Fever

Eleven

It was after nine when Charles reached Pediatric Hospital. In contrast to the daytime chaos, the street outside was quiet, and he found a parking spot in front of the medical center bookstore. He entered the hospital through the main entrance and rode up to Anderson 6 on an empty elevator.

He was accosted by someone when he passed the nurses’ station, but he didn’t even look in the direction of the voice. He got to Michelle’s room and slipped through the partially open door.

It was darker than in the hall with light coming from a small night-light near the floor. Giving his eyes a chance to adjust, Charles stood for a moment taking in the scene. The cardiac monitor was visible on the other side of the bed. The auditory signal had been turned down but the visual signal traced a repetitive fluorescent blip across the tiny screen. There were two intravenous lines, one running into each of Michelle’s arms. The one on the left had a piggyback connector, and Charles knew it was being used as the infusion route for the chemotherapy.

Charles silently advanced into the room, his eyes glued to the sleeping face of his daughter. As he got closer he realized, to his surprise, that Michelle’s eyes were not closed. They were watching his every move.

“Michelle?” whispered Charles.

“Daddy?” whispered Michelle in response. She’d thought it was another hospital technician sneaking up on her in the night to take more blood.

Charles tenderly lifted his daughter in his arms. She felt perceptibly lighter. She tried to return the embrace but her limbs were without strength. He pressed her cheek to his and slowly rocked her. He could feel her skin was flushed with fever.

Looking into her face, he noticed that her lips were ulcerated.

He felt such powerful emotion that it was beyond tears. Life was not fair. It was a cruel experience in which hope and happiness were transient illusions that served only to make the inevitable tragedy more poignant.

As he held his daughter Charles thought about his response to Recycle, Ltd. and felt foolish. Of course he could understand his urge for revenge, but under the circumstances, there were more important ways to spend his time. Obviously the people at Recycle did not care about a twelve-year-old girl, and they could conveniently blind themselves to any sense of responsibility. And what about the so-called cancer establishment? Did they care? Charles doubted it, seeing as he had the inner dynamics at his own institute. The irony was that the people controlling the megalithic cancer establishment were ultimately at equal risk to succumbing to the disease as the public at large.

“Daddy, why is your nose so swollen?” asked Michelle, looking into Charles’s face.

Charles smiled. Ill as she was, Michelle was still concerned about him! Incredible!

He made up a quick story of slipping in the snow and comically falling on his face. Michelle laughed, but her face quickly became serious. “Daddy, am I going to get well?”

Without meaning to, Charles hesitated. The question had caught him off guard. “Of course,” he said with a laugh, trying to make up for the pause. “In fact, I don’t think you’ll be needing any more of this medicine.” Charles stood up, indicating the IV used for the chemotherapy. “Why don’t I just take it out?”

Michelle’s face clouded with worry. She detested any adjustments to the IV.

“It won’t hurt,” said Charles.

Deftly he removed the plastic catheter from Michelle’s arm, keeping pressure on the spot. “You’ll need the other IV for a little longer in case your ticker speeds up again.” Charles tapped Michelle’s chest.

The room light snapped on, throwing its raw fluorescent glare around the room.

A nurse came in followed by two uniformed security guards.

“Mr. Martel, I’m sorry but you are going to have to leave.” She noticed the dangling IV line and shook her head angrily.

Charles did not respond. He sat on the edge of Michelle’s bed and again took her into his arms.

The nurse gestured for the security men to help. They came forward and gently urged Charles to leave.

“We could have you arrested if you don’t cooperate,” said the nurse, “but I don’t want to do that.”

Charles allowed the guards to pull his arms from around Michelle.

Michelle looked at the guards and then her father. “Why would they arrest you?”

“I don’t know,” said Charles with a smile. “I guess it’s not visiting hours.”

Charles stood up, bent over and kissed Michelle, and said, “Try to be good. I’ll be back soon.”

The nurse turned out the overhead light. Charles waved from the doorway and Michelle waved back.

“You shouldn’t have taken out that IV,” said the nurse as they walked back to the nurses’ station.

Charles didn’t respond.

“If you wish to visit your daughter,” continued the nurse, “it will have to be during regular hours, and you’ll have to be accompanied.”

“I’d like to see her chart,” said Charles courteously, ignoring her other comments.

The nurse continued walking; obviously she didn’t like the idea.

“It’s my right,” said Charles simply. “Besides, I am a physician.”

The nurse reluctantly agreed and Charles went into the deserted chart room. Michelle’s chart was innocently hanging in its designated spot. He pulled it out and placed it before him. There’d been a blood count that afternoon. His heart sank! Although he expected it, it still was a blow to see that her leukemic cell count had not decreased. In fact, it had gone up a little. There was no doubt that the chemotherapy was not helping her at all.

Pulling the phone over to him, Charles put in a call to Dr. Keitzman. While he waited for the call back, he glanced through the rest of the chart. The plot of Michelle’s fever was the most alarming. It had been hovering around one hundred until that afternoon when it had shot up to one hundred four. Charles read the carefully typed cardiology report. The conclusion was that the ventricular tachycardia could have been caused by either the rapid infusion of the second dose of Daunorubicin or a leukemic infiltration of the heart, or perhaps, a combination of the two. At that point, the phone rang. It was Dr. Keitzman.

Both Dr. Keitzman and Charles made an effort at being cordial.

“As a physician,” said Dr. Keitzman, “I’m sure you are aware that we doctors frequently find ourselves in the dilemma of adhering to the established and best principles of medicine or giving way to the wishes of the patient or the family. Personally, I believe in the former approach and as soon as one begins to make exception, whatever the justification, it’s like opening Pandora’s box. So we’re having to rely on the courts more and more.”

“But clearly,” said Charles, controlling himself, “chemotherapy is not helping in Michelle’s case.”

“Not yet,” admitted Dr. Keitzman. “But it’s still early. There’s still a chance. Besides, it’s all we have.”

“I think you’re treating yourself,” snapped Charles.

Dr. Keitzman didn’t answer. He knew there was a grain of truth in what Charles said. The idea of doing nothing was anathema to Dr. Keitzman, especially with a child.

“One other thing,” said Charles. “Do you think benzene could have caused Michelle’s leukemia?”

“It’s possible,” said Dr. Keitzman. “It’s the right kind of leukemia. Was she exposed?”

“Over a long period,” said Charles. “A factory has been dumping it into a river that feeds the pond on our property. Would you be willing to say that Michelle’s leukemia was caused by benzene?”

“I couldn’t do that,” said Dr. Keitzman. “I’m sorry, but it would be purely circumstantial. Besides, benzene has only been unequivocally implicated in causing leukemia in laboratory animals.”

“Which you and I know means it causes it in humans.”

“True, but that’s not the kind of evidence acceptable by a court of law. There is an element of doubt, no matter how small.”

“So you won’t help?” asked Charles.

“I’m sorry but I can’t,” said Dr. Keitzman. “But there is something I can do, and I feel it’s my responsibility. I’d like to encourage you to seek psychiatric consultation. You’ve had a terrible shock.”

Charles thought about telling the man off, but he didn’t. Instead he hung up on him. When he stood up he thought about sneaking back to Michelle’s room but he couldn’t. The charge nurse was watching him like a hawk and one of the uniformed security men was still there, leafing through a People magazine. Charles went to the elevator and pushed the button. As he waited, he began to outline what courses of action were open to him. He was on his own and would be even more on his own after the meeting tomorrow with Dr. Ibanez.

Ellen Sheldon arrived at the Weinburger later than usual. Even so she took her time because the walk to the door was treacherous. The Boston weather had been true to form the previous night, starting out with rain that turned to snow, then back to rain again. Then the whole mess had frozen solid. By the time Ellen reached the front entrance it was about eight-thirty.

The reason she was so late was twofold. First she didn’t even know if she’d see Charles that day so there was no need to set up the lab. Second, she’d been out very late the night before. She’d violated one of her cardinal rules: never accept a date on the spur of the moment. But after she’d told Dr. Morrison that Charles was not following up on the Canceran work, he’d convinced her to take the rest of the day off. He’d also taken her home number in order to give her the results of the meeting with Charles and the Weinburgers. Although Ellen had not expected him to call, he had, and had told her of Charles’s probationary status and that Charles had twenty-four hours to decide whether he was going to play ball or not. Then he’d asked to take her to dinner. Deciding it was a business date, Ellen had accepted, and she was glad she had. Dr. Peter Morrison was not a Paul Newman look-alike, but he was a fascinating man and obviously powerful in the research community.

Ellen tried to unlock the lab door and was surprised to find it had been opened. Charles was already hard at work.

“Thought maybe you weren’t coming in today,” joked Charles good-naturedly.

Ellen took off her coat and struggled with a mild wave of guilt. “I didn’t think you’d be here.”

“Oh?” said Charles. “Well, I’ve been working a good part of the night.”

Ellen walked over to his desk. Charles had a new lab book in front of him and several pages were already filled with his precise handwriting. He looked terrible. His hair was matted down, emphasizing the thinning area on the crown of his head. His eyes looked tired and he was in need of a shave.

“What are you doing?” asked Ellen, trying to evaluate his mood.

“I’ve been busy,” said Charles, holding up a vial. “And I’ve got some good news. Our method of isolating a protein antigen from an animal cancer works just as smoothly on human cancer. The hybridoma I made with Michelle’s leukemic cells has been working overtime.”

Ellen nodded. She was beginning to feel sorry for Charles Martel.

“Also,” continued Charles, “I checked all the mice we injected with the mammary cancer antigen. Two of them show a mild but definite and encouraging antibody response. What do you think of that? What I’d like you to do today is inject them with another challenge dose of the antigen, and I’d like you to start a new batch of mice using Michelle’s leukemic antigen.”

“But Charles,” said Ellen sympathetically, “we’re not supposed to be doing this.”

Charles carefully set down the vial he had in his hands as if it contained nitroglycerin. He turned and faced Ellen. “I’m still in charge here.” His voice was even and controlled, maybe too controlled.

Ellen nodded. In truth, she had come to be a little afraid of Charles. Without another word, she repaired to her area and began preparing to inject the mice. Out of the corner of her eye she watched Charles retreat to his desk, pick up a folder of papers, and begin reading. She looked up at the clock. Sometime after nine she’d excuse herself from the lab and contact Peter.

Earlier that morning Charles had been served with the citation concerning the ex parte guardianship hearing. He’d accepted the papers from a sheriff’s department courier without a word, and hadn’t looked at them until that moment. He had little patience with legal gibberish, and he only glanced at the forms, noticing that his presence was required at a hearing scheduled in three days. He returned the papers to their envelope and tossed it aside. He’d have to have legal counsel.

After checking his watch, Charles picked up the phone. His first call was to John Randolph, town manager of Shaftesbury, New Hampshire. Charles had met the man since he was also the owner-operator of the local hardware-appliance store.

“I’ve got a complaint,” said Charles after the usual greetings, “about the Shaftesbury police force.”

“I hope you’re not talking about last night over at the factory,” said John.

“As a matter of fact, I am,” said Charles.

“Well, we already know all about that incident,” said John. “Frank Neilson had the three selectmen meet him over breakfast at P.J.’s diner. Heard all about it. Sounded to me like you were lucky Frank came along.”

“I thought so at first,” said Charles. “But not after they took me back to Recycle so that some half-wit could punch me out.”

“I didn’t hear about that part,” admitted John. “But I did hear you were trespassing, and then pushed someone into some acid. Why in God’s name are you causing trouble at the factory? Aren’t you a doctor? Seems like strange behavior for a physician.”

Sudden anger clouded Charles’s mind. He launched into an impassioned explanation of Recycle’s dumping benzene and other toxic chemicals into the river. He told the town manager that for the sake of the community he was trying to get the factory closed down.

“I don’t think the community would look kindly at closing down the factory,” said John when Charles finally paused. “There was a lot of unemployment here before that factory opened. The prosperity of our town is directly related to Recycle.”

“I suppose your gauge of prosperity is the number of washing machines sold,” said Charles.

“That’s part of it,” agreed John.

“Jesus Christ!” shouted Charles. “Causing fatal diseases like leukemia and aplastic anemia in children is a high price to pay for prosperity, wouldn’t you agree?”

“I don’t know anything about that,” said John evenly.

“I don’t think you want to know about it.”

“Are you accusing me of something?”

“You’re damn right. I’m accusing you of irresponsibility. Even if there were just a chance that Recycle was dumping poisonous chemicals into the river, the factory should be closed until it is investigated. The risk isn’t worth a handful of grubby jobs.”

“That’s easy for you to say, being an M.D. and not having to worry about money. Those jobs are important for the town and the people who work there. As for your complaint about our police, why don’t you just stay out of our business? That’s what the selectmen suggested this morning. We don’t need you city folk with your fancy degrees from Harvard telling us how to live!”

Charles heard the familiar click as the line disconnected. So much for that approach, he thought.

Knowing anger would get him nowhere, Charles dialed the number for EPA. He asked for Mrs. Amendola of the Enforcement Division. To his surprise the line was picked up immediately and Mrs. Amendola’s slightly nasal voice came over the wire. Charles identified himself and then described what he found at Recycle, Ltd.

“The tank that holds the benzene has a pipe that connects directly with the roof drain,” said Charles.

“That’s not very subtle,” said Mrs. Amendola.

“I think it’s about as blatant as you can get,” said Charles. “And on top of that they have a pool of chemicals up there that regularly seeps into the river.”

“Did you get some photos?” asked Mrs. Amendola.

“I tried to, but couldn’t,” said Charles. “I think your people might have more luck than I.” Charles couldn’t see any reason to get into a discussion with the EPA about the destruction of his camera. If it would have helped to get the EPA interested, he would have. As it was he was afraid it might discourage them altogether.

“I’ll make some calls,” said Mrs. Amendola. “But I can’t promise you anything. I’d have more luck if I had the written complaint you promised to send me and a couple of photos, even if they were lousy.”

Charles told her he’d get to it as soon as he could but he’d appreciate it if she’d go ahead and try to get some action based on the information he’d already given her. As he hung up he was not very confident that anything would be done.

Returning to the laboratory bench, he watched Ellen’s preparation. He didn’t interfere because Ellen was far more dexterous than he. Instead he busied himself with the dilution of Michelle’s leukemic antigen to prepare it for injection into the mice. Since the vial was sterile, Charles used sterile technique to withdraw an exact volume of the solution. This aliquot was then added to a specific amount of sterile saline to make the concentration he desired. The vial with the remaining antigen went into the refrigerator.

With the dilution completed, Charles gave it to Ellen and told her to continue what she was doing because he was going out to find a lawyer. He told her he’d be back before lunch.

After the door closed Ellen stood there for a full five minutes watching the second hand rotate around the face of the clock. When Charles didn’t return, she called the receptionist who confirmed that Charles had left the institute. Only then did she dial Dr. Morrison. As soon as he got on the line she told him that Charles was still working on his own research; in fact, expanding it, and still behaving peculiarly.

“That’s it,” said Dr. Morrison. “That is the last straw. No one can fault us for trying, but Charles Martel is finished at the Weinburger.”

Charles’s quest for legal representation was not as easy as he’d anticipated. Unreasonably equating skill and understanding with impressive quarters, he headed into downtown Boston, parking his car in the government center garage. The first impressive high-rise office building was I State Street. It had a fountain, wide expanses of polished marble, and lots of tinted glass. The directory listed numerous law firms. Charles picked the one closest to the top: Begelman, Canneletto, and O’Malley, hoping that the metaphorical implication of their high position would reflect itself in their performance. However, the only correlation turned out to be their estimated fee.

Apparently the firm did not expect street traffic and Charles was forced to wait on an uncomfortable Chippendale love seat which would have been as good for making love as a marble park bench. The lawyer who finally saw Charles was as junior a partner as possible. To Charles he looked about fifteen years old.

Initially the conversation went well. The young lawyer seemed genuinely surprised that a judge had granted temporary guardianship ex parte to a legal relative in place of a blood relative. However, the man was less sympathetic when he learned that Charles wanted to stop the treatment recommended by the specialists. He still would have been willing to help if Charles had not launched into impassioned accusations against Recycle, Ltd. and the town of Shaftesbury. When the lawyer began to question Charles’s priorities, they ended up in an argument. Then the man accused Charles of barratry, which particularly inflamed Charles because he did not know what it meant.

Charles left unrepresented, and instead of trying other firms in the building, he consulted the yellow pages in a nearby drugstore. Avoiding fancy addresses, Charles looked for lawyers who were out on their own. He marked a half dozen names and began calling, asking whoever answered if they were busy or if they needed work. If there was a hesitation, Charles hung up and tried the next. On the fifth try, the lawyer answered the phone himself. Charles liked that. In response to Charles’s question, the lawyer said he was starving. Charles said he’d be right over. He copied down the name and address: Wayne Thomas, 13 Brattle Street, Cambridge.

There was no fountain, no marble, no glass. In fact, 13 Brattle Street was a rear entrance, reached through a narrow, canyonlike alley. Beyond a metal door rose a flight of wooden steps. At the top were two doors. One was for a palm reader, the other for Wayne Thomas, Attorney-at-Law. Charles entered.

“Okay, man, sit right here and tell me what you got,” said Wayne Thomas, pulling over a straight-backed chair. As Wayne got out a yellow pad, Charles glanced around the room. There was one picture: Abe Lincoln. Otherwise the walls were freshly painted white plaster. There was a single window through which Charles could see a tiny piece of Harvard Square. The floor was hardwood, recently sanded and varnished. The room had a cool, utilitarian appearance.

“My wife and I decorated the office,” said Wayne, noticing Charles’s wandering eyes. “What do you think?”

“I like it,” said Charles. Wayne Thomas didn’t look as if he were starving. He was a solid six-foot black in his early thirties, with a full beard. Dressed in a three-piece, blue pin-striped suit, he was a commanding presence.

Handing over the temporary guardianship citation, Charles told his story. Except for jotting down some notes, Wayne listened intently and did not interrupt like the young fellow at Begelman, Canneletto, and O’Malley. When Charles got to the end of his tale, Wayne asked a series of probing questions. Finally he said, “I don’t think there’s much we can do about this temporary guardianship until the hearing. With a guardianship ad litim they’ve covered their tracks, but I’ll need the time to prepare the case anyway. As for Recycle, Ltd. and the town of Shaftesbury, I can start right away. However, there is the question about a retainer.”

“I’ve got a three-thousand-dollar loan coming,” said Charles.

Wayne whistled. “I’m not talking about that kind of bread. How about five hundred?”

Charles agreed to send the money as soon as he got the loan. He shook hands with Wayne and for the first time noticed the man wore a thin gold earring in his right ear.

Returning to the Weinburger, Charles felt a modicum of satisfaction. At least he’d started the legal process and even if Wayne wasn’t ultimately successful, he would at the very least cause Charles’s adversaries some inconvenience. Outside of the thick glass entrance door, Charles waited impatiently. Miss Andrews, who’d obviously seen him, chose to complete a line of type before releasing the door. As Charles passed her, she picked up the telephone. That wasn’t an auspicious sign.

The lab was empty. He called for Ellen and, receiving no answer, checked the animal room, but she wasn’t there. When he looked up at the clock he realized why. He’d been gone longer than he’d expected. Ellen was obviously out for lunch. He went over to her work area and noticed that the dilution he’d prepared of Michelle’s leukemic antigen had not been touched.

Returning to his desk, he again called Mrs. Amendola at the EPA to ask if she’d had any luck with the surveillance department. With thinly disguised impatience, she told him that his was not the only problem she was working on and that she’d call him, rather than vice versa.

Maintaining his composure, Charles tried to call the regional head of the EPA to lodge a formal complaint about the agency’s organization, but the man was in Washington at a meeting about new hazardous waste regulations.

Desperately trying to maintain confidence in the concept of representative government, he called the Governor of New Hampshire and the Governor of Massachusetts. In both cases the result was identical. He could not get past secretaries who persistently referred him to the State Water Pollution Control Boards. No matter what he said, including the fact that he’d already called these people, the secretaries were adamant, and he gave up. Instead he called the Democratic senator from Massachusetts.

At first the response from Washington sounded promising, but then he was switched from low-level aide to low-level aide until he found someone conversant on environment. Despite his very specific complaint, the aide insisted on keeping the conversation general. With what sounded like a prepared speech, the man gave Charles ten full minutes of propaganda about how much the senator cared about environmental issues. While waiting for a pause, Charles saw Peter Morrison walk into the lab. He hung up while the aide was in mid-sentence.

The two men eyed each other across the polished floor of Charles’s lab, their outward differences even more apparent than usual. Morrison seemed to have made particular effort with his appearance that day, whereas Charles had suffered from having slept in his clothes at the lab.

Morrison had entered with a victorious smile, but as Charles turned to face him, the administrator noticed that Charles, too, was cheerfully smiling. Morrison’s own grin faltered.

Charles felt as if he finally understood Dr. Morrison. He was a has-been researcher who’d turned to administration as a way of salvaging his ego. Beneath his polished exterior, he still recognized that the researcher was the king and, in that context, resented his dependence on Charles’s ability and commitment.

“You’re wanted immediately in the director’s office,” said Dr. Morrison. “Don’t bother to shave.”

Charles laughed out loud, knowing the last comment was supposed to be the ultimate insult.

“You’re impossible, Martel,” snapped Dr. Morrison as he left.

Charles tried to compose himself before setting out for Dr. Ibanez’s office. He knew exactly what was going to happen and yet dreaded the upcoming encounter. Going to the director’s office had become a daily ritual. As he passed the somber oil paintings of previous directors, he nodded to some of them. When he got to Miss Evans, he just smiled and walked past, ignoring her frantic commands to stop. Without knocking, Charles sauntered into Dr. Ibanez’s office.

Dr. Morrison straightened up from bending over Dr. Ibanez’s shoulder. They’d been examining some papers. Dr. Ibanez eyed Charles with confusion.

“Well?” said Charles aggressively.

Dr. Ibanez glanced at Morrison, who shrugged. Dr. Ibanez cleared his throat. It was obvious he would have preferred a moment for mental preparation.

“You look tired,” said Dr. Ibanez uneasily.

“Thank you for your concern,” said Charles cynically.

“Dr. Martel, I’m afraid you’ve given us no choice,” said Dr. Ibanez, organizing his thoughts.

“Oh?” questioned Charles as if he was unaware of what was being implied.

“Yes,” said Dr. Ibanez. “As I warned you yesterday and in accordance with the wishes of the board of directors, you’re being dismissed from the Weinburger Institute.”

Charles felt a mixture of anger and anxiety. That old nightmare of being turned out from his position had finally changed from fantasy to fact. Carefully hiding any sign of emotion, Charles nodded to indicate that he’d heard, then turned to leave.

“Just a minute, Dr. Martel,” called Dr. Ibanez, standing up behind his desk.

Charles turned.

“I haven’t finished yet,” said Dr. Ibanez.

Charles looked at the two men, debating whether he wanted to stay or not. They no longer had any hold over him.

“For your own good, Charles,” said Dr. Ibanez, “I think in the future you should recognize that you have certain legitimate obligations to the institution that supports you. You’ve been given almost free rein to pursue your scientific interests but, you must realize that you owe something in return.”

“Perhaps,” said Charles. He did not feel that Dr. Ibanez harbored the same ill will as Dr. Morrison.

“For instance,” said Dr. Ibanez, “it’s been brought to our attention that you have a complaint about Recycle, Ltd.”

Charles’s interest quickened.

“I think you should remember,” continued Dr. Ibanez, “that Recycle and the Weinburger share a parent firm, Breur Chemicals. Recognizing this sibling association, I would have hoped that you would not have made any public complaints. If there is a problem, it should be aired internally and quietly rectified. That’s how business works.”

“Recycle has been dumping benzene into the river that goes past my house,” snarled Charles. “And as a result, my daughter has terminal leukemia.”

“An accusation like that is unprovable and irresponsible,” said Dr. Morrison.

Charles took an impulsive step toward Morrison, momentarily blinded by sudden rage, but then he remembered where he was. Besides, it wasn’t his nature to hit anyone.

“Charles,” said Dr. Ibanez. “All I’m doing is trying to appeal to your sense of responsibility, and implore you to put your own work aside just long enough to do the Canceran study.”

With obvious irritation that Charles might be offered a second chance, Dr. Morrison turned from the conversation and stared out over the Charles River.

“It’s impossible,” snapped Charles. “Given my daughter’s condition, I feel an obligation to continue my own work for her sake.”

Dr. Morrison turned back with a satisfied, I-told-you-so expression.

“Is that because you think you could come up with a discovery in time to help your daughter?” asked Dr. Ibanez incredulously.

“It’s possible,” agreed Charles.

Dr. Ibanez and Dr. Morrison exchanged glances.

Dr. Morrison looked back out the window. He rested his case.

“That sounds a little like a delusion of grandeur,” said Dr. Ibanez. “Well, as I said, you leave me no choice. But as a gesture of good will, you’ll be given a generous two months’ severance pay, and I’ll see that your medical insurance is continued for thirty days. However, you’ll have to vacate your laboratory in two days. We’ve already contacted a replacement for you, and he’s as eager to take over the Canceran study as we are to have it done.”

Charles glowered at the two men. “Before I go, I’d like to say something: I think the fact that the drug firm and a cancer research institute are both controlled by the same parent company is a crime, especially since the executives of both companies sit on the board of the National Cancer Institute and award themselves grants. Canceran is a wonderful example of this financial incest. The drug is probably so toxic that it won’t ever be used on people unless the tests continue to be falsified. And I intend to make the facts public so that won’t be possible.”

“Enough!” shouted Dr. Ibanez. He pounded his desk, sending papers swooping into the air. “When it comes to the integrity of the Weinburger or the potential of Canceran, you’d better leave well enough alone. Now get out before I retract the benefits we have extended to you.”

Charles turned to go.

“I think you should try to get some psychiatric help,” suggested Morrison in a professional tone.

Charles couldn’t suppress his own adolescent urges, and he gave Morrison the finger before walking from the director’s office, glad to be free from the institute he now abhorred.

“My God!” exclaimed Dr. Ibanez as the door closed. “What is wrong with that man?”

“I hate to say I told you so,” said Dr. Morrison.

Dr. Ibanez sank as heavily as his thin frame would allow into his desk chair. “I never thought I’d say this, but I’m afraid Charles could be dangerous.”

“What do you think he meant by ‘making the facts public’?” Dr. Morrison sat down, arranging his slacks to preserve the sharp crease.

“I wish I knew,” said Dr. Ibanez. “That makes me feel very uneasy. I think he could do irreparable damage to the Canceran project, not to mention the effect on the institute itself.”

“I don’t know what we can do,” admitted Dr. Morrison.

“I think we can only react to whatever Charles does,” said Dr. Ibanez. “Since it would be best to keep him from the press I don’t think we’d better announce that he has been fired. If anyone asks, let’s say that Charles has been granted an unspecified leave of absence because of his daughter’s illness.”

“I don’t think his daughter should be mentioned,” said Dr. Morrison. “That’s the kind of story the press loves. It could inadvertently give Charles a platform.”

“You’re right,” said Dr. Ibanez. “We’ll just say he’s on leave of absence.”

“What if Charles goes to the press himself?” asked Dr. Morrison. “They might listen to him.”

“I still think that’s doubtful,” said Dr. Ibanez. “He detests reporters. But if he does, then we have to actively discredit him. We can question his emotional state. In fact we can say that was the reason we let him go. It’s even true!”

Dr. Morrison allowed himself a thin smile. “That’s a fabulous idea. I have a psychiatrist friend who, I’m sure, could put together a strong case for us. What do you say we go ahead and do it so that if the need arises, we’ll be prepared?”

“Peter, sometimes I think the wrong man is sitting behind this desk. You never let human considerations interfere with the job.”

Morrison smiled, not quite sure that he was being complimented.

Charles descended the stairs slowly, struggling with his anger and despair. What kind of world put the needs of business ahead of morality, particularly the business of medicine? What kind of world could look the other way when an innocent twelve-year-old girl was given terminal leukemia?

Entering the lab, Charles found Ellen perched on a high stool, flipping idly through a magazine. When she saw Charles she put down the magazine and straightened up, smoothing out her lab coat.

“I’m awfully sorry, Charles,” she said with a sad face.

“About what?” asked Charles evenly.

“About your dismissal,” said Ellen.

Charles stared at her. He knew the institute had an internal gossip system that was supremely efficient. Yet this was too efficient. He remembered that she’d been told of his twenty-four-hour probationary period and she’d probably just assumed. And yet…

He shook his head, marveling at his own paranoia.

“It was expected,” he said. “It just took me a few days to admit to myself that I couldn’t work on Canceran. Especially now with Michelle so ill.”

“What are you going to do?” asked Ellen. Now that Charles had been tumbled from his position of power, she questioned her motivation.

“I’ve got a lot to do. In fact…” Charles stopped. For a moment he debated taking Ellen into his confidence. Then he decided not to. What he’d painfully learned over the previous twenty-four hours was that he was alone. Family, colleagues, and governmental authority were either useless, obstructive, or frankly against him. And being alone required special courage and commitment.

“In fact, what?” asked Ellen. For a moment she thought Charles might admit that he needed her. Ellen was ready if he’d only say the word.

“In fact…” said Charles, turning from Ellen and approaching his desk, “I would appreciate it if you’d go back up to administration, since I’d prefer not to talk with them again, and retrieve my laboratory books. Holding them hostage obviously didn’t work, and I’m hoping they’d prefer to get them from under foot.”

Crestfallen, Ellen slid from the stool and headed for the door, feeling stupid that she was still susceptible to Charles’s whims.

“By the way,” he called before Ellen got to the door. “How far did you get with the work I left with you this morning?”

“Not very far,” asserted Ellen. “As soon as you walked out this morning, I knew you would be fired, so what was the point? I’ll get your books, but after that I refuse to be involved any further. I’m taking the rest of the day off.”

Charles watched the door close, now certain that he wasn’t being paranoid. Ellen must have been collaborating with the administration. She knew too much too fast. Remembering that he’d been on the verge of taking her into his confidence, he was relieved he had remained silent.

Locking the lab door from the inside, Charles went to work. Most of the important chemicals and reagents were stored in industrial quantities, so he began transferring them to smaller containers. Each container had to be carefully labeled, then stored in an almost empty locked cabinet near the animal room. That took about an hour. Next Charles tackled his desk, looking for work tablets on which he’d outlined protocols for previous experiments. With those notes, he would be able to reconstruct his experiments even without the data in case Dr. Ibanez did not return his lab books.

While he was feverishly working, the phone rang. Quickly thinking what he’d say if it were the administration, he answered. He was relieved to find himself talking with a loan officer from the First National Bank. He told Charles that his $3,000 was ready and wanted to know if Charles wanted it deposited directly in his joint checking account. Charles told him no, he’d be over later to pick it up in person. Without letting go of the receiver, he disconnected and dialed Wayne Thomas. As he waited for the connection, he wondered what the loan officer would say if he learned that Charles had just been fired.

As he had before, Wayne Thomas himself answered. Charles told the lawyer the loan came through, and he’d bring the $500 over that afternoon.

“That’s cool, man,” said Wayne. “I started working on the case without the retainer. I’ve already filed a restraining order against Recycle, Ltd. I’ll know shortly when the hearing will be.”

“Sounds good,” said Charles, obviously pleased. On his own initiative, at least something was started.

Charles was almost finished with his desk when he heard someone try to open the door, and being unsuccessful slip a key into the lock. Charles swung around and was facing the door when Ellen entered. She was followed by a heavy young man dressed in a tweed jacket. To Charles’s satisfaction, she was carrying half of the lab books and the stranger the other half.

“Did you lock the door?” asked Ellen quizzically.

Charles nodded.

Ellen rolled her eyes for the benefit of the stranger and said: “I really appreciate your help. You can put the books anyplace.”

“If you would,” called Charles. “Put them on that counter top.” He pointed to the area above the cabinet in which he’d stored the chemicals.

“This is Dr. Michael Kittinger,” said Ellen. “I was introduced to him up in administration. He’s going to be doing the Canceran study. I guess I’ll be helping him.”

Dr. Kittinger stuck out a short hand with pudgy fingers, a friendly smile distorting his rubbery face. “Glad to meet you, Dr. Martel. I’ve heard a lot of good things about you.”

“I’ll bet you have,” Charles mumbled.

“What a fabulous lab,” said Dr. Kittinger, dropping Charles’s hand and marveling at the impressive array of sophisticated equipment. His face brightened like a five-year-old at Christmas time. “My God! A Pearson Ultracentrifuge. And, I don’t believe it… a Dixon Scanning Electron Microscope! How could you ever leave this paradise?”

“I had help,” said Charles glancing at Ellen.

Ellen avoided Charles’s stare.

“Would you mind if I just looked around?” asked Dr. Kittinger enthusiastically.

“Yes!” said Charles. “I do mind.”

“Charles?” said Ellen. “Dr. Kittinger is trying to be friendly. Dr. Morrison suggested he come down.”

“I really couldn’t care less,” said Charles. “This is still my lab for the next two days and I want everyone out. Everyone!” Charles’s voice rose.

Ellen immediately recoiled. Motioning to Dr. Kittinger, the two hurriedly departed.

Charles grabbed the door and with excessive force, sent it swinging home. For a moment he stood with his fists tightly clenched. He knew that he’d now made his isolation complete. He admitted there had been no need to antagonize Ellen or his replacement. What worried Charles was that his irrational behavior would undoubtedly be reported to the administration, and they in turn might cut down on the two days he had left in the lab. He decided he’d have to work quickly. In fact, he’d have to make his move that very night.

Returning to his work with renewed commitment, it took him another hour to arrange the lab so that everything he needed was organized into a single cabinet.

Donning his soiled coat, he left, locking the door behind him. When he passed Miss Andrews, he made it a point to say “Hi” and inform her that he’d be right back. If the receptionist was reporting to Ibanez, he didn’t want her thinking he was planning on being out for long.

It was after three, and the Boston traffic was building to its pre-rush-hour frenzy. Charles found himself surrounded by businessmen who risked their lives to get to Interstate 93 before Memorial and Storrow Drive ground to a halt.

His first stop was Charles River Park Plaza and the branch of the First National Bank. The vice president with whom Charles was passingly acquainted was not in, so Charles had to see a young woman he’d never met. He was aware that she eyed him suspiciously with his soiled jacket and day-and-a-half growth of beard.

Charles put her at ease by saying, “I’m a scientist. We always dress a little…” he deliberately left the sentence open-ended.

The bank officer nodded understandingly, although it took her a moment to compare Charles’s present visage with the photo on his New Hampshire driver’s license. Seemingly comfortable with the identification, she asked Charles if he wanted a check. He asked for the loan in cash.

“Cash?” Mildly flustered, the bank officer excused herself and disappeared into the back office to place a call to the assistant director of the branch. When she returned she was carrying thirty crisp hundred-dollar bills.

Charles retrieved his car and threaded his way into the tangled downtown shopping district behind Filene’s and Jordan Marsh. Double-parking with his blinker lights on, Charles ran into a sporting goods shop where he was known. He bought a hundred rounds of twelve-gauge number two express shot for his shotgun.

“What’s this for?” asked the clerk good-naturedly.

“Ducks,” said Charles in a tone he’d hoped would discourage conversation.

“I think number four or five shot would be better,” offered the clerk.

“I want number two,” said Charles laconically.

“You know it’s not duck season,” said the clerk.

“Yeah, I know,” said Charles.

Charles paid for the shells with a new hundred-dollar bill.

Back in the car, he worked his way through the narrow Boston streets. He drove back the way he’d come, making his third stop at the corner of Charles and Cambridge streets. Mindless of the consequences, he pulled off the road to park on the central island beneath the MBTA. Again he left the car with the hazard lights blinking.

He ran into a large twenty-four-hour drugstore strategically situated within the shadow of the Massachusetts General Hospital. Although he had only patronized the place when he had his private practice, they still recognized him and called him by name.

“Need to restock my black bag,” said Charles after asking for some of the store’s prescription forms. Charles wrote out prescriptions for morphine, Demerol, Compazine, Xylocaine, syringes, plastic tubing, intravenous solutions, Benadryl, epinephrine, Prednisone, Percodan, and injectable Valium. The pharmacist took the scripts and whistled: “My God, what do you carry around, a suitcase?”

Charles gave a short laugh as if he appreciated the humor and paid with a hundred-dollar bill.

Removing a parking ticket from beneath his windshield wiper, he got into the Pinto and eased into the traffic. He recrossed the Charles River, turning west on Memorial Drive. Passing the Weinburger, he continued to Harvard Square, parked in a lot—being careful to leave his car in view of the attendant—and hurried over to 13 Brattle Street. He took the stairs at a run and knocked on Wayne Thomas’s door.

The young attorney’s eyes lit up when Charles handed over five crisp one-hundred-dollar bills.

“Man, you’re going to get the best service money can buy,” said Wayne.

He then told Charles that he’d managed to get an emergency hearing scheduled the next day for his restraining order on Recycle, Ltd.

Charles left the lawyer’s office and walked a block south to a Hertz rent-a-car bureau. He rented the largest van they had available. They brought the vehicle around and Charles climbed in. He drove slowly through Harvard Square, back to the parking lot where he’d left the Pinto. After transferring the shotgun shells and the carton of medical supplies, Charles got back in the van and drove to the Weinburger. He checked his watch: 4:30 P.M. He wondered how long he’d have to wait. He knew it would be dark soon.