“He wanted to know if I would say that benzene caused Michelle’s leukemia, which I told him I couldn’t do, although it’s 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 didn’t seem excited about the idea. I wish there were some way to talk him into it. With all the stress he’s been under I’m concerned about him. I don’t mean to frighten you, but we’ve seen similar cases in which the individual has become violent. If there’s 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 Charles’s lab and Cathryn let it ring ten times. When the operator came back on the line she told Cathryn that she knew Ellen, Charles’s assistant, was in the library, and she asked if Cathryn would like to speak with her. Cathryn agreed and heard the connection put through.
“He’s not in the lab?” asked Ellen.
“There’s no answer,” said Cathryn.
“He might be just ignoring the phone,” explained Ellen. “He’s been acting very strangely. In fact, I’m afraid to even go in there. I suppose you know he’s been dismissed from the Weinburger.”
“I had no idea,” exclaimed Cathryn with obvious shock. “What happened?”
“It’s a long story,” said Ellen, “and I think Charles should tell you about it, not me.”
“He’s been under a lot of stress,” said Cathryn.
“I know,” said Ellen.
“If you see him, would you ask him to call me? I’m at the hospital.”
Ellen agreed but added that she had her doubts that she’d 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 hadn’t 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 Michelle’s 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, she’d 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 Michelle’s room as quietly as possible, Cathryn struggled to see the child’s 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.
“Where’s 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 he’s 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 Michelle’s 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 wasn’t 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. “I’ve 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 who’d 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. “We’re collaborating with a group at M.I.T. and I’ve got to move over some of my equipment. I don’t trust anybody else to do it.”
“Don’t blame you,” said Chester.
Charles breathed a sigh of relief. Security did not know he’d 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 Michelle’s antigen which he’d 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 he’d 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.