FEVER
BY
ROBIN COOK
 

 1982
 

 

 

 

 

To the joy of my family it began with my parents, now shared with my wife.
PROLOGUE
The poisonous molecules of benzene arrived in the bone marrow in a crescendo. The foreign chemical surged with the blood and was carried between the narrow spicules of supporting bone into the farthest reaches of the delicate tissue. It was like a frenzied horde of barbarians descending into Rome. And the result was equally as disastrous. The complicated nature of the marrow, designed to make most of the cellular content of the blood, succumbed to the invaders.

Every cell exposed to the benzene was assaulted. The nature of the chemical was such that it knifed through the cell membranes like steel through butter. Red cells or white, young or mature, it made no difference. Within some lucky cells where only a few molecules of benzene entered, enzymes were able to inactivate the chemical. In most others the destruction of the interior membranes was immediate.

Within minutes the concentration of the benzene had soared to the point that thousands of the poisonous molecules had reached the very heart of the marrow, the primitive, finely structured stem cells. These were the actively dividing units, serving as the source of the circulating blood cells, and their activity bore witness to hundreds of millions of years of evolution. Here, being played out moment by moment, was the incredible mystery of life, an organization more fantastic than the wildest scientific dream. The benzene molecules indiscriminately penetrated these busily reproducing cells, interrupting the orderly replication of the DNA molecules. Most of these cells either halted the life processes in a sudden agonal heave or, having been released from the mysterious central control, tumbled off in frenzied undirected activity like rabid animals until death intervened.

After the benzene molecules had been washed away by repeated surges of clean blood, the marrow could have recovered except for one stem cell. This cell had been busy for years turning out an impressive progeny of white blood cells whose function, ironically enough, was to help the body fight against foreign invaders. When the benzene penetrated this cells nucleus, it damaged a very specific part of the DNA but did not kill the cell. It would have been better if the cell had died because the benzene destroyed the fine balance between reproduction and maturation. The cell instantly divided and the resulting daughter cells had the same defect. No longer did they listen to the mysterious central control and mature into normal white blood cells. Instead they responded to an unfettered urge to reproduce their altered selves. Although they appeared to be relatively normal within the marrow, they were different from other young white blood cells. The usual surface stickiness was absent, and they absorbed nutrients at an alarmingly selfish rate. They had become parasites within their own house.

After only twenty divisions there were over one million of these lawless cells. By twenty-seven divisions there were over one billion; they then began to break free from the mass. First a trickle of sick cells entered the circulation, then a steady stream, finally a flood. These cells charged out into the body eager to establish fertile colonies. By forty divisions they numbered over a trillion.

It was the beginning of an aggressive, acute myeloblastic leukemia in the body of a pubescent girl, starting December 28, two days after her twelfth birthday. Her name was Michelle Martel and she had no idea except for a single symptom: she had a fever!

ONE
A cold January morning tentatively fingered its way over the frigid landscape of Shaftesbury, New Hampshire. Reluctantly the shadows began to pale as the winter sky slowly lightened, revealing a featureless gray cloud cover. It was going to snow and despite the cold, there was a damp sting to the air; a sharp reminder that off to the east lay the Atlantic.

The red brick buildings of old Shaftesbury huddled along the Pawtomack River like a ghost town. The river had been the support, the lifeblood of the town; it sprang from the snow-laden White Mountains in the north and ran to the sea in the southeast. As the river coursed past the town, its smooth flow was interrupted by a crumbling dam and a large waterwheel that no longer turned. Lining the riverbanks were block after block of empty factories, reminders of a more prosperous age when New England mills were the center of the textile industry. At the extreme southern end of town, at the foot of Main Street, the last brick mill building was occupied by a chemical operation called Recycle, Ltd., a rubber, plastic, and vinyl recycling plant. A wisp of acrid, gray smoke rose from a large phallic smokestack and merged with the clouds. Over the whole area hung a foul, choking odor of burnt rubber and plastic. Surrounding the building were enormous piles of discarded rubber tires, like the droppings of a gigantic monster.

South of the town the river ran through rolling, wooded hills, interspersed by snow-covered meadows and bordered by fieldstone fences erected by settlers three hundred years before. Six miles south of the town the river took a lazy curve to the east and formed an idyllic six-acre peninsula of land. In the center was a shallow pond connected to the river by an inlet. Behind the pond rose a hill capped by a white-framed Victorian farmhouse with gabled roofs and gingerbread trim. A long winding driveway bordered with oaks and sugar maples led down to the Interstate 301 heading south toward Massachusetts. Twenty-five yards north of the house was a weather-beaten barn nestled in a copse of evergreens. Built on piles at the edge of the pond was a miniature copy of the main house; it was a shed turned playhouse.

It was a beautiful New England landscape, like a January calendar scene, except for a slight macabre detail: there were no fish in the pond and no encircling vegetation within six feet.

Inside the picturesque white house, the pale morning light diffused through lace curtains. By degrees the gathering dawn gently nudged Charles Martel from the depths of a satisfying sleep. He rolled over onto his left side, enjoying a contentment hed been afraid to acknowledge for the past two years. There was a sense of order and security in his life now; Charles had never expected to experience this again after his first wife had been diagnosed with lymphoma. She had died nine years ago, leaving Charles with three children to raise. Life had become something to endure.

But that was now in the past, and the awful wound had slowly healed. And then to Charless surprise, even the void had been filled. Two years ago he had remarried, but he still was afraid to admit how much his life had changed for the better. It was safer and easier to concentrate on his work and the day-to-day necessities of family life than to acknowledge his newly regained contentment and thereby admit to the ultimate vulnerability, happiness. But Cathryn, his new wife, made this denial difficult because she was a joyous and giving person. Charles had fallen in love with her the day he met her and had married her five months later. The last two years had only increased his affection for her.

As the darkness receded, Charles could see the placid profile of his sleeping wife. She was on her back with her right arm casually draped on the pillow above her head. She looked much younger than her thirty-two years, a fact that initially had emphasized the thirteen years difference in their ages. Charles was forty-five and he acknowledged that he looked it. But Cathryn looked like twenty-five. Resting on his elbow, Charles stared at her delicate features. He traced the frame of her provocative widows peak, down the length of the soft brown hair to her shoulder. Her face, lit by the early morning light, seemed radiant to Charles and his eyes followed the slightly curved line of her nose, noticing the flare of her nostrils as she breathed. Watching her he felt a reflex stirring deep within him.

He looked over at the clock; another twenty minutes before the alarm. Thankfully he lowered himself back into the warm nest made by the down coverlet and spooned against his wife, marveling at his sense of well-being. He even looked forward to his days at the institute. Work was progressing at an ever-increasing pace. He felt a twinge of excitement. What if he, Charles Martel, the boy from Teaneck, New Jersey, made the first real step in unraveling the mystery of cancer? Charles knew that it was becoming increasingly possible, and the irony was that he was not a formally trained research scientist. Hed been an internist specializing in allergy when Elizabeth, his first wife, had become ill. After she died he gave up his lucrative practice to become a full-time researcher at the Weinburger Research Institute. It had been a reaction against her death, and although some of his colleagues had told him that a career change was an unhealthy way to work out such a problem, he had flourished in the new environment.

Cathryn, sensing her husband was awake, turned over and found herself in an enveloping hug. Wiping the sleep from her eyes, she looked at Charles and laughed. He looked so uncharacteristically impish.

Whats going on in that little mind of yours? she asked, smiling.

Ive just been watching you.

Wonderful! Im sure I look my best, said Cathryn.

You look devastating, teased Charles, pushing her thick hair back from her forehead.

Cathryn, now more awake, realized the urgency of his arousal. Running her hand down her husbands body, she encountered an erect penis. And what is this? she asked.

I accept no responsibility, said Charles. That part of my anatomy has a mind of its own.

Our Polish Pope says a man should not lust after his wife.

I havent been. Ive been thinking about work, Charles teased.

As the first snowflakes settled on the gabled roofs, they came together with a depth of passion and tenderness that never failed to overwhelm Charles. Then the alarm went off. The day began.

 

 

Michelle could hear Cathryn calling from far away, interrupting her dream; she and her father were crossing a field. Michelle tried to ignore the call but it came again. She felt a hand on her shoulder, and when she turned over, she looked up into Cathryns smiling face.

Time to get up, her stepmother said brightly.

Michelle took a deep breath and nodded her head, acknowledging that she was awake. Shed had a bad night, full of disturbing dreams which left her soaked with perspiration. Shed felt hot beneath the covers and cold out of them. Several times during the night she thought about going in to Charles. She would have if her father had been alone.

My goodness, you look flushed, said Cathryn, as she opened the drapes. She reached down and touched Michelles forehead. It felt hot.

I think you have a fever again, said Cathryn sympathetically. Do you feel sick?

No, said Michelle quickly. She didnt want to be sick again. She did not want to stay home from school. She wanted to get up and make the orange juice, which had always been her job.

Wed better take your temperature anyway, said Cathryn, going into the connecting bath. She reappeared, alternately flicking and examining the thermometer. It will only take a minute, then well know for sure. She stuck the thermometer into Michelles mouth. Under the tongue. Ill be back after I get the boys up.

The door closed and Michelle pulled the thermometer from her mouth. Even in that short a time, the mercury had risen to ninety-nine. She had a fever and she knew it. Her legs ached and there was a tenderness in the pit of her stomach. She put the thermometer back into her mouth. From where she lay she could look out the window and see her playhouse that Charles had made out of an ice shed. The roof was covered with new-fallen snow and she shivered at the cold scene. She longed for spring and those lazy days that she spent in that fantasy house. Just she and her father.

 

 

When the door opened, Jean Paul, age fifteen, was already awake, propped up in bed with his physics book. Behind his head the small clock radio played a soft rock and roll. He was wearing dark red flannel pajamas with blue piping, a Christmas gift from Cathryn.

Youve got twenty minutes, Cathryn said cheerfully.

Thanks, Mom, said Jean Paul with a smile.

Cathryn paused, looking down at the boy, and her heart melted. She felt like rushing in and swooping him into her arms. But she resisted the temptation. Shed learned that all the Martels were somewhat chary about direct physical contact, a fact that initially had been a little hard for her to deal with. Cathryn came from Bostons Italian North End where touching and hugging was a constant. Although her father had been Latvian, hed left when Cathryn was twelve, and Cathryn had grown up without his influence. She felt 100 percent Italian. See you at breakfast, she said.

Jean Paul knew that Cathryn loved to hear him call her Mom and gladly obliged. It was such a low price to pay for the warmth and attention that she showered on him. Jean Paul had been conditioned by a very busy father and seen himself eclipsed by his older brother, Chuck, and his irresistible baby sister, Michelle. Then came Cathryn, and the excitement of the marriage, followed by Cathryns legal adoption of Chuck, Jean Paul, and Michelle. Jean Paul would have called her grandmother if she wanted. He thought he loved Cathryn as much as his real mother; at least what he could remember of her. Hed been six when she died.

Chucks eyes blinked open at the first touch of Cathryns hand but he pretended sleep, keeping his head under his pillow. He knew that if he waited shed touch him again, only a little more forcibly. And he was right, only this time he felt two hands shake his shoulder before the pillow was lifted. Chuck was eighteen years old and in the middle of his first year at Northeastern University. He wasnt doing that well and he dreaded his upcoming semester finals. It was going to be a disaster. At least for everything but psychology.

Fifteen minutes, said Cathryn. She tousled his long hair. Your father wants to get to the lab early.

Shit, said Chuck under his breath.

Charles, Jr.! said Cathryn, pretending to be shocked.

Im not getting up. Chuck grabbed the pillow from Cathryns hands and buried himself.

Oh, yes you are, said Cathryn, as she yanked the covers back.

Chucks body, clad only in his undershorts, was exposed to the morning chill. He leaped up, pulling the blankets around him. I told you never to do that, he snapped.

And I told you to leave your locker-room language in the locker room, said Cathryn, ignoring the nastiness in Chucks voice. Fifteen minutes!

Cathryn spun on her heel and walked out. Chucks face flushed in frustration. He watched her go down the hall to Michelles room. She was wearing an antique silk nightgown that shed bought at a flea market. It was a deep peach color, not too different from her skin. With very little difficulty, Chuck could imagine Cathryn naked. She wasnt old enough to be his mother.

He reached out, hooked his hand around the edge of his door, and slammed it. Just because his father liked to get to his lab before eight, Chuck had to get up at the crack of dawn like some goddamn farmer. The big deal scientist! Chuck rubbed his face and noticed the open book at his beside. Crime and Punishment. Hed spent most of the previous evening reading it. It wasnt for any of his courses, which was probably why he was enjoying it. He should have studied chemistry because he was in danger of flunking. God, what would Charles say if he did! There had already been a huge blowup when Chuck had not been able to get into Charless alma mater, Harvard. Now if he flunked chemistry . . . Chemistry had been Charless major.

I dont want to be a goddamn doctor anyway, Chuck snapped, as he stood up and pulled on dirty Levis. He was proud of the fact that theyd never been washed. In the bathroom he decided not to shave. He thought maybe hed grow a beard.

 

 

Clad in a terrycloth lava-lava, which, unfortunately, emphasized the fifteen pounds hed gained in the last ten years, Charles lathered his chin. He was trying to sort through the myriad facts associated with his current research project. The immunology of living forms involved a complexity which never failed to amaze and exhilarate him, especially now that he thought he was coming very close to some real answers about cancer. Charles had been excited before and wrong before. He knew that. But now his ideas were based on years of painstaking experimentation and supported by easily reproducible facts.

Charles began to chart the schedule for the day. He wanted to start work with the new HR7 strain of mice that carried hereditary mammary cancer. He hoped to make the animals allergic to their own tumors, a goal which Charles felt was coming closer and closer.

Cathryn opened the door and pushed past him. Pulling her gown over her head, she slipped into the shower. The water and steam billowed the shower curtain. After a moment she pulled back the curtain and called to Charles.

I think Ive got to take Michelle to see a real doctor, she said before disappearing back behind the curtain.

Charles paused in his shaving, trying not to be annoyed by her sarcastic reference to a real doctor. It was a sensitive issue between them.

I really thought that marrying a doctor would at least guarantee good medical attention for my family, shouted Cathryn over the din of the shower. Was I wrong!

Charles busied himself, examining his half-shaved face, noticing in the process that his eyelids were a little puffy. He was trying to avoid a fight. The fact that the familys medical problems spontaneously solved themselves within twenty-four hours was lost on Cathryn. Her newly awakened mother instincts demanded specialists for every sniffle, ache, or bout of diarrhea.

Michelle still feeling lousy? asked Charles. It was better to talk about specifics.

I shouldnt have to tell you. The childs been feeling sick for some time.

With exasperation, Charles reached out and pulled back the edge of the shower curtain. Cathryn, Im a cancer researcher, not a pediatrician.

Oh, excuse me, said Cathryn, lifting her face to the water. I thought you were a doctor.

Im not going to let you bait me into an argument, said Charles testily. The flu has been going around. Michelle has a touch of it. People feel lousy for a week and then its over.

Pulling her head from beneath the shower, Cathryn looked directly at Charles. The point is, shes been feeling lousy for four weeks.

Four weeks? he asked. Time had a way of dissolving in the face of his work.

Four weeks, repeated Cathryn. I dont think Im panicking at the first sign of a cold. I think Id better take Michelle into Pediatric Hospital and see Dr. Wiley. Besides, I can visit the Schonhauser boy.

All right, Ill take a look at Michelle, agreed Charles, turning back to the sink. Four weeks was a long time to have the flu. Perhaps Cathryn was exaggerating, but he knew better than to question. In fact, it was better to change the subject. Whats wrong with the Schonhauser boy? The Schonhausers were neighbors who lived about a mile up the river. Henry Schonhauser was a chemist at M.I.T. and one of the few people with whom Charles enjoyed socializing. The Schonhauser boy, Tad, was a year older than Michelle, but because of the way their birthdays fell, they were in the same class.

Cathryn stepped out of the shower, pleased that her tactic to get Charles to look at Michelle had worked so perfectly. Tads been in the hospital for three weeks. I hear hes very sick but I havent spoken with Marge since he went in.

Whats the diagnosis? Charles poised the razor below his left sideburn.

Something Ive never heard of before. Elastic anemia or something, said Cathryn, toweling herself off.

Aplastic anemia? asked Charles with disbelief.

Something like that.

My God, said Charles, leaning on the sink. Thats awful.

What is it? Cathryn experienced a reflex jolt of panic.

Its a disease where the bone marrow stops producing blood cells.

Is it serious?

Its always serious and often fatal.

Cathryns arms hung limply at her sides, her wet hair like an unwrung mop. She could feel a mixture of sympathy and fear. Is it catching?

No, said Charles absently. He was trying to remember what he knew of the affliction. It was not a common illness.

Michelle and Tad have spent quite a bit of time together, said Cathryn. Her voice was hesitant.

Charles looked at her, realizing that she was pleading for reassurance. Wait a minute. Youre not thinking that Michelle might have aplastic anemia, are you?

Could she?

No. My God, youre like a med student. You hear of a new disease and five minutes later either you or the kids have it. Aplastic anemia is as rare as hell. Its usually associated with some drug or chemical. Its either a poisoning or an allergic reaction. Although most of the time the actual cause is never found. Anyway, its not catching; but that poor kid.

And to think I havent even called Marge, said Cathryn. She leaned forward and looked at her face in the mirror. She tried to imagine the emotional strain Marge was under and decided shed better go back to making lists like she did before getting married. There was no excuse for such thoughtlessness.

Charles shaved the left side of his face wondering if aplastic anemia was the kind of disease he should look into. Could it possibly shed some clue on the organization of life? Where was the control that shut the marrow down? That was a cogent question because, after all, it was the control issue which Charles felt was key to understanding cancer.

 

 

With the knuckle of his first finger, Charles knocked softly on Michelles door. Listening, he heard only the sound of the shower coming from the connecting bathroom. Quietly he opened the door. Michelle was lying in bed, facing away from him. Abruptly she turned over and their eyes met. A line of tears which sparkled in the morning light ran down her flushed cheeks. Charless heart melted.

Sitting on the edge of her eyelet-covered bed, he bent down and kissed her forehead. With his lips he could tell she had a fever. Straightening up, Charles looked at his little girl. He could so easily see Elizabeth, his first wife, in Michelles face. There was the same thick, black hair, the same high cheekbones and full lips, the same flawless olive skin. From Charles, Michelle had inherited intensely blue eyes, straight white teeth, and unfortunately a somewhat wide nose. Charles believed she was the most beautiful twelve-year-old in the world.

With the back of his hand he wiped the wetness from her cheeks.

Im sorry, Daddy, said Michelle through her tears.

What do you mean, sorry? asked Charles softly.

Im sorry Im sick again. I dont like to be a bother.

Charles hugged her. She felt fragile in his arms. Youre not a bother. I dont want to even hear you say such a thing. Let me look at you.

Embarrassed by her tears, Michelle kept her face averted as Charles pulled away to examine her. He cradled her chin in the palm of his hand and lifted her face to his. Tell me how you feel. What is bothering you?

I just feel a little weak, thats all. I can go to school. Really I can.

Sore throat?

A little. Not much. Cathryn said I couldnt go to school.

Anything else? Headache?

A little but its better.

Ears?

Fine.

Stomach?

Maybe a little sore.

Charles depressed Michelles lower lids. The conjunctiva was pale. In fact, her whole face was pale. Let me see your tongue. Charles realized how long it had been since hed done clinical medicine. Michelle stuck out her tongue and watched her fathers eyes for the slightest sign of concern. Charles felt under the angle of her jaw and she pulled her tongue back in. Tender? asked Charles as his fingers felt some small lymph nodes.

No, said Michelle.

Charles had her sit on the edge of the bed, facing away from him, and he began to draw up her nightgown. Jean Pauls head came into the room from the connecting bathroom to tell her the shower was free.

Get out of here, yelled Michelle. Dad, tell Jean Paul to get out.

Out! said Charles. Jean Paul disappeared. He could be heard laughing with Chuck.

Charles percussed Michelles back somewhat clumsily but well enough to be convinced that her lungs were clear. Then he had her lie back on her bed, and he drew her nightgown up to just below her nascent breasts. Her thin abdomen rose and fell rhythmically. She was thin enough for him to see the recoil of her heart after each beat. With his right hand, Charles began to palpate her abdomen. Try to relax. If I hurt you, just say so.

Michelle attempted to remain still but she squirmed beneath Charless cold hand. Then it hurt.

Where? asked Charles. Michelle pointed and Charles felt very carefully, determining that Michelles abdomen was tender at the midline. Putting his fingers just beneath the right ribs he asked her to breathe in. When she did, he could feel the blunt edge of her liver pass under his fingers. She said that hurt a little. Then with his left hand under her for support, he felt for her spleen. To his surprise he had no trouble palpating it. Hed always had trouble with that maneuver when he was in practice and he wondered if Michelles spleen wasnt enlarged.

Standing up, he looked at Michelle. She seemed thin, but shed always been slender. Charles started to run his hand down her legs to feel the muscle tone, then stopped, noticing a series of bruises. Whered you get all these black-and-blue marks?

Michelle shrugged.

Do your legs bother you?

A little. Mostly my knees and ankles after gym. But I dont have to go to gym if I have a note.

Straightening up again, Charles surveyed his daughter. She was pale, had minor aches and pains, a few lymph nodes, and a fever. That could be just about any minor viral illness. But four weeks! Maybe Cathryn was right. Maybe she should be seen by a real doctor.

Please, Dad, said Michelle. I cant miss any more school if Im going to be a research doctor like you.

Charles smiled. Michelle had always been a precocious child and this indirect flattery was a good example. Missing a few days of school in the sixth grade is not going to hurt your career, said Charles. Cathryn is going to take you to Pediatric Hospital today to see Dr. Wiley.

Hes a baby doctor! said Michelle defiantly.

Hes a pediatrician and he sees patients up to eighteen, smarty pants.

I want you to take me.

I cant, dear. Ive got to go to the lab. Why dont you get dressed and come down for some breakfast?

Im not hungry.

Michelle, dont be difficult.

Im not being difficult. Im just not hungry.

Then come down for some juice. Charles lightly pinched Michelles cheek.

Michelle watched her father leave her room. Her tears welled up anew. She felt horrid and did not want to go to the hospital but worst of all, she felt lonely. She wanted her father to love her more than anything in the world and she knew that Charles was impatient when any of the kids got sick. She struggled up to a sitting position and braced herself against a wave of dizziness.

 

 

My God, Chuck, said Charles with disgust. You look like a pig.

Chuck ignored his father. He got some cold cereal, poured milk over it, then sat down to eat. The rule for breakfast was that everyone fended for themselves, except for the orange juice which Michelle usually made. Cathryn had made it this morning.

Chuck was wearing a stained sweater and dirty jeans, which he wore so long that he walked on the frayed bottoms. His hair was uncombed and the fact that he hadnt shaved was painfully apparent.

Do you really have to be so sloppy? continued Charles. I thought that the hippie look was pass now and that college kids were becoming respectable again.

Youre right. Hippie is out, said Jean Paul, coming into the kitchen and pouring orange juice. Punk is in now.

Punk? questioned Charles. Is Chuck punk?

No, laughed Jean Paul. Chuck is just Chuck.

Chuck looked up from his cereal box to mouth some obscenities at his younger brother. Jean Paul ignored him and opened his physics book. It occurred to him that his father never noticed what he wore. It was always Chuck.

Really, Chuck, Charles was saying. Do you honestly feel you have to look that bad? Chuck ignored the question. Charles watched the boy eat with growing exasperation. Chuck, Im speaking to you.

Cathryn reached over and put her hand on Charless arm. Lets not get into this discussion at breakfast. You know how college kids are. Leave him be.

I think I at least deserve an answer, persisted Charles.

Taking in a deep breath and blowing it out noisily through his nose to punctuate his annoyance, Chuck looked into his fathers face. Im not a doctor, he said. I dont have to adhere to a dress code.

The eyes of the father and the older son met. Chuck said to himself: Take that, you smart-ass son-of-a-bitch, just because you got good grades in chemistry you think you know everything, but you dont. Charles examined the face of this son of his, marveling how much arrogance the boy could manufacture with so little basis. He was intelligent enough but hopelessly lazy. His performance in high school had been such that Harvard had rejected him, and Charles had a feeling that he wasnt doing well at Northeastern. Charles wondered where he, as a father, might have gone wrong. But such musing was made difficult by the personality of Jean Paul. Charles glanced at his other son: neat, easygoing, studious. It was hard to believe that both boys had sprung from the same genetic pool and grown up together. Charless attention returned to Chuck. The boys defiance had not altered, but Charles felt his interest in the issue wane. He had more important things to think about.

I hope, said Charles evenly, your appearance and your grades have nothing in common. I trust you are doing all right at college. We havent heard much about that.

Im doing all right, said Chuck, finally dropping his eyes back to his cereal. Standing up to his father was something new for Chuck. Before hed gone to college, he had avoided any confrontation. Now he looked forward to it. Chuck was sure that Cathryn noticed and approved. After all, Charles was a tyrant with Cathryn as well.

If Im going to drive the station wagon into Boston, Im going to need some extra cash, said Cathryn, hoping to change the subject. And speaking of money, the oil people called and said they wont deliver until the account is settled.

Remind me tonight, said Charles quickly. He didnt want to discuss money.

Also my semester tuition has never been paid, said Chuck.

Cathryn looked up from her food and glanced at Charles, hoping he would refute Chucks allegation. Semester tuition amounted to a lot of money.

I got a note yesterday, said Chuck, saying that the tuition was way overdue and that I wouldnt get credits for my courses if it werent paid.

But the money was taken out of the account, said Cathryn.

I used the money in the lab, explained Charles.

What? Cathryn was aghast.

Well get it back. I needed a new strain of mice and there was no more grant money until March.

You bought rats with Chucks tuition money? asked Cathryn.

Mice, corrected Charles.

With a delicious sense of voyeurism Chuck watched the discussion unfold. Hed been getting notes from the bursar for months, but hed not brought them home, hoping for a time when he could bring it up without his performance being at issue. It couldnt have worked out better.

Thats just wonderful, said Cathryn. And how do you expect we are to eat from now until March after Chucks bill is paid?

Ill take care of it, Charles snapped. His defensiveness was coming out as anger.

I think maybe I should get a job, said Cathryn. Do they need extra typing at the institute?

For Christs sake. Its not a crisis! said Charles. Everythings under control. What you should do is finish that Ph.D. thesis of yours so that you can get a job that uses your training. Cathryn had been trying to finish her thesis in literature for almost three years.

So now its because I havent gotten my Ph.D. that Chucks tuition isnt paid, said Cathryn sarcastically.

Michelle stepped into the kitchen. Both Cathryn and Charles looked up, their conversation momentarily forgotten. Shed dressed herself in a pink monogrammed sweater over a white cotton turtleneck, making her look older than her twelve years. Her face, framed by her jet-black hair, seemed extraordinarily pale. She went over to the counter and poured herself some orange juice. Ugh, said Michelle, taking a taste. I hate it when the juice is filled with bubbles.

Well, well, said Jean Paul. If it isnt the little princess playing sick to stay home from school.

Dont tease your sister, commanded Charles.

Suddenly, Michelles head snapped forward with a violent sneeze, sloshing juice from her glass to the floor. She felt a surge of liquid come from her nose and she automatically leaned forward, catching the stream in an open palm. To her horror, it was blood. Dad! she cried, as the blood filled her cupped hand and splattered to the floor.

In unison, Charles and Cathryn jumped up. Cathryn snatched a dish towel while Charles picked Michelle up and carried her into the living room.

The two boys looked at the small pool of blood, then at their food, trying to decide what effect the episode had on their appetites. Cathryn came running back, pulled a tray of ice cubes from the freezer, then rushed back to the living room.

Ugh, said Chuck. You couldnt get me to be a doctor if you paid me a million dollars. I cant stand blood.

Michelle always manages to be the center of attention, said Jean Paul.

You can say that again.

Michelle always manages to . . . repeated Jean Paul. It was easy and fun to ride Chuck.

Shut up, stupid. Chuck got up and threw the remains of his Grape-Nuts down the disposal. Then, skirting the blood on the floor, he headed up to his room.

After four mouthfuls, Jean Paul finished his cereal and put his dish in the sink. With a paper towel, he wiped up Michelles blood.

 

 

Good gravy, said Charles as he went outside through the kitchen door. The storm had brought a northeast wind, and with it the stench of burnt rubber from the recycling plant. What a stink.

What a shit hole of a place to live, said Chuck.

Charless frayed emotions bristled at the impudence, but he refrained from saying anything. It had already been a bad enough morning. Setting his jaw, he tucked his chin into his sheepskin jacket to keep out the blowing snow and trudged toward the barn.

As soon as I can, Im going to head for California, said Chuck, following in Charless footsteps. There was about an inch of new snow.

Dressed the way you are, youll fit in perfectly, said Charles.

Jean Paul, bringing up the rear, laughed, his breath coming in concentrated puffs of vapor. Chuck spun and shoved Jean Paul off the shoveled pathway, into the deeper snow. There were some angry words but Charles ignored them. It was too cold to pause. The little gusts of wind felt abrasive and the smell was awful. It hadnt always been that way. The rubber plant had opened in 71, a year after he and Elizabeth had bought the house. The move had really been Elizabeths idea. She wanted her children to grow up in clear, crisp air of the country. What an irony, thought Charles, as he unlocked the barn. But it wasnt too bad. They could only smell the plant when the wind came from the northeast and, thankfully, that wasnt very often.

Damn, said Jean Paul, staring down at the pond. With this new snow, Im going to have to shovel my hockey rink all over again. Hey, Dad, how come the water never freezes around Michelles playhouse?

Leaving the piece of pipe against the door to keep it open, Charles looked out over the pond. I dont know. I never thought about it. Must be something to do with the current because the area of open water connects with the inlet from the river, and the inlet isnt frozen either.

Ugh, said Chuck, pointing beyond the playhouse. There on the apron of frozen mud surrounding the pond was a dead mallard. Another dead duck. I guess they cant stand the smell, either.

Thats strange, said Charles. We havent seen ducks for several years. When we first moved here I used to hunt them from Michelles playhouse. Then they disappeared.

Theres another one, cried Jean Paul. But hes not dead. Its flopping around.

Looks drunk, said Chuck.

Come on, lets go help it.

We havent much time, cautioned Charles.

Oh, come on. Jean Paul took off over the crusted snow.

Neither Charles nor Chuck shared Jean Pauls enthusiasm, but they followed just the same. When they reached him, he was bending over the poor creature who was in the throes of a seizure.

God, its got epilepsy! said Chuck.

Whats wrong with him, Dad? asked Jean Paul.

I havent the faintest idea. Avian medicine is not one of my strongest subjects.

Jean Paul bent down to try to restrain the birds pitiful spasms and jerks.

Im not sure you should touch it, said Charles. I dont know if psittacosis is carried by ducks.

I think we should just kill it and put it out of its misery, said Chuck.

Charles glanced at his older son, whose eyes were glued to the sick bird. For some reason Chucks suggestion struck Charles as cruel even though it was probably correct.

Can I put it in the barn for the day? pleaded Jean Paul.

Ill get my air rifle and put it out of its misery, said Chuck. It was his turn to get back at Jean Paul.

No! commanded Jean Paul. Can I put it in the barn, Dad? Please?

All right, said Charles, but dont touch it. Run up and get a box or something.

Jean Paul took off like a rabbit. Charles and Chuck faced each other over the sick bird. Dont you feel any compassion? asked Charles.

Compassion? Youre asking me about compassion after what you do to all those animals in the lab? What a joke!

Charles studied his son. He thought he saw more than disrespect. He thought he saw hatred. Chuck had been a mystery to Charles from the day he reached puberty. With some difficulty he suppressed the urge to slap the boy.

With his usual resourcefulness, Jean Paul had found a large cardboard box as well as an old pillow. Hed cut open the pillow and filled the box with the feathers. Using the collapsed pillow as a protective rag, he picked up the duck and put it into the box. As he explained it to Charles, the feathers would both protect the duck from injuring himself if he had another seizure and keep it warm. Charles nodded his approval and they all climbed into the car.

The five-year-old red, rusted Pinto complained as Charles turned the key. Because of a series of holes in the muffler the Pinto sounded like an AMX tank when it finally started. Charles backed out of the garage, slid down the drive, and turned north on Interstate 301, heading toward Shaftesbury. As the old car picked up speed, Charles felt relief. Family life could never be made to run smoothly. At least in the lab the variables had a comforting predictability and problems lent themselves to the scientific method. Charles was growing less and less appreciative of human capriciousness.

All right! he shouted. No music! He switched off the radio. The two boys had been fighting over which station to hear. A little quiet contemplation is a good way to begin the day.

The brothers looked at each other and rolled their eyes.

Their route took them along the Pawtomack River and they got glimpses of the water as it snaked its way through the countryside. The closer they got to Shaftesbury, the more intense the stench became from Recycle, Ltd. The first view of the town was the factorys smokestack spewing its black plume into the air. A harsh whistle shattered the silence as they came abreast of the plant, signaling a changing of shift.

Once past the chemical plant the odor disappeared as if by magic. The abandoned mills loomed on their left as they proceeded up Main Street. Not a person was in sight. It was like a ghost town at six forty-five in the morning. Three rusting steel bridges spanned the river, additional relics of the progressive era before the great war. There was even a covered bridge but no one used that. It was totally unsafe and kept up just for the tourists. The fact that no tourists ever came to Shaftesbury hadnt dawned on the town fathers.

Jean Paul got out at the regional high school at the northern end of town. His eagerness to start his day was apparent in the rapid way he said good-bye. Even at that hour a group of his friends were waiting, and they entered the school together. Jean Paul was on the J.V. basketball team and they had to practice before classes. Charles watched his younger son disappear, then pulled the car out into the street heading toward I-93 and the trip into Boston. They didnt hit traffic until they were in Massachusetts.

For Charles, driving had a hypnotic effect. Usually his mind trailed off into the complexities of antigens and antibodies, protein structure and formation while he operated the car by some lower, more primitive parts of his brain. But today he began to find himself sensitive to Chucks habitual silence, then irritated by it. Charles tried to imagine what was on his older sons mind. But try as he could, he realized he had absolutely no idea. Snatching quick looks at the bored, expressionless face, he wondered if Chuck thought about girls. Charles realized that he didnt even know if Chuck dated.

How is school going? asked Charles as casually as possible.

Fine! said Chuck, immediately on guard.

Another silence.

You know what youre going to major in?

Nah. Not yet.

You must have some idea. Dont you have to start planning next years schedule?

Not for a while.

Well, what course do you enjoy the most this year?

Psychology, I guess. Chuck looked out the passenger window. He didnt want to talk about school. Sooner or later theyd get around to chemistry.

Not psychology, said Charles, shaking his head.

Chuck looked at his fathers cleanly shaven face, his broad but well-defined nose, his condescending way of speaking with his head tilted slightly back. He was always so sure of himself, quick to make judgments, and Chuck could hear the derision in his fathers voice as he pronounced the word psychology. Chuck worked up his courage and asked: Whats wrong with psychology? This was one area in which Chuck was convinced his father was not an expert.

Psychology is a waste of time, said Charles. Its based on a fundamentally false principle, stimulus-response. Thats just not how the brain works. The brain is not a blank tabula rasa, its a dynamic system, generating ideas and even emotions often irrespective of the environment. You know what I mean?

Yeah! Chuck looked away. He had no idea what his father was talking about, but as usual it sounded good. And it was easier to agree, which is what he did for the next fifteen minutes while Charles maintained an impassioned monologue about the defects of the behavioral approach to psychology.

How about coming over to the lab this afternoon? said Charles after an interval of silence. My work has been going fabulously, and I think Im close to a breakthrough of sorts. Id like to share it with you.

I cant today, said Chuck quickly. The last thing he wanted was to be shepherded around the institute where everyone kowtowed to Charles, the famous scientist. It always made him feel uncomfortable, especially since he didnt understand a thing that Charles was doing. His fathers explanations always started so far above Chucks head that he was in constant terror of a question which could reveal the depths of his ignorance.

You can come at any time at all, at your convenience, Chuck. Charles had always wished he could share his enthusiasm for his research with Chuck, but Chuck had never shown any interest. Charles had thought that if the boy could see science in action, hed be irresistibly drawn to it.

No. I got a lab and then some meetings.

Too bad, said Charles. Maybe tomorrow.

Yeah, maybe tomorrow, said Chuck.

Chuck got out of the car on Huntington Avenue and, after a perfunctory good-bye, walked away in the wet Boston snow. Charles watched him go. He looked like some late-sixties caricature, out of place even among his peers. The other students seemed brighter, more attentive to their appearance, and almost invariably in groups. Chuck walked by himself. Charles wondered if Chuck had been the most severely hurt by Elizabeths illness and death. Hed hoped that Cathryns presence would have helped, but ever since the wedding, Chuck had become more withdrawn and distant. Putting the car in gear, Charles headed across the Fenway toward Cambridge.

TWO
Crossing the Charles River via the Boston University Bridge, he began to plan his day. It was infinitely easier to deal with the complications of intracellular life than the uncertainties of child rearing. At Memorial Drive Charles turned right, then after a short distance, left into the parking area of the Weinburger Research Institute. His spirits began to rise.

As he got out of his car, he noticed a significant number of cars already there, which was unusual at that time of the morning; even the directors blue Mercedes was in its spot. Mindless of the weather, Charles stood for a moment puzzling over all the cars, then started toward the institute. It was a modern four-storied, brick-and-glass structure, somewhat akin to the nearby Hyatt Hotel but without the pyramid profile. The site was directly on the Charles River and nestled between Harvard and M.I.T., and directly across from the campus of Boston University. No wonder the institute had no trouble locating recruits.

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.

Im 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 youre going to take over the study? shouted a woman grabbing onto Charless coat pocket.

I dont 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. Elizabeths 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, Charless laboratory assistant for the last six years, jumped. Shed 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 Charless invariable arrival at seven forty-five. By eight Charles liked to be into the days work, especially now that things were going so well.

If I slammed the door like that, Id 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 hed hired her, Charles got some jealous kidding from his colleagues, but in truth, Charles had not appreciated her exotic beauty until hed 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.

Im sorry if I scared you, said Charles, hanging up his coat. Theres 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?

Dont tell me you havent 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. Its been the in-house gossip for at least a week.

If I didnt know you better, Id think you were trying to hurt my feelings. If you dont want to tell me, dont. In fact, from your tone of voice, Im beginning to think Id rather not know.

Well, its 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 its 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. Hed disapproved of all the publicity Dr. Thomas Brighton had garnered, but when hed voiced his opinion hed 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! Its worse. In research you can end up hurting many more people.

I wouldnt 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. Were not all supermen like you.

Dont give me any of that psychology bullshit, said Charles. He was surprised at the malice implied in Ellens comment.

Okay, I wont. But a little human generosity would do you good, Charles Martel. You dont give a damn about other peoples feelings. All you do is take. Ellens 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 hadnt 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 theyd had just before hed 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 Elizabeths 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.

Im sorry if I sounded angry, said Charles. I didnt mean to. I got carried away.

And Im sorry I said what I did, said Ellen, her voice still reflecting deeply felt emotion.

Charles wasnt convinced. He wanted to ask Ellen if she really thought he was insensitive, but he didnt have the nerve.

By the way, added Ellen. Dr. Morrison wants to see you as soon as possible. He called before you arrived.

Morrison can wait, said Charles. Lets get things going here.

 

 

Cathryn was irritated at Charles. She wasnt the kind of person who tried to suppress such feelings; besides, she felt justified. In light of Michelles nosebleed, he could have altered his sacred schedule and taken Michelle to Pediatric Hospital himself. After all, he was the doctor. Cathryn had horrible visions of Michelles nose bleeding all over the car. Could she bleed to death? Cathryn wasnt sure, but the possibility seemed real enough to terrify her. Cathryn hated anything associated with disease, blood, and hospitals. Why such things bothered her she wasnt sure, although a bad experience at age ten with a complicated case of appendicitis probably contributed. Theyd had trouble making the diagnosis, first at the doctors office, then at the hospital. Even to that day she vividly remembered the white tiles and the antiseptic smell. But the worst had been the ordeal of the vaginal exam. No one tried to explain anything. They just held her down. Charles knew all this, but he had still insisted on getting to the lab on schedule and letting Cathryn accompany Michelle.

Deciding there was a certain safety in numbers, Cathryn sat down at the kitchen phone to call Marge Schonhauser to see if she wanted a ride into Boston. If Tad was still in the hospital there was a good chance she would. The phone was picked up on the second ring. It was Nancy, the Schonhausers sixteen-year-old daughter.

My mothers already at the hospital.

Well, I just thought Id try, said Cathryn. Ill see if I can tell her while Im there. But if I dont get her, tell her I called.

Sure, said Nancy. I know shed be glad to hear from you.

Hows Tad doing? asked Cathryn. Is he coming home soon?

Hes awfully sick, Mrs. Martel. He had to have a marrow transplant. They tested all us kids and little Lisa was the only one who matched. Hes living in a tent to protect him from germs.

Im terribly sorry to hear that, said Cathryn. She could feel a little of her strength drain away. She had no idea what a marrow transplant was, but it sounded serious and scary. She said good-bye to Nancy and hung up the phone. For a moment she sat thinking, dreading the emotional aspect of the confrontation with Merge, feeling the guilt of not having called sooner. Tads illness made her own fears about Michelles nosebleed seem petty by comparison. Taking a deep breath, Cathryn went into the living room.

Michelle was watching the Today show, propped up on the couch. After some orange juice and rest, she felt considerably better, but she was still upset. Although Charles had not said it, she was certain he was disappointed in her. The nosebleed had been the final aggravation.

I called Dr. Wileys office, said Cathryn as brightly as she could, and the nurse said we should come as soon as possible. Otherwise we might have a long wait. So lets get the show on the road.

I feel much better, said Michelle. She forced a smile but her lips trembled.

Good, said Cathryn. But you stay still. Ill get your coat and stuff. Cathryn started for the stairs.

Cathryn, I think Im all right now. I think I can go to school. As if to substantiate her opinion, Michelle swung her legs to the floor and stood up. Her smile wavered through a flurry of weakness.

Cathryn turned and looked at her adopted daughter, feeling a rush of affection for his little girl whom Charles loved so dearly. Cathryn had no idea why Michelle would want to deny her illness unless she was afraid of the hospital like Cathryn was. She walked over and put her arms around the child, hugging her close. You dont have to be afraid, Michelle.

Im not afraid, said Michelle, resisting Cathryns embrace.

Youre not? asked Cathryn, more to have something to say. She was always taken by surprise to have her affection refused. Cathryn smiled self-consciously, her hands still resting on Michelles shoulders.

I think I should go to school. I dont have to take gym if you give me a note.

Michelle. You havent been feeling right for a month. You had a fever this morning. I think its time we did something.

But I feel fine now, and want to go to school.

Taking her hands off Michelles shoulders, Cathryn examined the defiant face in front of her. In so many ways Michelle remained a mystery. She was such a precise, serious little girl who seemed mature for her age, but for some reason always kept Cathryn at arms length. Cathryn wondered how much of it was due to Michelles losing her mother at age three. Cathryn felt she knew something about growing up with only one parent because of her own fathers abandonment.

I tell you what well do, said Cathryn, debating with herself the best way to handle the problem. Well take your temperature again. If you still have a fever, we go. If you dont, then we wont.

Michelles temperature was 100.8.

An hour and a half later, Cathryn pulled the old Dodge station wagon into the garage at Pediatric Hospital and took a ticket from the machine. Thankfully it had been an uneventful ride. Michelle had spoken very little during the trip, only answering direct questions. To Cathryn she seemed exhausted and her hands lay immobile in her lap like a puppets, waiting to be moved from above.

What are you thinking? asked Cathryn, breaking the silence. There were no parking spaces available and they kept driving from one level to the next.

Nothing, said Michelle without moving.

Cathryn watched Michelle out of the corner of her eye. She wanted so much to get Michelle to let down her guard, to let Cathryns love in.

Dont you like to share your thoughts? persisted Cathryn.

I dont feel good, Cathryn. I feel really bad. I think you are going to have to help me out of the car. Cathryn took one look at Michelles face, and abruptly stopped the car. She reached out and put her arms around the child. The little girl didnt resist. She moved over and put her head on Cathryns breast. Cathryn felt warm tears touch her arm.

Ill be glad to help you, Michelle. Ill help you whenever you need me. I promise.

Cathryn had the feeling that shed finally crossed some undefined threshold. It had taken two and a half years of patience, but it had paid off.

Blaring auto horns brought Cathryn back to the present. She put her car in gear and started forward, pleased that Michelle continued to hold on to her.

Cathryn felt more like a real mother than she ever had before. As they pushed through the revolving door, Michelle acted very weak and allowed Cathryn to help her. In the lobby a request for a wheelchair was promptly filled, and although Michelle initially resisted, she let Cathryn push her.

For Cathryn, the happiness in the new closeness to Michelle helped dull the specter of the hospital. The decor helped, too; the lobby was paved with a warm Mexican tile and the seating was done in bright oranges and yellows. There were even lots of plants. It was more like a luxury hotel than a big city hospital.

The pediatric offices were equally nonthreatening. There were five patients already in Dr. Wileys waiting room. To Michelles disgust, none was over two years of age. She would have complained except she glimpsed the examining rooms through an open door and remembered why she was there. Leaning toward Cathryn she whispered, You dont think Ill get a shot, do you?

I have no idea, said Cathryn. But afterwards if you feel up to it, we can do something fun. Whatever you like.

Could we go visit my father? Michelles eyes brightened.

Sure, said Cathryn. She parked Michelle next to an empty seat, then sat down herself.

A mother and a whimpering five-year-old boy emerged from the examining room. One of the mothers with a tiny baby got up and went in.

Im going to ask the nurse if I can use the phone, said Cathryn. I want to find out where Tad Schonhauser is. Youre okay, arent you?

Im okay, said Michelle. In fact, I feel better again.

Good, said Cathryn as she got up. Michelle watched Cathryns long brown hair bounce on her shoulders as she walked over to the nurse, then dialed the phone. Remembering her father say how much he liked it, Michelle wished hers were the same color. Suddenly she wished she were really old, like twenty, so she could be a doctor and talk to Charles and work in his lab. Charles had said that doctors didnt have to give shots; the nurses do. Michelle hoped she didnt have to get a shot. She hated them.

 

 

Dr. Martel, called Dr. Peter Morrison, standing at the doorway to Charless lab. Didnt you get my message?

Straightening up from loading serum samples into an automatic radioactivity counter, Charles looked at Morrison, administrative head of the department of physiology. The man was leaning on the doorjamb, the fluorescent ceiling light reflecting off the lenses in his narrow tortoiseshell glasses. His face was taut, angry.

Ill be by in ten or fifteen minutes, said Charles. I just have a few more important things to do.

Morrison considered Charless statement for a moment. Ill be waiting in my office. The door closed slowly behind him.

You shouldnt bait him, said Ellen, after Morrison had left. All it can do is cause trouble.

Its good for him, said Charles. It gives him something to think about. For the life of me, I dont know what else he does in that office of his.

Someone has to attend to the administration, said Ellen.

The irony is that he once was a decent researcher, said Charles. Now his entire life is dominated by his ambition to become director, and all he does is push papers, have meetings, go to lunch, and attend benefits.

Those benefits raise money.

I suppose, said Charles. But you dont need a Ph.D. in physiology to do that. I just think it is a waste. If the people donating money at those fund-raisers ever found out how little of it actually gets applied to research, theyd be appalled.

I agree with you there, Ellen replied. But why dont you let me finish loading these samples. You go see Morrison and get it over with because I am going to need you to help draw blood from the rats.

Ten minutes later Charles found himself climbing the metal fire stairs to the second floor. He had no idea why Morrison wanted to see him, although he guessed it was going to be another pep talk, trying to get him to publish a paper for some upcoming meeting. Charles had very different ideas from his colleagues about publication. It had never been his inclination to rush into print. Although research careers often were measured by the number of articles a doctor published, Charless dogged dedication and brilliance had won him a greater respect from his colleagues, many of whom often said that it was men like Charles who made the great scientific discoveries. It was only the administration who complained.

Dr. Morrisons office was in the administrative area on the second floor where the halls were painted a pleasant beige and hung with somber oil paintings of past directors clothed in academic robes. The atmosphere was a world apart from the utilitarian labs on the ground and first floors and gave the impression of a successful law office rather than a nonprofit medical organization. Its opulence never failed to irritate Charles; he knew that the money had come from people believing they were contributing to research.

In this frame of mind, Charles made his way to Morrisons office. Charles was about to enter when he noticed that all the secretaries in the administration area were watching him. There was that same feeling of suppressed excitement that Charles had sensed when he arrived that morning. It was as if everyone were waiting for something to happen.

As Charles went inside, Morrison stood up from his broad mahogany desk and stepped around into the room with his hand outstretched. His earlier irritated demeanor had vanished. By habit Charles shook the hand but was baffled by the gesture. He had nothing in common with this man. Morrison was dressed in a freshly pressed pin-striped suit, starched white shirt, and silk tie; his hand-sewn loafers were professionally shined. Charles was wearing his usual blue oxford shirt, open at the collar, with his tie loosened and tucked between the second and third buttons; his sleeves were rolled up above his elbows. His trousers were baggy khakis and his shoes, scuffed cordovans.

Welcome, said Morrison as if he hadnt already seen Charles that morning. With a sweep of his hand he motioned for Charles to sit on the leather couch in the rear of the office, which afforded a view out over the Charles River. Coffee? Morrison smiled, showing very small, very white, even teeth.

Charles declined, sat back on the couch, and folded his arms. Something strange was going on and his curiosity was piqued.

Have you seen the New York Times today? asked Morrison.

Charles shook his head negatively.

Morrison walked over to his desk, picked up the paper, and directed Charless attention to an article on the front page. His gold identification bracelet slid out from beneath his shirt sleeve as he pointed. SCANDAL AT THE WEINBURGER CANCER INSTITUTE.

Charles read the first paragraph, which paraphrased what Ellen had already told him. That was enough.

Terrible, eh? intoned Morrison.

Charles nodded half-felt agreement. Although he knew that such an incident would have a negative effect on fund-raising for a time, he also felt that it would take some of the unearned emphasis away from this new drug, Canceran, and hopefully return it to more promising areas. He felt that the answer to cancer lay in immunology, not chemotherapy, although he recognized the increasing numbers of cures achieved in recent years.

Dr. Brighton should have known better, said Morrison. Hes just too young, too impatient.

Charles waited for Morrison to get to the point.

Were going to have to let Dr. Brighton go, said Morrison.

Charles nodded as Morrison launched into his explanation of Brightons behavior. Charles looked at Morrisons shining bald head. The little hair he had was located above his ears, connected in the back by a carefully combed swath.

Just a minute, interrupted Charles. This is all very interesting, but I do have an important experiment in progress downstairs. Is there something specific you wanted to tell me?

Of course, said Morrison, adjusting his cuff. His voice took on a more serious note and he brought the tips of his fingers together, forming a steeple. The board of directors of the institute anticipated the New York Times article and had an emergency meeting last night. We decided that if we didnt act quickly the real victim of the Brighton affair would be the new and promising drug, Canceran. I assume you can understand this concern?

Of course, said Charles, but on the horizon of Charless mind, a black cloud began to form.

It was also decided that the only way to salvage the project was for the institute to publicly support the drug by appointing its most prestigious scientist to complete the tests. And Im happy to say, Charles Martel, that you were chosen.

Charles closed his eyes and slapped a hand over his forehead. He wanted to storm out of the office, but he contained himself. Slowly he reopened his eyes. Morrisons thin lips were pulled into a smile. Charles could not tell if the man knew what his reaction was and was, therefore, teasing him, or if Morrison genuinely thought that he was conveying good news.

I cant tell you how pleased I am, continued Morrison, that the board of directors picked someone from my department. Not that Im surprised, mind you. We all have been working tirelessly for the Weinburger. Its just nice to get this kind of recognition once in a while. And, of course, you were my choice.

Well, began Charles in as steady a voice as he could manage. I hope you convey to the board of directors my thanks for this vote of confidence, but unfortunately Im not in a position to take over the Canceran project. You see, my own work is progressing extremely well. They will have to find someone else.

I hope youre joking, said Morrison. His smile waned, then vanished.

Not at all. With the progress Im making, there is no way I can leave my current work. My assistant and I have been extremely successful and the pace is increasing.

But you have not published a single paper for several years. Thats hardly a rapid pace. Besides, funding for your work has come almost totally from the general operating funds of the institute; you have not been responsible for any major outside grants to the institute for a long, long time. I know thats because you have insisted on remaining in the immunological field of cancer research and until now I have backed you all the way. But now your services are needed. As soon as you finish the Canceran project, you can go back to your own work. Its as simple as that. Morrison stood up and walked back behind his desk to signify that as far as he was concerned the meeting was over, the matter decided.

But I cant leave my work, said Charles, feeling a sense of desperation. Not now. Things are going too well. What about my development of the process of the hybridoma? That should count for something.

Ah, the hybridoma, said Morrison. A wonderful piece of work. Who would have thought that a sensitized lymphocyte could be fused with a cancer cell to make a kind of cellular antibody factory. Brilliant! There are only two problems. One: it was many years ago; and two: you failed to publish the discovery! We should have been able to capitalize on it. Instead, another institution got the credit. I wouldnt count on the hybridoma development to ensure your position with the board of directors.

I didnt stop to publish the hybridoma process because it was just a single step in my experiment protocol. Ive never been eager to rush into print.

We all know that. In fact, its probably the major reason youre where you are and not a department head.

I dont want to be a department head, yelled Charles, beginning to lose his patience. I want to do research, not push around papers and go to benefits.

I suppose thats meant as a personal insult, said Morrison.

You can take it as you will, said Charles, who had abandoned his efforts at controlling his anger. He stood up, approached Morrisons desk, and pointed an accusing finger at the man. Ill tell you the biggest reason I cant take over the Canceran project. I dont believe in it!

What the hell does that mean? Morrisons patience had also worn thin.

It means that cellular poisons like Canceran are not the ultimate answer to cancer. The presumption is that they kill cancer cells faster than normal cells so that after the malignancy is stopped the patient will still have enough normal cells to live. But thats only an interim approach. A real cure for cancer can only come from a better understanding of the cellular processes of life, particularly the chemical communication between cells.

Charles began to pace the room, nervously running his fingers through his hair. Morrison, by contrast, didnt move. He just followed Charless gyrations with his eyes.

I tell you, shouted Charles, the whole attack on cancer is coming from the wrong perspective. Cancer cannot be considered a disease like an infection because it encourages the misconception that there will be a magic bullet cure like an antibiotic. Charles stopped pacing and leaned over the desk toward Morrison. His voice was quieter, but more impassioned. Ive been giving this a lot of thought, Dr. Morrison. Cancer is not a disease in the traditional sense, but an unmasking of a more primitive life-form, like those that existed at the beginning of time when multicellular organisms were evolving. Think of it. At one time, eons ago, there were only single-celled creatures who selfishly ignored each other. But then, after a few million years, some of them teamed up because it was more efficient. They communicated chemically and this communication made multicellular organisms like us possible. Why does a liver cell only do what a liver cell does, or a heart cell, or a brain cell? The answer is chemical communication. But cancer cells are not responsive to this chemical communication. They have broken free, gone back to a more primitive stage, like those single-cell organisms that existed millions of years ago. Cancer is not a disease but rather a clue to the basic organization of life. And immunology is the study of this communication.

Charles ended his monologue leaning forward on his hands over Morrisons desk. There was an awkward silence. Morrison cleared his throat, pulled out his leather desk chair, and sat down.

Very interesting, he said. Unfortunately, we are not in a metaphysical business. And I must remind you that the immunological aspect of cancer has been worked on for more than a decade and contributed very little to the prolongation of the cancer victims life.

Thats the point, interrupted Charles. Immunology will give a cure, not just palliation.

Please, said Morrison softly. I listened to you, now listen to me. There is very little money available for immunology at the present time. Thats a fact. The Canceran project carries a huge grant from both the National Cancer Institute as well as the American Cancer Society. The Weinburger needs that money.

Charles tried to interrupt, but Morrison cut him off. Charles slumped back into a chair. He could feel the weight of the institutes bureaucracy surround him like a giant octopus.

Morrison ritually removed his glasses and placed them on his blotter. You are a superb scientist, Charles. We all know that, and thats why we need you at this moment. But youre also a maverick and in that sense more tolerated than appreciated. You have enemies here, perhaps motivated by jealousy, perhaps by your self-righteousness. I have defended you in the past. But there are those who would just as soon see you go. Im telling you this for your own good. At the meeting last night I mentioned that you might refuse taking over the Canceran project. It was decided that if you did, your position here would be terminated. It will be easy enough to get someone to take your place on a project like this.

Terminated! The word echoed painfully in Charless mind. He tried to collect his thoughts.

Can I say something now? asked Charles.

Of course, said Morrison, tell me that youre going to take over the Canceran project. Thats what I want to hear.

Ive been very busy downstairs, said Charles, ignoring Morrisons last comment, and Im moving very rapidly. I have been purposefully secretive but I believe that I am truly close to understanding cancer and possibly a cure.

Morrison studied Charless face, trying to garner a hint as to his sincerity. Was this a trick? A delusion of grandeur? Morrison looked at Charless bright blue eyes, his high lined forehead. He knew all about Charless past, his wifes death, his sudden move from clinical medicine into research. He knew that Charles was a brilliant worker, but a loner. He suspected that Charless idea of truly close might well constitute ten years.

A cure for cancer, said Morrison, not bothering to smooth the sarcastic edge to his voice. He kept his eyes on Charless face. Wouldnt that be nice. Wed all be very proud. But . . . it will have to wait until the Canceran study is done. Lesley Pharmaceuticals, who holds the patent, is eager to get production rolling. Now, Dr. Martel, if youll excuse me, I have work to do. The matter is closed. The Canceran lab books are available, so get cracking. Good luck. If you have any problems let me know.

Charles stumbled out of Morrisons office in a daze, crushed at the prospect of being forced away from his own research at such a critical time. Aware of the quizzical stare from Morrisons prim secretary, Charles half ran to the fire stairs, banging open the door. He descended slowly, his mind reeling. Never in his life had anyone ever threatened to fire him. Although he felt confident he could get a job, the idea of being cast adrift even for a short time was devastating, especially with all his ongoing financial obligations. When he had given up his private practice, Charles had given up his status as moderately well-to-do. On his research salary, they barely made it, especially with Chuck in college.

Reaching the first floor, Charles turned down the hall, toward his lab. He needed some time to think.

THREE
It was their turn. A nurse who looked like she stepped out of a 1950s Doris Day movie called out Michelles name and held the door open. Michelle gripped her stepmothers hand as they entered the inner office. Cathryn wasnt sure which one of them was more tense.

Dr. Wiley looked up from a chart, peering over half glasses. Cathryn had never met Dr. Jordan Wiley, but all the children knew him. Michelle had told Cathryn that she remembered coming to him for the chicken pox four years ago when she was eight. Cathryn was immediately taken by the attractiveness of the man. He was in his late fifties and exuded that comfortably paternal air that people traditionally associate with doctors. He was a tall individual with closely cropped graying hair and a bushy gray mustache. He wore a small, hand-tied red bow tie which gave him a unique, energetic look. His hands were large but gentle as he placed the chart on his desk and leaned forward.

My, my, said Dr. Wiley. Miss Martel, you have become a lady. You look very beautiful, a little pale, but beautiful. Now introduce me to your new mother.

Shes not my new mother, said Michelle indignantly. Shes been my mother for over two years.

Both Cathryn and Dr. Wiley laughed and after a moments indecision, Michelle joined them, although she was not sure she got the joke.

Please, sit down, said Dr. Wiley, motioning to the chairs facing his desk. As a consummate clinician, Dr. Wiley had started the examination the moment Michelle had entered his office. Besides her pallor, hed noticed the girls tentative gait, her slumped posture, the glazed look to her blue eyes. Spreading open her chart, which hed reviewed earlier, he picked up a pen. Now then, what seems to be the trouble?

Cathryn described Michelles illness with Michelle adding comments here and there. Cathryn said that it had started gradually with fever and general malaise. Theyd thought shed had the flu, but it would not go away. Some mornings shed be fine; others shed feel terrible. Cathryn concluded by saying that shed decided it would be best to have Michelle checked in case she needed some antibiotics or something.

Very well, said Dr. Wiley. Now Id like some time alone with Michelle. If you dont mind, Mrs. Martel. He came around from behind his desk and opened the door to the waiting room.

Momentarily nonplussed, Cathryn got to her feet. She had expected to stay with Michelle.

Dr. Wiley smiled warmly and, as if reading her mind, said, Michelle will be fine with me; were old friends.

Giving Michelles shoulder a little squeeze, Cathryn started for the waiting room. At the door she paused. How long will you be? Do I have time to visit a patient?

I think so, said Dr. Wiley. Well be about thirty minutes or so.

Ill be back before that, Michelle, called Cathryn. Michelle waved and the door closed.

Armed with some directions from the nurse, Cathryn retraced her steps back to the main lobby. It wasnt until she entered the elevator that her old fear of hospitals returned. Staring at a sad little girl in a wheelchair, Cathryn realized that pediatric hospitals were particularly unnerving. The concept of a sick child made her feel weak. She tried to concentrate on the floor indicator above the doors, but a powerful, incomprehensible urge drew her eyes back to the sick child. When the doors opened on the fifth floor and she stepped off, her legs felt rubbery and her palms were sweaty.

Cathryn was heading for the Marshall Memorial isolation unit, but the fifth floor also contained the general intensive care unit and the surgical recovery room. In her emotionally sensitive state, Cathryn was subjected to all the sights and sounds associated with acute medical crisis. The beep of the cardiac monitors mixed with the cries of terrified children. Everywhere there was a profusion of tubes, bottles, and hissing machines. It was an alien world populated with a bustling staff who seemed, to Cathryn, to be unreasonably detached from the horror around them. The fact that these children were being helped in the long run was lost on Cathryn.

Pausing to catch her breath in a narrow hallway lined with windows, Cathryn realized that she was crossing from one building to another within the medical center. The hall was a peaceful bridge. She was alone for a moment until a man in a wheelchair with DISPATCHER written across the back motored past her. Glass test tubes and jars filled with all sorts of body fluid samples jangled in a metal rack. He smiled, and Cathryn smiled back. She felt better. Fortified, she continued on.

The Marshall Memorial isolation unit was easier for Cathryn to deal with. All the doors to the rooms were closed and there were no patients to be seen. Cathryn approached the nurses station which seemed more like a ticket counter at a modern airport than the nerve center for a hospital ward. It was a large square area with a bank of TV monitors. A clerk looked up and cheerfully asked if he could help her.

Im looking for the Schonhauser boy, said Cathryn.

Five twenty-one, said the clerk pointing.

Cathryn thanked him and walked over to the closed door. She knocked softly. Just go right in, called the clerk. But dont forget your gown.

Cathryn tried the door. It opened and she found herself in a small anteroom with shelving for linen and other supplies, a medicine locker, a sink, and a large soiled-laundry hamper. Beyond the hamper was another closed door containing a small glass window. Before Cathryn could move, the inner door opened and a gowned, masked figure stepped into the room. With rapid movements the individual discarded the paper mask and hood in the trash. It was a young nurse with red hair and freckles.

Hi, she said. The gloves went into the trash, the gown into the hamper. You going in to see Tad?

I was hoping to, said Cathryn. Is Mrs. Schonhauser in there, too?

Yup, shes here every day, poor woman. Dont forget your gown. Very strict reverse precautions.

I . . . started Cathryn, but the harried nurse was already through the door.

Cathryn searched through the shelves until she found the hoods and the masks. She put them on, feeling ridiculous. The gown was next but she put it on like a coat. The rubber gloves were more difficult and she never got the left one all the way on. With the half-empty fingers dangling from her hand, she opened the inner door.

The first thing she saw was a large plastic enclosure like a cage surrounding the bed. Although the plastic fragmented the image, Cathryn was able to make out Tad Schonhausers form. In the raw fluorescent light the boy was a pale, slightly greenish color. There was a low hiss of oxygen. Marge Schonhauser was seated to the left of the bed, reading by the window.

Marge, whispered Cathryn.

The masked and gowned woman looked up. Yes? she said.

Its Cathryn.

Cathryn?

Cathryn Martel.

For goodness sake, said Marge when she was able to associate the name. She got up and put her book down. Taking Cathryns hand, she led her back into the anteroom. Before the door closed behind them Cathryn looked back at Tad. The boy had not moved although his eyes were open.

Thank you for coming, said Marge. I really appreciate it.

How is he? asked Cathryn. The strange room, the gowning . . . it wasnt encouraging.

Very bad, said Marge. She pulled off her mask. Her face was drawn and tense; her eyes red and swollen. He had a marrow transplant twice from Lisa but it hasnt worked. Not at all.

I spoke to Nancy this morning, said Cathryn. I had no idea he was this sick. Cathryn could sense the emotion within Marge. It was just beneath the surface like a volcano, ready to erupt.

Id never even heard of aplastic anemia, said Marge, trying to laugh. But the tears came instead. Cathryn found herself crying in sympathy, and the two women stood there for several minutes weeping on each others shoulder. Finally Marge sighed, pulled back slightly, and looked at Cathryns face. Oh, it is good of you to come. You dont know how much I appreciate it. One of the difficult things about serious illness is that people ignore you.

But I had no idea, repeated Cathryn remorsefully.

Im not blaming you, said Marge. I just mean people in general. I suppose they just dont know what to say or maybe they are afraid of the unknown, but it happens when you need people the most.

Im terribly sorry, said Cathryn, at a loss for something to say. She wished shed called weeks ago. Marge was older than she, closer to Charless age. But they got along well, and Marge had been gracious and helpful when Cathryn had first come to Shaftesbury. The other New Englanders had been very cold.

I dont mean to take it out on you, said Marge, but I feel so upset. The doctors told me this morning that Tad might be terminal. Theyre trying to prepare me. I dont want him to suffer, but I dont want him to die.

Cathryn was stunned. Terminal? Die? These were words that referred to old people, not to a young boy who just a few weeks ago was in their kitchen bursting with life and energy. With difficulty she resisted an urge to run back downstairs. Instead she hugged Marge.

I just cant help but ask why, sobbed Marge, struggling to control herself and allowing Cathryn to hold her. They say the good Lord has His reasons, but Id like to know why. He was such a good boy. It seems so unfair.

Marshaling her strength, Cathryn began to talk. She hadnt planned what she was going to say. It just came out. She talked about God and death in a way that surprised her because she wasnt religious in the traditional sense. Shed been brought up a Catholic and had even talked briefly of becoming a nun when she was ten. But during college she had rebelled against the ritual of the Church and had become an agnostic of sorts, not bothering to examine her beliefs. Yet she must have made sense because Marge responded; whether it was to the content or just the human companionship, Cathryn didnt know. But Marge calmed down and even managed a weak smile.

Ive got to go, said Cathryn finally. Ive got to meet Michelle. But Ill be back and Ill call tonight, I promise. Marge nodded and kissed Cathryn before going back in with her son. Cathryn stepped out into the hall. She stood by the door breathing rapidly. The hospital had lived up to her fears after all.

 

 

It doesnt seem to me that we have a whole lot of choice, said Ellen as she put her coffee mug on the counter. She was sitting on a laboratory stool, looking down at Charles who was slumped in his chair before his desk. Its a shame to have to slow down on our work at this point, but what can we do? Maybe we should have kept Morrison informed of our progress.

No, said Charles. His elbows were on the desk, his face in his hands, his coffee untouched. If wed done that he would have stopped us a dozen times to write some goddamned paper. Wed be years behind.

Thats the only way this could have been avoided, said Ellen. She reached out and put her hand on Charless arm. Perhaps more than anyone, she realized how difficult this was for him. He detested any interference with his work, particularly an administrative interference. But youre right. If they had known what we were doing, they would have been in here every day. She kept her hand on his arm. It will be all right. Well just slow down a little.

Charles looked up into Ellens eyes, which were so dark that the pupils merged with the irises. He was acutely aware of her hand. Since their affair shed scrupulously avoided touching him. Now in the same morning shed accused him of insensitivity and held his arm: such confusing signals. This Canceran nonsense is going to take some time, he said. Six months to a year, and thats only if everything goes very smoothly.

Why not do Canceran and our own work? said Ellen. We can extend our hours, work nights. Ill be willing to do it for you.

Charles stood up. Work nights? He looked at this woman whom he vaguely remembered sleeping with; it seemed so long ago. Her skin had been that same olive color as Elizabeths and Michelles. Although he had been physically attracted to Ellen, it had never seemed right with her; they were partners, coworkers, colleagues, not lovers. It had been an awkward affair; their lovemaking clumsy, like adolescents. Cathryn wasnt as beautiful as Ellen but from the beginning it was more comfortable, more fulfilling.

Ive got a better idea, said Charles. Why dont I go over Morrisons head to the director and just lay the cards on the table, explain that its infinitely more important for us to stay with our own work.

I cant imagine it will help, cautioned Ellen. Morrison told you the decision came from the board of directors. Dr. Ibanez is not going to reverse that. I think youre just asking for trouble.

And I think its worth the risk. Help me get the lab books together. Ill show him what weve been doing.

Ellen slid off her stool and walked toward the door to the hall.

Ellen? called Charles, surprised by her actions.

She didnt stop. Just do what you want, Charles. You always do anyway. The door closed behind her.

Charless first impulse was to go after her. But the impulse cooled quickly. Hed expected her support. Besides, he had more important things to do than worry about Ellens moods and behavior. Angrily, he put her out of his mind and concentrated on getting the main protocol book from his desk and the most recent data books from the workbench. Rehearsing what he would say, Charles headed back up the fire stairs.

The row of administrative secretaries warily monitored his progress down the hall. The entire group knew that he had been ordered to take over the Canceran study and that he wasnt happy with the idea.

Charles ignored the stares although he felt like a wolf in a chicken coop as he approached Dr. Carlos Ibanezs secretary, Miss Veronica Evans. Befitting her status, her area was separated from the rest of the room with paneled dividers. Shed been at the Weinburger even longer than Ibanez. She was a well-groomed woman of hefty proportions and indeterminate late middle age.

Id like to see the director, said Charles in a no-nonsense voice.

Do you have an appointment? No one intimidated Miss Evans.

Just tell him Im here, said Charles.

Im afraid . . . began Miss Evans.

If you dont tell him Im here, Im going to barge right in. Charless voice was stiffly controlled.

Marshaling one of her famous, disdainful expressions, Miss Evans reluctantly got up and disappeared within the inner office. When she reappeared, she merely held the door ajar and motioned Charles inside.

Ibanezs office was a large, corner room that faced south and east. Besides the Boston University campus, part of the Boston skyline could be seen across the partially frozen Charles River. Ibanez was seated at a monstrous, antique Spanish desk. The view was at his back. Seated in front of the desk was Dr. Thomas Brighton.

Laughing at some conversational point made before Charles arrived, Dr. Carlos Ibanez gestured with the long, thin cigar he was smoking for Charles to take a chair. A halo of gray smoke hung above the directors head like a rain cloud over a tropic island. He was a small man in his early sixties, given to sudden rapid movements, particularly of his hands. His perpetually tanned face was framed by silver hair and a silver goatee. His voice was surprisingly robust.

Charles sat, disturbed by Dr. Brightons presence. On one hand, he was furious with the man, both on professional and personal grounds. On the other, he felt sorry for the doctor, having to face up to a scandal and the sudden dissolution of his life.

Dr. Brighton gave Charles a rapid but unmistakably disdainful glance before turning back to Dr. Ibanez. That single look was enough to undermine Charless empathy. Charles studied Brightons profile. As far as Charles was concerned, he was young: thirty-one years old. And he appeared younger than that: blond and handsome in an effete Ivy League sort of way.

Ah, Charles, said Ibanez with some embarrassment. I was just saying good-bye to Thomas. Its a shame that in his zeal to finish the Canceran project he acted foolishly.

Foolishly, Charles burst out. Criminally would be more accurate. Thomas flushed.

Now, Charles, his motives were of the best. We know he did not mean to embarrass the institute. The real criminal is the person who leaked this information to the press, and we have every intention of finding him and punishing him severely.

And Dr. Brighton? asked Charles as if the man were not in the room. Are you condoning what he did?

Of course not, said Ibanez. But the disgrace he has suffered at the hands of the press seems punishment enough. It will be hard for him to get a job worthy of his talents for the next few years. The Weinburger certainly cant finance his career any longer. In fact, I was just telling him about an internal medical group in Florida in which Im quite sure we can get him a position.

There was an uncomfortable pause.

Well, said Dr. Ibanez, getting to his feet and coming around his desk. Brighton stood up as Dr. Ibanez approached him. Dr. Ibanez put his arm on Brightons shoulder and walked him to the door, ignoring Charles.

Id appreciate any help you can give me, said Brighton.

I hope you understand the reasons behind making you leave the institute so quickly, said Ibanez.

Of course, returned Brighton. Once the press gets onto something like this, they want to suck it dry. Dont worry about me, Im glad to get out of the spotlight for a while.

Closing the door behind Brighton, Ibanez came back to his desk and sat down. His mood had abruptly switched to tired irritation. Actually there are two people Id like to strangle. The person from here who leaked the story and the reporter that wrote it. The press has a habit of blowing things out of proportion and this is a good example. Front page New York Times! Absurd!

It seems to me, said Charles, that youre blaming the wrong people. After all, this is a moral issue, not just an inconvenience.

Dr. Ibanez eyed Charles across the expanse of his desk. Dr. Brighton should not have done what he did, but the moral issue does not bother me as much as the potential damage to the institute and to the drug, Canceran. That would change this from a minor affair to a major catastrophe.

I just dont think that professional integrity is a minor affair, said Charles.

I hope youre not lecturing me, Dr. Martel. Let me tell you something. Dr. Brighton was not motivated by any evil intent. He believed in Canceran and wanted to speed up its availability to the public. His fraud was the result of youthful impatience, which weve all been guilty of in one degree or another. Unfortunately in this case his enthusiasm got out of hand with the result being weve lost a very talented man, a phenomenal money raiser.

Charles moved to the edge of his seat. For him the issue was crystal clear and he was astounded that he and Ibanez could view the event from such fundamentally different perspectives. On the verge of unleashing a diatribe on the difference between right and wrong, Charles was interrupted by Miss Evans.

Dr. Ibanez, called Miss Evans from the doorway. You told me to tell you the moment Mr. Bellman arrived. Hes here.

Send him in! shouted Ibanez, leaping to his feet like a boxer at the sound of the bell.

Jules Bellman, the institutes public relations man, came through the door like a puppy with his tail between his legs. I didnt know about the Times until this morning, he squeaked. I dont know how it happened, but it didnt come from anyone in my office. Unfortunately a great number of people knew.

My assistant said it was the gossip of the institute, said Charles, coming to Bellmans rescue. I think I was the only one who didnt know anything about it.

Ibanez glowered for another moment. Well, I want the leak found. He didnt ask the P.R. man to sit down.

Absolutely, said Bellman, his voice stronger. I already think I know who was responsible.

Oh? said Ibanez, his eyebrows raising.

The animal keeper who reported to you about Brighton originally. I heard that he was pissed that he didnt get a bonus.

Christ! Everybody wants a medal for doing their job, said Ibanez. Keep at it until youre sure. Now we have to talk about the press. Heres how I want you to handle it. Schedule a conference. Acknowledge that errors were found in the Canceran experimental protocol due to a severe time constraint, but dont admit to any fraud. Just say that mistakes were uncovered by the usual supervisory process that the administration routinely follows, and that Dr. Brighton has been granted an unspecified leave of absence. Say that he has been under great pressure to speed the delivery of the drug to the public. Above all, emphasize that Canceran is the most promising anticancer drug to come along in a long time. Then emphasize that the error here was Brightons and that the Weinburger Institute still has full confidence in Canceran. And the way youre going to do this is by announcing that we are putting our most renowned scientist on the project, Dr. Charles Martel.

Dr. Ibanez, began Charles, I . . .

Just a minute, Charles, interrupted Ibanez. Let me get rid of Jules here. Now you think youve got all that, Jules?

Dr. Ibanez, Charles broke in. I really want to say something.

In a minute, Charles. Listen, Jules, I want you to make Charles here sound like Louis Pasteur reincarnated, understand?

You got it, said Bellman excitedly. Now, Dr. Martel. Can you tell me your latest publications.

Goddammit, shouted Charles, slamming his lab books down on Ibanezs desk. This is a ridiculous conversation. You know I havent published anything recently, mostly because I didnt want to take the time. But papers or no papers, Ive been making extraordinary progress. And its all here in these books. Let me show you something.

Charles reached over to open one of the lab books but Dr. Ibanez restrained his arm. Charles, calm down. Youre not on trial here, for Gods sake. Actually its probably better you havent published. Right now interest as well as funding for immunological cancer research has slackened. It probably wouldnt be good for Jules to have to admit youve been working exclusively in this area because the press might suggest you were unqualified to take over Canceran.

Give me strength, groaned Charles to himself through clenched teeth. He stared at Ibanez, breathing heavily. Let me tell you something! The whole medical community is approaching cancer from the wrong perspective. All this work on chemotherapeutic agents like Canceran is only for palliative purposes. A real cure can only come from better understanding of the chemical communication among cells of which the immune system is a direct descendant. Immunology is the answer! Charless voice had built to a crescendo, and the last sentence held the fervor of a religious fanatic.

Bellman looked down and shuffled his feet. Ibanez took a long drag on his cigar, blowing the smoke in a long, thin stream.

Well, said Dr. Ibanez, breaking the embarrassing silence. Thats an interesting point, Charles, but Im afraid not everybody would agree with you. The fact of the matter is that while there is plenty of funding for chemotherapy research, there is very little for immunological studies . . .

Thats because chemotherapy agents like Canceran can be patented whereas immunological processes, for the most part, cannot be, said Charles, impulsively interrupting Dr. Ibanez.

It seems to me, said Ibanez, that the old phrase, dont bite the hand that feeds you, applies here. The cancer community has supported you, Dr. Martel.

And Im thankful, said Charles. Im not a rebel or a revolutionary. Far from it. All I want is to be left alone to do my work. In fact, thats why I came up here in the first place: to tell you that I dont feel capable of taking on the Canceran project.

Nonsense! said Ibanez. Youre more than capable. Obviously the board of directors thinks so.

Im not talking about my intellectual capabilities, snapped Charles. Im talking about my lack of interest. I dont believe in Canceran and the approach to cancer it represents.

Dr. Martel, said Dr. Ibanez slowly, his eyes boring into Charless face. Are you aware that we are in the midst of a crisis? Are you going to sit there and tell me you cannot help because of a lack of interest? What do you think Im running here, a federally endowed college? If we lose the grant for Canceran the whole institute is in financial jeopardy. Youre the only person who is not already working under a National Cancer Institute grant and whose stature in the research community is such that this whole unfortunate brouhaha will be defused when you take over.

But Im at a critical point in my own research, pleaded Charles. I know I havent published and I know that Ive been somewhat secretive. Maybe that was wrong. But Ive been getting results and I think I have made an astounding breakthrough. Its right here. Charles tapped the cover of one of his lab books. Listen, I can take a cancer cell, any cancer cell, and isolate the chemical difference between that cell and a normal cell from the same individual.

In what animals? asked Dr. Ibanez.

Mice, rats, and monkeys, said Charles.

What about humans? asked Dr. Ibanez.

I havent tried it yet, but Im sure it will work. Its worked flawlessly in all the species Ive tried.

Is this chemical difference antigenic in the host animal?

It should be. In all cases the protein seems to be sufficiently different to be antigenic but unfortunately I have not yet been able to sensitize a cancerous animal. There seems to be some kind of blocking mechanism or what I call a blocking factor. And thats where I am in my work, trying to isolate this blocking factor. Once I do, I intend to use the hybridoma technique to make an antibody to the blocking factor. If I can eliminate the blocking factor, Im hoping the animal will then respond immunologically to its tumor.

Whew! whistled Bellman, not sure what to write in his pad.

The most exciting thing, said Charles with enthusiasm, is that it all makes scientific sense. Cancer today is a vestigial aspect of an ancient system whereby organisms could accept new cellular components.

I give up, said Bellman. He closed his pad with a snap.

What you are also saying, Dr. Martel, said Dr. Ibanez, is that you have a long way to go in this work of yours.

Absolutely, said Charles. But the pace has been quickening.

But theres no reason, except your preference, that you couldnt put this work aside for a period of time.

Only that it appears so promising. If it turns out to be as fruitful as I expect, then it would be tragic, if not criminal, not to have it available as soon as possible.

But it is only in your opinion that it appears so promising. I must admit it sounds interesting and I can assure you the Weinburger will support you as it has in the past. But first you are going to have to help the Weinburger. Your own interests must be postponed; you must take over the Canceran project immediately. If you refuse, Dr. Martel, you will have to take your research elsewhere. I want no more discussion. The issue is closed.

For a moment Charles sat there with a blank face reflecting his inner uncertainty. The enthusiasm hed built up in presenting his work had elevated his expectations so that Ibanezs dismissal had a paralyzing effect, especially combined with the threat of being turned out of his lab. The suggestion of being fired was far more terrifying coming from Ibanez than from Morrison. Work and Charless sense of self had been so closely connected that he could not imagine them severed. He gathered up his lab books with an effort.

Youre not the most popular man on the staff, added Ibanez gently, but you can change that now by pitching in. I want you to tell me, Dr. Martel: Are you with us?

Charles nodded his head without looking up, suffering the final indignity of unconditional surrender. He turned and left without uttering another word.

After the door closed, Bellman looked back at Ibanez. What a strange reaction. I hope hes not going to be trouble. That evangelistic attitude scares me to death.

I feel the same way, said Ibanez pensively. Unfortunately hes become a scientific fanatic, and like all fanatics, he can be difficult. Its too bad because hes such a first-rate researcher, maybe our best. But people like that can put us right out of business, especially in this era of reduced funding. I wonder where Charles thinks the money to run this place comes from. If the people down at the National Cancer Institute heard that monologue of his about chemotherapy, theyd throw a fit.

Im going to have to keep the press away from him, said Bellman.

Dr. Ibanez laughed. At least that part will be easy. Charles has never cared for publicity.

You sure hes the best man to take over Canceran? said Bellman.

Hes the only man. No one else is available who has his professional reputation. All he has to do is finish the study.

But if he screws up somehow . . . worried Bellman.

Dont even suggest it, said Ibanez. If he mishandles Canceran at this point, wed have to do something drastic. Otherwise well all be looking for a job.

 

 

Disgusted with himself, Charles dragged his way back down to his lab. For the first time in almost ten years, Charles nostalgically recalled private practice. It wasnt the one-on-one of clinical medicine that he longed for, but rather the autonomy. Charles was accustomed to being in control and until that moment he had not realized how little control he had at the Weinburger.

For the second time in the day, Charles slammed the door to his lab, rattling the glassware on the shelves and terrifying the rats and mice in the animal room. Also for the second time he startled Ellen, who deftly caught a pipette shed knocked off the counter when she spun around. She was about to complain but when she saw Charless face, she remained silent.

In a fit of misdirected rage, Charles slung the heavy lab books at the counter. One hit the floor while the others crashed into a distillation apparatus sending shards of glass all over the room. Ellens hand flew up to protect her face as she stepped back. Still not satisfied, Charles picked up an Erlenmeyer flask and hurled it into the sink. Ellen had never seen Charles like this in all the six years theyd worked together.

If you tell me I told you so, Ill scream, said Charles, flinging himself onto his metal swivel chair.

Dr. Ibanez wouldnt listen? asked Ellen, guardedly.

He listened. He just wouldnt buy, and I caved in like a paper tiger. It was awful.

I dont think you had any choice, said Ellen. So dont be so hard on yourself. Anyway, whats the schedule?

The schedule is that we finish the Canceran efficacy study.

Do we start right away? asked Ellen.

Right away, returned Charles with a tired voice. In fact, why dont you go get the Canceran lab books. I dont want to talk to anyone for a while.

All right, said Ellen softly. She was relieved to have an errand to take her out of the lab for a few minutes. She sensed that Charles needed a little time by himself.

After Ellen left, Charles didnt move and he tried not to think. But his solitude did not last long. The door was thrown open and Morrison stormed into the lab.

Charles swung around and looked up at Morrison, whose veins were standing out on the sides of his forehead like strands of spaghetti. The man was furious.

Ive had just about all I can tolerate, he shouted through blanched lips. Im tired of your lack of respect. What makes you think youre so important that you dont have to follow normal protocol? I shouldnt have to remind you that I am your department head. Youre supposed to go through me when you have questions about administration, not to the director.

Morrison, do me a favor, said Charles, get the hell out of my lab.

Morrisons small eyes became suffused with a pale crimson. Minute beads of perspiration sprung up on his forehead as he spoke: All I can say is that if it werent for our current emergency, Charles, Id see that you were thrown out of the Weinburger today. Lucky for you we cant afford another scandal. But youd better shine on this Canceran project if you have any intentions of staying on staff here.

Without waiting for a response, Morrison stalked out of the lab. Charles was left with the low hum of the refrigerator compressors and the ticks of the automatic radioactivity counter. These were familiar sounds and they had a soothing effect on Charles. Maybe, he thought, the Canceran affair wouldnt be too bad; maybe he could do the study quickly, provided the experimental protocol was decent; maybe Ellen was right and they could do both projects by working some nights.

Suddenly the phone began to ring. He debated answering, hearing it ring three times, then four. On the fifth ring he picked it up.

Hello, said the caller. This is Mrs. Crane from the bursars office at Northeastern University.

Yes, said Charles. It took him a moment to associate the school with Chuck.

Sorry to bother you, said Mrs. Crane. But your son gave us the number. It seems that the $1650 semester tuition is way overdue.

Charles toyed with a small tin of paper clips, wondering what to say. Not being able to pay bills was a new experience.

Mr. Martel, are you there?

Dr. Martel, said Charles, although as soon as he made the correction he felt foolish.

Excuse me, Dr. Martel, said Mrs. Crane, genuinely compunctious. Can we expect the money in the near future?

Of course, said Charles. Ill have a check on its way. Im sorry for the oversight.

Charles hung up. He knew that hed have to get a loan immediately. He hoped to hell that Chuck was doing reasonably well and that he wouldnt major in psychology. He picked up the phone again, but didnt dial. He decided it would save time if he went directly to the bank; besides, he felt like he could use some fresh air and a little time away from the Morrisons and Ibanezes of the world.

FOUR
Flipping the pages of an old issue of Time magazine, Cathryn wrestled with a resurgence of anxiety. At first Dr. Wileys waiting room had been a sanctuary from the horrors of the rest of the hospital, but as time passed uncertainty and foreboding began to reassert themselves. Glancing at her watch she saw that Michelle had been back in the examining area for over an hour. Something must be wrong!

She began to fidget, crossing and uncrossing her legs, checking her watch repeatedly. To her discomfort there was no conversation in the room and almost no movement except for the hands of a woman who was knitting and the erratic gestures of two toddlers playing with blocks. All at once Cathryn realized what was bothering her. Everything was too flat, without emotion. It was like a two-dimensional picture of a three-dimensional scene.

She stood up, unable to sit still for another moment. Excuse me, she said walking over to the nurse. My little girl, Michelle Martel. Do you have any idea how much longer shell be?

The doctor hasnt told us, said the nurse politely. She sat with her back painfully straight so that her substantial buttocks protruded out the back of her chair.

Shes been in there for a long time, said Cathryn, searching for some reassurance.

Dr. Wiley is very complete. Im sure shell be out shortly.

Does he frequently take over an hour? asked Cathryn. She felt superstitiously ambivalent about asking any questions at all, as if the asking would influence the ultimate outcome.

Certainly, said the nurse receptionist. He takes whatever time he needs. He never rushes. Hes that kind of a doctor.

But why does he need all that time, wondered Cathryn as she returned to her seat. The image of Tad with his plastic cell kept returning to Cathryns troubled mind. It was a horrifying shock to realize that children do get serious illnesses. She had believed that it was a rare occurrence that happened to someone elses child, a child one didnt know. But Tad was a neighbor, her daughters friend. Cathryn shuddered.

Picking up yet another magazine, Cathryn glanced at the advertisements; there were smiling, happy people, shining floors, buying new cars. She tried to decide what to fix for dinner but never completed the thought. Why was Michelle taking so long? Two more mothers arrived with pink swathed parcels that were obviously babies. Then came another mother and child: a small boy about two with a huge violaceous rash that covered half his face.

The waiting room was now packed and Cathryn began to have trouble breathing. Getting up to make room for the second mother carrying her infant, Cathryn tried to avoid seeing the two-year-old with the horribly disfiguring rash. Her fears mounted. It had been over an hour and twenty minutes since shed left Michelle. She realized she was trembling.

Once again she approached the nurse and self-consciously stood before her desk until the woman acknowledged her presence.

Can I help you? she said in a painfully courteous manner. Cathryn wanted to reach over and shake this woman whose starched whiteness inflamed Cathryns precarious emotions. She didnt need politeness, she needed warmth and understanding, an ounce of sensitivity.

Do you think it could be possible, asked Cathryn, to find out whats taking so long?

Before the receptionist could respond, the door to her left opened and Dr. Wiley leaned into the room. He searched the waiting area until his eyes found Cathryn. Mrs. Martel, can I speak to you for a moment? His voice was noncommittal and he turned back inside, leaving the door ajar.

Cathryn hurried after him, nervously touching the flowered combs in her hair to be sure they were in place, and closed the door behind her carefully. Wiley had retreated to his desk but had not sat down in the chair. Instead he was half-sitting on the front edge, his arms folded across his chest.

Exquisitely sensitive to every nuance, Cathryn scrutinized Dr. Wileys broad face. His forehead was deeply lined, something Cathryn hadnt noticed on her first encounter. The man didnt smile.

We need your permission for a test, said Dr. Wiley.

Is everything all right? asked Cathryn. She tried to sound normal but her voice was too high.

Everything is under control, said Dr. Wiley. Unfolding his arms, he reached out for a paper on his desk. But we need to do a specific diagnostic test. Im going to need your signature on this form. He handed the paper to Cathryn. She took it, her hand quivering.

Where is Michelle? Cathryns eyes scanned the form. It was written in standard medicalese.

Shes in one of the examining rooms. You can see her if youd like although Id rather go ahead with this test before you do. Its called a bone marrow aspiration.

Bone marrow? Cathryns head shot up. The words evoked the awesome image of Tad Schonhauser in his plastic tent.

Its nothing to be alarmed about, said Dr. Wiley, noticing Cathryns shocked response. Its a simple test, very similar to taking a sample of blood.

Does Michelle have aplastic anemia? blurted Cathryn.

Absolutely not. Dr. Wiley was perplexed at her response. We want to do the test in order to try to make a diagnosis, but I can assure you Michelle does not have aplastic anemia. If you dont mind my asking, what made you ask that?

Just a few minutes ago I visited our neighbors child who has aplastic anemia. When you said bone marrow, it . . . Cathryn struggled to complete her own sentence.

I understand, said Dr. Wiley. Dont worry. I can assure you that aplastic anemia is not a possibility here. But we still want to do the test . . . just to be complete.

Do you think I should call Charles? asked Cathryn. She was relieved that Michelle couldnt have aplastic anemia and grateful to Dr. Wiley for eliminating it as a possibility. Although Charles had said aplastic anemia wasnt infectious, its proximity was frightening.

If youd like to call Charles, by all means. But let me explain a little. Bone marrow aspiration is done with a needle similar to the one we use for drawing blood. We use a little local anesthesia so its practically painless, and it only takes a few moments. And once we have the results well be done. Its truly a simple procedure, and we do it often.

Cathryn managed a smile and said they could go ahead with the test. She liked Dr. Wiley, and she felt a visceral confidence in the man, especially since Charles had undoubtedly picked him from a group of pediatricians he knew well, back when Chuck had been born. She signed the forms where Dr. Wiley pointed, then allowed herself to be escorted out of the office and back into the crowded waiting room.

 

 

Michelle lay very still on the examining table. Even with her head propped up on the pillow her view was mostly ceiling with frosted glass over fluorescent lighting. But she could see a little wallpaper, enough to make out images of laughing clowns, rocking horses, and children with balloons. There was a sink in the room, and although she couldnt see it from where she was, she could hear the water dripping.

For Michelle the hospital had lived up to her fears. Shed been stuck with needles three times. Once in each arm and once in a finger. Each time shed asked if it was the last but no one would say, so she was afraid it might happen again, especially if she moved too much, so she stayed very still.

She felt embarrassed to be dressed so scantily. She had on a nightie of sorts, but it was open in the back, and she could feel her skin on the paper which covered the table. By looking down, she could see the mounds made by her toes beneath the white sheet that covered her. Even her hands were under the cover, clasped together over her stomach. Shed been shivering a little but didnt tell anyone. All she wanted was her clothes and to go home. Yet she knew the fever was back and she was afraid someone might notice and then want to stick her again. They had told her that the reason they needed her blood was to find out why she kept getting the fever.

There was a scraping sound, and the door to the examining room opened. It was the fat nurse, and she was backing into the room so that her form filled the doorway. She was pulling something, and Michelle heard the telltale sound of metal jangling against metal. Once clear of the door, the nurse swung around, pushing a small table on wheels. The table was covered with a blue towel. As far as Michelle was concerned, it didnt look good.

Whats that? she asked anxiously.

Some things for the doctor, sweetheart, said Miss Hammersmith, as if she were talking about treats. Her name tag was pinned high on her shoulder like a battle ribbon, above the band of her bosom which went around her chest like an innertube. There seemed to be as much flesh in the back as the front.

Is it going to hurt? asked Michelle.

Sweetheart, why do you ask that kind of question? Were trying to help you. Miss Hammersmith sounded offended.

Everything the doctor does hurts, said Michelle.

Now thats hardly true, scoffed Miss Hammersmith.

Ah, my favorite patient, said Dr. Wiley, opening the door with his shoulder. Coming into the room he kept his hands away from his body because they were wet and dripping onto the floor. Miss Hammersmith broke open a paper package, and Dr. Wiley carefully pulled out a sterile towel with his thumb and forefinger. Most alarming to Michelle, he was wearing a surgical mask.

What are you going to do? she asked, her eyes opened to their physical limits. She forgot her resolve about staying still and pushed herself up on one elbow.

Well, Im afraid Ive got good and bad news, said Dr. Wiley. Im afraid you have to have one more little needle stick but the good news is that it will be the last for a while. What do you say?

Dr. Wiley tossed the towel onto the counter by the sink and plucked out a pair of rubber gloves from a package Miss Hammersmith held open for him.

With growing dismay, Michelle watched him pull the gloves onto each hand, snapping the wrist portion into place and tugging on each finger in turn.

I dont want any more needles, said Michelle, her eyes filling with tears. I just want to go home. She tried not to cry but the harder she tried, the less successful she was.

Now, now, soothed Miss Hammersmith as she began stroking Michelles hair.

Michelle parried Miss Hammersmiths hand and tried to sit up, but she was restrained by a cinch about her waist. Please, she managed.

Michelle! called Dr. Wiley sharply, then his voice softened. I know you dont feel well, and I know this is hard for you, but we have to do it. It will be over in a moment if you help us.

No! said Michelle defiantly. I want my father.

Dr. Wiley gestured to Miss Hammersmith: Maybe Mrs. Levy could come in here for a moment and give us a hand.

Miss Hammersmith lumbered out of the room.

Okay, Michelle, just lie back and relax for a moment, said Dr. Wiley. Im sure your dad will be real proud of you when I tell him how courageous you were. This is only going to take a moment. I promise.

Michelle lay back and closed her eyes, feeling the tears run down the side of her face. Intuitively she knew that Charles would be disappointed if he heard that shed acted like a baby. After all, it was going to be the last stick. But both her arms had been punctured and she wondered where they would do it.

The door opened again and Michelle propped herself up to see who it was. Miss Hammersmith came in followed by two other nurses, one of whom carried some leather straps.

We wont need restraints, I dont think, said Dr. Wiley. Okay, Michelle, now just lie back quietly for a moment.

Come on, sweetheart, cajoled Miss Hammersmith, coming up alongside Michelle. One of the other nurses went around to the opposite side while the nurse who had been carrying leather straps went down to the foot of the table. Dr. Wiley is the best doctor in the world and you should be so thankful hes taking care of you, said Miss Hammersmith as she pulled Michelles sheet down over the childs legs. Keeping her arms stiffly against her side, Michelle half-heartedly tried to resist when Miss Hammersmith pulled up the nightie to expose the childs body from her nipples to her bony knees.

She watched while the nurse whisked the towel from the table with the wheels. Dr. Wiley busied himself with the instruments on it, his back to her. She could hear the tinkle of glass and the sound of fluid. When the doctor turned, he had a wet piece of cotton in each hand. Im just going to clean your skin a little, he explained as he began scrubbing Michelles hipbone.

The water felt alarmingly cold to Michelle as it ran down her hip and pooled beneath her buttocks. This was a new experience, not like the previous needles. She strained to see what was happening, but the doctor gently urged her to lie back.

It will be over in just a moment, said Miss Hammersmith.

Michelle looked at the faces of the nurses. They were all smiling but they were fake smiles. Michelle began to feel panic. Where are you going to stick me? she shouted, trying again to sit up.

As soon as she moved, she felt strong arms grip her and force her back. Even her ankles were locked in an iron grasp. She was pressed firmly back onto the table, and the restriction inflamed her panic. She tried to struggle but felt the hold on her limbs tighten. No! cried Michelle.

Easy now, said Dr. Wiley as he floated a gun-metal colored drape with a hole in the center over Michelles pelvis and positioned it on her hipbone. Turning back to the small table, Dr. Wiley busied himself. When he reappeared in Michelles view he was holding a huge syringe with three stainless steel finger rings.

No! cried Michelle and with all her might she tried to break from the grasp of the nurses. Instantly she felt the crushing weight of Miss Hammersmith settle on her chest, making breathing difficult. Then she felt the sharp pain of a needle pierce her skin over her hipbone followed by a burning sensation.

 

 

Charles bit off the corner of his pastrami on white, catching a stray piece of meat with his fingers before it fell to the desktop. It was a mammoth sandwich, the only good thing put out by the institute cafeteria. Ellen had brought it back to the lab since Charles did not want to see anyone and, except for his brief foray to the First National Bank, hed stayed at his desk poring over the Canceran experimental protocol. Hed been through all the lab books, and to his surprise, he found them well-organized. He began to feel optimistic that completing the study would not be as difficult as he had initially imagined; maybe they could get it done in six months. He swallowed what he had in his mouth and chased it down with a slug of lukewarm coffee.

The one good thing about this project, said Charles, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, is the size of the grants. For the first time weve got money to burn. Ill bet we can get that new automatic counter weve wanted as well as a new ultra centrifuge.

I think we should get a new chromatography unit, said Ellen.

Why not? said Charles. Having been railroaded into this project, we owe it to ourselves. He put the sandwich back down on the paper plate and picked up his pencil. Heres the way well handle this thing. Well start out with a dose of 1/16 of the LD50.

Wait, said Ellen. Being in immunology, its been a while since Ive done this kind of thing. Refresh me. The LD50 is the dose of a drug that causes 50 percent death in a large population of test animals. Right?

Right, said Charles. We have the LD50 for mice, rats, rabbits, and monkeys from the toxicity studies done on Canceran before they started the efficacy studies. Lets start out with the mice. Well use the RX7 strain bred for mammary tumors because Brighton ordered them and theyre here.

With his pencil, Charles began to make a flow diagram of the project. While he wrote, he spoke, explaining to Ellen each step, particularly how they would increase the dosage of the drug and how they would expand the study to include rats and rabbits as soon as they got some preliminary data from the mice. Because the monkeys were so expensive they would not be used until the very end when the information from the other animals could be extrapolated and applied to a statistically significant group. Then, assuming positive results, a method of randomization would be worked out with each species to ensure suitable controls. These fresh animals would then be treated with the optimum dosage level of Canceran determined from the first part of the study. This portion of the project would be carried out so that neither Charles nor Ellen would know which animals had been treated until after each had been sacrificed and studied and recorded.

Whew, sighed Ellen as she stretched her arms back. I guess I didnt know what was involved.

Unfortunately theres more, said Charles. Each animal, after theyre autopsied, has to be studied not only microscopically, but also with the electron microscope. And . . .

All right already! said Ellen. I get the picture. But what about our own work? What are we going to do?

Im not sure, said Charles. He put down his pencil. I guess thats up to both of us.

I think its more up to you, said Ellen. She was sitting on a high stool with her back against the slate-topped workbench. She was wearing a white laboratory coat which was unbuttoned, revealing a beige sweater and a single strand of small, natural pearls. Her soft hands were folded together and lay still in her lap.

Did you mean what you said about working nights? asked Charles. In his mind he tried to estimate the feasibility of continuing the work on the mysterious blocking factor while they labored with Canceran. It would be possible, although theyd have to put in long hours and slow down considerably. But even if they were able to isolate a single protein in a single animal which functioned as a blocking agent, theyd have something. Even if only one mouse became immunized to its tumor, it would be spectacular. Charles was well aware that success with a single case was hardly a reason to generalize, but he felt that a single cure would provide the basis for convincing the institute to back his work.

Look, said Ellen. I know how much this work of yours means to you, and I know you think youre close to some sort of a conclusion. I dont know whether its going to be positive or negative in the final analysis but that doesnt matter. You need to know. And you will. Youre the most stubborn person I ever met.

Charles examined Ellens face. What did she mean, stubborn? He didnt know whether it was a compliment or an insult, and he had no idea how the conversation had switched to his personality. But Ellens expression was neutral, her unfathomable eyes unwavering.

Noticing Charless stare, Ellen smiled, then said: Dont look so surprised. If youre willing to work nights, so am I. In fact, I can bring in some things to eat on the days we work evenings so we can have supper right here.

Im not sure you realize how tough it will be, said Charles. Wed be practically living here.

The lab is bigger than my apartment, said Ellen with a laugh, and my cats take care of themselves.

Charles turned his gaze back to his recently concocted flow diagram. But he wasnt thinking about Canceran. He was wrestling with the advisability of working evenings with Ellen. You understand that I have no idea whether I can get Morrison to pay you overtime? he said.

I dont . . . began Ellen, but she didnt finish. The phone interrupted them.

You answer it, said Charles. I dont want to talk with anyone.

Ellen slid off her stool and, leaning on Charless shoulder, reached across his desk for the receiver. Her hand rested on Charles as she said hello, but it was quickly removed. Abruptly she dumped the receiver in his lap and walked away. Its your wife.

Charles fumbled for the phone as it slid between his legs, retrieving it by pulling on the coiled cord. Of all the times for Cathryn to be calling, he thought.

What is it? he asked impatiently.

I want you to come over here to Dr. Wileys office, said Cathryn in a stiffly controlled voice.

Whats going on?

I dont want to discuss it over the phone.

Cathryn, this hasnt been a good morning for me. Give me an idea of whats happening.

Charles, just come over here!

Cathryn, the roof has fallen in on top of me this morning. I cant leave now.

Ill be waiting for you, said Cathryn. Then she hung up.

Fuck! shouted Charles as he slammed down the receiver. He swung around in his chair and saw that Ellen had retreated behind her desk. On top of everything, Cathryn wants me over at the pediatricians office but wont tell me what its about. God! What else can happen today?

Thats what you get for marrying a typist.

What? asked Charles. Hed heard but the comment seemed out of context.

Cathryn doesnt understand what we are doing. I dont think she can comprehend the pressures you feel.

Charles peered quizzically at Ellen, then shrugged. Youre probably right. Obviously she thinks I can just drop everything and run over there. Maybe I should call Wiley and find out whats going on. Charles snapped the phone off the hook and started dialing, but midway he stopped. Slowly he replaced the receiver. The thought of Michelle planted a seed of concern under his irritation. Vividly he remembered the mornings nosebleed. Id better run over there. It wont take very long.

But what about our schedule? asked Ellen.

Well talk more when I get back. Meanwhile why dont you prepare the dilution of Canceran for the mice. Well inject the first batch as soon as I return. Charles went over to the metal locker near the door and pulled out his coat. Have the mice brought up here to our own animal room. It will make it a lot easier.

Ellen watched the door close behind Charles. No matter what she resolved outside of the lab, whenever she was face to face with him, it seemed that her feelings were hurt. Ellen knew it was absurd but she couldnt protect herself. And now she felt such a mixture of disappointment and anger that she could have cried. She had allowed the idea of working together at night to excite her. But it was stupid, adolescent. She knew deep down that it would not lead to anything and ultimately cause her more heartache.

Thankful for something specific to do, Ellen forced herself over to the counter where the sterile bottles of Canceran had been left. It was a white powder, like confectioners sugar waiting for the introduction of sterile water. It wasnt as stable in solution as it was in solid form so it had to be reconstituted before it was used. She got out the sterile water, then used the desktop computer to work out the optimum dilution.

As she was getting out the syringes, Dr. Morrison came into the lab.

Dr. Martel isnt here, said Ellen.

I know, said Morrison. I saw him leave the building. I wasnt looking for him. I wanted to talk to you for a moment.

Putting the syringe down, Ellen thrust her hands into her jacket pockets and came around the end of the counter to face the man. It was not usual for the head of the department of physiology to seek her out, especially behind Charless back. Yet with everything else that had happened that morning, she wasnt all that surprised. Besides, Morrisons face had such a Machiavellian look that such intrigue seemed appropriate.

Coming over to her, Morrison produced a slim, gold cigarette case, snapped the case open, and extended it toward Ellen. When she shook her head, Morrison withdrew a cigarette. May I smoke in here? he asked.

Ellen shrugged. Charles didnt allow it but not because of danger. He just hated the smell. Ellen felt a stab of rebellious joy as she tacitly acquiesced.

Morrison produced a gold lighter that matched his cigarette case from his vest pocket and made an elaborate ritual out of lighting his cigarette. It was a staged gesture, designed to keep Ellen waiting.

I suppose you know what has happened today concerning the Brighton case, said Morrison at length.

A little bit, agreed Ellen.

And you know that Charles has been selected to continue the Canceran study?

Ellen nodded.

Morrison paused and blew smoke out in successive rings. Its extremely important for the institute that this study be concluded . . . successfully.

Dr. Martel has already started on it, said Ellen.

Good. Good, said Morrison.

Another pause.

I dont know exactly how to put this, said Morrison. But Im concerned about Charles messing up this experiment.

I dont think you have anything to worry about, said Ellen. If theres one thing you can count on with Charles, it is scientific integrity.

Its not his intellectual capabilities that concern me, said Morrison. Its his emotional stability. To be perfectly candid, he seems a bit impulsive. Hes hypercritical of everyone elses work and seems to feel he has a corner on the scientific method.

Impulsive? The word hit a familiar chord in Ellens memory. As if it were yesterday she could remember the last evening shed spent with Charles. Theyd had dinner at the Harvest Restaurant, gone back to her apartment on Prescott Street, and made love. It had been a warm and tender night, but as usual Charles had not stayed over. Hed said he had to be home when the children woke up. The next day at work he had behaved as he always did, but they never went out again and Charles never offered a word of explanation. Then hed married the temporary typist. It seemed like one day Ellen heard hed been seeing this girl, and the next he was marrying her. Ellen agreed that impulsive was a good description of Charles; impulsive and stubborn.

What do you want me to say? said Ellen, struggling to bring her mind to the present.

I guess I want you to reassure me, said Morrison.

Well, said Ellen. I agree that Charles is temperamental, but I dont think it will influence his work. I think you can count on him to do the Canceran study.

Morrison relaxed and smiled, his small teeth visible behind thin lips. Thank you, Miss Sheldon. Thats exactly what I wanted to hear. Reaching into the sink, he ran water on his half-smoked cigarette and dropped it into the wastebasket. One other thing. I was wondering if you would do me and the institute a big favor. Id like you to report any abnormal behavior on Charless part in relation to the Canceran project. I know this is an awkward request, but the entire board of directors will be grateful for your cooperation.

All right, said Ellen quickly, not sure how she really felt about it. At the same time she thought that Charles deserved it. Shed put forth a lot of effort for the man and hed not appreciated it. Ill do it with the proviso that anything I say remains anonymous.

Absolutely, agreed Morrison. That goes without saying. And, of course, you will report to me directly.

At the door, Morrison paused. Its been nice talking with you, Miss Sheldon. Ive been meaning to do it for some time. If you need anything, my office is always open.

Thank you, said Ellen.

Maybe we could even have dinner sometime.

Maybe, said Ellen.

She watched the door close. He was a strange-looking man but he was decisive and powerful.

FIVE
Crossing the river by way of the Harvard Bridge, Charles struggled with a recalcitrant heater. He could not get the control arm to move to the heat position. As a consequence of his efforts, the Pinto swerved, to the dismay of neighboring motorists who responded by pressing their horns. In desperation, he hit the control with the heel of his hand only to be rewarded with the plastic arm snapping off and falling to the floor.

Resigning himself to the chill, Charles tried to concentrate on the road. As soon as he could, he turned right off Massachusetts Avenue and skirted the Back Bay Fens, a neglected and trash-littered park in the center of what once was an attractive residential neighborhood. He passed the Boston Museum of Fine Arts and then the Gardner Museum. As the traffic cleared, his mind wandered. To Charles it seemed emotionally cruel of Cathryn to leave him dangling, a victim of his own imagination. Could Michelles nosebleed have started again? No, that seemed too simple. Maybe they needed to do some test like an IVP and Cathryn didnt want to give permission. No, there would be no reason why she wouldnt explain that over the phone. It had to be some medical problem. Maybe appendicitis. Charles remembered the abdominal tenderness, the low-grade fever. Maybe it was a subacute appendicitis and they wanted to operate. And Charles knew how hospitals affected Cathryn. They made her crazy.

Entering Dr. Jordan Wileys office, Charles was engulfed by a sea of anxious mothers and crying children. The crowded waiting room . . . that was a part of private practice that Charles did not miss. Like all doctors, his secretaries had an irritating propensity to book new, full workups in time slots reserved for simple return visits, resulting in a hopeless backup of patients. No matter what Charles had said, it had made no difference. He had always been behind in the office and had always been apologizing to the patients.

Charles searched for Cathryn in the press of women and children, but he didnt see her. He worked his way over to the nurse who was being besieged by a covey of mothers demanding to know exactly when they would be seen. Charles tried to interrupt but soon realized he had to wait his turn. Eventually he got the womans attention and was impressed by her composure. If she was affected by the chaos around her, she did a superb job of not showing it.

Im looking for my wife, said Charles. He had to speak loudly to make himself heard.

Whats the name? asked the nurse, her hands folded over a pile of charts.

Martel. Cathryn Martel.

Just a moment. As she rolled back in her chair and got to her feet, her face became serious. The women grouped around the desk eyed Charles with a mixture of respect and vexation. They were clearly jealous of the rapid response hed elicited.

The nurse returned almost immediately, followed by a woman of impressive dimensions who Charles thought would make an appropriate mate for the Michelin tire man. He noticed her name tag: Miss A. Hammersmith. She motioned to Charles, and he obediently stepped around the desk.

Please follow me, said the nurse. Her mouth, suspended between two puckered cheeks, was the only part of her face that moved as she spoke.

Charles did as he was told, finding himself hurrying down a hall behind the bulk of Miss Hammersmith who effectively blocked his view. They passed a series of what Charles imagined were examining rooms. At the end of the hall she opened a paneled door and moved aside for Charles to enter.

Excuse me, said Charles, squeezing past her.

I guess we both could lose a few pounds, said Miss Hammersmith.

As Charles stepped into the room, Miss Hammersmith remained in the hall and softly closed the door behind him. Bookshelves lined one wall, filled with stacks of medical periodicals and some textbooks. In the center of the room was a round, blond oak table surrounded by a half dozen captains chairs. One of them abruptly scraped back as Cathryn stood up. She was breathing audibly; Charles could hear the air enter and exit from her nose. It wasnt a smooth sound. It trembled.

What . . . began Charles.

Cathryn ran to him before he could speak and threw her arms around his neck. Charles put his hands on her waist and let her hold him for a few moments to regain her equilibrium. Cathryn, he said at last, beginning to experience the bitter taste of fear. Cathryns behavior was undermining his thought of appendicitis, of an operation, of something ordinary.

A horrid, unwelcome memory forced itself into Charless mind: the day hed learned of Elizabeths lymphoma. Cathryn, he said more sharply. Cathryn! What is going on? Whats the matter with you?

Its my fault, said Cathryn. As soon as she spoke she started to cry. Charles could feel her body shudder with the force of her tears. He waited, his eyes moving around the room, noticing the picture of Hippocrates on the wall opposite the bookshelves, the rich parquet floor, the Nelsons textbook of pediatrics on the table.

Cathryn, said Charles at length. Please tell me whats going on. Whats your fault?

I should have brought Michelle in sooner. I know I should have. Cathryns voice was broken by her sobs.

Whats wrong with Michelle? asked Charles. He could feel panic tightening in his chest. There was a terrifying sense of dj vu . . .

Cathryn strengthened her grip on Charless neck as if he was her only salvation. All the control shed marshaled before his arrival vanished.

Using most of his strength, Charles managed to break Cathryns hold on his neck. Once he did so, she seemed to collapse. He helped her to a chair where she sank like a deflated balloon. Then he sat down beside her.

Cathryn, you must tell me what is going on.

His wife looked up with great effort, her teal-blue eyes awash with tears. She opened her mouth, but before she could speak the door opened. Dr. Jordan Wiley stepped into the room.

Charles, his hands still resting on Cathryns shoulders, turned at the sound of the closing door. When he saw Dr. Wiley he stood up, searching the mans face for a clue to what was happening. He had known Dr. Wiley for almost twenty years. It had been a professional rather than a social relationship, beginning while Charles was in medical school. Wiley had been his preceptor for third-year pediatrics and had impressed Charles with his knowledge, intelligence, and empathy. Later when Charles needed a pediatrician hed called Jordan Wiley.

Its good to see you again, Charles, said Dr. Wiley, grasping Charless hand. Im sorry its under such trying circumstances.

Perhaps you could tell me what these trying circumstances are, said Charles, allowing annoyance to camouflage his fear.

You havent been told? asked Dr. Wiley. Cathryn shook her head.

Maybe I should step outside for a few moments, said Dr. Wiley.

He started to turn toward the door, but Charles restrained him with a hand on his forearm. I think you should tell me what this is all about, he said.

Dr. Wiley glanced at Cathryn, who nodded agreement. She was no longer sobbing but she knew shed have difficulty speaking.

All right, said Dr. Wiley, facing Charles once again. Its about Michelle.

I gathered that, said Charles.

Why dont you sit down, said Dr. Wiley.

Why dont you just tell me, said Charles.

Dr. Wiley scrutinized Charless anxious face. He saw that Charles had aged a lot since he was a student and was sorry that he had to be the messenger of more anguish and suffering; it was one of the few responsibilities of being a doctor that he detested.

Michelle has leukemia, Charles, said Dr. Wiley.

Charless mouth slowly dropped open. His blue eyes glazed as if he were in a trance. He didnt move a muscle; he didnt even breathe. It was as if Dr. Wileys news had released a flood of banished memories. Over and over Charles heard, Im sorry to inform you, Dr. Martel, but your wife, Elizabeth, has an aggressive lymphoma . . . Im awfully sorry to report that your wife is not responding to treatment . . . Dr. Martel, Im sorry to say, but your wife has entered a terminal leukemic crisis . . . Dr. Martel, Im terribly sorry to have to tell you that your wife died a few moments ago.

No! Its not true. Its impossible! shouted Charles with such vehemence that both Dr. Wiley and Cathryn were startled.

Charles, began Dr. Wiley as he reached out and placed a sympathetic arm on Charless shoulder.

With a lightning movement, Charles knocked Dr. Wileys hand away. Dont you dare patronize me!

Despite her tears, Cathryn jumped up and caught Charless arm as Dr. Wiley stepped back in surprise.

Is this all some elaborate joke? snapped Charles, shrugging off Cathryns hand.

Its not a joke, said Dr. Wiley. He spoke gently but firmly. Charles, I know this is difficult for you, especially because of what happened to Elizabeth. But you have to get control of yourself. Michelle needs you.

Charless mind was a jumble of incomplete thoughts and emotions. He wrestled with himself, trying to anchor his thoughts. What makes you think Michelle has leukemia? He spoke slowly, with great effort. Cathryn sat back down.

The diagnosis in unequivocal, said Dr. Wiley softly.

What kind of leukemia? asked Charles, running his hand through his hair and looking out the window at the neighboring brick wall. Lymphocytic?

No, said Dr. Wiley. Im sorry to say but its acute myeloblastic.

Im sorry to say . . . Im sorry to say . . . a stock medical phrase that doctors resorted to when they didnt know what else to do and it echoed unpleasantly in Charless head. Im sorry to say your wife died . . . It was like a knife plunging into the heart.

Circulating leukemic cells? asked Charles, forcing intelligence to struggle against memory.

Im sorry to say, but there are, said Dr. Wiley. Her white count is over fifty thousand.

A deathly silence descended over the room.

Abruptly Charles began to pace. He moved with quick steps, while his hands worked at each other as if they were enemies.

A diagnosis of leukemia isnt certain until a bone marrow is done, he said abruptly.

Its been done, said Dr. Wiley.

It couldnt have, snapped Charles. I didnt give permission.

I did, said Cathryn, her voice hesitant, fearful shed done something wrong.

Ignoring Cathryn, Charles continued to glower at Dr. Wiley.

I want to see the smears myself.

Ive already had the slides reviewed by a hematologist, said Dr. Wiley.

I dont care, said Charles angrily. I want to see them.

As you wish, said Dr. Wiley. He remembered Charles as a rash but thorough student. Apparently he hadnt changed. Although Dr. Wiley knew that it was important for Charles to substantiate the diagnosis, at that moment he would have preferred to talk about Michelles extended care.

Follow me, he said finally and led Charles out of the conference room and down the hall. Once the conference room door opened a cacophony of crying babies could be heard. Cathryn, initially unsure of what to do, hurried after the men.

At the opposite end of the corridor they entered a narrow room which served as a small clinical lab. There was just enough space for a counter and a row of high stools. Racks of urine samples gave the room a slightly fishy aroma. A pimply faced girl in a soiled white coat deferentially slid off the nearest stool. Shed been busy doing the routine urinalysis.

Over here, Charles, said Dr. Wiley, motioning to a shrouded microscope. He plucked off the plastic cover. It was a binocular Zeiss. Charles sat down, adjusted the eyepieces, and snapped on the light. Dr. Wiley opened up a nearby drawer and pulled out a cardboard slide holder. Gently he lifted one of the slides out, being careful to touch only the edges. As he extended it toward Charles, their eyes met. To Dr. Wiley, Charles looked like a cornered animal.

Using his left hand, Charles took the slide between his thumb and first finger. In the center of the slide was a cover glass over what appeared to be an innocuous smudge. On the ground glass portion of the slide was written: MICHELLE MAR - TEL #882673 BONE MARROW. Charless hand trembled as he placed the slide on the mechanical stage and put a drop of oil on the cover glass. Watching from the side he lowered the oil immersion lens until it just touched the slide and entered the oil.

Taking a deep breath, Charles put his eyes to the oculars and tensely began to raise the barrel of the scope. All at once a multitude of pale blue cells leaped out of the blur, choking off his breath, and forcing the blood to pound in his temples. A shiver of fear as real as if he were looking at his own death warrant blew through his soul. Instead of the usual population of cells in all stages of maturation, Michelles marrow had been all but replaced by large, undifferentiated cells with correspondingly large irregular nuclei, containing multiple nucleoli. He was gripped by a sense of utter panic.

I think youll agree its rather conclusive, said Dr. Wiley gently.

With a crash, Charles leaped to his feet, knocking his stool over backwards. An uncontrollable anger, anger pent up from the exasperating morning and now fired by Michelles illness, blinded him. Why? he screamed at Dr. Wiley, as if the pediatrician were part of an encircling conspiracy. He grabbed a fistful of the mans shirt and shook him violently.

Cathryn leaped between the two men, throwing her arms around her husband. Charles, stop! she shouted, terrified of alienating the one person she knew they needed to help them. Its not Dr. Wileys fault. If anyones to blame, its us.

As if waking from a dream, Charles embarrassingly let go of Dr. Wileys shirt, leaving the surprised pediatricians bow tie at an acute angle. He bent down and righted the stool, then stood back up, covering his face with his hands.

Blame is not the issue, said Dr. Wiley, fumbling nervously with his tie. Caring for the child is the issue.

Where is Michelle? asked Charles. Cathryn did not let go of his arm.

Shes already been admitted to the hospital, said Dr. Wiley. Shes on Anderson 6, a floor with a wonderful group of nurses.

I want to see her, said Charles, his voice weak.

Im sure you do, said Dr. Wiley. But I think we have to discuss her care first. Listen, Charles. Dr. Wiley reached out a comforting hand, but thought better of it. Charless fury had unnerved him. Instead he put his hands in his pockets. We have here at Pediatric one of the worlds authorities on childhood leukemia, Dr. Stephen Keitzman, and with Cathryns permission Ive already contacted him. Michelle is a very sick little girl, and the sooner a pediatric oncologist is on the case the better. He agreed to meet with us as soon as you arrived. I think we should talk to him, then see Michelle.

At first Cathryn wasnt sure about Dr. Stephen Keitzman. Outwardly he was the opposite of Dr. Wiley. He was a small, young-looking man with a large head and thick dark, curly hair. He wore rimless glasses on a skinny nose whose pores were boldly evident. His manner was abrupt, his gestures nervous, and he had a peculiar tic that he displayed during pauses in his speech. All at once hed curl his upper lip in a sneer that momentarily bared his capped teeth and flared his nostrils. It lasted only an instant but it had a disquieting effect on people who were meeting him for the first time. But he was sure of himself and spoke with an authority that made Cathryn feel confidence in the man.

Certain that she would forget what was being told to them, she pulled out a small notebook and ballpoint pen. It confused her that Charles didnt seem to be listening. Instead he was staring out the window, seemingly watching the traffic inching along Longwood Avenue. The northeast wind had brought arctic air into Boston and the mixture of light rain and snow had turned to a heavy snow. Cathryn was relieved that Charles was there to take control because she felt incapable. Yet he was acting strangely: angry one minute, detached the next.

In other words, summed up Dr. Keitzman, the diagnosis of acute myeloblastic leukemia is established beyond any doubt.

Swinging his head around, Charles surveyed the room. He knew that he had a precarious hold on his emotions, and it made it difficult to concentrate on what Keitzman had to say. Angrily he felt hed spent the whole morning watching people undermine his security, dislocate his life, destroy his family, rob him of his newly found happiness. Rationally he knew there was a big difference between Morrison and Ibanez on the one hand and Wiley and Keitzman on the other, but at the moment they all triggered the same unreasoning fury. Charles had great difficulty believing that Michelle had leukemia, particularly the worst possible type, the most deadly kind. He had already been through that kind of disaster; it was someone elses turn.

Listening half-heartedly, Charles examined Dr. Stephen Keitzman, who had assumed that typical condescending air of the physician in charge, doling out bits and pieces of information as if he were lecturing. Obviously Keitzman had experienced this scene many times before and his stock phrases like Im sorry to say had an overused, insincere ring. Charles had the uncomfortable feeling that the man was enjoying himself, not in the same manner hed enjoy a movie or a good meal, but in a more subtle, self-satisfied way: he was the center of attention in a crisis. This attitude abraded Charless already frayed emotions, especially since he was more than familiar with the general material Dr. Keitzman was covering. Charles forced himself to remain silent while his minds eye conjured up kaleidoscopic images of Michelle as she grew up.

In order to allay the inevitable sense of guilt, continued Keitzman as he bared his upper teeth in one of his nervous grimaces, I want to emphasize that the cause and date of onset of leukemia like Michelles is unknown. Parents should not try to blame specific events for initiating the disease. The goal will be to treat the condition and bring about a remission. Im pleased to be able to report that we have very favorable results with acute myeloblastic leukemia; something we didnt have ten years ago. Now we are able to engineer a remission in about eighty percent of cases.

Thats wonderful, said Charles, speaking for the first time. But unlike the five-year cures youve been achieving with other forms of leukemia, can you tell us how long the remission lasts in Michelles form of the disease. It was as if Charles had to goad Keitzman into revealing the worst news at once.

Keitzman pushed back his glasses and cleared his throat. Dr. Martel, I am aware you know more about your daughters disease than other parents I deal with. But since your field is not specifically childhood leukemia, I dont have any idea what you know and what you dont know. Therefore, I felt it best to have this discussion as if you knew nothing. And even if you are already familiar with these facts, perhaps they are helpful to Mrs. Martel.

Why dont you answer my question? said Charles.

I think it is a more fruitful approach if we concentrate on obtaining a remission, said Dr. Keitzman. His nervous tic became more frequent. My experience has shown that with the advances in chemotherapy, leukemia should be approached on a day-to-day basis. We have seen some spectacular remissions.

Except in Michelles type, snarled Charles. Come on, tell us what the probability is of a five-year survival with acute myeloblastic leukemia.

Dr. Keitzman looked away from Charless challenging eyes to Cathryns frightened face. She had paused in her notetaking, gaping at Dr. Keitzman. He knew the meeting was going badly. He glanced at Dr. Wiley for support, but Dr. Wiley had his head down, watching his thumbnail play against his other fingers. Trying to avoid Charless stare, Keitzman said in a low voice, The five-year survival is not impressive in acute myeloblastic leukemia, but its not impossible.

Now youre getting closer to the truth, said Charles, jumping to his feet and leaning over Dr. Keitzmans desk. But to be more exact, the median survival of acute myeloblastic leukemia if a remission is obtained is only one to two years. And, in Michelles case, with circulating leukemic cells, her chances of a remission are a lot less than eighty percent. Wouldnt you agree, Dr. Keitzman?

Taking his glasses off, Dr. Keitzman tried to think of how best to word his response. Theres some truth in what you say, but it is not a constructive way to view the disease. There are lots of variables.

Charles abruptly walked to the window, watching the dirty snow flutter past. Why dont you tell Mrs. Martel what the survival time of the nonresponder is . . . the patients who dont have a remission.

Im not sure what good this . . . began Dr. Keitzman.

Charles whirled around. What good? You dare to ask? Ill tell you what good it is. The worst thing about disease is the uncertainty. Humans are capable of adapting to anything as long as they know. Its the hopeless floundering that drives people crazy.

Charles stormed back to Dr. Keitzmans desk as he spoke. Eyeing Cathryns pad, he grabbed it and threw it into the wastebasket. We dont need notes on this gathering! Its not a goddamn lecture. Besides, I know all too well about leukemia. Turning back to Dr. Keitzman, Charless face was flushed. Come on, Keitzman, tell us about the survival time of nonresponders.

Keitzman moved back in his chair, his hands gripping the edge of the desk as if he were prepared for flight. Its not good, he said finally.

Thats not good enough, snapped Charles. Be more specific.

All right! said Dr. Keitzman. Weeks, months at the most.

Charles didnt answer. Having successfully backed Dr. Keitzman into a corner, he was suddenly adrift. Slowly he sank back down into his chair.

Keitzmans face recovered from a series of sustained twitches as he exchanged sympathetic glances with Dr. Wiley. Turning to Cathryn, he resumed his recommendations. Now, as I was saying. It is best to try to think of leukemia as a nonfatal disease and to take each day as it comes.

Thats like telling a man on death row not to think about death, mumbled Charles.

Dr. Martel, said Dr. Keitzman sharply, as a physician I would expect your response to the crisis to be significantly different.

Its easy to respond differently, said Charles, when its not a member of your own family. Unfortunately Ive been through this before.

I think we should discuss therapy, offered Dr. Wiley, speaking for the first time.

I agree, said Dr. Keitzman. We must start treatment as soon as possible. In fact, Id like to start today, immediately after all the baseline studies are done. But of course, we are going to need consent to treat because of the nature of the drugs.

With the chance of a remission so slight, are you sure its worth subjecting Michelle to the side effects? Charles was speaking more calmly now, but he had a terrible vision of Elizabeth during those last months, the violent nausea, the loss of hair . . . He closed his eyes.

Yes, I do, said Dr. Keitzman firmly. I think it is well established that we have made significant advances in treating childhood leukemia.

Thats absolutely true, confirmed Dr. Wiley.

There have been advances, agreed Charles, but unfortunately in types of leukemia other than Michelles.

Cathryns eyes darted from Charles, to Keitzman, to Wiley. She expected and wanted unanimity on which she could build her hope. Instead she could feel nothing but dissension and animosity.

Well, said Dr. Keitzman, I believe in aggressively treating all cases, whatever the chances are for remission. Every patient deserves a chance at life, whatever the cost. Every day, every month, is precious.

Even if the patient would rather end her suffering, said Charles, recalling Elizabeths last days. When the chances of a remissionlet alone a cureare less than twenty percent, I dont know if its worth subjecting a child to the additional pain.

Dr. Keitzman stood up abruptly, pushing back his chair. We obviously view the value of life very differently. I believe chemotherapy to be a truly remarkable weapon against cancer. But you are entitled to your opinion. However, it seems evident that you would prefer to find another oncologist or handle your daughters therapy yourself. Good luck!

No! said Cathryn, leaping to her feet, terrified at the prospect of being abandoned by Dr. Keitzman, who Dr. Wiley had said was the best. Dr. Keitzman, we need you. Michelle needs you.

I dont think your husband shares your view, Mrs. Martel, said Dr. Keitzman.

He does, said Cathryn. Hes just distraught. Please, Dr. Keitzman. Turning to Charles, Cathryn put a hand on his neck. Charles, please! We cant fight this alone. You said this morning you werent a pediatrician. We need Dr. Keitzman and Dr. Wiley.

I think you should cooperate, urged Dr. Wiley.

Charles sagged under the weight of his brooding impotence. He knew he could not care for Michelle even if he were convinced the current approach for her particular disease to be wrong. He had nothing to offer and his mind was overloaded, an emotional jumble.

Charles, please? Cathryn pleaded.

Michelle is a sick little girl, said Dr. Wiley.

All right, said Charles softly, once again forced to surrender.

Cathryn looked at Dr. Keitzman. There! He said all right.

Dr. Martel, asked Dr. Keitzman. Do you want me to serve as the oncologist on this case?

With a sigh which suggested breathing to be a great effort, Charles reluctantly nodded his head.

Dr. Keitzman sat down and rearranged some papers on his desk. All right, he said at length. Our protocol for myeloblastic leukemia involves these drugs: Daunorubicin, Thioguanine, and Cytarabine. After our workup well start immediately with 60 mg/m2 of Daunorubicin given IV by rapid infusion.

As Dr. Keitzman outlined the treatment schedule, Charless mind tortured him by recalling the potential side effects of the Daunorubicin. Michelles fever was probably caused by an infection due to her bodys depressed ability to fight bacteria. The Daunorubicin would make that worse. And besides making her essentially defenseless for a host of bacteria and fungi, the drug would also devastate her digestive system and possibly her heart . . . besides that . . . her hair . . . God!

I want to see Michelle, he said suddenly, leaping to his feet, trying to stifle his thoughts. Immediately he became aware that he had interrupted Dr. Keitzman in mid-sentence. Everyone was staring at him as if he had done something outrageous.

Charles, I think you should listen, said Dr. Wiley, reaching up and grasping Charless arm. It had been a reflexive gesture and only after hed made contact did Dr. Wiley question its advisability. But Charles didnt react. In fact his arm felt limp and after the slightest tug, he sat back down.

As I was saying, continued Dr. Keitzman, I believe it is important to tailor the psychological approach to the patient. I tend to work by age: under five; school age; and adolescents. Under five its simple; constant and loving supportive therapy. Problems start in the school-age group where the fear of separation from parents and the pain of hospital procedures are the major concerns of the child.

Charles squirmed in his seat. He didnt want to try to think of the problem from Michelles point of view; it was too painful.

Dr. Keitzmans teeth flashed as his face momentarily contorted, then he continued, With the school-age child, the patient is told no more than he specifically asks to know. The psychological support is focused on relieving the childs anxieties about separation.

I think Michelle is going to feel the separation aspect a lot, said Cathryn, struggling to follow Dr. Keitzmans explanation, wanting to cooperate to please the man.

With adolescents, said Dr. Keitzman without acknowledging Cathryn, treatment approaches that of an adult. Psychological support is geared to eliminate confusion and uncertainty without destroying denial if that is part of the patients defense mechanism. In Michelles situation, unfortunately, the problem falls between the school age and the adolescent. Im not sure what is the best way to handle it. Perhaps you people as parents might have an opinion.

Are you talking about whether Michelle should be told she has leukemia? asked Cathryn.

Thats part of it, agreed Dr. Keitzman.

Cathryn looked at Charles, but he had his eyes closed again. Dr. Wiley returned her gaze with a sympathetic expression that made Cathryn feel a modicum of reassurance.

Well, said Dr. Keitzman, it is an issue that demands thought. No decision has to be made now. For the time being, Michelle can be told that we are trying to figure out whats wrong with her. Before we go, does Michelle have any siblings?

Yes, said Cathryn. Two brothers.

Good, said Dr. Keitzman. They should be typed to see if they match Michelles HLA and ABO loci. Were probably going to need platelets, granulocytes, and maybe even marrow, so I hope one of them matches.

Cathryn looked at Charles for support but his eyes were still closed. She had no idea what Dr. Keitzman was talking about but she assumed Charles did. But Charles seemed to be having more trouble than she was with the news.

On the way up in the elevator, Charles fought to control himself. Hed never before experienced such painfully conflicting emotions. On the one hand he could not wait to see his daughter, to hold her and protect her; on the other he dreaded seeing her because he was going to have to come to terms with her diagnosis. And in that sense he knew too much. She would see it in his face.

The elevator stopped. The doors opened. Ahead stretched a pale blue hall with pictures of animals affixed like decals directly on the paint. It was busy with pajama-clad children of a variety of ages, nurses, parents, even hospital maintenance men grouped about a stepladder fixing the lights.

Dr. Wiley led them down the hall, skirting the ladder and passing the busy nurses station. The charge nurse, seeing Dr. Wiley from behind the chart racks, scurried out and caught up with them. Charles glanced down at the floor and watched his feet. It was as if he were looking at someone else. Cathryn was beside him with her arm thrust under his.

Michelle had a single room, painted the same shade of pastel blue as the hallway. On the left wall beside the door to the lavatory was a large, dancing hippopotamus. At the end of the room was a shaded window. To the right was a closet, a bureau, a night table, and a standard hospital bed. At the head of the bed was a stainless steel pole supporting a small plastic bag as well as an IV bottle. The plastic tubing snaked down and entered Michelles arm. She turned from looking out the window when she heard the group enter.

Hello, peanuts, said Dr. Wiley brightly. Look who I brought to see you.

At the first glimpse of his daughter, Charless dread of seeing her vanished in a wave of affection and concern. He rushed up to her and scooped her head in his arms, pressing her face against his. She responded by throwing her free arm around his neck and squeezing.

Cathryn stepped around the bed to the opposite side. She caught Charless eye and saw that he was struggling to hold back tears. After a few minutes, he reluctantly released his hold, lowering Michelles head to the pillow, and smoothing out her rich, dark hair to form a fan about her pale face. Michelle reached out for Cathryns hand and grasped it tightly.

How are you? asked Charles. He was afraid that his precarious emotional state was apparent to Michelle.

I feel fine now, said Michelle, obviously overjoyed to see her parents. But then her face clouded and turning to Charles, she asked: Is it true, Daddy?

Charless heart leaped in his chest. She knows, he thought with alarm. He glanced at Dr. Keitzman and tried to remember what he had said about the proper psychological approach.

Is what true? asked Dr. Wiley casually, coming to the foot of the bed.

Daddy? pleaded Michelle. Is it true I have to stay overnight?

Charles blinked, at first unwilling to believe that Michelle wasnt asking him to confirm the diagnosis. Then when he was sure she didnt know she had leukemia, he smiled with relief. Just for a few nights, he said.

But I dont want to miss school, said Michelle.

Dont you worry about school, said Charles with a nervous laugh. He eyed Cathryn for a moment who also laughed in the same hollow fashion. Its important that you stay here for some tests so that we can find out whats causing your fever.

I dont want any more tests, said Michelle, her eyes widening in fright. Shed had enough pain.

Charles was struck by how tiny her body was in the hospital bed. Her narrow arms looked incredibly frail as they poked out of the sleeves of the hospital gown. Her neck, which had always seemed substantial, now looked about the size of his forearm; she had the appearance of a delicate and vulnerable bird. Charles knew that somewhere in the heart of her bone marrow was a group of her own cells waging war against her body. And there was nothing he could do to help herabsolutely nothing.

Dr. Wiley and Dr. Keitzman will only do the tests they absolutely need, said Cathryn, stroking Michelles hair. Youre going to have to be a big girl.

Cathryns comment awakened a sense of protectiveness in Charles. He recognized he couldnt do anything for Michelle, but at least he could protect her from unnecessary trauma. He knew too well that patients with rare diseases were often subjected to all sorts of physical harassment at the whim of the attending physician. With his right hand, Charles twisted the soft plastic bottle so he could see the label. Platelets. With his hand still holding the bottle, he turned to Dr. Wiley.

We felt she needed platelets immediately, said Dr. Wiley. Hers were only about twenty thousand.

Charles nodded.

Well, Ive got to be going, said Dr. Keitzman. Grasping one of Michelles feet through the covers he said, Ill be seeing you later, Miss Martel. Also there will be a few other doctors coming in to talk to you sometime today. Well be giving you some medicine in that tube, so keep your arm nice and still.

Charles peered at the plastic tube: Daunorubicin! A fresh wave of fear washed over him, accompanied by a new urge to reach down and snatch his beloved daughter from the clutches of the hospital. An irrational thought passed through his mind: maybe the whole nightmare would disappear if he got Michelle away from all these people.

Im available anytime at all if youd like to speak to me, said Dr. Keitzman as he moved to the door.

Cathryn acknowledged the offer with a smile and a nod. She noticed that Charles didnt look up from Michelle. Instead he sat on the edge of the bed and whispered something in her ear. Cathryn hoped his silence would not further antagonize the oncologist.

Ill be right outside, said Dr. Wiley, following Dr. Keitzman. The charge nurse who hadnt spoken left, too.

In the hall Dr. Keitzman slowed his steps, giving Dr. Wiley a chance to catch up. Together they walked toward the nurses station.

I think Charles Martel is going to make this a very difficult case, said Dr. Keitzman.

Im afraid youre right, agreed Dr. Wiley.

If it werent for that poor sick child, Id tell Martel to stuff it, said Dr. Keitzman. Could you believe that bullshit about withholding chemotherapy? God! Youd think that someone in his position would know about the advances weve made with chemotherapy, especially in lymphocytic leukemia and Hodgkins.

He knows, said Dr. Wiley. Hes just angry. Its understandable, particularly when you know hes been through all this when his wife died.

I still resent his behavior. He is a physician.

But hes in pure research, said Dr. Wiley. Hes been away from clinical medicine for almost ten years. Its a good argument for researchers to keep one foot in clinical medicine to keep their sense of perspective alive. After all, taking care of people is what its all about.

They reached the nurses station, and both men leaned on the counter surveying the busy scene about them with unseeing eyes.

Charless anger did scare me for a moment, admitted Dr. Wiley. I thought hed totally lost control.

He wasnt much better in my office, said Dr. Keitzman, shaking his head. Ive dealt with anger before, as Im sure you have, but not like this. People get angry at fate, not the diagnosing physicians.

The two men watched an OR orderly skillfully navigate a gurney carrying a recent post-op down the corridor from the patient elevator. For a moment they didnt talk. The gurney carrying the child from recovery disappeared into one of the rooms, and several nurses hurried after it.

Are you thinking about what I am? asked Dr. Keitzman.

Probably. Im wondering just how stable Dr. Charles Martel is.

Then were thinking the same thing, said Dr. Keitzman. Those sudden mood shifts in my office.

Dr. Wiley nodded. Even given the circumstances, his reaction seemed inappropriate. But hes always been an odd duck. Lives someplace in the middle of nowhere in New Hampshire. He claimed it was his first wifes idea but after she died, he didnt move. And now hes got this wife living up there, too. I dont know. To each his own, I guess.

His new wife seems fine.

Oh, shes a peach. Adopted the kids, treats them like her own. I was afraid when they got married that shed bit off more than she could chew, but shes adapted remarkably. She was devastated when I told her Michelle had leukemia, but I was pretty sure shed deal with it better than Charles. In fact, thats why I told her first.

Maybe we should talk just to her for a moment, suggested Dr. Keitzman. What do you think?

Lets try. Dr. Wiley turned to face the nurses station. Miss Shannon! Could you come over here for a moment?

The charge nurse came over to the two doctors. Dr. Wiley explained that they wanted to speak to Mrs. Martel without her husband and asked her if she wouldnt mind going down to Michelles room and trying to engineer it.

As they watched Miss Shannon walk briskly down the hall, Dr. Keitzmans facial muscles jumped. It goes without saying that the child is desperately ill.

I thought as much when I saw her peripheral blood smear, said Dr. Wiley. Then when I saw her bone marrow, I was sure.

She could be a very rapidly terminating case, Im afraid, said Dr. Keitzman. I think she already has central nervous system involvement. Which means we have to commence treatment today. I want Dr. Nakano and Dr. Sheetman to see her right away. Martel is right about one thing. Her chance of a remission is very slim.

But you still have to try, said Dr. Wiley. At times like these I dont envy you your specialty.

Of course Ill try, said Dr. Keitzman. Ah, here comes Mrs. Martel.

Cathryn had followed Miss Shannon out into the hall, half-expecting to see Marge Schonhauser because the nurse had said someone was asking to see her. She hadnt been able to think of anyone else who knew that she was in the hospital. Once clear of the room, however, Miss Shannon confided that the doctors wanted to speak to her alone. It sounded ominous.

Thank you for coming out, said Dr. Wiley.

Its all right, said Cathryn, her eyes darting from one man to the next. Whats wrong?

Its about your husband, began Dr. Keitzman cautiously. He paused, trying to choose his words carefully.

Were concerned that he may interfere in Michelles treatment, Dr. Wiley finished the thought. Its hard for him. First he knows too much about the disease himself. Then he already has watched someone he loved die despite chemotherapy.

Its not that we dont understand his feelings. We just feel Michelle should have every chance at remission regardless of the side effects.

Cathryn examined the narrow, hawklike features of Dr. Keitzman and the broad, rounded face of Dr. Wiley. They were outwardly so different yet similar in their intensity. I dont know what you want me to say.

Wed just like you to give us some idea of his emotional state, said Dr. Keitzman. Wed like to have some idea of what to expect.

I think he will be fine, assured Cathryn. He had a lot of trouble adjusting when his first wife died, but he never interfered with her treatment.

Does he often lose his temper as he did today? asked Keitzman.

Hes had an awful shock, said Cathryn. I think its understandable. Besides, ever since his first wife died, cancer research has been his passion.

Its a terrible irony, agreed Dr. Wiley.

But what about the kind of emotional outburst he demonstrated today? asked Dr. Keitzman.

He does have a temper, said Cathryn, but he usually keeps it under control.

Well, thats encouraging, said Dr. Keitzman. Maybe its not going to be so difficult after all. Thank you, Mrs. Martel. Youve been most helpful, especially since I know you, too, have had a terrible shock. Im sorry if weve said anything disturbing but well do our best for Michelle, I can assure you of that. Turning to Dr. Wiley, he said, Ive got to get things rolling. Ill speak to you later. He moved quickly, almost at a run, and was out of sight in seconds.

He has some strange mannerisms, said Dr. Wiley, but you couldnt get a better oncologist. Hes one of the top people in the world in childhood leukemia.

I was afraid he was going to abandon us when Charles acted up, said Cathryn.

Hes too good of a doctor for that, said Dr. Wiley. Hes only concerned about Charles because of your husbands attitude to chemotherapy, and aggressive treatment has to be started right away to get her into a remission.

Im sure Charles wont interrupt her treatment, said Cathryn.

Lets hope not, said Dr. Wiley. But were going to count on your strength, Cathryn.

My strength? questioned Cathryn, aghast. Hospitals and medical problems arent my strong points.

Im afraid youll have to overcome that, said Dr. Wiley. Michelles clinical course could be very difficult.

At that moment she caught sight of Charles emerging from Michelles room. He spotted Cathryn and started toward the nurses station. Cathryn ran down to meet him. They stood for a moment in a silent embrace, drawing strength from each other. When they started back toward Dr. Wiley, Charles seemed more in control.

Shes a good kid, he said. Christ, all shes worried about is staying overnight. Said she wanted to be home in the morning to make the orange juice. Can you believe that?

She feels responsible, said Cathryn. Until I arrived she was the woman of the house. Shes afraid of losing you, Charles.

Its amazing what you dont know about your own children, said Charles. I asked her if she minded if I went back to the lab. She said no, as long as you stayed here, Cathryn.

Cathryn was touched. On the way to the hospital we had a little talk, and for the first time I felt she really accepted me.

Shes lucky to have you, said Charles. And so am I. I hope you dont mind my leaving you here. I hope you understand. I feel such a terrible powerlessness. Ive got to do something.

I understand, said Cathryn. I think youre right. There isnt anything you can do right now and it would be better if you can get your mind on something else. Ill be happy to stay. In fact, Ill call my mother. Shell come over and take care of things.

Dr. Wiley watched the couple come toward him, pleased to see their open affection and mutual support. The fact that they were acknowledging and sharing their grief was healthy; it was a good sign and it encouraged him. He smiled, somewhat at a loss for what to say as they arrived. He had to get back to his office which he knew was in chaos, but he wanted to be there if they still needed him.

Do you have any extra of Michelles blood? asked Charles. His voice was businesslike, matter-of-fact.

Probably, said Dr. Wiley. It wasnt a question he had expected. Charles had the uncanny ability to unnerve him.

Where would it be? asked Charles.

In the clinical lab, said Dr. Wiley.

Fine. Lets go. Charles started toward the elevator.

Ill stay here with Michelle, said Cathryn. Ill call if there is any news. Otherwise Ill see you home for dinner.

Okay. He strode off purposefully.

Confused, Dr. Wiley hurried after Charles, nodding a quick good-bye to Cathryn. His encouragement regarding Charless behavior was quickly undermined. Charless mood had apparently tumbled off on a new and curious tangent. His daughters blood? Well, he was a physician.

SIX
Clutching the flask of Michelles blood, Charles hurried through the foyer of the Weinburger Institute. He ignored greetings by the coy receptionist and the security guard and ran down the corridor to his lab.

Thanks for coming back, taunted Ellen. I could have used some help injecting the mice with the Canceran.

Charles ignored her, carrying the vial of Michelles blood over to the apparatus they used to separate the cellular components of blood. He began the complicated process of priming the unit.

Bending down to peer at Charles beneath the glassware shelving, Ellen watched for a moment. Hey, she called. I said I could have used some help . . .

Charles switched on a circulatory pump.

Wiping her hands, Ellen came around the end of the workbench, curious to see the object of Charless obvious intense concentration. I finished injecting the first batch of mice, she repeated when she was close enough to be absolutely certain Charles could hear her.

Wonderful, said Charles without interest. Carefully he introduced an aliquot of Michelles blood into the machine. Then he switched on the compressor.

What are you doing? Ellen followed all his movements.

Michelle has myeloblastic leukemia, said Charles. He spoke evenly, like he was giving the weather report.

Oh, no! gasped Ellen. Charles, Im so sorry. She wanted to reach out and comfort him but she restrained herself.

Amazing, isnt it? laughed Charles. If the days disasters had remained localized to the problems here at the Weinburger, Id probably just cry. But with Michelles illness, everything is a bit overwhelming. Christ!

Charless laughter had a hollow ring to it but it struck Ellen as somewhat inappropriate.

Are you all right? asked Ellen.

Wonderful, said Charles as he opened their small refrigerator for clinical reagents.

How does Michelle feel?

Pretty good right now but she has no idea of what shes in for. Im afraid its going to be bad.

Ellen found herself at a loss for words. She blankly watched Charles as he went about completing his test. Finally she found her tongue. Charles, what are you doing?

I have some of Michelles blood. Im going to see if our method of isolating a cancer antigen works on her leukemic cells. It gives me the mistaken impression Im doing something to help her.

Oh, Charles, said Ellen sympathetically. There was something pitiful about the way he acknowledged his vulnerability. Ellen knew how much of an activist he was and Charles had told her the feeling of powerlessness was what had been the hardest for him when Elizabeth was ill. He had been forced to just sit and watch her die. And now Michelle!

Ive decided we arent going to stop our own work, said Charles. Well continue while we work on Canceran. Work nights if we have to.

But Morrison is very insistent about exclusively concentrating on Canceran, said Ellen. In fact, he came by while you were out to emphasize that. For a moment Ellen debated about telling Charles the real reason Morrison stopped by, but with everything else that had happened, she was afraid to.

I couldnt care less what Morrison says. With Michelles illness, cancer has, once again, become more than a metaphysical concept for me. Our work has so much more promise than developing another chemotherapeutic agent. Besides, Morrison doesnt even have to know what were doing. Well do the Canceran work and hell be happy.

Im not sure you realize how much the administration is counting on Canceran, said Ellen. I really dont think its advisable to go against them on this, particularly when the reason is personal.

For a moment Charles froze, then he exploded. He slammed his open palm against the slate countertop with such force that several beakers tumbled off the overhead shelves. Thats enough, he yelled to punctuate his blow. Ive had enough of people telling me what to do. If you dont want to work with me, then just get the fuck out of here!

Abruptly Charles turned back to his work, running a nervous hand through his disheveled hair. For a few moments he worked in silence, then without turning he said, Dont just stand there; get me the radioactive labeled nucleotides.

Ellen walked over to the radioactive storage area. As she opened the lock, she noticed that her hands were trembling. Obviously Charles was just barely in control of himself. She wondered what she was going to say to Dr. Morrison. She was certain she wanted to say something, because as her fear abated her anger grew. There was no excuse for Charles to treat her as he did. She wasnt a servant.

She brought the chemicals over and arrayed them on the counter.

Thank you, he said simply, as if nothing had happened. As soon as we have some B-lymphocytes I want to incubate them with the tagged nucleotides and some of the leukemic cells.

Ellen nodded. She couldnt keep pace with such rapid emotional changes.

While I was driving over here, I had an inspiration, continued Charles. The biggest hurdle in our work has been this blocking factor and our inability to elicit an antibody response to the cancer antigen in the cancerous animal. Well, I have an idea; I was trying to think of ways of saving time. Why not inject the cancer antigen into a related, noncancerous animal where we can be absolutely certain of an antibody response? What do you think about that?

Ellen scrutinized Charless face. Within seconds hed metamorphosed from an infuriated child to the dedicated researcher. Ellen guessed that it was his way of dealing with the tragedy of Michelle.

Without waiting for an answer, Charles went on: As soon as the noncancerous animal is immune to the cancer antigen, well isolate the responsible T-lymphocytes, purify the transfer factor protein, and transfer sensitivity to the cancerous animal. Its so fundamentally simple, I cant believe we didnt think of it before. Well . . . whats your impression?

Ellen shrugged. In truth she was fearful of saying anything. Although the basic premise sounded promising, Ellen knew that the mysterious transfer factor did not work well in the animal systems they were using; in fact, it worked best with humans. But technical questions were not foremost in her mind. She wondered if it would be too obvious if she excused herself and went directly up to Dr. Morrisons office.

How about getting the polyethylene glycol? said Charles. Were going to want to set up the equipment to produce a hybridoma with Michelles T-lymphocytes. Also call the animal room and tell them we want a fresh batch of control mice, which well inject with the mammary tumor antigen. God, I wish there were more than twenty-four hours in a day.

 

 

Pass the mashed potatoes, said Jean Paul after debating with himself for several minutes whether to break the silence that had descended over the dinner table. No one had spoken since he announced that the duck hed put in the garage was deader than a doorknob, stiff as a board. Ultimately his hunger had decided the issue.

Ill trade you for the pork chops, said Chuck, tossing his head to remove some stringy hair from his eyes.

The boys exchanged platters. There was the clink of silver against china.

Gina Lorenzo, Cathryns mother, eyed her daughters family. Cathryn resembled her. They each had the same bony prominence on the bridge of the nose and the same large, expressive mouth. The major difference, other than the obvious twenty-plus years, was that Gina was so much heavier. She admitted she was twenty pounds overweight but in actuality it was more like sixty. Pasta was Ginas passion and she was not one to deny herself.

Lifting the bowl of fettucini, Gina gestured as if she were about to add to Cathryns untouched plate. You need some nourishment.

Forcing a smile, Cathryn shook her head no.

Whats the matter? You dont like it? asked Gina.

Its wonderful, said Cathryn. Im just not very hungry.

You gotta eat, said Gina. You, too, Charles.

Charles nodded.

I brought fresh cannolis for dessert, said Gina.

Oh, boy! said Jean Paul.

Dutifully Charles took a bite of the fettucini but his stomach rebelled. He let the pasta sit in his mouth before trying to swallow it. The reality of the days disasters had hit him with hurricane force once hed left the frenzied environment hed created in the lab. Work had been an emotional anesthetic and he had been sorry when it was time to pick up Chuck and drive home. And Chuck hadnt helped. Charles had waited until they were out of the Boston rush hour traffic before telling his son that his sister had a very serious kind of leukemia. Chucks response had been a simple Oh! followed by silence. Then he had asked if there was any chance he might catch it.

At the time Charles did not say anything; he just gripped the steering wheel harder, marveling at the unabashed depths of his oldest sons selfishness. Not once did Chuck ask how Michelle was doing. And now as Charles watched Chuck gobble his pork chops, he felt like reaching over and throwing the selfish kid out of the house.

But Charles didnt move. Instead he began mechanically to chew his fettucini, embarrassed at his own thoughts. Chuck was immature. At least Jean Paul reacted appropriately. Hed cried and then asked when Michelle would be home and if he could go and see her. He was a good kid.

Charles looked at Cathryn, who kept her head down, pushing her food around her plate, pretending for her mothers sake to be eating. He was thankful that he had her. He didnt think he could handle Michelles illness by himself. At the same time he realized how difficult it was for Cathryn. For that reason he had not said anything about the troubles at the institute, nor did he plan to. She had enough to worry about.

Have some more pork chops, Charles, said Gina, reaching over and unceremoniously plopping a chop on his full plate.

He had tried to say no but the chop had already entered its ballistic arc. He looked away, trying to stay calm. Charles found Gina trying even under the best of circumstances, especially since the woman had never concealed her disapproval of her only daughter marrying a man thirteen years her senior with three kids. Charles heard another telltale plop and opened his eyes to see his mound of fettucini had grown.

There, said Gina. You need some more meat on your bones.

Charles restrained himself from grabbing a handful of fettucini and throwing it back into the bowl.

How do they know Michelle has leukemia? asked Jean Paul guilelessly.

Everyone turned to Charles, having been afraid to ask the question.

They looked at her blood, then examined her bone marrow.

Bone marrow? questioned Chuck with disgust. How do they get bone marrow to look at?

Charles eyed his son, amazed at how easily Chuck could irritate him. To anyone else, Chucks question might seem innocent, but Charles was sure the boy was motivated by morbid interest and not concern for his sister. They get bone marrow by ramming a largebore needle into the breast bone or the hipbone, then sucking the marrow out, said Charles, hoping to shock Chuck into sympathy for Michelle.

Ugh, said Chuck. Does it hurt?

Terribly, said Charles.

Cathryn stiffened with a flash of imaginary pain, remembering that shed been the one to consent to the test.

God! said Chuck. Nobody is ever going to do a bone marrow on me!

Im not so sure, said Charles without thinking. Michelles doctor wants both of you boys to go in to be tissue-typed. Theres a chance one of you may match Michelle and can be a donor for platelets, granulocytes, or even a marrow transplant.

Not me! said Chuck, putting down his fork. Nobody is going to stick no needle into my bones. No way!

Slowly Charles placed his elbows on the table and leaned toward Chuck. Im not asking if youre interested, Charles Jr. Im telling you that youre going into Pediatric Hospital to be tissue-typed. Do you understand me?

This is hardly a discussion for the dinner table, interrupted Cathryn.

Will they really stick a needle into my bone? asked Jean Paul.

Charles, please! shouted Cathryn. This is no way to talk to Chuck about this kind of thing!

No? Well, Im sick and tired of his selfishness, cried Charles. He hasnt voiced one word of concern for Michelle.

Why me? yelled Chuck. Why do I have to be a donor? Youre the father. Why cant you be the donor, or are big-shit doctors not allowed to donate marrow?

Charles leaped to his feet in blind fury, pointing a quivering finger at Chuck. Your selfishness is only rivaled by your ignorance. Youre supposed to have had biology. The father only donates half of the chromosomes to a child. There is no way I could match Michelle. If I could Id change places with her.

Sure! Sure! taunted Chuck. Talks cheap.

Charles started around the table, but Cathryn leaped up and caught him. Charles, please, she said bursting into tears. Calm down!

Chuck was frozen in his chair, gripping the sides with white knuckles. He knew that only Cathryn stood between him and disaster.

In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Ghost, said Gina, crossing herself. Charles! Beg the Lord for forgiveness. Dont abet the devils work.

Oh, Christ! shouted Charles. Now we get a sermon!

Dont tempt the Lord, said Gina with conviction.

To hell with God, shouted Charles, breaking free of Cathryns grip. What kind of God gives a defenseless twelve-year-old leukemia?

You cannot question the Lords way, said Gina solemnly.

Mother! cried Cathryn. Thats enough!

Charless face flushed crimson. His mouth voiced some inaudible words before he abruptly spun on his heels, wrenched open the back door, and stormed out into the night. The door slammed with a jolting finality that shook the bric-a-brac in the living room.

Cathryn quickly pulled herself together for the childrens sake, busying herself with clearing the table and keeping her face averted.

Such blasphemy! said Gina with disbelief. Her hand was pressed against her bosom. Im afraid Charles has opened himself to the devil.

How about a cannoli? asked Jean Paul, carrying his plate to the sink.

With his father gone, Chuck felt a sense of exhilaration. He knew now that he could stand up against his father and win. Watching Cathryn clear the table, he tried to catch her eye. She had to have noticed how he stood his ground, and Chuck certainly noticed how Cathryn had backed him up. Pushing back his chair, he carried his plate to the sink and dutifully ran water over it.

 

 

Charles fled from the house with no goal other than to escape the infuriating atmosphere. Crunching through the crusted snow, he ran down toward the pond. The New England weather, true to form, had completely changed. The northeastern storm had blown out to sea and was replaced by an arctic front that froze everything in its tracks. Despite the fact he had been running, he could feel a raw chill, especially since hed not taken the time to get his coat. Without a conscious decision, he veered left toward Michelles playhouse, noting that the change in the wind had effectively eliminated the smell from the chemical factory. Thank God!

After stamping his feet on the porch to remove any snow. Charles bent over and entered the miniature house. The interior was only ten feet long and a central archway divided it roughly in two: one-half was the living room with a built-in banquette; the other the kitchen, with a small table and sink. The playhouse had running water (in the summer) and one electrical outlet. From about age six to nine Michelle had made tea here for Charles on Sunday summer afternoons. The small hotplate she used was still working and Charles switched it on for a little heat.

Sitting down on the banquette, he stretched his legs out and crossed them, conserving as much body heat as possible. Still he soon began to shiver. The dolls house was only a refuge from the icy wind, not from the cold.

As the solitude had the desired effect, Charles quickly calmed down, admitting that he had handled Chuck badly. Charles knew he had yet to come to terms with the disastrous day. He marveled how he had allowed himself to be lulled into a false sense of security over the last few years. He thought back to the morning . . . making love with Cathryn. In just twelve hours all the threads of his carefully organized world had unraveled.

Leaning forward so he could look up through the front window, Charles gazed at the canopy of sky. It had become a clear, star-studded night, and he could see forever, out into distant galaxies. The sight was beautiful but lifeless and all at once Charles felt an overwhelming sense of futility and loneliness. His eyes filled with tears, and he leaned back so that he couldnt see the terrible beauty of the winter sky. Instead he looked out over the snow-covered landscape of the frozen pond. Immediately in front of him was the area of open water Jean Paul had asked about that morning.

Charles marveled at the depths of his loneliness, as if Michelle had already been taken from him. He didnt understand these feelings although he guessed it might have something to do with guilt; if he had only been more attentive to Michelles symptoms; if he had only paid more attention to his family; if he had only carried out his research faster.

He wished he could put everything aside and just work on his own project. Maybe he could find a cure in time for Michelle. But Charles knew that was an impossible goal. Besides, he could not oppose Dr. Ibanez so openly. He could not afford to lose his job or the use of his lab. Suddenly Charles understood the directors cleverness in putting him on the Canceran project. Charles was disliked because of his unorthodoxy, but he was respected because of his scientific ability. Charles was a foil who lent the desired legitimacy that the project needed and a perfect scapegoat if the project failed. It was a decision of administrative genius.

In the distance Charles heard Cathryns voice calling his name. In the frigid air the sound was almost metallic. Charles didnt move. One second he felt like crying, the next so weak that physical activity of any sort was impossible. What was he going to do about Michelle? If the chance of a remission faded, could he stand to watch her suffer with the treatment?

He moved over to the window and scraped off the frost his breath had created. Through the clear areas he could see the silver-blue snowscape and the patch of water directly in front of him. Guessing that the temperature was close to zero, Charles began to wonder about that open water. His original explanation to Jean Paul that morning had been that the current prevented it from icing over. But that was when the temperature hovered about the freezing mark. Now it was some thirty degrees below that. Charles wondered whether there was much current at that time of year. In the spring when the snows melted in the mountain to the north, the river raged and the pond rose by a foot-and-a-half. Then there would be current, not now.

Suddenly Charles was aware of a sweet aromatic smell. It had been there all the time but had not penetrated his consciousness until that moment. It was vaguely familiar, but out of context. Hed smelled it before, but where?

Eager for a distraction, Charles began to sniff around. The odor was about equal in intensity in the two rooms and strongest near the floor. Sniffing repeatedly, Charles tried to place the smell in his past. Suddenly it came to him: organic chemistry lab in college! He was smelling an organic solvent like benzene, toluene, or xylene. But what was it doing in the playhouse?

Braving the cold wind, Charles went out into the knife-sharp night. With his right hand he clutched his sweater tightly around his neck. Outside the aromatic odor was diminished because of the wind, but by bending down at the side of the playhouse, Charles determined the smell was coming from the partially frozen mud around and under the structure. Making his way down to the ponds edge, Charles scooped up some of the icy water and brought it to his nose. There was no mistaking it: the smell was coming from the pond.

He followed the gradual curve of the pond, walking along the edge of the open water to the point where it merged with the inlet from the river. Bending down again, he brought some water to his nose. The odor was stronger. Breaking into a jog, Charles followed the inlet to the juncture with the Pawtomack River. It, too, was unfrozen. Again, Charles brought a sample to his nose. The odor was even more intense. The smell was coming from the river. Standing up, shaking from the cold, Charles stared upstream. Recycle, Ltd., the plastic/rubber recycling plant was up there. Charles knew from his chemistry background that benzene was used as a solvent for both plastics and rubber.

Benzene!

A powerful thought gripped his mind: Benzene causes leukemia; in fact it causes myeloblastic leukemia! Turning his head, Charless eyes followed the trail of the unfrozen, open water. It led directly to the playhouse: the one spot Michelle had spent more time than any other.

Like a crazed man, Charles sprinted for the house. The uneven snow tripped him and he fell headlong, landing on his chest with his palms outstretched. He was unhurt save for a cut on his chin. Picking himself up, he ran more slowly.

When he reached the house, he thundered up the back steps and banged open the door.

Cathryn, already taut as a tightened bowstring, involuntarily shrieked as Charles hurled himself breathlessly into the kitchen. The dish she was holding slipped from her hands and shattered on the floor.

I want a container, gasped Charles, ignoring Cathryns reaction.

Gina appeared at the door to the dining room, her face reflecting terror. Chuck materialized behind her, then pushed past to gain access to the kitchen. He stepped between Charles and Cathryn. He didnt care if his father was bigger than he was.

Charless breathing was labored. After a few seconds, he was able to repeat his request.

A container? asked Cathryn whod regained some of her composure. What kind of a container?

Glass, said Charles. Glass with a tight top.

What for? asked Cathryn. It seemed like an absurd request.

For pond water, said Charles.

Jean Paul appeared beside Gina who stuck out her arm to keep him from entering the kitchen.

Why do you want pond water? asked Cathryn.

Christ! managed Charles. Is this an interrogation? He started for the refrigerator.

Chuck tried to step in his way, but Charles merely swept the boy out of his path. Chuck stumbled, and Cathryn grabbed his arm, keeping him from falling.

Charles turned at the commotion and saw Cathryn restraining his son. What the hell is going on here? he demanded.

Chuck struggled for an instant, glaring at his father.

Charles looked from one face to another. Gina and Jean Paul looked shocked; Chuck, furious; and Cathryn, frightened. But no one spoke. It was as if the scene was a freeze frame in a motion picture. Charles shook his head in disbelief and turned his attention to the refrigerator.

He pulled out a jar of apple juice and closed the door. Without a moments hesitation he dumped the remaining contents down the sink, rinsed the jar thoroughly, and yanked his sheepskin coat off its hook. At the door he turned to glance at his family. No one had moved. Charles had no idea what was happening but since he knew what he wanted to do, he left, closing the door on the strange scene.

Releasing her hold on Chuck, Cathryn stared blankly at the door, her mind going over the disturbing discussion shed had with Dr. Keitzman and Dr. Wiley. Shed thought their questions about Charless emotions had been ridiculous, but now she wasnt so sure. Certainly, flying out of the house in anger in the dead of winter without a coat, only to return a half hour later in great excitement, looking for a container for pond water, was curious at best.

Id never let him hurt you, said Chuck. He pushed back his hair with a nervous hand.

Hurt me? said Cathryn, taken by surprise. Your fathers not going to hurt me!

Im afraid hes let in the devil, said Gina. Once hes done that, you cant tell what hes going to do.

Mother, please! cried Cathryn.

Is Charles going to have a nervous breakdown? teased Jean Paul from the doorway.

Hes already had one, answered Chuck.

Thats enough of that, said Cathryn sternly. I dont want to hear any disrespect for your father. Michelles illness has upset him terribly.

Cathryn directed her attention to the broken dish. Was Charles having a nervous breakdown? Cathryn decided shed discuss the possibility with Dr. Wiley in the morning. It was a terrifying thought.

 

 

Gingerly crossing the partially frozen mud, Charles approached the waters edge, then filled the jar. He screwed the cap on tightly before running back to the house.

Although the suddenness of his arrival surprised Cathryn, it had nowhere near the effect of his previous entrance. By the time Charles got to the refrigerator, Cathryn could react, and she reached out and grasped his arm.

Charles, tell me what you are doing.

Theres benzene in the pond, hissed Charles, shaking off her grasp. He put the jar of pond water in the refrigerator. And you can smell it in the playhouse.

Charles whirled back to the door. Cathryn ran after him, managing to get hold of his coat. Charles, where are you going? Whats the matter with you?

With unnecessary force, Charles wrenched his coat free. Im going to Recycle, Ltd. Thats where the goddamn benzene is coming from. Im sure of it.

SEVEN
Charles pulled the red Pinto off Main Street and stopped in front of the gate in the hurricane fence surrounding Recycle, Ltd. The gate was unlocked and opened easily. He stepped back into his car and drove into the factorys parking area.

The evening shift couldnt have been too large because there were only a half dozen or so beat-up cars near the entrance to the old brick mill building. To the left of the factory, the huge piles of discarded tires rose up like miniature snowcapped mountains. Between the used tires and the building were smaller heaps of plastic and vinyl debris. To the right of the factory was a rubbish-strewn, empty lot bisected by the hurricane fence that ran down to the Pawtomack River. Beyond the fence the deserted mill buildings stretched for a quarter of a mile to the north.

As soon as Charles got out of his car, he was enveloped by the same stench that had assaulted his house that morning. It amazed him that people could live to the immediate west of town, the direction of the prevailing winds. Locking the car, he started toward the entrance, an unimposing aluminum storm door. Above it, RECYCLE, LTD. UNAUTHORIZED ENTRY FORBIDDEN was written in block letters. Taped to the inside of the glass was a cardboard sign which said: INQUIRIES, followed by a local telephone number.

Charles tried the door, which was unlocked. If he had thought the odor bad outside, inside it was far worse. He found himself choking on the heavy, chemical-laden air in a small office of sorts. It was a plywood-veneer paneled room with a beat-up Formica counter that held a wire letter basket and a stainless steel bell, the kind you hit with the palm of your hand. Charles did just that, but the noise was swallowed up by the hisses and rumbles coming from within the factory proper.

Charles decided to try the inner door. At first it wouldnt open but when he pulled more forcibly it swung inward. As soon as it opened, Charles saw why it was insulated. It was as if it were a portal into hell itself. The combination of stench and noise was overpowering.

Charles entered a huge two-story-high room, poorly lit and dominated by a row of gigantic pressure-cooker-type apparatus. Metal ladders and catwalks ascended and crisscrossed in bewildering confusion. Large, clanking conveyor belts brought in piles of plastic and vinyl debris mixed with all sorts of disagreeable trash. The first people Charles saw were a pair of sweating men in sleeveless undershirts, with black-smudged faces like coal miners, sorting out the glass, wooden objects, and empty cans from the plastic.

Is there a manager here? yelled Charles, trying to be heard over the din.

One of the men looked up for an instant, indicated that he couldnt hear, then went back to his sorting. Apparently the conveyor belt didnt stop and they had to keep up with it. At the end of the belt was a large hopper which, when full, would rise up, position itself over an available pressure cooker, and dump its contents of plastic scrap. Charles saw a man with a large, scimitarlike knife up on the catwalk slit open two bags of chemicals, one white, the other black. With what appeared like great effort he dumped the two bags into the ovens in a great cloud of dust. For a moment the man disappeared from view. When he reappeared, he had closed the hatch and activated the steam, sending a fresh mixture of smoke, odor, and noise into the room.

Although Charles couldnt get anyones attention, no one asked him to leave, either. Boldly he skirted the conveyor belts, keeping his eyes on the floor which was strewn with trash and puddles of oil and grease. He passed a cinder-block wall housing the automated machinery bringing in the tires to be melted down. It was from this area that the smell that Charles associated with the factory originated. Up close it was far more powerful.

Just beyond the wall, Charles found a large wire cage secured with a stout padlock. It was obviously a storeroom because Charles could see shelving with spare parts, tools, and containers of industrial chemicals. The walls were made of the same material that formed the hurricane fence outside. Charles put his fingers through the mesh to support himself while he scanned the labels on the containers. He found what he was looking for directly in front of him. There were two steel drums with benzene stenciled on the sides. There were also the familiar skull and crossbone decals warning that the contents were poisonous. As he looked at the drums, Charles was shaken by a new wave of rage.

A hand gripped Charless shoulder and he spun about, flattening himself against the wire mesh.

What can I do for you? yelled a huge man trying to be heard over the thunderous din of the machinery. But the instant he spoke, a whistle blew above one of the plastic pressure cookers as it completed its cycle, making further conversation impossible. It burst open and belched forth an enormous amount of black, viscous, depolymerized plastic. The hot liquid was poured into cooling vats sending up billows of acrid vapors.

Charles looked at the man in front of him. He was a full head taller than Charles. His perspiring face was so pudgy that his eyes were mere slits. He was dressed like the other men Charles had seen. His sleeveless undershirt was stretched over a beer belly of awesome dimensions. The man was supporting a dolly, and Charles noticed his massive forearms were professionally tattooed with hula dancers. On the back of his left hand was a swastika that he had apparently done himself.

As soon as the noise level sank to its usual deafening pitch, the worker tried again. You checking our chemicals? He had to shout.

Charles nodded.

I think we need more carbon black, yelled the man.

Charles realized that the man thought he belonged there.

What about the benzene? yelled Charles.

We got plenty of benzene. That comes in the hundred-gallon drums.

What do you do with it after you use it?

You mean the spent benzene? Cmere, Ill show you.

The man leaned his dolly against the wire cage and led Charles across the main room, between two of the rubber ovens where the radiant heat was intense. They ducked under an overhang and entered a hallway that led to a lunch room where the noise was somewhat less. There were two picnic tables, a soda dispenser, and a cigarette machine. Between the soda dispenser and the cigarette machine was a window. The man brought Charles over to it and pointed outside. See those tanks out there?

Charles cupped his hands around his eyes and peered out. About fifty feet away and quite close to the riverbank were two cylindrical tanks. Even with the bright moon, he couldnt see any details.

Does any of the benzene go in the river? asked Charles, turning back to the worker.

Most of it is trucked away to God-knows-where. But you know those disposal companies. When the tanks get too full, we drain them into the river; its no problem. We do it at night and it washes right away. Goes out to the ocean. To tell you the truth . . . The man leaned over as if he were telling a secret: I think that fucking disposal company dumps it into the river, too. And they charge a goddamn fortune.

Charles felt his jaw tighten. He could see Michelle in the hospital bed with the IV running into her arm.

Wheres the manager? asked Charles, suddenly displaying his anger.

Manager? questioned the worker. He regarded Charles curiously.

Foreman, supervisor. Whoevers in charge, snapped Charles.

You mean the super, said the worker. Nat Archer. Hes in his office.

Show me where it is, ordered Charles.

The worker regarded Charles quizzically, then turned and retraced their route to the main room where he indicated a windowed door at the end of a metal catwalk one flight up. Up there, he said simply.

Ignoring the worker, Charles ran for the metal stairs. The worker watched him for a moment, then turned and picked up an in-house telephone.

Outside of the office, Charles hesitated for a moment, then tried the door. It opened easily and he entered. The office was like a soundproofed crows nest with windows that looked out on the whole operation. As Charles came through the door, Nat Archer twisted in his chair, then stood up smiling in obvious puzzlement.

Charles was about to shout at the man when he realized he knew him. He was the father of Steve Archer, a close friend of Jean Pauls. The Archers were one of Shaftesburys few black families.

Charles Martel! said Nat, extending his hand. Youre about the last person I expected to come through that door. Nat was a friendly, outgoing man who moved in a slow, controlled fashion, like a restrained athlete.

Taken off balance in finding someone he knew, Charles stammered that he wasnt making a social call.

Okay, said Nat, eyeing Charles more closely. Why dont you sit down?

Ill stand, said Charles. I want to know who owns Recycle, Ltd.

Nat hesitated. When he finally spoke he sounded wary. Breur Chemicals of New Jersey is the parent company. Why do you ask?

Whos the manager here?

Harold Dawson out on Covered Bridge Road. Charles, I think you should tell me what this is all about. Maybe I can save you some trouble.

Charles examined the foreman whod folded his arms across his chest, assuming a stiff, defensive posture in contrast to his initial friendliness.

My daughter was diagnosed to have leukemia today.

Im sorry to hear that, said Nat, confusion mixing with empathy.

Ill bet you are, said Charles. You people have been dumping benzene into the river. Benzene causes leukemia.

What are you talking about? We havent been dumping benzene. The stuff gets hauled away.

Dont give me any of your bullshit, snapped Charles.

I think youd better get your ass out of here, man.

Ill tell you what Im going to do, fumed Charles. Im going to see that this shithole factory gets closed down!

Whats the matter with you? You crazy or something? I told you we dont dump nothing.

Hah! That big guy downstairs with the tattoos specifically told me you dumped benzene. So dont try to deny it.

Nat Archer picked up his phone. He told Wally Crab to get up to his office on the double. Dropping the receiver onto the cradle he turned back to Charles. Man, you gotta have your head examined. Coming in here in the middle of the night, spoutin off about benzene. Whats the matter? Nothing good on the tube tonight? I mean Im sorry about your kid. But really, youre trespassing here.

This factory is a hazard to the whole community.

Yeah? Well, Im not so sure the community agrees with you.

Wally Crab came through the door as if he expected a fire. He skidded to a halt.

Wally, this man says you told him we dumped benzene in the river.

Hell no! said Wally, out of breath. I told him the benzene is taken away by the Draper Brothers Disposal.

You fucking liar! shouted Charles.

Nobody calls me a fucking liar, growled Wally, starting for Charles.

Ease off! yelled Nat, putting a hand on Wallys chest.

You told me, shouted Charles pointing an accusing finger in Wallys angered face, when the tanks are too full, you drain them into the river at night. Thats all I need. Im going to shut this place down.

Cool it! yelled Nat, releasing Wally and grasping Charless arm instead. He started walking Charles to the door.

Get your hands off me, Charles shouted as he pulled free. Then he shoved Nat away from him.

Nat recovered his balance and thrust Charles back against the wall of the small office.

Dont you ever touch me again, said Nat.

Charles had the intuitive sense to stay still.

Let me give you some advice, said Nat. Dont cause trouble around here. Youre trespassing, and if you ever come back, youll be very sorry. Now get the hell out of here before we throw you out.

For a minute Charles didnt know if he wanted to run or fight. Then, realizing he had no choice, he turned and went thundering down the metal stairs, and through the nightmarish mechanical maze on the main floor. He strode through the office and burst outside, thankful for the cold and relatively clean air of the parking lot. Once in the car, he gunned the engine mercilessly before shooting out through the gate.

The farther he got from Recycle, Ltd., the less fear he felt and the more anger and humiliation. Pounding the steering wheel, he vowed hed destroy the factory for Michelles sake no matter what it took. He tried to think of how he would go about doing it, but he was too irate to think clearly. The institute had a law firm on retainer; perhaps hed start there.

Charles pulled off 301 into his driveway, pushing the accelerator to the floor, spinning the wheels and shooting gravel up inside the fenders. The car skidded first to one side and then the other. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the lace curtains of one of the living room windows part and Cathryns face come into view for a second. He skidded to a stop just beyond the back porch and turned off the ignition.

He sat for a moment, gripping the steering wheel, hearing the engine cool off in the icy air. The reckless drive had calmed his emotions and gave him a chance to think. Perhaps it had been stupid to charge up to Recycle, Ltd. at that time of night, although he had to admit hed accomplished one thing: he knew for certain where the benzene in the pond was coming from. Yet now that he thought about it, he recognized that the real issue was taking care of Michelle and making the hard decisions about treatment. As a scientist he knew that the mere presence of benzene in the pond did not constitute proof that it had caused Michelles leukemia. No one had yet proved that benzene caused leukemia in humans, only in animals. Besides, Charles recognized that he was using Recycle, Ltd. to divert the hostility and anger caused by Michelles sickness.

Slowly he got out of the car, wishing once again that hed worked faster over the last four to five years on his own research so that now he might have something to offer his daughter. Immersed in thought, he was startled when Cathryn met him in the doorway. Her face was awash with fresh tears, her chest trembling as she fought to control her sobs.

Whats wrong? asked Charles with horror. His first reaction was that something had happened to Michelle.

Nancy Schonhauser called, Cathryn managed to say. Little Tad died this evening. That poor dear child.

Charles reached out and drew his wife to him, comforting her. At first he felt a sense of relief as if Michelle had been spared. But then he remembered that the boy lived on the Pawtomack River just as they did, only closer to town.

I thought Id go over to see Marge, continued Cathryn. But shes been hospitalized herself. She collapsed when they told her about Tad. Do you think I should go over to their house anyway and see if there is something I can do?

Charles was no longer listening. Benzene caused aplastic anemia as well as leukemia! Hed forgotten about Tad. Now Michelle was no longer a single, isolated case of bone marrow disease. Charles wondered how many other families living along the course of the Pawtomack River had been struck. All the anger Charles had felt earlier returned in an overwhelming rush, and he broke free from Cathryn.

Did you hear me? asked Cathryn, abandoned in the center of the room. She watched Charles go over to the telephone directory, look up a number, and dial. He seemed to have forgotten she was there. Charles, called Cathryn. I asked you a question.

He looked at her uncomprehendingly until the connection went through. Then he directed his attention to the phone. Is this Harold Dawson? demanded Charles.

It is, returned the manager.

My name is Dr. Charles Martel, said Charles. I was down at Recycle, Ltd. tonight.

I know, said Harold. Nat Archer called me a while ago. Im sorry for any discourtesies you experienced. I wish you had made your visit during regular hours so I could have seen you.

Discourtesies dont bother me, snapped Charles. But dumping toxic waste, like benzene, into the river does.

We are not dumping anything into the river, said Harold emphatically. All our toxic chemical permits have been filed with the EPA and are up to date.

Permits, scoffed Charles. There is benzene in the river and one of your workers said Recycles been dumping it. And benzene is damn toxic. My daughter has just come down with leukemia and a child just upriver from me died today of aplastic anemia. Thats no coincidence. Im going to shut you people down. I hope to God you have a lot of insurance.

These are wild, irresponsible accusations, said Harold evenly. I should tell you that Recycle, Ltd. is a marginal operation of Breur Chemical Corporation and they maintain this facility because they feel they are doing the community a service. I can assure you that if they thought otherwise, they would close the factory down themselves.

Well, it goddamn well ought to be closed, shouted Charles.

One hundred and eighty workers in this town might disagree, answered Harold, losing patience. If you cause trouble, mister, I can guarantee youll get trouble.

I . . . began Charles but he realized he was holding a dead phone. Harold Dawson had hung up.

God! Charles shouted as he furiously shook the receiver.

Cathryn took the phone away and replaced it in its cradle. Shed only heard Charless side of the conversation, but it had upset her. She forced him to sit down at the kitchen table, and she shooed her mother away when shed appeared at the door. Her face was streaked with tears, but she was no longer crying.

I think youd better tell me about the benzene, said Cathryn.

Its a poison, fumed Charles. It depresses the bone marrow somehow.

And you dont have to eat it to be poisoned?

No. You dont have to ingest it. All you have to do is inhale it. It goes directly into the bloodstream. Why did I have to make that playhouse out of the old ice shed?

And you think it could have caused Michelles leukemia?

I certainly do. Apparently shes been inhaling benzene all the time shes played there. Benzene causes the rare kind of leukemia that she has. Its too much of a coincidence. Especially with Tads aplastic anemia.

The benzene could have caused that?

Absolutely.

And you think Recycle has been putting benzene into the river?

I know they have. Thats what I found out tonight. And theyre going to pay. Ill get the place shut down.

And how are you going to do that?

I dont know yet. Ill talk to some people tomorrow. Ill get in touch with the EPA. Somebody is going to want to hear about it.

Cathryn studied Charless face, thinking of Dr. Keitzmans and Dr. Wileys questions. Charles, began Cathryn, marshaling her courage. This is all interesting and probably important but it seems to me that its a little inappropriate at this time.

Inappropriate? echoed Charles with disbelief.

Yes, said Cathryn. Weve just learned that Michelle has leukemia. I think that the primary focus should be taking care of her, not trying to get a factory shut down. There will always be time for that, but Michelle needs you now.

Charles stared at his young wife. She was a survivor, coping in a difficult situation with great effort. How could he hope to make her understand that the core of the problem was that he really didnt have anything to offer Michelle except love? As a cancer researcher he knew too much about Michelles disease; as a physician he couldnt be lured into false hope by the panoply of modern medicine; as a father he was terrified of what Michelle was going to face because hed gone through a similar situation with his first wife. Yet Charles was an activist. He had to do something, and Recycle, Ltd. was there to keep from facing the reality of Michelles illness and his deteriorating situation at the Weinburger Institute.

Charles recognized that he couldnt communicate all this to Cathryn because she probably wouldnt understand it and if she did it would undermine her own hopes. Despite their intense love for each other, Charles accepted that hed have to bear his burdens alone. The thought was crushing, and he collapsed in Cathryns arms.

Its been a terrible day, whispered Cathryn, holding Charles as tightly as she could. Lets go to bed and try to sleep.

Charles nodded, thinking, If I had only worked faster . . .

 

 

By a process so gradual as to be imperceptible, Michelle became aware that her room was lighter. The shade over the window now appeared dark with a light border rather than white with a dark border. Along with the gradual increase in illumination, the coming day was also heralded by the increased activity in the hallway. Michelles door was open about six inches and the shaft of yellow incandescent light that came through had been a meager comfort for her during the interminable night.

Michelle wondered when Charles or Cathryn would come. She hoped it would be soon because she wanted, more than anything else, to go home to her own room, her own house. She couldnt understand why she had had to stay in the hospital because after her dinner, which she had barely eaten, no one had done anything to her other than look in and check that she was OK.

Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, Michelle pushed herself into a sitting position. She closed her eyes and steeled herself against a rush of dizziness. The movement exacerbated her nausea which had troubled her all night. Once shed even gotten up when her saliva had pooled beneath her tongue, and she was afraid she was going to vomit. Holding on to the sides of the toilet, shed retched but hadnt brought up anything. Afterwards, it had taken all her strength to get back into bed.

Michelle was certain shed not slept at all. Besides the waves of nausea, she also had pains in her joints and abdomen, as well as chills. The fever, which had gone away the previous afternoon, was back.

Slowly Michelle slid off the bed onto her feet, gripping the IV pole. Pushing the pole in front of her, she began to shuffle to the bathroom. The plastic IV tubing still went into her left arm, which she kept as immobile as possible. She knew there was a needle on the end of the tubing and she was afraid that if she moved her arm, the needle would pierce her in some damaging way.

After going to the toilet, Michelle returned to her bed and climbed in. There was no way she could feel any more lonely or miserable.

Well, well, beamed a redheaded nurse as she came bustling into the room. Awake already. Arent we industrious? She snapped up the window shade unveiling the new day.

Michelle watched her but didnt speak.

The nurse went around the other side of the bed and plucked a thermometer out of a narrow stainless steel cup. Whats the matter, cat got your tongue? She flicked the thermometer, examined it, bent down, and poked it into Michelles mouth. Be back in a jiffy.

Waiting until the nurse was out the door, Michelle pulled the thermometer out of her mouth. She did not want anyone to know she still had a fever in case that might keep her in the hospital. She held the thermometer in her right hand, near to her face so that when the nurse came back, she would be able to put it into her mouth quickly.

The next person through the door was a false alarm. Michelle got the thermometer back into her mouth, but it was a man in a dirty white coat with hundreds of pens stuffed in his pocket. He carried a wire basket filled with glass test tubes with different-colored tops. He had strips of rubber tubing looped through the edges of his basket. Michelle knew what he wanted: blood.

She watched, terrified, as he made his preparations. He put a rubber tube about her arm so tight that her fingers hurt and roughly wiped the inside of her elbow with an alcohol swab, even the tender spot where theyd taken blood the day before. Then using his teeth, he pulled the cap off a needle. Michelle wanted to scream. Instead, she turned her head to hide silent tears. The rubber was unsnapped, which caused about as much pain as when it was put on. She heard a glass tube drop into the wire basket. Then she felt another stab as he yanked the needle out. He applied a cotton ball to the puncture site, bent her arm so that it pressed against the cotton, and gathered up his things. He left without saying a single word.

With one arm holding the cotton ball and the other with the IV, Michelle felt totally immobilized. Slowly she unbent her arm. The cotton ball rolled aside revealing an innocent red puncture mark surrounded by a black-and-blue area.

Okay, said the redheaded nurse, coming through the door. Lets see what weve got.

Michelle remembered with panic that the thermometer was still in her mouth.

Deftly the nurse extracted it, noted the temperature, then dropped it into the metal container on Michelles night table. Breakfast will be up in a moment, she said cheerfully, but she didnt mention Michelles fever. She left with the same abruptness with which shed arrived.

Oh, Daddy, please come and get me, said Michelle to herself. Please hurry.

 

 

Charles felt his shoulder being shaken. He tried to ignore it because he wanted to continue sleeping, but the shaking continued. When he opened his eyes he saw Cathryn, already robed, standing by the bed holding out a steaming mug of coffee. Pushing himself up on one elbow, Charles took the coffee.

Its seven oclock, said Cathryn with a smile.

Seven? Charles glanced at the face of the alarm clock, thinking that oversleeping was not the way to increase the pace of his research efforts.

You were sleeping so soundly, said Cathryn, kissing his forehead, that I didnt have the heart to wake you earlier. Weve got a big breakfast waiting downstairs.

Charles knew that she was making an effort to sound gay.

Enjoy your coffee, said Cathryn. She started for the door. Gina got up and made it before I was even awake.

Charles glanced down at the mug in his hands. The fact that Gina was still there was irritating enough. He did not want to have to feel beholden to her the first thing in the morning, but then he was holding the coffee and he knew shed ask how it was and gloat over the fact that shed arisen when everyone else was still asleep.

Charles shook his head. Such annoying thoughts were not the way to begin the day. He tasted the coffee. It was hot, aromatic, and stimulating. He admitted that he enjoyed it and decided to tell Gina before shed have a chance to ask, and then thank her for getting up before the others, before she had a chance to tell them.

Carrying his coffee mug, Charles padded down the hall to Michelles room. He paused outside of the door, then slowly pushed it open. He had half hoped to see his young daughter safely sleeping in her bed, but of course her bed was neatly made, her books and memorabilia compulsively arranged, her room as neat as a pin. All right, said Charles to himself, as if he were bargaining with an all-powerful arbiter, she has myeloblastic leukemia. Just let her case be sensitive to current treatment. Thats all I ask.

Breakfast was a strained affair, overshadowed by Ginas forced ebullience and Charless reserve. One fed the other in a self-fulfilling prophecy until Gina was chatting nonstop and Charles perfectly silent. Cathryn interrupted with complicated plans about who was going to do what, when. Charles stayed out of the domestic decision making and concentrated on planning his days work at the institute. The first thing he wanted to do was check the well mice injected with the cancer antigen for signs of immunological activity. Most likely there would be no response with such a light dose and he would prepare to give them another challenge that afternoon. Then he would check the mice injected with the Canceran and reinject them. Then he would start work on a computer simulation of the way he envisioned the blocking factor worked.

Charles, is that agreeable to you? asked Cathryn.

What? questioned Charles. Hed tuned out all conversation.

I will ride with you in the Pinto this morning, and you can drop me at the hospital. Chuck will take the station wagon, drop off Jean Paul, and drive himself to Northeastern. Gina has agreed to stay here and make dinner.

Ill make your favorite, said Gina enthusiastically, gnocchi.

Gnocchi! Charles didnt even know what gnocchi was.

If I want to leave early, continued Cathryn to Charles, I can go over to Northeastern and pick up the station wagon. Otherwise Ill come back with you. What do you say?

Charles couldnt figure out how all these elaborate plans were making things any easier. The old method of his driving the boys and leaving the station wagon for Cathryn seemed far more simple, but he didnt care. In fact, if he decided to work that night, maybe it would be best if Chuck had the car because then Cathryn could come home with him in the afternoon.

Fine with me, said Charles, finding himself watching Chuck who was in his usual breakfast posture, studying the cereal box as if it were Scripture. The boy was wearing the same clothes as yesterday and looked just as bad.

I got a call from the business office yesterday, said Charles.

Yeah, I gave them the number, said Chuck without looking up.

I made arrangements at the bank for a loan, said Charles. Should be available in a day or so, then the bill will be paid.

Good, said Chuck, flipping the box so he could study the nutritional values on the side panel.

Is that all you have to say? Good? Charles turned his head toward Cathryn with a look that said: Can you believe this kid?

Chuck pretended he hadnt heard the question.

I think we should be going, said Cathryn, getting to her feet and collecting the milk and butter to put into the refrigerator.

Just leave everything, said Gina magnanimously. Ill take care of it.

Charles and Cathryn were the first out of the house. A pale winter sun hung low in the southeastern sky. As cold as it was inside the Pinto, Cathryn was relieved to get out of the biting wind.

Damn, said Charles, blowing on his fingers. I forgot the pond water.

For Cathryns sake, Charles started the car, which was no easy task, before running back into the kitchen for the jar of pond water. He carefully wedged it behind his seat to keep it from spilling before he climbed into the car and fumbled with his seat belt.

Cathryn watched this procedure with the pond water with a certain misgiving. After her little talk to Charles the night before shed hoped that he would concentrate on Michelle. But Charles had acted strangely from the moment shed awakened him that morning. Cathryn had the scary feeling that her family was coming apart at the seams.

Watching Charless silent profile as he drove, Cathryn began multiple conversations but abandoned each for various reasons, mostly because she feared any discussion would trigger her husbands temper.

When Route 301 merged with Interstate 93, Cathryn finally forced herself to speak: How do you feel today, Charles?

Huh? Oh fine. Just fine.

You seem so quiet. Its not like you.

Just thinking.

About Michelle?

Yes, and also my work.

Youre not still thinking of Recycle, Ltd., are you?

Charles glanced at Cathryn for a moment, then turned his attention to the road ahead. A little. I still think the place is a menace, if thats what you mean.

Charles, there isnt something youre not telling me, is there?

No, said Charles too quickly. What makes you ask that?

I dont know, admitted Cathryn. You seem so far away since we heard about Michelle. Your mood seems to change so quickly. Cathryns eyes darted over to watch Charless reaction to her last comment. But Charles just drove on, and if there had been a reaction, Cathryn missed it.

I guess I just have a lot on my mind, said Charles.

Youll share it with me, wont you, Charles? I mean thats what Im here for. Thats why I wanted to adopt the children. I want you to share everything with me. Cathryn reached over and put her hand on Charless thigh.

Charles concentrated on the road in front of him. Cathryn was voicing a conviction hed held until yesterday, but now he realized that he couldnt share everything. His background as a physician had imparted experiences that Cathryn could not comprehend. If Charles told what he knew about the course of Michelles illness, shed be devastated.

Taking a hand from the steering wheel, Charles placed it over Cathryns. The children dont know how lucky they are, he said.

They rode in silence for a while. Cathryn wasnt satisfied, but she didnt know what else to say. In the far distance she could just make out the top of the Prudential building. The traffic began to increase, and they had to slow to forty miles per hour.

I dont know anything about tissue-typing and all that, said Cathryn, breaking the silence. But I dont think we should force Chuck to do something he doesnt want to do.

Charles glared at Cathryn for a moment.

Im sure he will come around, she continued when she realized that Charles wasnt going to speak. But he has to agree on his own.

Charles took his hand off Cathryns and gripped the steering wheel. The mere mention of Chuck was like stoking a smoldering fire. Yet what Cathryn was saying was undeniably true.

You cant force someone to be altruistic, said Cathryn. Especially Chuck, because it will only strengthen the worries he has about his sense of self.

A sense of self is all he has, said Charles. He didnt voice the slightest concern about Michelle. Not one word.

But he feels it, said Cathryn. Its just hard for him to express those feelings.

Charles laughed cynically. I wish I believed it. Hes just goddamned selfish. Did you notice his overwhelming appreciation when I told him Id applied for a loan for his tuition?

What did you want him to do? Cartwheels? returned Cathryn. The tuition was supposed to be paid months ago.

Charles set his jaw. Fine, he said to himself. You want to side with the little bastard . . . just fine!

Cathryn was instantly sorry shed said what she had even though it was true. Reaching over, she put her hand on his shoulder. She wanted to draw Charles out, not shut him up. Im sorry I said that, but Charles, you have to understand that Chuck doesnt have your personality. Hes not competitive and hes not the most handsome boy. But basically hes a good kid. Its just very hard growing up in your shadow.

Charles glanced sideways at his wife.

Whether you know it or not, said Cathryn, youre a hard act to follow. Youve been successful in everything youve tried.

Charles did not share that opinion. He could have rattled off a dozen episodes in which hed failed miserably. But that wasnt the issue: it was Chuck.

I think the kids selfish and lazy, and Im tired of it. His response to Michelles illness was all too predictable.

He has a right to be selfish, said Cathryn. College is the ultimate selfish experience.

Well, hes certainly making the best of it.

They came to the stop-and-go traffic where 193 joined the southeast expressway and Storrow Drive. Neither spoke as they inched forward.

This isnt what we should be worrying about, said Cathryn finally.

Youre right, sighed Charles. And youre right about not forcing Chuck. But if he doesnt do it, hes going to wait a long time before I pay his next college bill.

Cathryn looked sharply at Charles. If that wasnt coercion, she had no idea what was.

Although at that time of morning there were few visitors, the hospital itself was in full swing, and Charles and Cathryn had to dodge swarms of gurneys moving tiny bedridden patients to and from their various tests. Cathryn felt infinitely more comfortable with Charles at her side. Still her palms were wet, which was her usual method of showing anxiety.

As they passed the bustling nurses station on Anderson 6, the charge nurse caught sight of them and waved a greeting. Charles stepped over to the counter.

Excuse me, said Charles. Im Dr. Martel. I was wondering if my daughter started her chemotherapy. He purposefully kept his voice natural, emotionless.

I believe so, said the nurse, but let me check.

The clerk whod overheard the conversation handed over Michelles chart.

She got her Daunorubicin yesterday afternoon, said the nurse. She got her first oral dose of Thioguanine this morning, and shell start with the Cytarabine this afternoon.

The names jolted Charles but he forced himself to keep smiling. He knew too well the potential side effects and the information silently echoed in his head. Please, said Charles to himself. Please, let her go into remission. Charles knew that if it would happen, it would happen immediately. He thanked the nurse, turned, and walked toward Michelles room. The closer he got, the more nervous he became. He loosened his tie and unbuttoned the top button of his shirt.

Its nice the way they have decorated to brighten the atmosphere, remarked Cathryn, noticing the animal decals for the first time.

Charles stopped for a moment outside the door, trying to compose himself.

This is it, said Cathryn, thinking that Charles was uncertain of the room number. She pushed open the door, entered, and pulled Charles in behind her.

Michelle was propped up in a sitting position with several pillows behind her back. At the sight of Charles, her face twisted and she burst into tears. Charles was shocked at her appearance. Although he had not thought it possible, she looked even paler than she had the day before. Her eyes had visibly sunk into their sockets and were surrounded by circles so dark they looked like she had black eyes. In the air hung the rank smell of fresh vomit.

Charles wanted to run and hold her, but he couldnt move. The agony of his inadequateness held him back, although she lifted her arms to him.

Her disease was too powerful, and he had nothing to offer her, just like with Elizabeth eight years earlier. The nightmare had returned. In an avalanche of horror, Charles recognized that Michelle was not going to get better. Suddenly he knew without the slightest doubt that all the palliative treatment in the world would not touch the inevitable progression of her illness. Under the weight of this knowledge Charles staggered, taking a step back from the bed.

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

Its so good to see you, said Cathryn, looking into Michelles face. How are you?

Im fine, managed Michelle, checking her tears. I just want to go home. Can I go home, Daddy?

Charless 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 youre well, Cathryn said hurriedly. Dr. Wiley and Dr. Keitzman are going to see that you get better just as soon as possible. I know its 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. Im sorry.

Why? Daddy, pleaded Michelle, whats 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 dont know, said Charles as he guiltily checked his watch. Thats why youre here. To find out. Cathryn is going to stay with you to keep you company. Ive got to get to the lab. Ill 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.

Dont you worry, princess, said the woman casually, pulling off the soiled top sheet. Well have it cleaned up in a second.

Charles put the back of his hand against Michelles 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 shed 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.

Ill 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. Ill get her some in a minute.

Is it a needle? cried Michelle.

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

Ill 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 didnt stop.

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

Ive got to get out of here, said Charles, nervously stroking his hair. I cant stand to see Michelle suffer. She looks terrible. I dont know what to do. Im 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 Michelles treatment.

Her vomiting, said Charles angrily. Thats 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.

Ive got to go, said Charles. Call me if there is any change. Ill be at the lab.

Cathryn watched Charles rush down the crowded corridor. He didnt 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 hed 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 Charless excitement.

Sorta, said Charles. Im 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 dont 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 Michelles 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, whod been busy reading the Canceran protocol at Charless 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, were going to try something different. Its 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. Its a shotgun survey, but it might be helpful. Now, while you check yesterdays mice and inject them with a second challenge of the cancer antigen, Im 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 side 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.

Charless face clouded with disbelief. What happened? He put down the receiver.

I dont know, admitted Ellen. Theres 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 hasnt autopsied any but he thinks they died of cardiac insult.

Drug toxicity! said Charles, shaking his head.

Im afraid so.

Wheres 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 theyd 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 theyll still want us to do Canceran, said Ellen.

Well I dont give a damn, snapped Charles. Were finished with Canceran. If Morrison and Ibanez give us trouble, well slap them in the face with the proof that the toxicity study isnt worth the paper its printed on. Well threaten to tell the press. With that kind of scandal, I think even the National Cancer Institute might question where its putting its money.

I dont think its going to be that easy, said Ellen. I think we should . . .

Thats enough, Ellen! yelled Charles. I want you to start testing for antibodies in our first batch of mice, then reinject them. Ill 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 Charless 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 its loaded with it. But also theres lesser amounts of toluene, as well as some trichloroethylene and carbon tetrachloride. Vile stuff! You could practically clean your oil-base paintbrushes in it. Ill 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 hed 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 theyd 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.

Youve got the wrong extension, said the woman. This is the Water Programs Division and we dont 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.

Im 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. Im calling to report that there is a factory regularly dumping benzene which is a poison.

Well, we dont handle that, interrupted the woman. Youll 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. Thats in New Hampshire, isnt it?

Thats right but . . .

Well, we dont handle New Hampshire.

But the river is mostly in Massachusetts.

That might be, said the woman, but the origin is in New Hampshire. Youll have to talk to them.

Give me strength, muttered Charles.

Excuse me?

Do you have their number?

No. Youll 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. Im 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. Theyre discarding benzene in the Pawtomack.

Okay, said the woman. Thank you very much.

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

Ill turn this over to one of our engineers, said the woman. And hell look into it.

When?

I cant say for certain.

Can you give me an idea?

Were pretty busy with several oil spills down at Portsmouth, so it will probably be several weeks.

Several weeks wasnt what Charles wanted to hear.

Are any of the engineers around now?

No. Both of them are out. Wait! Here comes one now. Would you like to speak to him?

Please.

There was a short delay before a man came on the line.

Larry Spencer here! said the engineer.

Charles quickly told the man why he was calling and that hed like someone to check out the dumping immediately.

Weve got a real manpower problem in this department, explained the engineer.

But this is really serious. Benzene is a poison, and a lot of people live along the river.

Its all serious, said the engineer.

Is there anything I can do to speed things up? asked Charles.

Not really, said the engineer. Although you could go to the EPA and see if theyre interested.

Thats who I called first. They referred me to you.

There you go! said the engineer. Its hard to predict which cases theyll take on. After we do all the dirty work they usually help, but sometimes theyre interested from the start. Its a crazy, inefficient system. But its the only one weve got.

Charles thanked the engineer and rang off. He felt the man was sincere and at least hed said that the EPA might be interested after all. Charles had noticed the EPA was housed in the JFK Building at government center in Boston. He wasnt going to try another phone call; he decided hed go in person. Restlessly Charles got to his feet and reached for his coat.

Ill be right back, he called over to Ellen.

Ellen didnt respond. She waited several full minutes after the door closed behind Charles before checking the corridor. Charles was nowhere to be seen. Returning to the desk, Ellen dialed Dr. Morrisons number. She had convinced herself that Charles was acting irresponsibly, even taking into consideration his daughters illness, and that it wasnt fair for him to jeopardize her job as well as his own. Dr. Morrison listened gravely to Ellen, then told her hed be right down. Before he hung up he mentioned that her help in this difficult affair would not go unrecognized.

Charles felt a building frenzy when he left the Weinburger. Everything was going poorly, including his idea of revenge. After his time on the phone, he was no longer so positive he could do anything about Recycle, Ltd. short of going up there with his old shotgun. The image of Michelle in her hospital bed again rose to haunt him. Charles did not know why he was so certain she was not going to respond to the chemotherapy. Maybe it was his crazy way of forcing himself to deal with the worst possible case, because he recognized that chemotherapy was her only hope. If she has to have leukemia, cried Charles shaking the Pintos steering wheel, why cant she have lymphocytic where chemotherapy is so successful.

Without realizing it, Charles had allowed his car to slow below forty miles an hour, infuriating the other drivers on the road. There was a cacophony of horns, and as people passed him, they shook their fists.

After stashing his car in the municipal parking garage, Charles made his way up the vast bricked walk between the JFK Federal Building and the geometric City Hall. The buildings acted as a wind tunnel and Charles had to lean into the gusts to walk. The sun was weakly shining at that moment, but a gray cloud bank was approaching from the west. The temperature was twenty-four degrees.

Charles pushed through the revolving door and searched for a directory. To his left was an exhibition of John F. Kennedy photographs and straight ahead, next to the elevator, a makeshift coffee and donut concession had been set up.

Dusting Charles with a fine layer of confectioners sugar as she spoke, one of the waitresses pointed out the directory. It was hidden behind a series of smiling teenage photos of John F. Kennedy. The EPA was listed on the twenty-third floor. Charles scrambled onto an elevator just before the door closed. Looking around at his fellow occupants, Charles wondered about the strange predominance of green polyester.

Charles got out on the twenty-third floor and made his way to an office marked DIRECTOR. That seemed like a good place to start.

Immediately inside the office was a large metal desk and typing stand dominated by an enormous woman whose hair was permed into a profusion of tight curls. A rhinestone-encrusted cigarette holder, capped by a long, ultrathin cigarette, protruded jauntily from the corner of her mouth and competed for attention with her prodigious bosom that taxed the tensile strength of her dress. As Charles approached she adjusted the curls at her temples, viewing herself in a small hand mirror.

Excuse me, said Charles, wondering if this was one of the women hed spoken to on the phone. Im here to report a recycling plant thats dumping benzene into a local river. Whom do I speak with?

Continuing to pat her hair, the woman suspiciously examined Charles. Is benzene a hazardous substance? she demanded.

Damn right its hazardous, said Charles.

I suppose you should go down to the Hazardous Materials Division on the nineteenth floor, said the woman with a tone that suggested you ignorant slob.

After eight flights of stairs, Charles emerged on nineteen, which had a totally different atmosphere. All except weight-bearing walls were removed, so that one could look from one end of the building to the other. The floor was filled with a maze of chest-height metal dividers separating the area into tiny cubicles. Above the scene hung a haze of cigarette smoke and the unintelligible murmur of hundreds of voices.

Charles entered the maze, noticing there were poles resembling street signs, describing the various departments. The Hazardous Materials Division was helpfully adjacent to the stairwell Charles had used, so he began to look at the signs delineating the subdivisions. He passed the Noise Program, the Air Program, the Pesticide Program, and the Radiation Program. Just beyond the Solid Waste Program he saw the Toxic Waste Program. He headed in that direction.

Turning off the main corridor, Charles again confronted a desk serving as a kind of barrier to the interior. It was a much smaller desk and occupied by a slender black fellow who had apparently taken great effort to brush his naturally curly hair straight. To his credit, the man gave Charles his full attention. He was fastidiously dressed and when he spoke, he spoke with an accent almost English in its precision.

Im afraid youre not in the right section, said the young man after hearing Charless request.

Your division doesnt handle benzene?

We handle benzene all right, said the man, but we just handle the permits and licensing of hazardous materials.

Where do you suggest I go? asked Charles, controlling himself.

Hmmm, said the man, putting a carefully manicured finger to the tip of his nose. You know, I havent the slightest idea. This has never come up. Wait, let me ask somebody else.

With a light, springy step, the young man stepped around the desk, smiled at Charles, and disappeared into the interior of the maze. His shoes had metal taps and the sound carried back to Charles, distinct from the sounds of nearby typewriters. Charles fidgeted as he waited. He had the feeling his efforts were going to turn out to be totally in vain.

The young black came back.

Nobody really knows where to go, he admitted. But it was suggested that perhaps you could try the Water Programs Division on the twenty-second floor. Maybe they can help.

Charles thanked the man, appreciating at least his willingness to help, and returned to the stairwell. With dampened enthusiasm but augmented anger, Charles climbed the six flights of stairs to the twenty-second floor. When hed passed the twenty-first floor hed had to skirt a group of three young men passing a joint among them. Theyd eyed Charles with brazen arrogance.

The twenty-second floor was a mix of offices with normal plasterboard walls alternating with open areas containing chest-high dividers. At a nearby watercooler, Charles got directions to the Water Programs Division.

Charles found the receptionists desk but it was empty. A smoldering cigarette suggested the occupant was in the vicinity but even after a short wait, no one materialized. Emboldened by exasperation, Charles stepped around the desk and entered the interior office space. Some of the cubicles were occupied with people on the phone or busy at a typewriter. Charles wandered until he came upon a man carrying a load of federal publications.

Pardon me, said Charles.

The man eased the stack of pamphlets onto his desk and acknowledged Charles. Charles went through his now-automatic routine. The man straightened the pile of pamphlets while he thought, then turned to Charles. This isnt the right department for reporting that kind of thing.

Jesus Christ! Charles exploded. This is the Water Department. I want to report a poisoning of water.

Hey, dont get mad at me, defended the man. Were only tasked with monitoring water treatment facilities and sewerage disposal facilities.

Im sorry, said Charles with little sympathy. You have no idea how frustrating this is. I have a simple complaint. I know a factory thats dumping benzene into a river.

Maybe you should try the Hazardous Substance department, said the man.

I already did.

Oh, said the man, still thinking. Why dont you try the Enforcement Division up on twenty-three?

Charles eyed the man for a moment, dumbfounded. Enforcement Division? echoed Charles. Why hasnt someone suggested that before?

Beats me, said the man.

Charles muttered obscenities under his breath as he found another stairwell and climbed to the twenty-third floor. He passed the Financial Management Branch, the Personnel Branch, and the Program Planning and Development Branch. Just beyond the mens room was the Enforcement Division. Charles stepped inside.

A black girl with large, purple-shaded glasses looked up from the latest Sidney Sheldon novel. She must have been at a good part because she didnt hide her irritation at being bothered.

Charles told her what he wanted.

I dont know anything about that, said the girl.

Whom should I talk to? said Charles slowly.

I dont know, said the girl, going back to her book.

Charles leaned on the desk with his left hand, and with his right snatched away the paperback. He slammed it down on the desk so that the girl jumped back.

Sorry I lost your place, said Charles. But Id like to speak to your supervisor.

Miss Stevens? asked the girl, unsure of what Charles might do next.

Miss Stevens will be fine.

Shes not in today.

Charles drummed his fingers on the desk, resisting the temptation to reach over and give the girl a shake.

All right, he said. How about the next person in command who is here.

Mrs. Amendola? suggested the girl.

I dont care what her name is.

Keeping a wary eye on Charles, the young woman got to her feet and disappeared.

When she reappeared, five minutes later, she had a concerned woman in tow who looked about thirty-five.

Im Mrs. Amendola, assistant supervisor here. Can I help you?

I certainly hope so, said Charles. Im Dr. Charles Martel and Im trying to report a factory that is dumping poisonous chemicals into a river. I have been sent from one department to another until someone suggested there was an Enforcement Division. But when I arrived here the receptionist was somewhat less than cooperative, so I demanded to speak to a supervisor.

I told him that I didnt know anything about dumping chemicals, explained the young black girl.

Mrs. Amendola considered the situation for a moment, then invited Charles to follow her.

After passing a dozen cubicles, they entered a tiny and windowless office enlivened with travel posters. Mrs. Amendola motioned toward a lounge chair and squeezed herself behind the desk.

You must understand, said Mrs. Amendola, we dont have people walking in off the street with your kind of complaint. But of course, that doesnt excuse rudeness.

What the hell do you people enforce if its not fouling the environment, said Charles with hostility. After leading him to her office to placate him, Charles had the feeling that she was just going to refer him to another department.

Our main job, explained the woman, is to make sure that factories handling hazardous waste have filed for all the proper permits and licenses. Its a law that they do this and we enforce the law. Sometimes we have to take businesses to court and fine them.

Charles lowered his face into his hands and massaged his scalp. Apparently the absurdity that Mrs. Amendola was describing was not apparent to her.

Are you all right? Mrs. Amendola tilted forward in her chair.

Let me be sure I understand what youre saying, said Charles. The primary task of the Enforcement Division of the EPA is to make sure that paperwork gets done. It has nothing to do with enforcing the Clean Water Act or anything like that?

Thats not entirely correct, said Mrs. Amendola. You must remember that the whole concern for the environment is relatively new. Regulations are still being formulated. The first step is registering all users of hazardous materials and informing them of the rules. Then and only then will we be in a position to go after the violators.

So, for now, unscrupulous factories can do what they want, said Charles.

Thats not entirely correct either, said Mrs. Amendola. We do have a surveillance branch which is part of our analytical laboratory. Under the present administration our budget has been cut and unfortunately that branch is quite small, but thats the place your complaint should go. After they document a violation, they turn it over to us and we assign the case to one of the EPA lawyers. Tell me, Dr. Martel. What is the name of the factory you are concerned about?

Recycle, Ltd. in Shaftesbury, said Charles.

Why dont we check their paperwork? said Mrs. Amendola rising from her desk.

Charles followed the woman out of her tiny office and down a long corridor. She paused at a secured door and inserted a plastic card in a slot.

Were going on-line with a pretty sophisticated data processor, said Mrs. Amendola, holding the door open for Charles, so were having to tighten security.

Inside the room the air was cooler and cleaner. There was no odor of cigarette smoke. Apparently the computer terminals well-being was more important than employee health. Mrs. Amendola sat down in front of a free terminal and typed in RECYCLE, LTD., SHAFTESBURY, N.H. There was a ten-second delay after which the cathode ray tube blinked to life. Recycle, Ltd. was described in computer shorthand, including the fact that it was wholly owned by Breur Chemicals of New Jersey. Then all the hazardous chemicals involved with the plant were listed, followed by the date applications for permit or license were filed and the date they were granted.

What chemicals are you interested in? said Mrs. Amendola.

Benzene, mostly.

Here it is, here. EPA hazardous chemical number U019. Everything seems to be in order. I guess theyre not breaking any laws.

But theyre dumping the stuff directly in the river! exclaimed Charles. I know thats against the law.

The other occupants of the room looked up from their work, shocked at Charless outburst. Churchlike speech was the unwritten law in the computer terminal room.

Charles lowered his voice. Can we go back to your office?

Mrs. Amendola nodded.

Back in the tiny office, Charles moved forward to the edge of the chair. Mrs. Amendola, Im going to tell you the whole story because I think you might be able to help me.

Charles went on to tell about Michelles leukemia, Tad Schonhausers death from aplastic anemia, his discovery and confirmation of the benzene in the pond, and his visit to Recycle, Ltd.

My God! she said when Charles paused.

Do you have children? asked Charles.

Yes! said Mrs. Amendola with true fear in her voice.

Then maybe you can understand what this is doing to me, said Charles. And maybe you can understand why I want to do something about Recycle, Ltd. Im sure a lot of kids live along the Pawtomack. But obviously I need some help.

You want me to try to get the EPA involved, said Mrs. Amendola. A statement, not a question.

Exactly, said Charles, or tell me how to do it.

It would be best if you made your complaint in writing. Address it to me!

Thats easy, said Charles.

What about some documented proof? Could you get that?

I already have the analysis of the pond water, said Charles.

No, no, said Mrs. Amendola. Something from the factory itself: a statement by a former employee, doctored records, photos of the actual dumping. Something like that.

Its possible, I suppose, said Charles, thinking about the last suggestion. He had a Polaroid camera . . .

If you could supply me with some kind of proof, I think I could get the Surveillance Branch to confirm it, then authorize a full-scale probe. So its up to you. Otherwise it will just have to wait its turn.

As Charles left the JFK Federal Building he was again fighting a feeling of depression. He was much less confident now about convincing any authority to do anything about Recycle, Ltd. Consequently, the idea of taking matters into his own hands was an increasingly enjoyable fantasy.

The more he thought about Breur Chemicals, the angrier he became that a handful of dull businessmen sitting around in oak-paneled conference rooms in New Jersey could destroy his happiness and rob him of that which he loved the most. Approaching the Weinburger, Charles decided hed call the absentee parent company and let them know how he felt about them.

Since the Brighton scandal hit the media, security had been tightened at the Weinburger, and Charles had to knock on the massive glass door before it slid open. He was greeted by Roy, the guard, who demanded to see his identification.

Its me, Roy, said Charles, waving his hand in front of Roys face. Dr. Martel.

Orders, explained Roy, with his hand still outstretched.

Administrative nonsense, mumbled Charles as he searched for his ID. What next?

Roy shrugged, waited to see the card, which Charles stuck two inches away from his face, then ceremoniously stepped aside. Even the usually coy Miss Andrews turned away without honoring him with her usual come-over-and-talk-to-me smile.

Charles ditched his coat, called information for New Jersey, and dialed Breur Chemicals. As he waited he looked around the lab wondering if Ellen was still offended. He didnt see her and decided she must be in the animal room. At that moment Breur Chemicals answered the phone.

Later Charles admitted to himself he should not have called. Hed already had enough bad experiences that morning to have guessed what it would have been like to try to call a giant corporation with what they would consider a bothersome complaint. Charles was switched over to a low-level man in the Public Relations department.

Rather than try to placate Charles, the man accused him of being one of those unpatriotic nuts whose stupid and unfounded environmental concerns were responsible for putting American industry in a poor competitive position with companies overseas. The conversation degenerated into a shouting match about dumping benzene with Charles saying they were and the man saying they were not.

He slammed the phone down and spun around in a fury, looking for a way to vent his anger.

The door to the corridor opened and Ellen entered.

Have you noticed? asked Ellen with irritating nonchalance.

Noticed what? snapped Charles.

All the lab books, said Ellen. Theyre gone.

Charles leaped to his feet, scanning his desk, then the countertops.

Theres no sense looking for them, said Ellen. Theyre upstairs.

What the hell for?

After you left this morning, Dr. Morrison stopped in to check on our progress with Canceran. Instead he caught me working with the mice wed given the mammary cancer antigen. Needless to say, he was shocked that we were doing our own work. Im supposed to tell you to go to Dr. Ibanezs office as soon as you appeared.

But why did they take the books? asked Charles. Fear blunted the edge of his anger. As much as he hated administrative authority, he also feared it. It had been that way ever since college where hed learned that an arbitrary decision from the Deans office could affect his whole life. And now the administration had invaded his world and arbitrarily taken his lab books which for Charles was like taking a hostage. The contents of the lab books were associated in his mind with helping Michelle, despite how far-fetched that was in reality.

I think youd better ask Dr. Morrison and Dr. Ibanez that question, said Ellen. Frankly, I knew it was going to come to something like this.

Ellen sighed and tossed her head in an I-told-you-so fashion. Charles watched her, surprised at her attitude. It added to his feeling of isolation.

Leaving his lab, he wearily climbed up the fire stairs to the second floor and walked past the familiar row of secretaries and presented himself to Miss Veronica Evans for the second time in two days. Although she was obviously unoccupied, she took her sweet time looking up over her glasses at Charles.

Yes? she said as if Charles were a servant. Then she told him to wait on a small leather couch. Charles was certain that the delay was made to impress upon him that he was a pawn. Time dragged while Charles could not decide which was the stronger emotion: anger, fear, or panic. But the need to get back his lab books kept him in his place. He had no idea if they were technically his property or the institutes.

The longer he sat, the less certain he became that the books detailing his recent work would be a strong bargaining point. He began to wonder if Ibanez might actually fire him. He tried to think what he could do if he had trouble getting another research position. He felt so out of touch with clinical medicine that he didnt think he could do that. And if he got fired, he wondered with renewed panic if hed still be covered by health insurance. That was a real concern because Michelles hospital bills were going to be astronomical.

There was a discreet buzz on the intercom panel, and Miss Evans turned to Charles imperiously and said: The director will see you now.

Dr. Carlos Ibanez stood up behind his antique desk as Charles entered. His figure was backlit from the windows, making his hair and goatee shine like polished silver.

Directly in front of the desk were Joshua Weinburger, Sr. and Joshua Weinburger, Jr., whom Charles had met at infrequent mandatory social functions. Although close to eighty, the senior seemed more animated than the junior, with lively blue eyes. He regarded Charles with great interest.

Joshua Weinburger, Jr. was the stereotypical businessman, impeccably attired, obviously extremely reserved. He glanced at Charles with a mixture of disdain and boredom, switching his attention back to Dr. Ibanez almost immediately.

Seated to the right of the desk was Dr. Morrison, whose dress mirrored Joshua Weinburger, Jr.s in its attention to detail. A silk handkerchief, which had been carefully folded, then casually flared, protruded from his breast pocket.

Come in, come in! commanded Dr. Ibanez good-naturedly.

Charles approached Dr. Ibanezs huge desk, noticing the conspicuous lack of a fourth chair. He ended up standing between the Weinburgers and Morrison. Charles didnt know what to do with his hands, so he stuck them into his pockets. He looked out of place among these businessman with his frayed oxford-cloth shirt, his wide out-of-style tie, and poorly pressed slacks.

I think we should get right to business, said Dr. Ibanez. The Weinburgers, as co-chairmen of the board of directors, have graciously come to help us manage the current crisis.

Indeed, said Weinburger, Jr., turning slightly in his chair so as to look up at Charles. He had a tremor of his head and it rotated rapidly in a short arc to and fro. Dr. Martel, its not the policy of the board of directors to interfere in the creative process of research. However, there are occasionally circumstances in which we must violate this rule and the current crisis is such a time. I think you should know that Canceran is a potentially important drug for Lesley Pharmaceuticals. To be very blunt, Lesley Pharmaceuticals is in precarious financial condition. Within the last few years, their patents have run out on their line of antibiotics and tranquilizers, and they are in desperate need of a new drug to market. They have committed their scarce resources into developing a chemotherapy line, and Canceran is the product of that research. They hold the exclusive patent on Canceran but must get the drug on the market. The sooner the better.

Charles studied the faces of the men. Obviously they werent going to dismiss him summarily. The idea was to soften him up, make him understand the financial realities, then convince him to recommence work on Canceran. He had a glimmer of hope. The Weinburgers couldnt have risen to their positions of power without intelligence, and Charles began to formulate in his mind the way he would convince them that Canceran was a bad investment, that it was a toxic drug and would probably never be marketed.

We already know what you discovered about the toxicity of Canceran, said Dr. Ibanez, taking a short puff on his cigar and unknowingly undermining Charles. We realize that Dr. Brightons estimates are not entirely accurate.

Thats a generous way of putting it, said Charles, realizing with dismay that his trump card had been snatched from him. Apparently all the data in the Canceran studies done by Dr. Brighton has been falsified. He watched the reaction of the Weinburgers out of the corners of his eyes, hoping for a response but seeing none.

Most unfortunate, agreed Dr. Ibanez. The solution is salvaging what we can and going forward.

But my estimates suggest the drug is extremely toxic, said Charles desperately, so toxic, in fact, that it might have to be given in homeopathic doses.

Thats not our concern, said Joshua Weinburger, Jr. Thats a marketing problem, and thats the one department at Lesley Pharmaceuticals that is outstanding. They could sell ice to Eskimos.

Charles was dumbfounded. There wasnt even the pretense of ethicality. Whether the product would help people made no difference. It was businessbig business.

Charles! said Dr. Morrison, speaking for the first time. We want to ask if you could run the efficacy and toxicity studies concurrently.

Charles switched his gaze to Dr. Morrison and stared at him with contempt. That kind of approach would be reducing inductive research to pure empiricism.

We dont care what you call it, said Dr. Ibanez with a smile. We just want to know if it could be done.

Joshua Weinburger, Sr. laughed. He liked aggressive people and aggressive ideas.

And we dont care how many test animals you use, said Morrison generously.

Thats right, agreed Dr. Ibanez. Although wed recommend you use mice since theyre considerably cheaper, you can use as many as youd like. What were suggesting is doing efficacy studies at a very wide range of dosages. At the conclusion of the experiment, new toxicity values could be extrapolated and then substituted for the falsified data in the original toxicity study done by Dr. Brighton. Simple as that, and wed save lots of time! What do you say, Charles?

Before you answer, said Morrison, I think I should warn you that if you refuse, it will be in the best interests of the institute to let you go and seek someone who will give Canceran the attention it deserves.

Charles looked from face to face. His fear and panic had disappeared. Anger and contempt remained. Where are my lab books? he asked with a tired voice.

Safe and sound in the vault, said Dr. Ibanez. They are the property of the institute but you will get them back as soon as you finish Canceran. You see, we want you to concentrate on Canceran and we feel that having your own books might be too much of a temptation.

We cant emphasize enough the need for speed, added Joshua Weinburger, Jr. But as an added incentive, if you can have a preliminary study done in five months, well give you a bonus of ten thousand dollars.

Id say that is very generous, said Dr. Ibanez. But you dont have to decide right this moment. In fact, we have agreed to give you twenty-four hours. We dont want you to feel coerced. But just so you know, we will be making preliminary inquiries into finding your replacement. Until then, Dr. Charles Martel.

With disgust, Charles whirled and headed for the door. As he reached it, Dr. Ibanez called out: One other thing. The board of directors and the administration want to convey their condolences regarding your daughter. We hope she recovers quickly. The Institute health plan, by the way, only holds while you are actively employed. Good day, doctor.

Charles wanted to scream. Instead he ran the length of the administrative department and thundered down the metal fire stairs to his office, but once there, he didnt know whether he wanted to stay. For the first time he felt that being part of the Weinburger Institute was a disgrace. He hated the fact that they even knew about Michelle. On top of that they were using Michelles illness as leverage against him. It was an outrage. God!

He looked around his laboratory, his home for the last eight years. He felt as if he knew every piece of glassware, each instrument, every bottle of reagent. It didnt seem fair that he could be rudely plucked from this environment at whim, especially now that he was making such progress.

His eye fell on the culture hed set up with Michelles leukemia cells. With great effort he went over to the incubator, peering in at the rows of carefully arranged glass tubes. It appeared to be progressing well, and Charles felt a much-needed sense of satisfaction. As far as he could tell, his progress of isolating and augmenting a cancer antigen seemed to work as well with human cells as it did with animal cells. Since it was already time for the next step, Charles rolled up his sleeves and tucked his tie inside his shirt. Work was Charless anesthetic and he bent to the task. After all, he had twenty-four hours before hed have to bow to the demands of the administration. He knew but did not want to admit to himself that he had to give in for Michelles sake. He really had no choice.

NINE
Coming back from Beth Israel Hospital where shed paid an unsuccessful visit to Marge Schonhauser, Cathryn felt she was being stretched to the limits of her endurance. Shed guessed that Marge must have been bad off or she wouldnt have been hospitalized, but she was still not prepared for what she found. Apparently some vital thread had snapped in Marges brain when Tad had died, because she had sunk into an unresponsive torpor, refusing to eat or even sleep. Cathryn had sat with Marge in silence until a feeling of tension drove Cathryn away. It was as if Marges depression were infectious. Cathryn fled back to Pediatric Hospital, going from the casualty of one tragedy to the beginning of another.

Rising in the crowded elevator to Anderson 6, she wondered if what happened to Marge could happen to her or even to Charles. He was a physician and she would have guessed hed be more capable of dealing with this kind of reality, yet his behavior was far from reassuring. As difficult as she found hospitals and illness, Cathryn tried to gird herself against the future.

The elevator arrived at Anderson 6 and Cathryn struggled to reach the front of the car before the doors closed. She was impatient to get back to Michelle, because the child had been very reluctant to let Cathryn leave. Cathryn had talked Michelle into letting her go after lunch by promising shed be back in half an hour. Unfortunately it was now closer to an hour.

Michelle had clung to Cathryn earlier that morning after Charles had left, insisting that Charles was angry with her. No matter what Cathryn had said, shed not been able to change Michelles mind.

Now Cathryn pushed open Michelles door, hoping the child might be napping. At first she thought perhaps she was, because Michelle didnt move. But then Cathryn noticed the child had kicked off the covers and slid down in the bed with one leg tucked under her. From the doorway Cathryn could see that Michelles chest was heaving violently and worst of all, her face had an alarmingly bluish cast with deep maroon-colored lips.

Rushing to the bedside, Cathryn grasped Michelle by the shoulders.

Michelle, she cried, shaking the child. Whats wrong?

Michelles lips moved and her lids fluttered open but only whites showed; her eyes were rolled up in their sockets.

Help! cried Cathryn, running for the corridor. Help!

The charge nurse came from behind the nurses station followed by an LPN. From a room beyond Michelles came another RN. They all rapidly converged on Michelles room, pushing past the panic-stricken Cathryn. One went to either side of the bed, another to the foot.

Call a code, barked the charge nurse.

The nurse at the foot of the bed sped over to the intercom and yelled for the clerk at the nurses station to call a code.

Meanwhile the charge nurse could feel a rapid, thready pulse. Feels like V-tack, she said. Her hearts beating so fast its hard to feel individual beats.

I agree, said the other nurse, putting the blood pressure cuff around Michelles arm.

Shes breathing but cyanotic, said the charge nurse. Should I give her mouth-to-mouth?

I dont know, said the second nurse, pumping up the blood pressure cuff. Maybe it would help the cyanosis.

The third nurse came back to the bed and straightened out Michelles leg while the charge nurse bent over and, squeezing Michelles nose shut, placed her mouth over Michelles and blew.

I can get a blood pressure, said the second nurse. Sixty over forty, but its variable.

The charge nurse continued to breathe for Michelle but Michelles own rapid respiration made it difficult. The nurse straightened up. I think Im hindering her more than helping her. Id better hold off.

Cathryn remained pressed against the wall, terrorized by the scene in front of her, afraid to move lest she be in the way. She had no idea what was happening although she knew it was bad. Where was Charles!

A woman resident was the first doctor to arrive. She came through from the hallway so quickly that she had to grab the edge of the door to keep from falling on the polished vinyl floor. She ran directly to the bedside, grasping Michelles wrist for a pulse.

I think she has V-tack, said the charge nurse. Shes a leukemic. Myeloblastic. Day two of attempted induction.

Any cardiac history? demanded the woman resident, as she leaned over and elevated Michelles eyelids. At least the pupils are down.

The three nurses looked at each other. We dont think she has any cardiac history. Nothing was said at report, said the charge nurse.

Blood pressure? asked the resident.

Last time it was sixty over forty but variable, said the second nurse.

V-tack, confirmed the woman resident. Stand back a second.

The woman resident made a fist and brought it down on Michelles narrow thorax with a resounding thump that made Cathryn wince.

An extremely young-looking chief resident arrived followed by two others pushing a cart filled with all sorts of medical paraphernalia and crowned with electronic instrumentation.

The woman resident gave a terse explanation of Michelles condition while the nurses rapidly attached EKG leads to Michelles extremities.

The charge nurse leaned over to one of the other nurses and told her to page Dr. Keitzman.

The electronic box on the top of the cart began to spew forth an endless strip of narrow graph paper on which Cathryn could see the red squiggles of an EKG. The doctors grouped around the machine, momentarily forgetting Michelle.

V-tack all right, said the chief resident. With the dyspnea and cyanosis shes obviously hemodynamically compromised. What does that mean, George?

One of the other residents looked up, startled. Means we should cardiovert her immediately . . . I think.

You think right, concurred the chief resident. But lets draw up some Lidocaine. Lets see, the kids about fifty kilograms, no?

A little less, said the woman resident.

All right, fifty milligrams of Lidocaine. Also draw up a milligram of atropine in case she goes into bradycardia.

The team functioned efficiently as one resident drew up the medications, another got out the electrode paddles, while the third helped position Michelle. One paddle went under Michelles back, the other anteriorly on her chest.

All right, stand back, said the chief resident. Well use a fifty-watt second shock to start, programmed to be delivered at the R-wave. Here goes.

He pressed a button and after a momentary delay Michelles body contracted, her arms and legs jumping off the surface of the bed.

Cathryn watched in horror as the doctors stayed bent over the machine, ignoring Michelles violent reaction. Cathryn could see the childs eyes open in utter bewilderment and her head lift off the bed. Thankfully her color rapidly reverted to normal.

Not bad! yelled the chief resident, examining the EKG paper as it came out of the machine.

John, youre getting good at this stuff, agreed the woman resident. Maybe you should think about doing it for a living.

All the doctors laughed and turned to Michelle.

Dr. Keitzman arrived breathless, hands jammed into the pockets of his long white coat. He went directly to the bed, his bespectacled eyes quickly scanning Michelles body. He snatched up her hand, feeling for a pulse.

Are you okay, chicken? he asked, getting out his stethoscope.

Michelle nodded but didnt speak. She appeared dazed.

Cathryn watched as John, the chief resident, launched into a capsule summary of the event in what was to Cathryn incomprehensible medicalese.

Dr. Keitzmans upper lip pulled back in a characteristic spasm as he bent over Michelle, listening to her chest. Satisfied, he checked a run of EKG paper offered by John. At that moment he caught sight of Cathryn pressed up against the wall. Keitzman glanced at the charge nurse with a questioning expression. The charge nurse, following his line of sight, shrugged.

We didnt know she was in here, said the charge nurse defensively.

Dr. Keitzman walked over to Cathryn and put a hand on her shoulder.

How about you, Mrs. Martel? asked Dr. Keitzman. Are you all right?

Cathryn tried to talk but her voice wouldnt cooperate, so she nodded like Michelle.

Im sorry you had to see this, said Dr. Keitzman. Michelle seems fine and she undoubtedly did not feel anything. But I know this kind of thing is shocking. Lets go out in the hall for a moment. Id like to talk to you.

Cathryn strained upward to see Michelle over Dr. Keitzmans shoulder.

Shell be okay for a moment, assured Dr. Keitzman. Then, turning to the charge nurse, he said, Ill be just outside. I want a cardiac monitor in here, and Id like a cardiac consult. See if Dr. Brubaker can see her right away. Dr. Keitzman gently urged Cathryn out into the corridor. Come down to the nurses station; we can talk there.

Dr. Keitzman led Cathryn down the busy corridor to the chart room. There were Formica Parsons tables, chairs, two dictating telephones, and the massive chart racks. Dr. Keitzman pulled out a chair for Cathryn and she gratefully sat down.

Can I get you something to drink? suggested Dr. Keitzman. Water?

No, thank you, managed Cathryn nervously. Dr. Keitzmans extremely serious manner was a source of new anxiety and she searched the mans face for clues. It was hard to see his eyes through his thick glasses.

The charge nurses head came through the door. Dr. Brubaker wants to know if he can see the patient in his office.

Dr. Keitzmans face contorted for a second while he pondered. Tell him that she just had an episode of V-tack and Id prefer he see her before shes moved around.

Okay, said the charge nurse.

Dr. Keitzman turned to Cathryn. He sighed. Mrs. Martel, I feel I must talk frankly with you. Michelle is not doing well at all. And Im not referring specifically to this latest episode.

What was this episode? asked Cathryn, not liking the initial tone of the conversation.

Her heart speeded up, said Dr. Keitzman. Usually its the upper part of the heart that initiates the beat. Dr. Keitzman gestured awkwardly to try to illustrate what he was saying. But for some reason, the lower part of Michelles heart took over. Why? We dont know yet. In any case, her heart suddenly began to beat so fast that there wasnt time for the heart to fill properly, so it pumped inefficiently. But that seems to be under control. What is worrying me is that she does not seem to be responding to the chemotherapy.

But shes just started! exclaimed Cathryn. The last thing that Cathryn wanted was for her hope to be undermined.

Thats true, agreed Dr. Keitzman. However, Michelles type of leukemia usually responds in the first few days. On top of that Michelle has the most aggressive case that Ive ever seen. Yesterday we gave her a very strong and very successful drug called Daunorubicin. This morning when we did her blood count, I was shocked to see that there was almost no effect on the leukemic cells. This is very unusual although it does happen occasionally. So I decided to try something a little different. Usually we give a second dose of this medicine on the fifth day. Instead I gave her another dose today along with the Thioguanine and Cytarabine.

Why are you telling me this? asked Cathryn, certain that Dr. Keitzman knew she would not understand much of what he was saying.

Because of your husbands response yesterday, said Dr. Keitzman. And because of what Dr. Wiley and I said to you. Im afraid your husbands emotions will interfere and hell want to stop the medicines.

But if theyre not working, maybe they should be stopped, said Cathryn.

Mrs. Martel. Michelle is an extremely sick child. These medicines are her only chance for survival. Yes, its disappointing that as yet they have been ineffective. Your husband is right in saying her chances are slim. But without chemotherapy, she has no chance at all.

Cathryn felt the stabbing pain of guilt; she should have brought Michelle to the hospital weeks ago.

Dr. Keitzman stood up. I hope you understand what Im saying. Michelle needs your strength. Now, I want you to call your husband and have him come over. Hes got to be told whats happened.

 

  

 

Even before the automatic radioactivity counter began to record the electrons emanating from the series of vials, Charles knew that the radioactive nucleotides had been absorbed and incorporated into the tissue culture of Michelles leukemic cells. He was now in the last stages of preparing a concentrated solution of a surface protein that differentiated Michelles leukemic cells from her normal cells. This protein was foreign to Michelles body but was not rejected because of the mysterious blocking factor that Charles knew was in Michelles system. It was this blocking factor that Charles had wanted to investigate. If only he knew something about the method of action of the blocking factor, perhaps it could be inhibited or eliminated. He was frustrated to be so close to a solution and have to stop. At the same time he realized that it was probably a five-year project with no guarantee of success.

Closing the cover on the tissue culture incubator, he walked to his desk, vaguely wondering why Ellen had not appeared. He wanted to discuss the Canceran project with someone knowledgeable, and she was the only person he could trust.

He sat down, trying not to think about the recent humiliating meeting with Dr. Ibanez and the Weinburgers. Instead he recalled the frustrating visit to the EPA offices that didnt make him feel much better. Yet he could laugh at his own naivet in thinking that he could walk into a government agency and expect to accomplish something. He wondered if there would be any way that he could get some sort of photographic proof of Recycles dumping. It was doubtful, but hed try.

Perhaps if he were responsible for getting the evidence, he should sue Recycle directly rather than waiting for the EPA to do so. Charles knew very little about law, but he remembered there was a source of information open to him. The Weinburger Institute law firm on retainer.

The left lower drawer was Charless spot for miscellaneous pamphlets. Close to the bottom he found what he was looking for: a skinny red booklet entitled Welcome Aboard: This Is Your Weinburger Cancer Institute. In the back was a list of important phone numbers. Under services was Hubbert, Hubbert, Garachnik and Pearson, 1 State Street, followed by several phone numbers. He dialed the first.

Identifying himself, Charles was immediately switched to Mr. Garachniks office. His secretary was particularly cordial and within minutes, Charles found himself talking with Mr. Garachnik himself. Apparently the Weinburger was a valued customer.

I need some information, said Charles, about suing a company dumping poisonous waste into a public river.

It would be best, said Mr. Garachnik, if we have one of our environmental law persons look into the matter. However, if your questions are general, perhaps I can help. Is the Weinburger Institute becoming interested in environmental pursuits?

No, said Charles. Unfortunately not. Im interested in this personally.

I see, said Mr. Garachnik, his tone becoming cool. Hubbert, Hubbert, Garachnik and Pearson does not handle personal Weinburger employee legal problems unless special arrangement is made with the individual.

That could be arranged, said Charles. But as long as Ive got you on the phone, why dont you just give me an idea about the process.

There was a pause. Mr. Garachnik wanted Charles to realize that he felt Charless inquiry beneath his stature as a senior partner. It could be done as an individual or class action suit. If it were an individual suit, youd need specific damages and if . . .

Ive got damages! interrupted Charles. My daughter has come down with leukemia!

Dr. Martel, said Mr. Garachnik with irritation. As a physician you should know that establishing causation between the dumping and the leukemia would be extremely difficult. However, with a class action suit for the purpose of securing an injunction against the factory, you dont need specific damages. What you do need is the participation of thirty to forty people. If you want to pursue this further, I suggest you contact Thomas Wilson, one of our new, younger lawyers. He has a particular interest in environmental matters.

Does it matter that the company is in New Hampshire? asked Charles quickly.

No, other than that it must be sued in a New Hampshire court, said Mr. Garachnik, obviously eager to terminate the conversation.

What if its owned by a corporation in New Jersey?

That might and might not compound the difficulties, said Mr. Garachnik, suddenly more interested. What factory in New Hampshire are you talking about?

A place called Recycle, Ltd. in Shaftesbury, said Charles.

Which is owned by Breur Chemicals of New Jersey, added Mr. Garachnik quickly.

Thats right, said Charles, surprised. How did you know?

Because on occasion we indirectly represent Breur Chemicals. In case youre not aware, Breur Chemicals owns the Weinburger Institute even though its run as a nonprofit organization.

Charles was stunned.

Mr. Garachnik continued: Breur Chemicals founded the Weinburger Institute when they expanded into the drug industry by purchasing Lesley Pharmaceuticals. I was against it back then, but Weinburger, Sr. was committed to the idea. I was afraid of an antitrust action, but it never materialized because of the nonprofit cover. In any case, Dr. Martel, you essentially work for Breur Chemicals and in that capacity, youd better think twice about suing anyone.

Charles hung the phone up very slowly. He could not believe what hed just heard. Hed never cared about the financial side of the institute except to the extent that the Weinburger could supply him with research space and equipment. But now he learned that he was working for a conglomerate which was ultimately responsible for dumping cancer-causing waste into a public river as well as running a research institute supposedly interested in curing cancer. As for Canceran, the parent company controlled both the drug firm holding the patents and the research firm chosen to ascertain its efficiency.

No wonder Weinburger was so interested in Canceran!

The phone jangled Charless taut nerves as it rang under his outstretched hand. As the source of the recent dreadful revelation, Charles debated answering it. Undoubtedly it was the administration calling, bent on harassing him with more pressure and more deceit.

Abruptly Charless mind switched to Michelle. The call could be about his daughter. He snatched the receiver from the cradle and pressed it to his ear.

He was right. It was Cathryn and her voice had the same stiff quality it had the day before. His heart jumped into his throat.

Is everything okay?

Michelle is not doing so well. Theres been a complication. Youd better come over.

Charles grabbed his coat and ran out of his lab. At the front entrance, he knocked on the massive glass door, impatient for it to open.

All right, all right! said Miss Andrews, pressing the door release under her desk.

Charles squeezed out before the door was fully opened and disappeared from sight.

Whats the matter with him? asked Miss Andrews, pressing the close switch. Is he crazy or something?

Roy adjusted his worn holster and shrugged.

Charles concentrated on hurrying to keep from guessing what had happened to Michelle. But after crossing the Charles, he got bogged down in traffic on Massachusetts Avenue. As he inched forward, he couldnt help worrying about what he was going to find when he got to Pediatric Hospital. Cathryns words kept echoing in his head: Michelle is not doing so well. Theres been a complication. Charles felt panic tighten his stomach into a painful knot.

When he reached the hospital, he rushed inside and forced his way onto a full elevator. Maddeningly the car stopped at every floor. Eventually it reached the sixth, and Charles pushed his way off and hurried down to Michelles room. The door was almost closed. He entered without knocking.

An elegant blond-haired woman straightened up from leaning over Michelle. Shed been listening to the girls heart before Charless entry. On the opposite side of the bed was a young resident dressed in hospital whites.

Charles gave the woman a cursory glance and looked down at his daughter with empathy submerging all other emotions. He wanted to grab her and shield her, but he was afraid she had become too fragile. His trained eyes inspected her rapidly and could detect a worsening in her condition since that morning. There was a greenish cast to her face, a change Charles had associated during his medical training with ensuing death. Her cheeks had become hollow with the skin taut over her facial bones. Despite an intravenous line attached to both arms, she looked dehydrated from the vomiting and high fever.

Michelle, lying flat on her back, looked up at her father with tired eyes. Despite her discomfort she managed a weak smile and for a brief moment her eyes shone with the incredible luster that Charles remembered.

Michelle, said Charles softly, bending down so his face was close to hers. How do you feel? He didnt know what else to say.

Michelles eyes clouded and she began to cry. I want to go home, Daddy. She was reluctant to admit how bad she felt.

Biting his lip Charles glanced up at the woman next to him, embarrassed by his overwhelming emotion. Looking back down at Michelle, he put his hand on her forehead and smoothed back her thick black hair. Her forehead was hot and damp. Her fever had risen. Michelle reached up and grasped his hand.

Well talk about it, said Charles, his lips quivering.

Excuse me, said the woman. You must be Dr. Martel. Im Dr. Brubaker. Dr. Keitzman asked me to see Michelle. Im a cardiologist. This is Dr. John Hershing, our chief resident.

Charles made no effort to respond to the introductions. What happened?

She had an acute episode of ventricular tachycardia, said Dr. Hershing. We cardioverted her immediately, and shes been very stable.

Charles looked at Dr. Brubaker. She was a tall, handsome woman with sharp features. Her blond hair was piled on top of her head in a loose chignon.

What caused the arrhythmia? asked Charles, still holding Michelles hand.

We dont know yet, said Dr. Brubaker. My first thoughts are either an idiosyncratic reaction to the double dose of Daunorubicin, or a manifestation of her basic problem: some kind of infiltrative myopathy. But Id like to finish my exam, if I may. Dr. Keitzman and your wife are in the chart room at the nurses station. I understand they are waiting for you.

Charles lowered his eyes to Michelle. Ill be right back, sweetheart.

Dont go, Daddy, pleaded Michelle. Stay with me.

I wont go far, said Charles, gently loosing Michelles grip. He was preoccupied by Dr. Brubakers statement that Michelle had received a double dose of Daunorubicin. That sounded irregular.

Cathryn saw Charles before he saw her and leaped to her feet, throwing her arms around his neck.

Charles, Im so glad youre here. She buried her face in his neck. This is so difficult for me to handle.

Holding Cathryn, Charles glanced around the small chart room. Dr. Wiley was leaning against the table, his eyes on the floor. Dr. Keitzman was sitting opposite from him, his legs crossed, and his hands clasped together over his knee. He appeared to be examining the fabric of his slacks. No one spoke, but Charles felt nervous, his eyes darting from one doctor to the other. The scene seemed too artificial, too staged. Something was coming and Charles hated the theatrics.

All right, said Charles challengingly. Whats happening?

Dr. Wiley and Dr. Keitzman started to speak simultaneously, then stopped.

Its about Michelle, said Dr. Keitzman finally.

I assumed as much, said Charles. The vise on his stomach turned another notch tighter.

Shes not doing as we would have hoped, said Dr. Keitzman with a sigh, looking up into Charless face for the first time. Doctors families are always the most difficult. I think Ill call it Keitzmans law.

Charles was in no mood for humor. He stared at the oncologist, watching the mans face twist into one of its characteristic spasms. Whats this about a double dose of Daunorubicin?

Dr. Keitzman swallowed. We gave her the first dose yesterday but she did not respond. We gave her another today. Weve got to knock down her circulatory leukemic cells.

Thats not the usual protocol, is it? snapped Charles.

No, Dr. Keitzman replied hesitantly, but Michelle is not a usual case. I wanted to try . . .

Try! shouted Charles. Listen, Dr. Keitzman, Charles snapped, pointing a finger in Dr. Keitzmans face. My daughter isnt here for you to try things on. What youre really saying is that her chances of remission are so poor that youre ready to experiment.

Charles! said Cathryn. Thats not fair.

Charles ignored Cathryn. The fact of the matter, Dr. Keitzman, is that you are so certain shes terminal you abandoned orthodox chemotherapy. Well, Im not sure your experimentation isnt lessening her chances. What about this cardiac problem. Shes never had any trouble with her heart. Doesnt Daunorubicin cause cardiac problems?

Yes, agreed Dr. Keitzman, but not usually this fast. I dont know what to think about this complication and thats why I asked for a cardiac consult.

Well, I think its the medicine, said Charles. I agreed to chemotherapy, but I assumed you would be using the standard doses. Im not sure I agree with doubling the usual treatment.

If thats the case, then perhaps you should retain another oncologist, said Dr. Keitzman wearily, standing up and gathering his things. Or just handle the case yourself.

No! Please! said Cathryn, letting go of Charles and clutching Dr. Keitzmans arm. Please. Charles is just upset. Please dont leave us. Cathryn turned frantically to Charles. Charles, the medicine is Michelles only chance. She turned back to Dr. Keitzman, Isnt that right?

That is true, said Dr. Keitzman. Increasing the chemotherapy, even if it is an unusual approach, is the only hope for a remission, and a remission has to be obtained quickly if Michelle is going to survive this acute episode.

What are you proposing, Charles? said Dr. Wiley. To do nothing?

Shes not going to go into remission, said Charles angrily.

You cant say that, said Dr. Wiley.

Charles backed up, watching the others in the room as if they were going to force him into submission.

How do you think she should be treated? asked Dr. Wiley.

We cant do nothing, Charles, pleaded Cathryn.

Charless mind screamed for him to get away. Within the hospital, close to Michelle, he could not think rationally. The idea of causing Michelle additional suffering was a torture, yet the concept of just allowing her to die without a fight was equally abhorrent. There were no alternatives open to him. Dr. Keitzman was making sense if there was a chance they could get a remission. But if a remission was impossible, then they were merely torturing the dying child. God!

Abruptly Charles turned and strode from the room. Cathryn ran after him. Charles. Where are you going? Charles, dont go! Please. Dont leave me.

At the stair he finally turned, gripping Cathryns shoulders. I cant think here. I dont know whats right. Each alternative is as bad as another. Ive been through this before. Familiarity doesnt make it easier. Ive got to pull myself together. Im sorry.

With a feeling of helplessness Cathryn watched him go through the door and disappear. She was alone in the busy corridor. She knew that if she had to, she could handle the situation even if Charles couldnt. She had to, for Michelles sake. She walked back to the chart room.

The strange thing, said Cathryn with a tremulous voice, is that you two anticipated all this.

Unfortunately weve had some experience with families of physicians, said Dr. Keitzman. Its always difficult.

But its usually not this difficult, added Dr. Wiley.

We were talking while you were gone, said Dr. Keitzman. We feel that something must be done to ensure continuity of Michelles care.

Some kind of guarantee, said Dr. Wiley.

Its mostly because time is so important, said Dr. Keitzman. Even if the treatment were stopped for a day or two, it could mean the difference between success and failure.

Were not suggesting that Charless concerns are unfounded, assured Dr. Wiley.

Absolutely not, agreed Dr. Keitzman. In Michelles case, with circulating leukemic cells unresponsive to the Daunorubicin, the outlook is not the best. But I think she deserves a chance no matter what the odds. Dont you agree, Mrs. Martel?

Cathryn looked at the two doctors. They were trying to suggest something but she had no idea what it was. Of course, said Cathryn. How could she disagree? Of course Michelle deserved every chance.

There are ways of making sure that Charles cannot arbitrarily stop Michelles treatment, said Dr. Wiley.

The powers need only be evoked if they are needed, said Dr. Keitzman. But its good to have them just in case.

There was a pause.

Cathryn had the distinct impression that the doctors expected her to respond, but she had no idea what they were talking about.

Let me give you an example, said Dr. Wiley, leaning forward in his chair. Suppose a child desperately needs a transfusion. If the transfusion is not given, then the child will die. And further, suppose that one of the parents is a Jehovahs Witness. Then there is a conflict between the parents as to the proper treatment of the child. The doctors, of course, recognize the need for the transfusion to save the child. What do they do? They have the court award guardianship to the consenting parent. The court is willing to do this to guarantee the rights of the child. Its not that they disrespect the beliefs of the nonconsenting parent. Its just that they feel its unfair for one individual to deprive another of lifesaving treatment.

Cathryn stared at Dr. Wiley in consternation. You want me to assume guardianship of Michelle behind Charless back?

Only for the specific purpose of maintaining treatment, said Dr. Keitzman. It might save the childs life. Please understand, Mrs. Martel, we could do it without your help. We would ask the court to appoint a guardian, which is what we do when both parents resist established medical treatment. But it would be much simpler if you participate.

But youre not giving Michelle standard treatment anymore, said Cathryn, remembering Charless words.

Well, its not that unusual, said Keitzman. In fact Ive been working on a paper about increased chemotherapeutic doses in cases as recalcitrant as your daughters.

And you must admit that Charles has been acting bizarrely, added Dr. Wiley. The strain of this may be too great. He may be incapable of making sensible decisions. In fact, Id feel much better if we could also get Charles to seek some professional help.

You mean see a psychiatrist? asked Cathryn.

I think it would be a good idea, said Dr. Wiley.

Please understand us, Mrs. Martel, said Dr. Keitzman, were trying to do our best, and as Michelles doctors our primary concern is her well-being. We feel we must do everything in our power.

I appreciate your efforts, said Cathryn, but . . .

We know it sounds drastic, said Dr. Keitzman, but once the legal papers are obtained, guardianship doesnt have to be evoked unless the situation calls for it. But then if Charles tried to take Michelle off treatment or even out of the hospital, wed be in a position to do something about it.

An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure, said Dr. Wiley.

The idea doesnt make me feel comfortable, said Cathryn. But Charles has been very strange. I cant believe he left like he did just now.

I can understand it, said Dr. Keitzman. I can sense that Charles is a man of action, and the fact that he cannot do anything for Michelle must drive him mad. Hes under a terrible emotional burden, and thats why I think he could benefit from professional help.

You dont think he could have a nervous breakdown, do you? asked Cathryn with increasing anxiety.

Dr. Keitzman looked at Dr. Wiley to see if he wanted to answer, then he spoke: I dont feel qualified to say. Certainly the strain is there. Its a matter of how strong his defenses are.

I think its a possibility, said Dr. Wiley. In fact, I think hes showing certain symptoms. He doesnt seem to be in command of his emotions and I think his anger has been inappropriate.

Cathryn was swept by a turmoil of emotion. The idea that she was capable of going between Charles, the man she loved, and his daughter, whom shed learned to love, was unthinkable. And yet if the strain was too much for Charles, and he interrupted Michelles treatment, she would have to share the blame for not having the courage to help the childs doctors.

If I were to do as you ask, said Cathryn, what would be the procedure?

Hold on, said Dr. Keitzman, reaching for the phone. I think the hospital attorney could answer that better than I.

 

 

Almost before Cathryn knew what was happening, the meeting with the hospital attorney was over, and Cathryn was hurrying after the man in the Boston courthouse. His name was Patrick Murphy. He had freckled skin and indeterminate light brown hair that could have been red at one time. But by far his most distinguishing characteristic was his personality. He was one of those rare people whom everyone instantly liked, and Cathryn was no exception. Even in her distraught state, she had been charmed by his gentle and forthright manner and engaging smile.

Cathryn was not sure when the conversation with the attorney had changed from discussing a hypothetical situation to discussing an actual one. Making the decision to petition for legal guardianship for Michelle behind Charless back was so difficult that Cathryn had welcomed its accomplishment by default. Patrick had assured Cathryn, as had Dr. Keitzman, that the legal powers would not be used except in the unlikely instance that Charles tried to stop Michelles treatment.

Still Cathryn felt very uneasy about the whole affair, especially since she had not had time to see Michelle in the rush to get to the court before the 4 P.M. deadline.

This way if you will, said Patrick, pointing to a narrow stairwell. Cathryn had never been in a courthouse before, and it was nothing like shed imagined. Shed thought it would be grand in some symbolic way, standing as it did for the concept of justice. Yet the Boston courthouse, which was actually over one hundred years old, was dirty and depressing, especially since, for security reasons, the public was forced to enter through the basement.

After ascending the narrow steel stairs, which Cathryn could not believe served as the sole public entrance to the court, they reached the old main hall. Here there was at least a shadow of former grandness with an arched two-story ceiling; marble pilasters and marble floors. But the plaster was chipped and cracked, and the elaborate moldings gave the appearance they were about to break free and fall to the floor below.

Cathryn had to run a few steps to catch up with Patrick as he turned into the Probate Court. It was a long, narrow room with a heavy, dusty appearance, especially with the hundreds of aged ledgers sitting sideways on their low shelves to the right. On the left was a long scuffed and pitted counter where a coterie of court employees seemed suddenly roused from their diurnal slumber at the prospect of quitting time.

As Cathryn surveyed the room she did not feel the confidence and reassurance shed hoped. Instead its shabbiness evoked images of being snared in a quagmire of red tape. Yet Patrick did not allow Cathryn to stop. He pulled her over to a smaller counter at the end of the room.

Id like to speak to one of the Assistant Registers of Probate, said Patrick to one of the bored clerks. She had a cigarette in the corner of her mouth, making her cock her head to the side to keep the smoke from stinging her eyes. She pointed to a man facing away from them.

Hearing the request, the man turned; he was on the phone but put up a finger for them to wait. After finishing his conversation, he came over to Cathryn and Patrick. He was tremendously overweight, a middle-aged man with a thick, flaccid layer of fat that shook when he walked. His face was all jowls, wattles, and deep creases.

We have an emergency, explained Patrick. Wed like to see one of the judges.

Hospital guardianship case, Mr. Murphy? questioned the Assistant Register knowingly.

Thats correct, said Patrick. All the forms are filled out.

Must say, you fellows are getting efficient, said the man. He looked up at the face of the institutional clock. My God, youre cutting it close. Its almost four. Id better check to be sure Judge Pelligrino is still here.

He waddled through a nearby doorway, his arms swinging almost perpendicularly to his body.

Glandular problem, whispered Patrick. He put his briefcase on the counter and snapped it open.

Cathryn looked at the attractive young lawyer. He was dressed in the typical attorney fashion with a boxy, Ivy League, pin-striped suit. The slacks were slightly rumpled, particularly behind the knees, and they were about two inches too short, exposing black-socked ankles. With great attentiveness, he arranged the forms which Cathryn had signed.

Do you really think I should do this? asked Cathryn abruptly.

Absolutely, said Patrick, giving her one of his warm, spontaneous smiles. Its for the child.

Five minutes later they were in the judges chamber, and it was too late to turn back.

As different as the Boston courthouse was from Cathryns imagination, so was Judge Louis Pelligrino. Instead of an older, gowned, Socratic figure, Cathryn found herself sitting across from a disturbingly handsome man wearing a well-tailored designers suit. After donning stylish reading glasses, he accepted the papers from Patrick saying, Jesus Christ, Mr. Murphy. Why is it you always show up at four oclock?

Medical emergencies, your honor, adhere to a biological rather than a probate clock.

Judge Pelligrino peered at Patrick sharply over his half-glasses, apparently trying to decide if Patricks retort was clever or presumptuously brazen. A slow smile appeared as he decided on the former. Very good, Mr. Murphy. Ill accept that. Now, why dont you fill me in on these petitions.

As Patrick skillfully outlined the circumstances surrounding Michelles illness and treatment as well as Charless behavior, Judge Pelligrino examined the forms, seemingly not paying attention to the young lawyer. But when Patrick made an insignificant grammatical error, the judges head shot up, and he corrected him.

Where are the affidavits by Doctors Wiley and Keitzman? asked Judge Pelligrino as Patrick finished.

The lawyer leaned forward and anxiously thumbed through the papers in the judges hands. He snapped open his briefcase, and with great relief found the two documents and handed them over with an apology.

The judge read them in detail.

And this is the adopted mother, I presume, said Judge Pelligrino, capturing Cathryns attention.

Indeed it is, said Patrick, and she is understandably concerned about maintaining the proper treatment for the young girl.

Judge Pelligrino scrutinized Cathryns face, and she felt herself blush defensively.

I think its important to emphasize, added Patrick, that there is no marital discord between Charles and Cathryn Martel. The only issue is the wish to maintain the established method of treatment advocated by the appropriate medical authorities.

I understand that, said Judge Pelligrino. What I dont understand or like is the fact that the biological father is not here to be cross-examined.

But thats precisely why Mrs. Martel is asking for emergency temporary guardianship, said Patrick. Just a few hours ago, Charles Martel rushed away from a meeting with Mrs. Martel and Michelles doctors. Mr. Martel expressed the belief that Michelles treatment, which is her only chance at survival, be stopped, then left the conference. And, off the record, the attending physicians are concerned about his mental stability.

That sounds like something that should be part of the record, said the judge.

I agree, said Patrick, but unfortunately that would require Mr. Martel seeing a psychiatrist. Perhaps it could be arranged for the full hearing.

Would you like to add anything, Mrs. Martel? asked the judge, turning to Cathryn.

Cathryn declined in a barely audible voice.

The judge arranged the papers on his desk, obviously thinking. He cleared his throat before he spoke: I will allow the emergency temporary guardianship for the sole purpose of maintaining the recognized and established medical treatment. With a flourish he signed the form. I will also appoint a guardian ad litim on the petition for guardianship to serve until the full hearing on the merits, which I want scheduled in three weeks.

That will be difficult, said the Assistant Register, speaking for the first time. Your schedule is fully booked.

The hell with the schedule, said Judge Pelligrino, signing the second document.

It will be difficult to prepare for a hearing in just three weeks, protested Patrick. Well need to obtain expert medical testimony. And there is legal research to be done. We need more time.

Thats your problem, said the judge without sympathy. Youre going to be busy anyway with the preliminary hearing on the temporary guardianship. By statute that must be in three days. So youd best get cracking. Also I want the father apprised of these proceedings as soon as possible. I want him served no later than tomorrow with a citation either at the hospital or at his place of work.

Cathryn sat bolt upright, stunned. Youre going to tell Charles about this meeting?

Absolutely, said the judge, rising. I hardly think it fair to deprive a parent of his guardianship rights without telling him. Now if youll excuse me.

But . . . blurted Cathryn. She didnt finish her statement. Patrick thanked the judge and hurried Cathryn out of the judges lobby, back into the main room of the Probate Court.

Cathryn was distraught. But you said we wouldnt use this unless Charles actually stopped treatment.

Thats correct, said Patrick, confused at Cathryns reaction.

But Charles is going to find out what Ive done, cried Cathryn. You didnt tell me that. My God!

TEN
Although the sun had set on schedule at four-thirty, no one in New England had seen it go down, including Charles, who was parking at the base of Main Street in Shaftesbury at the time. A heavy bank of clouds had moved in from the Great Lakes. The New England meteorologists were trying to decide when the front was going to collide with a flow of warm air from the Gulf of Mexico. They all agreed it was going to snow, but no one could decide how much or when.

By five-thirty, Charles was still sitting behind the steering wheel of the Pinto parked in the lee of the row of deserted old mill buildings. Every so often hed scrape off a bit of the frost on the inside of the windshield and peer out. He was waiting until it was completely dark. To keep warm he started the engine every quarter hour and let it idle for five minutes. Just after six he was satisfied that the sky was a uniformly dark blanket and he opened the door and got out.

Recycle, Ltd. was about two hundred yards ahead as evidenced mainly by the single light they had near the office door. It had started to snow with large flakes that settled like feathers in short swooping arcs.

Charles opened the trunk and collected his gear: a Polaroid camera, a flashlight, and a few sample jars. Then he crossed the snow to the shadow of the empty brick mill and started to trudge toward Recycle, Ltd. After leaving Cathryn at the hospital, he had tried to sort through his confusing emotions. He could not come to a decision about Michelles treatment although intuition still told him that the child was not going to go into remission. He couldnt get himself to deny her treatment, but he couldnt bear to see her suffer more than she had to. He felt trapped. As a consequence, he welcomed the idea of heading up to Shaftesbury and trying to obtain some hard evidence of benzene dumping. At least that satisfied his emotional need for action.

As he came to the end of the building, he stopped and looked around the corner. He now had a full view of the factory that had taken over the last abandoned mill building in the long row.

With the Polaroid and flashlight in his coat pockets and the sample jars in his hands, Charles rounded the corner and headed toward the Pawtomack River, initially moving parallel to the hurricane fence. Once he could no longer see the light over the factory entrance, he cut diagonally across the empty lot, reaching the fence close to the riverbank. First the flashlight, then the sample jars were gently tossed over to land in the snow. With the camera slung over his shoulder, Charles grasped the mesh and began to climb. He teetered on the top, then leaped for the ground, landing on his feet but tumbling over onto his back. Fearful of being seen in the open lot, he gathered his things and hurried over to the shadow of the old factory.

He waited for a few moments, listening to the familiar sounds coming from inside the building. From where he was standing, he could look across the mostly frozen Pawtomack River and make out the trees on the opposite bank. The river was about fifty yards wide at that point. When he had regained his breath, he struggled along the building, heading for the corner facing the river. The going was difficult because the snow covered all sorts of trash and debris.

Charles reached the side of the building facing the river and, shielding his eyes from the lazy snowflakes, he looked down at his goal: the two metal holding tanks. Unfortunately, they were close to the opposite end of the building. After a short pause, Charles set out climbing through the rusted and twisted remains of discarded machinery, only to find himself barred from further advance by a granite-lined sluice about ten feet across and five feet deep. The sluice came from a low arch beneath the building and ran toward the river bank where it was dammed with wooden planks. About midway in the opposite masonry wall was a connecting channel to a large lagoon. The fluid in the sluice and in the lagoon was not frozen and it had the unmistakable acrid smell of discarded industrial chemicals.

Immediately adjacent to the factory, Charles saw that two stout planks had been laid across the sluice. Putting his sample jars down, Charles flipped the planks over to rid them of their veneer of snow and ice. Then, with great care, he struggled across the makeshift bridge holding the sample jars under his right arm and using his left to support himself against the building.

On the opposite side of the sluice the ground sloped down and Charles could approach the level of the lagoon. From the makeshift appearance of the setup, particularly the incompetently constructed dam, Charles knew that the discarded chemicals in the lagoon continuously made their way into the river. He wanted a sample of that syrupy fluid. He bent down at the edge and, holding on to the upper lip of one of the jars, collected a pint or so of the slowly bubbling sludge. Using a bit of snow, Charles wiped off the jar, capped it, and left it to be retrieved on the way back. Meanwhile he wanted a photo of the dam, which kept this chemical cesspool from totally emptying itself into the river below.

 

  

 

Wally Crabb had taken an early dinner break from the rubber ovens with the two guys he played poker with: Angelo DeJesus and Giorgio Brezowski. Sitting at one of the picnic tables in the lunchroom, theyd played blackjack while they absentmindedly consumed their sandwiches. It hadnt been a good evening for Wally. By six-twenty he was down about thirteen dollars and it didnt seem like his luck was going to change. And to make matters worse, Brezowski was teasing him by flashing his toothless smile after every hand, silently saying so long, sucker. Brezo had lost his front teeth in a barroom brawl in Lowell, Massachusetts, two years ago.

Brezo dealt Wally a face card and a four of spades. When Wally asked him for a hit, Brezo socked him with another face card, sending him over twenty-one.

Shit! yelled Wally, slamming the cards down and swinging his massive legs from beneath the picnic table. He pushed himself to his feet and lumbered over to the cigarette machine.

You out, big boy? jeered Brezo, resuming play with Angelo.

Wally didnt answer. He put his coins in the cigarette machine, punched his selection, and waited. Nothing happened. At least nothing inside the machine. Inside Wallys brain it was like snapping a piano wire stretched to its tensile limit. With a powerful kick he jarred the machine, moving it back on its supports to thump the wall. Cocking his hand back to follow up with a right cross to the coin return, he saw a light flash outside the dark window.

To Brezo and Angelos disappointmentthey had been hoping to watch the destruction of the cigarette machineWallys cocked arm sank and he pressed his face against the window. What the fuck, we going to have a thunderstorm now? asked Wally. Then he saw the flash again, but this time caught a glimpse of its source. For an instant he saw a figure, arms to his face, legs slightly spread.

Its a goddamned camera, said Wally, astonished. Somebody is taking pictures of the lagoon.

Wally reached for the phone and dialed Nat Archers office. He told the super what hed seen.

Must be that Martel nut, said Nat Archer. Who are you with, Wally?

Just Brezo and Angelo.

Why dont you three go out there and see who it is. If its Martel, then teach him a lesson. Mr. Dawson told me that if he showed up again to make sure it was his last visit. Remember the guy is out there illegally. Hes trespassing.

You got it, said Wally, hanging up the receiver. Turning to his buddies and cracking his knuckles, he said, Were going to have some fun. Get your coats.

 

 

After photographing the dam, Charles worked his way over to the metal holding tanks. With the flashlight he tried to make sense out of the profusion of pipes and valves. One pipe led directly to a fenced-off area at the edge of the parking lot and obviously served as the off-load site. Another pipe coursed away from the tanks and with a T-connector joined the roof drain conduit on its way to the river bank. Using great care to keep from slipping down the embankment, Charles managed to get to the edge, which was some twenty feet above the surface of the river. The roof drain ended abruptly, spilling its contents down the embankment. The smell of benzene was intense and below the pipe was a patch of open water. The rest of the river was solidly frozen and covered with snow. After taking several pictures of the pipe, Charles leaned out with his second jar and caught some of the fluid dripping from the end. When he thought he had enough, he closed the jar and left it next to the first one. He was almost finished; his mission was more successful than he had hoped. He just wanted to photograph the T-connection between the pipe from the storage tanks and the drain conduit and the feed pipe from the storage tanks back to where it emerged from the factory.

A slight wind had come up, and the once-lazy snowflakes were now being driven into Charless face. Before taking the picture, he dusted the snow off the pipes, then sighed through the viewfinder. He wasnt satisfied. He wanted to get the T-connector and the storage tanks in the same photo, so he stepped over the pipes, squatted down, and sighted again. Satisfied, he depressed the shutter mechanism but nothing happened. Looking at the camera, he realized he hadnt turned the flash bar around. He did so quickly, then sighed again. Now he could see the storage tank, the pipe coming from the tank, and the juncture with the roof drain. It was perfect. He pushed the shutter release.

The flash of the camera was followed instantly by a sudden, powerful jerk as the Polaroid camera was torn from Charless fingers. He looked up from his crouching position to see three men in hooded parkas, silhouetted against the dark sky. They had him cornered against the storage tanks. Before Charles could move, the camera was tossed end over end into the center of the black lagoon.

Charles stood up, struggling to see the faces beneath the hoods. Without words, the two smaller men lunged forward and grabbed his arms. The sudden movement caught Charles off guard and he didnt struggle. The third man, the big one, went through Charless coat pockets, finding the small collection of photographs. With a flick of the wrist they followed the camera into the chemical pond, appearing like white wafers on the surface.

The men let Charles go and stepped back. Charles still couldnt see their faces, and it made their appearance that much more frightening. Charles panicked and tried to run between one of the smaller men and the storage tank. The man reacted instantly, jabbing a fist into Charless face and connecting with his nose. The blow stunned Charles, bringing a slight trickle of blood down his chin.

Nice poke, Brezo, laughed Wally.

Charles recognized the voice.

The men pushed him toward the chemical lagoon so that he stumbled over the pipes underfoot. Teasing him, they cuffed his head with open hands, slapping his ears. Charles vainly tried to parry the flutter of blows.

Trespassing, eh? said Brezo.

Looking for trouble, eh? said Angelo.

I think he found it, said Wally.

They crowded Charles to the very edge of the cesspool of acrid chemicals. A glancing blow knocked his hat into the fluid.

How about a quick dip? taunted Wally.

With one arm over his face, Charles drew out his flashlight with the other hand and lashed at his nearest assailant.

Brezo eluded the roundhouse blow easily by shifting his weight.

Expecting contact and not getting it, Charles slipped in the melted snow and fell to his hands and knees in the foul mud. The flashlight shattered.

Brezo, having eluded the blow, found himself teetering on the edge of the lagoon. To keep from falling bodily into the pool, he was forced into the ooze to mid-calf before Wally grabbed his jacket, pulling him free.

Shit! cried Brezo as he felt the corrosive chemical singe his skin. He knew he had to get his leg into water as soon as possible. Angelo pulled Brezos arm over his shoulder, supporting him and, as if in a three-legged race, the two men hurried back toward the entrance of Recycle, Ltd.

Charles scrambled to his feet and bolted for the two planks over the old sluice. Wally made a grab for Charles but missed him, and in the process slipped and fell to his hands and knees. Belying his bulk, he was back on his feet in an instant. Charles thundered over the planks forgetting his previous nervousness at crossing. He thought about pushing the planks into the sluice but Wally was too close behind.

Fearful of being thrown into the chemical lagoon, Charles ran as fast as possible, but the going was difficult. First he had to climb through the discarded machinery, then run across the snow-covered, littered lot until he got to the hurricane fence. Wally was hindered by the same objects but, used to working out, he made better time.

Charles started up the fence but unfortunately hed picked a spot between two uprights. The lack of support, particularly near the top, made the climbing more difficult.

Wally Crabb reached the fence and began shaking it violently. Charles had all he could do to hold on, much less continue climbing. Then Wally reached up and grabbed Charless right foot. Charles tried to kick free but Wally had a good hold and he merely put his weight on it.

The force overrode Charless grasp, and he tumbled off the fence, directly on top of Wally. Desperately Charles searched beneath the snow for some object with which he could defend himself. He came up with an old shoe. He flung it at Wally, and although it missed its mark, it gave Charles a chance to stand and flee along the fence toward the river. For Charles, the situation was like being inside a cage with a raging animal.

Running in the snow along the fence was next to impossible. The crust sometimes supported Charless weight, other times it didnt, and there was no way to tell before taking a step. Under the snow was a wide assortment of debris ranging from fresh garbage to wayward rubber tires and metal scrap that kept trapping him. Fearful he was going to be caught any moment, Charles glanced over his shoulder. One look was enough to ascertain that the obstacle course was equally difficult for Wally and Charles reached the river bank first.

His descent to the water was a marginally controlled fall. With his hands out at his sides like outriggers on a canoe, Charles slipped and slid down the embankment, coming to a jarring halt where the ice had buckled at the rivers edge. Avoiding the patch of open water, Charles scrambled out onto the ice, and tried to keep his balance. Wally came down the embankment with a bit more care and consequently lost some ground. Charles was around the portion of the fence that extended out from shore and starting back up the embankment when Wally reached the rivers edge.

Almost at the top of the embankment, Charless feet suddenly slid out from under him. Panic-stricken, his hands grasped for a hold. At the last second he caught a small bush and halted his backward movement. He tried to scramble back up but could not get any traction. Wally had already gained the shore and started up toward Charles, closing the short distance between them.

Wally reached up to grab Charless leg. He was inches away when he seemed to switch to slow motion. His legs stiffened but it was no use. Slowly at first, then rapidly, he slid backwards.

With renewed effort, Charles tried to climb the last five feet. By jamming his toes against the embankment he discovered he could create crude footholds. In this way, he inched upwards and threw his upper body over the edge. He pulled his feet up, then raised himself on his hands and knees. In so doing, he felt rocks and pieces of brick under the snow. He kicked them loose and picked up a handful. Wally had begun a new assault on the embankment and at that moment was only five feet away.

Cocking his arm back, Charles threw the stones. One hit Wally on the point of the shoulder and he grunted in pain. He grabbed the area with his opposite hand only to slip back down the embankment. Quickly Charles kicked loose additional stones and threw them down at Wally, who put his arms over his head and retreated out onto the ice.

Charles fled back toward the row of deserted mill buildings, intending to run around the end of the first building and get to the Pinto, which was parked a hundred yards back. But as he started in that direction, he saw several flashlights coming around the opposite end of the hurricane fence. They swung in his direction, momentarily blinding him, and he knew hed been spotted. He had no choice. He ran directly for the empty building.

Dashing through a doorless opening Charles was quickly engulfed by impenetrable darkness. With his arms swinging in exploratory arcs he inched forward, encountering a wall. As if in a maze, he stumbled along the wall until he came to a door. Bending down and searching the floor, he found some rubble, which he tossed through the opening. It hit yet another wall and fell back to the floor. Without letting go of the doorjamb, Charles reached out in the darkness. His fingertips touched the wall that hed hit with the rubble. He let go of the doorframe and walked along this new wall.

Hearing shouts behind him, Charles felt a surge of panic. He had to find a place to hide. He was convinced that these Recycle people were crazy and that they were planning to kill him. Charles was certain they had hoped to force him into the chemical lagoon, hoping perhaps to make it appear as an accident. He was, after all, a trespasser who could conceivably slip into that cesspool in the dark. And if they were willing to dump poisons into a public river, morality was not high on their priority list.

Charles came to a corner in the wall he was following. He strained to see but he couldnt even detect his own hand moving in front of his face. Bending down, he gathered a few pebbles and tossed them around the corner to see how far away the next wall was. He waited for the sound of the stone to hit a wall, then a floor. There was neither. After a long delay, Charles heard the distant splash of water. He shrank back. Somewhere immediately in front of him was a void, perhaps an old elevator shaft.

Guessing that he was in a hallway, Charles threw some pebbles perpendicular to the wall hed been following. The stones hit immediately, and stretching out in the darkness, Charles felt the opposite wall.

With his foot Charles began to kick loose plaster ahead of him to be sure that hed pass the shaft. It worked, and he slowly moved ahead, gaining a certain amount of confidence. He had no way of judging the distance hed traveled, but he felt it was significant. Then his hand touched another doorjamb. Feeling ahead, his other hand grasped a wooden door, open about a foot. The knob was missing. Charles pushed and the door reluctantly opened, restricted by debris on the floor. With great care Charles inched into the room, feeling ahead with his right foot, and smelling a foul, musty odor. He encountered a bale of material, then realized it was an old, rotting rug.

Behind him he heard someone yell into the cavernous interior. We want to talk to you, Charles Martel. The sound echoed in the blackness. Then he heard heavy footsteps and voices talking among themselves. With a surge of new fear, he let go of the door and started across the room, his hands sweeping around in front of him, hoping to find some hiding place. Almost immediately he tripped over another rug, then hit up against a low, metal object. He felt along the top of it, deciding it was a cabinet of sorts that had been tipped over. Stepping around it, he ducked down among a pile of smelly rags. He burrowed beneath the rags as best he could, feeling some movement of little feet. He hoped it was mice hed disturbed and not something larger.

Except for the luminous dial on his watch, Charles could see nothing. He waited, his breath sounding harsh in the stillness and his heart beating audibly in his ears. He was caught. There was no place else to run. They could do to him what they wanted; no one would find his body, especially if it were thrown down the old elevator shaft. Charles had never felt such limitless terror.

A light flickered in the hallway, sending tiny reflections into Charless room. The flashlights were moving down the hallway, coming in his direction. For a moment they disappeared and utter blackness descended. He heard a distant splash as if a large object had been thrown down the elevator shaft, followed by laughter.

The flashlight beams returned to the hallway, swaying and searching as Charless pursuers drew nearer. Now he could hear every footstep. With a sudden, grating noise, the old wooden door was shoved open, and a sharp ray of light played around the room.

Charles pulled his head down like a turtle, hoping that his pursuer would be satisfied with a cursory glance. But such was not the case. Charles heard the man kick the roll of old rug and saw the light going over every inch of the floor. With a stab of panic he knew he was about to be discovered.

Leaping from beneath his scant cover, Charles bolted for the door. The pursuer whirled his light, silhouetting Charles in the doorway. Here he is! the man yelled.

Intending to try to retrace his steps out of the maze, Charles started down the corridor. Instead he crashed into another pursuer coming down the hall who grabbed him, dropping his flashlight in the process. Charles struck blindly, desperately trying to free himself. Then, even before he felt the pain, his legs buckled beneath him. The man had hit Charles on the back of his knees with a club.

Charles collapsed to the floor as his attacker reached for his flashlight. The other man emerged from the room Charles had been hiding in and his light played over the scene. For the first time, Charles got a look at the man whod hit him. To his astonishment he found himself looking at Frank Neilson, Shaftesburys Chief of Police. The blue serge uniform with all its bits and pieces of decoration, including holster and hand gun, never looked so good.

Okay, Martel, games over, on your feet! said Neilson, slipping his billy club into its leather holster. He was a stocky man with slicked-back blond hair and a gut that swooped out from his chest, then curved back just above his trouser tops. His neck was the size of Charless thigh.

Am I glad to see you, said Charles, with heartfelt sincerity despite the fact hed been struck.

Ill bet you are, said Frank, grabbing Charles by the collar and hauling him to his feet.

Charles staggered for a moment, his leg muscles complaining.

Cuffs? asked the deputy. His name was Bernie Crawford. In contrast to his boss, the deputy was tall an lanky, like a basketball forward.

Hell, no! said Frank. Lets just get out of this shithole.

Bernie went first, followed by Charles, then Frank, as the trio made their way back through the deserted factory. Passing the elevator shaft, Charles shuddered to think how close hed come to tumbling into the pit. As he walked, he thought about Bernies question of cuffs. Obviously Recycle had called the police and had made a complaint.

No one spoke as they marched single file out of the old mill, across the empty lot, and to the Dodge Aspen squad car. Charles was put into the backseat, behind the thick mesh guard. Frank started the car and began to pull away from the curb.

Hey, my cars back that way, said Charles, moving forward to speak through the mesh.

We know where your car is, said Frank.

Sitting back, Charles tried to calm down. His heart was still thumping in his chest and his legs ached horribly. He glanced out the window wondering if they were taking him to the station. But they didnt make a U-turn. Instead they headed south and turned in at the gate for the Recycle parking lot.

Charles sat forward again. Listen. I need your help. I need to get some hard evidence to prove that Recycle is dumping poisons into the Pawtomack. Thats what I was doing here when they jumped me and destroyed my camera.

You listen, Mack, said Frank. We got a call you were trespassing here. And on top of that you assaulted one of the workers, pushing him into some acid. Last night you shoved around the foreman, Nat Archer.

Charles sat back, realizing that he was just going to have to wait out whatever protocol Frank had decided on. Presumably Frank wanted some positive identification. With a certain amount of exasperation clouding his relief, Charles resigned himself to having to go down to the police station.

They stopped a distance from the front entrance. Frank blew the horn three times and waited. Presently the aluminum storm door opened, and Charles watched Nat Archer come out, followed by a shorter fellow whose left leg was swathed from the knee down in bandages.

Frank struggled out from behind the wheel and came around the car to open the door for Charles. Out, was all he said.

Charles complied. There was about an inch and a half of new snow and Charles slid a little before regaining his balance. The bruises where hed been hit by Franks billy club hurt more when he was standing.

Nat Archer and his companion trudged up to Frank and Charles.

This the man? asked Frank, bending a stick of gum and pushing it deep into his mouth.

Archer glared at Charles and said, Its him, all right.

Well, you want to press charges? asked Frank, chewing his gum with loud snapping noises.

Archer trudged off toward the factory.

Frank, still snapping his gum, walked around the squad car and got in.

Charles, confused, turned to look at Brezo. The man stood in front of Charles smiling a toothless grin. Charles noticed a scar that ran down the side of his face across his cheek, making his smile slightly asymmetric.

In a flash of unexpected violence, Brezo unleashed a powerful blow to Charless midsection. Charles saw the blow coming and managed to deflect it slightly with his elbow. Still it caught Charles in the abdomen, doubling him up, and he crumbled to the cold earth, struggling for a breath. Brezo stood over him expecting more action, but he only kicked a bit of snow at Charles and walked off, limping slightly on his bandaged leg.

Charles pushed himself up onto his hands and knees. For a moment he was disoriented with pain. He heard a car door open and felt a tug on his arm, forcing him to his feet. Holding his side, Charles allowed himself to be led back to the squad car. Once inside, he let his head fall back on the seat.

He felt the car skid but didnt care. He kept his eyes closed. It hurt too much just to breathe. After a short time, the car stopped and the door opened. Charles opened his eyes and saw Frank Neilson looking into the back seat. Lets go, buster. You should feel lucky you got off so easy. He reached in and pulled Charles toward him.

Charles got out, feeling a little dizzy. Frank closed the rear door, then got back into the drivers seat. He rolled down the window. I think youd better stay away from Recycle. Its got around town pretty quick that youre trying to cause trouble. Let me tell you something. If you keep at it, youll find it. In fact, youll find more troublen youre bargaining for. The town survives on Recycle, and we law enforcement officers wont be able to guarantee your safety if you try to change that. Or your familys either. Think about it.

Frank rolled his window up and spun his wheels, leaving Charles standing at the curb, his legs splattered with slush. The Pinto was twenty feet ahead, partially buried under a shroud of snow. Even through the pain, Charles felt a cold rage stirring inside himself. For Charles, adversity had always been a powerful stimulus for action.

 

 

Cathryn and Gina were cleaning up the kitchen when they heard a car turn into the drive. Cathryn ran to the window and pulled the red checkered curtain aside. She hoped to God it was Charles; she hadnt heard from him since hed fled from the hospital, and no one had answered his extension at the lab. She knew she had to tell Charles about the proceedings at the courthouse. She couldnt let him learn about it when he got the court citation in the morning.

Watching the lights come up the driveway, Cathryn found herself whispering, Let it be you, Charles, please. The car swept around the final curve and passed the window. It was the Pinto! Cathryn sighed in relief. She turned back into the room and took the dish towel from Ginas surprised hands.

Mother, its Charles. Would you mind going into the other room? I want to talk to him for a moment, alone.

Gina tried to protest but Cathryn put her fingers to her mothers lips, gently silencing her. Its important.

Youll be okay?

Of course, said Cathryn, urging Gina toward the door. She heard the car door slam.

Cathryn went over to the door. When Charles started up the steps, she swung it open.

Before she could clearly see his face, she smelled him. It was a mildewy odor like wet towels stored in a closet in summer. As he came into the light she saw his bruised and swollen nose. There was a bit of dried blood crusted on his upper lip, and his whole face was curiously blackened. His sheepskin jacket was hopelessly soiled and his pants were torn over the right knee. But most disturbing of all was his expression of tension and barely controlled anger.

Charles? Something terrible was happening. Shed been worrying about him all afternoon and his appearance suggested her concern was justified.

Just dont say anything for a moment, demanded Charles, avoiding Cathryns touch. After removing his coat, he headed for the phone and nervously flipped through the telephone pad.

Cathryn pulled a clean dish towel from the linen drawer, and wetting the end, tried to clean off his face to see where the blood had come from.

Christ, Cathryn! Can you wait one second? snapped Charles, pushing her away.

Cathryn stepped back. The man in front of her was a stranger. She watched him dial the phone, punching the buttons with a vengeance.

Dawson, yelled Charles into the phone. I dont care if youve got the police and the whole fucking town in your pocket. Youre not going to get away with it! Charles punctuated his statement by crashing the receiver onto its bracket. He didnt expect an answer, and wanted to beat Dawson in hanging up.

Having made the call, his tension eased a little. He rubbed his temples for a moment in a slow, circular motion. I had no idea this quaint little town of ours was so corrupt, he said in a near-to-normal voice.

Cathryn began to relax. What happened to you? Youre hurt!

Charles looked at her. He shook his head and to her surprise, laughed. Mostly my sense of dignity. Its hard abandoning all of ones macho fantasies in one evening. No, Im not hurt. Not badly anyway. Especially since at one point I thought it was all over. But for now, I need something to drink. Fruit juice. Anything.

I have a dinner for you in the oven, keeping warm.

Christ. I couldnt eat, said Charles, slowly sinking into one of the kitchen chairs. But Im thirstier than hell. His hands trembled as he put them on the table. His stomach hurt where hed been punched.

After pouring a glass of apple cider, Cathryn carried it to the table. She caught sight of Gina standing in the doorway with an innocent expression. In angry pantomime, Cathryn gestured for her mother to go back to the living room. She sat down at the table. At least for the moment she had abandoned her idea of telling Charles about the guardianship situation.

Theres blood on your face, she said solicitously.

Charles wiped under his nose with the back of his hand and stared at the flakes of dried blood. Bastards! he said.

There was a pause while Charles drank his cider.

Are you going to tell me where youve been and what happened? asked Cathryn finally.

Id rather hear about Michelle first, said Charles, putting the glass on the table.

Are you sure? asked Cathryn. She reached over and put her hand on top of his.

What do you mean, am I sure? snapped Charles. Of course Im sure.

I didnt mean that the way it sounded, said Cathryn. I know youre concerned. Im just worried about you. You took Michelles heart complication so hard.

Whats happened now? demanded Charles, raising his voice, afraid that Cathryn was leading up to terrible news.

Please calm down, said Cathryn gently.

Then tell me whats happened to Michelle.

Its just her fever, said Cathryn. Its gone up and the doctors are concerned.

Oh God! said Charles.

Everything else seems OK. Her heart rate has stayed normal. Cathryn was afraid to say anything about Michelles hair, which had started falling out. But Dr. Keitzman said it was an expected and entirely reversible side effect.

Any sign of remission? asked Charles.

I dont think so. They didnt say anything.

How high is her fever?

Pretty high. It was one-oh-four when I left.

Why did you leave? Why didnt you stay?

I suggested it but the doctors encouraged me to go. They said that parents with a sick child must be careful about neglecting the rest of their family. They told me there was nothing I could do. Should I have stayed? I really didnt know. I wished you were there.

Oh God! said Charles again. Someone should be with her. High fever is not a good sign. The medications are knocking out her normal defenses and seemingly not touching her leukemic cells. A high fever at this point means infection.

Abruptly Charles stood up. Im going back to the hospital, he said with resolve. Right now!

But why, Charles? What can you do now? Cathryn felt a surge of panic, and she leaped to her feet.

I want to be with her. Besides, Ive made up my mind. The medications are going to be stopped. Or at least reduced to an orthodox dose. Theyre experimenting and if it were going to work, we would have seen the circulatory leukemic cells go down. Instead theyve gone up.

But the medicines have cured others. Cathryn knew she had to talk Charles out of going to the hospital. If he did, thered be a crisis . . . a confrontation.

I know chemotherapy has helped others, said Charles. Unfortunately Michelles case is different. The normal protocol has already failed. Im not going to let my daughter be experimented on. Keitzman had his chance. Shes not going to dissolve in front of my eyes like Elizabeth.

Charles started for the door.

Carolyn clutched at his sleeve. Charles, please. You cant go now. Youre a mess.

Looking down at himself, Charles realized Cathryn was right. But did he really care? He hesitated, then ran upstairs where he changed his clothes and washed his hands and face. When he ran back down, Cathryn realized that he had made up his mind. He was going to the hospital that night and had every intention of stopping Michelles medicines, her only chance at life. Once again, the doctors had correctly forecasted his reaction. Cathryn realized she had to tell him about the guardianship right away. She could not afford to wait.

Charles pulled on his befouled jacket, checking for his car keys in his pocket.

Cathryn leaned her back up against the counter, her hands gripping the Formica edge. Charles, she began in a quiet tone. You cannot stop Michelles medicine.

Charles found his keys. Of course I can, he said confidently.

Arrangements have been made so that you cannot, said Cathryn.

With his hand on the back door, Charles paused. The word arrangements had an ominous connotation. What are you trying to say?

I want you to come back, take your coat off, and sit down, said Cathryn, as if she were talking to a recalcitrant teenager.

Charles walked directly up to her. I think youd better tell me about these arrangements.

Although Cathryn never would have imagined it possible, she felt a touch of fear as she gazed up into Charless narrowed eyes. After you left the hospital so hastily this afternoon, I had a conference with Dr. Keitzman and Dr. Wiley. They felt that you were under a severe strain and might not be in the best position to make the right decisions about Michelles care. Cathryn deliberately tried to echo the legal talk shed heard at the meeting. What terrified her most was Charless reaction to her complicity. She wanted to emphasize that she had been a reluctant participant. She looked up into his face. His blue eyes were cold. The hospital lawyer said that Michelle needed a temporary guardian and the doctors agreed. They told me they could do it without my cooperation but that it would be easier if I helped. I thought I was doing the right thing although it was a hard decision. I felt one of us should still be involved.

So what happened? said Charles, his face becoming a dull red.

There was an emergency hearing before a judge, said Cathryn. She was telling it poorly and at a bad time. She was making a mess of everything. Doggedly she continued, The judge agreed that Michelle should get the recognized treatment for her condition as outlined by Dr. Keitzman. I was appointed temporary guardian. There will be a hearing on this petition in three days and a full hearing in three weeks. The court also appointed a guardian and listen, Charles, believe me, Ive done all this for Michelle. Im not doing anything against you or to come between you and Michelle.

Cathryn searched Charless face for a flicker of understanding. She saw only rage.

Charles! cried Cathryn. Please believe me. The doctor convinced me youve been under great strain. You havent been yourself. Look at you! Dr. Keitzman is world-famous for treating childhood leukemias. I did it only for Michelle. Its only temporary. Please. Cathryn broke into tears.

Gina appeared instantly at the doorway. Is everything all right? she called out timidly.

Charles spoke very slowly, his eyes on Cathryns face. I hope to God this isnt true. I hope youre making this up.

Its true, managed Cathryn. Its true. You left. I did the best I could. Youll be served with a citation in the morning.

Charles exploded with a violence hed never known hed possessed. The only handy object was a short stack of dishes. Snatching them off the counter he lifted them over his head and crashed them to the floor in a fearful splintering of china. I cant stand this. Everybody is against me. Everybody!

Cathryn cringed by the sink, afraid to move. Gina was riveted to the doorway, wanting to flee but fearful for her daughters safety.

Michelle is my daughter, my flesh and blood, raged Charles. No one is going to take her away from me.

Shes my adopted daughter, sobbed Cathryn. I feel just as strongly as you. Overcoming her fear, she grabbed the lapels of Charless coat, shaking him as best she could. Please calm down. Please, she cried desperately.

The last thing Charles wanted was to be held down. By reflex his arm shot up and with unnecessary force, knocked Cathryns arms into the air. Following through with the blow, the side of his hand inadvertently caught her face, knocking her backwards against the kitchen table.

A chair fell over and Gina screamed, running into the room and positioning her corpulent bulk between Charles and her dazed daughter. She began reciting a prayer as she crossed herself.

Charles reached out and rudely shoved the woman aside. He grabbed Cathryn by both shoulders and shook her like a rag doll. I want you to call and cancel those legal proceedings. Do you understand?

Chuck heard the commotion and ran down the stairs. He took one look at the scene in front of him and sprang into the room, grabbing his father from behind, and pinning his arms to his side. Charles tried to twist loose but he couldnt. Instead he released Cathryn, and lunged back with the point of his elbow, digging it into the pit of Chucks abdomen. The boys breath came out in a forceful huff. Charles spun, then shoved Chuck backwards so that he tripped, fell, and hit his head on the floor.

Cathryn screamed. The crisis was expanding in a chain reaction. She threw herself on top of Chuck to protect him from his father and it was at this point Charles realized that he was attacking his own son.

He took a step forward but Cathryn screamed again, shielding the crumpled boy. Gina stepped between Charles and the others murmuring something about the devil.

Charles looked up to see the confused face of Jean Paul in the doorway. The boy backed away when he saw Charles staring at him. Looking back at the others, Charles felt an overwhelming sense of alienation. Impulsively he turned and stormed out of the house.

Gina closed the back door behind him, while Cathryn helped Chuck into one of the kitchen chairs. They heard the Pinto rumble down the driveway.

I hate him! I hate him! cried Chuck, holding his stomach with both hands.

No, no, soothed Cathryn. This is all a nightmare. Well all wake up and it will be over.

Your eye! exclaimed Gina, coming up to Cathryn and tilting her head back.

Its nothing, said Cathryn.

Nothing? Its becoming black and blue. I think youd better get some ice on it.

Cathryn got up and looked at herself in a small mirror hanging in the hallway. There was a minute cut on her right eyebrow and she was indeed getting a black eye. By the time she got back into the kitchen, Gina had the ice tray out.

Jean Paul reappeared at the doorway.

If he ever hits you again, Ill kill him, said Chuck.

Charles Jr., snapped Cathryn. I dont want to hear that kind of talk. Charles is not himself; hes under a lot of strain. Besides, he didnt mean to hit me. He was trying to get free from my grasp.

I think hes let in the devil, said Gina.

Thats enough, all of you, said Cathryn.

I think hes crazy, persisted Chuck.

Cathryn took a breath in preparation for reprimanding Chuck but she hesitated because the boys comment made her wonder if Charles was having a nervous breakdown. The doctors suggested it as a possibility and they had been right about everything else. Cathryn wondered where she was going to find the reserve to hold the family together.

Her first concern was safety. Cathryn had never seen Charles lose control before. Thinking it best to get some professional advice, she called Dr. Keitzmans exchange.

Keitzman called back five minutes later.

She told him the entire series of events, including the fact that Charles had decided to stop Michelles medications and added that Charles had left in his car, presumably en route to the hospital.

Sounds like we petitioned for custody at the right time, said Dr. Keitzman.

Cathryn was in no mood for self-congratulation. That may be, but Im concerned about Charles. I dont know what to expect.

Thats precisely the problem, said Dr. Keitzman. He may be dangerous.

I cant believe that, said Cathryn.

Thats something that cannot be ascertained unless hes seen professionally. But, believe me, its a possibility. Maybe you should leave the house for a day or two. Youve got a family to consider.

I suppose we could go to my mothers, said Cathryn. It was true she had others to think about besides herself.

I think it would be best. Just until Charles calms down.

What if Charles goes to the hospital tonight?

No need for you to worry about that. Ill alert the hospital, and Ill let the floor know you have guardianship. Dont worry, everything is going to be all right.

Cathryn hung up, wishing she felt as optimistic as Dr. Keitzman. She still had the feeling that things were going to get worse.

A half hour later, with a good deal of misgiving, Cathryn, Gina, and the two boys trudged out into the snow with overnight bags and piled in the station wagon. They dropped Jean Paul at a school friends house where hed been invited to stay, and began the drive into Boston. No one spoke.

ELEVEN
It was after nine when Charles reached Pediatric Hospital. In contrast to the daytime chaos, the street outside was quiet, and he found a parking spot in front of the medical center bookstore. He entered the hospital through the main entrance and rode up to Anderson 6 on an empty elevator.

He was accosted by someone when he passed the nurses station, but he didnt even look in the direction of the voice. He got to Michelles room and slipped through the partially open door.

It was darker than in the hall with light coming from a small night-light near the floor. Giving his eyes a chance to adjust, Charles stood for a moment taking in the scene. The cardiac monitor was visible on the other side of the bed. The auditory signal had been turned down but the visual signal traced a repetitive fluorescent blip across the tiny screen. There were two intravenous lines, one running into each of Michelles arms. The one on the left had a piggyback connector, and Charles knew it was being used as the infusion route for the chemotherapy.

Charles silently advanced into the room, his eyes glued to the sleeping face of his daughter. As he got closer he realized, to his surprise, that Michelles eyes were not closed. They were watching his every move.

Michelle? whispered Charles.

Daddy? whispered Michelle in response. Shed thought it was another hospital technician sneaking up on her in the night to take more blood.

Charles tenderly lifted his daughter in his arms. She felt perceptibly lighter. She tried to return the embrace but her limbs were without strength. He pressed her cheek to his and slowly rocked her. He could feel her skin was flushed with fever.

Looking into her face, he noticed that her lips were ulcerated.

He felt such powerful emotion that it was beyond tears. Life was not fair. It was a cruel experience in which hope and happiness were transient illusions that served only to make the inevitable tragedy more poignant.

As he held his daughter Charles thought about his response to Recycle, Ltd. and felt foolish. Of course he could understand his urge for revenge, but under the circumstances, there were more important ways to spend his time. Obviously the people at Recycle did not care about a twelve-year-old girl, and they could conveniently blind themselves to any sense of responsibility. And what about the so-called cancer establishment? Did they care? Charles doubted it, seeing as he had the inner dynamics at his own institute. The irony was that the people controlling the megalithic cancer establishment were ultimately at equal risk to succumbing to the disease as the public at large.

Daddy, why is your nose so swollen? asked Michelle, looking into Charless face.

Charles smiled. Ill as she was, Michelle was still concerned about him! Incredible!

He made up a quick story of slipping in the snow and comically falling on his face. Michelle laughed, but her face quickly became serious. Daddy, am I going to get well?

Without meaning to, Charles hesitated. The question had caught him off guard. Of course, he said with a laugh, trying to make up for the pause. In fact, I dont think youll be needing any more of this medicine. Charles stood up, indicating the IV used for the chemotherapy. Why dont I just take it out?

Michelles face clouded with worry. She detested any adjustments to the IV.

It wont hurt, said Charles.

Deftly he removed the plastic catheter from Michelles arm, keeping pressure on the spot. Youll need the other IV for a little longer in case your ticker speeds up again. Charles tapped Michelles chest.

The room light snapped on, throwing its raw fluorescent glare around the room.

A nurse came in followed by two uniformed security guards.

Mr. Martel, Im sorry but you are going to have to leave. She noticed the dangling IV line and shook her head angrily.

Charles did not respond. He sat on the edge of Michelles bed and again took her into his arms.

The nurse gestured for the security men to help. They came forward and gently urged Charles to leave.

We could have you arrested if you dont cooperate, said the nurse, but I dont want to do that.

Charles allowed the guards to pull his arms from around Michelle.

Michelle looked at the guards and then her father. Why would they arrest you?

I dont know, said Charles with a smile. I guess its not visiting hours.

Charles stood up, bent over and kissed Michelle, and said, Try to be good. Ill be back soon.

The nurse turned out the overhead light. Charles waved from the doorway and Michelle waved back.

You shouldnt have taken out that IV, said the nurse as they walked back to the nurses station.

Charles didnt respond.

If you wish to visit your daughter, continued the nurse, it will have to be during regular hours, and youll have to be accompanied.

Id like to see her chart, said Charles courteously, ignoring her other comments.

The nurse continued walking; obviously she didnt like the idea.

Its my right, said Charles simply. Besides, I am a physician.

The nurse reluctantly agreed and Charles went into the deserted chart room. Michelles chart was innocently hanging in its designated spot. He pulled it out and placed it before him. Thered been a blood count that afternoon. His heart sank! Although he expected it, it still was a blow to see that her leukemic cell count had not decreased. In fact, it had gone up a little. There was no doubt that the chemotherapy was not helping her at all.

Pulling the phone over to him, Charles put in a call to Dr. Keitzman. While he waited for the call back, he glanced through the rest of the chart. The plot of Michelles fever was the most alarming. It had been hovering around one hundred until that afternoon when it had shot up to one hundred four. Charles read the carefully typed cardiology report. The conclusion was that the ventricular tachycardia could have been caused by either the rapid infusion of the second dose of Daunorubicin or a leukemic infiltration of the heart, or perhaps, a combination of the two. At that point, the phone rang. It was Dr. Keitzman.

Both Dr. Keitzman and Charles made an effort at being cordial.

As a physician, said Dr. Keitzman, Im sure you are aware that we doctors frequently find ourselves in the dilemma of adhering to the established and best principles of medicine or giving way to the wishes of the patient or the family. Personally, I believe in the former approach and as soon as one begins to make exception, whatever the justification, its like opening Pandoras box. So were having to rely on the courts more and more.

But clearly, said Charles, controlling himself, chemotherapy is not helping in Michelles case.

Not yet, admitted Dr. Keitzman. But its still early. Theres still a chance. Besides, its all we have.

I think youre treating yourself, snapped Charles.

Dr. Keitzman didnt answer. He knew there was a grain of truth in what Charles said. The idea of doing nothing was anathema to Dr. Keitzman, especially with a child.

One other thing, said Charles. Do you think benzene could have caused Michelles leukemia?

Its possible, said Dr. Keitzman. Its the right kind of leukemia. Was she exposed?

Over a long period, said Charles. A factory has been dumping it into a river that feeds the pond on our property. Would you be willing to say that Michelles leukemia was caused by benzene?

I couldnt do that, said Dr. Keitzman. Im sorry, but it would be purely circumstantial. Besides, benzene has only been unequivocally implicated in causing leukemia in laboratory animals.

Which you and I know means it causes it in humans.

True, but thats not the kind of evidence acceptable by a court of law. There is an element of doubt, no matter how small.

So you wont help? asked Charles.

Im sorry but I cant, said Dr. Keitzman. But there is something I can do, and I feel its my responsibility. Id like to encourage you to seek psychiatric consultation. Youve had a terrible shock.

Charles thought about telling the man off, but he didnt. Instead he hung up on him. When he stood up he thought about sneaking back to Michelles room but he couldnt. The charge nurse was watching him like a hawk and one of the uniformed security men was still there, leafing through a People magazine. Charles went to the elevator and pushed the button. As he waited, he began to outline what courses of action were open to him. He was on his own and would be even more on his own after the meeting tomorrow with Dr. Ibanez.

 

 

Ellen Sheldon arrived at the Weinburger later than usual. Even so she took her time because the walk to the door was treacherous. The Boston weather had been true to form the previous night, starting out with rain that turned to snow, then back to rain again. Then the whole mess had frozen solid. By the time Ellen reached the front entrance it was about eight-thirty.

The reason she was so late was twofold. First she didnt even know if shed see Charles that day so there was no need to set up the lab. Second, shed been out very late the night before. Shed violated one of her cardinal rules: never accept a date on the spur of the moment. But after shed told Dr. Morrison that Charles was not following up on the Canceran work, hed convinced her to take the rest of the day off. Hed also taken her home number in order to give her the results of the meeting with Charles and the Weinburgers. Although Ellen had not expected him to call, he had, and had told her of Charless probationary status and that Charles had twenty-four hours to decide whether he was going to play ball or not. Then hed asked to take her to dinner. Deciding it was a business date, Ellen had accepted, and she was glad she had. Dr. Peter Morrison was not a Paul Newman look-alike, but he was a fascinating man and obviously powerful in the research community.

Ellen tried to unlock the lab door and was surprised to find it had been opened. Charles was already hard at work.

Thought maybe you werent coming in today, joked Charles good-naturedly.

Ellen took off her coat and struggled with a mild wave of guilt. I didnt think youd be here.

Oh? said Charles. Well, Ive been working a good part of the night.

Ellen walked over to his desk. Charles had a new lab book in front of him and several pages were already filled with his precise handwriting. He looked terrible. His hair was matted down, emphasizing the thinning area on the crown of his head. His eyes looked tired and he was in need of a shave.

What are you doing? asked Ellen, trying to evaluate his mood.

Ive been busy, said Charles, holding up a vial. And Ive got some good news. Our method of isolating a protein antigen from an animal cancer works just as smoothly on human cancer. The hybridoma I made with Michelles leukemic cells has been working overtime.

Ellen nodded. She was beginning to feel sorry for Charles Martel.

Also, continued Charles, I checked all the mice we injected with the mammary cancer antigen. Two of them show a mild but definite and encouraging antibody response. What do you think of that? What Id like you to do today is inject them with another challenge dose of the antigen, and Id like you to start a new batch of mice using Michelles leukemic antigen.

But Charles, said Ellen sympathetically, were not supposed to be doing this.

Charles carefully set down the vial he had in his hands as if it contained nitroglycerin. He turned and faced Ellen. Im still in charge here. His voice was even and controlled, maybe too controlled.

Ellen nodded. In truth, she had come to be a little afraid of Charles. Without another word, she repaired to her area and began preparing to inject the mice. Out of the corner of her eye she watched Charles retreat to his desk, pick up a folder of papers, and begin reading. She looked up at the clock. Sometime after nine shed excuse herself from the lab and contact Peter.

Earlier that morning Charles had been served with the citation concerning the ex parte guardianship hearing. Hed accepted the papers from a sheriffs department courier without a word, and hadnt looked at them until that moment. He had little patience with legal gibberish, and he only glanced at the forms, noticing that his presence was required at a hearing scheduled in three days. He returned the papers to their envelope and tossed it aside. Hed have to have legal counsel.

After checking his watch, Charles picked up the phone. His first call was to John Randolph, town manager of Shaftesbury, New Hampshire. Charles had met the man since he was also the owner-operator of the local hardware-appliance store.

Ive got a complaint, said Charles after the usual greetings, about the Shaftesbury police force.

I hope youre not talking about last night over at the factory, said John.

As a matter of fact, I am, said Charles.

Well, we already know all about that incident, said John. Frank Neilson had the three selectmen meet him over breakfast at P.J.s diner. Heard all about it. Sounded to me like you were lucky Frank came along.

I thought so at first, said Charles. But not after they took me back to Recycle so that some half-wit could punch me out.

I didnt hear about that part, admitted John. But I did hear you were trespassing, and then pushed someone into some acid. Why in Gods name are you causing trouble at the factory? Arent you a doctor? Seems like strange behavior for a physician.

Sudden anger clouded Charless mind. He launched into an impassioned explanation of Recycles dumping benzene and other toxic chemicals into the river. He told the town manager that for the sake of the community he was trying to get the factory closed down.

I dont think the community would look kindly at closing down the factory, said John when Charles finally paused. There was a lot of unemployment here before that factory opened. The prosperity of our town is directly related to Recycle.

I suppose your gauge of prosperity is the number of washing machines sold, said Charles.

Thats part of it, agreed John.

Jesus Christ! shouted Charles. Causing fatal diseases like leukemia and aplastic anemia in children is a high price to pay for prosperity, wouldnt you agree?

I dont know anything about that, said John evenly.

I dont think you want to know about it.

Are you accusing me of something?

Youre damn right. Im accusing you of irresponsibility. Even if there were just a chance that Recycle was dumping poisonous chemicals into the river, the factory should be closed until it is investigated. The risk isnt worth a handful of grubby jobs.

Thats easy for you to say, being an M.D. and not having to worry about money. Those jobs are important for the town and the people who work there. As for your complaint about our police, why dont you just stay out of our business? Thats what the selectmen suggested this morning. We dont need you city folk with your fancy degrees from Harvard telling us how to live!

Charles heard the familiar click as the line disconnected. So much for that approach, he thought.

Knowing anger would get him nowhere, Charles dialed the number for EPA. He asked for Mrs. Amendola of the Enforcement Division. To his surprise the line was picked up immediately and Mrs. Amendolas slightly nasal voice came over the wire. Charles identified himself and then described what he found at Recycle, Ltd.

The tank that holds the benzene has a pipe that connects directly with the roof drain, said Charles.

Thats not very subtle, said Mrs. Amendola.

I think its about as blatant as you can get, said Charles. And on top of that they have a pool of chemicals up there that regularly seeps into the river.

Did you get some photos? asked Mrs. Amendola.

I tried to, but couldnt, said Charles. I think your people might have more luck than I. Charles couldnt see any reason to get into a discussion with the EPA about the destruction of his camera. If it would have helped to get the EPA interested, he would have. As it was he was afraid it might discourage them altogether.

Ill make some calls, said Mrs. Amendola. But I cant promise you anything. Id have more luck if I had the written complaint you promised to send me and a couple of photos, even if they were lousy.

Charles told her hed get to it as soon as he could but hed appreciate it if shed go ahead and try to get some action based on the information hed already given her. As he hung up he was not very confident that anything would be done.

Returning to the laboratory bench, he watched Ellens preparation. He didnt interfere because Ellen was far more dexterous than he. Instead he busied himself with the dilution of Michelles leukemic antigen to prepare it for injection into the mice. Since the vial was sterile, Charles used sterile technique to withdraw an exact volume of the solution. This aliquot was then added to a specific amount of sterile saline to make the concentration he desired. The vial with the remaining antigen went into the refrigerator.

With the dilution completed, Charles gave it to Ellen and told her to continue what she was doing because he was going out to find a lawyer. He told her hed be back before lunch.

After the door closed Ellen stood there for a full five minutes watching the second hand rotate around the face of the clock. When Charles didnt return, she called the receptionist who confirmed that Charles had left the institute. Only then did she dial Dr. Morrison. As soon as he got on the line she told him that Charles was still working on his own research; in fact, expanding it, and still behaving peculiarly.

Thats it, said Dr. Morrison. That is the last straw. No one can fault us for trying, but Charles Martel is finished at the Weinburger.

Charless quest for legal representation was not as easy as hed anticipated. Unreasonably equating skill and understanding with impressive quarters, he headed into downtown Boston, parking his car in the government center garage. The first impressive high-rise office building was I State Street. It had a fountain, wide expanses of polished marble, and lots of tinted glass. The directory listed numerous law firms. Charles picked the one closest to the top: Begelman, Canneletto, and OMalley, hoping that the metaphorical implication of their high position would reflect itself in their performance. However, the only correlation turned out to be their estimated fee.

Apparently the firm did not expect street traffic and Charles was forced to wait on an uncomfortable Chippendale love seat which would have been as good for making love as a marble park bench. The lawyer who finally saw Charles was as junior a partner as possible. To Charles he looked about fifteen years old.

Initially the conversation went well. The young lawyer seemed genuinely surprised that a judge had granted temporary guardianship ex parte to a legal relative in place of a blood relative. However, the man was less sympathetic when he learned that Charles wanted to stop the treatment recommended by the specialists. He still would have been willing to help if Charles had not launched into impassioned accusations against Recycle, Ltd. and the town of Shaftesbury. When the lawyer began to question Charless priorities, they ended up in an argument. Then the man accused Charles of barratry, which particularly inflamed Charles because he did not know what it meant.

Charles left unrepresented, and instead of trying other firms in the building, he consulted the yellow pages in a nearby drugstore. Avoiding fancy addresses, Charles looked for lawyers who were out on their own. He marked a half dozen names and began calling, asking whoever answered if they were busy or if they needed work. If there was a hesitation, Charles hung up and tried the next. On the fifth try, the lawyer answered the phone himself. Charles liked that. In response to Charless question, the lawyer said he was starving. Charles said hed be right over. He copied down the name and address: Wayne Thomas, 13 Brattle Street, Cambridge.

There was no fountain, no marble, no glass. In fact, 13 Brattle Street was a rear entrance, reached through a narrow, canyonlike alley. Beyond a metal door rose a flight of wooden steps. At the top were two doors. One was for a palm reader, the other for Wayne Thomas, Attorney-at-Law. Charles entered.

Okay, man, sit right here and tell me what you got, said Wayne Thomas, pulling over a straight-backed chair. As Wayne got out a yellow pad, Charles glanced around the room. There was one picture: Abe Lincoln. Otherwise the walls were freshly painted white plaster. There was a single window through which Charles could see a tiny piece of Harvard Square. The floor was hardwood, recently sanded and varnished. The room had a cool, utilitarian appearance.

My wife and I decorated the office, said Wayne, noticing Charless wandering eyes. What do you think?

I like it, said Charles. Wayne Thomas didnt look as if he were starving. He was a solid six-foot black in his early thirties, with a full beard. Dressed in a three-piece, blue pin-striped suit, he was a commanding presence.

Handing over the temporary guardianship citation, Charles told his story. Except for jotting down some notes, Wayne listened intently and did not interrupt like the young fellow at Begelman, Canneletto, and OMalley. When Charles got to the end of his tale, Wayne asked a series of probing questions. Finally he said, I dont think theres much we can do about this temporary guardianship until the hearing. With a guardianship ad litim theyve covered their tracks, but Ill need the time to prepare the case anyway. As for Recycle, Ltd. and the town of Shaftesbury, I can start right away. However, there is the question about a retainer.

Ive got a three-thousand-dollar loan coming, said Charles.

Wayne whistled. Im not talking about that kind of bread. How about five hundred?

Charles agreed to send the money as soon as he got the loan. He shook hands with Wayne and for the first time noticed the man wore a thin gold earring in his right ear.

Returning to the Weinburger, Charles felt a modicum of satisfaction. At least hed started the legal process and even if Wayne wasnt ultimately successful, he would at the very least cause Charless adversaries some inconvenience. Outside of the thick glass entrance door, Charles waited impatiently. Miss Andrews, whod obviously seen him, chose to complete a line of type before releasing the door. As Charles passed her, she picked up the telephone. That wasnt an auspicious sign.

The lab was empty. He called for Ellen and, receiving no answer, checked the animal room, but she wasnt there. When he looked up at the clock he realized why. Hed been gone longer than hed expected. Ellen was obviously out for lunch. He went over to her work area and noticed that the dilution hed prepared of Michelles leukemic antigen had not been touched.

Returning to his desk, he again called Mrs. Amendola at the EPA to ask if shed had any luck with the surveillance department. With thinly disguised impatience, she told him that his was not the only problem she was working on and that shed call him, rather than vice versa.

Maintaining his composure, Charles tried to call the regional head of the EPA to lodge a formal complaint about the agencys organization, but the man was in Washington at a meeting about new hazardous waste regulations.

Desperately trying to maintain confidence in the concept of representative government, he called the Governor of New Hampshire and the Governor of Massachusetts. In both cases the result was identical. He could not get past secretaries who persistently referred him to the State Water Pollution Control Boards. No matter what he said, including the fact that hed already called these people, the secretaries were adamant, and he gave up. Instead he called the Democratic senator from Massachusetts.

At first the response from Washington sounded promising, but then he was switched from low-level aide to low-level aide until he found someone conversant on environment. Despite his very specific complaint, the aide insisted on keeping the conversation general. With what sounded like a prepared speech, the man gave Charles ten full minutes of propaganda about how much the senator cared about environmental issues. While waiting for a pause, Charles saw Peter Morrison walk into the lab. He hung up while the aide was in mid-sentence.

The two men eyed each other across the polished floor of Charless lab, their outward differences even more apparent than usual. Morrison seemed to have made particular effort with his appearance that day, whereas Charles had suffered from having slept in his clothes at the lab.

Morrison had entered with a victorious smile, but as Charles turned to face him, the administrator noticed that Charles, too, was cheerfully smiling. Morrisons own grin faltered.

Charles felt as if he finally understood Dr. Morrison. He was a has-been researcher whod turned to administration as a way of salvaging his ego. Beneath his polished exterior, he still recognized that the researcher was the king and, in that context, resented his dependence on Charless ability and commitment.

Youre wanted immediately in the directors office, said Dr. Morrison. Dont bother to shave.

Charles laughed out loud, knowing the last comment was supposed to be the ultimate insult.

Youre impossible, Martel, snapped Dr. Morrison as he left.

Charles tried to compose himself before setting out for Dr. Ibanezs office. He knew exactly what was going to happen and yet dreaded the upcoming encounter. Going to the directors office had become a daily ritual. As he passed the somber oil paintings of previous directors, he nodded to some of them. When he got to Miss Evans, he just smiled and walked past, ignoring her frantic commands to stop. Without knocking, Charles sauntered into Dr. Ibanezs office.

Dr. Morrison straightened up from bending over Dr. Ibanezs shoulder. Theyd been examining some papers. Dr. Ibanez eyed Charles with confusion.

Well? said Charles aggressively.

Dr. Ibanez glanced at Morrison, who shrugged. Dr. Ibanez cleared his throat. It was obvious he would have preferred a moment for mental preparation.

You look tired, said Dr. Ibanez uneasily.

Thank you for your concern, said Charles cynically.

Dr. Martel, Im afraid youve given us no choice, said Dr. Ibanez, organizing his thoughts.

Oh? questioned Charles as if he was unaware of what was being implied.

Yes, said Dr. Ibanez. As I warned you yesterday and in accordance with the wishes of the board of directors, youre 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 hed heard, then turned to leave.

Just a minute, Dr. Martel, called Dr. Ibanez, standing up behind his desk.

Charles turned.

I havent 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. Youve 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, its been brought to our attention that you have a complaint about Recycle, Ltd.

Charless 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. Thats 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 wasnt his nature to hit anyone.

Charles, said Dr. Ibanez. All Im 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.

Its impossible, snapped Charles. Given my daughters 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.

Its 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, youll be given a generous two months severance pay, and Ill see that your medical insurance is continued for thirty days. However, youll have to vacate your laboratory in two days. Weve already contacted a replacement for you, and hes as eager to take over the Canceran study as we are to have it done.

Charles glowered at the two men. Before I go, Id 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 wont ever be used on people unless the tests continue to be falsified. And I intend to make the facts public so that wont 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, youd 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 couldnt suppress his own adolescent urges, and he gave Morrison the finger before walking from the directors 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 Id say this, but Im 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 dont 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 dont think wed better announce that he has been fired. If anyone asks, lets say that Charles has been granted an unspecified leave of absence because of his daughters illness.

I dont think his daughter should be mentioned, said Dr. Morrison. Thats the kind of story the press loves. It could inadvertently give Charles a platform.

Youre right, said Dr. Ibanez. Well just say hes on leave of absence.

What if Charles goes to the press himself? asked Dr. Morrison. They might listen to him.

I still think thats 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. Its even true!

Dr. Morrison allowed himself a thin smile. Thats a fabulous idea. I have a psychiatrist friend who, Im 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, well 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.

Im 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 shed been told of his twenty-four-hour probationary period and shed 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 couldnt 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.

Ive 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 hed painfully learned over the previous twenty-four hours was that he was alone. Family, colleagues, and governmental authority were either useless, obstructive, or frankly against him. And being alone required special courage and commitment.

In fact, what? asked Ellen. For a moment she thought Charles might admit that he needed her. Ellen was ready if hed only say the word.

In fact . . . said Charles, turning from Ellen and approaching his desk, I would appreciate it if youd go back up to administration, since Id prefer not to talk with them again, and retrieve my laboratory books. Holding them hostage obviously didnt work, and Im hoping theyd 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 Charless 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? Ill get your books, but after that I refuse to be involved any further. Im taking the rest of the day off.

Charles watched the door close, now certain that he wasnt being paranoid. Ellen must have been collaborating with the administration. She knew too much too fast. Remembering that hed 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 hed 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 hed 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, hed 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 hed bring the $500 over that afternoon.

Thats cool, man, said Wayne. I started working on the case without the retainer. Ive already filed a restraining order against Recycle, Ltd. Ill 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 Charless 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 hed stored the chemicals.

This is Dr. Michael Kittinger, said Ellen. I was introduced to him up in administration. Hes going to be doing the Canceran study. I guess Ill 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. Ive heard a lot of good things about you.

Ill bet you have, Charles mumbled.

What a fabulous lab, said Dr. Kittinger, dropping Charless 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 dont believe it . . . a Dixon Scanning Electron Microscope! How could you ever leave this paradise?

I had help, said Charles glancing at Ellen.

Ellen avoided Charless 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 couldnt care less, said Charles. This is still my lab for the next two days and I want everyone out. Everyone! Charless 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 hed 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 hed have to work quickly. In fact, hed 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 hed be right back. If the receptionist was reporting to Ibanez, he didnt 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 hed 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, Im 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 Charless present visage with the photo on his New Hampshire drivers 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 Filenes 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.

Whats this for? asked the clerk good-naturedly.

Ducks, said Charles in a tone hed 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 its 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 hed come, making his third stop at the corner of Charles and Cambridge streets. Mindless of the consequences, he pulled off the road to park on the central island beneath the MBTA. Again he left the car with the hazard lights blinking.

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 stores 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 lotbeing careful to leave his car in view of the attendantand hurried over to 13 Brattle Street. He took the stairs at a run and knocked on Wayne Thomass door.

The young attorneys eyes lit up when Charles handed over five crisp one-hundred-dollar bills.

Man, youre going to get the best service money can buy, said Wayne.

He then told Charles that hed managed to get an emergency hearing scheduled the next day for his restraining order on Recycle, Ltd.

Charles left the lawyers 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 hed 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 hed have to wait. He knew it would be dark soon.

TWELVE
Cathryn stood up stiffly and stretched. Silently she moved over to where she could see herself in the mirror through the open door of Michelles hospital bathroom. Even the failing afternoon light couldnt hide how awful she looked. The black eye shed received from Charless accidental blow had gravitated from the upper to the lower lid.

Getting a comb from her purse as well as some blush and a little lipstick, Cathryn stepped into the bathroom and slowly closed the door. She thought that a little effort might make her feel better. Flipping on the fluorescent light, she looked into the mirror once again. What she saw startled her. Under the raw artificial light she looked frightfully pale, which only emphasized her black eye. But worse than her lack of color was her drawn, anxious look. At the corner of her mouth there were lines shed never seen before.

After running the comb through her hair a few times, Cathryn switched off the light. For a moment she stood in the darkness. She couldnt bear to look at herself a moment longer. It was too unsettling, and rather than making her feel better, the makeup idea made her feel worse.

Fleeing to her mothers apartment in Bostons North End had only eliminated the fear of Charless violence; it had done nothing to relieve her agonizing uncertainty that perhaps shed made the wrong decision about the guardianship. Cathryn was terrified that her action would preclude his love for her after the nightmarish affair was over.

As silently as possible, Cathryn reopened the bathroom door and glanced over at the bed. Michelle had finally drifted off into a restless sleep, and even from where Cathryn was standing, she could see the childs face twitch and tremble. Michelle had had a terrible day from the moment Cathryn had arrived that morning. Shed become weaker and weaker by the hour to the point that raising her arms and head were an effort. The small ulcers on her lips had coalesced, creating a large raw surface that pained her whenever she moved them. Her hair was coming out in thick clumps, leaving pale bald spots. But the worst part was her high fever and the fact that her lucid periods were rapidly diminishing.

Cathryn went back to her seat by Michelles bed. Why hasnt Charles called? she asked herself forlornly. Several times she had decided to call him at the institute, but each time, after picking up the phone, she changed her mind.

Gina had not been much help at all. Rather than being supportive and understanding, shed taken the crisis as an opportunity to lecture Cathryn repeatedly on the evil of marrying someone thirteen years her senior with three children. She told Cathryn that she should have expected this kind of problem because even though Cathryn had graciously adopted the children, Charles obviously thought of them as his alone.

Michelles eyes suddenly opened and her face twisted in pain.

Whats wrong? asked Cathryn, anxiously leaning forward on her seat.

Michelle didnt answer. Her head flopped to the other side and her slender body writhed in pain.

Without a moments hesitation, Cathryn was out the door, calling for a nurse. The woman took one look at Michelles squirming body and put in a call to Dr. Keitzman.

Cathryn stood by the bed, wringing her hands, wishing there was something she could do. Standing there over the suffering child was a torture. Without any clear idea why she was doing it, Cathryn rushed into the bathroom and wet the end of a towel. Returning to Michelles bedside, she began to blot the childs forehead with the cool cloth. Whether it did anything for Michelle, Cathryn had no idea, but at least it gave her the satisfaction of doing something.

Dr. Keitzman must have been in the area because he arrived within minutes. Skillfully he examined the child. From the regular beep on the cardiac monitor, he knew that her heart rate had not changed. Her breathing was nonencumbered; her chest was clear. Putting the bell of the stethoscope on Michelles abdomen, Dr. Keitzman listened. He heard a fanfare of squeaks, squawks, and tinkles. Removing the stethoscope, he put his hand on the childs abdomen, gently palpating. When he straightened up he whispered something to the nurse who then quickly disappeared.

Functional intestinal cramping, explained Dr. Keitzman to Cathryn, with relief. Must be a lot of gas. Ive ordered a shot that will give her instantaneous relief.

Heavily breathing through her mouth, Cathryn nodded. She sagged back into the seat.

Dr. Keitzman could see the womans tormented appearance and her harried expression. He put a hand on her shoulder. Cathryn, come outside with me for a moment.

Looking at Michelle, whod miraculously fallen back to sleep after Dr. Keitzmans examination, Cathryn silently followed the oncologist out of the room. He led her back to the now familiar chart room.

Cathryn, Im concerned about you. Youre under a lot of stress, too.

Cathryn nodded. She was afraid to talk, thinking her emotions might all surface and overflow.

Has Charles called?

Cathryn shook her head. She straightened up and took a deep breath.

Im sorry that this has happened the way it has, but youve done the right thing.

Cathryn wondered but kept still.

Unfortunately its not over. I dont have to tell you because its painfully obvious that Michelle is doing very poorly. So far the medicines that weve given her have not touched her leukemic cells, and there is no hint of a remission. She has the most aggressive case of myeloblastic leukemia Ive ever seen, but we will not give up. In fact, well be adding another drug today that I and a few other oncologists have been cleared to use on an experimental basis. Its had promising results. Meanwhile I want to ask you if Michelles two brothers can come in tomorrow for typing to see if either one matches Michelles. I think were going to be forced to irradiate Michelle and give her a marrow transplant.

I think so, managed Cathryn. Ill try.

Good, said Dr. Keitzman, examining Cathryns face. She felt his stare and looked away.

That is quite a shiner youve got, said Dr. Keitzman sympathetically.

Charles didnt mean it. It was an accident, said Cathryn quickly.

Charles called me last night, said Dr. Keitzman.

He did? From where?

Right here in the hospital.

What did he say?

He wanted to know if I would say that benzene caused Michelles leukemia, which I told him I couldnt do, although its a possibility. Unfortunately there is no way it could be proven. Anyway, at the end of the conversation I suggested that he should see a psychiatrist.

What was his response?

He didnt seem excited about the idea. I wish there were some way to talk him into it. With all the stress hes been under Im concerned about him. I dont mean to frighten you, but weve seen similar cases in which the individual has become violent. If theres any way you can get him to see a psychiatrist, I think you ought to try it.

Cathryn left the chart room, eager to get back to see Michelle, but when she passed the lounge opposite the nurses station, her eye caught the pay phone. Overcoming all of her petty reasons for not calling Charles, she put in a call to the institute. The Weinburger operator plugged in Charless lab and Cathryn let it ring ten times. When the operator came back on the line she told Cathryn that she knew Ellen, Charless assistant, was in the library, and she asked if Cathryn would like to speak with her. Cathryn agreed and heard the connection put through.

Hes not in the lab? asked Ellen.

Theres no answer, said Cathryn.

He might be just ignoring the phone, explained Ellen. Hes been acting very strangely. In fact, Im afraid to even go in there. I suppose you know hes been dismissed from the Weinburger.

I had no idea, exclaimed Cathryn with obvious shock. What happened?

Its a long story, said Ellen, and I think Charles should tell you about it, not me.

Hes been under a lot of stress, said Cathryn.

I know, said Ellen.

If you see him, would you ask him to call me? Im at the hospital.

Ellen agreed but added that she had her doubts that shed be seeing him.

Cathryn slowly hung up the receiver. She thought for a moment, then called Gina, asking if Charles had phoned. Gina said there hadnt been any calls. Cathryn next tried to call home but, as she expected, there was no answer. Where was Charles? What was going on?

Cathryn walked back to Michelles room, marveling how quickly her previously secure world had collapsed around her. Why had Charles been fired? During the short time Cathryn had worked there, shed learned that Charles was one of their most respected scientists. What possibly could have happened? Cathryn had only one explanation. Maybe Dr. Keitzman was right. Maybe Charles was having a nervous breakdown and was now wandering aimlessly and alone, cut off from his family and work. Oh God!

Slipping into Michelles room as quietly as possible, Cathryn struggled to see the childs face in the faltering light. She hoped Michelle would be asleep. As her eyes adjusted, she realized Michelle was watching her. She seemed too weak to lift her head. Cathryn went over to her and grasped her warm hand.

Wheres my daddy? asked Michelle, moving her ulcerated lips as little as possible.

Cathryn hesitated, trying to think of how best to answer. Charles is not feeling too well because hes so worried about you.

He told me last night he would come today, pleaded Michelle.

He will if he can, said Cathryn. He will if he can.

A single tear appeared on Michelles face. I think it would be better if I were dead.

Cathryn was shocked into momentary immobility. Then she bent down and hugged the child, giving way to her own tears. No! No! Michelle. Never think that for a moment.

 

 

The Hertz people had graciously included an ice scraper with the packet of rental documents, and Charles used it on the inside of the front windshield of the van. His breath condensed and then froze on the windshield, blocking his view of the Weinburger entrance. By five-thirty it was pitch dark save for the ribbon of lights on Memorial Drive. By six-fifteen everyone had left the institute except for Dr. Ibanez. It wasnt until six-thirty that the director appeared, bundled up in an ankle-length fur coat. Bent against the icy wind, he hunched over and made his way to his Mercedes.

To be absolutely sure, Charles waited until twenty of seven before starting the van. Switching on the lights, he drove around the back side of the building and down the service ramp, backing up against the receiving dock. Getting out of the van, he climbed the stairs next to the platform and rang the bell. While he waited for a response, he felt the first waves of doubt about what he was doing. He knew that the next few minutes would be crucial. For the first time in his life Charles was counting on inefficiency.

A small speaker above the bell crackled to life. On top of the TV camera mounted above the receiving door, a minute red light linked on. Yes? asked a voice.

Dr. Martel here! said Charles, waving into the camera. Ive got to pick up some equipment.

A few minutes later the metal receiving door squeaked, then began a slow rise, exposing an unadorned, cement receiving area. A long row of newly arrived cardboard boxes were stacked neatly to the left. In the rear of the area, an inner door opened, and Chester Willis, one of the two evening guards, stepped out. He was a seventy-two-year-old black whod retired from a city job and taken the job at the Weinburger, saying that he could watch TV at home, but at the Weinburger he got paid for it. Charles knew the real reason the man worked was to help a grandchild through medical school.

Charles had made it a habit over the years to work late into the evenings, at least before Chuck had become a day student at Northeastern, and as a consequence, Charles had become friends with the night security officers.

You workin nights again? asked Chester.

Forced to, said Charles. Were collaborating with a group at M.I.T. and Ive got to move over some of my equipment. I dont trust anybody else to do it.

Dont blame you, said Chester.

Charles breathed a sigh of relief. Security did not know hed been fired.

Taking the larger of two dollies from receiving, Charles returned to his lab. He was pleased to find it untouched since his departure, particularly the locked cabinet with his books and chemicals. Working feverishly, Charles dismantled most of his equipment and began loading it onto the dolly. It took him eight trips, with some help from Chester and Giovanni, to transport what he wanted from the lab down to receiving, storing it in the middle of the room.

The last thing he brought down from the lab was the vial of Michelles antigen which hed stored in the refrigerator. He packed it carefully in ice within an insulated box. He had no idea of its chemical stability and did not want to take any chances.

It was after nine when everything was ready. Chester raised the outside door, then helped Charles pack the equipment and chemicals into the van.

Before he left, Charles had one more task. Returning to his lab he located a prep razor used for animal surgery. With the razor and a bar of hand soap he went to the lavatory and removed his day-and-a-half stubble. He also combed his hair, straightened his tie, and tucked his shirt properly into his pants. After hed finished he examined himself in the full-length mirror. Surprisingly, he looked quite normal. On the way back to the receiving area, he stepped into the main coatroom and picked up a long white laboratory coat.

When he got back outside, he buzzed once more and thanked the two security men over the intercom for their help. Climbing into the cab, he admitted that he felt a twinge of guilt at having taken advantage of his two old friends.

The drive over to Pediatric Hospital was accomplished with ease. There was virtually no traffic and the frigid weather had driven most people indoors. When he arrived at the hospital he faced a dilemma. Considering the value of the equipment jammed in the van, he was reluctant to leave the vehicle on the street. Yet pulling it into the parking garage would make a quick exit an impossibility. After debating for a moment, he decided on the garage. If he were robbed, the whole plan would disintegrate. All he had to do was make sure a quick exit was not a necessity.

Charles parked within view of the attendants booth and double-checked all the doors to be absolutely certain they were locked. Having purposefully left his sheepskin jacket in the van, he put on the long white coat. It afforded little protection from the cold so he ran across to the hospital, entering through the busy emergency room.

Pausing at the check-in desk, Charles interrupted a harried clerk to ask what floor radiology was on. The clerk told him it was on Anderson 2. Charles thanked him and pushed through the double doors into the hospital proper. He passed a security guard and nodded. The guard smiled back.

Radiology was practically deserted. There seemed to be only one technician on duty and she was busy with a backlog of sprained wrists and chest films from the packed emergency room. Charles went directly to the secretarial area and obtained an X-ray request form and letterhead from the department of radiology. Sitting down at one of the desks, he filled in the form: Michelle Martel, aged 12; diagnosis, leukemia; study requested: abdominal flat plate. From the stationery he selected one of the names of the radiologists and used it to sign the request form.

Back in the main corridor, Charles unlocked the wheel stops on one of the many gurneys parked along the wall and pulled it out into the hall. From a nearby linen closet he obtained two fresh sheets, a pillow, and a pillow case. Working quickly, he made up the gurney, then pushed it past the room manned by the single technician. He waited for the patient elevator, and when it came, he pushed the gurney in and pressed 6.

Watching the floor indicator jump from number to number, he experienced his second wave of doubt. So far everything had gone according to plan, but he admitted that what hed done to that point was the easy part. The hard part was going to begin when he arrived on Anderson 6.

The elevator stopped and the door folded open. Taking a deep breath, he pushed the gurney out into the quiet hall; visiting hours were long over and, as in most pediatric hospitals, the patients had been put to bed. The first obstacle was the nurses station. At that moment there was only one nurse, whose cap could just be seen over the counter top. Charles moved ahead, aware for the first time of the minor cacophony of squeaks emitted by the gurneys wheels. He tried altering the speed in hopes it would reduce the noise but without success. Out of the corner of his eye he watched the nurse. She didnt move. Charles passed the station and the intensity of the light diminished as he entered the long hall.

Excuse me, called the nurse, her voice shattering the stillness like breaking glass.

Charles felt a jolt of adrenaline shoot into his system, making his fingertips tingle. He turned and the nurse had stood up, leaning on the counter.

Can I help you? asked the nurse.

Charles fumbled for the form. Just coming to pick up a patient for an X-ray, he said, forcing himself to stay calm.

No X-rays have been ordered, said the nurse curiously. Charles noticed shed looked down at the desk and he could hear pages of a book being flipped over.

An emergency film, said Charles, beginning to panic.

But theres nothing in the order book and nothing was said at report.

Heres the request, said Charles, abandoning the gurney and approaching the nurse. It was phoned in by Dr. Keitzman to Dr. Larainen.

She took the form and read it quickly. She shook her head, obviously confused. Someone should have phoned us.

I agree, said Charles. It happens all the time, though.

Well, Ill say something. Ill ask the day people what happened.

Good idea, said Charles, turning back to the gurney. His hands were moist. He wasnt trained for this kind of work.

With a deliberate and rapid pace, Charles moved down the corridor, hoping the nurse did not feel obligated to make any confirming calls to either radiology or Dr. Keitzman.

He reached Michelles room and, stepping around the front of the gurney, started to push open the door. He caught a glimpse of a seated figure, head resting on the bed. It was Cathryn.

Charles averted his face, backed out of the room, and moved the door to its original position. As quickly as he could he pulled the gurney the length of the corridor, away from the nurses station, half expecting Cathryn to appear. He wasnt sure if shed seen him or not.

He had not anticipated her being with Michelle at that hour. He tried to think. He had to get Cathryn out of the room. On the spur of the moment he could think of only one method, but it would mean working very quickly.

After waiting a few minutes to be sure Cathryn was not coming out on her own, Charles swiftly retraced his steps back to the treatment room, which was just before the nurses station. He found surgical masks and hoods by a scrub sink. He donned one of each and pocketed an extra hood.

Eyeing the nurses station, he crossed the corridor to the dark lounge area. In the far corner was a public telephone. He called the switchboard and asked for Anderson 6. In a few moments he could hear the phone ringing in the nurses station.

A woman answered the phone, and Charles asked for Mrs. Martel, saying that it was an emergency. The nurse told him to hold the line.

Quickly he put down the receiver and moved to the doorway of the lounge. Looking back at the nurses station, he could see the charge nurse come into the corridor with an LPN. She pointed up the hall. Charles immediately left the lounge and scurried back down the hall, passing Michelles room. In the shadow at the end of the hall, Charles waited. He could see the LPN walk directly toward him, then turn into Michelles room. Within ten seconds she reappeared and Cathryn, rubbing her eyes, stumbled after her into the hall. As soon as the two women turned toward the nurses station, Charles ran the gurney down to Michelles room and pushed it through the half-open door.

Flipping on the wall switch, Charles pushed the gurney over to the bed. Only then did he look down at his daughter. After twenty-four hours he could see she was perceptibly worse. Gently he shook her shoulder. She didnt respond. He shook her again but the child did not move. What would he do if she were in a coma?

Michelle? called Charles.

Slowly Michelles eyes opened.

Its me! Please wake up, Charles shook her again. Time was limited.

Finally Michelle woke. With great effort she lifted her arms and put them around her fathers neck. I knew youd come, she said.

Listen, said Charles anxiously, putting his face close to hers. I want to ask you something. I know you are very sick and they are trying to take care of you here at the hospital. But you are not getting well here. Your sickness is stronger than their strongest medicines. I want to take you away with me. Your doctors would not like it so I have to take you right now if you want to go. You have to tell me.

The question surprised Michelle. It was the last thing shed expected to hear. She examined her fathers face. Cathryn said you were not feeling well, said Michelle.

I feel fine, said Charles. Especially when Im with you. But we havent much time. Will you come with me?

Michelle looked into her fathers eyes. There was nothing she wanted more. Take me with you, Daddy, please!

Charles hugged her, then set to work. He turned off the cardiac monitor and detached the leads from her. He pulled out her IV and yanked down the covers. With a hand under her shoulders and another beneath her knees, Charles lifted his daughter into his arms. He was surprised at how little she weighed. As gently as he could, he lowered Michelle into the gurney and covered her. From the closet he retrieved her clothes and hid them beneath the sheet. Then, just prior to pushing the gurney out into the hall, he put a surgical hood over Michelles head, tucking in what was left of her hair.

As he walked down toward the nurses station he was terrified Cathryn would appear. It was a long shot, but under the circumstances he could not think of any safer alternatives. He had to force himself to walk at a normal pace rather than run to the elevator.

Cathryn had been sound asleep when the LPN touched her shoulder. All she had heard was that she was wanted on the telephone and that it was an emergency. Her first thought had been that something had happened to Charles.

When she got to the nurses station the LPN had already disappeared. Not knowing what phone to use, Cathryn asked the charge nurse about her call. The woman looked up from her paperwork and, remembering the call, told Cathryn she could pick up the phone in the chart room.

Cathryn said hello three times, each time louder than the last. But no one answered. She had waited and repeated several hellos, but with no response. Depressing the disconnect button rapidly had no effect until she held it down for an instant. When she released it, she was talking to the hospital operator.

The operator didnt know anything about a call to Anderson 6 for Mrs. Martel. Cathryn hung up and walked to the doorway leading to the nurses station. The nurse was at the desk, bent over a chart. Cathryn was about to call out when she saw a vague figure in white, complete with surgical mask and hood, push a patient across the dimly lit area in front of the elevators. Cathryn, as sensitized as she was, felt a wave of sympathy for the poor child being taken to surgery at such a late hour. She knew that it had to be an emergency.

Fearful of intruding on the nurses important tasks, Cathryn tentatively called out to her. The nurse swung around in her chair, her face expectant.

There wasnt anyone on the line, explained Cathryn.

Thats strange, said the nurse. The caller said it was an emergency.

Was it a man or a woman? asked Cathryn.

A man, said the nurse.

Cathryn wondered if it were Charles. Maybe he had gone over to Ginas. Could I make a local call from this phone? asked Cathryn.

We dont usually allow that, said the nurse, but if you make it quick . . . Dial nine first.

Cathryn hurried back to the phone and quickly dialed her mothers. When Gina answered, Cathryn was instantly relieved. Her mothers voice was normal.

What have you had to eat? asked Gina.

Im not hungry, said Cathryn.

You must eat! commanded Gina, as if the consumption of food solved all problems.

Has Charles called? asked Cathryn, ignoring her mother.

Not a word. Some father! Gina made a disapproving clucking sound.

How about Chuck?

Hes here. You want to talk with him?

Cathryn debated about discussing the need for a marrow transplant with Chuck, but remembering his previous reaction, decided to wait to do it in person. No. Ill be home soon. Ill make sure Michelle is sleeping soundly, then Ill come home.

Ill have some spaghetti waiting, said Gina.

Cathryn hung up, intuitively convinced that the mysterious caller had to have been Charles. What kind of an emergency could it have been? And why didnt he stay on the line? Passing the nurse, Cathryn thanked her for allowing her to use the phone.

She walked quickly, passing the partially opened doors of the other rooms, smelling pungent medical aromas, hearing the occasional cry of a child.

Reaching Michelles room, Cathryn noticed that she had left the door completely open. As she stepped into the room, she hoped that the light from the corridor had not bothered Michelle. Quietly she pulled the door almost closed behind her and walked carefully over to her chair in the near dark. She was about to sit down when she realized that the bed was empty. Afraid to step on Michelle in case shed tumbled onto the floor, Cathryn quickly bent down and felt around the bed. The narrow shaft of hall light glistened on the polished vinyl and Cathryn immediately could see that Michelle was not there. In a panic, she hurried to the bathroom and turned on the light. Michelle was not there, either. Returning to the room, Cathryn switched on the overhead light. Michelle was not in the room!

Cathryn ran out of the room and down the long hall, arriving back at the nurses station out of breath. Nurse! My daughters not in her room! Shes gone!

The charge nurse looked up from her writing, then down at her clipboard. Thats Martel?

Yes! Yes! And she was there sleeping soundly when I came down here to answer the phone.

Our report from the day shift said she was very weak? questioned the nurse.

Thats the point, said Cathryn. She might hurt herself.

As if she thought Cathryn was lying, the nurse insisted on returning to Michelles room. She glanced around the room and checked the bathroom. Youre right, shes not here.

Cathryn restrained herself from making any disparaging comments. The nurse put in a call to security telling them that a twelve-year-old girl had vanished from Anderson 6. She also flipped on a series of small signal lights that called back the team of RNs and LPNs whod been out working on the floor. She told them of Michelles apparent disappearance and sent them back out to search all the rooms.

Martel, said the charge nurse after the others had left. That rings a bell. What was the name of the child taken down to radiology for that emergency flat plate?

Cathryn looked bewildered. For a moment she thought the woman was asking her the question.

Thats probably it, said the nurse, picking up the phone and dialing radiology. She had to let it ring almost twenty times before a harried technician picked it up.

Youre doing an emergency flat plate on a patient from Anderson 6, said the charge nurse. What is the name of the child?

I havent done any emergency flat plates, said the technician. Must have been George. Hes up in the OR doing a portable chest. Hell be back in a minute and Ill have him call. The technician hung up before the charge nurse could respond.

 

 

Charles wheeled Michelle into the emergency room and, without any hesitation to suggest he didnt belong there, pushed the gurney into the examination area. He selected an empty cubicle and, pulling aside the curtain, brought Michelle in next to the table. After closing the curtain, he got out Michelles clothes.

The excitement of the caper had buoyed Michelles spirits and, despite her weakness, she tried to help her father as he dressed her. Charles found that he was very clumsy, and the more he hurried, the clumsier he was. Michelle had to do all the buttons and tie her shoes.

After she was dressed, Charles left her for a few moments to find some cling bandage. Luckily he didnt have to look far. Returning to the cubicle, he sat Michelle up and eyed her.

We have to make it look like you were in an accident, he said. I know what well do!

He tore open the bandage and began winding it around Michelles head as if shed suffered a laceration. When he was finished he stepped back. Perfect! As a final touch, Charles put a regular bandage over the bridge of her nose, making her laugh. Charles told her she looked like a motorcyclist whod fallen on her head.

Pretending that she weighed two hundred pounds, he picked up his daughter and staggered out through the curtain. Once in the corridor he quickly became serious, heading toward the entrance. To his satisfaction the emergency room had become even busier than when hed first entered. Tearful children with all manner of cuts and bruises were waiting, while mothers with coughing infants queued up to check in. Amidst the confusion Charles was unnoticed. Only one nurse turned as Charles and Michelle passed by. When Charles caught her eye he smiled and mouthed the words, Thank you. She waved back self-consciously as if she thought she should recognize them but didnt.

Approaching the exit, Charles saw a uniformed security man jump up from the nearby chair. Charless heart fluttered, but the man didnt challenge them; instead he scurried to the door and said: Hope shes feeling better. Have a good night.

With a welcome sense of freedom, Charles carried Michelle out of the hospital. Quickening his steps, he hurried to the parking garage, settled Michelle in the van, paid his parking fee, and drove off.

THIRTEEN
Cathryn tried to be both patient and understanding, but as time passed she became increasingly nervous. She castigated herself for leaving Michelle to answer the telephone. She should have had the call transferred directly to Michelles room.

As she paced the lounge, she involuntarily thought about Michelles comment: I think it would be better if I were dead. Shed initially put the statement out of her mind, but now that Michelle had not reappeared, it kept coming back to haunt her. Cathryn had no idea if Michelle could do herself harm but, having heard all sorts of grisly stories, she could not dismiss her fear.

Checking her watch, Cathryn walked out of the lounge and approached the nurses station. How could a hospital lose a sick twelve-year-old child who was so weak she could barely walk?

Any news? asked Cathryn, directing her question to the evening charge nurse. There were now a half dozen nurses sitting around the station chatting casually.

Not yet, said the nurse, interrupting a discussion with a colleague. Security has checked all the stairwells. Im still waiting for a call from radiology. Im sure Martel was the name of the child radiology came and picked up.

Its been almost a half hour, said Cathryn. Im terrified. Could you call radiology again?

Not bothering to hide her irritation, the nurse called again and told Cathryn that the radiology technician had not come back from the OR but that hed call when he did.

Cathryn turned away from the nurses station, acutely aware how the medical people intimidated her. She was furious at the hospital, yet was unable to show her anger no matter how justified she thought it was. Instead she thanked the nurse and wandered back down to Michelles empty room. Absentmindedly she looked into the bathroom again, avoiding her reflection in the mirror. Next to the bathroom was the closet, and Cathryn looked inside. She had the door almost closed when she reopened it and stared, dumbfounded.

Running back to the nurses station, she tried to get the charge nurses attention. The nurses from the evening shift who were going off duty and the night nurses who were coming on duty were grouped around the center of the nurses station having their inviolable report. It was a time when emergencies were proscribed, medical or otherwise. Cathryn had to yell to get attention.

I just discovered my daughters clothes are missing, said Cathryn anxiously.

There was silence.

The charge nurse cleared her throat. Well be finished here in a few moments, Mrs. Martel.

Cathryn turned away angrily. Obviously her emergency wasnt as important as the ward routine, but if Michelles clothes were gone, she had probably left the hospital.

The phone call must have been from Charles, and its purpose was to get Cathryn out of Michelles room. All at once the image of the man pushing the child to surgery flashed before Cathryns eyes. He was the correct height, the right build. It had to have been Charles! Cathryn rushed back to the nurses station. Now she was sure that Michelle had been abducted.

 

 

Now let me get it straight, said the stocky Boston police officer. Cathryn had noticed his name tag said William Kerney. You were sleeping in here when a nurse tapped you on the shoulder.

Yes! Yes! shouted Cathryn, exasperated at the slow pace of the investigation. Shed hoped that calling the police would speed up the whole affair. Ive told you ten times exactly what happened. Cant you go out and try to find the child?

We have to finish our report, explained William. He held a weather-beaten clipboard in the crook of his left arm. In his right hand he struggled with a pencil, licking the end every so often.

The group was standing in Michelles vacant room. It included Cathryn, two Boston police officers, the evening charge nurse, and the assistant administrator. The administrator was a tall, handsome man, dressed in an elegant gray business suit. He had a curious habit of smiling after each sentence, reducing his eyes to narrow slits. His face was gloriously tan as if hed just returned from a vacation in the Caribbean.

How long were you out of the room? asked William.

I told you, snapped Cathryn. Five minutes . . . ten minutes. I dont know exactly.

Uh huh, murmured William, printing the answer.

Michael Grady, the other Boston police officer, was reading the temporary guardianship papers. When he finished, he handed them to the administrator. Its a child-snatching case. No doubt about it.

Uh huh, murmured William, moving up to the top of the form to print Child Snatching. He didnt know the code number for the offense and made a mental note to look it up when he got back to the station.

In desperation, Cathryn turned to the administrator. Cant you do something? Im sorry I cant remember your name.

Paul Mansford, said the administrator before flashing a smile. No need to apologize. We are doing something. The police are here.

But Im afraid something is going to happen to the child with all this delay, said Cathryn.

And you saw a man pushing a child to surgery? asked William.

Yes! shouted Cathryn.

But no child went to surgery, said the nurse.

William turned to the nurse. What about the man with the X-ray form? Can you describe him?

The nurse looked up toward the ceiling. Medium height, medium build, brown hair . . .

Thats not too specific, said William.

What about his blue eyes? asked Cathryn.

I didnt notice his eyes, said the nurse.

What was he wearing? asked William.

Oh God! exclaimed Cathryn in frustration. Please do something.

A long white coat, said the nurse.

Okay, said William. Someone calls, gets Mrs. Martel out of the childs room, presents a bogus X-ray request, then wheels the child off as if hes going to surgery. Right?

Everyone nodded except Cathryn who had put a hand to her forehead to try to control herself.

Then, how long before security was notified? asked William.

Just a couple of minutes, said the nurse.

Thats why we think they are still in the hospital, said the administrator.

But her clothes are gone, said Cathryn. Theyve left the hospital. Thats why you have to do something before its too late. Please!

Everyone looked at Cathryn as if she were a child. She returned their stares then threw up her hands in exasperation. Jesus Christ.

William turned to the administrator. Is there someplace in the hospital someone could take a child? he asked.

There are lots of temporary hiding places, agreed the administrator. But theres no place they wont be found.

All right, said William. Suppose it was the father who took the child. Why?

Because he didnt agree with the treatment, said Cathryn. Thats why the temporary guardianship was granted: so that the treatment would be maintained. Unfortunately my husband has been under a lot of stress, not just the childs illness, but his job.

William whistled. If he didnt like the treatment here, he said, what was he interested in? Laetrile, something like that?

He didnt say, said Cathryn, but I know he wasnt interested in Laetrile.

Weve had a few of those Laetrile cases, said William, ignoring Cathryns last statement. Turning to his partner, Michael Grady, he said: Remember that kid that went to Mexico?

Sure do, said Michael.

Turning back to the group, William said: Weve had some experience with parents seeking unorthodox treatment for their kids. I think wed better alert the airport. They might be on their way out of the country.

Dr. Keitzman arrived in a whirlwind of nervous motion. Cathryn was tremendously relieved to see him. He immediately dominated the small gathering and demanded to be told everything. Paul Mansford and the charge nurse teamed up to give him a rapid report.

This is terrible! said Dr. Keitzman, nervously adjusting his rimless glasses. It sounds to me like Dr. Charles Martel has definitely had some sort of breakdown.

How long will the little girl live without treatment? asked William.

Hard to say. Days, weeks, a month at most. We have several more drugs to try on the child, but it has to be sooner rather than later. There is still a chance for remission.

Well, well get right on it, said William. Ill 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 wont 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 shed gotten when shed 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 couldnt believe it. It was a quarter to twelve. Cathryn blinked her eyes and looked again. No, it was nine oclock. Even that was later than shed 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 Ive 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 cant eat, said Cathryn, her mind a whirl. But she wasnt too preoccupied to see her mothers face immediately fall. Well, maybe some biscuits.

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

Id better get Chuck up, said Cathryn, starting back to the hall.

Hes up, breakfasted, and gone, said Gina triumphantly. He likes biscuits as much as you. Said he had a nine oclock class.

Cathryn turned and sat down at the table while her mother poured the coffee. She felt useless. Shed tried so hard to be a wife and mother and now she had the feeling that shed bungled it. Getting her adopted son up for school was hardly the criterion for being a good mother, yet the fact that shed 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 shouldnt cry because Gina didnt care about any old cup that shed 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 mothers treasures and she felt badly about breaking it, but Ginas overreaction helped calm down her emotions.

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

Chucks got what he needs, said Gina. The money it costs to drive up there, you could buy him a new outfit in Filenes basement.

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

If he calls and gets no answer, hell call here, said Gina. After all, hes not stupid. Where do you think hes gone with Michelle?

I dont 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 wouldnt 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. Its 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.

Its for you, said Gina. A detective named Patrick OSullivan.

Expecting the worst, Cathryn picked up the phone. Patrick OSullivan 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 shed 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 shed 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 wasnt 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 Charless lab.

The door was ajar and Cathryn walked in. The first thing she noticed was that the lab had already been dismantled. Shed been in it on several occasions in the past, so shed 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 Charless 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 mans outstretched hand. It was soft and slightly moist.

Im Detective Patrick OSullivan. Ive been assigned to your case. Thanks for coming.

Over Patricks shoulder Cathryn could see Ellen point to an empty space on the counter before she started talking again. Cathryn couldnt 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 couldnt hear what they were saying, but she saw Dr. Morrison strike his open palm in apparent anger.

Whats going on? asked Cathryn, looking up into the detectives soft green eyes.

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

Cathryns eyes widened in disbelief. I dont believe that.

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

But why? asked Cathryn.

I was hoping youd be able to tell me, said the detective.

Cathryn glanced around the room, trying to comprehend the extent of Charless folly.

I havent the slightest idea, said Cathryn. It seems absurd.

The detective lifted his eyebrows and wrinkled his forehead as he followed Cathryns eyes around the lab. Its absurd all right. Its also grand larceny, Mrs. Martel.

Cathryn looked back at the detective.

The detective glanced down and shuffled his feet. This puts a different light on your husbands disappearance. Child-snatching by a parent is one thing, and to tell you the honest truth, we dont get too excited about it. But theft is something else. Were going to have to put out the details and a warrant for Dr. Martels arrest on the NCIC teletype.

Cathryn shuddered. Every time she thought she understood the details of the nightmare it got worse. Charles was now a fugitive. I dont know what to say.

Our condolences, Mrs. Martel, said Dr. Ibanez, coming up behind her.

She turned and saw the directors sympathetic expression.

Its a tragedy, agreed Dr. Morrison with the same expression. And to think Charles was once such a promising researcher.

There was an uncomfortable pause. Morrisons comment angered Cathryn, but she was at a loss for words.

Exactly why was Dr. Martel fired? asked Patrick OSullivan, breaking the silence.

Cathryn turned to the detective. He had asked the question she would have liked to pose if shed had the courage.

Basically, it was because Dr. Martel had been acting a bit bizarrely. We began to question his mental stability. Dr. Ibanez paused. He also was not what you would call a team player. In fact, he was a loner and lately hed become uncooperative.

What kind of research was he doing? asked the detective.

Its hard to describe to a layman, said Morrison. Basically Charles was working on the immunological approach to cancer. Unfortunately this approach is somewhat dated. Ten years ago it held great promise but initial hopes were not borne out by subsequent developments. Charles couldnt or wouldnt make the adaptation. And, as you know, the advancement of science does not wait for anyone. Morrison smiled as he finished his statement.

Why do you think Dr. Martel took all this equipment? asked OSullivan, making a sweeping gesture around the room.

Dr. Ibanez shrugged. I havent the faintest idea.

I think it was spite, said Dr. Morrison. Its like the kid who takes home his ball when the others dont want to play by his rules.

Could Dr. Martel have taken the equipment to continue his research? said OSullivan.

No, said Dr. Morrison. Impossible! The key to this kind of research is the highly bred animal systems we use. These animals are absolutely essential to the research, and Charles did not take any of his mice. And as a fugitive, I think hed find it difficult to get them.

I suppose you could give me a list of suppliers, said the detective.

Absolutely, answered Dr. Morrison.

In the background the phone rang. Cathryn had no idea why she jumped but she did. Ellen answered it and called out for Detective OSullivan.

This must be a very difficult time for you, said Dr. Ibanez to Cathryn.

You have no idea, agreed Cathryn.

If we can help in any way, said Dr. Morrison.

Cathryn tried to smile.

Patrick OSullivan came back. Well, weve found his car. He left it in a parking lot in Harvard Square.

 

 

As Cathryn drove along Interstate 301 she felt increasingly unhappy. The reaction surprised her because one of the reasons shed wanted to go home, besides being close to the phone in case Charles called, was to lift her spirits. She appreciated her mothers efforts to help, but she also resented Ginas disapproving comments about Charles and her self-righteous attitude. Having been abandoned herself, Gina had a low regard for men in general, particularly nonreligious men like Charles. Shed never been wholeheartedly behind Cathryns marriage, and she let Cathryn know how she felt.

So Cathryn had looked forward to getting back to her own home although she realized it would no longer be the happy refuge she knew. Coming upon their property, Cathryn took her foot off the accelerator and braked. The first thing she saw was the mailbox. It had been knocked over and crushed. She started up the drive, moving between the rows of trees which in the summer formed a long gallery of shade. Through the now-naked branches Cathryn could see the house, stark white against the dark shadow of evergreens behind the barn.

Pulling the station wagon to a point opposite the back porch, Cathryn turned off the ignition. As she looked at the house she thought how cruel life could be. It seemed that one episode could initiate a chain reaction like a series of dominoes standing on end, each inevitably knocking over the next. As Cathryn got out of the car, she noticed the door to the playhouse was swinging in the wind, repeatedly thumping against the outside shingles. Looking more closely, she could see that most of the small panes of glass in the mullioned windows had been broken. Retrieving her keys, she walked through the snow to the back door, turned her key, and stepped into the kitchen.

Cathryn screamed. There was a sudden movement, and a figure came from behind the door and lunged at her.

In the next instant, she was pushed up against the kitchen wall. The door crashed shut with a concussion that made the old frame house shudder.

Cathryns scream faltered and trailed off in her throat. It was Charles! Speechless, she watched while he frantically ran from window to window, looking outside. In his right hand he held his old twelve-gauge shotgun. Cathryn noticed the windows had been crudely boarded up and Charles had to peer out between the cracks.

Before she could recover her equilibrium, Charles grabbed her arm and forced her rapidly out of the kitchen, stumbling down the short hall into the living room. Then he let go of her and again ran from window to window, looking out.

Cathryn was paralyzed by surprise and fear. When he finally turned back to her, she saw he was exhausted.

Are you alone? he demanded.

Yes, said Cathryn, afraid to say anything else.

Thank God, said Charles. His tense face visibly relaxed.

What are you doing here? asked Cathryn.

This is my home, said Charles, taking a deep breath and letting it out through pursed lips.

I dont understand, said Cathryn. I thought youd taken Michelle and run away. Theyll find you here!

For the first time Cathryn took her eyes off Charles. She noticed the living room had been totally changed. The gleaming, high-tech instruments from the Weinburger were grouped around the wall. In the middle of the room, in a makeshift hospital bed, Michelle slept.

Michelle, cried Cathryn, running over and grasping the childs hand. Charles came up behind her.

Michelles eyes opened and for an instant there was a flicker of recognition, then the lids closed. Cathryn turned to Charles.

Charles, what in heavens name are you doing?

Ill tell you in a moment, said Charles, adjusting Michelles intravenous flow. He took Cathryns arm and urged her to follow him back to the kitchen.

Coffee? he asked.

Cathryn shook her head, keeping her eyes riveted on Charles as he poured himself a cup. Then he sat down opposite Cathryn.

First I want to say something, began Charles, looking directly at Cathryn. Ive had a chance to think and I now understand the position you were in at the hospital. Im sorry my own indecision about Michelles treatment was inadvertently taken out on you. And I, more than a layman, know how doctors can bully patients and their families to get their own way. Anyway, I understand what happened in the guardianship situation. I understand there was no one at fault and there was no malevolence on anyones part, least of all yours. Im sorry that I reacted as I did, but I couldnt help it. I hope youll forgive me. I know that you were trying to do what was best for Michelle.

Cathryn didnt move. She wanted to rush to Charles and throw her arms around him because all at once he sounded so normal, but she couldnt move. So much had happened and there were still unanswered questions.

Charles picked up his coffee cup. His hand shook so much he had to use his left hand to steady it.

Deciding what was best for Michelle was a very difficult problem, continued Charles. Like you, I hoped that orthodox medicine could give her more time. But it got to the point where I knew that they were failing and I had to do something.

Cathryn could sense Charless sincerity. What she couldnt decide was his rationality. Had he cracked under the strain as everyone suggested? Cathryn realized that she wasnt equipped to decide.

All the doctors agreed that the medicines were her only chance to get a remission, said Cathryn, feeling defensive about her actions. Dr. Keitzman assured me that it was her only chance.

And Im sure he believed what he said.

Its not true?

Of course she has to get a remission, agreed Charles. But their chemotherapy, even in the experimentally high doses, was not touching her leukemic cells. At the same time they were destroying normal cells, particularly her own immune system.

Cathryn wasnt sure she fully understood what Charles was saying but at least it sounded consistent. It didnt sound like the product of a deranged mind.

And I feel, continued Charles, that if she has a chance, she has to have an intact immune system.

You mean you have another treatment? asked Cathryn.

Charles sighed. I think so. I hope so!

But all the other doctors agreed that chemotherapy was the only way.

Of course, said Charles. Just like a surgeon believes in surgery. People are biased by what they know. Its human. But cancer research has been my life for the last nine years, and I think theres a chance I can do something. Charles paused.

Obviously he believed what he was saying, but was it based on reality or on delusion? Cathryn wanted desperately to believe also, but under the circumstances, it was difficult. Do you mean theres a chance you can cure her?

I dont want to get your hopes up too high, said Charles, but I think there is a chance. Maybe small, but a chance. And, more important, my treatment wont hurt her.

Have you been able to cure any of your laboratory animals that had cancer? asked Cathryn.

No I havent, admitted Charles, but then he added quickly, I know that makes it sound unrealistic, but I think I didnt have luck with the animals because I was working so slowly and carefully. The purpose there was pure research. But I was just about to try a new technique to use healthy mice as an intermediary to cure the diseased mice.

But you dont have any animals here, said Cathryn, remembering Detective OSullivans questions.

Not true, said Charles. I have one large experimental animal. Me!

Cathryn swallowed. For the first moment in the conversation a red flag went up, questioning Charless state of mind.

That idea surprises you, he said. Well, it shouldnt. In the past most great medical researchers used themselves as experimental subjects. Anyway, let me try to explain to you what I am doing. First of all my research has advanced to the point where I can take a cancerous cell from an organism and isolate a protein, or what is called an antigen, on its surface, which makes that cell different from all the other cells. That, in itself, is a major advance. My problem then was getting the organisms immune system to react to the protein and therefore rid itself of the abnormal cancerous cells. This, I believe, is what happens in normal organisms. I think cancer is a fairly frequent occurrence but that the bodys immune system takes care of it. When the immune system fails, thats when a particular cancer takes root and grows. Do you understand so far?

Cathryn nodded.

When I tried to get the cancerous animals to respond to the isolated protein, I couldnt. I think there is some kind of blocking mechanism and thats where I was when Michelle got sick. But then I got the idea to inject the isolated surface antigen into well animals to make them immune to it. I didnt have time to carry out the tests but Im certain it would be easy because the well animal will recognize the antigen as being very foreign to itself whereas in the sick animal the antigen is only slightly different from its normal proteins.

Cathryns comprehension faltered, though she tried to smile.

Charles impulsively reached across the table and grasped Cathryns shoulders. Cathryn, try to understand. I want you to believe in what Im doing. I need you to help me.

Cathryn felt some inner bond loosen and fall. Charles was her husband and the fact that he needed her and admitted it was a tremendous incentive.

Do you remember that horses were used to make diphtheria antiserum? asked Charles.

I think so, said Cathryn.

What Im explaining to you is something like that. What Ive done is to isolate the surface antigen of Michelles leukemic cells that makes them different from her normal cells, and Ive been injecting the antigen into myself.

So you become allergic to Michelles leukemic cells? asked Cathryn, struggling to comprehend.

Exactly, said Charles with excitement.

Then youll inject your antibodies into Michelle? asked Cathryn.

No, said Charles. Her immune system wouldnt accept my antibodies. But luckily modern immunology has found a way to transfer what they call cellular immunity or sensitivity from one organism to another. Once my T-lymphocytes are sensitized to Michelles leukemic antigen, I will isolate from my white cells what is called a transfer factor and inject that into Michelle. Hopefully that will stimulate her own immune system to sensitize against her leukemic cells. In that way shell be able to eliminate her existing leukemic cells and any new ones that evolve.

So shed be cured? said Cathryn.

So shed be cured, repeated Charles.

Cathryn was not sure she understood everything Charles had said, but his plan certainly seemed sound. It didnt seem possible that he could have figured it out if he were in the midst of a nervous breakdown. She realized that from his point of view, everything hed done had been rational.

How long will all this take? asked Cathryn.

I dont know for sure it will even work, said Charles. But from the way my body is reacting to the antigen, Ill know in a couple of days. Thats why Ive boarded up the house. Im prepared to fight any attempts to have Michelle taken back to the hospital.

Cathryn glanced around the kitchen, noting again the boarded windows. Turning back to Charles, she said: I guess you know the Boston police are looking for you. They think youve fled to Mexico to get Laetrile.

Charles laughed. Thats absurd. And they cant be looking for me too hard because our local police know very well that Im here. Did you notice the mailbox and the playhouse?

I saw that the mailbox was crushed and the windows were broken in the playhouse.

Thats all thanks to our local authorities. Last night a group came up from Recycle, Ltd. bent on vandalism. I called the police and thought theyd never showed up until I noticed one of the squad cars parked down the road. Obviously they condoned the whole thing.

Why? asked Cathryn, aghast.

I retained a young aggressive lawyer and apparently hes successfully giving Recycle some trouble. I think they believe they can frighten me into calling him off.

My God! exclaimed Cathryn, beginning to appreciate the extent of Charless isolation.

Where are the boys? asked Charles.

Chucks at Mothers. Jean Paul is in Shaftesbury, staying with a friend.

Good, said Charles. Things might get rough around here.

Husband and wife, both at the limits of their emotional reserves, stared at each other across the kitchen table. A surge of love swept over them. They stood up and fell into each others arms, holding on desperately as if they were afraid something would force them apart. They both knew nothing was resolved, but the reaffirmation of their love gave them new strength.

Please trust me, and love me, said Charles.

I love you, said Cathryn, feeling tears on her cheek. Thats never been a problem. The issue has only been Michelle.

Then trust that I have only her best interests at heart, said Charles. You know how much I love her.

Cathryn pulled away to look up into Charless face. Everyone thinks youve had a nervous breakdown. I didnt know what to think, particularly with your carrying on about Recycle when the real issue was Michelles treatment.

Recycle just gave me something to do. The most frustrating part of Michelles illness was that I couldnt do anything, which is what happened with Elizabeth. Back then all I could do was watch her die, and it seemed as if it was going to be the same situation with Michelle. I needed something to focus on, and Recycle galvanized my need for action. But my anger about what theyre doing is real enough, as well as my commitment to get them to stop. But obviously my main interest is Michelle, otherwise I wouldnt be here now.

Cathryn felt as if shed been freed from an enormous weight. She was now certain that Charles had never lost contact with reality.

What about Michelles condition? asked Cathryn.

Not good, admitted Charles. Shes a terribly sick child. Its amazing how aggressive her disease is. Ive given her morphine because shes had awful stomach cramps. Charles embraced Cathryn again and averted his face.

She had some while I was with her, too, said Cathryn. She could feel Charles tremble as he fought back his tears. Cathryn held him as tightly as she could.

They stood together for another five minutes. There were no words but the communication was total. Finally Charles pulled away. When he turned back she saw that his eyes were red, his expression serious.

Im glad we had the opportunity to talk, said Charles. But I dont think you should stay here. Without doubt there will be trouble. Its not that I dont want you to be with me; in fact, selfishly Id like you to stay. But I know it would be better if you got Jean Paul and went back to your mothers. Charles nodded his head as if he were convincing himself.

I want you to be selfish, said Cathryn. She experienced a new sense of confidence that she could be a wife. My place is here. Jean Paul and Chuck will be all right.

But Cathryn . . .

No buts, said Cathryn. Im staying and Im helping.

Charles examined his wifes face. She looked positively defiant.

And if you think, she continued with a vehemence that he had never seen, that you can get rid of me now that youve convinced me what youre doing is right, you are crazy! Youll have to throw me out bodily.

All right, all right, said Charles with a smile. I wont throw you out. But we could be in for a rough time.

Its as much my responsibility as yours, said Cathryn with conviction. This is a family affair and Im part of this family. We both recognized that when we decided to get married. Im not here just to share the happiness.

Charles experienced a mixture of emotions, but the primary one was pride. He had been guilty of not giving Cathryn the credit she deserved. She was right; Charles had tried whenever it was possible to shield her from the negative aspects of their life, and that was wrong. He should have been more open, more trusting. Cathryn was his wife, not his child.

If you want to stay, please do, he said.

I want to stay, said Cathryn simply.

Charles kissed her gently on the lips. Then he stepped back to look at her with an admiring eye.

You really can help, he said, checking his watch. Its almost time to give myself another dose of Michelles antigen. Ill explain what you can do to help after I get it prepared. Okay?

Cathryn nodded and let Charles squeeze her hand before he walked back to the living room.

Holding on to the back of one of the kitchen chairs, Cathryn felt a little dizzy. Everything that had happened in the last several days was unexpected. There had never been a moment that shed thought Charles would have taken Michelle to their home. She wondered if there were some way to cancel the guardianship proceedings and eliminate one of the reasons Charles was being sought by the police.

Picking up the phone, she dialed her mother. While she waited for the connection, she realized that if she told her mother that Charles was there it would precipitate an argument, so she decided to say nothing.

Gina answered on the second ring. Cathryn kept the conversation light, not mentioning her visit to the Weinburger or the fact that Charles was suspected of grand larceny. When there was a pause, she cleared her throat and said: Provided you dont mind seeing that Chuck gets some dinner and gets off to school in the morning, I think Ill spend the night here. I want to be available in case Charles calls.

Honey, dont feel that you have to sit around and wait for that man. I tell you, hell call here if theres no answer at your house. Besides, Ive been planning on having a wonderful dinner tonight. Try and guess what Im making.

Cathryn let out her breath in a quiet sigh. It never failed to amaze her that her mother always believed that a good meal could fix everything.

Mother, I dont want to guess what you are having for dinner. I want to stay here tonight in my own home.

Cathryn could tell shed hurt her mothers feelings, but under the circumstances she didnt feel she had much choice. As quickly as she could without seeming to be rude, Cathryn hung up.

Thinking of food, Cathryn checked the refrigerator. Except for being low on milk and eggs, they were reasonably well stocked, especially with the old-fashioned root cellar in the basement. Closing the refrigerator, Cathryn looked around her boarded-up kitchen, marveling at being a prisoner in her own house.

She wondered about Charless treatment for Michelle. She acknowledged that she didnt understand its details, but it sounded good. At the same time, she recognized that if she were with Dr. Keitzman, shed probably believe what he said. Medicine was too complicated for her to feel confident enough to question the experts. As a lay person she was put in an impossible situation when the doctors disagreed.

When she went into the living room, Charles was holding a syringe with its needle up, tapping it with his index finger to get rid of air bubbles. Quietly she took a seat and watched. Michelle was still sleeping, her thin hair splayed out on the white pillow. Through the boards on the windows, Cathryn could see it was snowing again. In the basement, she could hear the oil burner kick on.

Now Im going to inject this into my arm vein, said Charles, looking for a tourniquet. I dont suppose youd be willing to do it for me.

Cathryn felt her mouth go dry. I can try, she said reluctantly. In truth she wanted no part of the syringe. Even looking at it made her feel faint.

Would you? asked Charles. Unless youre an addict, its harder than hell to stick yourself in a vein. Also I want to tell you how to give me epinephrine if I need it. With the first intravenous dose of Michelles antigen, I developed some anaphylaxis, meaning an allergic reaction which makes breathing difficult.

Oh, God, said Cathryn to herself. Then to Charles she said: Isnt there another way to take the antigen, like eating it?

Charles shook his head. I tried that but stomach acid breaks it down. I even tried sniffing a powdered form like cocaine, but the mucous membrane in my nose swelled unbelievably. Since Im in a hurry I decided Id have to mainline it. The problem is that my bodys first response has been to develop a simple allergy, what they call immediate hypersensitivity. Ive tried to cut down on that effect by altering the protein slightly. I want delayed hypersensitivity, not immediate.

Cathryn nodded as if she understood, but shed comprehended nothing except the cold feel of the syringe. She held it with her fingertips as if she expected it to injure her. Charles brought a chair over and placed it in front of hers. On a counter top within reach he put two smaller syringes.

These other syringes are the epinephrine. If I suddenly go red as a beet and cant breathe, just jam one of these into any muscle and inject. If theres no response in thirty seconds, use the next one.

Cathryn felt a strange terror. But Charles seemed blithely unconcerned. He unbuttoned his sleeve and rolled it up above his elbow. Using his teeth to hold one end of the tourniquet, Charles applied the rubber tubing to his own upper arm. Quickly his veins engorged and stood out.

Take off the plastic cover, instructed Charles, then just put the needle into the vein.

With visibly trembling hands, Cathryn got the cover off the needle. Its sharp point glistened in the light. Charles tore open an alcohol pad with his right hand, holding the packet in his teeth. Vigorously he swabbed the area.

Okay, do your stuff, said Charles looking away.

Cathryn took a breath. Now she knew why shed never considered medicine as a career. Trying to hold the syringe steady she put the needle on Charless skin and gently pushed. The skin merely indented.

You have to give it a shove, said Charles, still looking away.

Cathryn gave the syringe a little push. It indented Charless skin a little more.

Charles looked down at his arm. Reaching around with his free hand he gave the needle a sudden forceful lunge and it broke through the skin, impaling the vein.

Perfect, he said. Now draw back on the plunger without disturbing the tip.

Cathryn did as Charles asked and some bright red blood swished into the syringe.

Bulls-eye, said Charles, as he took off his tourniquet. Now slowly inject.

Cathryn pushed the plunger. It moved easily. When it was slightly more than halfway, her finger slipped. The needle dove into Charles more deeply as the plunger completed its movement. A small egg rapidly appeared on his arm.

Thats okay, said Charles. Not bad for your first time. Now pull it out.

Cathryn pulled the needle out and Charles slapped a piece of gauze over the site.

Im sorry, said Cathryn, terrified that shed hurt him.

No problem. Maybe putting some of the antigen subcutaneously will help. Who knows? Suddenly his face began to get red. He shivered. Damn, he managed. Cathryn could hear his voice had changed. It was much higher. Epinephrine, he said with some difficulty.

She grabbed for one of the smaller syringes. In her haste to remove the plastic cover she bent the needle. She grabbed for the other one. Charles, who was now blotching with hives, pointed to his left upper arm. Holding her breath, Cathryn jammed the needle into the muscle. This time she used ample force. She pressed the plunger and pulled it out. Quickly she discarded the used syringe, and picked up the first one, trying to straighten the bent needle. She was about to give it to Charles when he held up his hand.

Its okay, he managed, his voice still abnormal. I can already feel the reaction subsiding. Whew! Good thing you were here.

Cathryn put down the syringe. If she thought she was trembling before, now she was shaking. For Cathryn, using a needle on Charles had been the supreme test.

FOURTEEN
By nine-thirty they were settling in for the night. Earlier Cathryn had prepared some food while Charles worked in the makeshift lab. Hed taken a sample of his blood, separated the cells, and isolated some T-lymphocytes with the aid of sheep erythrocytes. Then hed incubated the T-lymphocytes with some of his microphages and Michelles leukemic cells. While they had dinner he told Cathryn that there still was no sign of a delayed, cell-mediated hypersensitivity. He told her that in twenty-four hours, hed have to give himself another challenge dose of Michelles antigen.

Michelle had awakened from her morphine-induced sleep and was overjoyed to see Cathryn. Shed not remembered seeing her stepmother arrive. Feeling somewhat better, she had even eaten some solid food.

She seems better, whispered Cathryn as they carried the dishes back to the kitchen.

Its more apparent than real, said Charles. Her system is just recovering from the other medicines.

Charles had built a fire and brought their king-sized mattress down to the living room. He had wanted to be close to Michelle in case she needed him.

Once Cathryn lay down, she felt a tremendous fatigue. Believing that Michelle was as comfortable and content as possible, Cathryn allowed herself to relax for the first time in two days. As the wind blew snow against the front windows, she held on to Charles and let sleep overwhelm her.

Hearing the crash and tinkle of glass, Cathryn sat up by pure reflex, unsure what the noise had been. Charles, who had been awake, reacted more deliberately, rolling off the mattress onto the floor and standing up. As he did so he hefted his shotgun and released the safety catch.

What was that? demanded Cathryn, her heart pounding.

Visitors, said Charles. Probably our friends from Recycle.

Something thudded up against the front of the house, then fell with a thump on the porch floor.

Rocks, said Charles, moving over to the light switch and plunging the room into darkness. Michelle murmured and Cathryn made her way over to the childs side to comfort her.

Just as I thought, said Charles, peering between the window boards.

Cathryn came up behind him and looked over his shoulder. Standing in their driveway about a hundred feet from the house was a group of men carrying makeshift torches. Down on the road were a couple of cars haphazardly parked.

Theyre drunk, said Charles.

What are we going to do? whispered Cathryn.

Nothing, said Charles. Unless they try to get inside or come too close with those torches.

Could you shoot someone? asked Cathryn.

I dont know, said Charles, I really dont know.

Im going to call the police, said Cathryn.

Dont bother, said Charles. Im sure they know about this.

Im still going to try, returned Cathryn.

She left him by the window and made her way back to the kitchen where she dialed the operator and asked to be connected to the Shaftesbury police. The phone rang eight times before a tired voice answered. He identified himself as Bernie Crawford.

Cathryn reported that their house was being attacked by a group of drunks and that they needed immediate assistance.

Just a minute, said Bernie.

Cathryn could hear a drawer open and Bernie fumbled around for something.

Just a minute. I gotta find a pencil, said Bernie, leaving the line again before Cathryn could talk. Outside she heard a yell, and Charles came scurrying into the kitchen, going up to the window on the north side facing the pond.

Okay, said Bernie coming back on the line. Whats the address?

Cathryn quickly gave the address.

Zip code? asked Bernie.

Zip code? questioned Cathryn. We need help right now.

Lady, paperwork is paperwork. I gotta fill out a form before I dispatch a car.

Cathryn gave a zip code.

How many guys in the group?

Im not sure. Half a dozen.

Cathryn could hear the man writing.

Are they kids? asked Bernie.

Cathryn! yelled Charles. I need you to watch out the front. Theyre torching the playhouse but it may be just a diversion. Somebody has got to watch the front door.

Listen, shouted Cathryn into the phone. I cant talk. Just send a car. She slammed down the phone and ran back into the living room. From the small window next to the fireplace she could see the flickering glow from the playhouse. She turned her attention to the front lawn. The group with the torches was gone but she could see someone lifting something out of the trunk of one of the cars. In the darkness, it looked like a pail. Oh, God, dont let it be gasoline, said Cathryn.

From the back of the house Cathryn could hear glass breaking. Are you all right? she called.

Im all right. The bastards are breaking the windows to your car.

Cathryn heard Charles unlock the rear door. Then she heard the boom of his shotgun. The sound reverberated through the house. Then the door slammed shut.

What happened? yelled Cathryn.

Charles came back into the living room. I shot into the air. I suppose its the only thing they respect. They ran around this way.

Cathryn looked back out. The group had reassembled around the man coming from the car. In the light of the torches, Cathryn could see that he was carrying a gallon can. He knelt down, apparently opening it.

Looks like paint, said Cathryn.

Thats what it is, said Charles.

While they watched the group began to chant Communist over and over. The man with the paint can approached the house seemingly building up the courage of the rest of the group. As they got closer, Cathryn could see that the men were carrying an assortment of clubs. The chanting got progressively louder. Charles recognized Wally Crabb and the man who had punched him.

The group stopped about fifty feet from the house. The man with the paint kept walking as the others egged him on. Charles pulled away from the window, making her stand behind him. He had a clear view of the door, and he slipped his finger around the trigger.

They heard the footsteps stop and then the sound of a paintbrush against the shingles. After five minutes there was a final sound of paint splashing up against the front door, followed by the clatter of the can hitting the front porch.

Rushing back to the window, Charles could see that the men were yelling and whooping with laughter. Slowly they walked back down the drive pushing and shoving each other into the snow. At the base of the driveway and after several vociferous arguments, the men climbed into the two cars. With horns blaring they drove off into the night, heading north on Interstate 301 toward Shaftesbury.

As abruptly as it had been broken, the wintry silence returned. Charles let out a long breath. He put down the shotgun and took Cathryns hands in his. Now that youve seen how unpleasant it is, perhaps it would be better for you to go back to your mothers until this is over.

No way, said Cathryn, shaking her head. Then she broke away to tend to Michelle.

Fifteen minutes later the Shaftesbury police cruiser skidded up the driveway and came to a sudden stop behind the station wagon. Frank Neilson hurried from the front seat as if he were responding to an emergency.

You can just get right back inside your car, you son-of-a-bitch, said Charles, who had come out on the front porch.

Frank, standing defiantly with his hands on his hips and his feet spread apart, just shrugged. Well, if you dont need me.

Just get the fuck off my land, snarled Charles.

Strange people this side of town, said Frank loudly to his deputy as he got back into the car.

 

 

Morning crept over the frozen countryside, inhibited by a pewter-colored blanket of high clouds. Charles and Cathryn had taken turns standing watch, but the vandals had not returned. As dawn arrived Charles felt confident enough to return to the bed in front of the fireplace and slip in next to Cathryn.

Michelle had improved considerably and, although she was still extremely weak, she could sit up, courageously managing to smile when Charles pretended to be a waiter bringing in her breakfast.

While he drew some of his blood and again tested his T-lymphocytes for signs of delayed hypersensitivity to Michelles leukemic cells, Cathryn tried to make their topsy-turvy house more livable. Between Charless equipment and reagents, Michelles bed, and the king-sized mattress, the living room was like a maze. There was little Cathryn could do there, but the kitchen soon responded to her efforts.

No sign of any appropriate reaction with my lymphocytes, said Charles, coming in for some more coffee. Youre going to have to give me another dose of Michelles antigen later today.

Sure, said Cathryn, trying to buoy both her own and Charless confidence. She wasnt sure she could do it again. The thought alone gave her gooseflesh.

I must think of some way to make us more secure here, said Charles. I dont know what I would have done if those men last night had been drunk enough to storm the back door.

Vandals are one thing, said Cathryn. What if the police come, wanting to arrest you?

Charles turned back to Cathryn.

Until I finish with what Im doing, I have to keep everybody out of the house.

I think its just a matter of time before the police come, said Cathryn. And Im afraid it will be a lot more difficult to keep them out. Just by resisting, youll be breaking the law, and they might feel obligated to use force.

I dont think so, said Charles. Theres too much for them to lose and very little to gain.

The stimulus could be Michelle, thinking they need to recommence her treatment.

Charles nodded slowly. You might be right, but even if you are, theres nothing else to be done.

I think there is, said Cathryn. Maybe I can stop the police from looking for you. I met the detective whos handling the case. Perhaps I should go see him and tell him that I dont want to press charges. If there are no charges, then they would stop looking for you.

Charles took a large gulp of coffee. What Cathryn said made sense. He knew that if the police came in force, they could get him out of the house. That was one of the reasons hed boarded up the windows so carefully; afraid of tear gas or the like. But he thought they probably would have other means which he hadnt wanted to consider. Cathryn was right; the police would be real trouble.

All right, said Charles, but youll have to use the rental van in the garage. I dont think the station wagon has any windshield.

Putting on their coats, they walked hand in hand through the inch of new snow to the locked barn. They both saw the charred remains of the playhouse at the ponds edge and both avoided mentioning it. The still-smoldering ashes were too sharp a reminder of the terror of the previous night.

As Cathryn backed the van out of the garage, she felt a reluctance to leave. With Michelle ostensibly feeling better and despite the vandals, Cathryn had enjoyed her newly found closeness with Charles. With some difficulty, since driving a large van was a new experience, Cathryn got the vehicle turned around. She waved good-bye to Charles and drove slowly down their slippery driveway.

Reaching the foot of the hill, she turned to look back at the house. In the steely light, it looked abandoned among the leafless trees. Across the front of the house, the word Communist was painted in careless, large block letters. The rest of the red paint had been splashed on the front door, and the way it had splattered and ran off the porch made it look like blood.

Driving directly to the Boston Police Headquarters on Berkeley Street, Cathryn rehearsed what she was going to say to Patrick OSullivan. Deciding that brevity was the best approach, she was confident that shed be in and out in a matter of minutes.

She had a great deal of trouble finding a parking spot and ended up leaving the van in an illegal yellow zone. Taking the elevator to the sixth floor, she found OSullivans office without difficulty. The detective got up as she entered and came around his desk. He was dressed in exactly the same outfit as hed had on twenty-four hours earlier when shed met him. Even the shirt was the same because she remembered a coffee stain just to the right of his dark blue polyester tie. It was hard for Cathryn to imagine that this seemingly gentle man could muster the violence he obviously needed on occasion for his job.

Would you like to sit down? asked Patrick. Can I take your coat?

Thats okay, thank you, said Cathryn. Ill only take a moment of your time.

The detectives office looked like the set for a TV melodrama. There were the obligatory stern photos of some of the police hierarchy on the chipped and peeling walls. There was also a cork bulletin board filled with an assortment of wanted posters and photographs. The detectives desk was awash with papers, envelopes, soup cans full of pencils, an old typewriter, and a picture of a chubby redheaded woman with five redheaded little girls.

OSullivan tipped back in his chair, his fingers linked over his stomach. His expression was entirely blank. Cathryn realized she had no idea what the man was thinking.

Well, she said uneasily, her confidence waning. The reason I came is to tell you that Im not interested in pressing charges against my husband.

Detective OSullivans face did not alter in the slightest detail.

Cathryn looked away for a moment. Already the meeting was not going according to plan. She continued: In other words, I dont want guardianship of the child.

The detective remained unresponsive, augmenting Cathryns anxiety.

Its not that I dont care, added Cathryn quickly. Its just that my husband is the biological parent, and he is an M.D., so I think hes in the best position to determine the kind of treatment the child should receive.

Where is your husband? asked OSullivan.

Cathryn blinked. The detectives question made it sound as if he hadnt been listening to her at all. Then she realized she shouldnt have paused. I dont know, said Cathryn, feeling she sounded less than convincing.

Abruptly OSullivan tipped forward in his chair, bringing his arms down on the top of his desk. Mrs. Martel, I think Id better inform you of something. Even though you initiated the legal proceedings, you cannot unilaterally stop them before the hearing. The judge who granted you emergency temporary guardianship also appointed a guardian ad litim by the name of Robert Taber. How does Mr. Taber feel about pressing charges against your husband in order to get Michelle Martel back into the hospital?

I dont know, said Cathryn meekly, confused at this complication.

I had been led to believe, continued Detective OSullivan, that the childs life was at stake unless she got very specific treatment as soon as possible.

Cathryn didnt say anything.

Its apparent to me that you have been talking with your husband.

Ive spoken with him, admitted Cathryn, and the child is doing all right.

What about the medical treatment?

My husband is a physician, said Cathryn, as if stating Charless qualifications answered the detectives question.

That may be, Mrs. Martel, but the court will only agree to accepted treatment.

Cathryn marshaled her courage and stood up. I think I should go.

Perhaps you should tell us where your husband is, Mrs. Martel.

Id rather not say, said Cathryn, abandoning any pretense of ignorance.

You do remember we have a warrant for his arrest. The authorities at the Weinburger Institute are very eager to press charges.

Theyll get every piece of their equipment back, said Cathryn.

You should not allow yourself to become an accessory to the crime, said Patrick OSullivan.

Thank you for your time, said Cathryn as she turned for the door.

We already know where Charles is, called Detective OSullivan.

Cathryn stopped and turned back to the detective.

Why dont you come back and sit down.

For a moment Cathryn didnt move. At first she was going to leave, but then she realized shed better find out what they knew and more importantly, what they planned to do. Reluctantly, she returned to her seat.

I should explain something else to you, said OSullivan. We didnt put out the warrant for your husbands arrest on the NCIC teletype until this morning. My feeling was that this was not a usual case, and despite what the people at the Weinburger said, I didnt think your husband stole the equipment. I thought hed taken it, but not stolen it. What I hoped was that somehow the case would solve itself. I mean, like your husband would call somebody and say Im sorry, heres all the equipment and heres the kid; I got carried away . . . and so forth. If that happened I think we could have avoided any indictments. But then we got pressure from the Weinburger and also the hospital. So your husbands warrant went out over the wires this morning and we heard back immediately. The Shaftesbury police phoned to say that they knew Charles Martel was in his house and that theyd be happy to go out and apprehend him. So I said . . .

Oh God, no! exclaimed Cathryn, her face blanching. Detective OSullivan paused in mid-sentence, watching Cathryn. Are you all right, Mrs. Martel?

Cathryn closed her eyes and placed her hands over her face. After a minute she took her hands down and looked at OSullivan. What a nightmare, and it continues.

What are you talking about? asked the detective.

Cathryn described Charless crusade against Recycle, Ltd. and the attitude of the local police, also the polices reaction to the attack on their house.

They did seem a bit eager, admitted OSullivan, remembering his conversation with Frank Neilson.

Can you call them back and tell them to wait? asked Cathryn.

Its been too long for that, said OSullivan.

Could you just call and make contact so that the local police dont feel they are operating by themselves, pleaded Cathryn.

OSullivan picked up his phone and asked the switchboard operator to put him through to Shaftesbury.

Cathryn asked if he would be willing to go to New Hampshire and oversee things.

I dont have any authority up there, said the detective. Then as the call went through he directed his attention to the receiver.

We got him surrounded, said Bernie loud enough so that when OSullivan held the phone away from his ear, Cathryn could hear. But that Martel is crazy. Hes boarded up his house like a fort. Hes got a shotgun which he knows how to use and hes got his kid as a hostage.

Sounds like a difficult situation, said OSullivan. I suppose youve called in the state police for assistance?

Hell, no! said Bernie. Well take care of him. Weve deputized a handful of volunteers. Well give you a call as soon as we bring him in so you can make arrangements to ship him down to Boston.

Patrick thanked Bernie, who in turn told the detective not to mention it and that the Shaftesbury police force was always ready and willing to help.

OSullivan looked over at Cathryn. The conversation with Bernie had substantiated her claims. The Shaftesbury deputy seemed a far cry from a professional policeman. And the idea of deputizing volunteers sounded like something out of a Clint Eastwood western.

Theres going to be trouble, said Cathryn, shaking her head. There is going to be a confrontation. And because of Michelle, Charles is very determined. Im afraid hell fight back.

Christ! said OSullivan, standing up and getting his coat from a rack near the door. God, how I hate custody cases. Come on, Ill go up there with you, but remember, I have no authority in New Hampshire.

Cathryn drove as fast as she thought she could get away with in the van while Patrick OSullivan followed in a plain blue Chevy Nova. As they neared Shaftesbury, Cathryn could feel her pulse quicken. Rounding the last turn before the house she was almost in a panic. As she came up to their property, she saw a large crowd of people. Cars were parked on either side of Interstate 301 for fifty yards in both directions. At the base of their driveway two police cruisers blocked the entrance.

Parking the van as close as she could, Cathryn got out and waited for OSullivan, who pulled up behind her. The crowd gave the scene a carnival aspect despite freezing temperatures. Across the road some enterprising individual had set up a makeshift charcoal grill. On it sizzled Italian sausages which were selling briskly in a pocket of pita bread for $2.50. Next to the grill was an ash can of Budweiser beer and ice. Behind the concession a group of kids were building opposing snow forts in preparation for a snowball fight.

OSullivan came up beside Cathryn and said, Jesus, this looks like a high school outing.

All except for the guns, said Cathryn.

Grouped behind the two police cruisers was a throng of men dressed in all manner of clothing, from army fatigues to ski parkas, and each armed with a hunting rifle. Some carried their guns in one hand, Budweiser in the other. In the center of the group was Frank Neilson, with his foot on the bumper of one of the police cars, pressing a small walkie-talkie to his ear and apparently coordinating unseen, armed men as they completed surrounding the house.

OSullivan left Cathryn and walked up to Frank Neilson, introducing himself. From where Cathryn was standing, she could tell that the Shaftesbury police chief viewed the detective as an intruder. As if it were an effort, Neilson withdrew his foot from the car bumper and assumed his full height, towering a foot over OSullivan. The two men did not look as if they shared the same profession. Neilson was wearing his usual blue police uniform, complete with massive leather-holstered service revolver. On his head he had a Russian-style fake fur hat with all the flaps tied on top. OSullivan, on the other hand, had on a weather-beaten, wool-lined khaki coat. He wore no hat and his hair was disheveled.

Hows it going? asked OSullivan casually.

Fine, said Neilson. Everything under control. He wiped his snub nose with the back of his hand.

The walkie-talkie crackled and Neilson excused himself. He spoke into the machine saying that the tomcat group should approach to one hundred yards and hold. Then he turned back to OSullivan. Gotta make sure the suspect doesnt sneak out the back door.

OSullivan turned away from Neilson and eyed the armed men. Do you think its advisable to have this much firepower on hand?

I suppose you want to tell me how to handle this situation? asked Neilson sarcastically. Listen, detective, this is New Hampshire, not Boston. Youve got no authority here. And to tell you the honest truth, I dont appreciate you big city boys feeling you gotta come out here and give advice. Im in charge here. I know how to handle a hostage situation. First secure the area, then negotiate. So if youll excuse me, I got work to do.

Neilson turned his back on OSullivan and redirected his attention to the walkie-talkie.

Pardon me? said a tall, gaunt man tapping OSullivan on the shoulder. Names Harry Barker, Boston Globe. Youre Detective OSullivan from the Boston police, right?

You guys dont waste any time, do you? said OSullivan.

The Shaftesbury Sentinel was good enough to give us a jingle. This could be a great story. Lots of human interest. Can you give me some background?

OSullivan pointed out Frank Neilson. There is the man in charge. Let him give you the story.

As OSullivan watched, Neilson picked up a bull horn and was preparing to use it when Harry Barker accosted him. There was a brief exchange of words, then the reporter stepped aside. Pressing the button on the bull horn, Frank Neilsons husky voice thundered out over the winter landscape. The deputized men stopped laughing and shouting and even the children were silent.

Okay, Martel, your place is surrounded. I want you to come out with your hands up.

The crowd stayed perfectly still and the only movement was a few snowflakes drifting down among the branches of the trees. Not a sound emanated from the white Victorian house. Neilson tried the same message again with the same result. The only noise was the wind in the pines behind the barn.

Im going closer, said Neilson to no one in particular.

Im not so sure thats a good idea, said OSullivan, loud enough for everyone in the immediate vicinity to hear.

After glaring at the detective, Neilson took the bull horn in his right hand and with great ceremony started around the police car. As he passed OSullivan he was laughing. The day that Frank Neilson cant handle a piss pot of a doctor will be the day he turns in his badge.

While the crowd murmured excitedly, Neilson lumbered up the driveway to a point about fifty feet beyond the two police cruisers. It was snowing a little harder now and the top of his hat was dusted with flakes.

Martel, boomed the police chief through the bull horn, Im warning you, if you dont come out, well come in.

Silence descended the instant the last word issued from the cone of the horn. Neilson turned back to the group and made an exasperated gesture, like he was dealing with a garden pest. Then he began walking closer to the house.

Not one of the spectators moved or spoke. There was an excited anticipation as they all hoped something would happen. Neilson was now about a hundred feet from the front of the house.

Suddenly the red-paint-spattered front door burst open and Charles Martel emerged holding his shotgun. There were two almost simultaneous explosions.

Neilson dove headfirst into the snowbank lining the drive, while the spectators either fled or took cover behind cars or trees. As Charles slammed the front door, bird shot rained harmlessly down over the area.

There were a few murmurs from the crowd, then a cheer as Frank scrambled to his feet. Then he ran as fast as his legs would carry his overweight body. As he neared the cars, he tried to stop but lost his footing and slid the last ten feet on his buttocks, slamming into the rear wheel of the police cruiser. A handful of deputies scurried around the car and pulled him up.

Goddamn motherfucker! Neilson shouted. Thats it! That little bastard is going to get what he deserves.

Someone asked if hed been hit with any bird shot, but the chief shook his head. Meticulously he shook off the snow, and adjusted his uniform and holster. I was much too fast for him.

A local TV news van pulled up and a camera crew alighted, quickly finding their way over to the police chief. The commentator was a bright young woman, dressed in a mink hat and a long, down-filled coat. After a brief word with Neilson, the camera lights went on, flooding the immediate area. The young woman made a rapid introduction, then turned to the police chief and stuck the microphone about an inch from his pug nose.

Frank Neilsons personality underwent a 180-degree change. Acting shy and embarrassed, he said, Im just doing my job the best way I know how.

With the arrival of the TV camera, the politically minded town manager, John Randolph, materialized out of the crowd. He squeezed his way into the sphere of lights and put an arm around Neilson. And we think hes doing a splendid job. Lets hear it for our police chief. John Randolph took his arm off the police chief and began clapping. The crowd followed suit.

The reporter pulled the microphone back and asked if Frank could give the audience an idea of what was happening.

Well, began Frank, leaning into the mike, we got a crazy scientist holed up here. He pointed awkwardly over his shoulder at the house. Hes got a sick kid hes keeping from the doctors. The mans heavily armed and dangerous, and theres a warrant for his arrest for child-snatching and grand larceny. But theres no need to panic because everything is under control.

OSullivan wormed his way back out of the crowd, searching for Cathryn. He found her near her car, her hands pressed against her mouth. The spectacle terrified her.

The outcome of all this is going to be tragic unless you intervene, said Cathryn.

I cant intervene, explained OSullivan. I told you that before I came up here. But I think everything will be all right as long as the press and the media are here. Theyll keep the chief from doing anything crazy.

I want to get up to the house and be with Charles, said Cathryn. Im afraid he might believe I brought the police.

Are you crazy? asked OSullivan. There must be forty men with guns surrounding this place. Its dangerous. Besides, theyre not going to let you go up there. It just means one more hostage. Try to be a little patient. Ill talk to Frank Neilson again and try to convince him to call in the state police.

The detective started back toward the police cruisers, wishing hed stayed in Boston where he belonged. As he neared the makeshift command post, he again heard the police chiefs voice magnified by the bull horn. It was snowing harder now and one of the deputies was asking whether the chief could be heard up at the house. One way or the other, Charles did not answer.

OSullivan went up to Neilson and suggested that it might be easier to use the portable phone and call Charles. The chief pondered the suggestion and although he didnt respond, he climbed into his cruiser, got Charless number, and dialed. Charles answered immediately.

Okay, Martel. What are your conditions for letting the kid go?

Charless reply was short: You can go to hell, Neilson. The line went dead.

Wonderful suggestion, said Neilson to OSullivan as he put the phone back into the car. Then to no one in particular he said, How the fuck can you negotiate when theres no demands? Huh? Somebody answer me that!

Chief, called a voice. How about letting me and my buddies storm the place.

The suggestion horrified OSullivan. He tried to think of a way to get the chief to call in the state police.

In front of Neilson stood three men dressed in white, hooded militarylike parkas and white pants.

Yeah, said one of the smaller men, who was missing his front teeth. Weve checked out the place. It would be easy from the back. Wed run from the side of the barn, blow out the back door. Itd all be over.

Neilson remembered the men. They were from Recycle, Ltd. I havent decided what Im going to do, he said.

What about tear gas? suggested OSullivan. That would bring the good doctor out.

Neilson glared at the detective. Look, if I want your opinion, Ill ask for it. Trouble is that out here we dont have all sorts of sophisticated stuff and to get it Id have to call in the state boys. I want to handle this affair locally.

A yell pierced the afternoon, followed by a burst of shouting. OSullivan and Neilson turned in unison, seeing Cathryn run diagonally across the area in front of the cars.

What the hell? exclaimed Neilson.

Its Martels wife, said OSullivan.

Jesus Christ! exclaimed Neilson. Then to the nearest group of deputies he yelled, Get her. Dont let her get up to the house!

The faster Cathryn tried to run, the more trouble she had as her feet broke through the crusted snow. Upon reaching the driveway, the snowdrift left from the plowing acted like a barrier, and Cathryn was reduced to scrambling over it on all fours. Sliding down the opposite side, she got to her feet.

With a whoop of excitement, a half dozen of the idle deputies responded and struggled around the squad cars. It was a competition to see who got to the prize first. But the new-fallen snow made the going treacherous and the deputies inadvertently inhibited each other. Eventually two of them made it around the cars and began running up the drive as fast as they could. A murmur of excitement escaped from the crowd. OSullivan, on the other hand, found himself clenching his fists and urging Cathryn to greater efforts even though he knew her presence in the house would only complicate the situation.

Cathryn found herself gasping for breath. She could hear the heavy breathing of her pursuers and knew they were gaining on her. Desperately, she tried to think of some evasive maneuver but a growing pain in her side made thinking difficult.

Ahead she saw the red-spattered door swing open. Then there was a flash of orange light and an almost simultaneous explosion. Cathryn stopped, gasping for breath, waiting to feel something. Looking back, she could see that her pursuers had dropped into the snow for cover. She tried to run but couldnt. Reaching the front steps she had to pull herself up with her arms. Charles, holding the shotgun in his right hand, reached out to her and she felt him yank her forward and into the house.

Cathryn collapsed on the floor, her chest heaving. She could hear Michelle calling but she didnt move. Charles was running from window to window. After a minute, Cathryn pulled herself to her feet and walked over to Michelle.

I missed you, Mommy, said Michelle, putting her arms around her.

Cathryn knew shed done the right thing.

Charles came back into the living room and checked out the front again. Satisfied, he came over to Cathryn and Michelle, and putting gun down, enveloped them in his arms. Now I have both my women, he said with a twinkle.

Cathryn immediately launched into an explanation of what happened, saying over and over that she had had nothing to do with the arrival of the police.

I never thought for a second you did, said Charles. Im glad to have you back. Its hard watching in two directions at once.

I dont trust the local police, said Cathryn. I think that Neilson is a psychopath.

I couldnt agree more, said Charles.

I wonder if it wouldnt be better if we gave up now. Im afraid of Neilson and his deputies.

Charles shook his head, silently mouthing, No.

 . . . but listen to me . . . I think theyre out there because they want violence.

Im sure they do, admitted Charles.

If you give up, give the equipment back to the Weinburger, and explain to Dr. Keitzman what you are trying to do for Michelle, maybe you could continue your experiment at the hospital.

No way, said Charles, smiling at Cathryns naivet. The combined power of organized research and medicine would bar me from doing anything like this. Theyd say that I wasnt mentally stable. If I lose control over Michelle now, Ill never get to touch her again. And that wouldnt be so good, would it? Charles tousled Michelles hair while Michelle nodded her head in agreement. Besides, continued Charles, I think my body is starting to show some delayed hypersensitivity.

Really? said Cathryn. It was hard for her to generate enthusiasm, having just witnessed the frenzied crowd outside. Charless apparent calm amazed her.

The last time I tested my T-lymphocytes there was some mild reaction to Michelles leukemic cells. Its happening, but its slow. Even so, I think I should take another challenge dose of the antigen when things quiet down.

Outside Cathryn could hear the bull horn but it was muffled by the falling snow. She wished she could stop time. For the moment she felt secure, even as she sensed the evil outside.

 

 

Because of the snow, night came early. Charles chose dinner-time to have Cathryn help him take another injection of Michelles antigen. He used a different technique, encouraging Cathryn to slip a catheter into one of his veins. It took Cathryn several tries but to her surprise she did it. With an intravenous line open, Charles gave her explicit instructions how to handle the expected anaphylactic reaction. He took epinephrine almost immediately after the antigen and the rather severe reaction was easily controlled.

Cathryn made dinner while Charles devised methods to secure the house. He boarded up the second-story windows and increased the barricades behind the doors. What worried him most was tear gas, and he put out the fire and stuffed the chimney to prevent someone from dropping in a canister.

As evening turned into night, Cathryn and Charles could see the crowd begin to disperse, disappointed and angry that there hadnt been any violence. A few persistent gawkers remained, but they, too, drifted off by nine-thirty as the thermometer dipped to a chilling five degrees above zero. Cathryn and Charles took turns either watching the windows or reading to Michelle. Her apparent improvement had leveled off and she was again weaker. She also had a mild bout of stomach cramps, but they abated spontaneously. By ten she fell asleep.

Except for the occasional sound of the oil burner kicking on, the house was silent, and Charles, who was taking the first watch, began to have difficulty staying awake. The wired feeling hed gotten from the dose of epinephrine had long since worn off to be replaced by a powerful exhaustion. He poured himself a cup of lukewarm coffee and carried it back into the living room. He had to move by feel because hed turned out all the indoor lights. Sitting down next to one of the front windows, he looked between the planks and tried to visualize the police cars, but it wasnt possible. He let his head rest for a moment and in that moment fell into a deep, encompassing sleep.

FIFTEEN
At exactly 2 A.M. Bernie Crawford gingerly put his arm over the front seat of the police cruiser and prepared to wake the snoring chief as he had been asked. The problem was that Frank hated being pulled from sleep. The last time Bernie had tried to wake the chief on a stakeout, the chief had punched him ferociously on the side of the head. When hed finally become fully conscious, hed apologized, but that didnt erase the pain. Pulling his arm back, Bernie decided on a different ploy. He got out of the car, noticing that the new snow had accumulated to three inches. Then he opened the rear door, reached in, and gave the chief a shove.

Neilsons head popped up and he tried to grab Bernie, who quickly backed up. In spite of his bulk, the chief bounded out of the car, obviously intent on catching his deputy, who was prepared to flee down Interstate 301. But as soon as Neilson hit the five-degree air, he stopped, looking disoriented.

You all right, chief? called Bernie from fifty feet away.

Of course Im all right, grumbled Frank. What the hell time is it?

Back in the front seat of the cruiser, Neilson coughed for almost three minutes, making it impossible to light up his cigarette. After hed finally taken several puffs, he took out his walkie-talkie and contacted Wally Crabb. Neilson wasnt entirely happy with his plan, but as the deputies said, he didnt have a better idea. Midway through the evening, everyone had run out of patience and Neilson had felt obligated to do something or lose respect. It was at that time he had agreed to Wally Crabbs idea.

Wally had been a marine and had spent a good deal of time in Vietnam. He told Frank Neilson that as long as you went in fast, the people inside a house never had a chance to resist. Simple as that. Then he pointed out that after it was over, Neilson could personally take the suspect to Boston and the kid to the hospital. Hed be a hero.

What about the guys shotgun? Frank had asked.

You think hes going to be sitting there with the thing in his hot little hand? Naw. After we blow the back door away, well just sail in there and grab him. Theyll be so surprised they wont move a muscle. Believe me, youd think Id do it if I didnt know it would work? I might be stupid, but Im not crazy.

So Neilson had relented. He liked the idea of being a hero. They decided on 2 A.M. as the time and chose Wally Crabb, Giorgio Brezowski, and Angelo DeJesus to hit the door. Neilson didnt know the guys, but Wally Crabb said theyd been in Nam with him and were real experienced. Besides, theyd volunteered.

The walkie-talkie crackled in Franks hand, and Wallys voice filled the cab. We read you. Were all set. As soon as we open the front door, come on up.

You sure this will work? asked Neilson.

Relax, will you? Jesus Christ!

All right, were standing by.

Neilson switched off the walkie-talkie and tossed it in the back seat. There was nothing more he could do until he saw the front door open.

Wally slipped the tiny walkie-talkie into his parka and zipped it up. His large frame shivered with anticipatory excitement. Violence for Wally was as good as sex, maybe even better because it was less complicated.

You guys ready? he asked the two forms huddled behind him. They nodded. The group had approached the Martel house from the south, moving through the pine trees until they came upon the barn. Dressed in white, courtesy of the management of Recycle, Ltd., they were almost invisible in the light but persistent snow.

Reaching the barn, theyd made their way around the eastern end until Wally, who was in the lead, had been able to look around the corner at the house. Except for a light on the back porch, the house was dark. From that point it was about a hundred feet to the back door.

Okay, check the equipment, said Wally. Wheres the shotgun?

Angelo passed the gun to Brezo who passed it to Wally; the gun was a two-barrel, twelve-gauge Remington, loaded with triple zero magnum shells capable of blasting a hole through a car door. Wally flipped off the safety. Each man also had been issued a police thirty-eight.

Everybody remember their job? asked Wally. The plan was for Wally to lead, blast open the rear door, then pull the door open for Brezo and Angelo to rush inside. Wally thought it was a good plan, the kind that had kept him alive through five years of Vietnam. Hed made it a habit only to volunteer for the safe part of any assault.

Angelo and Brezo nodded, tense with excitement. Theyd made a bet with each other. The one who got Martel first would be a hundred bucks richer.

Okay, said Wally. Im off. Ill signal for Angelo.

After checking the dark house once more, Wally scrambled around the edge of the barn, running low to the ground. He crossed the hundred feet quickly and noiselessly, pulling himself into the shadows below the lip of the back porch. The house remained quiet so he waved to Angelo. Angelo and Brezo joined him holding their flashlights and pistols.

Wally glanced at the two men. Remember he has to be shot from the front, not the back.

With a burst of energy, Wally thundered up the back steps and aimed the shotgun at the lock of the back door. A blast sundered the peaceful night, blowing away a section of the back door. Wally grabbed the edge and yanked it open. At the same moment Brezo ran up the steps and past Wally, heading into the kitchen. Angelo was right behind him.

But when Wally opened the door it triggered Charless trap. A cord pulled a pin from a simple mechanism which supported several hundred-pound bags of Idaho potatoes which had been in the root cellar. The potatoes were hung by a stout rope from a hook directly above the door, and when the pin was pulled the potatoes began a rapid, swinging plunge.

Brezo had just snapped on his flashlight when he saw the swinging sacks. He raised his hands to protect his face at the moment Angelo collided into the back of him. The potatoes hit Brezo square on. The impact made him accidentally pull the trigger of his pistol as he was knocked straight back off the porch into the snow. The bullet pierced Angelos calf before burying itself in the floor of the porch. He, too, was knocked off the porch, but sideways, taking with him part of the balustrade with the gingerbread trim. Wally, not sure of what was happening, vaulted back over the railing and scrambled off toward the barn. Angelo was not aware hed been shot until he tried to get up and his left foot refused to function. Brezo, having recovered enough to get to his feet, went to Angelos aid.

Charles and Cathryn had bolted upright at the blast. When Charles recovered enough to orient himself, he reached frantically for the shotgun. When he found it, he ran into the kitchen. Cathryn rushed over to Michelle, but the child had not awakened.

Arriving in the kitchen, Charles could just make out the two sacks of potatoes still swinging in and out of the open back door. It was difficult to see beyond the sphere of light from the overhead back porch fixture, but he thought he made out two white figures heading for the barn. Switching off the light, Charles could see the men better. One seemed to be supporting the other as they frantically moved behind the barn.

Pulling the splintered door closed, Charles used some rope to secure it. Then he stuffed the hole made by the shotgun blast with a cushion from one of the kitchen chairs. With a good deal of effort he restrung the potatoes. He knew that it had been a close call. In the distance he could hear the sound of an ambulance approaching, and he wondered if the man whod been hit with the potatoes was seriously hurt.

Returning to the living room, he explained to Cathryn what had happened. Then he reached over and felt Michelles forehead. The fever was back with a vengeance. Gently at first, then more forcibly, he tried to wake her. She finally opened her eyes and smiled, but fell immediately back to sleep.

Thats not a good sign, said Charles.

What is it? questioned Cathryn.

Her leukemic cells might be invading her central nervous system, said Charles. If that happens shes going to need radiotherapy.

Does that mean getting her to the hospital? asked Cathryn.

Yes.

The rest of the night passed uneventfully, and Cathryn and Charles managed to keep to their three-hour watch schedule. When dawn broke, Cathryn looked out on six inches of new snow. At the end of the driveway only one police car remained.

Without waking Charles, Cathryn went into the kitchen and began making a big country breakfast. She wanted to forget what was happening around them, and the best way was to keep busy. She started fresh coffee, mixed biscuits, took bacon from the freezer, and scrambled eggs. When everything was ready, she loaded it on a tray and carried it into the living room. After awakening Charles, she unveiled the feast. Michelle woke up and seemed brighter than she had been during the night. But she wasnt hungry, and when Cathryn took her temperature, it was 102.

When they carried the dishes back to the kitchen, Charles told Cathryn that he was concerned about infection and that if Michelles fever didnt respond to aspirin, he would feel obliged to start some antibiotics.

When they were done in the kitchen, Charles drew some blood from himself, laboriously separated out a population of T-lymphocytes, and mixed them with his own macrophages and Michelles leukemic cells. Then he patiently watched under the phase contrast microscope. There was a reaction, definitely more than the previous day, but still not adequate. Even so, Charles whooped with a sense of success, swinging Cathryn around in a circle. When he calmed down, he told Cathryn that he expected that his delayed sensitivity might be adequate by the following day.

Does that mean we dont have to inject you today? asked Cathryn hopefully.

I wish, said Charles. Unfortunately, I dont think we should argue with success. I think wed better inject today, too.

 

 

Frank Neilson pulled up at the bottom of the Martels driveway, skidding as he did so, and bumped the front of the cruiser that had sat there overnight. Some of the snow slipped off with a thump, and Bernie Crawford emerged, heavy with sleep.

The chief got out of his car with Wally Crabb. You havent been sleeping, have you?

No, said Bernie. Been watching all night. No sign of life.

Neilson looked up at the house. It appeared particularly peaceful with its fresh blanket of snow.

Hows the guy that got shot? asked Bernie.

Hes okay. They got him over at the county hospital. But I tell you, Martel is in a lot more trouble now that hes shot a deputy.

But he didnt shoot him.

Makes no different. He wouldnt have got shot if it hadnt been for Martel. Rigging up a booby trap is a goddamn crime in itself.

Reminds me of those gooks in Nam, snarled Wally Crabb. I think we ought to blow the house right off its fucking foundation.

Hold on, said Neilson. We got a sick kid and a woman to think about. I brought some sniper rifles. Well have to try to isolate Martel.

By midday, little had happened. Spectators from town drifted to the scene and, although as yet there werent quite as many as the day before, it was a considerable crowd. The chief had issued the rifles and positioned the men in various spots around the house. Then hed tried contacting Charles with the bull horn, asking him to come out on the front porch to talk about what he wanted. But Charles never responded. Whenever Frank Neilson called on the phone, Charles would hang up. Frank Neilson knew that if he didnt bring the affair to a successful conclusion soon, the state police would intervene and control would slip from his hands. That was something he wanted to avoid at all costs. He wanted to have the credit of resolving this affair because it was the biggest and most talked-about case since one of the mill owners children had been kidnapped in 1862.

Angrily tossing the bull horn into the back seat of his cruiser, Neilson crossed the road for an Italian sausage in pita bread. As he was about to bite into the sandwich, he saw a long black limousine come around the bend and stop. Five men got out. Two were dressed in fancy city clothes, one with white hair and a long fur coat, the other with almost no hair and a shiny leather coat cinched at the waist. The other two men were dressed in blue suits that appeared a size too small. Neilson recognized the second two: they were bodyguards.

Frank took a bite from his sandwich as the men approached him.

Neilson, my name is Dr. Carlos Ibanez. Im honored to meet you.

Frank Neilson shook the doctors hand.

This is Dr. Morrison, said Ibanez, urging his colleague forward.

Neilson shook hands with Morrison, then took another bite of his sausage sandwich.

Understand you got a problem here, said Ibanez, looking up at the Martel house.

Frank shrugged. It was never good to admit to problems.

Turning back to the chief, Ibanez said, Were the owners of all the expensive equipment your suspect has up there in his house. And were very concerned about it.

Frank nodded.

We rode out here to offer our help, said Ibanez magnanimously.

Frank looked from face to face. This was getting crazier by the minute.

In fact, we brought two professional security men from Breur Chemicals with us. A Mr. Eliot Hoyt and Anthony Ferrullo.

Frank found himself shaking hands with the two security men.

Of course we know you have everything under control, said Dr. Morrison. But we thought you might find these men helpful and they have brought some equipment you might find interesting.

Mr. Hoyt and Mr. Ferrullo smiled.

But its up to you, of course, said Dr. Morrison.

Absolutely, said Dr. Ibanez.

I think I have enough manpower at the moment, said Frank Neilson through a full mouth.

Well, keep us in mind, said Dr. Ibanez.

Neilson excused himself and strolled back to his makeshift command post, confused after meeting Ibanez and his friends. After he told Bernie to contact the men with the rifles and tell them there was to be no shooting until further notice, he got into his car. Maybe help from the chemical company wasnt a bad idea. All they were interested in was the equipment, not the glory.

Ibanez and Morrison watched Neilson walk away from them, talk briefly with another policeman, then get into his squad car. Morrison adjusted his delicate horn-rimmed glasses. Frightening that someone like that is in a position of authority.

Its a travesty, all right, agreed Dr. Ibanez. Lets get back into the car.

They started off toward the limousine. I dont like this situation one bit, said Dr. Ibanez. All this press coverage may whip up sympathy for Charles: the quintessential American guarding his home against outside forces. If this goes on much longer, the media is going to plaster this on every TV screen in the country.

I couldnt agree more, said Dr. Morrison. The irony is that Charles Martel, the man who hates the press, couldnt have created for himself a better platform if he tried. The way things are going he could cause irreparable damage to the whole cancer establishment.

And to Canceran and the Weinburger in particular, added Dr. Ibanez. Weve got to get that imbecile police chief to use our men.

Weve planted the idea in his head, said Morrison. I dont think theres much else we can do at this point. It has to look like his decision.

Neilson was jarred from a little postprandial catnap by someone tapping on the frosted window of the cruiser. He was about to leap from the car when he regained his senses. He rolled down the window and found himself looking into a sneering face behind thick, milk-bottle glasses. The guy had curly hair that stuck out from his head in a snow-covered bush; the chief guessed it was another big-city spectator.

Are you Chief Neilson? asked the man.

Who wants to know?

I do. My name is Dr. Stephen Keitzman and this is Dr. Jordan Wiley behind me.

The chief looked over Dr. Keitzmans shoulder at the second man, wondering what was going on.

Can we talk to you for a few minutes? said Dr. Keitzman, shielding his face from the snow.

Neilson got out of the car, making it clear that it was an extraordinary effort.

Were the physicians of the little girl in the house, explained Dr. Wiley. We felt it was our duty to come up here in case there was anything we could do to help.

Will Martel listen to you guys? asked the chief.

Dr. Keitzman and Dr. Wiley exchanged glances. I doubt it, admitted Dr. Keitzman. I dont think hell talk with anyone. Hes too hostile. We think hes had a psychotic break.

A what? asked Neilson.

A nervous breakdown, added Dr. Wiley.

Figures, said the chief.

Anyway, said Dr. Keitzman, swinging his arms against the cold, were mostly concerned about the little girl. I dont know if you realize how sick she is, but the fact of the matter is that every hour shes without treatment, the closer she is to death.

That bad, huh? said Neilson, looking up at the Martel house.

Absolutely, said Dr. Keitzman. If you procrastinate too long, Im afraid youll be rescuing a dead child.

Were also concerned that Dr. Martel might be experimenting on the child, said Dr. Wiley.

No shit! exclaimed Neilson. That fucking bastard. Thanks for letting me know. I think Ill tell this to my deputies. Neilson called Bernie over, spoke to him a minute, then reached in for the walkie-talkie.

By midafternoon the crowd was even larger than the previous day. Word had drifted back to Shaftesbury that something was going to happen soon and even the schools were let out early. Joshua Wittenburg, the school superintendent, had decided that the lessons in civil law to be learned from the episode should not be passed up; besides, he felt that it was the biggest scandal in Shaftesbury since Widow Watsons cat had been found frozen solid in Tom Brachmans freezer.

Jean Paul drifted aimlessly on the periphery of the crowd. Hed never been subjected to derision before, and the experience was extremely disquieting. Hed always felt his father was a little weird but not crazy, and now that people were accusing him of being insane, he was upset. Besides, he couldnt understand why his family hadnt contacted him. The people with whom he was staying tried to comfort him but it was obvious they, too, questioned his fathers behavior.

Jean Paul wanted to go up to the house but he was afraid to approach the police, and it was easy to see the property was surrounded.

Ducking a snowball thrown by one of his former friends, Jean Paul walked back through the crowd, crossing the road. After a few minutes he thought he saw a familiar form. It was Chuck, dressed in a torn and tattered army parka with a fur-tipped hood.

Chuck! called Jean Paul eagerly.

Chuck took one look in Jean Pauls direction, then turned and fled into a stand of trees. Jean Paul followed, calling out several more times.

Chrissake! hissed Chuck, when Jean Paul caught up to him in a small clearing. Why dont you yell a little louder so everybody hears you?

What do you mean? asked Jean Paul, confused.

Im trying to keep a low profile to find out what the hell is going on, said Chuck. And you come along yelling my name. Jesus!

Jean Paul had never considered the idea of concealing himself.

I know whats going on, said Jean Paul. The town is after Dad because hes trying to shut down the factory. Everybody says hes crazy.

Its more than the town, said Chuck. It was on the news last night in Boston. Dad kidnapped Michelle from the hospital.

Really? exclaimed Jean Paul.

Really. Is that all you can say? I think its a goddamn miracle, and all you can say is really. Dads given the finger to the whole friggin establishment. I love it!

Jean Paul examined his brothers face. A situation he found disturbing Chuck seemed to find exhilarating.

You know, if we worked together, we might be able to help, said Chuck.

Really? said Jean Paul. It was a rare occurrence when Chuck offered to cooperate with anyone.

Jesus. Say something a little more intelligent.

How could we help? asked Jean Paul.

It took about five minutes for the boys to decide what they would do, then they crossed the road and approached the police cars. Chuck had appointed himself spokesman, and he went up to Frank Neilson.

The chief was overjoyed to find the boys. He did not know how to proceed when the kids had presented themselves. Although he dismissed their request to go up to the house to reason with their father, he convinced them to use the bull horn, and spent a good thirty minutes coaching them on what they should say. He hoped that Charles would talk to his sons and communicate his conditions for resolving the situation. Frank was pleased that the boys were so cooperative.

When everything was ready, Frank took the bull horn, greeted the spectators, then pointed it at the house. His voice boomed up the driveway calling for Charles to open the door and speak to his sons.

Neilson lowered the bull horn and waited. There was no sound or movement from the house. The chief repeated his message, then waited again, with the same result. Cursing under his breath, he handed the instrument to Chuck and told the boy to try.

Chuck took the bull horn with trembling hands. Pushing the button, he started speaking. Dad, its me, Chuck, and Jean Paul. Can you hear me?

After the third time, the paint-splattered door opened about six inches. I hear you, Chuck, Charles called.

At that moment, Chuck clambered over the front bumpers of two squad cars, discarding the bull horn. Jean Paul followed at his heels. Everyone, including the deputies, was intent on watching the house when the boys made their move, and for a moment they didnt respond. It gave the boys a chance to clear the cars and start up the driveway.

Get them, goddamn it! Get them! shouted Neilson.

A murmur went up from the crowd. Several deputies led by Bernie Crawford sprinted around the ends of the two squad cars.

Although younger, Jean Paul was the athlete, and he quickly overtook his older brother, who was having difficulty making headway on the slippery driveway. About forty feet beyond the squad cars, Chucks feet went out from under him and he hit the ground hard. Gasping for breath he struggled up, but as he did so Bernie grabbed a handful of his tattered army parka. Chuck tried to wrench himself free but instead managed to yank Bernie off balance. The policeman fell over backwards, pulling the boy on top of him. Chucks bony buttocks knocked the wind out of Bernie with an audible wheeze.

Still entangled, the two slid a few feet back down the driveway, rolling into the next two deputies on their way up. The men fell in a comical fashion reminiscent of a silent-movie chase sequence. Taking advantage of the confusion, Chuck pulled himself free, scrambled out of reach, and ran after Jean Paul.

Although Bernie was temporarily winded, the other two deputies quickly resumed pursuit. They might have caught Chuck again had it not been for Charles. He stuck the shotgun through the door and fired a single round. Any thought of heroics on the deputies part vanished, and they instantly took refuge behind the trunk of one of the oaks lining the driveway.

As the boys reached the front porch, Charles opened the door, and they dashed inside. Charles slammed the door behind them, secured it, then checked the windows to make sure no one else was coming. Satisfied, he turned to his sons.

The two boys were standing self-consciously near the door, gasping for breath, and amazed at the transformation of their living room into a science-fiction laboratory. Chuck, an old-movie buff, noticing the boarded-up windows, said it looked like the set of a Frankenstein movie. They both began to smile, but became serious when they saw Charless dour expression.

The one thing I thought I didnt have to worry about was you two, said Charles sternly. Goddamn it! What on earth are you doing here?

We thought you needed help, said Chuck lamely. Everyone else is against you.

I couldnt stand to hear what people were saying about you, said Jean Paul.

This is our family, said Chuck. We should be here, especially if we can help Michelle.

How is she, Dad? asked Jean Paul.

Charles didnt answer. His anger at the boys abruptly dissolved. Chucks comment was not only surprising, it was correct. They were a family, and the boys should not be summarily excluded. Besides, as far as Charles knew, it was the first unselfish thing Chuck had ever done.

You little bastards! Charles suddenly grinned.

Caught off guard by their fathers abrupt change of mood, the boys hesitated for a moment, then rushed to give him a hug.

Charles realized he couldnt remember the last time hed held his sons. Cathryn, whod been watching since the boys first appeared, came up and kissed them both.

Then they all went over to Michelle, and Charles gently woke her. She gave them a broad grin and Chuck bent over and put his arms around her.

SIXTEEN
Neilson had never been in a limousine before, and he wasnt sure he was going to like it. But once hed ducked through the door and settled back in the plush seat, he felt right at home: it had a bar. He refused a mixed drink on account of being on duty but accepted straight brandy for its medicinal powers against the cold.

After the Martel boys had managed to get up to the house, Neilson had had to admit the situation was deteriorating. Rather than rescuing hostages, he was adding them. Instead of a crazy guy and a sick kid, he was now confronted by a whole family barricaded in their home. Something had to be done right away. Someone suggested calling in the state police but that was just what Neilson wanted to avoid. Yet it would be inevitable if he wasnt successful in resolving the incident within the next twelve hours. It was this time pressure that had made him decide to talk to the doctors.

Knowing how sick the little girl is, I felt I couldnt turn down your offer to help, he said.

Thats why were here, said Dr. Ibanez. Mr. Hoyt and Mr. Ferrullo are ready and willing to take orders from you.

The two security men, positioned on either side of the bar, nodded in agreement.

Thats great, said Frank Neilson. The trouble was that he didnt know what kind of orders to give. His mind raced in circles until he remembered something Dr. Ibanez had said. You mentioned special equipment?

I certainly did, said Dr. Ibanez. Mr. Hoyt, perhaps youd like to show us.

Mr. Hoyt was a handsome man, lean but obviously muscular. Frank recognized the bulge of a shoulder holster under his suit.

My pleasure, said Hoyt, leaning toward Frank. What do you think this is, Mr. Neilson? He handed Frank a weighty object that was shaped like a tin can with a handle protruding from one end.

Frank turned it in his hands and shrugged. Dont know. Tear gas? Something like that?

Mr. Hoyt shook his head. Nope. Its a grenade.

A grenade? exclaimed Frank, holding the object away from him.

Its called a concussion grenade. Its what antiterrorist units use to rescue hostages. Its thrown into a room or airplane and when it detonates, instead of hurting anythingexcept perhaps for breaking a few eardrumsit just befuddles everyone for ten, twenty, sometimes thirty seconds. I think you could use it to advantage in this situation.

Yeah, Im sure we could, said Frank. But we got to get it into the house. And the guys boarded up all the windows.

Not all the windows, said Mr. Hoyt. Weve noticed that the two attic windows which are easily accessible from the roof are free. Let me show you what Id suggest. Hoyt produced floor plans of the Martels house and, noticing the chiefs surprise, said: Its amazing what you can get with a little research. Look how the attic stairs come down to the main hall on the second floor. From that stairway it would be easy for someone like Tony Ferrullo, whos an expert at this sort of thing, to toss a concussion grenade into the living room where the suspect is obviously staying. At that point, it would be easy to rush both the front and back doors and rescue the hostages.

When could we try it? asked Frank Neilson.

Youre the boss, said Mr. Hoyt.

Tonight? asked Frank Neilson.

Tonight it is, said Mr. Hoyt.

Neilson left the limousine in a state of suppressed excitement. Dr. Morrison reached out and pulled the door closed.

Hoyt laughed: Its like taking candy from a child.

Will you be able to make it look like self-defense? asked Dr. Ibanez.

Ferrullo straightened up. I can make it look any way you want.

 

 

At 10 P.M. exactly, Charles reached over and switched off the dialyzer. Then, as carefully as if he were handling the most precious commodity on earth, he reached into the machine and withdrew the dialyzate in a small vial. His fingers trembled as he transferred the crystal clear solution to the sterilizer. He had no idea of the structure of the small molecule contained in the vial except that it was dialyzable, which had been the final step in its isolation, and that it was not affected by the enzymes that broke down DNA, RNA, and peptide linkages in proteins. But the fact that the structure of the molecule was unknown was less important at this stage than knowledge of its effect. This was the mysterious transfer factor which would hopefully transfer his delayed hypersensitivity to Michelle.

That afternoon, Charles had again tested his T-lymphocyte response with Michelles leukemic cells. The reaction had been dramatic, with the T-lymphocytes instantly lysing and destroying the leukemic cells. As Charles had watched under the phase contrast microscope, he couldnt believe the rapidity of the response. Apparently the T-lymphocytes, sensitized to a surface antigen on the leukemic cell, were able to pierce the leukemic cells membranes. Charles had shouted with joy the moment he saw the reaction.

Having found his delayed hypersensitivity response adequate, he had canceled the next dose of antigen hed planned to give himself. This had pleased Cathryn, who had been finding the procedure increasingly distasteful. Instead he had announced that he wanted to draw off two pints of his blood. Cathryn had turned green, but Chuck had been able to overcome his distaste for blood and, along with Jean Paul, was able to help Charles with the task.

Before dinner, Charles had slowly separated out the white blood cells in one of the sophisticated machines he had taken from the Weinburger. In the early evening he had begun the arduous task of extracting from the white blood cells the small molecule that he was now sterilizing.

At that point, he knew he was flying blind. What hed accomplished would have taken years under proper research conditions where each step would have been examined critically and reproduced hundreds of times. Yet what hed accomplished so far had been essentially done before with different antigens like the one for the tuberculosis bacillus. But now Charles had a solution of an unknown molecule of an unknown concentration and of an unknown potency. There was no time to determine the best way to administer it. All he had was a theory: that in Michelles system was a blocking factor, which had to that point kept her immune system from responding to her leukemic cells antigen. Charles believed and hoped that the transfer factor would bypass that blocking or suppressor system and allow Michelle to become sensitized to her leukemic cells. But how much of the factor should he give her? And how? He was going to have to improvise and pray.

Michelle was not happy with the idea but she let Charles start another IV. Cathryn sat holding her hand and trying to distract her. The two boys were upstairs watching for any suspicious movement outside.

Without telling Cathryn or Michelle, Charles prepared for any eventuality when he gave his daughter the first dose of the transfer factor. Although he had diluted the solution with sterile water, he was still concerned about its side effects. After giving her a minute dose, he monitored her pulse and blood pressure. He was relieved when he could detect no response whatever.

At midnight the family came together in the living room. Charles had given Michelle approximately one-sixteenth of the transfer factor. The only apparent change in her status was a slight rise in her fever, and she had fallen asleep spontaneously.

They decided to take two-hour watches. Although they were all exhausted, Chuck insisted on taking the first watch and went upstairs. Charles and Cathryn fell asleep almost instantly. Jean Paul lay awake for a while, hearing his brother wander from room to room upstairs.

The next thing Jean Paul knew was that Chuck was gently nudging him. It seemed like hed just fallen asleep but Chuck said it was 2 A.M. and time for him to get up. Its been quiet, except a van came about an hour ago and stopped by the police cars. But I havent seen anybody.

Jean Paul nodded, then went into the downstairs bathroom to wash his face. Coming back into the dark living room, he debated whether to stay on the ground floor or go upstairs. Since it was difficult to move around in the living room, he went up to his own room. The bed looked inviting but he resisted the temptation. Instead he looked out between the planks covering the window. He couldnt see much, or even enough to tell if it was snowing or just blowing. In any case there was lots of snow in the air.

Slowly he went from room to room as hed heard Chuck do, gazing out at the dark. It was utterly silent except for an occasional gust of wind which would rattle the storm windows. Sitting in his parents bedroom which looked down the driveway, Jean Paul tried to make out a van but he was unable to. Then he heard a sound, like metal against stone. Looking in the direction of the noise, he found himself facing the fireplace. It shared the same chimney as the living room fireplace. He heard the sound again.

With no further hesitation, he ran back down to the living room.

Dad, whispered Jean Paul, wake up.

Charles blinked, then sat up.

Four oclock? asked Charles.

No, whispered Jean Paul. I heard a noise up in your bedroom. Sounded like it came from the fireplace.

Charles sprang up, waking Cathryn and Chuck.

Jean Paul thinks he heard a noise, whispered Chuck.

I know I heard a noise, returned Jean Paul, indignant.

Okay! Okay! said Charles. Listen, we need at least one more day. If theyre trying to break in, weve got to stop them.

Charles gave the gun to Cathryn and sent her to the back door. He positioned the boys by the front door with Jean Pauls baseball bat. Taking the poker for himself, Charles climbed the stairs and went into the master bedroom. Standing by the fireplace he congratulated himself on having the foresight to pack the chimneys. But he heard nothing except the wind under the eaves.

After several minutes Charles walked out of the master bedroom, crossed the hall, and entered Michelles room. From here he could see the barn, where the previous nights assault had originated, but all he saw now were the pines, rustling in the wind.

 

 

Anthony Ferrullo placed an aluminum ladder against the chimney and climbed onto the roof. Catlike, he moved along the ridge to one of the attic windows. Then, using a rope as a precaution against slipping, he worked his way down the slope of the roof to the base of one of the dormers, where he cut out a small circle of glass. Slowly he opened the window, smelling the musty odor of the attic. Turning on his flashlight, he looked inside. There were the usual trunks and cartons, and he was pleased to see a floor rather than widely spaced beams. He dropped into the room without making the slightest noise.

Ferrullo waited, listening for sounds of movement in the house. He was in no hurry. He was certain Hoyt was already in position below the front porch, ready to storm the front door. Neilson had insisted that two of his deputies participate. They were to storm the back door after the explosion, but if things went the way Ferrullo intended, the job would be over before they entered.

Satisfied all was quiet, Anthony moved forward slowly, testing each place he put his foot before he shifted his weight onto it. He was directly over Charless head.

Charles stared at the barn for some five minutes, until he was convinced there was no activity there. Wondering what Jean Paul could have heard, he turned back toward the hall. Suddenly the ceiling joists above him squeaked. Freezing, Charles listened intently, hoping hed imagined the sound. Then it was repeated.

A shiver of fear passed through his exhausted body. Someone was in the attic!

Gripping the poker and feeling the perspiration on his hands, Charles began to follow the sounds above him. Soon hed advanced to the wall of Michelles room, behind which were the attic stairs. Looking out into the hall, he could just make out the attic door in the darkness. It was closed but not locked. The skeleton key protruded temptingly from the mechanism. Hearing the first step on the stairs, his heart began to pound. Hed never experienced such terror. Frantically he debated whether to lock the door or just wait for the intruder to appear.

Whoever was coming down the stairs was agonizingly slow. Charles gripped the poker with all the force he could muster. Abruptly the furtive steps halted and there was nothing but silence. He waited, his panic growing.

Downstairs, Charles heard Michelle stir in her sleep. He winced, hoping no one would call up to him, or worse yet, come up the stairs. He heard Jean Paul whisper something to Chuck.

The noises coming from the living room seemed to activate the movement on the attic stairs. Charles heard the sound of another step, then to his horror the knob began to turn very slowly. He grasped the poker with both hands and lifted it above his head.

Anthony Ferrullo slowly opened the door about eight inches. He could see across the short hall to the balustrade connecting to the banister of the main stairs. From there it was a straight drop to the living room. After checking the position of his holster, he unclipped the concussion grenade from his belt and pulled the pin from the timing fuse.

Charles could not stand the waiting another second, especially since he was sure he wouldnt be able to actually strike the intruder. Impulsively he lifted his foot and kicked the attic door closed. He felt a slight resistance but not enough to keep it from slamming shut. He leaped forward, intending to turn the key in the lock.

He never got to the door. There was a tremendous explosion. The attic door burst open, sending Charles flying back into Michelles room with his ears ringing. Scrambling on all fours, he saw Ferrullo topple from the attic stairs to the hall floor.

Cathryn and the boys jumped at the explosion, which was followed by a rush of footsteps on the front and back porches. In the next instant a sledgehammer crashed through the glass panel and its wooden cover next to the front door just inches from Chucks head. A groping hand reached through the opening for the doorknob. Chuck reacted by grabbing the hand and pulling. Jean Paul dropped the bat and leaped to his brothers aid. Their combined strength pulled the unwilling arm to its limit, forcing it up against the shards of glass left in the panel. The unseen man yelled in pain. A pistol sounded and splinters flew from the door, convincing the boys to let go.

In the kitchen Cathryn tightened her hold on the shotgun as two men wrestled with the already broken back door. They succeeded in releasing the securing rope and pulled the door open. The potatoes swung out, but this time the men were able to duck. Wally Crabb grabbed the sack on its return swing, while Brezo headed through the door. With the gun pointed downward, Cathryn pulled the trigger. A load of bird shot roared into the linoleum, ricocheting up and spraying the doorway and Brezo. Brezo reversed direction and followed Wally off the porch as Cathryn pumped another shell into the chamber and blasted the empty doorway.

As abruptly as the violence started it was over. Jean Paul ran into the kitchen to find Cathryn immobilized by the experience. He closed the back door and resecured it, then took the gun from her shaking hands. Chuck went upstairs to see if Charles was all right and was surprised to see his father bending over, examining a scorched and dazed stranger.

With Chucks help, Charles got the man downstairs and bound him to a chair in the living room. Cathryn and Jean Paul came in from the kitchen and the family tried to pull themselves together after the nerve-shattering excitement. There was no hope for sleep for anyone except Michelle. After a few minutes the boys volunteered to resume watch and disappeared upstairs. Cathryn went into the kitchen to make fresh coffee.

Charles returned to his machines, his heart still pounding. He gave Michelle another dose of the transfer factor through her IV, which she again tolerated with no apparent ill effects. In fact, she didnt even wake up. Convinced the molecule was nontoxic, Charles took the rest of the solution and added it to Michelles half-empty intravenous bottle, fixing it to run in over the next five hours.

With that done, Charles went over to his unexpected prisoner, who had regained his senses. Despite his burns, he was a handsome man with intelligent eyes. He looked nothing at all like the local thug Charles expected. What worried him was the fact that the man seemed to be a professional. When Charles had examined him, hed removed a shoulder holster containing a Smith & Wesson stainless steel .38 special. That wasnt a casual firearm.

Who are you? asked Charles.

Anthony Ferrullo sat as if carved from stone.

What are you doing here?

Silence.

Self-consciously, Charles reached into the mans jacket pockets, finding a wallet. He pulled it out. Mr. Ferrullo did not move. Charles opened the wallet, shocked at the number of hundred-dollar bills inside. There were the usual credit cards, as well as a drivers license. Charles slipped the drivers license out and held it up to the light. Anthony L. Ferrullo, Leonia, New Jersey. New Jersey? He turned back to the wallet and found a business card. Anthony L. Ferrullo; Breur Chemicals; Security. Breur Chemicals!

Charles felt a shiver of fear pass over him. Up until that moment he had felt that whatever risk he was taking in standing up against organized medical and industrial interests could be resolved in a court of law. Mr. Anthony Ferrullos presence suggested the risk was considerably more deadly. And most disturbing, Charles realized that the risk extended to his whole family. In Mr. Ferrullos case, security was obviously a euphemism for coercion and violence. For a moment the security man was less an individual than a symbol of evil, and Charles had to keep himself from striking out at him in blind anger. Instead he began turning on lights, all of them. He wanted no darkness, no more secrecy.

Calling the boys down from upstairs, the family gathered in the kitchen.

Tomorrow its over, said Charles. Were going to walk out of here and give up.

Cathryn was glad, but the boys looked at each other in consternation. Why? asked Chuck.

Ive done what I wanted to do for Michelle, and the fact of the matter is that she might need some radiotherapy at the hospital.

Is she going to get better? said Cathryn.

I have no idea, admitted Charles. Theoretically theres no reason why not, but theres a hundred questions I havent answered. Its a technique outside of all accepted medical practices. At this point all we can do is hope.

Charles walked over to the phone and called all the media people he could think of, including the Boston TV stations. He told anyone whod listen that he and his family would emerge at noon.

Then he called the Shaftesbury police, told a deputy who he was, and asked to speak to Frank Neilson. Five minutes later the chief was on the phone. Charles told him that hed called the media and informed them that he and his family were coming out at noon. Then he hung up. Charles hoped that the presence of so many newspaper and TV reporters would eliminate any possible violence.

 

 

At exactly 12 oclock, Charles removed the planks securing the front door and released the lock. It was a glorious day with a clear blue sky and a pale winter sun. At the bottom of the drive, in front of a crowd of people, were an ambulance, the two police cars, and a handful of TV news vans.

Charles looked back at his family and felt a rush of pride and love. Theyd stood behind him more than he could have hoped. Walking back to the makeshift bed, he scooped Michelle into his arms. Her eyelids fluttered but remained closed.

All right, Mr. Ferrullo, after you, said Charles.

The security man stepped out onto the porch, his scorched face gleaming in the sun. Next came the two boys, followed by Cathryn. Charles brought up the rear with Michelle. In a tight group they started down the driveway.

To his surprise Charles saw Dr. Ibanez, Dr. Morrison, Dr. Keitzman, and Dr. Wiley all standing together near the ambulance. As they got closer and the crowd realized there would not be any violence, a number of the men began to boo, particularly those from Recycle, Ltd. Only one person clapped, and that was Patrick OSullivan, who was immensely pleased the affair was coming to a peaceful close.

Standing in the shadow of the trees, Wally Crabb was silent. He slid his right index finger under the trigger of his favorite hunting rifle and pressed his cheek against the cold stock. As he tried to sight, the front of the rifle shook from all the bourbon hed consumed that morning. Leaning up against a nearby branch helped considerably, but Brezos urging to hurry made him nervous.

The sharp crack of a firearm shattered the winter stillness. The crowd strained forward as they saw Charles Martel stumble. He didnt fall but rather sank to his knees, and as gently as if handling a newborn infant, he laid his daughter in the snow before he fell facedown beside her. Cathryn turned and screamed, then threw herself to her knees, trying to see how badly her husband was hurt.

Patrick OSullivan was the first to react. By professional reflex, his right hand sought the handle of his service revolver. He didnt draw the gun but rather held on to it as he bullied his way between several onlookers and charged up the driveway. Hovering over Cathryn and Charles like a hawk guarding its nest, his eyes scanned the crowd, looking for suspicious movement.

SEVENTEEN
Never having been a hospital patient before, Charles found the experience agonizing. Hed read some editorials in the past about the problems associated with the technological invasion of medicine, but he never imagined the state of insecurity and powerlessness he would feel. It had been three days since hed been shot and then operated on, and as he looked up at the tangle of tubes and bottles, monitors and recorders, he felt like one of his own experimental animals. Thankfully, the day before he had been transferred out of the frenzied terror of the intensive care unit, and deposited like a piece of meat in a private room in the fancy section of the hospital.

Trying to adjust his position, Charles felt a frightening stab of pain that tightened around his chest like a band of fire. For a moment he held his breath, wondering if he had opened his incision, and waited for the pain to return. To his relief it didnt, but he lay perfectly still, afraid to move. From his left side, between his ribs, protruded a rubber tube that ran down to a bottle on the floor next to the bed. His left arm was strung up in traction by a complicated net of wires and pulleys. He was immobilized and totally at the mercy of the staff for even the most basic of functions.

A soft knock caught his attention. Before he could respond, the door silently opened. Charles was afraid it was the technician who came every four hours to forcibly inflate his lungs, a procedure Charles was sure had not been equaled in pain since the Inquisition. Instead it was Dr. Keitzman.

Could you stand a short visit? he asked.

Charles nodded. Although he didnt feel like talking, he was eager to hear about Michelle. Cathryn had not been able to tell him anything except that she wasnt worse.

Dr. Keitzman came into the room self-consciously, pulling a metal and vinyl chair over next to Charless bed. His face contorted with the tic that usually connoted tension and he adjusted his glasses.

How do you feel, Charles? he asked.

Couldnt be better, said Charles, unable to keep the sarcasm from surfacing. Talking, even breathing, were risky affairs and at any moment he expected the pain to return.

Well, I have some good news. It might be a little premature, but I think you should know.

Charles didnt say anything. He watched the oncologists face, afraid to let his hopes rise.

First, said Dr. Keitzman. Michelle responded to the radiotherapy extremely well. A single treatment seems to have taken care of the infiltration of her central nervous system. Shes alert and oriented.

Charles nodded, hoping that was not all Dr. Keitzman had come to say.

There was a silence.

Then the door to the room burst open and in walked the respiratory technician, pushing the hated IPPB machine. Time for your treatment, Dr. Martel, said the technician brightly, as if he were bringing some wonderfully pleasurable service. Seeing Dr. Keitzman, the technician skidded to a respectful halt. Excuse me, Doctor.

Thats quite all right, said Dr. Keitzman, seemingly pleased at the interruption. Ive got to be going anyway. Then looking down at Charles, he said: The other thing I wanted to say was that Michelles leukemic cells have all but disappeared. I think shes in remission.

Charles felt a warm glow suffuse his body. God! Thats great, he said with enthusiasm. Then he got a sharp twinge that reminded him where he was.

It certainly is, agreed Dr. Keitzman. Were 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 didnt 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. Well have to talk about it. Obviously whatever you did helped the chemotherapy shed been given before you took her from the hospital. I dont understand the time sequence, but well talk about it when you feel stronger.

Yes, agreed Charles. When Im stronger.

Anyway, Im sure you know the custody proceedings have been canceled. Dr. Keitzman adjusted his glasses, nodded to the technician, and left.

Charless elation over Dr. Keitzmans news dulled the painful respiratory treatment, even better than the morphine. As the technician stood by, the positive pressure machine forcibly inflated Charless 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 wasnt 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 Im not disturbing you, said Dr. Ibanez softly.

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

Im glad youre 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.

Thats 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 didnt feel particularly fortunate, he wasnt in the mood for an argument. He shook his head slightly to acknowledge Dr. Ibanezs comment. In truth, he wondered why the old man had come.

Charles! said Dr. Ibanez with renewed emphasis. Im here to negotiate.

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

Ive given a lot of thought to everything, said Dr. Ibanez, and Im willing to admit that I made some mistakes. Id like to make up for them if youre 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 youve become a celebrity of sorts. But that wouldnt 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 dont 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 youll be able to do your research unhindered.

Charles thought about Michelle, wondering about what hed done to her. Had he really hit on something? He didnt know but he had to find out. To do that he needed laboratory facilities.

He turned and examined Dr. Ibanezs face. In contrast to Morrison, Charles had never disliked Dr. Ibanez. I have to warn you that if I negotiate, Im 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.

Im prepared to meet your demands, provided they are reasonable, said Dr. Ibanez.

And what do you want from me? asked Charles.

Only that you wont embarrass the Weinburger. Weve 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 Ill be my own boss.

That can be arranged. Ive 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 youd just received it.

We already were aware of that, said Dr. Ibanez. Weve started an entirely new toxicity study.

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

Dr. Ibanez nodded. Your lawyers 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 hed gotten so far. He tried to think of something else but couldnt. I guess thats it.

Dr. Ibanez stood up and placed the chair back against the wall. Im 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 others 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 tripa 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.

As they crossed the Bonneville Salt Flats west of Salt Lake City, Charles hazarded a glance at Cathryn sitting next to him. Shed taken up needlepoint at the beginning of the trip and seemed absorbed in the repetitive motion. But sensing Charless stare, she looked up and their eyes met. Despite the annoyance of the kids, they both shared a building joy as the harrowing experience of Michelles illness and that last violent morning faded into the past.

Cathryn reached over and placed a hand on Charless leg. Hed lost a lot of weight, but she thought he appeared handsomer than he had in years. And the tension that normally tightened the skin around his eyes was gone. To Cathryns relief, Charles was at last relaxed, hypnotized by the rushing road and the numbing blur of scenery.

The more I think about whats happened, the less I understand it, said Cathryn.

Charles shifted in his seat to find a position that accommodated the fact that his left arm was in a cast. Although he had yet to come to terms with most of the emotions engendered by the affair, there was one thing he had acknowledged. Cathryn had become his best friend. If nothing else, that made the experience worthwhile.

So youve been thinking? said Charles, letting Cathryn pick up the conversation wherever she wished.

Cathryn continued pushing her bright-colored yarn through the canvas mesh. After all the frenzy of packing and actually leaving, Ive never really sorted out exactly what happened.

What is it you dont understand? asked Charles.

Dad! called Jean Paul from the back seat. Do they play hockey in Berkeley? I mean is there ice and all that?

Craning his neck so he could see Jean Pauls face, Charles said, Im afraid theres no ice. Its more like continuous spring in Berkeley.

How stupid can you be? groaned Chuck, tapping Jean Paul on the top of the head.

Shut up, said Jean Paul, twisting in his seat to swipe at Chucks boot. I wasnt talking to you.

All right, pipe down, yelled Charles harshly. Then in a calmer voice he said, Maybe you can learn to surf, Jean Paul.

Really, said Jean Paul, his face brightening.

They only surf in Southern California, said Chuck, where all the weirdos are.

Look whos talking, retorted Jean Paul.

Enough! yelled Charles, shaking his head for Cathryns benefit.

Its all right, said Cathryn. It reassures me to hear the kids bicker. It convinces me that everything is normal.

Normal? scoffed Charles.

Anyway, said Cathryn, looking back at Charles. One of the things I dont understand is why the Weinburger made such an about-face. They all couldnt have been more helpful.

I didnt understand it, either, said Charles, until I remembered how clever Dr. Ibanez really is. He was afraid the media would get hold of the story. With all those reporters milling around, he was terrified Id be tempted to tell them my feelings about their brand of cancer research.

God! If the public ever knew what really goes on, said Cathryn.

I suppose if I were a real negotiator, I should have asked for a new car, laughed Charles.

Michelle, who had been vaguely listening to her parents, reached down in her canvas tote bag and pulled out her wig. It was as close a brown to Cathryns hair as she had been able to get. Charles and Cathryn had implored her to get black, to match her own hair, but Michelle had remained adamant. She had wanted to look like Cathryn, but now she wasnt so sure. The idea of going to a new school was terrifying enough without having to deal with her weird hair. Shed finally realized she couldnt be brunette for a few months and then become black-haired. I dont want to start school until my hair grows back.

Charles looked over his shoulder and saw Michelle idly fingering her brown wig and guessed what she was thinking. He started to criticize her for stupidly insisting on the wrong color but checked himself and said mildly: Why dont we just get you another wig? Maybe black this time?

Whats the matter with this one? teased Jean Paul, snatching it away, and jamming it haphazardly on his own head.

Daddy, cried Michelle. Tell Jean Paul to give me back my wig.

You should have been a girl, Jean Paul, said Chuck. You look a thousand times better with a wig.

Jean Paul! yelled Cathryn, reaching back to restrain Michelle. Give your sister back her wig.

Okay, baldy, laughed Jean Paul, tossing the wig in Michelles direction and shielding himself from the last of his sisters ineffectual punches.

Charles and Cathryn exchanged glances, too pleased to see Michelle better to scold her. They still remembered those dreadful days when they were waiting to see if Charless experiment would work, if Michelle would get better. And then when she did, they had to accept the fact that they would never know whether she had responded to the immunological injections or to the chemotherapy she had received before Charles took her out of the hospital.

Even if they were sure your injections had effected the cure, they wouldnt give you credit for her recovery, said Cathryn.

Charles shrugged. No one can prove anything, including myself. Anyway, in a year or less I should have the answer. The institute in Berkeley is content to let me pursue my own approach to studying cancer. With a little luck I should be able to show that what happened to Michelle was the first example of harnessing the body to cure itself of an established leukemia. If that . . .

Dad! called Jean Paul from the back of the car. Could you stop at the next gas station?

Charles drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, but Cathryn reached over and squeezed Charless arm. He took his foot off the accelerator. There wont be a town for another fifty miles. Ill just stop. We could all use a stretch.

Charles pulled onto the dusty shoulder of the road. Okay, everybody out for R-and-R and whatever.

Its hotter than an oven, said Jean Paul with dismay, searching for some sort of cover.

Charles led Cathryn up a small rise, affording a view to the west, an arid, stark stretch of desert leading up to jagged mountains. Behind them in the car, Chuck and Michelle were arguing. Yes, thought Charles. Everything is normal.

I never knew the desert was so beautiful, said Cathryn, mesmerized by the landscape.

Charles took a deep breath. Smell the air. It makes Shaftesbury seem like another planet.

Charles pulled Cathryn into his right arm. You know what scares me the most? he said.

What?

Im beginning to feel content again.

Dont worry about that, laughed Cathryn. Wait until we get to Berkeley with no house and little money and three hungry kids.

Charles smiled. Youre right. There is still plenty of opportunity for catastrophe.

EPILOGUE
When the snows melted in the lofty White Mountains in New Hampshire, hundreds of swollen streams flooded the Pawtomack River. Within a two-day period, its level rose several feet and its lazy seaward course became a torrent. Passing the town of Shaftesbury, the clear water raged against the old granite quays of the deserted mill building, spraying mist and miniature rainbows into the crystal air.

As the weather grew warmer green shoots thrust up through the ground along the river, growing in areas previously too toxic for them to survive. Even in the shadow of Recycle, Ltd., tadpoles appeared for the first time in years to chase the skittish water spiders, and rainbow trout migrated south through the formerly poisoned waters.

As the nights became shorter and hot summer approached, a single drop of benzene appeared at the juncture of an off-load pipe in one of the new chemical holding tanks. No one supervising the installations had fully understood the insidious propensities of benzene, and from the moment the first molecules had flowed into the new system, they began dissolving the rubber gaskets used to seal the line.

It had taken about two months for the toxic fluid to eat through the rubber and drip onto the granite blocks beneath the chemical storage tanks, but after the first, the drops came in an increasing tempo. The poisonous molecules followed the path of least resistance, working their way down into the mortarless masonry, then seeping laterally until they entered the river. The only evidence of their presence was a slightly aromatic, almost sweet smell.

The first to die were the frogs, then the fish. When the river fell, as the summer sun grew stronger, the concentration of the poison soared.
