Robin Cook - Fever

“I understand,” said Cathryn. “I think you’re right. There isn’t anything you can do right now and it would be better if you can get your mind on something else. I’ll be happy to stay. In fact, I’ll call my mother. She’ll come over and take care of things.”

Dr. Wiley watched the couple come toward him, pleased to see their open affection and mutual support. The fact that they were acknowledging and sharing their grief was healthy; it was a good sign and it encouraged him. He smiled, somewhat at a loss for what to say as they arrived. He had to get back to his office which he knew was in chaos, but he wanted to be there if they still needed him.

“Do you have any extra of Michelle’s blood?” asked Charles. His voice was businesslike, matter-of-fact.

“Probably,” said Dr. Wiley. It wasn’t a question he had expected. Charles had the uncanny ability to unnerve him.

“Where would it be?” asked Charles.

“In the clinical lab,” said Dr. Wiley.

“Fine. Let’s go.” Charles started toward the elevator.

“I’ll stay here with Michelle,” said Cathryn. “I’ll call if there is any news. Otherwise I’ll see you home for dinner.”

“Okay.” He strode off purposefully.

Confused, Dr. Wiley hurried after Charles, nodding a quick good-bye to Cathryn. His encouragement regarding Charles’s behavior was quickly undermined. Charles’s mood had apparently tumbled off on a new and curious tangent. His daughter’s blood? Well, he was a physician.

Clutching the flask of Michelle’s blood, Charles hurried through the foyer of the Weinburger Institute. He ignored greetings by the coy receptionist and the security guard and ran down the corridor to his lab.

“Thanks for coming back,” taunted Ellen. “I could have used some help injecting the mice with the Canceran.”

Charles ignored her, carrying the vial of Michelle’s blood over to the apparatus they used to separate the cellular components of blood. He began the complicated process of priming the unit.

Bending down to peer at Charles beneath the glassware shelving, Ellen watched for a moment. “Hey,” she called. “I said I could have used some help…”

Charles switched on a circulatory pump.

Wiping her hands, Ellen came around the end of the workbench, curious to see the object of Charles’s obvious intense concentration. “I finished injecting the first batch of mice,” she repeated when she was close enough to be absolutely certain Charles could hear her.

“Wonderful,” said Charles without interest. Carefully he introduced an aliquot of Michelle’s blood into the machine. Then he switched on the compressor.

“What are you doing?” Ellen followed all his movements.

“Michelle has myeloblastic leukemia,” said Charles. He spoke evenly, like he was giving the weather report.

“Oh, no!” gasped Ellen. “Charles, I’m so sorry.” She wanted to reach out and comfort him but she restrained herself.

“Amazing, isn’t it?” laughed Charles. “If the day’s disasters had remained localized to the problems here at the Weinburger, I’d probably just cry. But with Michelle’s illness, everything is a bit overwhelming. Christ!”

Charles’s laughter had a hollow ring to it but it struck Ellen as somewhat inappropriate.

“Are you all right?” asked Ellen.

“Wonderful,” said Charles as he opened their small refrigerator for clinical reagents.

“How does Michelle feel?”

“Pretty good right now but she has no idea of what she’s in for. I’m afraid it’s going to be bad.”

Ellen found herself at a loss for words. She blankly watched Charles as he went about completing his test. Finally she found her tongue. “Charles, what are you doing?”

“I have some of Michelle’s blood. I’m going to see if our method of isolating a cancer antigen works on her leukemic cells. It gives me the mistaken impression I’m doing something to help her.”

“Oh, Charles,” said Ellen sympathetically. There was something pitiful about the way he acknowledged his vulnerability. Ellen knew how much of an activist he was and Charles had told her the feeling of powerlessness was what had been the hardest for him when Elizabeth was ill. He had been forced to just sit and watch her die. And now Michelle!

“I’ve decided we aren’t going to stop our own work,” said Charles. “We’ll continue while we work on Canceran. Work nights if we have to.”

“But Morrison is very insistent about exclusively concentrating on Canceran,” said Ellen. “In fact, he came by while you were out to emphasize that.” For a moment Ellen debated about telling Charles the real reason Morrison stopped by, but with everything else that had happened, she was afraid to.

“I couldn’t care less what Morrison says. With Michelle’s illness, cancer has, once again, become more than a metaphysical concept for me. Our work has so much more promise than developing another chemotherapeutic agent. Besides, Morrison doesn’t even have to know what we’re doing. We’ll do the Canceran work and he’ll be happy.”

“I’m not sure you realize how much the administration is counting on Canceran,” said Ellen. “I really don’t think it’s advisable to go against them on this, particularly when the reason is personal.”

For a moment Charles froze, then he exploded. He slammed his open palm against the slate countertop with such force that several beakers tumbled off the overhead shelves. “That’s enough,” he yelled to punctuate his blow. “I’ve had enough of people telling me what to do. If you don’t want to work with me, then just get the fuck out of here!”

Abruptly Charles turned back to his work, running a nervous hand through his disheveled hair. For a few moments he worked in silence, then without turning he said, “Don’t just stand there; get me the radioactive labeled nucleotides.”

Ellen walked over to the radioactive storage area. As she opened the lock, she noticed that her hands were trembling. Obviously Charles was just barely in control of himself. She wondered what she was going to say to Dr. Morrison. She was certain she wanted to say something, because as her fear abated her anger grew. There was no excuse for Charles to treat her as he did. She wasn’t a servant.

She brought the chemicals over and arrayed them on the counter.

“Thank you,” he said simply, as if nothing had happened. “As soon as we have some B-lymphocytes I want to incubate them with the tagged nucleotides and some of the leukemic cells.”

Ellen nodded. She couldn’t keep pace with such rapid emotional changes.

“While I was driving over here, I had an inspiration,” continued Charles. “The biggest hurdle in our work has been this blocking factor and our inability to elicit an antibody response to the cancer antigen in the cancerous animal. Well, I have an idea; I was trying to think of ways of saving time. Why not inject the cancer antigen into a related, noncancerous animal where we can be absolutely certain of an antibody response? What do you think about that?”

Ellen scrutinized Charles’s face. Within seconds he’d metamorphosed from an infuriated child to the dedicated researcher. Ellen guessed that it was his way of dealing with the tragedy of Michelle.

Without waiting for an answer, Charles went on: “As soon as the noncancerous animal is immune to the cancer antigen, we’ll isolate the responsible T-lymphocytes, purify the transfer factor protein, and transfer sensitivity to the cancerous animal. It’s so fundamentally simple, I can’t believe we didn’t think of it before. Well… what’s your impression?”

Ellen shrugged. In truth she was fearful of saying anything. Although the basic premise sounded promising, Ellen knew that the mysterious transfer factor did not work well in the animal systems they were using; in fact, it worked best with humans. But technical questions were not foremost in her mind. She wondered if it would be too obvious if she excused herself and went directly up to Dr. Morrison’s office.