lunch; I’m starving.’
Half an hour later, they heard a scream coming from somewhere in the garden. Boris and Jack got up from the table and hurried outside to have a look. One of the maids – hands in the air and shouting – came running towards them from the direction of the duck pond. Isis, thought Jack, and began to run.
Isis lay face down on the wooden floor inside the gazebo, with pages of Jack’s manuscript scattered all around. An overturned wicker chair had crushed her sunglasses and was resting on the back of her legs. ‘Good Lord,’ whispered Jack and knelt down next to her to feel her pulse. ‘Alive!’ he said. ‘Let’s carry her inside; quickly!’
First, Boris turned Isis over and then gently lifted her up.
‘Take her inside. I’ll call an ambulance,’ said Jack, and ran back to the chateau.
The ambulance arrived twenty minutes later. Her breathing shallow, and looking pale, Isis was still unconscious when the paramedics went to work.
‘I’ll go with her,’ said the countess. ‘You follow with François.’
The paramedics radioed ahead to alert the hospital, put Isis into the b
ack of the ambulance and raced off, the blaring sirens shattering the stillness of the afternoon and sending the waterbirds ducking for cover.
111
Sir Humphrey caught the first available Eurostar to Paris and arrived at the hospital late that afternoon. He had already phoned Dr Greenberg in Boston, who had then spoken to the French oncologist in charge at the Paris hospital.
Isis was in intensive care. Lola saw Sir Humphrey first. She ran over to him and threw her arms around him. ‘Thank you,’ she said, tears in her eyes.
‘That bad?’ asked Sir Humphrey, trying in vain to appear cheerful and composed. What he had found out so far wasn’t good news. The deadly tumour was back. More aggressive than ever.
Sir Humphrey walked over to the countess and extended his hand. ‘I’m so sorry, Countess, that we have to meet under such trying circumstances. Where’s Jack?’
Lola pointed to a door at the end of the corridor. ‘Inside, with Isis.’
‘They let him stay?’
‘You know Jack. They sent us outside, but he charmed his way back in.’
Sir Humphrey shrugged, excused himself and walked over to the nurse standing in front of the patient’s door.
Jack was sitting in a chair next to Isis’ bed in the darkened room. A nurse was adjusting some of the tubes connected to various monitoring devices humming in the background, the green lights throwing an eerie glow across the bed.
Sir Humphrey put his hand on Jack’s shoulder and squeezed it. ‘Breathing normal; heart rate okay; resting. Good,’ he said.
‘Heavily sedated.’
‘To be expected.’
‘We didn’t expect this. She was doing so well.’
‘It’s an insidious monster.’
‘Where to from here?’ asked Jack, the sadness in his voice obvious.
‘I’ll talk to the oncologist – first class chap, know him well – and we’ll see.’
‘Then what?’
‘We knew this was coming …’
‘So soon?’
‘You never know with tumours. Stress isn’t good, and the long flights didn’t help either.’
‘What are you saying?’
Sir Humphrey shrugged, but didn’t reply.
‘There must be something we can do,’ said Jack, raising his voice.
‘There is. Come outside and I’ll tell you.’
Lola and the countess looked expectantly at Jack and Sir Humphrey as the two men came out of the room.
‘How is she?’ asked Lola.
‘As well as can be expected,’ replied Sir Humphrey. ‘She’ll get better with the drugs, for now. But it will only be temporary, I’m afraid.’
‘What are you saying?’ shrieked Lola, close to tears.
The countess reached for Lola’s hand. ‘Can she come back home?’ she asked.
‘I expect so. In a few days.’
‘Then what?’ demanded Jack.
‘Then it’s all up to Dr Delacroix, I’m afraid.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Jack.
‘I spoke to Greenberg just before I left London. As you know, he’s been in regular contact with Dr Delacroix and her groundbreaking research, and so have I.’
‘And?’ prompted the countess.
‘She’s apparently getting close; very close …’ said Sir Humphrey.
‘What does all this mean?’ asked Lola.
‘More surgery isn’t an option, we know that. The only way we can hope to fight this malevolent, aggressive disease is with medication. A radical, new immunotherapy drug like the one Dr Delacroix is working on—’
‘How much time do we have?’ interrupted Jack.
‘Difficult to say …’
‘Jesus,’ said Jack. ‘It’s a race against time, then.’
‘It is, and a lot more, I’m afraid.’
‘You said earlier there was something we could do?’
‘There is.’
‘What?’
‘Go and talk to Dr Delacroix and see where she’s up to. Even in an early experimental stage, the drug could be useful. Perhaps we could try it to see …’
‘Are we that desperate?’ asked Jack, lowering his voice.
‘I’m afraid so. Our medicine cupboard is bare.’
When Jack looked at Lola standing next to the countess, he noticed she was crying. Jack looked away, a tide of sadness washing over him. It only lasted for an instant and was banished by a decision he had just made. ‘I’m leaving in the morning,’ he said, feeling better.
‘I thought you might,’ said Sir Humphrey. ‘It’s our only chance to stop the Emperor of Darkness.’
‘We’ll defeat the bastard; just you watch.’
The next day, Jack caught the first available commercial flight Down Under. Lola had to stay behind to assist the countess in caring for Isis at the chateau and keep Pegasus ready, just in case. A competent nurse had already been engaged who would oversee Isis’ day-to-day care. Sir Humphrey would liaise with the French doctors, keep a close eye on medical issues and stay in touch with Jack and Dr Greenberg in Boston.
During the long flight to Sydney, Jack read Isis’ biography he had just completed, in its entirety for the first time. If he hadn’t been part of the more recent events, he would have dismissed the entire work as fanciful fiction.
The last chapter hasn’t been written yet, he thought, closing his laptop. I’ll be buggered if it’s to be set in a bloody cemetery!
112
Alexandra kept staring at the genome sequencing results of the Abramowitz twins on her screen. It’s all in here, she thought, I know it is! Alexandra had barely left her lab during the last three months because she knew she was getting close.
As the samples extracted from the strands of hair had contained hair follicles with sufficient DNA, it had been possible to prepare libraries for both Lena and Miriam for genome sequencing. Alexandra realised that in some way, this was the crucial missing link Professor K had been looking for. While identical twins had been used extensively in the past to understand the impact of inheritance and environment – nature vs. nurture – on differences in general health and risk of disease, Professor K had focused on differences that might be due to epigenetic switching on or off of genes. It’s the differences in immune function that matter here, thought Alexandra, that’s the key. But how does it all work? And most importantly, why? She reached for her notepad and began to read what she had been able to establish so far:
• Genome sequencing of the Abramowitz girls has revealed that both twins suffered from Li Fraumeni syndrome, which can lead to cancers, including brain cancer.
• The genomes of twins should essentially be the same, except for mutations that will occur during life in some cells.
• However, the genomes can have ‘epigenetic’ differences that arise during development, and are then carried through life.
• There are two possibilities: these differences can either be in modifications of chromosomal proteins, or of the DNA – DNA methylation.
• DNA methylation is often involved in switching genes off.
• Lena’s immune system was able to fight the tumour and make it regress, while Miriam’s continued to grow aggressively and ultimately killed her. WHY?
Alexandra was reaching for her pencil to make a correction, when her phone rang. It was the receptionist downstairs. ‘Mr Rogan is here to see you,’ she said.
‘What?’ Alexandra almost shouted, surprise and disbelief creasing her brow. ‘Can’t be!’
‘He’s standing right here in front of me,’ insisted the receptionist.
Alexandra closed her notepad and hurried to the lift.
Jack had come straight from the airport to see her. He was leaning casually against the front desk and chatting with the receptionist. His luggage – a small duffel bag – was on the floor next to him.
‘I don’t believe it!’ said Alexandra, throwing her arms around Jack. ‘What on earth brings you here so suddenly?’
‘Sad news, I’m afraid. Isis …’
‘Oh. Come up to my lab and tell me all about it.’
‘So, this is the Aladdin’s cave where it all happens,’ said Jack, looking around as they entered the lab.
‘Yes. This was Professor K’s lab. It’s virtually unchanged.’
‘Except for its new occupant.’
‘Succession works like that, I suppose. I stepped into his shoes, in more ways than one. That was the easy bit. Stepping into his head has been a little more difficult as it turns out.’
Jack quickly explained Isis’ sudden deterioration, her collapse at the Kuragin Chateau and the dire prognosis.
‘So, why have you come,’ asked Alexandra, ‘so suddenly, and unannounced?’
‘Isn’t it obvious? After all that’s happened, you are our only hope.’
Alexandra shook her head. ‘You can’t do this to me, Jack,’ she said.
‘No choice, I’m afraid. Time’s running out.’
‘I’m not ready. I’ve already told Greenberg and Sir Humphrey there’s still a long way to go.’
‘Isis can’t wait.’
‘What do you expect me to do? I’m not a magician,’ Alexandra shot back.
‘Try. Improvise. Anything. What you’ve done with Professor K’s work so far is gob-smacking, I’m told. Everyone’s talking about it.’
Alexandra shook her head. ‘Gob-smacking?’ she asked.
‘Aussie slang for breathtaking.’
‘How’s a French sheila supposed to know that – eh?’ said Alexandra, continuing the banter.
‘You’ve got a point there. Why don’t you show me where you’re up to,’ said Jack, changing direction.
‘All right.’
‘And please keep it simple. I don’t have a PhD in biology.’
‘This is how it goes. It all comes back to the Abramowitz twins. Lena’s immune system was able to fight the tumour and make it regress, while Miriam’s continued to grow aggressively and ultimately killed her. The question is, why? Why wasn’t Miriam able to fight the tumour? Professor K had come up with a possible answer: One copy of the non-coding RNA gene had been epigenetically silenced, thereby reducing its activity and consequently her immune system’s surveillance of cancer cells—’
The Hidden Genes of Professor K: A Medical Mystery Thriller (Jack Rogan Mysteries Book 3) Page 54