Robin Cook - Fever

“Get your hands off me,” Charles shouted as he pulled free. Then he shoved Nat away from him.

Nat recovered his balance and thrust Charles back against the wall of the small office.

“Don’t you ever touch me again,” said Nat.

Charles had the intuitive sense to stay still.

“Let me give you some advice,” said Nat. “Don’t cause trouble around here. You’re trespassing, and if you ever come back, you’ll be very sorry. Now get the hell out of here before we throw you out.”

For a minute Charles didn’t know if he wanted to run or fight. Then, realizing he had no choice, he turned and went thundering down the metal stairs, and through the nightmarish mechanical maze on the main floor. He strode through the office and burst outside, thankful for the cold and relatively clean air of the parking lot. Once in the car, he gunned the engine mercilessly before shooting out through the gate.

The farther he got from Recycle, Ltd., the less fear he felt and the more anger and humiliation. Pounding the steering wheel, he vowed he’d destroy the factory for Michelle’s sake no matter what it took. He tried to think of how he would go about doing it, but he was too irate to think clearly. The institute had a law firm on retainer; perhaps he’d start there.

Charles pulled off 301 into his driveway, pushing the accelerator to the floor, spinning the wheels and shooting gravel up inside the fenders. The car skidded first to one side and then the other. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the lace curtains of one of the living room windows part and Cathryn’s face come into view for a second. He skidded to a stop just beyond the back porch and turned off the ignition.

He sat for a moment, gripping the steering wheel, hearing the engine cool off in the icy air. The reckless drive had calmed his emotions and gave him a chance to think. Perhaps it had been stupid to charge up to Recycle, Ltd. at that time of night, although he had to admit he’d accomplished one thing: he knew for certain where the benzene in the pond was coming from. Yet now that he thought about it, he recognized that the real issue was taking care of Michelle and making the hard decisions about treatment. As a scientist he knew that the mere presence of benzene in the pond did not constitute proof that it had caused Michelle’s leukemia. No one had yet proved that benzene caused leukemia in humans, only in animals. Besides, Charles recognized that he was using Recycle, Ltd. to divert the hostility and anger caused by Michelle’s sickness.

Slowly he got out of the car, wishing once again that he’d worked faster over the last four to five years on his own research so that now he might have something to offer his daughter. Immersed in thought, he was startled when Cathryn met him in the doorway. Her face was awash with fresh tears, her chest trembling as she fought to control her sobs.

“What’s wrong?” asked Charles with horror. His first reaction was that something had happened to Michelle.

“Nancy Schonhauser called,” Cathryn managed to say. “Little Tad died this evening. That poor dear child.”

Charles reached out and drew his wife to him, comforting her. At first he felt a sense of relief as if Michelle had been spared. But then he remembered that the boy lived on the Pawtomack River just as they did, only closer to town.

“I thought I’d go over to see Marge,” continued Cathryn. “But she’s been hospitalized herself. She collapsed when they told her about Tad. Do you think I should go over to their house anyway and see if there is something I can do?”

Charles was no longer listening. Benzene caused aplastic anemia as well as leukemia! He’d forgotten about Tad. Now Michelle was no longer a single, isolated case of bone marrow disease. Charles wondered how many other families living along the course of the Pawtomack River had been struck. All the anger Charles had felt earlier returned in an overwhelming rush, and he broke free from Cathryn.

“Did you hear me?” asked Cathryn, abandoned in the center of the room. She watched Charles go over to the telephone directory, look up a number, and dial. He seemed to have forgotten she was there. “Charles,” called Cathryn. “I asked you a question.”

He looked at her uncomprehendingly until the connection went through. Then he directed his attention to the phone. “Is this Harold Dawson?” demanded Charles.

“It is,” returned the manager.

“My name is Dr. Charles Martel,” said Charles. “I was down at Recycle, Ltd. tonight.”

“I know,” said Harold. “Nat Archer called me a while ago. I’m sorry for any discourtesies you experienced. I wish you had made your visit during regular hours so I could have seen you.”

“Discourtesies don’t bother me,” snapped Charles. “But dumping toxic waste, like benzene, into the river does.”

“We are not dumping anything into the river,” said Harold emphatically. “All our toxic chemical permits have been filed with the EPA and are up to date.”

“Permits,” scoffed Charles. “There is benzene in the river and one of your workers said Recycle’s been dumping it. And benzene is damn toxic. My daughter has just come down with leukemia and a child just upriver from me died today of aplastic anemia. That’s no coincidence. I’m going to shut you people down. I hope to God you have a lot of insurance.”

“These are wild, irresponsible accusations,” said Harold evenly. “I should tell you that Recycle, Ltd. is a marginal operation of Breur Chemical Corporation and they maintain this facility because they feel they are doing the community a service. I can assure you that if they thought otherwise, they would close the factory down themselves.”

“Well, it goddamn well ought to be closed,” shouted Charles.

“One hundred and eighty workers in this town might disagree,” answered Harold, losing patience. “If you cause trouble, mister, I can guarantee you’ll get trouble.”

“I…” began Charles but he realized he was holding a dead phone. Harold Dawson had hung up.

“God!” Charles shouted as he furiously shook the receiver.

Cathryn took the phone away and replaced it in its cradle. She’d only heard Charles’s side of the conversation, but it had upset her. She forced him to sit down at the kitchen table, and she shooed her mother away when she’d appeared at the door. Her face was streaked with tears, but she was no longer crying.

“I think you’d better tell me about the benzene,” said Cathryn.

“It’s a poison,” fumed Charles. “It depresses the bone marrow somehow.”

“And you don’t have to eat it to be poisoned?”

“No. You don’t have to ingest it. All you have to do is inhale it. It goes directly into the bloodstream. Why did I have to make that playhouse out of the old ice shed?”

“And you think it could have caused Michelle’s leukemia?”

“I certainly do. Apparently she’s been inhaling benzene all the time she’s played there. Benzene causes the rare kind of leukemia that she has. It’s too much of a coincidence. Especially with Tad’s aplastic anemia.”

“The benzene could have caused that?”

“Absolutely.”

“And you think Recycle has been putting benzene into the river?”

“I know they have. That’s what I found out tonight. And they’re going to pay. I’ll get the place shut down.”

“And how are you going to do that?”

“I don’t know yet. I’ll talk to some people tomorrow. I’ll get in touch with the EPA. Somebody is going to want to hear about it.”

Cathryn studied Charles’s face, thinking of Dr. Keitzman’s and Dr. Wiley’s questions. “Charles,” began Cathryn, marshaling her courage. “This is all interesting and probably important but it seems to me that it’s a little inappropriate at this time.”