Fever

  Although Cathryn did not understand, she saw what was happening and she ran to fill Michelle’s outstretched arms. Looking over Cathryn’s shoulder, Michelle met her father’s eyes. Charles smiled weakly but Michelle decided that he was angry with her.

  “It’s so good to see you,” said Cathryn, looking into Michelle’s face. “How are you?”

  “I’m fine,” managed Michelle, checking her tears. “I just want to go home. Can I go home, Daddy?”

  Charles’s hands shook as he approached the foot of the bed. He steadied them on the metal frame.

  “Maybe,” said Charles evasively. Maybe he should just take her out of the hospital; take her home and keep her comfortable; maybe that was best.

  “Michelle, you have to stay here until you’re well,” Cathryn said hurriedly. “Dr. Wiley and Dr. Keitzman are going to see that you get better just as soon as possible. I know it’s hard for you, and we miss you terribly, but you have to be a big girl.”

  “Please, Daddy,” said Michelle.

  Charles felt helpless and indecisive, two unfamiliar and unnerving emotions.

  “Michelle,” said Cathryn. “You have to stay in the hospital. I’m sorry.”

  “Why? Daddy,” pleaded Michelle, “what’s wrong with me?”

  Charles vainly looked at Cathryn for help, but she was silent. He was the physician.

  “I wish we knew,” said Charles, hating himself for lying, yet incapable of telling the truth.

  “Is it the same thing that my real mother had?” asked Michelle.

  “No,” said Charles quickly. “Absolutely not.” Even that was a half lie; although Elizabeth had lymphoma, she died in a terminal leukemic crisis. Charles felt cornered. He had to get away to think.

  “What is it then?” demanded Michelle.

  “I don’t know,” said Charles as he guiltily checked his watch. “That’s why you’re here. To find out. Cathryn is going to stay with you to keep you company. I’ve got to get to the lab. I’ll be back.”

  Without any warning, Michelle abruptly retched. Her slender body heaved, and she threw up a small amount of her recently consumed breakfast. Cathryn tried to get out of the way but some of the vomit got on her left sleeve.

  Charles responded instantly by stepping into the corridor and yelling for a nurse. An aide only two doors down came flying in, expecting a crisis, and was pleased to discover it was a false alarm.

  “Don’t you worry, princess,” said the woman casually, pulling off the soiled top sheet. “We’ll have it cleaned up in a second.”

  Charles put the back of his hand against Michelle’s forehead. It was moist and hot. Her fever was still there. Charles knew what caused the vomiting; it was the medicine. He felt a wave of anxiety wash over him. The small room was making him feel claustrophobic.

  Michelle grabbed his hand and held it as if she’d slipped at the edge of an abyss and Charles was her only salvation. She looked into the blue eyes that were mirrors of her own. But she thought she saw firmness instead of acquiescence; irritation instead of understanding. She let go of the hand and fell back onto the pillow.

  “I’ll be over later, Michelle,” said Charles, upset that the medicine was already causing potentially dangerous side effects. To the aide Charles said: “Does she have something ordered for nausea and vomiting?”

  “Indeed she does,” said the nurse. “There is a standing order for Compazine PRN. I’ll get her some in a minute.”

  “Is it a needle?” cried Michelle.

  “No, it’s a pill,” said the aide. “Provided your tummy keeps it down. If not, then it will have to go in your rump.” She gave Michelle’s foot a playful squeeze.

  “I’ll just walk Charles to the elevator, Michelle,” said Cathryn, seeing Charles start for the door. She caught up with him in the hall, grabbing his arm. “Charles, what is the matter with you?”

  Charles didn’t stop.

  “Charles!” cried Cathryn, yanking him around to face her. “What is it?”

  “I’ve got to get out of here,” said Charles, nervously stroking his hair. “I can’t stand to see Michelle suffer. She looks terrible. I don’t know what to do. I’m not sure she should get any of that medicine.”

  “No medicine?” cried Cathryn. Instantly she remembered that Dr. Keitzman and Dr. Wiley were worried that Charles might interrupt Michelle’s treatment.

  “Her vomiting,” said Charles angrily. “That’s only the beginning.” Charles started to say that he was sure Michelle was not going to go into remission, but he held his tongue. There would be time for more bad news for Cathryn and for the present he did not want to destroy the hope.

  “But the medicine is her only chance,” pleaded Cathryn.

  “I’ve got to go,” said Charles. “Call me if there is any change. I’ll be at the lab.”

  Cathryn watched Charles rush down the crowded corridor. He didn’t even wait for the elevator. She saw him duck into the stairwell instead. When Dr. Wiley told her that they were going to rely on her strength, she had no idea what he’d meant. Now she was beginning to comprehend.

  EIGHT

  Charles turned into the institute parking lot, leaped out of the car, and pulled the jar of pond water from behind the seat. He ran across the tarmac and had to bang on the glass door before the receptionist opened it. Turning right instead of left in the main hallway, he ran down to the analysis lab. One of the technicians whom Charles respected was sitting on the countertop with his morning coffee.

  “I want this water analyzed for contaminants,” said Charles, out of breath.

  “Rush job?” quipped the technician, noting Charles’s excitement.

  “Sorta,” said Charles. “I’m particularly interested in organic solvents. But whatever else you can tell me about the water would be helpful.”

  The technician unscrewed the cap, took a whiff, and blinked. “Whew. I hope you don’t use this stuff with your scotch.”

  Charles hurried back toward his own lab. His mind was pulsing with a confusion of thoughts which flashed in and out of his consciousness with bewildering rapidity.

  He acknowledged that he had no way of rationally solving the dilemma he felt about Michelle’s treatment. Instead he decided to put his own research into high gear in the futile hope that he could accomplish something extraordinary in time for Michelle; and to try to have Recycle, Ltd. closed down. Revenge was a powerful emotion, and its presence dulled the anxiety about Michelle. By the time he reached the door to his lab, Charles found himself with clenched fists. But he hesitated, remembering his vow that morning to use his intelligence rather than his unreliable emotions. Composing himself, he calmly opened the door.

  Ellen, who’d been busy reading the Canceran protocol at Charles’s desk, slowly put the book down. There was a studied deliberateness to her movements, which bothered Charles even in his distracted state.

  “Did the entire batch of mice get the mammary cancer antigen?” he demanded.

  “They did,” answered Ellen. “But . . .”

  “Good,” interrupted Charles, going up to their small blackboard. He picked up a piece of chalk and after erasing what was already on the board, he began diagramming the method they would use to assay the T-lymphocyte responses in the injected mice in order to chart their immunological response. When he finished, the small board was filled with an elaborate progression of steps. “Also,” said Charles, putting down the chalk, “we’re going to try something different. It’s not meant to be scientific. Its purpose is to provide a kind of rapid survey. I want to make a large number of dilutions of the cancer antigen and begin a single mouse with each dilution. I know it will have no statistical significance. It’s a shotgun survey, but it might be helpful. Now, while you check yesterday’s mice and inject them with a second challenge of the cancer antigen, I’m going to make some calls.” Charles wiped the chalk dust on his trousers, reaching for the phone.

  “Can I say something now?” queried Ellen, cocking her head to the si
de with an I-told-you-so expression.

  “Of course,” said Charles, holding the receiver.

  “I checked the mice who got the first dose of Canceran.” She paused.

  “Yeah?” said Charles, wondering what was coming.

  “Almost all of them died last night.”

  Charles’s face clouded with disbelief. “What happened?” He put down the receiver.

  “I don’t know,” admitted Ellen. “There’s no explanation except for the Canceran.”

  “Did you check the dilution?”

  “I did,” said Ellen. “It was very accurate.”

  “Any sign that they died from an infectious agent?”

  “No,” said Ellen. “I had the vet take a look. He hasn’t autopsied any but he thinks they died of cardiac insult.”

  “Drug toxicity!” said Charles, shaking his head.

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Where’s the original Canceran protocol?” asked Charles with mounting concern.

  “Right there on your desk. I was glancing through it when you came in.”

  Charles picked up the volume and flipped through the toxicity section. Then he reached for the preliminary protocol they’d made up the day before. He scanned the figures. When he finished, he tossed the new protocol and the original onto his desk.

  “That fucking bastard,” snarled Charles.

  “It has to be the explanation,” agreed Ellen.

  “Brighton must have falsified the toxicity data, too. Holy shit, that means the whole Canceran study that Brighton has spent two years on is no good. Canceran must be much more toxic than Brighton reported. What a joke! Do you know how much the National Cancer Institute has paid so far for testing this drug?”

  “No, but I can guess.”

  “Millions and millions!” Charles slapped his forehead.

  “What are we going to do?”

  “We? What are they going to do! The whole project has to be started over, which means an additional three years!”

  Charles could feel his vow to maintain an impassioned distance dissolve. To finish the efficacy study was one thing, but starting the whole Canceran project from scratch was something else. He would not do it, especially since now with Michelle ill he had to increase the pace of his own work.

  “I have a feeling they’ll still want us to do Canceran,” said Ellen.

  “Well I don’t give a damn,” snapped Charles. “We’re finished with Canceran. If Morrison and Ibanez give us trouble, we’ll slap them in the face with the proof that the toxicity study isn’t worth the paper it’s printed on. We’ll threaten to tell the press. With that kind of scandal, I think even the National Cancer Institute might question where it’s putting its money.”

  “I don’t think it’s going to be that easy,” said Ellen. “I think we should . . .”

  “That’s enough, Ellen!” yelled Charles. “I want you to start testing for antibodies in our first batch of mice, then reinject them. I’ll handle the administration in respect to Canceran.”

  Ellen angrily turned her back. As usual, Charles had gone too far. She began her work, making as much noise with the glassware and instruments as she could.

  The phone rang under Charles’s arm. He picked it up on the first ring. It was the technician down in analysis.

  “You want a preliminary report?” asked the chemist.

  “Please,” snapped Charles.

  “The major contaminant is benzene and it’s loaded with it. But also there’s lesser amounts of toluene, as well as some trichloroethylene and carbon tetrachloride. Vile stuff! You could practically clean your oil-base paintbrushes in it. I’ll have a full report later this afternoon.”

  Charles thanked the man and hung up. The report was no surprise, but he was glad to have the documented proof. Involuntarily the image of Michelle appeared before him, and he forcibly blurred it by grabbing the Boston phone directory off the shelf over his desk. He hurried to the section for the Federal Government, finding a series of numbers for the Environmental Protection Agency. He dialed the general information number. A recording answered saying that the EPA was open from nine to five. It was not yet nine.

  Charles then flipped to the section for the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. He wanted to find the incidence of leukemia and lymphoma along the course of the Pawtomack River. But there was no listing for a Tumor or Cancer Registry. Instead his eye caught the words “Vital Statistics.” He called that number but got the identical recording he’d gotten calling the EPA. Checking the time, Charles realized that he had about twenty minutes before the bureaucratic offices would be open.

  He went over to Ellen and began helping her set up to analyze whether any of the mice they’d injected with the mammary cancer antigen showed any signs of increased immunological activity. Ellen was obviously not speaking. Charles could tell she was angry and felt that she was taking advantage of their familiarity.

  While he worked Charles allowed himself to fantasize about his latest research approach. What if the mice injected with the mammary cancer antigen responded to the antigen rapidly and the acquired sensitivity could be easily transferred to the cancerous mice via the transfer factor? Then the cancerous mice would cure themselves of that particular strain. It was beautifully simple . . . maybe too simple, thought Charles. If only it would work. If only he could speed up the whole process for Michelle . . .

  The next time Charles looked up, it was well after nine. Leaving Ellen in her sullen mood, Charles went back to his desk and called the EPA General Information number. This time it was answered by a woman with a bored Boston accent.

  Charles introduced himself and said he wanted to report serious dumping of poisonous material into a river.

  The woman was not impressed. She put Charles on hold.

  Another woman picked up, who sounded so similar to the first that Charles was surprised when she asked him to repeat his request.

  “You’ve got the wrong extension,” said the woman. “This is the Water Programs Division and we don’t handle dumping. You want the Toxic Chemicals Program. Just a minute.”

  Charles was again put on hold. There was a click followed by a dial tone. Charles dropped the receiver and grabbed the phone directory. Checking under the EPA he found the listing for Toxic Chemical Program and dialed it.

  An identical voice answered. Charles wondered if they cloned people at the EPA. Charles repeated his request but was told that the Toxic Chemical Program had nothing to do with infractions and that he should call the number for Oil and Hazardous Material Spills. She gave it to him and hung up before he could reply.

  He redialed, punching the numbers so hard that the tip of his middle finger tingled in protest.

  Another woman! Charles repeated his request without trying to hide his annoyance.

  “When did the spill take place?” asked the woman.

  “This is continuous dumping, not a one-time accident.”

  “I’m sorry,” said the woman. “We only handle spills.”

  “Can I speak to your supervisor?” growled Charles.

  “Just a minute,” sighed the woman.

  Charles waited impatiently, rubbing his face with his hands. He was perspiring.

  “Can I help you?” asked still another woman coming on the line.

  “I certainly hope so,” said Charles. “I’m calling to report that there is a factory regularly dumping benzene which is a poison.”

  “Well, we don’t handle that,” interrupted the woman. “You’ll have to call the proper state agency.”

  “What?” yelled Charles. “What the hell does the EPA do then?”

  “We are a regulatory agency,” said the woman calmly, “tasked to regulate the environment.”

  “I would think that dumping a poison into a river would be something that would concern you.”

  “It very well could be,” agreed the woman, “but only after the state had looked into it. Do you want the number for the proper state agency?”


  “Give it to me,” said Charles wearily. As he hung up he caught Ellen staring at him. He glared and she went back to work.

  Charles waited for the dial tone, then dialed again.

  “Okay,” said the woman after hearing his problem. “What river are you talking about?”

  “The Pawtomack,” said Charles. “My God, am I finally talking to the right people?”

  “Yes, you are,” reassured the woman. “And where is the factory you think is dumping?”

  “The factory is in Shaftesbury,” said Charles.

  “Shaftesbury?” questioned the woman. “That’s in New Hampshire, isn’t it?”

  “That’s right but . . .”

  “Well, we don’t handle New Hampshire.”

  “But the river is mostly in Massachusetts.”

  “That might be,” said the woman, “but the origin is in New Hampshire. You’ll have to talk to them.”

  “Give me strength,” muttered Charles.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Do you have their number?”

  “No. You’ll have to get it through Information.”

  The line went dead.

  Charles called New Hampshire information and obtained the number to State Services. There was no listing for Water Pollution Control, but after calling the main number, Charles got the extension he wanted. Thinking that he was beginning to sound like a recording, he repeated his request once again.

  “Do you want to report this anonymously?” asked the woman.

  Surprised by the question, Charles took a moment to respond. “No. I’m Dr. Charles Martel, R.D. #1, Shaftesbury.”

  “All right,” said the woman slowly, as if she were writing the material down. “Where does the alleged dumping occur?”

  “In Shaftesbury. A company called Recycle, Ltd. They’re discarding benzene in the Pawtomack.”

  “Okay,” said the woman. “Thank you very much.”

  “Wait a minute,” called Charles. “What are you going to do?”

  “I’ll turn this over to one of our engineers,” said the woman. “And he’ll look into it.”