Syndrome

really worth having.

Youth.

To try to hang on to it, he had been through clinics as far- flung as Phoenix and Lucerne. He had undergone regimens of antioxidants and injections of human growth hormone. He'd tried testosterone and dehydroepiandrosterone, better know as DHEA. Maybe it had made a difference, maybe not. Sometimes he thought he had more libido and energy, but other times he wasn't sure. Maybe it was just that he'd begun working out even harder, playing handball an extra half hour every other day. He did know his body was continuing to deteriorate.

Shit, the Betahadto be made to work.

'I don't want to stay here alone,' Kristen said, putting down her spoon. 'I want to go back to work.'

'Honey, I can't be here all the time, and you're really not well enough to go to work. There'll be someone here with you. It's just till you get better.' He studied her, the face that was so young, and felt the full weight of the tragedy sinking in. 'Do you remember what it was you used to do?'

'I don't remember right now. I mean exactly. I used to talk to people. I was in this room with lots of bright lights.'

She didn't actually remember, he thought. Her former producer at E! along with everybody else (including her harridan of a mother, Katherine), had been told she was at a private health spa in New Mexico. It had to be kept that way.

No one must know she was here. All the phones had been removed before the ambulance brought her. Starting at six in the morning, there would be a nurse and a nurse/cook downstairs on a twenty-four-hour basis. Under no conditions could she be allowed to leave, not the way her mind was now.

'Kristy, it wasn't supposed to turn out like this. I'm so sorry. But Karl is doing all he can. We're … He has a new idea that he's about to explore. He's going to…' His voice trailed off as he stared at her unblinking eyes. 'You don't remember what happened, do you?'

But how she looked. My God. Theyouth. How could a true miracle have such a tragic downside?

That was when the cell phone on the stand beside him chirped. It was the only phone in the place, and tomorrow it would be gone. No way could she be allowed to have a phone.

The caller ID advised that it was Grant Hampton.

'Kristy, I've got a feeling this could take a while.' He was reaching for his silk robe. 'I'll be downstairs on the first floor if you need anything, okay?'

She just stared at him mutely. He shook his head sadly. There wasn't much time left to mend her. How in God's name had it come to this?

As he moved down the spiraling grand staircase, he clicked on the phone.

'Yeah.'

'I was just at her place, W.B. I actually got in, which is more than has happened in over four years. I think she's on board but I'm still not entirely sure. So, just to be safe, I told her you wanted to see her tomorrow.'

'Are you saying you couldn't make this happen? With your own fucking sister?'

'It's … We're not exactly on the greatest of terms, Ally and me.' There was an awkward tone in his voice. 'It's hard to explain. Like I told you, I confirmed her blood type on Saturday. It's AB, like I thought. And I played the mother angle. At the very least, I think she's willing to drive the old bird out to the institute and meet Karl. That's a start, at least.'

'And what about her medical. . Karl wanted to see-'

'I'm working on it. I remembered something about her. I've got a guy. He's going to check on it tonight.'

'Good' Bartlett growled. 'There's no time to screw around on this.'

'I've set it up for you to meet her tomorrow, the way you wanted. I think she'll show. I told-'

'The one who really should talk to her is Karl.' Bartlett sighed. 'He knows how to handle patients.'

'Then he could call her tomorrow. After she's talked to you. If we all pull together on this, W.B., I'm sure we can get her out there by day after tomorrow, Tuesday.'

Winston Bartlett looked at his watch. It had just turned

Monday, one less day to find something that would stop the Syndrome in its tracks.

'We'd better.'

He was clicking off the phone when he heard a wail of despair from the bedroom upstairs and the sound of a champagne flute being thrown against a wall.

Kristen was losing it rapidly now. Was she still conscious enough to know what was happening to her?

Chapter 7

Monday, April 6

7:30a.m.

The commute from Ally's West Village place to the CitiSpace office in SoHo was normally a twenty-minute brisk stroll, and she brought Knickers with her a lot (the boss's prerogative) since her office was arguably homier than her home. (Knickers loved to wander around and-she thought-guard the computers and drafting tables.) This morning, though, Ally had an appointment for her at Pooch Pros, the dog groomers near her office. A wash and a trim and plenty of pampering. Betty and Misha always fussed over her shamelessly, and she gloried in it.

But now a pounding rain had just come through, which meant no walk for either of them. Knickers would show up looking like a bedraggled mop. Definitely the moment to take the car.

Alexa Hampton liked to say that she wasn't really an auto person. Hers was a four-year-old Toyota, light blue, and its modesty befitted her needs. In New York, hopping around SoHo and the Village, it made a lot more sense to rely on a bike or on cabs, or just plain walk. Garaging a car in New York cost the equivalent of a studio apartment rental in most normal places, and the bottom-line truth was, she resented the Toyota's presence in her life. But there were moments when cabs weren't the answer, and this was one of them. Fortunately, the parking garage she used was just around the corner, so she and Knickers got there before being totally soaked. Knickers loved riding in the Toyota, and she always seemed to know what was coming the minute they turned the corner for the garage. This morning she gave a gleeful 'Woof' and started panting, a sure indicator of joy.

As they drove the few blocks downtown, the rain was easing up but the streets were still shiny. Ally reached into her bag and took out the personal card of Winston Bartlett. His private residence was on Gramercy Park. The only reason he could possibly want to meet her there was if he did indeed have a job. She decided she would call him from the office and confirm the appointment, assuming he still remembered it. Then she'd get Jennifer to help her assemble a portfolio of their work and make a color copy to leave with him.

She leaned over and rubbed Knickers' ears. Her thoughts were drifting back to Karl Van de Vliet. At some level his stem cell technology sounded like the ultimate snake oil. Was she about to take leave of her common sense to go to see him, or even to consider letting him perform some experimental procedure on her mother's mind?

On the other hand, what abouthim? What kind of 'procedure' could Van de Vliet have done that would stop his own skin from aging? If Grant had merelyqher that Karl Van de Vliet had finally realized the cosmetician's dream and learned how to make human skin youthful and supple again, she would have passed it off as just more Wall Street IPO hyperbole. But seeing was believing, and it also seemed like there was a lot more going on than just a change in his skin. There was something about him, in his eyes, that felt. . inconsistent.

She was still puzzling on that point when Knickers jumped up and barked. They were passing a garbage truck and the guys were banging the cans into the back.

'Shhh.' She reached to quiet her. 'We're almost there, baby.' Then she tugged at her leash and settled her back into the seat.

Since the rain was all but over, she decided to park the car where she dropped Knickers off and then walk over to her office, which was only a couple of blocks east. She found a spot right next to the awning of Pooch Pros,