Fever

by Robin Cook

  Cathryn stood up stiffly and stretched. Silently she moved over to where she could see herself in the mirror through the open door of Michelle’s hospital bathroom. Even the failing afternoon light couldn’t hide how awful she looked. The black eye she’d received from Charles’s accidental blow had gravitated from the upper to the lower lid.

  Getting a comb from her purse as well as some blush and a little lipstick, Cathryn stepped into the bathroom and slowly closed the door. She thought that a little effort might make her feel better. Flipping on the fluorescent light, she looked into the mirror once again. What she saw startled her. Under the raw artificial light she looked frightfully pale, which only emphasized her black eye. But worse than her lack of color was her drawn, anxious look. At the corner of her mouth there were lines she’d never seen before.

  After running the comb through her hair a few times, Cathryn switched off the light. For a moment she stood in the darkness. She couldn’t bear to look at herself a moment longer. It was too unsettling, and rather than making her feel better, the makeup idea made her feel worse.

  Fleeing to her mother’s apartment in Boston’s North End had only eliminated the fear of Charles’s violence; it had done nothing to relieve her agonizing uncertainty that perhaps she’d made the wrong decision about the guardianship. Cathryn was terrified that her action would preclude his love for her after the nightmarish affair was over.

  As silently as possible, Cathryn reopened the bathroom door and glanced over at the bed. Michelle had finally drifted off into a restless sleep, and even from where Cathryn was standing, she could see the child’s face twitch and tremble. Michelle had had a terrible day from the moment Cathryn had arrived that morning. She’d become weaker and weaker by the hour to the point that raising her arms and head were an effort. The small ulcers on her lips had coalesced, creating a large raw surface that pained her whenever she moved them. Her hair was coming out in thick clumps, leaving pale bald spots. But the worst part was her high fever and the fact that her lucid periods were rapidly diminishing.

  Cathryn went back to her seat by Michelle’s bed. “Why hasn’t Charles called?” she asked herself forlornly. Several times she had decided to call him at the institute, but each time, after picking up the phone, she changed her mind.

  Gina had not been much help at all. Rather than being supportive and understanding, she’d taken the crisis as an opportunity to lecture Cathryn repeatedly on the evil of marrying someone thirteen years her senior with three children. She told Cathryn that she should have expected this kind of problem because even though Cathryn had graciously adopted the children, Charles obviously thought of them as his alone.

  Michelle’s eyes suddenly opened and her face twisted in pain.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Cathryn, anxiously leaning forward on her seat.

  Michelle didn’t answer. Her head flopped to the other side and her slender body writhed in pain.

  Without a moment’s hesitation, Cathryn was out the door, calling for a nurse. The woman took one look at Michelle’s squirming body and put in a call to Dr. Keitzman.

  Cathryn stood by the bed, wringing her hands, wishing there was something she could do. Standing there over the suffering child was a torture. Without any clear idea why she was doing it, Cathryn rushed into the bathroom and wet the end of a towel. Returning to Michelle’s bedside, she began to blot the child’s forehead with the cool cloth. Whether it did anything for Michelle, Cathryn had no idea, but at least it gave her the satisfaction of doing something.

  Dr. Keitzman must have been in the area because he arrived within minutes. Skillfully he examined the child. From the regular beep on the cardiac monitor, he knew that her heart rate had not changed. Her breathing was nonencumbered; her chest was clear. Putting the bell of the stethoscope on Michelle’s abdomen, Dr. Keitzman listened. He heard a fanfare of squeaks, squawks, and tinkles. Removing the stethoscope, he put his hand on the child’s abdomen, gently palpating. When he straightened up he whispered something to the nurse who then quickly disappeared.

  “Functional intestinal cramping,” explained Dr. Keitzman to Cathryn, with relief. “Must be a lot of gas. I’ve ordered a shot that will give her instantaneous relief.”

  Heavily breathing through her mouth, Cathryn nodded. She sagged back into the seat.

  Dr. Keitzman could see the woman’s tormented appearance and her harried expression. He put a hand on her shoulder. “Cathryn, come outside with me for a moment.”

  Looking at Michelle, who’d miraculously fallen back to sleep after Dr. Keitzman’s examination, Cathryn silently followed the oncologist out of the room. He led her back to the now familiar chart room.

  “Cathryn, I’m concerned about you. You’re under a lot of stress, too.”

  Cathryn nodded. She was afraid to talk, thinking her emotions might all surface and overflow.

  “Has Charles called?”

  Cathryn shook her head. She straightened up and took a deep breath.

  “I’m sorry that this has happened the way it has, but you’ve done the right thing.”

  Cathryn wondered but kept still.

  “Unfortunately it’s not over. I don’t have to tell you because it’s painfully obvious that Michelle is doing very poorly. So far the medicines that we’ve given her have not touched her leukemic cells, and there is no hint of a remission. She has the most aggressive case of myeloblastic leukemia I’ve ever seen, but we will not give up. In fact, we’ll be adding another drug today that I and a few other oncologists have been cleared to use on an experimental basis. It’s had promising results. Meanwhile I want to ask you if Michelle’s two brothers can come in tomorrow for typing to see if either one matches Michelle’s. I think we’re going to be forced to irradiate Michelle and give her a marrow transplant.”

  “I think so,” managed Cathryn. “I’ll try.”

  “Good,” said Dr. Keitzman, examining Cathryn’s face. She felt his stare and looked away.

  “That is quite a shiner you’ve got,” said Dr. Keitzman sympathetically.

  “Charles didn’t mean it. It was an accident,” said Cathryn quickly.

  “Charles called me last night,” said Dr. Keitzman.

  “He did? From where?”

  “Right here in the hospital.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He wanted to know if I would say that benzene caused Michelle’s leukemia, which I told him I couldn’t do, although it’s a possibility. Unfortunately there is no way it could be proven. Anyway, at the end of the conversation I suggested that he should see a psychiatrist.”

  “What was his response?”

  “He didn’t seem excited about the idea. I wish there were some way to talk him into it. With all the stress he’s been under I’m concerned about him. I don’t mean to frighten you, but we’ve seen similar cases in which the individual has become violent. If there’s any way you can get him to see a psychiatrist, I think you ought to try it.”

  Cathryn left the chart room, eager to get back to see Michelle, but when she passed the lounge opposite the nurses’ station, her eye caught the pay phone. Overcoming all of her petty reasons for not calling Charles, she put in a call to the institute. The Weinburger operator plugged in Charles’s lab and Cathryn let it ring ten times. When the operator came back on the line she told Cathryn that she knew Ellen, Charles’s assistant, was in the library, and she asked if Cathryn would like to speak with her. Cathryn agreed and heard the connection put through.

  “He’s not in the lab?” asked Ellen.

  “There’s no answer,” said Cathryn.

  “He might be just ignoring the phone,” explained Ellen. “He’s been acting very strangely. In fact, I’m afraid to even go in there. I suppose you know he’s been dismissed from the Weinburger.”

  “I had no idea,” exclaimed Cathryn with obvious shock. “What happened?”

  “It’s a long story,” said Ellen, “and I think Charles should tell you about it, not me.”<
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  “He’s been under a lot of stress,” said Cathryn.

  “I know,” said Ellen.

  “If you see him, would you ask him to call me? I’m at the hospital.”

  Ellen agreed but added that she had her doubts that she’d be seeing him.

  Cathryn slowly hung up the receiver. She thought for a moment, then called Gina, asking if Charles had phoned. Gina said there hadn’t been any calls. Cathryn next tried to call home but, as she expected, there was no answer. Where was Charles? What was going on?

  Cathryn walked back to Michelle’s room, marveling how quickly her previously secure world had collapsed around her. Why had Charles been fired? During the short time Cathryn had worked there, she’d learned that Charles was one of their most respected scientists. What possibly could have happened? Cathryn had only one explanation. Maybe Dr. Keitzman was right. Maybe Charles was having a nervous breakdown and was now wandering aimlessly and alone, cut off from his family and work. Oh God!

  Slipping into Michelle’s room as quietly as possible, Cathryn struggled to see the child’s face in the faltering light. She hoped Michelle would be asleep. As her eyes adjusted, she realized Michelle was watching her. She seemed too weak to lift her head. Cathryn went over to her and grasped her warm hand.

  “Where’s my daddy?” asked Michelle, moving her ulcerated lips as little as possible.

  Cathryn hesitated, trying to think of how best to answer. “Charles is not feeling too well because he’s so worried about you.”

  “He told me last night he would come today,” pleaded Michelle.

  “He will if he can,” said Cathryn. “He will if he can.”

  A single tear appeared on Michelle’s face. “I think it would be better if I were dead.”

  Cathryn was shocked into momentary immobility. Then she bent down and hugged the child, giving way to her own tears. “No! No! Michelle. Never think that for a moment.”

  The Hertz people had graciously included an ice scraper with the packet of rental documents, and Charles used it on the inside of the front windshield of the van. His breath condensed and then froze on the windshield, blocking his view of the Weinburger entrance. By five-thirty it was pitch dark save for the ribbon of lights on Memorial Drive. By six-fifteen everyone had left the institute except for Dr. Ibanez. It wasn’t until six-thirty that the director appeared, bundled up in an ankle-length fur coat. Bent against the icy wind, he hunched over and made his way to his Mercedes.

  To be absolutely sure, Charles waited until twenty of seven before starting the van. Switching on the lights, he drove around the back side of the building and down the service ramp, backing up against the receiving dock. Getting out of the van, he climbed the stairs next to the platform and rang the bell. While he waited for a response, he felt the first waves of doubt about what he was doing. He knew that the next few minutes would be crucial. For the first time in his life Charles was counting on inefficiency.

  A small speaker above the bell crackled to life. On top of the TV camera mounted above the receiving door, a minute red light linked on. “Yes?” asked a voice.

  “Dr. Martel here!” said Charles, waving into the camera. “I’ve got to pick up some equipment.”

  A few minutes later the metal receiving door squeaked, then began a slow rise, exposing an unadorned, cement receiving area. A long row of newly arrived cardboard boxes were stacked neatly to the left. In the rear of the area, an inner door opened, and Chester Willis, one of the two evening guards, stepped out. He was a seventy-two-year-old black who’d retired from a city job and taken the job at the Weinburger, saying that he could watch TV at home, but at the Weinburger he got paid for it. Charles knew the real reason the man worked was to help a grandchild through medical school.

  Charles had made it a habit over the years to work late into the evenings, at least before Chuck had become a day student at Northeastern, and as a consequence, Charles had become friends with the night security officers.

  “You workin’ nights again?” asked Chester.

  “Forced to,” said Charles. “We’re collaborating with a group at M.I.T. and I’ve got to move over some of my equipment. I don’t trust anybody else to do it.”

  “Don’t blame you,” said Chester.

  Charles breathed a sigh of relief. Security did not know he’d been fired.

  Taking the larger of two dollies from receiving, Charles returned to his lab. He was pleased to find it untouched since his departure, particularly the locked cabinet with his books and chemicals. Working feverishly, Charles dismantled most of his equipment and began loading it onto the dolly. It took him eight trips, with some help from Chester and Giovanni, to transport what he wanted from the lab down to receiving, storing it in the middle of the room.

  The last thing he brought down from the lab was the vial of Michelle’s antigen which he’d stored in the refrigerator. He packed it carefully in ice within an insulated box. He had no idea of its chemical stability and did not want to take any chances.

  It was after nine when everything was ready. Chester raised the outside door, then helped Charles pack the equipment and chemicals into the van.

  Before he left, Charles had one more task. Returning to his lab he located a prep razor used for animal surgery. With the razor and a bar of hand soap he went to the lavatory and removed his day-and-a-half stubble. He also combed his hair, straightened his tie, and tucked his shirt properly into his pants. After he’d finished he examined himself in the full-length mirror. Surprisingly, he looked quite normal. On the way back to the receiving area, he stepped into the main coatroom and picked up a long white laboratory coat.

  When he got back outside, he buzzed once more and thanked the two security men over the intercom for their help. Climbing into the cab, he admitted that he felt a twinge of guilt at having taken advantage of his two old friends.

  The drive over to Pediatric Hospital was accomplished with ease. There was virtually no traffic and the frigid weather had driven most people indoors. When he arrived at the hospital he faced a dilemma. Considering the value of the equipment jammed in the van, he was reluctant to leave the vehicle on the street. Yet pulling it into the parking garage would make a quick exit an impossibility. After debating for a moment, he decided on the garage. If he were robbed, the whole plan would disintegrate. All he had to do was make sure a quick exit was not a necessity.

  Charles parked within view of the attendant’s booth and double-checked all the doors to be absolutely certain they were locked. Having purposefully left his sheepskin jacket in the van, he put on the long white coat. It afforded little protection from the cold so he ran across to the hospital, entering through the busy emergency room.

  Pausing at the check-in desk, Charles interrupted a harried clerk to ask what floor radiology was on. The clerk told him it was on Anderson 2. Charles thanked him and pushed through the double doors into the hospital proper. He passed a security guard and nodded. The guard smiled back.

  Radiology was practically deserted. There seemed to be only one technician on duty and she was busy with a backlog of sprained wrists and chest films from the packed emergency room. Charles went directly to the secretarial area and obtained an X-ray request form and letterhead from the department of radiology. Sitting down at one of the desks, he filled in the form: Michelle Martel, aged 12; diagnosis, leukemia; study requested: abdominal flat plate. From the stationery he selected one of the names of the radiologists and used it to sign the request form.

  Back in the main corridor, Charles unlocked the wheel stops on one of the many gurneys parked along the wall and pulled it out into the hall. From a nearby linen closet he obtained two fresh sheets, a pillow, and a pillow case. Working quickly, he made up the gurney, then pushed it past the room manned by the single technician. He waited for the patient elevator, and when it came, he pushed the gurney in and pressed 6.

  Watching the floor indicator jump from number to number, he experienced his second wave of doubt. So
far everything had gone according to plan, but he admitted that what he’d done to that point was the easy part. The hard part was going to begin when he arrived on Anderson 6.

  The elevator stopped and the door folded open. Taking a deep breath, he pushed the gurney out into the quiet hall; visiting hours were long over and, as in most pediatric hospitals, the patients had been put to bed. The first obstacle was the nurses’ station. At that moment there was only one nurse, whose cap could just be seen over the counter top. Charles moved ahead, aware for the first time of the minor cacophony of squeaks emitted by the gurney’s wheels. He tried altering the speed in hopes it would reduce the noise but without success. Out of the corner of his eye he watched the nurse. She didn’t move. Charles passed the station and the intensity of the light diminished as he entered the long hall.

  “Excuse me,” called the nurse, her voice shattering the stillness like breaking glass.

  Charles felt a jolt of adrenaline shoot into his system, making his fingertips tingle. He turned and the nurse had stood up, leaning on the counter.

  “Can I help you?” asked the nurse.

  Charles fumbled for the form. “Just coming to pick up a patient for an X-ray,” he said, forcing himself to stay calm.

  “No X-rays have been ordered,” said the nurse curiously. Charles noticed she’d looked down at the desk and he could hear pages of a book being flipped over.

  “An emergency film,” said Charles, beginning to panic.

  “But there’s nothing in the order book and nothing was said at report.”

  “Here’s the request,” said Charles, abandoning the gurney and approaching the nurse. “It was phoned in by Dr. Keitzman to Dr. Larainen.”

  She took the form and read it quickly. She shook her head, obviously confused. “Someone should have phoned us.”

  “I agree,” said Charles. “It happens all the time, though.”

  “Well, I’ll say something. I’ll ask the day people what happened.”

  “Good idea,” said Charles, turning back to the gurney. His hands were moist. He wasn’t trained for this kind of work.