*
Bruno Spara brought the grandparents to a family consultation room on the Hematology ward. He had large hands, and when he laid them, palms-down on the table, they seemed as big as dinner plates.
“How are they, Professore?” Armando asked.
“I examined them and reviewed the medical reports and laboratory tests from the Morelli Hospital, where I must tell you, they received excellent care. I concur with the diagnosis of chronic myeloid leukemia. I believe that Jessica Bingham already told you how unusual this leukemia is in young children, but we know how to treat it, and I can reassure you that the prognosis is quite good with appropriate and aggressive therapy.”
“Thank God,” Leonora said.
“What’s your explanation for the way they look?” Mickey asked.
“Are you asking about the fact they appear to be the same age as when they went missing?”
“I am.”
Spara finally lifted his hands off the table and slowly turned them palms upwards. “I have no explanation. There is a very rare genetic disease in children called progeria, which is an accelerated aging. These progeria kids are born with abnormal proteins that make the cells age and die prematurely. By the time they’re eight, nine, ten years old, they have the appearance and the bodies of ancient men and women and they usually die of old age before they are teenagers. If anything, Victoria and Elizabeth have the opposite condition. Here, we are confronted with the absence of the expected changes that young children would experience over five years. But there are no functional ways to measure age other than the calendar. People aren’t like trees. We can’t count our growth rings. I can say with complete certainty that there are no reports in the medical literature of a slowing or cessation of the aging process. It’s better that I stick with something I know about and that is the treatment of leukemias.”
“We’re in your hands,” Armando said. “Tell us what must be done.”
“I’m starting them today on a drug called Tasigna. It’s a fairly recently approved drug, a so-called second-generation tyrosine kinase inhibitor. The anticipated side effects are not so profound, and even if they occur, we can manage them quite easily. I’ll be giving you a brochure with all the safety information.”
“What’s the prognosis?” Mickey asked.
“I expect to see a deep molecular remission in about a fortnight.”
“That fast,” Mickey said.
“Yes, children can respond very quickly. They will need to stay on the drug for a year or maybe considerably longer. However, given their age, we want to be aggressive. We want to go for a cure, not just control. So, once we get them into remission, we will wipe out all of their blood-forming stem cells with strong chemotherapy, then perform bone marrow transplantations to give them new, healthy cells that will continue to grow inside their bone marrow. The hospital in Reggio Calabria never had the chance to do the testing, so I’d like to test the three of you to see who is the best genetic match. If all goes as well as I hope, I feel very good about their prognosis.”
*
Carter was on dessert when Mickey called. Marcus excused himself and took a walk through the lush hotel gardens. Mickey wanted to know if Carter was on the level. Marcus played back the conversation and let Mickey form his own judgment.
“Brain cancer, you say. Not leukemia.”
“That’s right. Sanchez had brain cancer,” Marcus said.
“And it was Helen, not Elena,” Mickey said. “I don’t know what to say about that?”
“I do,” Marcus said. “If we keep collecting them, we’re going to have enough crazies to play doubles tennis.”
“Then I’ll be the umpire and I’ll keep an open mind,” Mickey said.
“Carter wants to speak to the girls. He wants to cross-reference things that came out of his interviews with this Sanchez guy.”
“Maybe later. Not right away,” Mickey said. “They’re starting their treatment today. Dr. Spara seems good. I trust him. If all goes well, they’ll get curative bone marrow transplants in a couple of weeks. I hope Armando or Leonora are a better match so the poor girls won’t have to get my old-man cells. So, let’s keep Colonel Carter close by. Put him up at our hotel.”
“He won’t say no,” Marcus said. “He likes the restaurant.”
After lunch, Carter went off to his first hotel to get his things and Marcus gave Celeste her room key.
“How are the children?” she asked.
“Fine, I think. Mickey’s happy with their doctor, seems upbeat. They’ll be getting bone marrow transplants soon. He mentioned the C-word. Cures.”
*
Marcus checked into his room and before long, drank his way through the three little bottles of Scotch in the minibar. He rang room service to bring up a full-size bottle and had them take cash, so it wouldn’t appear on the bill. He paced himself as the afternoon drifted along in case Mickey wanted him for something and managed to stay on a knife-edge of mild inebriation. When the hotel phone rang, he expected to hear Mickey’s voice, but it was Celeste and she sounded distressed.
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
“I was sitting quietly with the curtains drawn,” she said. “I had a vision.”
There was a little bit of drink left in his glass. He swallowed it. “Oh, yeah? What kind of vision?”
“It was their doctor, Dr. Spara. He came into a room to speak with Mickey. He looked very grave indeed.”
Marcus poured another measure. “And what did our Dr. Spara say?”
“He said, ‘I’m sorry, Mr. Andreason, but the bone marrow transplantation has gone horribly wrong. Victoria and Elizabeth are going to die.’”
14
The man’s English wasn’t good; he just about got by with it. He slathered his tortured linguistic constructions and neologisms with a thick Eastern European accent that made it especially difficult to
