Robin Cook - Fever

“It certainly is,” agreed Dr. Keitzman. “We’re all very pleased. Tell me, Charles. What did you do to Michelle while she was in your house?”

Charles had trouble containing his joy. His hopes soared. Maybe Michelle was cured. Maybe everything worked as he had guessed. Looking up at Keitzman, Charles thought for a moment. Realizing that he didn’t want to go into a detailed explanation at that point, he said: “I just tried to stimulate her immune system.”

“You mean by using an adjuvant like BCG?” asked Dr. Keitzman.

“Something like that,” agreed Charles. He was in no shape to get into a scientific discussion.

“Well,” said Dr. Keitzman, heading for the door. “We’ll have to talk about it. Obviously whatever you did helped the chemotherapy she’d been given before you took her from the hospital. I don’t understand the time sequence, but we’ll talk about it when you feel stronger.”

“Yes,” agreed Charles. “When I’m stronger.”

“Anyway, I’m sure you know the custody proceedings have been canceled.” Dr. Keitzman adjusted his glasses, nodded to the technician, and left.

Charles’s elation over Dr. Keitzman’s news dulled the painful respiratory treatment, even better than the morphine. As the technician stood by, the positive pressure machine forcibly inflated Charles’s lungs, something a patient would not do himself because of the severity of the pain. The procedure lasted for twenty minutes and when the technician finally left, Charles was exhausted. In spite of the lingering pain, he fell into a fitful sleep.

Unsure of how much time had passed, Charles was roused by a sound from the other side of the room. He turned his head toward the door and was shocked to discover he wasn’t alone. There, next to the bed, not more than four feet away, sat Dr. Carlos Ibanez. With his bony hands folded in his lap and his silver hair disheveled, he looked old and frail.

“I hope I’m not disturbing you,” said Dr. Ibanez softly.

Charles felt a surge of anger, but remembering Keitzman’s news, it passed. Instead he looked with indifference.

“I’m glad you’re doing so well,” said Dr. Ibanez. “The surgeons told me you were very lucky.”

Luck! What a relative term, thought Charles with irritation. “You think getting shot in the chest is lucky?” he asked.

“That’s not what I meant,” said Dr. Ibanez with a smile. “Hitting your left arm apparently slowed the bullet so that when it entered your chest, it missed your heart. That was lucky.”

Charles felt a little stab of pain. Although he didn’t feel particularly fortunate, he wasn’t in the mood for an argument. He shook his head slightly to acknowledge Dr. Ibanez’s comment. In truth, he wondered why the old man had come.

“Charles!” said Dr. Ibanez with renewed emphasis. “I’m here to negotiate.”

Negotiate? thought Charles, his eyes puzzled. What the hell is he talking about?

“I’ve given a lot of thought to everything,” said Dr. Ibanez, “and I’m willing to admit that I made some mistakes. I’d like to make up for them if you’re willing to cooperate.”

Charles rolled his head and looked up at the bottles over his head, watching the intravenous fluid drip from the micropore filter. He controlled himself from telling Ibanez to go to hell.

The director waited for Charles to respond, but seeing that he would not, the old man cleared his throat. “Let me be very frank, Charles. I know that you could cause us a great deal of trouble now that you’ve become a celebrity of sorts. But that wouldn’t be good for anyone. I have convinced the board of directors not to press any charges against you and to give you your job back…”

“The hell with your job,” said Charles sharply. He winced with pain.

“All right,” said Ibanez consolingly. “I can understand if you don’t want to return to the Weinburger. But there are other institutions where we can help you get the kind of job you want, a position where you’ll be able to do your research unhindered.”

Charles thought about Michelle, wondering about what he’d done to her. Had he really hit on something? He didn’t know but he had to find out. To do that he needed laboratory facilities.

He turned and examined Dr. Ibanez’s face. In contrast to Morrison, Charles had never disliked Dr. Ibanez. “I have to warn you that if I negotiate, I’m going to have a lot of demands.” In actuality Charles had not given one thought to what he was going to do after he recovered. But lying there, looking at the director, his mind rapidly reviewed the alternatives.

“I’m prepared to meet your demands, provided they are reasonable,” said Dr. Ibanez.

“And what do you want from me?” asked Charles.

“Only that you won’t embarrass the Weinburger. We’ve had enough scandal.”

For a second, Charles was not sure what Dr. Ibanez meant. If nothing else, the events of the previous week had impressed him with his own impotence and vulnerability. Isolated first in his house, then in intensive care, he had not realized the extent to which he had become a media figure. As a prominent scientist who had risked his life to save his daughter, the press would be happy to hear any criticism he might have of the Weinburger, particularly after the bad notices the institute had already received.

Dimly Charles began to assess his negotiating strength. “All right,” he said slowly, “I want a research position where I’ll be my own boss.”

“That can be arranged. I’ve already been in contact with a friend in Berkeley.”

“And the Canceran evaluation,” said Charles. “All the existing tests have to be scrapped. The drug has to be studied as if you’d just received it.”

“We already were aware of that,” said Dr. Ibanez. “We’ve started an entirely new toxicity study.”

Charles stared, his face reflecting astonishment at what Ibanez was saying. “And then there’s the matter of Recycle, Ltd. Dumping of chemicals into the river must stop.”

Dr. Ibanez nodded. “Your lawyer’s activities got the EPA involved in that affair and I understand the problem will be solved shortly.”

“And,” said Charles, wondering how far he could go, “I want Breur Chemicals to make a compensatory payment to the Schonhauser family. They can keep their name out of the affair.”

“I think I can arrange that, particularly if it remains anonymous.”

There was a pause.

“Anything else?” asked Dr. Ibanez.

Charles was amazed that he’d gotten so far. He tried to think of something else but couldn’t. “I guess that’s it.”

Dr. Ibanez stood up and placed the chair back against the wall. “I’m sorry that we are going to lose you, Charles. I really am.”

Charles watched Ibanez as he closed the door silently behind him.

Charles decided if he ever drove cross-country again, it would be without kids and with air conditioning. And if he had to choose between those two conditions, it would be without children. The three had been at each other’s throats ever since they left New Hampshire, though that morning they had been relatively quiet as if the vast expanse of the Utah desert awed them into silence. Charles glanced in the rearview mirror. Jean Paul was directly behind him, gazing out his side of the car. Michelle was next to him, bored and fidgety. Way in the back of the refurbished station wagon, Chuck had made a nest for himself. He had been reading for most of the trip—a chemistry text, of all things. Charles shook his head, acknowledging that he was never going to understand the boy, who now said he wanted to take a summer session at the university. Even if it were a passing fancy, Charles was inordinately pleased when his older son announced that he wanted to be a doctor.