Robin Cook - Fever

“Well, we’ll get right on it,” said William. “I’ll finish the report and turn it over to the detectives immediately.”

As the two patrolmen walked out of the hospital a half hour later, Michael Grady turned to his partner and said, “What a story! Makes you feel terrible. Kid with leukemia and all that.”

“It sure does. Makes you feel thankful your own kids are at least healthy.”

“Do you think the detectives will get right on it?”

“Now? You kidding? These custody cases are a pain in the ass. Thankfully they usually solve themselves in twenty-four hours. Anyway, the detectives won’t even look at it until tomorrow.”

They climbed into their patrol car, checked in by radio, then pulled away from the curb.

Cathryn opened her eyes and looked around in confusion. She recognized the yellow curtains, the white bureau with its doily and collection of bric-a-brac, the pink vanity that had doubled as her high school desk, her yearbooks on the shelf, and the plastic crucifix she’d gotten when she’d been confirmed. She knew she was in her old room that her mother had compulsively maintained since she had left for college. What confused Cathryn was why she was there.

She shook her head to rid herself of the numbing remnants of the sleeping pills Dr. Keitzman had insisted she take. Leaning over she snatched up her watch and tried to make sense out of the numbers. She couldn’t believe it. It was a quarter to twelve. Cathryn blinked her eyes and looked again. No, it was nine o’clock. Even that was later than she’d wanted to sleep.

Slipping on an old plaid flannel robe, Cathryn opened the door and hurried down to the kitchen, smelling the aroma of fresh biscuits and bacon. When she entered, her mother looked up, pleased to have her daughter home no matter what the reason.

“Has Charles called?” asked Cathryn.

“No, but I’ve fixed you a nice breakfast.”

“Has anybody called? The hospital? The police?”

“No one has called. So relax. I made your favorite, baking-powder biscuits.”

“I can’t eat,” said Cathryn, her mind a whirl. But she wasn’t too preoccupied to see her mother’s face immediately fall. “Well, maybe some biscuits.”

Gina perked up and got out a cup and saucer for Cathryn.

“I’d better get Chuck up,” said Cathryn, starting back to the hall.

“He’s up, breakfasted, and gone,” said Gina triumphantly. “He likes biscuits as much as you. Said he had a nine o’clock class.”

Cathryn turned and sat down at the table while her mother poured the coffee. She felt useless. She’d tried so hard to be a wife and mother and now she had the feeling that she’d bungled it. Getting her adopted son up for school was hardly the criterion for being a good mother, yet the fact that she’d not done it seemed representative of her whole incompetent performance.

Battling her emotions, she lifted the coffee cup to her mouth, mindless of its temperature. As she took a sip, the hot fluid scalded her lips and she pulled the cup away, sloshing some of the fluid on her hand. Burned, she released her grasp on the mug and let it go. The cup fell to the table, shattering itself and the saucer. At the same moment, Cathryn broke into tears.

Gina quickly had the mess cleaned up, and repeatedly reassured her daughter that she shouldn’t cry because Gina didn’t care about any old cup that she’d bought as a souvenir in Venice on her only trip to that beautiful city that she loved more than any place in the world.

Cathryn got control of herself. She knew that the Venetian cup was one of her mother’s treasures and she felt badly about breaking it, but Gina’s overreaction helped calm down her emotions.

“I think I’ll drive up to Shaftesbury,” said Cathryn at length. “I’ll get some more clothes for Chuck and check on Jean Paul.”

“Chuck’s got what he needs,” said Gina. “The money it costs to drive up there, you could buy him a new outfit in Filene’s basement.”

“True,” admitted Cathryn. “I guess I want to be around the phone if Charles calls.”

“If he calls and gets no answer, he’ll call here,” said Gina. “After all, he’s not stupid. Where do you think he’s gone with Michelle?”

“I don’t know,” said Cathryn. “Last night the police talked about Mexico. Apparently a lot of people looking for unusual cancer cures go to Mexico. But Charles wouldn’t go there. I know that much.”

“I hate to say I told you so,” said Gina, “but I warned you about marrying an older man with three children. It’s always trouble. Always!”

Cathryn held back the anger that only her mother was capable of causing. Then the phone rang.

Gina answered it while Cathryn held her breath.

“It’s for you,” said Gina. “A detective named Patrick O’Sullivan.”

Expecting the worst, Cathryn picked up the phone. Patrick O’Sullivan quickly reassured her, saying that they had no new information about Charles or Michelle. He said that there had been an interesting development in the case and asked if Cathryn would meet him at the Weinburger Research Institute. She agreed immediately.

Fifteen minutes later she was ready to leave. She told Gina that after stopping at the Weinburger she was going to drive back to New Hampshire. Gina tried to protest but Cathryn was insistent, saying that she had to have some time alone. She told her mother that she’d be back in time for dinner with Chuck.

The ride across Boston and down Memorial Drive was uneventful. Pulling the old Dodge into the Weinburger parking lot made her remember that summer two years before when she’d met Charles for the first time. Could it really have been only two years ago?

There were two police cars pulled up close to the entrance and when Cathryn walked by them she could hear the familiar crackle of their radios. Seeing police cars wasn’t an auspicious sign, but Cathryn refused to allow herself to speculate. The front door of the institute slid open for her, and she made her way down to Charles’s lab.

The door was ajar and Cathryn walked in. The first thing she noticed was that the lab had already been dismantled. She’d been in it on several occasions in the past, so she’d had an idea of what to expect. Now all the science-fiction-like machines were gone. The counter tops were bare like a store that had gone bankrupt.

There were six people in the room. Ellen, whom Cathryn recognized, was talking to two uniformed policemen who were engaged in filling out the police report. Seeing the policemen painstakingly printing brought back a memory of the previous night. Dr. Ibanez and Dr. Morrison were standing near Charles’s desk talking with a freckle-faced man in a blue polyester sports coat. The man saw Cathryn enter and immediately approached her.

“Mrs. Martel?” questioned the man.

Cathryn nodded and took the man’s outstretched hand. It was soft and slightly moist.

“I’m Detective Patrick O’Sullivan. I’ve been assigned to your case. Thanks for coming.”

Over Patrick’s shoulder Cathryn could see Ellen point to an empty space on the counter before she started talking again. Cathryn couldn’t quite make out what she was saying but she could tell it was something about equipment. Glancing over at the doctors she could see they were engaged in heated discussion. She couldn’t hear what they were saying, but she saw Dr. Morrison strike his open palm in apparent anger.

“What’s going on?” asked Cathryn, looking up into the detective’s soft green eyes.

“It seems that your husband, after having been dismissed from his position here at the institute, stole most of his equipment.”

Cathryn’s eyes widened in disbelief. “I don’t believe that.”

“The evidence is pretty irrefutable. The two evening security men apparently helped Charles strip the lab and load the stuff.”