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 he’d been hit by Frank’s 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, “It’s 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 Charles’s 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 didn’t 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. “Let’s 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 driver’s seat. He rolled down the window. “I think you’d better stay away from Recycle. It’s got around town pretty quick that you’re trying to cause trouble. Let me tell you something. If you keep at it, you’ll find it. In fact, you’ll find more trouble’n you’re bargaining for. The town survives on Recycle, and we law enforcement officers won’t be able to guarantee your safety if you try to change that. Or your family’s 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 hadn’t heard from him since he’d 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 couldn’t 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 Gina’s surprised hands.
   “Mother, it’s 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 mother’s lips, gently silencing her. “It’s important.”
   “You’ll 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. She’d been worrying about him all afternoon and his appearance suggested her concern was justified.
   “Just don’t say anything for a moment,” demanded Charles, avoiding Cathryn’s 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 don’t care if you’ve got the police and the whole fucking town in your pocket. You’re not going to get away with it!” Charles punctuated his statement by crashing the receiver onto its bracket. He didn’t 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? You’re hurt!”
   Charles looked at her. He shook his head and to her surprise, laughed. “Mostly my sense of dignity. It’s hard abandoning all of one’s macho fantasies in one evening. No, I’m 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 couldn’t eat,” said Charles, slowly sinking into one of the kitchen chairs. “But I’m thirstier than hell.” His hands trembled as he put them on the table. His stomach hurt where he’d 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.
   “There’s 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 you’ve been and what happened?” asked Cathryn finally.
   “I’d 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 I’m sure.”
   “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded,” said Cathryn. “I know you’re concerned. I’m just worried about you. You took Michelle’s heart complication so hard.”
   “What’s 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 what’s happened to Michelle.”
   “It’s just her fever,” said Cathryn. “It’s 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 Michelle’s 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 don’t think so. They didn’t say anything.”
   “How high is her fever?”
   “Pretty high. It was one-oh-four when I left.”
   “Why did you leave? Why didn’t 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 didn’t 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. “I’m 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, I’ve made up my mind. The medications are going to be stopped. Or at least reduced to an orthodox dose. They’re experimenting and if it were going to work, we would have seen the circulatory leukemic cells go down. Instead they’ve gone up.”
   “But the medicines have cured others.” Cathryn knew she had to talk Charles out of going to the hospital. If he did, there’d be a crisis… a confrontation.
   “I know chemotherapy has helped others,” said Charles. “Unfortunately Michelle’s case is different. The normal protocol has already failed. I’m not going to let my daughter be experimented on. Keitzman had his chance. She’s not going to dissolve in front of my eyes like Elizabeth.”
   Charles started for the door.
   Carolyn clutched at his sleeve. “Charles, please. You can’t go now. You’re 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 Michelle’s 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 Michelle’s 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 you’d 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 Charles’s 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 Michelle’s care.” Cathryn deliberately tried to echo the legal talk she’d heard at the meeting. What terrified her most was Charles’s 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, I’ve done all this for Michelle. I’m not doing anything against you or to come between you and Michelle.”
   Cathryn searched Charles’s face for a flicker of understanding. She saw only rage.
   “Charles!” cried Cathryn. “Please believe me. The doctor convinced me you’ve been under great strain. You haven’t been yourself. Look at you! Dr. Keitzman is world-famous for treating childhood leukemias. I did it only for Michelle. It’s 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 Cathryn’s face. “I hope to God this isn’t true. I hope you’re making this up.”
   “It’s true,” managed Cathryn. “It’s true. You left. I did the best I could. You’ll be served with a citation in the morning.”
   Charles exploded with a violence he’d never known he’d 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 can’t 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 daughter’s safety.
   “Michelle is my daughter, my flesh and blood,” raged Charles. “No one is going to take her away from me.”
   “She’s my adopted daughter,” sobbed Cathryn. “I feel just as strongly as you.” Overcoming her fear, she grabbed the lapels of Charles’s 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 Cathryn’s 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 couldn’t. Instead he released Cathryn, and lunged back with the point of his elbow, digging it into the pit of Chuck’s abdomen. The boy’s 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. We’ll all wake up and it will be over.”
   “Your eye!” exclaimed Gina, coming up to Cathryn and tilting her head back.
   “It’s nothing,” said Cathryn.
   “Nothing? It’s becoming black and blue. I think you’d 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, I’ll kill him,” said Chuck.
   “Charles Jr.,” snapped Cathryn. “I don’t want to hear that kind of talk. Charles is not himself; he’s under a lot of strain. Besides, he didn’t mean to hit me. He was trying to get free from my grasp.”
   “I think he’s let in the devil,” said Gina.
   “That’s enough, all of you,” said Cathryn.
   “I think he’s crazy,” persisted Chuck.
   Cathryn took a breath in preparation for reprimanding Chuck but she hesitated because the boy’s 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. Keitzman’s exchange.
   Keitzman called back five minutes later.
   She told him the entire series of events, including the fact that Charles had decided to stop Michelle’s 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 I’m concerned about Charles. I don’t know what to expect.”
   “That’s precisely the problem,” said Dr. Keitzman. “He may be dangerous.”
   “I can’t believe that,” said Cathryn.
   “That’s something that cannot be ascertained unless he’s seen professionally. But, believe me, it’s a possibility. Maybe you should leave the house for a day or two. You’ve got a family to consider.”
   “I suppose we could go to my mother’s,” 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. I’ll alert the hospital, and I’ll let the floor know you have guardianship. Don’t 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 friend’s house where he’d 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 didn’t even look in the direction of the voice. He got to Michelle’s 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 Michelle’s 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 Michelle’s eyes were not closed. They were watching his every move.
   “Michelle?” whispered Charles.
   “Daddy?” whispered Michelle in response. She’d 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 Charles’s 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 don’t think you’ll be needing any more of this medicine.” Charles stood up, indicating the IV used for the chemotherapy. “Why don’t I just take it out?”
   Michelle’s face clouded with worry. She detested any adjustments to the IV.
   “It won’t hurt,” said Charles.
   Deftly he removed the plastic catheter from Michelle’s arm, keeping pressure on the spot. “You’ll need the other IV for a little longer in case your ticker speeds up again.” Charles tapped Michelle’s 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, I’m 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 Michelle’s 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 don’t cooperate,” said the nurse, “but I don’t 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 don’t know,” said Charles with a smile. “I guess it’s not visiting hours.”
   Charles stood up, bent over and kissed Michelle, and said, “Try to be good. I’ll be back soon.”
   The nurse turned out the overhead light. Charles waved from the doorway and Michelle waved back.
   “You shouldn’t have taken out that IV,” said the nurse as they walked back to the nurses’ station.
   Charles didn’t respond.
   “If you wish to visit your daughter,” continued the nurse, “it will have to be during regular hours, and you’ll have to be accompanied.”
   “I’d like to see her chart,” said Charles courteously, ignoring her other comments.
   The nurse continued walking; obviously she didn’t like the idea.
   “It’s my right,” said Charles simply. “Besides, I am a physician.”
   The nurse reluctantly agreed and Charles went into the deserted chart room. Michelle’s chart was innocently hanging in its designated spot. He pulled it out and placed it before him. There’d 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 Michelle’s 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, “I’m 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, it’s like opening Pandora’s box. So we’re having to rely on the courts more and more.”
   “But clearly,” said Charles, controlling himself, “chemotherapy is not helping in Michelle’s case.”
   “Not yet,” admitted Dr. Keitzman. “But it’s still early. There’s still a chance. Besides, it’s all we have.”
   “I think you’re treating yourself,” snapped Charles.
   Dr. Keitzman didn’t 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 Michelle’s leukemia?”
   “It’s possible,” said Dr. Keitzman. “It’s 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 Michelle’s leukemia was caused by benzene?”
   “I couldn’t do that,” said Dr. Keitzman. “I’m 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 that’s not the kind of evidence acceptable by a court of law. There is an element of doubt, no matter how small.”
   “So you won’t help?” asked Charles.
   “I’m sorry but I can’t,” said Dr. Keitzman. “But there is something I can do, and I feel it’s my responsibility. I’d like to encourage you to seek psychiatric consultation. You’ve had a terrible shock.”
   Charles thought about telling the man off, but he didn’t. Instead he hung up on him. When he stood up he thought about sneaking back to Michelle’s room but he couldn’t. 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 didn’t even know if she’d see Charles that day so there was no need to set up the lab. Second, she’d been out very late the night before. She’d violated one of her cardinal rules: never accept a date on the spur of the moment. But after she’d told Dr. Morrison that Charles was not following up on the Canceran work, he’d convinced her to take the rest of the day off. He’d 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 Charles’s probationary status and that Charles had twenty-four hours to decide whether he was going to play ball or not. Then he’d 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 weren’t coming in today,” joked Charles good-naturedly.
   Ellen took off her coat and struggled with a mild wave of guilt. “I didn’t think you’d be here.”
   “Oh?” said Charles. “Well, I’ve 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.
   “I’ve been busy,” said Charles, holding up a vial. “And I’ve 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 Michelle’s 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 I’d like you to do today is inject them with another challenge dose of the antigen, and I’d like you to start a new batch of mice using Michelle’s leukemic antigen.”

  “But Charles,” said Ellen sympathetically, “we’re 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. “I’m 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 she’d excuse herself from the lab and contact Peter.
   Earlier that morning Charles had been served with the citation concerning the ex parte guardianship hearing. He’d accepted the papers from a sheriff’s department courier without a word, and hadn’t 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. He’d 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.
   “I’ve got a complaint,” said Charles after the usual greetings, “about the Shaftesbury police force.”
   “I hope you’re 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 didn’t hear about that part,” admitted John. “But I did hear you were trespassing, and then pushed someone into some acid. Why in God’s name are you causing trouble at the factory? Aren’t you a doctor? Seems like strange behavior for a physician.”
   Sudden anger clouded Charles’s mind. He launched into an impassioned explanation of Recycle’s 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 don’t 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.
   “That’s 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, wouldn’t you agree?”
   “I don’t know anything about that,” said John evenly.
   “I don’t think you want to know about it.”
   “Are you accusing me of something?”
   “You’re damn right. I’m 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 isn’t worth a handful of grubby jobs.”
   “That’s 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 don’t you just stay out of our business? That’s what the selectmen suggested this morning. We don’t 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. Amendola’s 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.
   “That’s not very subtle,” said Mrs. Amendola.
   “I think it’s 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 couldn’t,” said Charles. “I think your people might have more luck than I.” Charles couldn’t 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.
   “I’ll make some calls,” said Mrs. Amendola. “But I can’t promise you anything. I’d 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 he’d get to it as soon as he could but he’d appreciate it if she’d go ahead and try to get some action based on the information he’d already given her. As he hung up he was not very confident that anything would be done.
   Returning to the laboratory bench, he watched Ellen’s preparation. He didn’t interfere because Ellen was far more dexterous than he. Instead he busied himself with the dilution of Michelle’s 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 he’d 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 didn’t 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.
   “That’s it,” said Dr. Morrison. “That is the last straw. No one can fault us for trying, but Charles Martel is finished at the Weinburger.”
   Charles’s quest for legal representation was not as easy as he’d 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 O’Malley, 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 Charles’s 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 Charles’s question, the lawyer said he was starving. Charles said he’d 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 Charles’s wandering eyes. “What do you think?”
   “I like it,” said Charles. Wayne Thomas didn’t 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 O’Malley. When Charles got to the end of his tale, Wayne asked a series of probing questions. Finally he said, “I don’t think there’s much we can do about this temporary guardianship until the hearing. With a guardianship ad litim they’ve covered their tracks, but I’ll 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.”
   “I’ve got a three-thousand-dollar loan coming,” said Charles.
   Wayne whistled. “I’m 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 he’d started the legal process and even if Wayne wasn’t ultimately successful, he would at the very least cause Charles’s adversaries some inconvenience. Outside of the thick glass entrance door, Charles waited impatiently. Miss Andrews, who’d obviously seen him, chose to complete a line of type before releasing the door. As Charles passed her, she picked up the telephone. That wasn’t an auspicious sign.
   The lab was empty. He called for Ellen and, receiving no answer, checked the animal room, but she wasn’t there. When he looked up at the clock he realized why. He’d been gone longer than he’d expected. Ellen was obviously out for lunch. He went over to her work area and noticed that the dilution he’d prepared of Michelle’s leukemic antigen had not been touched.
   Returning to his desk, he again called Mrs. Amendola at the EPA to ask if she’d 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 she’d 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 agency’s 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 he’d 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 Charles’s 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. Morrison’s own grin faltered.
   Charles felt as if he finally understood Dr. Morrison. He was a has-been researcher who’d 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 Charles’s ability and commitment.
   “You’re wanted immediately in the director’s office,” said Dr. Morrison. “Don’t bother to shave.”
   Charles laughed out loud, knowing the last comment was supposed to be the ultimate insult.
   “You’re impossible, Martel,” snapped Dr. Morrison as he left.
   Charles tried to compose himself before setting out for Dr. Ibanez’s office. He knew exactly what was going to happen and yet dreaded the upcoming encounter. Going to the director’s 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. Ibanez’s office.
   Dr. Morrison straightened up from bending over Dr. Ibanez’s shoulder. They’d 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, I’m afraid you’ve 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, you’re being dismissed from the Weinburger Institute.”
   Charles felt a mixture of anger and anxiety. That old nightmare of being turned out from his position had finally changed from fantasy to fact. Carefully hiding any sign of emotion, Charles nodded to indicate that he’d heard, then turned to leave.
   “Just a minute, Dr. Martel,” called Dr. Ibanez, standing up behind his desk.
   Charles turned.
   “I haven’t finished yet,” said Dr. Ibanez.
   Charles looked at the two men, debating whether he wanted to stay or not. They no longer had any hold over him.
   “For your own good, Charles,” said Dr. Ibanez, “I think in the future you should recognize that you have certain legitimate obligations to the institution that supports you. You’ve been given almost free rein to pursue your scientific interests but, you must realize that you owe something in return.”
   “Perhaps,” said Charles. He did not feel that Dr. Ibanez harbored the same ill will as Dr. Morrison.
   “For instance,” said Dr. Ibanez, “it’s been brought to our attention that you have a complaint about Recycle, Ltd.”
   Charles’s interest quickened.
   “I think you should remember,” continued Dr. Ibanez, “that Recycle and the Weinburger share a parent firm, Breur Chemicals. Recognizing this sibling association, I would have hoped that you would not have made any public complaints. If there is a problem, it should be aired internally and quietly rectified. That’s how business works.”
   “Recycle has been dumping benzene into the river that goes past my house,” snarled Charles. “And as a result, my daughter has terminal leukemia.”
   “An accusation like that is unprovable and irresponsible,” said Dr. Morrison.
   Charles took an impulsive step toward Morrison, momentarily blinded by sudden rage, but then he remembered where he was. Besides, it wasn’t his nature to hit anyone.
   “Charles,” said Dr. Ibanez. “All I’m doing is trying to appeal to your sense of responsibility, and implore you to put your own work aside just long enough to do the Canceran study.”
   With obvious irritation that Charles might be offered a second chance, Dr. Morrison turned from the conversation and stared out over the Charles River.
   “It’s impossible,” snapped Charles. “Given my daughter’s condition, I feel an obligation to continue my own work for her sake.”
   Dr. Morrison turned back with a satisfied, I-told-you-so expression.
   “Is that because you think you could come up with a discovery in time to help your daughter?” asked Dr. Ibanez incredulously.
   “It’s possible,” agreed Charles.
   Dr. Ibanez and Dr. Morrison exchanged glances.
   Dr. Morrison looked back out the window. He rested his case.
   “That sounds a little like a delusion of grandeur,” said Dr. Ibanez. “Well, as I said, you leave me no choice. But as a gesture of good will, you’ll be given a generous two months’ severance pay, and I’ll see that your medical insurance is continued for thirty days. However, you’ll have to vacate your laboratory in two days. We’ve already contacted a replacement for you, and he’s as eager to take over the Canceran study as we are to have it done.”
   Charles glowered at the two men. “Before I go, I’d like to say something: I think the fact that the drug firm and a cancer research institute are both controlled by the same parent company is a crime, especially since the executives of both companies sit on the board of the National Cancer Institute and award themselves grants. Canceran is a wonderful example of this financial incest. The drug is probably so toxic that it won’t ever be used on people unless the tests continue to be falsified. And I intend to make the facts public so that won’t be possible.”
   “Enough!” shouted Dr. Ibanez. He pounded his desk, sending papers swooping into the air. “When it comes to the integrity of the Weinburger or the potential of Canceran, you’d better leave well enough alone. Now get out before I retract the benefits we have extended to you.”
   Charles turned to go.
   “I think you should try to get some psychiatric help,” suggested Morrison in a professional tone.
   Charles couldn’t suppress his own adolescent urges, and he gave Morrison the finger before walking from the director’s office, glad to be free from the institute he now abhorred.
   “My God!” exclaimed Dr. Ibanez as the door closed. “What is wrong with that man?”
   “I hate to say I told you so,” said Dr. Morrison.
   Dr. Ibanez sank as heavily as his thin frame would allow into his desk chair. “I never thought I’d say this, but I’m afraid Charles could be dangerous.”
   “What do you think he meant by ‘making the facts public’?” Dr. Morrison sat down, arranging his slacks to preserve the sharp crease.
   “I wish I knew,” said Dr. Ibanez. “That makes me feel very uneasy. I think he could do irreparable damage to the Canceran project, not to mention the effect on the institute itself.”
   “I don’t know what we can do,” admitted Dr. Morrison.
   “I think we can only react to whatever Charles does,” said Dr. Ibanez. “Since it would be best to keep him from the press I don’t think we’d better announce that he has been fired. If anyone asks, let’s say that Charles has been granted an unspecified leave of absence because of his daughter’s illness.”
   “I don’t think his daughter should be mentioned,” said Dr. Morrison. “That’s the kind of story the press loves. It could inadvertently give Charles a platform.”
   “You’re right,” said Dr. Ibanez. “We’ll just say he’s on leave of absence.”
   “What if Charles goes to the press himself?” asked Dr. Morrison. “They might listen to him.”
   “I still think that’s doubtful,” said Dr. Ibanez. “He detests reporters. But if he does, then we have to actively discredit him. We can question his emotional state. In fact we can say that was the reason we let him go. It’s even true!”
   Dr. Morrison allowed himself a thin smile. “That’s a fabulous idea. I have a psychiatrist friend who, I’m sure, could put together a strong case for us. What do you say we go ahead and do it so that if the need arises, we’ll be prepared?”
   “Peter, sometimes I think the wrong man is sitting behind this desk. You never let human considerations interfere with the job.”
   Morrison smiled, not quite sure that he was being complimented.

   Charles descended the stairs slowly, struggling with his anger and despair. What kind of world put the needs of business ahead of morality, particularly the business of medicine? What kind of world could look the other way when an innocent twelve-year-old girl was given terminal leukemia?
   Entering the lab, Charles found Ellen perched on a high stool, flipping idly through a magazine. When she saw Charles she put down the magazine and straightened up, smoothing out her lab coat.
   “I’m awfully sorry, Charles,” she said with a sad face.
   “About what?” asked Charles evenly.
   “About your dismissal,” said Ellen.
   Charles stared at her. He knew the institute had an internal gossip system that was supremely efficient. Yet this was too efficient. He remembered that she’d been told of his twenty-four-hour probationary period and she’d probably just assumed. And yet…
   He shook his head, marveling at his own paranoia.
   “It was expected,” he said. “It just took me a few days to admit to myself that I couldn’t work on Canceran. Especially now with Michelle so ill.”
   “What are you going to do?” asked Ellen. Now that Charles had been tumbled from his position of power, she questioned her motivation.
   “I’ve got a lot to do. In fact…” Charles stopped. For a moment he debated taking Ellen into his confidence. Then he decided not to. What he’d painfully learned over the previous twenty-four hours was that he 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 he’d only say the word.
   “In fact…” said Charles, turning from Ellen and approaching his desk, “I would appreciate it if you’d go back up to administration, since I’d prefer not to talk with them again, and retrieve my laboratory books. Holding them hostage obviously didn’t work, and I’m hoping they’d prefer to get them from under foot.”
   Crestfallen, Ellen slid from the stool and headed for the door, feeling stupid that she was still susceptible to Charles’s whims.
   “By the way,” he called before Ellen got to the door. “How far did you get with the work I left with you this morning?”
   “Not very far,” asserted Ellen. “As soon as you walked out this morning, I knew you would be fired, so what was the point? I’ll get your books, but after that I refuse to be involved any further. I’m taking the rest of the day off.”
   Charles watched the door close, now certain that he wasn’t being paranoid. Ellen must have been collaborating with the administration. She knew too much too fast. Remembering that he’d been on the verge of taking her into his confidence, he was relieved he had remained silent.
   Locking the lab door from the inside, Charles went to work. Most of the important chemicals and reagents were stored in industrial quantities, so he began transferring them to smaller containers. Each container had to be carefully labeled, then stored in an almost empty locked cabinet near the animal room. That took about an hour. Next Charles tackled his desk, looking for work tablets on which he’d outlined protocols for previous experiments. With those notes, he would be able to reconstruct his experiments even without the data in case Dr. Ibanez did not return his lab books.
   While he was feverishly working, the phone rang. Quickly thinking what he’d say if it were the administration, he answered. He was relieved to find himself talking with a loan officer from the First National Bank. He told Charles that his $3,000 was ready and wanted to know if Charles wanted it deposited directly in his joint checking account. Charles told him no, he’d be over later to pick it up in person. Without letting go of the receiver, he disconnected and dialed Wayne Thomas. As he waited for the connection, he wondered what the loan officer would say if he learned that Charles had just been fired.
   As he had before, Wayne Thomas himself answered. Charles told the lawyer the loan came through, and he’d bring the $500 over that afternoon.
   “That’s cool, man,” said Wayne. “I started working on the case without the retainer. I’ve already filed a restraining order against Recycle, Ltd. I’ll know shortly when the hearing will be.”

   “Sounds good,” said Charles, obviously pleased. On his own initiative, at least something was started.
   Charles was almost finished with his desk when he heard someone try to open the door, and being unsuccessful slip a key into the lock. Charles swung around and was facing the door when Ellen entered. She was followed by a heavy young man dressed in a tweed jacket. To Charles’s satisfaction, she was carrying half of the lab books and the stranger the other half.
   “Did you lock the door?” asked Ellen quizzically.
   Charles nodded.
   Ellen rolled her eyes for the benefit of the stranger and said: “I really appreciate your help. You can put the books anyplace.”
   “If you would,” called Charles. “Put them on that counter top.” He pointed to the area above the cabinet in which he’d stored the chemicals.
   “This is Dr. Michael Kittinger,” said Ellen. “I was introduced to him up in administration. He’s going to be doing the Canceran study. I guess I’ll be helping him.”
   Dr. Kittinger stuck out a short hand with pudgy fingers, a friendly smile distorting his rubbery face. “Glad to meet you, Dr. Martel. I’ve heard a lot of good things about you.”
   “I’ll bet you have,” Charles mumbled.
   “What a fabulous lab,” said Dr. Kittinger, dropping Charles’s hand and marveling at the impressive array of sophisticated equipment. His face brightened like a five-year-old at Christmas time. “My God! A Pearson Ultracentrifuge. And, I don’t believe it… a Dixon Scanning Electron Microscope! How could you ever leave this paradise?”
   “I had help,” said Charles glancing at Ellen.
   Ellen avoided Charles’s stare.
   “Would you mind if I just looked around?” asked Dr. Kittinger enthusiastically.
   “Yes!” said Charles. “I do mind.”
   “Charles?” said Ellen. “Dr. Kittinger is trying to be friendly. Dr. Morrison suggested he come down.”
   “I really couldn’t care less,” said Charles. “This is still my lab for the next two days and I want everyone out. Everyone!” Charles’s voice rose.
   Ellen immediately recoiled. Motioning to Dr. Kittinger, the two hurriedly departed.
   Charles grabbed the door and with excessive force, sent it swinging home. For a moment he stood with his fists tightly clenched. He knew that he’d now made his isolation complete. He admitted there had been no need to antagonize Ellen or his replacement. What worried Charles was that his irrational behavior would undoubtedly be reported to the administration, and they in turn might cut down on the two days he had left in the lab. He decided he’d have to work quickly. In fact, he’d have to make his move that very night.
   Returning to his work with renewed commitment, it took him another hour to arrange the lab so that everything he needed was organized into a single cabinet.
   Donning his soiled coat, he left, locking the door behind him. When he passed Miss Andrews, he made it a point to say “Hi” and inform her that he’d be right back. If the receptionist was reporting to Ibanez, he didn’t want her thinking he was planning on being out for long.
   It was after three, and the Boston traffic was building to its pre-rush-hour frenzy. Charles found himself surrounded by businessmen who risked their lives to get to Interstate 93 before Memorial and Storrow Drive ground to a halt.
   His first stop was Charles River Park Plaza and the branch of the First National Bank. The vice president with whom Charles was passingly acquainted was not in, so Charles had to see a young woman he’d never met. He was aware that she eyed him suspiciously with his soiled jacket and day-and-a-half growth of beard.
   Charles put her at ease by saying, “I’m a scientist. We always dress a little…” he deliberately left the sentence open-ended.
   The bank officer nodded understandingly, although it took her a moment to compare Charles’s present visage with the photo on his New Hampshire driver’s license. Seemingly comfortable with the identification, she asked Charles if he wanted a check. He asked for the loan in cash.
   “Cash?” Mildly flustered, the bank officer excused herself and disappeared into the back office to place a call to the assistant director of the branch. When she returned she was carrying thirty crisp hundred-dollar bills.
   Charles retrieved his car and threaded his way into the tangled downtown shopping district behind Filene’s and Jordan Marsh. Double-parking with his blinker lights on, Charles ran into a sporting goods shop where he was known. He bought a hundred rounds of twelve-gauge number two express shot for his shotgun.
   “What’s this for?” asked the clerk good-naturedly.
   “Ducks,” said Charles in a tone he’d hoped would discourage conversation.
   “I think number four or five shot would be better,” offered the clerk.
   “I want number two,” said Charles laconically.
   “You know it’s not duck season,” said the clerk.
   “Yeah, I know,” said Charles.
   Charles paid for the shells with a new hundred-dollar bill.
   Back in the car, he worked his way through the narrow Boston streets. He drove back the way he’d come, making his third stop at the 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?”
   Charles gave a short laugh as if he appreciated the humor and paid with a hundred-dollar bill.
   Removing a parking ticket from beneath his windshield wiper, he got into the Pinto and eased into the traffic. He recrossed the Charles River, turning west on Memorial Drive. Passing the Weinburger, he continued to Harvard Square, parked in a lot—being careful to leave his car in view of the attendant—and hurried over to 13 Brattle Street. He took the stairs at a run and knocked on Wayne Thomas’s door.
   The young attorney’s eyes lit up when Charles handed over five crisp one-hundred-dollar bills.
   “Man, you’re going to get the best service money can buy,” said Wayne.
   He then told Charles that he’d managed to get an emergency hearing scheduled the next day for his restraining order on Recycle, Ltd.
   Charles left the lawyer’s office and walked a block south to a Hertz rent-a-car bureau. He rented the largest van they had available. They brought the vehicle around and Charles climbed in. He drove slowly through Harvard Square, back to the parking lot where he’d left the Pinto. After transferring the shotgun shells and the carton of medical supplies, Charles got back in the van and drove to the Weinburger. He checked his watch: 4:30 P.M. He wondered how long he’d have to wait. He knew it would be dark soon.

Twelve

   Cathryn stood up stiffly and stretched. Silently she moved over to where she could see herself in the mirror through the open door of Michelle’s hospital bathroom. Even the failing afternoon light couldn’t hide how awful she looked. The black eye she’d received from Charles’s 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 she’d 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 couldn’t 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 mother’s apartment in Boston’s North End had only eliminated the fear of Charles’s violence; it had done nothing to relieve her agonizing uncertainty that perhaps she’d 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 child’s face twitch and tremble. Michelle had had a terrible day from the moment Cathryn had arrived that morning. She’d 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 Michelle’s bed. “Why hasn’t 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, she’d 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.
   Michelle’s eyes suddenly opened and her face twisted in pain.
   “What’s wrong?” asked Cathryn, anxiously leaning forward on her seat.
   Michelle didn’t answer. Her head flopped to the other side and her slender body writhed in pain.
   Without a moment’s hesitation, Cathryn was out the door, calling for a nurse. The woman took one look at Michelle’s 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 Michelle’s bedside, she began to blot the child’s 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 Michelle’s abdomen, Dr. Keitzman listened. He heard a fanfare of squeaks, squawks, and tinkles. Removing the stethoscope, he put his hand on the child’s 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. I’ve 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 woman’s tormented appearance and her harried expression. He put a hand on her shoulder. “Cathryn, come outside with me for a moment.”
   Looking at Michelle, who’d miraculously fallen back to sleep after Dr. Keitzman’s examination, Cathryn silently followed the oncologist out of the room. He led her back to the now familiar chart room.
   “Cathryn, I’m concerned about you. You’re 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.
   “I’m sorry that this has happened the way it has, but you’ve done the right thing.”
   Cathryn wondered but kept still.
   “Unfortunately it’s not over. I don’t have to tell you because it’s painfully obvious that Michelle is doing very poorly. So far the medicines that we’ve 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 I’ve ever seen, but we will not give up. In fact, we’ll be adding another drug today that I and a few other oncologists have been cleared to use on an experimental basis. It’s had promising results. Meanwhile I want to ask you if Michelle’s two brothers can come in tomorrow for typing to see if either one matches Michelle’s. I think we’re going to be forced to irradiate Michelle and give her a marrow transplant.”
   “I think so,” managed Cathryn. “I’ll try.”
   “Good,” said Dr. Keitzman, examining Cathryn’s face. She felt his stare and looked away.
   “That is quite a shiner you’ve got,” said Dr. Keitzman sympathetically.
   “Charles didn’t 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 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.
   Charles parked within view of the attendant’s 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 he’d 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 gurney’s 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 didn’t 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 she’d 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 there’s nothing in the order book and nothing was said at report.”
   “Here’s 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, I’ll say something. I’ll ask the day people what happened.”
   “Good idea,” said Charles, turning back to the gurney. His hands were moist. He wasn’t 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 Michelle’s 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 wasn’t sure if she’d 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 Michelle’s room. In the shadow at the end of the hall, Charles waited. He could see the LPN walk directly toward him, then turn into Michelle’s 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 Michelle’s 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 didn’t 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 Michelle’s eyes opened.
   “It’s 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 father’s neck. “I knew you’d 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 she’d expected to hear. She examined her father’s face. “Cathryn said you were not feeling well,” said Michelle.
   “I feel fine,” said Charles. “Especially when I’m with you. But we haven’t much time. Will you come with me?”
   Michelle looked into her father’s 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 Michelle’s 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 didn’t 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 wasn’t anyone on the line,” explained Cathryn.
   “That’s 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 Gina’s. “Could I make a local call from this phone?” asked Cathryn.
   “We don’t 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 mother’s. When Gina answered, Cathryn was instantly relieved. Her mother’s voice was normal.
   “What have you had to eat?” asked Gina.
   “I’m 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?”
   “He’s 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. I’ll be home soon. I’ll make sure Michelle is sleeping soundly, then I’ll come home.”
   “I’ll 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 didn’t 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 Michelle’s 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 she’d 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 daughter’s not in her room! She’s gone!”
   The charge nurse looked up from her writing, then down at her clipboard. “That’s 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.
   “That’s the point,” said Cathryn. “She might hurt herself.”
   As if she thought Cathryn was lying, the nurse insisted on returning to Michelle’s room. She glanced around the room and checked the bathroom. “You’re right, she’s 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 who’d been out working on the floor. She told them of Michelle’s 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.
   “That’s 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.
   “You’re doing an emergency flat plate on a patient from Anderson 6,” said the charge nurse. “What is the name of the child?”
   “I haven’t done any emergency flat plates,” said the technician. “Must have been George. He’s up in the OR doing a portable chest. He’ll be back in a minute and I’ll 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 didn’t 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 Michelle’s clothes.
   The excitement of the caper had buoyed Michelle’s 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 didn’t 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 we’ll do!”
   He tore open the bandage and began winding it around Michelle’s head as if she’d 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 who’d 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 he’d 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 didn’t.
   Approaching the exit, Charles saw a uniformed security man jump up from the nearby chair. Charles’s heart fluttered, but the man didn’t challenge them; instead he scurried to the door and said: “Hope she’s 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 Michelle’s room.
   As she paced the lounge, she involuntarily thought about Michelle’s comment: “I think it would be better if I were dead.” She’d 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. I’m still waiting for a call from radiology. I’m sure Martel was the name of the child radiology came and picked up.”
   “It’s been almost a half hour,” said Cathryn. “I’m 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 he’d 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 Michelle’s 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 nurse’s 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 daughter’s clothes are missing,” said Cathryn anxiously.
   There was silence.
   The charge nurse cleared her throat. “We’ll be finished here in a few moments, Mrs. Martel.”
   Cathryn turned away angrily. Obviously her emergency wasn’t as important as the ward routine, but if Michelle’s 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 Michelle’s room. All at once the image of the man pushing the child to surgery flashed before Cathryn’s 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. She’d hoped that calling the police would speed up the whole affair. “I’ve told you ten times exactly what happened. Can’t 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 Michelle’s 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 he’d 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 don’t 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. “It’s 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 didn’t 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. “Can’t you do something? I’m sorry I can’t 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 I’m 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…”
   “That’s not too specific,” said William.
   “What about his blue eyes?” asked Cathryn.
   “I didn’t 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 child’s room, presents a bogus X-ray request, then wheels the child off as if he’s 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.
   “That’s why we think they are still in the hospital,” said the administrator.
   “But her clothes are gone,” said Cathryn. “They’ve left the hospital. That’s why you have to do something before it’s 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 there’s no place they won’t be found.”
   “All right,” said William. “Suppose it was the father who took the child. Why?”
   “Because he didn’t agree with the treatment,” said Cathryn. “That’s 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 child’s illness, but his job.”
   William whistled. “If he didn’t like the treatment here,” he said, “what was he interested in? Laetrile, something like that?”
   “He didn’t say,” said Cathryn, “but I know he wasn’t interested in Laetrile.”
   “We’ve had a few of those Laetrile cases,” said William, ignoring Cathryn’s 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: “We’ve had some experience with parents seeking unorthodox treatment for their kids. I think we’d 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, we’ll get right on it,” said William. “I’ll 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 won’t 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 she’d gotten when she’d 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 couldn’t believe it. It was a quarter to twelve. Cathryn blinked her eyes and looked again. No, it was nine o’clock. Even that was later than she’d 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 I’ve 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 can’t eat,” said Cathryn, her mind a whirl. But she wasn’t too preoccupied to see her mother’s face immediately fall. “Well, maybe some biscuits.”
   Gina perked up and got out a cup and saucer for Cathryn.
   “I’d better get Chuck up,” said Cathryn, starting back to the hall.
   “He’s up, breakfasted, and gone,” said Gina triumphantly. “He likes biscuits as much as you. Said he had a nine o’clock class.”
   Cathryn turned and sat down at the table while her mother poured the coffee. She felt useless. She’d tried so hard to be a wife and mother and now she had the feeling that she’d bungled it. Getting her adopted son up for school was hardly the criterion for being a good mother, yet the fact that she’d 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 shouldn’t cry because Gina didn’t care about any old cup that she’d 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 mother’s treasures and she felt badly about breaking it, but Gina’s overreaction helped calm down her emotions.
   “I think I’ll drive up to Shaftesbury,” said Cathryn at length. “I’ll get some more clothes for Chuck and check on Jean Paul.”
   “Chuck’s got what he needs,” said Gina. “The money it costs to drive up there, you could buy him a new outfit in Filene’s basement.”
   “True,” admitted Cathryn. “I guess I want to be around the phone if Charles calls.”
   “If he calls and gets no answer, he’ll call here,” said Gina. “After all, he’s not stupid. Where do you think he’s gone with Michelle?”
   “I don’t 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 wouldn’t 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. It’s 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.
   “It’s for you,” said Gina. “A detective named Patrick O’Sullivan.”
   Expecting the worst, Cathryn picked up the phone. Patrick O’Sullivan 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 she’d 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 she’d 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 wasn’t 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 Charles’s lab.
   The door was ajar and Cathryn walked in. The first thing she noticed was that the lab had already been dismantled. She’d been in it on several occasions in the past, so she’d 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 Charles’s 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 man’s outstretched hand. It was soft and slightly moist.
   “I’m Detective Patrick O’Sullivan. I’ve been assigned to your case. Thanks for coming.”
   Over Patrick’s shoulder Cathryn could see Ellen point to an empty space on the counter before she started talking again. Cathryn couldn’t 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 couldn’t hear what they were saying, but she saw Dr. Morrison strike his open palm in apparent anger.
   “What’s going on?” asked Cathryn, looking up into the detective’s soft green eyes.
   “It seems that your husband, after having been dismissed from his position here at the institute, stole most of his equipment.”
   Cathryn’s eyes widened in disbelief. “I don’t 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 you’d be able to tell me,” said the detective.
   Cathryn glanced around the room, trying to comprehend the extent of Charles’s folly.
   “I haven’t the slightest idea,” said Cathryn. “It seems absurd.”
   The detective lifted his eyebrows and wrinkled his forehead as he followed Cathryn’s eyes around the lab. “It’s absurd all right. It’s 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 husband’s disappearance. Child-snatching by a parent is one thing, and to tell you the honest truth, we don’t get too excited about it. But theft is something else. We’re going to have to put out the details and a warrant for Dr. Martel’s 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 don’t know what to say.”
   “Our condolences, Mrs. Martel,” said Dr. Ibanez, coming up behind her.
   She turned and saw the director’s sympathetic expression.
   “It’s a tragedy,” agreed Dr. Morrison with the same expression. “And to think Charles was once such a promising researcher.”
   There was an uncomfortable pause. Morrison’s comment angered Cathryn, but she was at a loss for words.
   “Exactly why was Dr. Martel fired?” asked Patrick O’Sullivan, breaking the silence.
   Cathryn turned to the detective. He had asked the question she would have liked to pose if she’d 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 he’d become uncooperative.”
   “What kind of research was he doing?” asked the detective.
   “It’s 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 couldn’t or wouldn’t 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 O’Sullivan, making a sweeping gesture around the room.
   Dr. Ibanez shrugged. “I haven’t the faintest idea.”
   “I think it was spite,” said Dr. Morrison. “It’s like the kid who takes home his ball when the others don’t want to play by his rules.”
   “Could Dr. Martel have taken the equipment to continue his research?” said O’Sullivan.
   “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 he’d 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 O’Sullivan.
   “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 O’Sullivan came back. “Well, we’ve 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 she’d wanted to go home, besides being close to the phone in case Charles called, was to lift her spirits. She appreciated her mother’s efforts to help, but she also resented Gina’s 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. She’d never been wholeheartedly behind Cathryn’s 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.
   Cathryn’s 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 don’t understand,” said Cathryn. “I thought you’d taken Michelle and run away. They’ll 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 child’s hand. Charles came up behind her.
   Michelle’s eyes opened and for an instant there was a flicker of recognition, then the lids closed. Cathryn turned to Charles.
   “Charles, what in heaven’s name are you doing?”
   “I’ll tell you in a moment,” said Charles, adjusting Michelle’s intravenous flow. He took Cathryn’s 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. “I’ve had a chance to think and I now understand the position you were in at the hospital. I’m sorry my own indecision about Michelle’s 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 anyone’s part, least of all yours. I’m sorry that I reacted as I did, but I couldn’t help it. I hope you’ll forgive me. I know that you were trying to do what was best for Michelle.”
   Cathryn didn’t move. She wanted to rush to Charles and throw her arms around him because all at once he sounded so normal, but she couldn’t 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 Charles’s sincerity. What she couldn’t decide was his rationality. Had he cracked under the strain as everyone suggested? Cathryn realized that she wasn’t 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 I’m sure he believed what he said.”
   “It’s not true?”