No Time to Die (7 page)

Natalie choked back a sob. How could this be happening? And to Helen of all people—the most passionate and daring friend she'd ever had, the only one who shared her courage to try to push humanity forward.

“One more thing,” Mahler said. “I apologize for what this will do to your working environment, but it must be said. From now on, each of you needs to be very careful whom you trust. As you know, Dr. McNair's controversy and resignation was an internal matter. The only way Galileo could have known to target her so soon after the fact is if his Network relayed the news back to him.”

Adler looked taken aback. “What are you saying?”

Mahler turned to answer him, but before he opened his mouth, Natalie realized why his initial observation of the staff was fraught with suspicion.

“Dr. Adler, I'm afraid your department has a mole.”

New York City
Wednesday, June 12, 1:00
P.M.

“Z
oe?” She pressed the phone hard against her ear to get closer to the voice. “This is she,” she said into the mouthpiece, barely above a whisper.

“It's Dr. Carlyle.”

She held her breath and raised her eyes wide at Gramps, who was resting in bed on a spread of pillows she had fluffed. His cozy room had its own personality apart from the rest of the house—the walls were decorated with vinyl records of Frank Sinatra and Tommy Dorsey. On his night table was an old black radio that he still used to listen to baseball games. Across from his bed, a floor-to-ceiling bookcase was lined with leather-bound classics, medical textbooks, and dime-store paperbacks. Next to the open window, Zoe sat in a wooden rocking chair and hugged her knees to her chest.

Gramps's half-sleeping eyelids whipped open. Though only one full day had passed since her diagnosis and his accident, she had never been more conscious of losing precious hours to the wasteland of unproductive time—time without any progress toward a solution to Gramps's aging. Nor had she ever been so aware of how advanced his frailty had become. Before, she had never really noticed his cane, or his labored movements, or his faint wheezing when he climbed the stairs. After she watched his wrist snap like a pencil, the frightening truth had become clear—he was old. Old in a final way that she might apparently never know, in an irreversible way that took all of her courage to admit, unless she could get to the scientists fast enough, as fast as possible.

“Zoe, are you there?”

“Hi! Hi, I'm here.” All day they had been waiting for his call, like shipwrecked sailors for a boat.

He cleared his throat. “I'm afraid I have some bad news.”

“What?” The hair on her arms spiked, meeting the chill that flowed down from her neck. “What do you mean?”

“I spoke with the director of the NIH program this morning and told him about your case. And, well, even though he was personally fascinated, he said the program could never accept you.”

“Why not?” She clutched Gramps's pale green bedspread, unable to look at him.

“It's quite maddening, I'll be honest. The National Institutes of Health is an arm of the government, so their research mandates come with an agenda. Antiaging research is specifically not on it, because if people were to live longer, many of the major federal programs like Social Security and Medicare would be severely overburdened. The economy could crash, and then there's the government's concerns about overpopulation and limited natural resources. Not that I agree; I'm just repeating what I was told. I'm sorry, Zoe, but the NIH won't touch your case with a ten-foot pole.”

Panic rose in her throat like a fist, choking her. “I can't believe this! Don't those people want to figure out how to live longer?”

“It's not up to them, unfortunately.”

“This is ridiculous!” she moaned, and the childlike whininess of her own voice grated on her. She spoke again, more evenly. “There must be someone else I can see.”

“There is. I made some other calls for you, and there's a prominent biogerontologist up at Columbia who can't wait to meet you. I've taken the liberty to arrange the introduction for today at three, if that's okay. His name is Dr. Mitch Grover.”

 

 

Two hours later, Zoe found herself in a small office whose walls were papered with gold-framed diplomas—a BS, MS, and two PhDs—as well as various certificates of honor and recognition. On the wide desk in front of her lay neatly organized stacks of reports, journals, and class syllabi next to a bronze paperweight statue of
The Thinker
. The real-life thinker behind the accomplishments was younger than she would have guessed, probably in his midthirties, which dazzled her all the more. So what if his smile carried an air of pretension? He shared her eagerness to unlock her body's secrets. He was going to help her help Gramps, and that knowledge filled her with warmth.

Before she could stop herself, she had poured out her entire story to him, from her failed development right up through Dr. Carlyle's shocking diagnosis and the NIH's stunning rejection.

“I just can't believe that something as insignificant as politics could come before real
life
,” she finished tearfully. “But it doesn't matter now, does it?”

Dr. Grover handed her a tissue. “It can be very disruptive to mix science and politics,” he agreed. “We just want to get after the truth, and then they go and set all these restrictions based on some bureaucrat's notion of what's worth studying.”

“I don't know how you can stand it.”

“I'm lucky enough to work in a private institution.” He smiled, showing a row of unnaturally white teeth. “I only work on projects that I find important, not the trend of the day. And you know what? It's their loss, because we're going to make history.”

“How soon can we get started?” she asked, nearly bouncing in her chair. “You'll want to sequence my genome, right?”

“Definitely. But before we talk further I'll need you to take a look at these consent forms.” He handed her a few sheets of paper. “To participate in scientific research, you're required by law to agree to any possible risks and consequences, and to release Columbia from all liability . . .”

“Fine, fine.” She waved a hand, skimming the pages. “Where's a pen?”

When he didn't give her one right away, she looked up. He grimaced, seeming embarrassed on her behalf.

“I know this is annoying,” he said, “but I'll need your parents to sign off. Because of your unusual case—your true biological age—you're still technically a minor.”

“That's bull. I can decide for myself.”

“I'm sorry, but I spoke with Columbia's lawyers as soon as I knew you were coming. In order to move forward, we need your legal guardians' written and verbal approval. Otherwise we could be exposing ourselves to a major lawsuit.”

She felt her stomach clench. “And verbal?” Written was one thing—she'd seen her parents' signatures enough times to copy them blindfolded.

“Yes, I'll need to speak with them both to confirm that they've read and understood the forms.”

“But—they'll never agree! They don't even know I'm here!” In a few stumbling words, she explained her father's cynical position on the scientific establishment—along with his status as a high-powered attorney—and her mother's hands-off concurrence.

“Oh,” he said. “I had no idea.”

“But I'm over eighteen!”

“I'm sorry. The lawyers . . .” He trailed off, looking crestfallen.

“So what are you saying? I can never escape my parents' control?”

“I don't know.” He paused, gritting his teeth. “I don't see how we can move forward without this right now. In other circumstances, I might be willing to bend the rules a little, but . . .”

“But what?”

He eyed the open door behind her. She got up to close it.

“But what?” she repeated.

“I can't really go into it with you.” He sighed. “Look, my department is going through some internal issues, and the last thing I want to do is stir up a controversy.”

“What about making history?” she said.

“Things are touchy around here right now. I can't go into detail.” He fidgeted with a rubber band on the desk. “I can't afford to get myself in trouble.”

She shook her head. “So that's it, then? Just because of a stupid form?”

“I don't expect you to understand. I'm sorry—this is very disappointing for me also. Extremely disappointing.”

She jumped to her feet, marched to the door, and swung it open. She could picture Gramps at home in bed, nursing his broken wrist and eagerly awaiting every crumb of the meeting.
Now is when the magic starts,
he'd predicted as she walked out the door.

She threw a final withering glance at Dr. Grover and steadied her voice, despite the anger and desperation trembling through her. “Thank you for your time, but I'll find someone whose hands aren't tied by fear. I don't expect you to understand.”

 

 

Peeking out of her office, Natalie watched the defiant girl storm down the hallway. Her knobby knees brushed together with each stride, while her long braid flicked back and forth like a puppy's tail. She looked no older than twelve or thirteen, but had Natalie overhead correctly? Mitch's door had been open for most of their meeting, and if what the girl told him was true—

As Natalie debated whether to run after her, the elevator at the end of the hall opened and the girl stepped inside. In a split second, Natalie was on her feet, knocking back her chair, just as the doors slid closed. Catching the briefest glimpse of her face, Natalie saw that she was wiping her eyes, her thin shoulders heaving. Then she was gone.

Natalie's sense of maternal anger overpowered all else. She strode into Mitch's office, where he was sitting behind his desk, looking dazed.

“What the hell was that?” she demanded, stopping in the doorway. “Why did you make that poor girl leave crying? Who is she?”

Mitch shook his head. “Such a damn shame. Zoe Kincaid, possibly only the second person ever to have Syndrome X. And parents that want to keep her under a rock.”

“My God. Are you sure?”

“Ray Carlyle made the diagnosis, so I'm pretty damn sure.”

“My God. I never—Mitch, the chance of being born with that must be one in a trillion! Let alone to have it happen to someone during our lifetime.”

“I know. But what can I do? She says they'll never consent, and I'm not going to be the one to cause problems, not with that lunatic Galileo on the loose and Helen probably dead, and”—he looked sharply at her—“a spy roaming the halls.”

“Don't talk about her like that,” Natalie snapped with such ferocity that he winced. “And don't you
dare
look at me that way.”

“What way?”

“Come on, Mitch.” Since yesterday, when Les Mahler had spent double the time questioning Natalie as everyone else, a tacit suspicion had sprung up around her like a foul mist. It was ludicrous. If she had any information that could help find Helen, the feds wouldn't be able to keep her away.

“I'm sorry,” he muttered. He became bothered by a coffee stain on the desk and rubbed it with the heel of his hand.

“Anyway, lightning's not going to strike in the same place twice.” Natalie plunked herself into his guest chair and leaned toward him. “Don't you realize that girl is like a walking fountain of youth?”

His hand froze. He stared at her. “So you want me to get the school sued?”

“Do you really think that would happen? It's not like you'd be hurting her. You just need a DNA sample to start the process.”

“I can't, her father is a partner at Powell Kincaid.” His eyes narrowed to charcoal slits. “Oh, I get it. I get what this is all about. Well, aren't you clever.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You want tenure just as much as I do. If I screw up, you're golden.”

“Jesus Christ, Mitch.” She shook her head in disbelief, about to skewer him, when a rousing thought struck her. Her expression took on a shade of contrition. “You know what? Forget it. You're probably doing the right thing.”

“I know I am. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a class to teach.”

Without a word, she returned to her own office and locked the door.

It was quiet, save for the faint chatter of students exiting a lab down the hall—wisps of laughter, trilling cell phones, the scuffle of retreating footsteps. Then silence.

Her heart thumped against her chest. She was acutely aware of the scent of the gardenia plant on her windowsill, a gift from Helen for her thirty-seventh birthday just a few weeks earlier. Now it was in full bloom. The velvety white blossoms burst from the leaves, throwing off an intoxicating sweetness. What would Helen think of walking away from the chance of a lifetime out of fear? Helen, who had risked her career—and maybe her life—for work she believed in, for the possibility of greatness.

She was—is—no coward,
Natalie thought,
and neither am I
.

What a blessing it seemed not to age, yet she could see how it would also be a curse. To be forever trapped on the verge of womanhood, waiting for a maturity that would never transpire. To be left behind by time, so that the gap between her spirit and her body grew ever wider. No wonder Zoe was seeking help from science, no wonder she had left in tears. So what if her parents wouldn't agree—she was twenty years old, and perfectly mentally able. In fact, from what Natalie had overheard, she was one of the most articulate girls around. Her parents deserved neither to own her nor to ruin the incredibly rare home run that nature had set up. If Natalie stepped up to the plate, no one would have to know. It was reckless, to be sure, but what would be the cost of inaction?

Could she live the rest of her life knowing she'd let her greatest opportunity slip away? Her heart was racing as though it had made the decision before her mind.

She'd need Zoe's case history and a blood sample to get started. Her lab was ready and waiting. Those years of research on the drosophila flies would prove necessary much sooner than she'd ever hoped. Already she was thinking of the particular chromosomes that she'd analyzed as promising locations for a master regulator gene or group of genes, if they existed. Her fingers twitched for a microscope. Zoe's DNA was the ultimate answer key to the test she had been studying for all her adult life.

Natalie found that she was pacing the length of her office, clenching her fists. Tenure was about as crucial as lipstick in comparison. Mitch's sense was shriveled by his competitiveness. What was the real point of tenure, unless to have full jurisdiction over your own experiments? To stick out your neck for knowledge and truth without retribution? Only she cared enough about the work to deserve it, even though Mitch would probably be the one to triumph with the faculty in the end. But that was beside the point now; if she did make a breakthrough as Nobel-worthy as she imagined, every biology department the world over would be begging to appoint her, no matter what technicalities she'd bypassed in the process. Theo would never have to worry about their financial stability again—and what was more, he'd have a confident hero in her, not a mother embittered from her dual failures at both love and work.