Syndrome by Thomas Hoover (read along books txt) đ
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He walked in and greeted his research team. Heâd managed to keep the core group that had been closest to him at Stanford, four people who, he believed, were among the finest medical minds in the country. They were the renowned molecular biologist David Hopkins, Ph.D., the strikingly beautiful and widely published endocrinologist Debra Connolly, M.D., and two younger staffers, a couple whoâd met and married at his Stanford lab, Ed and Beth Sparks, both Ph.D.âs whoâd done their postdoc under him. They all were here now in the wilds of northern New Jersey because they knew they were making medical history.
David was waiting, his long shaggy forelock down over his brow as always. But his eyes told it all.
âKarl, Bartlettâs blood work from yesterday just got faxed up from the lab at Princeton. His enzyme level has increased another three point seven percent.â
âDamn.â It was happening for sure. âDid you runââ
âThe computer simulation? A one-standard-deviation estimate is that heâs going to go critical sometime between seventeen and nineteen days.â
âThe Syndrome.â Van de Vliet sighed.
âJust like Kristen.â
âShe faked us out. There were no side effects for weeks.â Van de Vliet shook his head sadly as he set his handheld Palm computer onto a side table. Later he would transfer all the dayâs patient data into the laboratoryâs server, the Hewlett-Packard they all affectionately called the Mothership. Then he began taking off his white coat.
âBartlett looks to be inevitable now.â David exhaled in impotent despair. The frustration and the tension were getting to everybody. They all knew what was at stake. âItâs in two and a half weeks, give or take.â
What had supposedly been a cosmetic procedure had gone horribly awry. Van de Vliet wondered if it wasnât the ultimate vengeance of the quest for something you shouldnât have.
âHis AB blood type is so rare. If weâd just kept a sample before the procedure, weâd have something to work with now,â Van de Vliet said sadly. âWe still might be able to culture some antibodies.â
He hadnât told his research team yet about the other possible option-using somebody else as an AB blood-type incubator.
His last-ditch idea was to find a patient with a blood type of AB positive and introduce a small quantity of the special Beta telomerase enzyme into them. The theory was that this might induce their body to produce compatible antibodies, which could then be extracted and cultured in the laboratory. If a sufficient quantity could be produced they could be injected into Bartlett and hopefully arrest the enzymeâs pattern of entering the hostâs bloodstream and metastasizing into the more complex form that brought on the Syndrome. And if it did work, then there might even be some way to adapt the procedure to Kristen.
âKarl, if Cambridge Pharmaceuticals finds out about the Beta fiasco, howâs it going to affectââ
âHow do you think itâs going to affect the sale? If this gets out, thereâll be no sale. To anybody. Bartlett will be ruined, and Gerex along with him. Thatâs everybody here, in case youâre counting.â He turned and exited the lab, pushing pensively through the air lock, and then he walked slowly toward his office, collecting his thoughts. He was just passing the elevator when it opened.
Sunday, April 5
8:47 A.M.
Winston Bartlett looked up to see Van de Vliet as he stepped off the elevator, and the sight heartened him as always. The Dutchman was a genius. If anyone could solve this damned mess, surely he was the one.
âFirst thing, Karl, how is she now?â
âI think youâd better go down and see for yourself,â Van de Vliet said slowly. âAs I told you on the phone, she still comes and goes. I think itâs getting worse.â
Bartlett felt a chill run through him. He had once cared for this woman as much as he was capable of caring for anybody, and what had happened was a damned shame. All he had intended was to give her something special, something no man had ever given a woman before.
âWill she know who I am? She still did yesterday.â
âIt depends,â Van de Vliet replied. âYesterday afternoon she was fully lucid, but then earlier this morning I got the impression she thinks sheâs in a different place and time. If I had to guess, Iâd say sheâs regressing chronologically. I suppose thatâs logical, though nothing about this makes any sense.â
Bartlett was following him back through the air lock and into the laboratory. The intensive-care area below was reachable only by a special elevator at the rear of the lab.
All these once-cocky people, Bartlett thought, were now scared to death. Van de Vliet and his research team might actually be criminally liable if the right prosecutor got hold of the case. At the very least theyâd be facing an ethics fiasco.
But Iâm the one whoâs about to be destroyed. In every sense.
It had all started when Karl Van de Vliet confided in him that there was an adjunct procedure arising out of stem cell research that might, might, offer the possibility of a radical new cosmetic breakthrough. Just a possibility. He called it the Beta, since it was highly experimental. He also wasnât sure it was reproducible. But he had inadvertently discovered it while testing the telomerase enzyme on his own skin over a decade ago.
At the time he was experimenting with topical treatments for pigment abnormalities, but the particular telomerase enzyme he was working with had had the unexpected effect of changing the texture of his skin, softening it and removing wrinkles, a change that subsequently seemed permanent.
The idea had lain dormant while they were preparing for the clinical trials. But then Bartlettâs petite amie, the cable-TV personality Kristen Starr, had had a career crisis that she blamed on aging, and he came up with the idea of having her undergo the skin procedure.
In a mistake with unforeseen ramifications, she had then been made an official part of the NIH clinical trials. After she had gone for over a month without any side effects, Bartlett had elected to undergo the procedure himself.
Then it began in Kristen-what David had solemnly named the Syndrome. Van de Vliet had immediately (and illegally) terminated her from the clinical trials, removing her from the NIH database. She was now being kept on the floor below, in the subbasement intensive-care area.
As they stepped onto the elevator to go down, Bartlett found himself wondering how many of the staff here were aware of the real extent of the crisis. Van de Vliet had said that only three of the nurses knew about Kristen and the Syndrome. Fortunately, they all were trustworthy. Two had even been with him back at Stanford. They would never talk.
But what about the rest? Theyâd all fawned over Kristen, starstruck by her celebrity, and theyâd spill the beans in a heartbeat if any of them found out. The story would be everywhere from Variety to the âPage Sixâ gossip column. It would certainly mean the financial ruin of Bartlett Medical Devices. If Gerex went under, everything else went with it.
On the other hand, he thought ruefully, what does it matter? If I end up like her, I wonât even know it happened.
âW.B., the telomerase enzyme is completely out of control in her now,â Van de Vliet continued. âFirst it metastasized through her skin and into her blood. Then it began directing its own synthesis. Iâve tried everything I know to arrest it, but nothing has worked. I still have a faint hope, though. If we can make some headway on your own situationâŠâ He paused and his voice trailed off. âIn the meantime, though, I think it would definitely be wise to move her to another location. There are too many people here. The risk is enormous. Word is bound to get out sooner or later. You must have someplaceâŠâ
âOf course.â Bartlett nodded. âIâd rather have her in the city and closer to me anyway. But let me see if I can talk to her first. I need to try to make her understand.â
Though itâs probably too late for that, he told himself.
They stepped off the elevator and entered a high-security area, a long hallway illuminated only with fluorescent bulbs. Using a magnetic card as a key, Bartlett opened the first door they came to. As always, he was dismayed by the sight.
For a moment he just stood looking at the thirty-two- year-old woman sitting up in a hospital bed, mutely watching a flickering TV screen showing the Cartoon Network. He had truly cared for her, perhaps even loved her for a time.
Then he walked over. âKristy, honey, howâre you feeling?â
She stared at him blankly. Kristen had been a vivacious blue-eyed blonde whoâd had her own showbiz gossip show on the E! channel till it was canceled during a scheduling shake-up six months earlier. She had a nervous breakdown, declaring to Bartlett that her show had been canceled because she looked like a crone.
Heâd told her it wasnât true, but if she was so distraught about her appearance, then maybe there was something he could do for her. Van de Vliet had once mentioned an experimental skin procedureâŠ.
Bartlett turned back to Van de Vliet, feeling the horror sinking in.
âKarl, goddamit, weâve got to reverse this.â
âLetâs talk outside,â Van de Vliet said.
Bartlett kissed Kristenâs forehead in preparation for leaving. Her lifeless blue eyes flickered something. He thought it was a flash of some old anger.
Who could blame her? he told himself. But back then, who knew?
Heâd wanted to give her a gift like none other. Not quite the Fountain of Youth, but maybe a cosmetic version. Her skin would begin to constantly renew itself.
And heâd been right. The promise of having her skin rejuvenated was just what sheâd needed to get her self-confidence back.
For more than a month the miracle seemed to be working, and there were no side effects. Her skin was becoming noticeably softer and more supple. She was elated.
Screw NIH trials and the FDA, he then decided. It was working for Kristen. By God he would try it himself. He wasnât getting any younger.
But no sooner had he had the procedure too than Kristen started evidencing side effects. First it was little things, like lapses in short-term memory. Next, as it got progressively worse, she could no longer remember why she was at the institute. Then she couldnât recall her name, where she lived. And nowâŠ
Could it be that God canât be cheated? And when itâs tried, God brings down a terrible vengeance.
When they were outside in the hallway, he said, âI have a place on Park Avenue thatâs empty. At the moment. We used to spend weekends there and I can arrange for a full-time nursing staff, all of it.â He paused. âHas anybody called here about her lately?â
âJust her mother, Katherine, whoâs getting pretty frantic.â
âThe woman is unbalanced. Certifiable. God help us ifââ
âI told her to see what she could find out from Kristenâs publicist.â
âGood.â Bartlett had told Kristenâs midtown publicity agent, the nosy Arlene of Guys and Dolls, Inc., that Kristen had gone to a private spa in New Mexico to rethink her career and didnât want to be disturbed. She desired complete solitude. Any communication with her would have to be handled through his office.
He looked at Van de Vliet. âKarl, tell me how bad it is for me now.â
âFor you?â He hesitated. This was the question heâd been dreading. âThe telomerase numbers from yesterdayâs blood sample are not encouraging. As I told you, your topical enzyme application has metastasized
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