Robin Cook: Fever

The receptionist saw Charles approach through the mirrored glass and pressed a button, sliding open the thick glass door. Security was tight because of the value of the scientific instrumentation as well as the nature of some of the research, particularly the genetic research. Charles started across the carpeted reception area, saying good morning to the newly acquired and coy Miss Andrews, who tilted her head down and watched Charles from beneath her carefully plucked eyebrows. Charles wondered how long she would last. The life of receptionists at the institute was very short.

With an exaggerated double take, Charles stopped at the main hall and stepped back so he could see into the waiting room. In a haze of cigarette smoke a small crowd of people were milling about excitedly.

“Dr. Martel… Dr. Martel,” called one of the men.

Surprised to hear his name, Charles stepped into the room and was instantly engulfed by people, all talking at the same time. The man who had first called to Charles stuck a microphone just inches from his nose.

“I’m from the Globe, ” shouted the man. “Can I ask you a few questions?”

Pushing the microphone to the side, Charles began a retreat to the hall.

“Dr. Martel, is it true you’re going to take over the study?” shouted a woman grabbing onto Charles’s coat pocket.

“I don’t give interviews,” shouted Charles as he broke from the small crowd. Inexplicably the reporters stopped at the threshold of the waiting room.

“What the hell is going on?” muttered Charles as he slowed to a fast walk. He hated the media. Elizabeth’s illness had for some reason attracted the attention of the press and Charles had felt repeatedly raped as their private tragedy had been “trivialized” for people to read while having their morning coffee. He entered his lab and slammed the door.

Ellen Sheldon, Charles’s laboratory assistant for the last six years, jumped. She’d been concentrating in the stillness of the lab while setting up the equipment to separate serum proteins. As usual she had arrived at seven fifteen to prepare for Charles’s invariable arrival at seven forty-five. By eight Charles liked to be into the day’s work, especially now that things were going so well.

“If I slammed the door like that, I’d never hear the end of it,” said Ellen, irritated. She was a darkly attractive woman of thirty who wore her hair piled on her head except for vagrant wisps which trailed down alongside her neck. When he’d hired her, Charles got some jealous kidding from his colleagues, but in truth, Charles had not appreciated her exotic beauty until he’d worked with her for several years. Her individual features were not exceptional; it was the whole package that was intriguing. But as far as Charles was concerned, the most important aspects were her intellect, her eagerness, and her superb training at M.I.T.

“I’m sorry if I scared you,” said Charles, hanging up his coat. “There’s a bunch of reporters out there, and you know how I feel about reporters.”

“We all know how you feel about reporters,” agreed Ellen, going back to work.

Charles sat down at his desk and began going through his papers. His laboratory was a large rectangular room with a private office connected by a door in the back. Charles had eschewed the office and put a functional metal desk in the lab, converting the office into an animal room. The main animal area was a separate wing off the back of the institute, but Charles wanted some of his experimental animals nearby in order to closely supervise their care. Good experimental results depended heavily on good care of the animals and Charles was particularly attentive to details.

“What are all the reporters doing here anyway?” asked Charles. “Did our fearless leader make some scientific breakthrough in his bathtub last night?”

“Be a little more generous,” scolded Ellen. “Someone has to do the administrative work.”

“Excuse me,” said Charles with sarcastic exaggeration.

“Actually, it is something serious,” said Ellen. “The episode with Brighton was leaked to the New York Times. ”

“These new generation doctors certainly like publicity,” said Charles, shaking his head in disgust. “I thought that after that rave review in Time magazine a month ago he would have been satisfied. What the hell did he do?”

“Don’t tell me you haven’t heard?” said Ellen incredulously.

“Ellen, I come here to work. You of all people should know that.”

“True. But this Brighton situation… Everybody knows about it. It’s been the in-house gossip for at least a week.”

“If I didn’t know you better, I’d think you were trying to hurt my feelings. If you don’t want to tell me, don’t. In fact, from your tone of voice, I’m beginning to think I’d rather not know.”

“Well, it’s bad,” agreed Ellen. “The head of the animal department reported to the director that Dr. Thomas Brighton had been sneaking into the animal lab and substituting healthy mice for his own cancer-carrying animals.”

“Wonderful,” said Charles with sarcasm. “Obviously the idea was to make his drug appear miraculously effective.”

“Exactly. Which is all the more interesting because it’s been his drug, Canceran, that has gotten him all the recent publicity.”

“And his position here at the institute,” added Charles, as he felt his face redden with contempt. He’d disapproved of all the publicity Dr. Thomas Brighton had garnered, but when he’d voiced his opinion he’d realized people had thought he was jealous.

“I feel sorry for him,” said Ellen. “This will probably have a big effect on his career.”

“Am I hearing right?” asked Charles. “You feel sorry for that little conniving bastard? I hope they throw his cheating ass right out of medicine. That guy is supposed to be a medical doctor. Cheating on research is as bad as cheating on patient care. No! It’s worse. In research you can end up hurting many more people.”

“I wouldn’t be so quick to judge. Maybe he was under a lot of pressure because of all the publicity. There could have been extenuating circumstances.”

“When it comes to integrity, there are no extenuating circumstances.”

“Well, I disagree. People have problems. We’re not all supermen like you.”

“Don’t give me any of that psychology bullshit,” said Charles. He was surprised at the malice implied in Ellen’s comment.

“Okay, I won’t. But a little human generosity would do you good, Charles Martel. You don’t give a damn about other people’s feelings. All you do is take.” Ellen’s voice trembled with emotion.

A strained silence fell over the lab. Ellen ostensibly went back to her work. Charles opened his lab book, but he could not concentrate. He hadn’t meant to sound so angry and obviously he had offended Ellen. Was it true he was insensitive to others’ feelings? It was the first time Ellen had ever said anything negative about him. Charles wondered if it had anything to do with the brief affair they’d had just before he’d met Cathryn. After working together so many years it had been more the result of propinquity than romance, coming at a time when Charles had finally come out of the immobilizing depression following Elizabeth’s death. It had only lasted a month. Then Cathryn had arrived at the institute as temporary summer help. Afterwards he and Ellen had never discussed the affair. At the time Charles had felt it was easier to let the episode slip into the past.

“I’m sorry if I sounded angry,” said Charles. “I didn’t mean to. I got carried away.”

“And I’m sorry I said what I did,” said Ellen, her voice still reflecting deeply felt emotion.