Fever by Robin Cook
“Yes,” said Dr. Ibanez. “As I warned you yesterday and in accordance with the wishes of the board of directors, you’re being dismissed from the Weinburger Institute.”
Charles felt a mixture of anger and anxiety. That old nightmare of being turned out from his position had finally changed from fantasy to fact. Carefully hiding any sign of emotion, Charles nodded to indicate that he’d heard, then turned to leave.
“Just a minute, Dr. Martel,” called Dr. Ibanez, standing up behind his desk.
Charles turned.
“I haven’t finished yet,” said Dr. Ibanez.
Charles looked at the two men, debating whether he wanted to stay or not. They no longer had any hold over him.
“For your own good, Charles,” said Dr. Ibanez, “I think in the future you should recognize that you have certain legitimate obligations to the institution that supports you. You’ve been given almost free rein to pursue your scientific interests but, you must realize that you owe something in return.”
“Perhaps,” said Charles. He did not feel that Dr. Ibanez harbored the same ill will as Dr. Morrison.
“For instance,” said Dr. Ibanez, “it’s been brought to our attention that you have a complaint about Recycle, Ltd.”
Charles’s interest quickened.
“I think you should remember,” continued Dr. Ibanez, “that Recycle and the Weinburger share a parent firm, Breur Chemicals. Recognizing this sibling association, I would have hoped that you would not have made any public complaints. If there is a problem, it should be aired internally and quietly rectified. That’s how business works.”
“Recycle has been dumping benzene into the river that goes past my house,” snarled Charles. “And as a result, my daughter has terminal leukemia.”
“An accusation like that is unprovable and irresponsible,” said Dr. Morrison.
Charles took an impulsive step toward Morrison, momentarily blinded by sudden rage, but then he remembered where he was. Besides, it wasn’t his nature to hit anyone.
“Charles,” said Dr. Ibanez. “All I’m doing is trying to appeal to your sense of responsibility, and implore you to put your own work aside just long enough to do the Canceran study.”
With obvious irritation that Charles might be offered a second chance, Dr. Morrison turned from the conversation and stared out over the Charles River.
“It’s impossible,” snapped Charles. “Given my daughter’s condition, I feel an obligation to continue my own work for her sake.”
Dr. Morrison turned back with a satisfied, I-told-you-so expression.
“Is that because you think you could come up with a discovery in time to help your daughter?” asked Dr. Ibanez incredulously.
“It’s possible,” agreed Charles.
Dr. Ibanez and Dr. Morrison exchanged glances.
Dr. Morrison looked back out the window. He rested his case.
“That sounds a little like a delusion of grandeur,” said Dr. Ibanez. “Well, as I said, you leave me no choice. But as a gesture of good will, you’ll be given a generous two months’ severance pay, and I’ll see that your medical insurance is continued for thirty days. However, you’ll have to vacate your laboratory in two days. We’ve already contacted a replacement for you, and he’s as eager to take over the Canceran study as we are to have it done.”
Charles glowered at the two men. “Before I go, I’d like to say something: I think the fact that the drug firm and a cancer research institute are both controlled by the same parent company is a crime, especially since the executives of both companies sit on the board of the National Cancer Institute and award themselves grants. Canceran is a wonderful example of this financial incest. The drug is probably so toxic that it won’t ever be used on people unless the tests continue to be falsified. And I intend to make the facts public so that won’t be possible.”
“Enough!” shouted Dr. Ibanez. He pounded his desk, sending papers swooping into the air. “When it comes to the integrity of the Weinburger or the potential of Canceran, you’d better leave well enough alone. Now get out before I retract the benefits we have extended to you.”
Charles turned to go.
“I think you should try to get some psychiatric help,” suggested Morrison in a professional tone.
Charles couldn’t suppress his own adolescent urges, and he gave Morrison the finger before walking from the director’s office, glad to be free from the institute he now abhorred.
“My God!” exclaimed Dr. Ibanez as the door closed. “What is wrong with that man?”
“I hate to say I told you so,” said Dr. Morrison.
Dr. Ibanez sank as heavily as his thin frame would allow into his desk chair. “I never thought I’d say this, but I’m afraid Charles could be dangerous.”
“What do you think he meant by ‘making the facts public’?” Dr. Morrison sat down, arranging his slacks to preserve the sharp crease.
“I wish I knew,” said Dr. Ibanez. “That makes me feel very uneasy. I think he could do irreparable damage to the Canceran project, not to mention the effect on the institute itself.”
“I don’t know what we can do,” admitted Dr. Morrison.
“I think we can only react to whatever Charles does,” said Dr. Ibanez. “Since it would be best to keep him from the press I don’t think we’d better announce that he has been fired. If anyone asks, let’s say that Charles has been granted an unspecified leave of absence because of his daughter’s illness.”
“I don’t think his daughter should be mentioned,” said Dr. Morrison. “That’s the kind of story the press loves. It could inadvertently give Charles a platform.”
“You’re right,” said Dr. Ibanez. “We’ll just say he’s on leave of absence.”
“What if Charles goes to the press himself?” asked Dr. Morrison. “They might listen to him.”
“I still think that’s doubtful,” said Dr. Ibanez. “He detests reporters. But if he does, then we have to actively discredit him. We can question his emotional state. In fact we can say that was the reason we let him go. It’s even true!”
Dr. Morrison allowed himself a thin smile. “That’s a fabulous idea. I have a psychiatrist friend who, I’m sure, could put together a strong case for us. What do you say we go ahead and do it so that if the need arises, we’ll be prepared?”
“Peter, sometimes I think the wrong man is sitting behind this desk. You never let human considerations interfere with the job.”
Morrison smiled, not quite sure that he was being complimented.
Charles descended the stairs slowly, struggling with his anger and despair. What kind of world put the needs of business ahead of morality, particularly the business of medicine? What kind of world could look the other way when an innocent twelve-year-old girl was given terminal leukemia?
Entering the lab, Charles found Ellen perched on a high stool, flipping idly through a magazine. When she saw Charles she put down the magazine and straightened up, smoothing out her lab coat.
“I’m awfully sorry, Charles,” she said with a sad face.
“About what?” asked Charles evenly.
“About your dismissal,” said Ellen.
Charles stared at her. He knew the institute had an internal gossip system that was supremely efficient. Yet this was too efficient. He remembered that she’d been told of his twenty-four-hour probationary period and she’d probably just assumed. And yet . . .
He shook his head, marveling at his own paranoia.
“It was expected,” he said. “It just took me a few days to admit to myself that I couldn’t work on Canceran. Especially now with Michelle so ill.”
“What are you going to do?” asked Ellen. Now that Charles had been tumbled from his position of power, she questioned her motivation.
“I’ve got a lot to do. In fact . . .” Charles stopped. For a moment he debated taking Ellen into his confidence. Then he decided not to. What he’d painfully learned over the previous twenty-four hours was that he
“In fact, what?” asked Ellen. For a moment she thought Charles might admit that he needed her. Ellen was ready if he’d only say the word.
“In fact . . .” said Charles, turning from Ellen and approaching his desk, “I would appreciate it if you’d go back up to administration, since I’d prefer not to talk with them again, and retrieve my laboratory books. Holding them hostage obviously didn’t work, and I’m hoping they’d prefer to get them from under foot.”
Crestfallen, Ellen slid from the stool and headed for the door, feeling stupid that she was still susceptible to Charles’s whims.
“By the way,” he called before Ellen got to the door. “How far did you get with the work I left with you this morning?”
“Not very far,” asserted Ellen. “As soon as you walked out this morning, I knew you would be fired, so what was the point? I’ll get your books, but after that I refuse to be involved any further. I’m taking the rest of the day off.”
Charles watched the door close, now certain that he wasn’t being paranoid. Ellen must have been collaborating with the administration. She knew too much too fast. Remembering that he’d been on the verge of taking her into his confidence, he was relieved he had remained silent.
Locking the lab door from the inside, Charles went to work. Most of the important chemicals and reagents were stored in industrial quantities, so he began transferring them to smaller containers. Each container had to be carefully labeled, then stored in an almost empty locked cabinet near the animal room. That took about an hour. Next Charles tackled his desk, looking for work tablets on which he’d outlined protocols for previous experiments. With those notes, he would be able to reconstruct his experiments even without the data in case Dr. Ibanez did not return his lab books.
While he was feverishly working, the phone rang. Quickly thinking what he’d say if it were the administration, he answered. He was relieved to find himself talking with a loan officer from the First National Bank. He told Charles that his $3,000 was ready and wanted to know if Charles wanted it deposited directly in his joint checking account. Charles told him no, he’d be over later to pick it up in person. Without letting go of the receiver, he disconnected and dialed Wayne Thomas. As he waited for the connection, he wondered what the loan officer would say if he learned that Charles had just been fired.
As he had before, Wayne Thomas himself answered. Charles told the lawyer the loan came through, and he’d bring the $500 over that afternoon.
“That’s cool, man,” said Wayne. “I started working on the case without the retainer. I’ve already filed a restraining order against Recycle, Ltd. I’ll know shortly when the hearing will be.”
“Sounds good,” said Charles, obviously pleased. On his own initiative, at least something was started.
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
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.
TWELVE