“Not very far,” asserted Ellen. “As soon as you walked out this morning, I knew you would be fired, so what was the point? I’ll get your books, but after that I refuse to be involved any further. I’m taking the rest of the day off.”
Charles watched the door close, now certain that he wasn’t being paranoid. Ellen must have been collaborating with the administration. She knew too much too fast. Remembering that he’d been on the verge of taking her into his confidence, he was relieved he had remained silent.
Locking the lab door from the inside, Charles went to work. Most of the important chemicals and reagents were stored in industrial quantities, so he began transferring them to smaller containers. Each container had to be carefully labeled, then stored in an almost empty locked cabinet near the animal room. That took about an hour. Next Charles tackled his desk, looking for work tablets on which he’d outlined protocols for previous experiments. With those notes, he would be able to reconstruct his experiments even without the data in case Dr. Ibanez did not return his lab books.
While he was feverishly working, the phone rang. Quickly thinking what he’d say if it were the administration, he answered. He was relieved to find himself talking with a loan officer from the First National Bank. He told Charles that his $3,000 was ready and wanted to know if Charles wanted it deposited directly in his joint checking account. Charles told him no, he’d be over later to pick it up in person. Without letting go of the receiver, he disconnected and dialed Wayne Thomas. As he waited for the connection, he wondered what the loan officer would say if he learned that Charles had just been fired.
As he had before, Wayne Thomas himself answered. Charles told the lawyer the loan came through, and he’d bring the $500 over that afternoon.
“That’s cool, man,” said Wayne. “I started working on the case without the retainer. I’ve already filed a restraining order against Recycle, Ltd. I’ll know shortly when the hearing will be.”
“Sounds good,” said Charles, obviously pleased. On his own initiative, at least something was started.
Charles was almost finished with his desk when he heard someone try to open the door, and being unsuccessful slip a key into the lock. Charles swung around and was facing the door when Ellen entered. She was followed by a heavy young man dressed in a tweed jacket. To Charles’s satisfaction, she was carrying half of the lab books and the stranger the other half.
“Did you lock the door?” asked Ellen quizzically.
Charles nodded.
Ellen rolled her eyes for the benefit of the stranger and said: “I really appreciate your help. You can put the books anyplace.”
“If you would,” called Charles. “Put them on that counter top.” He pointed to the area above the cabinet in which he’d stored the chemicals.
“This is Dr. Michael Kittinger,” said Ellen. “I was introduced to him up in administration. He’s going to be doing the Canceran study. I guess I’ll be helping him.”
Dr. Kittinger stuck out a short hand with pudgy fingers, a friendly smile distorting his rubbery face. “Glad to meet you, Dr. Martel. I’ve heard a lot of good things about you.”
“I’ll bet you have,” Charles mumbled.
“What a fabulous lab,” said Dr. Kittinger, dropping Charles’s hand and marveling at the impressive array of sophisticated equipment. His face brightened like a five-year-old at Christmas time. “My God! A Pearson Ultracentrifuge. And, I don’t believe it… a Dixon Scanning Electron Microscope! How could you ever leave this paradise?”
“I had help,” said Charles glancing at Ellen.
Ellen avoided Charles’s stare.
“Would you mind if I just looked around?” asked Dr. Kittinger enthusiastically.
“Yes!” said Charles. “I do mind.”
“Charles?” said Ellen. “Dr. Kittinger is trying to be friendly. Dr. Morrison suggested he come down.”
“I really couldn’t care less,” said Charles. “This is still my lab for the next two days and I want everyone out. Everyone!” Charles’s voice rose.
Ellen immediately recoiled. Motioning to Dr. Kittinger, the two hurriedly departed.
Charles grabbed the door and with excessive force, sent it swinging home. For a moment he stood with his fists tightly clenched. He knew that he’d now made his isolation complete. He admitted there had been no need to antagonize Ellen or his replacement. What worried Charles was that his irrational behavior would undoubtedly be reported to the administration, and they in turn might cut down on the two days he had left in the lab. He decided he’d have to work quickly. In fact, he’d have to make his move that very night.
Returning to his work with renewed commitment, it took him another hour to arrange the lab so that everything he needed was organized into a single cabinet.
Donning his soiled coat, he left, locking the door behind him. When he passed Miss Andrews, he made it a point to say “Hi” and inform her that he’d be right back. If the receptionist was reporting to Ibanez, he didn’t want her thinking he was planning on being out for long.
It was after three, and the Boston traffic was building to its pre-rush-hour frenzy. Charles found himself surrounded by businessmen who risked their lives to get to Interstate 93 before Memorial and Storrow Drive ground to a halt.
His first stop was Charles River Park Plaza and the branch of the First National Bank. The vice president with whom Charles was passingly acquainted was not in, so Charles had to see a young woman he’d never met. He was aware that she eyed him suspiciously with his soiled jacket and day-and-a-half growth of beard.
Charles put her at ease by saying, “I’m a scientist. We always dress a little…” he deliberately left the sentence open-ended.
The bank officer nodded understandingly, although it took her a moment to compare Charles’s present visage with the photo on his New Hampshire driver’s license. Seemingly comfortable with the identification, she asked Charles if he wanted a check. He asked for the loan in cash.
“Cash?” Mildly flustered, the bank officer excused herself and disappeared into the back office to place a call to the assistant director of the branch. When she returned she was carrying thirty crisp hundred-dollar bills.
Charles retrieved his car and threaded his way into the tangled downtown shopping district behind Filene’s and Jordan Marsh. Double-parking with his blinker lights on, Charles ran into a sporting goods shop where he was known. He bought a hundred rounds of twelve-gauge number two express shot for his shotgun.
“What’s this for?” asked the clerk good-naturedly.
“Ducks,” said Charles in a tone he’d hoped would discourage conversation.
“I think number four or five shot would be better,” offered the clerk.
“I want number two,” said Charles laconically.
“You know it’s not duck season,” said the clerk.
“Yeah, I know,” said Charles.
Charles paid for the shells with a new hundred-dollar bill.
Back in the car, he worked his way through the narrow Boston streets. He drove back the way he’d come, making his third stop at the 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 store’s prescription forms. Charles wrote out prescriptions for morphine, Demerol, Compazine, Xylocaine, syringes, plastic tubing, intravenous solutions, Benadryl, epinephrine, Prednisone, Percodan, and injectable Valium. The pharmacist took the scripts and whistled: “My God, what do you carry around, a suitcase?”