Fever

by Robin Cook

  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.