Robin Cook - Fever

“But clearly,” said Charles, controlling himself, “chemotherapy is not helping in Michelle’s case.”

“Not yet,” admitted Dr. Keitzman. “But it’s still early. There’s still a chance. Besides, it’s all we have.”

“I think you’re treating yourself,” snapped Charles.

Dr. Keitzman didn’t answer. He knew there was a grain of truth in what Charles said. The idea of doing nothing was anathema to Dr. Keitzman, especially with a child.

“One other thing,” said Charles. “Do you think benzene could have caused Michelle’s leukemia?”

“It’s possible,” said Dr. Keitzman. “It’s the right kind of leukemia. Was she exposed?”

“Over a long period,” said Charles. “A factory has been dumping it into a river that feeds the pond on our property. Would you be willing to say that Michelle’s leukemia was caused by benzene?”

“I couldn’t do that,” said Dr. Keitzman. “I’m sorry, but it would be purely circumstantial. Besides, benzene has only been unequivocally implicated in causing leukemia in laboratory animals.”

“Which you and I know means it causes it in humans.”

“True, but that’s not the kind of evidence acceptable by a court of law. There is an element of doubt, no matter how small.”

“So you won’t help?” asked Charles.

“I’m sorry but I can’t,” said Dr. Keitzman. “But there is something I can do, and I feel it’s my responsibility. I’d like to encourage you to seek psychiatric consultation. You’ve had a terrible shock.”

Charles thought about telling the man off, but he didn’t. Instead he hung up on him. When he stood up he thought about sneaking back to Michelle’s room but he couldn’t. The charge nurse was watching him like a hawk and one of the uniformed security men was still there, leafing through a People magazine. Charles went to the elevator and pushed the button. As he waited, he began to outline what courses of action were open to him. He was on his own and would be even more on his own after the meeting tomorrow with Dr. Ibanez.

Ellen Sheldon arrived at the Weinburger later than usual. Even so she took her time because the walk to the door was treacherous. The Boston weather had been true to form the previous night, starting out with rain that turned to snow, then back to rain again. Then the whole mess had frozen solid. By the time Ellen reached the front entrance it was about eight-thirty.

The reason she was so late was twofold. First she didn’t even know if she’d see Charles that day so there was no need to set up the lab. Second, she’d been out very late the night before. She’d violated one of her cardinal rules: never accept a date on the spur of the moment. But after she’d told Dr. Morrison that Charles was not following up on the Canceran work, he’d convinced her to take the rest of the day off. He’d also taken her home number in order to give her the results of the meeting with Charles and the Weinburgers. Although Ellen had not expected him to call, he had, and had told her of Charles’s probationary status and that Charles had twenty-four hours to decide whether he was going to play ball or not. Then he’d asked to take her to dinner. Deciding it was a business date, Ellen had accepted, and she was glad she had. Dr. Peter Morrison was not a Paul Newman look-alike, but he was a fascinating man and obviously powerful in the research community.

Ellen tried to unlock the lab door and was surprised to find it had been opened. Charles was already hard at work.

“Thought maybe you weren’t coming in today,” joked Charles good-naturedly.

Ellen took off her coat and struggled with a mild wave of guilt. “I didn’t think you’d be here.”

“Oh?” said Charles. “Well, I’ve been working a good part of the night.”

Ellen walked over to his desk. Charles had a new lab book in front of him and several pages were already filled with his precise handwriting. He looked terrible. His hair was matted down, emphasizing the thinning area on the crown of his head. His eyes looked tired and he was in need of a shave.

“What are you doing?” asked Ellen, trying to evaluate his mood.

“I’ve been busy,” said Charles, holding up a vial. “And I’ve got some good news. Our method of isolating a protein antigen from an animal cancer works just as smoothly on human cancer. The hybridoma I made with Michelle’s leukemic cells has been working overtime.”

Ellen nodded. She was beginning to feel sorry for Charles Martel.

“Also,” continued Charles, “I checked all the mice we injected with the mammary cancer antigen. Two of them show a mild but definite and encouraging antibody response. What do you think of that? What I’d like you to do today is inject them with another challenge dose of the antigen, and I’d like you to start a new batch of mice using Michelle’s leukemic antigen.”

“But Charles,” said Ellen sympathetically, “we’re not supposed to be doing this.”

Charles carefully set down the vial he had in his hands as if it contained nitroglycerin. He turned and faced Ellen. “I’m still in charge here.” His voice was even and controlled, maybe too controlled.

Ellen nodded. In truth, she had come to be a little afraid of Charles. Without another word, she repaired to her area and began preparing to inject the mice. Out of the corner of her eye she watched Charles retreat to his desk, pick up a folder of papers, and begin reading. She looked up at the clock. Sometime after nine she’d excuse herself from the lab and contact Peter.

Earlier that morning Charles had been served with the citation concerning the ex parte guardianship hearing. He’d accepted the papers from a sheriff’s department courier without a word, and hadn’t looked at them until that moment. He had little patience with legal gibberish, and he only glanced at the forms, noticing that his presence was required at a hearing scheduled in three days. He returned the papers to their envelope and tossed it aside. He’d have to have legal counsel.

After checking his watch, Charles picked up the phone. His first call was to John Randolph, town manager of Shaftesbury, New Hampshire. Charles had met the man since he was also the owner-operator of the local hardware-appliance store.

“I’ve got a complaint,” said Charles after the usual greetings, “about the Shaftesbury police force.”

“I hope you’re not talking about last night over at the factory,” said John.

“As a matter of fact, I am,” said Charles.

“Well, we already know all about that incident,” said John. “Frank Neilson had the three selectmen meet him over breakfast at P.J.’s diner. Heard all about it. Sounded to me like you were lucky Frank came along.”

“I thought so at first,” said Charles. “But not after they took me back to Recycle so that some half-wit could punch me out.”

“I didn’t hear about that part,” admitted John. “But I did hear you were trespassing, and then pushed someone into some acid. Why in God’s name are you causing trouble at the factory? Aren’t you a doctor? Seems like strange behavior for a physician.”

Sudden anger clouded Charles’s mind. He launched into an impassioned explanation of Recycle’s dumping benzene and other toxic chemicals into the river. He told the town manager that for the sake of the community he was trying to get the factory closed down.

“I don’t think the community would look kindly at closing down the factory,” said John when Charles finally paused. “There was a lot of unemployment here before that factory opened. The prosperity of our town is directly related to Recycle.”

“I suppose your gauge of prosperity is the number of washing machines sold,” said Charles.