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“He and Violet have the same cancer?”
“They are two of less than sixty thousand in the U.S. But if GX-42 works on their cancer, its use could become much more widespread for patients with similar blood cancers.”
“What does it do exactly? Layman’s terms.”
“In England, there’s a drug currently being used in clinical trials on patients awaiting a stem cell transplant. That drug assists the patient’s marrow—damaged either by cancer or its harsh treatments—to produce healthy blood cells that their own immune system won’t attack. It retards the progression of the cancer and helps prevent metastasis. It tides them over, so to speak, until a match is found for transplant.
“Which is wonderful. But GX-42 goes beyond. When tested on animals, it has been longer acting and has had a more permanent effect. Periodic infusions, often months apart, have maintained the production of healthy blood cells in the animals.
“Nate and I believe it will do the same in humans. It will serve the purpose of a stem cell or cord blood transplant, but it would be like having a shelf-ready, universal donor. No match necessary. Far less chance of patient rejection and susceptibility to inflection. Even if it doesn’t sustain the patient indefinitely, we know it will provide more time to find a matching donor for transplant.”
Rye absorbed all that, then pushed himself out of the chair and walked over to the window, slowly unwinding the washcloth from around his hand as he went. The cuts looked angry, but they’d stopped bleeding.
Brynn said, “You should put an antiseptic on them.”
“Maybe later.”
“Where did Timmy attack you?”
“He didn’t. I attacked him.” He described the altercation.
“You got payback for Brady and Dash.”
“Some. Not enough.”
“Was Timmy badly hurt?”
“Nothing permanent.”
“Goliad?”
“He and I came to a meeting of the minds. But it might be temporary.”
“What does that mean?”
“First things first, Brynn. I’m trying to wrap my mind around all this.”
He flipped back a panel of the drapery. Hartsfield-Jackson was several miles away, but Rye saw that it had reopened. A passenger carrier on final approach materialized out of the low cloud cover and sailed over the hotel parking lot.
“MD-80.”
Brynn asked, “You can tell that?”
“I can tell.”
He let the drape fall back into place and turned around. “You have
two patients. Why weren’t two batches mixed?”
“The pharmacologist didn’t dare. He was terrified he would get caught mixing one and smuggling it out.”
Rye walked back toward the bed, and when he came even with Brynn said, “Hunt has had sixty years Violet will never get.”
“We can’t play God, Rye.”
“Somebody did. Who picked the senator over the little girl?”
“Nate and I reached a mutual decision, based on numerous factors.”
