Robin Cook - Fever

Charles was almost finished with his desk when he heard someone try to open the door, and being unsuccessful slip a key into the lock. Charles swung around and was facing the door when Ellen entered. She was followed by a heavy young man dressed in a tweed jacket. To Charles’s satisfaction, she was carrying half of the lab books and the stranger the other half.

“Did you lock the door?” asked Ellen quizzically.

Charles nodded.

Ellen rolled her eyes for the benefit of the stranger and said: “I really appreciate your help. You can put the books anyplace.”

“If you would,” called Charles. “Put them on that counter top.” He pointed to the area above the cabinet in which he’d stored the chemicals.

“This is Dr. Michael Kittinger,” said Ellen. “I was introduced to him up in administration. He’s going to be doing the Canceran study. I guess I’ll be helping him.”

Dr. Kittinger stuck out a short hand with pudgy fingers, a friendly smile distorting his rubbery face. “Glad to meet you, Dr. Martel. I’ve heard a lot of good things about you.”

“I’ll bet you have,” Charles mumbled.

“What a fabulous lab,” said Dr. Kittinger, dropping Charles’s hand and marveling at the impressive array of sophisticated equipment. His face brightened like a five-year-old at Christmas time. “My God! A Pearson Ultracentrifuge. And, I don’t believe it… a Dixon Scanning Electron Microscope! How could you ever leave this paradise?”

“I had help,” said Charles glancing at Ellen.

Ellen avoided Charles’s stare.

“Would you mind if I just looked around?” asked Dr. Kittinger enthusiastically.

“Yes!” said Charles. “I do mind.”

“Charles?” said Ellen. “Dr. Kittinger is trying to be friendly. Dr. Morrison suggested he come down.”

“I really couldn’t care less,” said Charles. “This is still my lab for the next two days and I want everyone out. Everyone!” Charles’s voice rose.

Ellen immediately recoiled. Motioning to Dr. Kittinger, the two hurriedly departed.

Charles grabbed the door and with excessive force, sent it swinging home. For a moment he stood with his fists tightly clenched. He knew that he’d now made his isolation complete. He admitted there had been no need to antagonize Ellen or his replacement. What worried Charles was that his irrational behavior would undoubtedly be reported to the administration, and they in turn might cut down on the two days he had left in the lab. He decided he’d have to work quickly. In fact, he’d have to make his move that very night.

Returning to his work with renewed commitment, it took him another hour to arrange the lab so that everything he needed was organized into a single cabinet.

Donning his soiled coat, he left, locking the door behind him. When he passed Miss Andrews, he made it a point to say “Hi” and inform her that he’d be right back. If the receptionist was reporting to Ibanez, he didn’t want her thinking he was planning on being out for long.

It was after three, and the Boston traffic was building to its pre-rush-hour frenzy. Charles found himself surrounded by businessmen who risked their lives to get to Interstate 93 before Memorial and Storrow Drive ground to a halt.

His first stop was Charles River Park Plaza and the branch of the First National Bank. The vice president with whom Charles was passingly acquainted was not in, so Charles had to see a young woman he’d never met. He was aware that she eyed him suspiciously with his soiled jacket and day-and-a-half growth of beard.

Charles put her at ease by saying, “I’m a scientist. We always dress a little…” he deliberately left the sentence open-ended.

The bank officer nodded understandingly, although it took her a moment to compare Charles’s present visage with the photo on his New Hampshire driver’s license. Seemingly comfortable with the identification, she asked Charles if he wanted a check. He asked for the loan in cash.

“Cash?” Mildly flustered, the bank officer excused herself and disappeared into the back office to place a call to the assistant director of the branch. When she returned she was carrying thirty crisp hundred-dollar bills.

Charles retrieved his car and threaded his way into the tangled downtown shopping district behind Filene’s and Jordan Marsh. Double-parking with his blinker lights on, Charles ran into a sporting goods shop where he was known. He bought a hundred rounds of twelve-gauge number two express shot for his shotgun.

“What’s this for?” asked the clerk good-naturedly.

“Ducks,” said Charles in a tone he’d hoped would discourage conversation.

“I think number four or five shot would be better,” offered the clerk.

“I want number two,” said Charles laconically.

“You know it’s not duck season,” said the clerk.

“Yeah, I know,” said Charles.

Charles paid for the shells with a new hundred-dollar bill.

Back in the car, he worked his way through the narrow Boston streets. He drove back the way he’d come, making his third stop at the corner of Charles and Cambridge streets. Mindless of the consequences, he pulled off the road to park on the central island beneath the MBTA. Again he left the car with the hazard lights blinking.

He ran into a large twenty-four-hour drugstore strategically situated within the shadow of the Massachusetts General Hospital. Although he had only patronized the place when he had his private practice, they still recognized him and called him by name.

“Need to restock my black bag,” said Charles after asking for some of the store’s prescription forms. Charles wrote out prescriptions for morphine, Demerol, Compazine, Xylocaine, syringes, plastic tubing, intravenous solutions, Benadryl, epinephrine, Prednisone, Percodan, and injectable Valium. The pharmacist took the scripts and whistled: “My God, what do you carry around, a suitcase?”

Charles gave a short laugh as if he appreciated the humor and paid with a hundred-dollar bill.

Removing a parking ticket from beneath his windshield wiper, he got into the Pinto and eased into the traffic. He recrossed the Charles River, turning west on Memorial Drive. Passing the Weinburger, he continued to Harvard Square, parked in a lot—being careful to leave his car in view of the attendant—and hurried over to 13 Brattle Street. He took the stairs at a run and knocked on Wayne Thomas’s door.

The young attorney’s eyes lit up when Charles handed over five crisp one-hundred-dollar bills.

“Man, you’re going to get the best service money can buy,” said Wayne.

He then told Charles that he’d managed to get an emergency hearing scheduled the next day for his restraining order on Recycle, Ltd.

Charles left the lawyer’s office and walked a block south to a Hertz rent-a-car bureau. He rented the largest van they had available. They brought the vehicle around and Charles climbed in. He drove slowly through Harvard Square, back to the parking lot where he’d left the Pinto. After transferring the shotgun shells and the carton of medical supplies, Charles got back in the van and drove to the Weinburger. He checked his watch: 4:30 P.M. He wondered how long he’d have to wait. He knew it would be dark soon.

Cathryn stood up stiffly and stretched. Silently she moved over to where she could see herself in the mirror through the open door of Michelle’s hospital bathroom. Even the failing afternoon light couldn’t hide how awful she looked. The black eye she’d received from Charles’s accidental blow had gravitated from the upper to the lower lid.

Getting a comb from her purse as well as some blush and a little lipstick, Cathryn stepped into the bathroom and slowly closed the door. She thought that a little effort might make her feel better. Flipping on the fluorescent light, she looked into the mirror once again. What she saw startled her. Under the raw artificial light she looked frightfully pale, which only emphasized her black eye. But worse than her lack of color was her drawn, anxious look. At the corner of her mouth there were lines she’d never seen before.