Robin Cook - Fever

“Does it matter that the company is in New Hampshire?” asked Charles quickly.

“No, other than that it must be sued in a New Hampshire court,” said Mr. Garachnik, obviously eager to terminate the conversation.

“What if it’s owned by a corporation in New Jersey?”

“That might and might not compound the difficulties,” said Mr. Garachnik, suddenly more interested. “What factory in New Hampshire are you talking about?”

“A place called Recycle, Ltd. in Shaftesbury,” said Charles.

“Which is owned by Breur Chemicals of New Jersey,” added Mr. Garachnik quickly.

“That’s right,” said Charles, surprised. “How did you know?”

“Because on occasion we indirectly represent Breur Chemicals. In case you’re not aware, Breur Chemicals owns the Weinburger Institute even though it’s run as a nonprofit organization.”

Charles was stunned.

Mr. Garachnik continued: “Breur Chemicals founded the Weinburger Institute when they expanded into the drug industry by purchasing Lesley Pharmaceuticals. I was against it back then, but Weinburger, Sr. was committed to the idea. I was afraid of an antitrust action, but it never materialized because of the nonprofit cover. In any case, Dr. Martel, you essentially work for Breur Chemicals and in that capacity, you’d better think twice about suing anyone.”

Charles hung the phone up very slowly. He could not believe what he’d just heard. He’d never cared about the financial side of the institute except to the extent that the Weinburger could supply him with research space and equipment. But now he learned that he was working for a conglomerate which was ultimately responsible for dumping cancer-causing waste into a public river as well as running a research institute supposedly interested in curing cancer. As for Canceran, the parent company controlled both the drug firm holding the patents and the research firm chosen to ascertain its efficiency.

No wonder Weinburger was so interested in Canceran!

The phone jangled Charles’s taut nerves as it rang under his outstretched hand. As the source of the recent dreadful revelation, Charles debated answering it. Undoubtedly it was the administration calling, bent on harassing him with more pressure and more deceit.

Abruptly Charles’s mind switched to Michelle. The call could be about his daughter. He snatched the receiver from the cradle and pressed it to his ear.

He was right. It was Cathryn and her voice had the same stiff quality it had the day before. His heart jumped into his throat.

“Is everything okay?”

“Michelle is not doing so well. There’s been a complication. You’d better come over.”

Charles grabbed his coat and ran out of his lab. At the front entrance, he knocked on the massive glass door, impatient for it to open.

“All right, all right!” said Miss Andrews, pressing the door release under her desk.

Charles squeezed out before the door was fully opened and disappeared from sight.

“What’s the matter with him?” asked Miss Andrews, pressing the close switch. “Is he crazy or something?”

Roy adjusted his worn holster and shrugged.

Charles concentrated on hurrying to keep from guessing what had happened to Michelle. But after crossing the Charles, he got bogged down in traffic on Massachusetts Avenue. As he inched forward, he couldn’t help worrying about what he was going to find when he got to Pediatric Hospital. Cathryn’s words kept echoing in his head: “Michelle is not doing so well. There’s been a complication.” Charles felt panic tighten his stomach into a painful knot.

When he reached the hospital, he rushed inside and forced his way onto a full elevator. Maddeningly the car stopped at every floor. Eventually it reached the sixth, and Charles pushed his way off and hurried down to Michelle’s room. The door was almost closed. He entered without knocking.

An elegant blond-haired woman straightened up from leaning over Michelle. She’d been listening to the girl’s heart before Charles’s entry. On the opposite side of the bed was a young resident dressed in hospital whites.

Charles gave the woman a cursory glance and looked down at his daughter with empathy submerging all other emotions. He wanted to grab her and shield her, but he was afraid she had become too fragile. His trained eyes inspected her rapidly and could detect a worsening in her condition since that morning. There was a greenish cast to her face, a change Charles had associated during his medical training with ensuing death. Her cheeks had become hollow with the skin taut over her facial bones. Despite an intravenous line attached to both arms, she looked dehydrated from the vomiting and high fever.

Michelle, lying flat on her back, looked up at her father with tired eyes. Despite her discomfort she managed a weak smile and for a brief moment her eyes shone with the incredible luster that Charles remembered.

“Michelle,” said Charles softly, bending down so his face was close to hers. “How do you feel?” He didn’t know what else to say.

Michelle’s eyes clouded and she began to cry. “I want to go home, Daddy.” She was reluctant to admit how bad she felt.

Biting his lip Charles glanced up at the woman next to him, embarrassed by his overwhelming emotion. Looking back down at Michelle, he put his hand on her forehead and smoothed back her thick black hair. Her forehead was hot and damp. Her fever had risen. Michelle reached up and grasped his hand.

“We’ll talk about it,” said Charles, his lips quivering.

“Excuse me,” said the woman. “You must be Dr. Martel. I’m Dr. Brubaker. Dr. Keitzman asked me to see Michelle. I’m a cardiologist. This is Dr. John Hershing, our chief resident.”

Charles made no effort to respond to the introductions. “What happened?”

“She had an acute episode of ventricular tachycardia,” said Dr. Hershing. “We cardioverted her immediately, and she’s been very stable.”

Charles looked at Dr. Brubaker. She was a tall, handsome woman with sharp features. Her blond hair was piled on top of her head in a loose chignon.

“What caused the arrhythmia?” asked Charles, still holding Michelle’s hand.

“We don’t know yet,” said Dr. Brubaker. “My first thoughts are either an idiosyncratic reaction to the double dose of Daunorubicin, or a manifestation of her basic problem: some kind of infiltrative myopathy. But I’d like to finish my exam, if I may. Dr. Keitzman and your wife are in the chart room at the nurses’ station. I understand they are waiting for you.”

Charles lowered his eyes to Michelle. “I’ll be right back, sweetheart.”

“Don’t go, Daddy,” pleaded Michelle. “Stay with me.”

“I won’t go far,” said Charles, gently loosing Michelle’s grip. He was preoccupied by Dr. Brubaker’s statement that Michelle had received a double dose of Daunorubicin. That sounded irregular.

Cathryn saw Charles before he saw her and leaped to her feet, throwing her arms around his neck.

“Charles, I’m so glad you’re here.” She buried her face in his neck. “This is so difficult for me to handle.”

Holding Cathryn, Charles glanced around the small chart room. Dr. Wiley was leaning against the table, his eyes on the floor. Dr. Keitzman was sitting opposite from him, his legs crossed, and his hands clasped together over his knee. He appeared to be examining the fabric of his slacks. No one spoke, but Charles felt nervous, his eyes darting from one doctor to the other. The scene seemed too artificial, too staged. Something was coming and Charles hated the theatrics.

“All right,” said Charles challengingly. “What’s happening?”

Dr. Wiley and Dr. Keitzman started to speak simultaneously, then stopped.