Robin Cook - Fever

Just beyond the wall, Charles found a large wire cage secured with a stout padlock. It was obviously a storeroom because Charles could see shelving with spare parts, tools, and containers of industrial chemicals. The walls were made of the same material that formed the hurricane fence outside. Charles put his fingers through the mesh to support himself while he scanned the labels on the containers. He found what he was looking for directly in front of him. There were two steel drums with benzene stenciled on the sides. There were also the familiar skull and crossbone decals warning that the contents were poisonous. As he looked at the drums, Charles was shaken by a new wave of rage.

A hand gripped Charles’s shoulder and he spun about, flattening himself against the wire mesh.

“What can I do for you?” yelled a huge man trying to be heard over the thunderous din of the machinery. But the instant he spoke, a whistle blew above one of the plastic pressure cookers as it completed its cycle, making further conversation impossible. It burst open and belched forth an enormous amount of black, viscous, depolymerized plastic. The hot liquid was poured into cooling vats sending up billows of acrid vapors.

Charles looked at the man in front of him. He was a full head taller than Charles. His perspiring face was so pudgy that his eyes were mere slits. He was dressed like the other men Charles had seen. His sleeveless undershirt was stretched over a beer belly of awesome dimensions. The man was supporting a dolly, and Charles noticed his massive forearms were professionally tattooed with hula dancers. On the back of his left hand was a swastika that he had apparently done himself.

As soon as the noise level sank to its usual deafening pitch, the worker tried again. “You checking our chemicals?” He had to shout.

Charles nodded.

“I think we need more carbon black,” yelled the man.

Charles realized that the man thought he belonged there.

“What about the benzene?” yelled Charles.

“We got plenty of benzene. That comes in the hundred-gallon drums.”

“What do you do with it after you use it?”

“You mean the ‘spent’ benzene? C’mere, I’ll show you.”

The man leaned his dolly against the wire cage and led Charles across the main room, between two of the rubber ovens where the radiant heat was intense. They ducked under an overhang and entered a hallway that led to a lunch room where the noise was somewhat less. There were two picnic tables, a soda dispenser, and a cigarette machine. Between the soda dispenser and the cigarette machine was a window. The man brought Charles over to it and pointed outside. “See those tanks out there?”

Charles cupped his hands around his eyes and peered out. About fifty feet away and quite close to the riverbank were two cylindrical tanks. Even with the bright moon, he couldn’t see any details.

“Does any of the benzene go in the river?” asked Charles, turning back to the worker.

“Most of it is trucked away to God-knows-where. But you know those disposal companies. When the tanks get too full, we drain them into the river; it’s no problem. We do it at night and it washes right away. Goes out to the ocean. To tell you the truth…” The man leaned over as if he were telling a secret: “I think that fucking disposal company dumps it into the river, too. And they charge a goddamn fortune.”

Charles felt his jaw tighten. He could see Michelle in the hospital bed with the IV running into her arm.

“Where’s the manager?” asked Charles, suddenly displaying his anger.

“Manager?” questioned the worker. He regarded Charles curiously.

“Foreman, supervisor. Whoever’s in charge,” snapped Charles.

“You mean the super,” said the worker. “Nat Archer. He’s in his office.”

“Show me where it is,” ordered Charles.

The worker regarded Charles quizzically, then turned and retraced their route to the main room where he indicated a windowed door at the end of a metal catwalk one flight up. “Up there,” he said simply.

Ignoring the worker, Charles ran for the metal stairs. The worker watched him for a moment, then turned and picked up an in-house telephone.

Outside of the office, Charles hesitated for a moment, then tried the door. It opened easily and he entered. The office was like a soundproofed crow’s nest with windows that looked out on the whole operation. As Charles came through the door, Nat Archer twisted in his chair, then stood up smiling in obvious puzzlement.

Charles was about to shout at the man when he realized he knew him. He was the father of Steve Archer, a close friend of Jean Paul’s. The Archers were one of Shaftesbury’s few black families.

“Charles Martel!” said Nat, extending his hand. “You’re about the last person I expected to come through that door.” Nat was a friendly, outgoing man who moved in a slow, controlled fashion, like a restrained athlete.

Taken off balance in finding someone he knew, Charles stammered that he wasn’t making a social call.

“Okay,” said Nat, eyeing Charles more closely. “Why don’t you sit down?”

“I’ll stand,” said Charles. “I want to know who owns Recycle, Ltd.”

Nat hesitated. When he finally spoke he sounded wary. “Breur Chemicals of New Jersey is the parent company. Why do you ask?”

“Who’s the manager here?”

“Harold Dawson out on Covered Bridge Road. Charles, I think you should tell me what this is all about. Maybe I can save you some trouble.”

Charles examined the foreman who’d folded his arms across his chest, assuming a stiff, defensive posture in contrast to his initial friendliness.

“My daughter was diagnosed to have leukemia today.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Nat, confusion mixing with empathy.

“I’ll bet you are,” said Charles. “You people have been dumping benzene into the river. Benzene causes leukemia.”

“What are you talking about? We haven’t been dumping benzene. The stuff gets hauled away.”

“Don’t give me any of your bullshit,” snapped Charles.

“I think you’d better get your ass out of here, man.”

“I’ll tell you what I’m going to do,” fumed Charles. “I’m going to see that this shithole factory gets closed down!”

“What’s the matter with you? You crazy or something? I told you we don’t dump nothing.”

“Hah! That big guy downstairs with the tattoos specifically told me you dumped benzene. So don’t try to deny it.”

Nat Archer picked up his phone. He told Wally Crab to get up to his office on the double. Dropping the receiver onto the cradle he turned back to Charles. “Man, you gotta have your head examined. Coming in here in the middle of the night, spoutin’ off about benzene. What’s the matter? Nothing good on the tube tonight? I mean I’m sorry about your kid. But really, you’re trespassing here.”

“This factory is a hazard to the whole community.”

“Yeah? Well, I’m not so sure the community agrees with you.”

Wally Crab came through the door as if he expected a fire. He skidded to a halt.

“Wally, this man says you told him we dumped benzene in the river.”

“Hell no!” said Wally, out of breath. “I told him the benzene is taken away by the Draper Brothers Disposal.”

“You fucking liar!” shouted Charles.

“Nobody calls me a fucking liar,” growled Wally, starting for Charles.

“Ease off!” yelled Nat, putting a hand on Wally’s chest.

“You told me,” shouted Charles pointing an accusing finger in Wally’s angered face, “when the tanks are too full, you drain them into the river at night. That’s all I need. I’m going to shut this place down.”

“Cool it!” yelled Nat, releasing Wally and grasping Charles’s arm instead. He started walking Charles to the door.