“Harold Dawson out on Covered Bridge Road. Charles, I think you should tell me what this is all about. Maybe I can save you some trouble.”
   Charles examined the foreman who’d folded his arms across his chest, assuming a stiff, defensive posture in contrast to his initial friendliness.
   “My daughter was diagnosed to have leukemia today.”
   “I’m sorry to hear that,” said Nat, confusion mixing with empathy.
   “I’ll bet you are,” said Charles. “You people have been dumping benzene into the river. Benzene causes leukemia.”
   “What are you talking about? We haven’t been dumping benzene. The stuff gets hauled away.”
   “Don’t give me any of your bullshit,” snapped Charles.
   “I think you’d better get your ass out of here, man.”
   “I’ll tell you what I’m going to do,” fumed Charles. “I’m going to see that this shithole factory gets closed down!”
   “What’s the matter with you? You crazy or something? I told you we don’t dump nothing.”
   “Hah! That big guy downstairs with the tattoos specifically told me you dumped benzene. So don’t try to deny it.”
   Nat Archer picked up his phone. He told Wally Crab to get up to his office on the double. Dropping the receiver onto the cradle he turned back to Charles. “Man, you gotta have your head examined. Coming in here in the middle of the night, spoutin’ off about benzene. What’s the matter? Nothing good on the tube tonight? I mean I’m sorry about your kid. But really, you’re trespassing here.”
   “This factory is a hazard to the whole community.”
   “Yeah? Well, I’m not so sure the community agrees with you.”
   Wally Crab came through the door as if he expected a fire. He skidded to a halt.
   “Wally, this man says you told him we dumped benzene in the river.”
   “Hell no!” said Wally, out of breath. “I told him the benzene is taken away by the Draper Brothers Disposal.”
   “You fucking liar!” shouted Charles.
   “Nobody calls me a fucking liar,” growled Wally, starting for Charles.
   “Ease off!” yelled Nat, putting a hand on Wally’s chest.
   “You told me,” shouted Charles pointing an accusing finger in Wally’s angered face, “when the tanks are too full, you drain them into the river at night. That’s all I need. I’m going to shut this place down.”
   “Cool it!” yelled Nat, releasing Wally and grasping Charles’s arm instead. He started walking Charles to the door.
   “Get your hands off me,” Charles shouted as he pulled free. Then he shoved Nat away from him.
   Nat recovered his balance and thrust Charles back against the wall of the small office.
   “Don’t you ever touch me again,” said Nat.
   Charles had the intuitive sense to stay still.
   “Let me give you some advice,” said Nat. “Don’t cause trouble around here. You’re trespassing, and if you ever come back, you’ll be very sorry. Now get the hell out of here before we throw you out.”
   For a minute Charles didn’t know if he wanted to run or fight. Then, realizing he had no choice, he turned and went thundering down the metal stairs, and through the nightmarish mechanical maze on the main floor. He strode through the office and burst outside, thankful for the cold and relatively clean air of the parking lot. Once in the car, he gunned the engine mercilessly before shooting out through the gate.
   The farther he got from Recycle, Ltd., the less fear he felt and the more anger and humiliation. Pounding the steering wheel, he vowed he’d destroy the factory for Michelle’s sake no matter what it took. He tried to think of how he would go about doing it, but he was too irate to think clearly. The institute had a law firm on retainer; perhaps he’d start there.
   Charles pulled off 301 into his driveway, pushing the accelerator to the floor, spinning the wheels and shooting gravel up inside the fenders. The car skidded first to one side and then the other. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the lace curtains of one of the living room windows part and Cathryn’s face come into view for a second. He skidded to a stop just beyond the back porch and turned off the ignition.
   He sat for a moment, gripping the steering wheel, hearing the engine cool off in the icy air. The reckless drive had calmed his emotions and gave him a chance to think. Perhaps it had been stupid to charge up to Recycle, Ltd. at that time of night, although he had to admit he’d accomplished one thing: he knew for certain where the benzene in the pond was coming from. Yet now that he thought about it, he recognized that the real issue was taking care of Michelle and making the hard decisions about treatment. As a scientist he knew that the mere presence of benzene in the pond did not constitute proof that it had caused Michelle’s leukemia. No one had yet proved that benzene caused leukemia in humans, only in animals. Besides, Charles recognized that he was using Recycle, Ltd. to divert the hostility and anger caused by Michelle’s sickness.
   Slowly he got out of the car, wishing once again that he’d worked faster over the last four to five years on his own research so that now he might have something to offer his daughter. Immersed in thought, he was startled when Cathryn met him in the doorway. Her face was awash with fresh tears, her chest trembling as she fought to control her sobs.
   “What’s wrong?” asked Charles with horror. His first reaction was that something had happened to Michelle.
   “Nancy Schonhauser called,” Cathryn managed to say. “Little Tad died this evening. That poor dear child.”
   Charles reached out and drew his wife to him, comforting her. At first he felt a sense of relief as if Michelle had been spared. But then he remembered that the boy lived on the Pawtomack River just as they did, only closer to town.
   “I thought I’d go over to see Marge,” continued Cathryn. “But she’s been hospitalized herself. She collapsed when they told her about Tad. Do you think I should go over to their house anyway and see if there is something I can do?”
   Charles was no longer listening. Benzene caused aplastic anemia as well as leukemia! He’d forgotten about Tad. Now Michelle was no longer a single, isolated case of bone marrow disease. Charles wondered how many other families living along the course of the Pawtomack River had been struck. All the anger Charles had felt earlier returned in an overwhelming rush, and he broke free from Cathryn.
   “Did you hear me?” asked Cathryn, abandoned in the center of the room. She watched Charles go over to the telephone directory, look up a number, and dial. He seemed to have forgotten she was there. “Charles,” called Cathryn. “I asked you a question.”
   He looked at her uncomprehendingly until the connection went through. Then he directed his attention to the phone. “Is this Harold Dawson?” demanded Charles.
   “It is,” returned the manager.
   “My name is Dr. Charles Martel,” said Charles. “I was down at Recycle, Ltd. tonight.”
   “I know,” said Harold. “Nat Archer called me a while ago. I’m sorry for any discourtesies you experienced. I wish you had made your visit during regular hours so I could have seen you.”
   “Discourtesies don’t bother me,” snapped Charles. “But dumping toxic waste, like benzene, into the river does.”
   “We are not dumping anything into the river,” said Harold emphatically. “All our toxic chemical permits have been filed with the EPA and are up to date.”
   “Permits,” scoffed Charles. “There is benzene in the river and one of your workers said Recycle’s been dumping it. And benzene is damn toxic. My daughter has just come down with leukemia and a child just upriver from me died today of aplastic anemia. That’s no coincidence. I’m going to shut you people down. I hope to God you have a lot of insurance.”
   “These are wild, irresponsible accusations,” said Harold evenly. “I should tell you that Recycle, Ltd. is a marginal operation of Breur Chemical Corporation and they maintain this facility because they feel they are doing the community a service. I can assure you that if they thought otherwise, they would close the factory down themselves.”
   “Well, it goddamn well ought to be closed,” shouted Charles.
   “One hundred and eighty workers in this town might disagree,” answered Harold, losing patience. “If you cause trouble, mister, I can guarantee you’ll get trouble.”
   “I…” began Charles but he realized he was holding a dead phone. Harold Dawson had hung up.
   “God!” Charles shouted as he furiously shook the receiver.
   Cathryn took the phone away and replaced it in its cradle. She’d only heard Charles’s side of the conversation, but it had upset her. She forced him to sit down at the kitchen table, and she shooed her mother away when she’d appeared at the door. Her face was streaked with tears, but she was no longer crying.
   “I think you’d better tell me about the benzene,” said Cathryn.
   “It’s a poison,” fumed Charles. “It depresses the bone marrow somehow.”
   “And you don’t have to eat it to be poisoned?”
   “No. You don’t have to ingest it. All you have to do is inhale it. It goes directly into the bloodstream. Why did I have to make that playhouse out of the old ice shed?”
   “And you think it could have caused Michelle’s leukemia?”
   “I certainly do. Apparently she’s been inhaling benzene all the time she’s played there. Benzene causes the rare kind of leukemia that she has. It’s too much of a coincidence. Especially with Tad’s aplastic anemia.”
   “The benzene could have caused that?”
   “Absolutely.”
   “And you think Recycle has been putting benzene into the river?”
   “I know they have. That’s what I found out tonight. And they’re going to pay. I’ll get the place shut down.”
   “And how are you going to do that?”
   “I don’t know yet. I’ll talk to some people tomorrow. I’ll get in touch with the EPA. Somebody is going to want to hear about it.”
   Cathryn studied Charles’s face, thinking of Dr. Keitzman’s and Dr. Wiley’s questions. “Charles,” began Cathryn, marshaling her courage. “This is all interesting and probably important but it seems to me that it’s a little inappropriate at this time.”
   “Inappropriate?” echoed Charles with disbelief.
   “Yes,” said Cathryn. “We’ve just learned that Michelle has leukemia. I think that the primary focus should be taking care of her, not trying to get a factory shut down. There will always be time for that, but Michelle needs you now.”
   Charles stared at his young wife. She was a survivor, coping in a difficult situation with great effort. How could he hope to make her understand that the core of the problem was that he really didn’t have anything to offer Michelle except love? As a cancer researcher he knew too much about Michelle’s disease; as a physician he couldn’t be lured into false hope by the panoply of modern medicine; as a father he was terrified of what Michelle was going to face because he’d gone through a similar situation with his first wife. Yet Charles was an activist. He had to do something, and Recycle, Ltd. was there to keep from facing the reality of Michelle’s illness and his deteriorating situation at the Weinburger Institute.
   Charles recognized that he couldn’t communicate all this to Cathryn because she probably wouldn’t understand it and if she did it would undermine her own hopes. Despite their intense love for each other, Charles accepted that he’d have to bear his burdens alone. The thought was crushing, and he collapsed in Cathryn’s arms.
   “It’s been a terrible day,” whispered Cathryn, holding Charles as tightly as she could. “Let’s go to bed and try to sleep.”
   Charles nodded, thinking, If I had only worked faster…

   By a process so gradual as to be imperceptible, Michelle became aware that her room was lighter. The shade over the window now appeared dark with a light border rather than white with a dark border. Along with the gradual increase in illumination, the coming day was also heralded by the increased activity in the hallway. Michelle’s door was open about six inches and the shaft of yellow incandescent light that came through had been a meager comfort for her during the interminable night.
   Michelle wondered when Charles or Cathryn would come. She hoped it would be soon because she wanted, more than anything else, to go home to her own room, her own house. She couldn’t understand why she had had to stay in the hospital because after her dinner, which she had barely eaten, no one had done anything to her other than look in and check that she was OK.
   Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, Michelle pushed herself into a sitting position. She closed her eyes and steeled herself against a rush of dizziness. The movement exacerbated her nausea which had troubled her all night. Once she’d even gotten up when her saliva had pooled beneath her tongue, and she was afraid she was going to vomit. Holding on to the sides of the toilet, she’d retched but hadn’t brought up anything. Afterwards, it had taken all her strength to get back into bed.
   Michelle was certain she’d not slept at all. Besides the waves of nausea, she also had pains in her joints and abdomen, as well as chills. The fever, which had gone away the previous afternoon, was back.
   Slowly Michelle slid off the bed onto her feet, gripping the IV pole. Pushing the pole in front of her, she began to shuffle to the bathroom. The plastic IV tubing still went into her left arm, which she kept as immobile as possible. She knew there was a needle on the end of the tubing and she was afraid that if she moved her arm, the needle would pierce her in some damaging way.
   After going to the toilet, Michelle returned to her bed and climbed in. There was no way she could feel any more lonely or miserable.
   “Well, well,” beamed a redheaded nurse as she came bustling into the room. “Awake already. Aren’t we industrious?” She snapped up the window shade unveiling the new day.
   Michelle watched her but didn’t speak.
   The nurse went around the other side of the bed and plucked a thermometer out of a narrow stainless steel cup. “What’s the matter, cat got your tongue?” She flicked the thermometer, examined it, bent down, and poked it into Michelle’s mouth. “Be back in a jiffy.”
   Waiting until the nurse was out the door, Michelle pulled the thermometer out of her mouth. She did not want anyone to know she still had a fever in case that might keep her in the hospital. She held the thermometer in her right hand, near to her face so that when the nurse came back, she would be able to put it into her mouth quickly.
   The next person through the door was a false alarm. Michelle got the thermometer back into her mouth, but it was a man in a dirty white coat with hundreds of pens stuffed in his pocket. He carried a wire basket filled with glass test tubes with different-colored tops. He had strips of rubber tubing looped through the edges of his basket. Michelle knew what he wanted: blood.
   She watched, terrified, as he made his preparations. He put a rubber tube about her arm so tight that her fingers hurt and roughly wiped the inside of her elbow with an alcohol swab, even the tender spot where they’d taken blood the day before. Then using his teeth, he pulled the cap off a needle. Michelle wanted to scream. Instead, she turned her head to hide silent tears. The rubber was unsnapped, which caused about as much pain as when it was put on. She heard a glass tube drop into the wire basket. Then she felt another stab as he yanked the needle out. He applied a cotton ball to the puncture site, bent her arm so that it pressed against the cotton, and gathered up his things. He left without saying a single word.
   With one arm holding the cotton ball and the other with the IV, Michelle felt totally immobilized. Slowly she unbent her arm. The cotton ball rolled aside revealing an innocent red puncture mark surrounded by a black-and-blue area.
   “Okay,” said the redheaded nurse, coming through the door. “Let’s see what we’ve got.”
   Michelle remembered with panic that the thermometer was still in her mouth.
   Deftly the nurse extracted it, noted the temperature, then dropped it into the metal container on Michelle’s night table. “Breakfast will be up in a moment,” she said cheerfully, but she didn’t mention Michelle’s fever. She left with the same abruptness with which she’d arrived.
   “Oh, Daddy, please come and get me,” said Michelle to herself. “Please hurry.”

  Charles felt his shoulder being shaken. He tried to ignore it because he wanted to continue sleeping, but the shaking continued. When he opened his eyes he saw Cathryn, already robed, standing by the bed holding out a steaming mug of coffee. Pushing himself up on one elbow, Charles took the coffee.
   “It’s seven o’clock,” said Cathryn with a smile.
   “Seven?” Charles glanced at the face of the alarm clock, thinking that oversleeping was not the way to increase the pace of his research efforts.
   “You were sleeping so soundly,” said Cathryn, kissing his forehead, “that I didn’t have the heart to wake you earlier. We’ve got a big breakfast waiting downstairs.”
   Charles knew that she was making an effort to sound gay.
   “Enjoy your coffee,” said Cathryn. She started for the door. “Gina got up and made it before I was even awake.”
   Charles glanced down at the mug in his hands. The fact that Gina was still there was irritating enough. He did not want to have to feel beholden to her the first thing in the morning, but then he was holding the coffee and he knew she’d ask how it was and gloat over the fact that she’d arisen when everyone else was still asleep.
   Charles shook his head. Such annoying thoughts were not the way to begin the day. He tasted the coffee. It was hot, aromatic, and stimulating. He admitted that he enjoyed it and decided to tell Gina before she’d have a chance to ask, and then thank her for getting up before the others, before she had a chance to tell them.
   Carrying his coffee mug, Charles padded down the hall to Michelle’s room. He paused outside of the door, then slowly pushed it open. He had half hoped to see his young daughter safely sleeping in her bed, but of course her bed was neatly made, her books and memorabilia compulsively arranged, her room as neat as a pin. “All right,” said Charles to himself, as if he were bargaining with an all-powerful arbiter, “she has myeloblastic leukemia. Just let her case be sensitive to current treatment. That’s all I ask.”
   Breakfast was a strained affair, overshadowed by Gina’s forced ebullience and Charles’s reserve. One fed the other in a self-fulfilling prophecy until Gina was chatting nonstop and Charles perfectly silent. Cathryn interrupted with complicated plans about who was going to do what, when. Charles stayed out of the domestic decision making and concentrated on planning his day’s work at the institute. The first thing he wanted to do was check the well mice injected with the cancer antigen for signs of immunological activity. Most likely there would be no response with such a light dose and he would prepare to give them another challenge that afternoon. Then he would check the mice injected with the Canceran and reinject them. Then he would start work on a computer simulation of the way he envisioned the blocking factor worked.
   “Charles, is that agreeable to you?” asked Cathryn.
   “What?” questioned Charles. He’d tuned out all conversation.
   “I will ride with you in the Pinto this morning, and you can drop me at the hospital. Chuck will take the station wagon, drop off Jean Paul, and drive himself to Northeastern. Gina has agreed to stay here and make dinner.”
   “I’ll make your favorite,” said Gina enthusiastically, “gnocchi.”
   Gnocchi! Charles didn’t even know what gnocchi was.
   “If I want to leave early,” continued Cathryn to Charles, “I can go over to Northeastern and pick up the station wagon. Otherwise I’ll come back with you. What do you say?”
   Charles couldn’t figure out how all these elaborate plans were making things any easier. The old method of his driving the boys and leaving the station wagon for Cathryn seemed far more simple, but he didn’t care. In fact, if he decided to work that night, maybe it would be best if Chuck had the car because then Cathryn could come home with him in the afternoon.
   “Fine with me,” said Charles, finding himself watching Chuck who was in his usual breakfast posture, studying the cereal box as if it were Scripture. The boy was wearing the same clothes as yesterday and looked just as bad.
   “I got a call from the business office yesterday,” said Charles.
   “Yeah, I gave them the number,” said Chuck without looking up.
   “I made arrangements at the bank for a loan,” said Charles. “Should be available in a day or so, then the bill will be paid.”
   “Good,” said Chuck, flipping the box so he could study the nutritional values on the side panel.
   “Is that all you have to say? Good?” Charles turned his head toward Cathryn with a look that said: “Can you believe this kid?”
   Chuck pretended he hadn’t heard the question.
   “I think we should be going,” said Cathryn, getting to her feet and collecting the milk and butter to put into the refrigerator.
   “Just leave everything,” said Gina magnanimously. “I’ll take care of it.”
   Charles and Cathryn were the first out of the house. A pale winter sun hung low in the southeastern sky. As cold as it was inside the Pinto, Cathryn was relieved to get out of the biting wind.
   “Damn,” said Charles, blowing on his fingers. “I forgot the pond water.”
   For Cathryn’s sake, Charles started the car, which was no easy task, before running back into the kitchen for the jar of pond water. He carefully wedged it behind his seat to keep it from spilling before he climbed into the car and fumbled with his seat belt.
   Cathryn watched this procedure with the pond water with a certain misgiving. After her little talk to Charles the night before she’d hoped that he would concentrate on Michelle. But Charles had acted strangely from the moment she’d awakened him that morning. Cathryn had the scary feeling that her family was coming apart at the seams.
   Watching Charles’s silent profile as he drove, Cathryn began multiple conversations but abandoned each for various reasons, mostly because she feared any discussion would trigger her husband’s temper.
   When Route 301 merged with Interstate 93, Cathryn finally forced herself to speak: “How do you feel today, Charles?”
   “Huh? Oh fine. Just fine.”
   “You seem so quiet. It’s not like you.”
   “Just thinking.”
   “About Michelle?”
   “Yes, and also my work.”
   “You’re not still thinking of Recycle, Ltd., are you?”
   Charles glanced at Cathryn for a moment, then turned his attention to the road ahead. “A little. I still think the place is a menace, if that’s what you mean.”
   “Charles, there isn’t something you’re not telling me, is there?”
   “No,” said Charles too quickly. “What makes you ask that?”
   “I don’t know,” admitted Cathryn. “You seem so far away since we heard about Michelle. Your mood seems to change so quickly.” Cathryn’s eyes darted over to watch Charles’s reaction to her last comment. But Charles just drove on, and if there had been a reaction, Cathryn missed it.
   “I guess I just have a lot on my mind,” said Charles.
   “You’ll share it with me, won’t you, Charles? I mean that’s what I’m here for. That’s why I wanted to adopt the children. I want you to share everything with me.” Cathryn reached over and put her hand on Charles’s thigh.
   Charles concentrated on the road in front of him. Cathryn was voicing a conviction he’d held until yesterday, but now he realized that he couldn’t share everything. His background as a physician had imparted experiences that Cathryn could not comprehend. If Charles told what he knew about the course of Michelle’s illness, she’d be devastated.
   Taking a hand from the steering wheel, Charles placed it over Cathryn’s. “The children don’t know how lucky they are,” he said.
   They rode in silence for a while. Cathryn wasn’t satisfied, but she didn’t know what else to say. In the far distance she could just make out the top of the Prudential building. The traffic began to increase, and they had to slow to forty miles per hour.
   “I don’t know anything about tissue-typing and all that,” said Cathryn, breaking the silence. “But I don’t think we should force Chuck to do something he doesn’t want to do.”
   Charles glared at Cathryn for a moment.
   “I’m sure he will come around,” she continued when she realized that Charles wasn’t going to speak. “But he has to agree on his own.”
   Charles took his hand off Cathryn’s and gripped the steering wheel. The mere mention of Chuck was like stoking a smoldering fire. Yet what Cathryn was saying was undeniably true.
   “You can’t force someone to be altruistic,” said Cathryn. “Especially Chuck, because it will only strengthen the worries he has about his sense of self.”
   “A sense of self is all he has,” said Charles. “He didn’t voice the slightest concern about Michelle. Not one word.”
   “But he feels it,” said Cathryn. “It’s just hard for him to express those feelings.”
   Charles laughed cynically. “I wish I believed it. He’s just goddamned selfish. Did you notice his overwhelming appreciation when I told him I’d applied for a loan for his tuition?”
   “What did you want him to do? Cartwheels?” returned Cathryn. “The tuition was supposed to be paid months ago.”
   Charles set his jaw. “Fine,” he said to himself. “You want to side with the little bastard… just fine!”
   Cathryn was instantly sorry she’d said what she had even though it was true. Reaching over, she put her hand on his shoulder. She wanted to draw Charles out, not shut him up. “I’m sorry I said that, but Charles, you have to understand that Chuck doesn’t have your personality. He’s not competitive and he’s not the most handsome boy. But basically he’s a good kid. It’s just very hard growing up in your shadow.”
   Charles glanced sideways at his wife.
   “Whether you know it or not,” said Cathryn, “you’re a hard act to follow. You’ve been successful in everything you’ve tried.”
   Charles did not share that opinion. He could have rattled off a dozen episodes in which he’d failed miserably. But that wasn’t the issue: it was Chuck.
   “I think the kid’s selfish and lazy, and I’m tired of it. His response to Michelle’s illness was all too predictable.”
   “He has a right to be selfish,” said Cathryn. “College is the ultimate selfish experience.”
   “Well, he’s certainly making the best of it.”
   They came to the stop-and-go traffic where 193 joined the southeast expressway and Storrow Drive. Neither spoke as they inched forward.
   “This isn’t what we should be worrying about,” said Cathryn finally.
   “You’re right,” sighed Charles. “And you’re right about not forcing Chuck. But if he doesn’t do it, he’s going to wait a long time before I pay his next college bill.”
   Cathryn looked sharply at Charles. If that wasn’t coercion, she had no idea what was.
   Although at that time of morning there were few visitors, the hospital itself was in full swing, and Charles and Cathryn had to dodge swarms of gurneys moving tiny bedridden patients to and from their various tests. Cathryn felt infinitely more comfortable with Charles at her side. Still her palms were wet, which was her usual method of showing anxiety.
   As they passed the bustling nurses’ station on Anderson 6, the charge nurse caught sight of them and waved a greeting. Charles stepped over to the counter.
   “Excuse me,” said Charles. “I’m Dr. Martel. I was wondering if my daughter started her chemotherapy.” He purposefully kept his voice natural, emotionless.
   “I believe so,” said the nurse, “but let me check.”
   The clerk who’d overheard the conversation handed over Michelle’s chart.
   “She got her Daunorubicin yesterday afternoon,” said the nurse. “She got her first oral dose of Thioguanine this morning, and she’ll start with the Cytarabine this afternoon.”
   The names jolted Charles but he forced himself to keep smiling. He knew too well the potential side effects and the information silently echoed in his head. “Please,” said Charles to himself. “Please, let her go into remission.” Charles knew that if it would happen, it would happen immediately. He thanked the nurse, turned, and walked toward Michelle’s room. The closer he got, the more nervous he became. He loosened his tie and unbuttoned the top button of his shirt.
   “It’s nice the way they have decorated to brighten the atmosphere,” remarked Cathryn, noticing the animal decals for the first time.
   Charles stopped for a moment outside the door, trying to compose himself.
   “This is it,” said Cathryn, thinking that Charles was uncertain of the room number. She pushed open the door, entered, and pulled Charles in behind her.
   Michelle was propped up in a sitting position with several pillows behind her back. At the sight of Charles, her face twisted and she burst into tears. Charles was shocked at her appearance. Although he had not thought it possible, she looked even paler than she had the day before. Her eyes had visibly sunk into their sockets and were surrounded by circles so dark they looked like she had black eyes. In the air hung the rank smell of fresh vomit.
   Charles wanted to run and hold her, but he couldn’t move. The agony of his inadequateness held him back, although she lifted her arms to him.
   Her disease was too powerful, and he had nothing to offer her, just like with Elizabeth eight years earlier. The nightmare had returned. In an avalanche of horror, Charles recognized that Michelle was not going to get better. Suddenly he knew without the slightest doubt that all the palliative treatment in the world would not touch the inevitable progression of her illness. Under the weight of this knowledge Charles staggered, taking a step back from the bed.
   Although Cathryn did not understand, she saw what was happening and she ran to fill Michelle’s outstretched arms. Looking over Cathryn’s shoulder, Michelle met her father’s eyes. Charles smiled weakly but Michelle decided that he was angry with her.
   “It’s so good to see you,” said Cathryn, looking into Michelle’s face. “How are you?”
   “I’m fine,” managed Michelle, checking her tears. “I just want to go home. Can I go home, Daddy?”
   Charles’s hands shook as he approached the foot of the bed. He steadied them on the metal frame.
   “Maybe,” said Charles evasively. Maybe he should just take her out of the hospital; take her home and keep her comfortable; maybe that was best.
   “Michelle, you have to stay here until you’re well,” Cathryn said hurriedly. “Dr. Wiley and Dr. Keitzman are going to see that you get better just as soon as possible. I know it’s hard for you, and we miss you terribly, but you have to be a big girl.”
   “Please, Daddy,” said Michelle.
   Charles felt helpless and indecisive, two unfamiliar and unnerving emotions.
   “Michelle,” said Cathryn. “You have to stay in the hospital. I’m sorry.”
   “Why? Daddy,” pleaded Michelle, “what’s wrong with me?”
   Charles vainly looked at Cathryn for help, but she was silent. He was the physician.
   “I wish we knew,” said Charles, hating himself for lying, yet incapable of telling the truth.
   “Is it the same thing that my real mother had?” asked Michelle.
   “No,” said Charles quickly. “Absolutely not.” Even that was a half lie; although Elizabeth had lymphoma, she died in a terminal leukemic crisis. Charles felt cornered. He had to get away to think.
   “What is it then?” demanded Michelle.
   “I don’t know,” said Charles as he guiltily checked his watch. “That’s why you’re here. To find out. Cathryn is going to stay with you to keep you company. I’ve got to get to the lab. I’ll be back.”
   Without any warning, Michelle abruptly retched. Her slender body heaved, and she threw up a small amount of her recently consumed breakfast. Cathryn tried to get out of the way but some of the vomit got on her left sleeve.
   Charles responded instantly by stepping into the corridor and yelling for a nurse. An aide only two doors down came flying in, expecting a crisis, and was pleased to discover it was a false alarm.
   “Don’t you worry, princess,” said the woman casually, pulling off the soiled top sheet. “We’ll have it cleaned up in a second.”
   Charles put the back of his hand against Michelle’s forehead. It was moist and hot. Her fever was still there. Charles knew what caused the vomiting; it was the medicine. He felt a wave of anxiety wash over him. The small room was making him feel claustrophobic.
   Michelle grabbed his hand and held it as if she’d slipped at the edge of an abyss and Charles was her only salvation. She looked into the blue eyes that were mirrors of her own. But she thought she saw firmness instead of acquiescence; irritation instead of understanding. She let go of the hand and fell back onto the pillow.
   “I’ll be over later, Michelle,” said Charles, upset that the medicine was already causing potentially dangerous side effects. To the aide Charles said: “Does she have something ordered for nausea and vomiting?”
   “Indeed she does,” said the nurse. “There is a standing order for Compazine PRN. I’ll get her some in a minute.”
   “Is it a needle?” cried Michelle.
   “No, it’s a pill,” said the aide. “Provided your tummy keeps it down. If not, then it will have to go in your rump.” She gave Michelle’s foot a playful squeeze.
   “I’ll just walk Charles to the elevator, Michelle,” said Cathryn, seeing Charles start for the door. She caught up with him in the hall, grabbing his arm. “Charles, what is the matter with you?”
   Charles didn’t stop.
   “Charles!” cried Cathryn, yanking him around to face her. “What is it?”
   “I’ve got to get out of here,” said Charles, nervously stroking his hair. “I can’t stand to see Michelle suffer. She looks terrible. I don’t know what to do. I’m not sure she should get any of that medicine.”
   “No medicine?” cried Cathryn. Instantly she remembered that Dr. Keitzman and Dr. Wiley were worried that Charles might interrupt Michelle’s treatment.
   “Her vomiting,” said Charles angrily. “That’s only the beginning.” Charles started to say that he was sure Michelle was not going to go into remission, but he held his tongue. There would be time for more bad news for Cathryn and for the present he did not want to destroy the hope.
   “But the medicine is her only chance,” pleaded Cathryn.
   “I’ve got to go,” said Charles. “Call me if there is any change. I’ll be at the lab.”
   Cathryn watched Charles rush down the crowded corridor. He didn’t even wait for the elevator. She saw him duck into the stairwell instead. When Dr. Wiley told her that they were going to rely on her strength, she had no idea what he’d meant. Now she was beginning to comprehend.

Eight

   Charles turned into the institute parking lot, leaped out of the car, and pulled the jar of pond water from behind the seat. He ran across the tarmac and had to bang on the glass door before the receptionist opened it. Turning right instead of left in the main hallway, he ran down to the analysis lab. One of the technicians whom Charles respected was sitting on the countertop with his morning coffee.
   “I want this water analyzed for contaminants,” said Charles, out of breath.
   “Rush job?” quipped the technician, noting Charles’s excitement.
   “Sorta,” said Charles. “I’m particularly interested in organic solvents. But whatever else you can tell me about the water would be helpful.”
   The technician unscrewed the cap, took a whiff, and blinked. “Whew. I hope you don’t use this stuff with your scotch.”
   Charles hurried back toward his own lab. His mind was pulsing with a confusion of thoughts which flashed in and out of his consciousness with bewildering rapidity.
   He acknowledged that he had no way of rationally solving the dilemma he felt about Michelle’s treatment. Instead he decided to put his own research into high gear in the futile hope that he could accomplish something extraordinary in time for Michelle; and to try to have Recycle, Ltd. closed down. Revenge was a powerful emotion, and its presence dulled the anxiety about Michelle. By the time he reached the door to his lab, Charles found himself with clenched fists. But he hesitated, remembering his vow that morning to use his intelligence rather than his unreliable emotions. Composing himself, he calmly opened the door.
   Ellen, who’d been busy reading the Canceran protocol at Charles’s desk, slowly put the book down. There was a studied deliberateness to her movements, which bothered Charles even in his distracted state.
   “Did the entire batch of mice get the mammary cancer antigen?” he demanded.
   “They did,” answered Ellen. “But…”
   “Good,” interrupted Charles, going up to their small blackboard. He picked up a piece of chalk and after erasing what was already on the board, he began diagramming the method they would use to assay the T-lymphocyte responses in the injected mice in order to chart their immunological response. When he finished, the small board was filled with an elaborate progression of steps. “Also,” said Charles, putting down the chalk, “we’re going to try something different. It’s not meant to be scientific. Its purpose is to provide a kind of rapid survey. I want to make a large number of dilutions of the cancer antigen and begin a single mouse with each dilution. I know it will have no statistical significance. It’s a shotgun survey, but it might be helpful. Now, while you check yesterday’s mice and inject them with a second challenge of the cancer antigen, I’m going to make some calls.” Charles wiped the chalk dust on his trousers, reaching for the phone.
   “Can I say something now?” queried Ellen, cocking her head to the side with an I-told-you-so expression.
   “Of course,” said Charles, holding the receiver.
   “I checked the mice who got the first dose of Canceran.” She paused.
   “Yeah?” said Charles, wondering what was coming.
   “Almost all of them died last night.”
   Charles’s face clouded with disbelief. “What happened?” He put down the receiver.
   “I don’t know,” admitted Ellen. “There’s no explanation except for the Canceran.”
   “Did you check the dilution?”
   “I did,” said Ellen. “It was very accurate.”
   “Any sign that they died from an infectious agent?”
   “No,” said Ellen. “I had the vet take a look. He hasn’t autopsied any but he thinks they died of cardiac insult.”
   “Drug toxicity!” said Charles, shaking his head.
   “I’m afraid so.”
   “Where’s the original Canceran protocol?” asked Charles with mounting concern.
   “Right there on your desk. I was glancing through it when you came in.”
   Charles picked up the volume and flipped through the toxicity section. Then he reached for the preliminary protocol they’d made up the day before. He scanned the figures. When he finished, he tossed the new protocol and the original onto his desk.
   “That fucking bastard,” snarled Charles.
   “It has to be the explanation,” agreed Ellen.
   “Brighton must have falsified the toxicity data, too. Holy shit, that means the whole Canceran study that Brighton has spent two years on is no good. Canceran must be much more toxic than Brighton reported. What a joke! Do you know how much the National Cancer Institute has paid so far for testing this drug?”
   “No, but I can guess.”
   “Millions and millions!” Charles slapped his forehead.
   “What are we going to do?”
   “We? What are they going to do! The whole project has to be started over, which means an additional three years!”
   Charles could feel his vow to maintain an impassioned distance dissolve. To finish the efficacy study was one thing, but starting the whole Canceran project from scratch was something else. He would not do it, especially since now with Michelle ill he had to increase the pace of his own work.
   “I have a feeling they’ll still want us to do Canceran,” said Ellen.
   “Well I don’t give a damn,” snapped Charles. “We’re finished with Canceran. If Morrison and Ibanez give us trouble, we’ll slap them in the face with the proof that the toxicity study isn’t worth the paper it’s printed on. We’ll threaten to tell the press. With that kind of scandal, I think even the National Cancer Institute might question where it’s putting its money.”
   “I don’t think it’s going to be that easy,” said Ellen. “I think we should…”
   “That’s enough, Ellen!” yelled Charles. “I want you to start testing for antibodies in our first batch of mice, then reinject them. I’ll handle the administration in respect to Canceran.”
   Ellen angrily turned her back. As usual, Charles had gone too far. She began her work, making as much noise with the glassware and instruments as she could.
   The phone rang under Charles’s arm. He picked it up on the first ring. It was the technician down in analysis.
   “You want a preliminary report?” asked the chemist.
   “Please,” snapped Charles.
   “The major contaminant is benzene and it’s loaded with it. But also there’s lesser amounts of toluene, as well as some trichloroethylene and carbon tetrachloride. Vile stuff! You could practically clean your oil-base paintbrushes in it. I’ll have a full report later this afternoon.”
   Charles thanked the man and hung up. The report was no surprise, but he was glad to have the documented proof. Involuntarily the image of Michelle appeared before him, and he forcibly blurred it by grabbing the Boston phone directory off the shelf over his desk. He hurried to the section for the Federal Government, finding a series of numbers for the Environmental Protection Agency. He dialed the general information number. A recording answered saying that the EPA was open from nine to five. It was not yet nine.
   Charles then flipped to the section for the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. He wanted to find the incidence of leukemia and lymphoma along the course of the Pawtomack River. But there was no listing for a Tumor or Cancer Registry. Instead his eye caught the words “Vital Statistics.” He called that number but got the identical recording he’d gotten calling the EPA. Checking the time, Charles realized that he had about twenty minutes before the bureaucratic offices would be open.
   He went over to Ellen and began helping her set up to analyze whether any of the mice they’d injected with the mammary cancer antigen showed any signs of increased immunological activity. Ellen was obviously not speaking. Charles could tell she was angry and felt that she was taking advantage of their familiarity.
   While he worked Charles allowed himself to fantasize about his latest research approach. What if the mice injected with the mammary cancer antigen responded to the antigen rapidly and the acquired sensitivity could be easily transferred to the cancerous mice via the transfer factor? Then the cancerous mice would cure themselves of that particular strain. It was beautifully simple… maybe too simple, thought Charles. If only it would work. If only he could speed up the whole process for Michelle…
   The next time Charles looked up, it was well after nine. Leaving Ellen in her sullen mood, Charles went back to his desk and called the EPA General Information number. This time it was answered by a woman with a bored Boston accent.
   Charles introduced himself and said he wanted to report serious dumping of poisonous material into a river.
   The woman was not impressed. She put Charles on hold.
   Another woman picked up, who sounded so similar to the first that Charles was surprised when she asked him to repeat his request.
   “You’ve got the wrong extension,” said the woman. “This is the Water Programs Division and we don’t handle dumping. You want the Toxic Chemicals Program. Just a minute.”
   Charles was again put on hold. There was a click followed by a dial tone. Charles dropped the receiver and grabbed the phone directory. Checking under the EPA he found the listing for Toxic Chemical Program and dialed it.
   An identical voice answered. Charles wondered if they cloned people at the EPA. Charles repeated his request but was told that the Toxic Chemical Program had nothing to do with infractions and that he should call the number for Oil and Hazardous Material Spills. She gave it to him and hung up before he could reply.
   He redialed, punching the numbers so hard that the tip of his middle finger tingled in protest.
   Another woman! Charles repeated his request without trying to hide his annoyance.
   “When did the spill take place?” asked the woman.
   “This is continuous dumping, not a one-time accident.”
   “I’m sorry,” said the woman. “We only handle spills.”
   “Can I speak to your supervisor?” growled Charles.
   “Just a minute,” sighed the woman.
   Charles waited impatiently, rubbing his face with his hands. He was perspiring.
   “Can I help you?” asked still another woman coming on the line.
   “I certainly hope so,” said Charles. “I’m calling to report that there is a factory regularly dumping benzene which is a poison.”
   “Well, we don’t handle that,” interrupted the woman. “You’ll have to call the proper state agency.”
   “What?” yelled Charles. “What the hell does the EPA do then?”
   “We are a regulatory agency,” said the woman calmly, “tasked to regulate the environment.”
   “I would think that dumping a poison into a river would be something that would concern you.”
   “It very well could be,” agreed the woman, “but only after the state had looked into it. Do you want the number for the proper state agency?”
   “Give it to me,” said Charles wearily. As he hung up he caught Ellen staring at him. He glared and she went back to work.
   Charles waited for the dial tone, then dialed again.
   “Okay,” said the woman after hearing his problem. “What river are you talking about?”
   “The Pawtomack,” said Charles. “My God, am I finally talking to the right people?”
   “Yes, you are,” reassured the woman. “And where is the factory you think is dumping?”
   “The factory is in Shaftesbury,” said Charles.
   “Shaftesbury?” questioned the woman. “That’s in New Hampshire, isn’t it?”
   “That’s right but…”
   “Well, we don’t handle New Hampshire.”
   “But the river is mostly in Massachusetts.”
   “That might be,” said the woman, “but the origin is in New Hampshire. You’ll have to talk to them.”
   “Give me strength,” muttered Charles.
   “Excuse me?”
   “Do you have their number?”
   “No. You’ll have to get it through Information.”
   The line went dead.

   Charles called New Hampshire information and obtained the number to State Services. There was no listing for Water Pollution Control, but after calling the main number, Charles got the extension he wanted. Thinking that he was beginning to sound like a recording, he repeated his request once again.
   “Do you want to report this anonymously?” asked the woman.
   Surprised by the question, Charles took a moment to respond. “No. I’m Dr. Charles Martel, R.D. #1, Shaftesbury.”
   “All right,” said the woman slowly, as if she were writing the material down. “Where does the alleged dumping occur?”
   “In Shaftesbury. A company called Recycle, Ltd. They’re discarding benzene in the Pawtomack.”
   “Okay,” said the woman. “Thank you very much.”
   “Wait a minute,” called Charles. “What are you going to do?”
   “I’ll turn this over to one of our engineers,” said the woman. “And he’ll look into it.”
   “When?”
   “I can’t say for certain.”
   “Can you give me an idea?”
   “We’re pretty busy with several oil spills down at Portsmouth, so it will probably be several weeks.”
   Several weeks wasn’t what Charles wanted to hear.
   “Are any of the engineers around now?”
   “No. Both of them are out. Wait! Here comes one now. Would you like to speak to him?”
   “Please.”
   There was a short delay before a man came on the line.
   “Larry Spencer here!” said the engineer.
   Charles quickly told the man why he was calling and that he’d like someone to check out the dumping immediately.
   “We’ve got a real manpower problem in this department,” explained the engineer.
   “But this is really serious. Benzene is a poison, and a lot of people live along the river.”
   “It’s all serious,” said the engineer.
   “Is there anything I can do to speed things up?” asked Charles.
   “Not really,” said the engineer. “Although you could go to the EPA and see if they’re interested.”
   “That’s who I called first. They referred me to you.”
   “There you go!” said the engineer. “It’s hard to predict which cases they’ll take on. After we do all the dirty work they usually help, but sometimes they’re interested from the start. It’s a crazy, inefficient system. But it’s the only one we’ve got.”
   Charles thanked the engineer and rang off. He felt the man was sincere and at least he’d said that the EPA might be interested after all. Charles had noticed the EPA was housed in the JFK Building at government center in Boston. He wasn’t going to try another phone call; he decided he’d go in person. Restlessly Charles got to his feet and reached for his coat.
   “I’ll be right back,” he called over to Ellen.
   Ellen didn’t respond. She waited several full minutes after the door closed behind Charles before checking the corridor. Charles was nowhere to be seen. Returning to the desk, Ellen dialed Dr. Morrison’s number. She had convinced herself that Charles was acting irresponsibly, even taking into consideration his daughter’s illness, and that it wasn’t fair for him to jeopardize her job as well as his own. Dr. Morrison listened gravely to Ellen, then told her he’d be right down. Before he hung up he mentioned that her help in this difficult affair would not go unrecognized.
   Charles felt a building frenzy when he left the Weinburger. Everything was going poorly, including his idea of revenge. After his time on the phone, he was no longer so positive he could do anything about Recycle, Ltd. short of going up there with his old shotgun. The image of Michelle in her hospital bed again rose to haunt him. Charles did not know why he was so certain she was not going to respond to the chemotherapy. Maybe it was his crazy way of forcing himself to deal with the worst possible case, because he recognized that chemotherapy was her only hope. “If she has to have leukemia,” cried Charles shaking the Pinto’s steering wheel, “why can’t she have lymphocytic where chemotherapy is so successful.”
   Without realizing it, Charles had allowed his car to slow below forty miles an hour, infuriating the other drivers on the road. There was a cacophony of horns, and as people passed him, they shook their fists.
   After stashing his car in the municipal parking garage, Charles made his way up the vast bricked walk between the JFK Federal Building and the geometric City Hall. The buildings acted as a wind tunnel and Charles had to lean into the gusts to walk. The sun was weakly shining at that moment, but a gray cloud bank was approaching from the west. The temperature was twenty-four degrees.
   Charles pushed through the revolving door and searched for a directory. To his left was an exhibition of John F. Kennedy photographs and straight ahead, next to the elevator, a makeshift coffee and donut concession had been set up.
   Dusting Charles with a fine layer of confectioner’s sugar as she spoke, one of the waitresses pointed out the directory. It was hidden behind a series of smiling teenage photos of John F. Kennedy. The EPA was listed on the twenty-third floor. Charles scrambled onto an elevator just before the door closed. Looking around at his fellow occupants, Charles wondered about the strange predominance of green polyester.
   Charles got out on the twenty-third floor and made his way to an office marked DIRECTOR. That seemed like a good place to start.
   Immediately inside the office was a large metal desk and typing stand dominated by an enormous woman whose hair was permed into a profusion of tight curls. A rhinestone-encrusted cigarette holder, capped by a long, ultrathin cigarette, protruded jauntily from the corner of her mouth and competed for attention with her prodigious bosom that taxed the tensile strength of her dress. As Charles approached she adjusted the curls at her temples, viewing herself in a small hand mirror.
   “Excuse me,” said Charles, wondering if this was one of the women he’d spoken to on the phone. “I’m here to report a recycling plant that’s dumping benzene into a local river. Whom do I speak with?”
   Continuing to pat her hair, the woman suspiciously examined Charles. “Is benzene a hazardous substance?” she demanded.
   “Damn right it’s hazardous,” said Charles.
   “I suppose you should go down to the Hazardous Materials Division on the nineteenth floor,” said the woman with a tone that suggested “you ignorant slob.”
   After eight flights of stairs, Charles emerged on nineteen, which had a totally different atmosphere. All except weight-bearing walls were removed, so that one could look from one end of the building to the other. The floor was filled with a maze of chest-height metal dividers separating the area into tiny cubicles. Above the scene hung a haze of cigarette smoke and the unintelligible murmur of hundreds of voices.
   Charles entered the maze, noticing there were poles resembling street signs, describing the various departments. The Hazardous Materials Division was helpfully adjacent to the stairwell Charles had used, so he began to look at the signs delineating the subdivisions. He passed the Noise Program, the Air Program, the Pesticide Program, and the Radiation Program. Just beyond the Solid Waste Program he saw the Toxic Waste Program. He headed in that direction.
   Turning off the main corridor, Charles again confronted a desk serving as a kind of barrier to the interior. It was a much smaller desk and occupied by a slender black fellow who had apparently taken great effort to brush his naturally curly hair straight. To his credit, the man gave Charles his full attention. He was fastidiously dressed and when he spoke, he spoke with an accent almost English in its precision.
   “I’m afraid you’re not in the right section,” said the young man after hearing Charles’s request.
   “Your division doesn’t handle benzene?”
   “We handle benzene all right,” said the man, “but we just handle the permits and licensing of hazardous materials.”
   “Where do you suggest I go?” asked Charles, controlling himself.
   “Hmmm,” said the man, putting a carefully manicured finger to the tip of his nose. “You know, I haven’t the slightest idea. This has never come up. Wait, let me ask somebody else.”
   With a light, springy step, the young man stepped around the desk, smiled at Charles, and disappeared into the interior of the maze. His shoes had metal taps and the sound carried back to Charles, distinct from the sounds of nearby typewriters. Charles fidgeted as he waited. He had the feeling his efforts were going to turn out to be totally in vain.
   The young black came back.
   “Nobody really knows where to go,” he admitted. “But it was suggested that perhaps you could try the Water Programs Division on the twenty-second floor. Maybe they can help.”
   Charles thanked the man, appreciating at least his willingness to help, and returned to the stairwell. With dampened enthusiasm but augmented anger, Charles climbed the six flights of stairs to the twenty-second floor. When he’d passed the twenty-first floor he’d had to skirt a group of three young men passing a joint among them. They’d eyed Charles with brazen arrogance.
   The twenty-second floor was a mix of offices with normal plasterboard walls alternating with open areas containing chest-high dividers. At a nearby watercooler, Charles got directions to the Water Programs Division.
   Charles found the receptionist’s desk but it was empty. A smoldering cigarette suggested the occupant was in the vicinity but even after a short wait, no one materialized. Emboldened by exasperation, Charles stepped around the desk and entered the interior office space. Some of the cubicles were occupied with people on the phone or busy at a typewriter. Charles wandered until he came upon a man carrying a load of federal publications.
   “Pardon me,” said Charles.
   The man eased the stack of pamphlets onto his desk and acknowledged Charles. Charles went through his now-automatic routine. The man straightened the pile of pamphlets while he thought, then turned to Charles. “This isn’t the right department for reporting that kind of thing.”
   “Jesus Christ!” Charles exploded. “This is the Water Department. I want to report a poisoning of water.”
   “Hey, don’t get mad at me,” defended the man. “We’re only tasked with monitoring water treatment facilities and sewerage disposal facilities.”
   “I’m sorry,” said Charles with little sympathy. “You have no idea how frustrating this is. I have a simple complaint. I know a factory that’s dumping benzene into a river.”
   “Maybe you should try the Hazardous Substance department,” said the man.
   “I already did.”
   “Oh,” said the man, still thinking. “Why don’t you try the Enforcement Division up on twenty-three?”
   Charles eyed the man for a moment, dumbfounded. “Enforcement Division?” echoed Charles. “Why hasn’t someone suggested that before?”
   “Beats me,” said the man.
   Charles muttered obscenities under his breath as he found another stairwell and climbed to the twenty-third floor. He passed the Financial Management Branch, the Personnel Branch, and the Program Planning and Development Branch. Just beyond the men’s room was the Enforcement Division. Charles stepped inside.
   A black girl with large, purple-shaded glasses looked up from the latest Sidney Sheldon novel. She must have been at a good part because she didn’t hide her irritation at being bothered.
   Charles told her what he wanted.
   “I don’t know anything about that,” said the girl.
   “Whom should I talk to?” said Charles slowly.
   “I don’t know,” said the girl, going back to her book.
   Charles leaned on the desk with his left hand, and with his right snatched away the paperback. He slammed it down on the desk so that the girl jumped back.
   “Sorry I lost your place,” said Charles. “But I’d like to speak to your supervisor.”
   “Miss Stevens?” asked the girl, unsure of what Charles might do next.
   “Miss Stevens will be fine.”
   “She’s not in today.”
   Charles drummed his fingers on the desk, resisting the temptation to reach over and give the girl a shake.
   “All right,” he said. “How about the next person in command who is here.”
   “Mrs. Amendola?” suggested the girl.
   “I don’t care what her name is.”
   Keeping a wary eye on Charles, the young woman got to her feet and disappeared.
   When she reappeared, five minutes later, she had a concerned woman in tow who looked about thirty-five.
   “I’m Mrs. Amendola, assistant supervisor here. Can I help you?”
   “I certainly hope so,” said Charles. “I’m Dr. Charles Martel and I’m trying to report a factory that is dumping poisonous chemicals into a river. I have been sent from one department to another until someone suggested there was an Enforcement Division. But when I arrived here the receptionist was somewhat less than cooperative, so I demanded to speak to a supervisor.”
   “I told him that I didn’t know anything about dumping chemicals,” explained the young black girl.
   Mrs. Amendola considered the situation for a moment, then invited Charles to follow her.
   After passing a dozen cubicles, they entered a tiny and windowless office enlivened with travel posters. Mrs. Amendola motioned toward a lounge chair and squeezed herself behind the desk.

   “You must understand,” said Mrs. Amendola, “we don’t have people walking in off the street with your kind of complaint. But of course, that doesn’t excuse rudeness.”
   “What the hell do you people enforce if it’s not fouling the environment,” said Charles with hostility. After leading him to her office to placate him, Charles had the feeling that she was just going to refer him to another department.
   “Our main job,” explained the woman, “is to make sure that factories handling hazardous waste have filed for all the proper permits and licenses. It’s a law that they do this and we enforce the law. Sometimes we have to take businesses to court and fine them.”
   Charles lowered his face into his hands and massaged his scalp. Apparently the absurdity that Mrs. Amendola was describing was not apparent to her.
   “Are you all right?” Mrs. Amendola tilted forward in her chair.
   “Let me be sure I understand what you’re saying,” said Charles. “The primary task of the Enforcement Division of the EPA is to make sure that paperwork gets done. It has nothing to do with enforcing the Clean Water Act or anything like that?”
   “That’s not entirely correct,” said Mrs. Amendola. “You must remember that the whole concern for the environment is relatively new. Regulations are still being formulated. The first step is registering all users of hazardous materials and informing them of the rules. Then and only then will we be in a position to go after the violators.”
   “So, for now, unscrupulous factories can do what they want,” said Charles.
   “That’s not entirely correct either,” said Mrs. Amendola. “We do have a surveillance branch which is part of our analytical laboratory. Under the present administration our budget has been cut and unfortunately that branch is quite small, but that’s the place your complaint should go. After they document a violation, they turn it over to us and we assign the case to one of the EPA lawyers. Tell me, Dr. Martel. What is the name of the factory you are concerned about?”
   “Recycle, Ltd. in Shaftesbury,” said Charles.
   “Why don’t we check their paperwork?” said Mrs. Amendola rising from her desk.
   Charles followed the woman out of her tiny office and down a long corridor. She paused at a secured door and inserted a plastic card in a slot.
   “We’re going on-line with a pretty sophisticated data processor,” said Mrs. Amendola, holding the door open for Charles, “so we’re having to tighten security.”
   Inside the room the air was cooler and cleaner. There was no odor of cigarette smoke. Apparently the computer terminal’s well-being was more important than employee health. Mrs. Amendola sat down in front of a free terminal and typed in


RECYCLE, LTD.
SHAFTESBURY, N.H.

   There was a ten-second delay after which the cathode ray tube blinked to life. Recycle, Ltd. was described in computer shorthand, including the fact that it was wholly owned by Breur Chemicals of New Jersey. Then all the hazardous chemicals involved with the plant were listed, followed by the date applications for permit or license were filed and the date they were granted.
   “What chemicals are you interested in?” said Mrs. Amendola.
   “Benzene, mostly.”
   “Here it is, here. EPA hazardous chemical number U019. Everything seems to be in order. I guess they’re not breaking any laws.”
   “But they’re dumping the stuff directly in the river!” exclaimed Charles. “I know that’s against the law.”
   The other occupants of the room looked up from their work, shocked at Charles’s outburst. Churchlike speech was the unwritten law in the computer terminal room.
   Charles lowered his voice. “Can we go back to your office?”
   Mrs. Amendola nodded.
   Back in the tiny office, Charles moved forward to the edge of the chair. “Mrs. Amendola, I’m going to tell you the whole story because I think you might be able to help me.”
   Charles went on to tell about Michelle’s leukemia, Tad Schonhauser’s death from aplastic anemia, his discovery and confirmation of the benzene in the pond, and his visit to Recycle, Ltd.
   “My God!” she said when Charles paused.
   “Do you have children?” asked Charles.
   “Yes!” said Mrs. Amendola with true fear in her voice.
   “Then maybe you can understand what this is doing to me,” said Charles. “And maybe you can understand why I want to do something about Recycle, Ltd. I’m sure a lot of kids live along the Pawtomack. But obviously I need some help.”
   “You want me to try to get the EPA involved,” said Mrs. Amendola. A statement, not a question.
   “Exactly,” said Charles, “or tell me how to do it.”
   “It would be best if you made your complaint in writing. Address it to me!”
   “That’s easy,” said Charles.
   “What about some documented proof? Could you get that?”
   “I already have the analysis of the pond water,” said Charles.
   “No, no,” said Mrs. Amendola. “Something from the factory itself: a statement by a former employee, doctored records, photos of the actual dumping. Something like that.”
   “It’s possible, I suppose,” said Charles, thinking about the last suggestion. He had a Polaroid camera…
   “If you could supply me with some kind of proof, I think I could get the Surveillance Branch to confirm it, then authorize a full-scale probe. So it’s up to you. Otherwise it will just have to wait its turn.”
   As Charles left the JFK Federal Building he was again fighting a feeling of depression. He was much less confident now about convincing any authority to do anything about Recycle, Ltd. Consequently, the idea of taking matters into his own hands was an increasingly enjoyable fantasy.
   The more he thought about Breur Chemicals, the angrier he became that a handful of dull businessmen sitting around in oak-paneled conference rooms in New Jersey could destroy his happiness and rob him of that which he loved the most. Approaching the Weinburger, Charles decided he’d call the absentee parent company and let them know how he felt about them.
   Since the Brighton scandal hit the media, security had been tightened at the Weinburger, and Charles had to knock on the massive glass door before it slid open. He was greeted by Roy, the guard, who demanded to see his identification.
   “It’s me, Roy,” said Charles, waving his hand in front of Roy’s face. “Dr. Martel.”
   “Orders,” explained Roy, with his hand still outstretched.
   “Administrative nonsense,” mumbled Charles as he searched for his ID. “What next?”
   Roy shrugged, waited to see the card, which Charles stuck two inches away from his face, then ceremoniously stepped aside. Even the usually coy Miss Andrews turned away without honoring him with her usual come-over-and-talk-to-me smile.
   Charles ditched his coat, called information for New Jersey, and dialed Breur Chemicals. As he waited he looked around the lab wondering if Ellen was still offended. He didn’t see her and decided she must be in the animal room. At that moment Breur Chemicals answered the phone.
   Later Charles admitted to himself he should not have called. He’d already had enough bad experiences that morning to have guessed what it would have been like to try to call a giant corporation with what they would consider a bothersome complaint. Charles was switched over to a low-level man in the Public Relations department.
   Rather than try to placate Charles, the man accused him of being one of those unpatriotic nuts whose stupid and unfounded environmental concerns were responsible for putting American industry in a poor competitive position with companies overseas. The conversation degenerated into a shouting match about dumping benzene with Charles saying they were and the man saying they were not.
   He slammed the phone down and spun around in a fury, looking for a way to vent his anger.
   The door to the corridor opened and Ellen entered.
   “Have you noticed?” asked Ellen with irritating nonchalance.
   “Noticed what?” snapped Charles.
   “All the lab books,” said Ellen. “They’re gone.”
   Charles leaped to his feet, scanning his desk, then the countertops.
   “There’s no sense looking for them,” said Ellen. “They’re upstairs.”
   “What the hell for?”
   “After you left this morning, Dr. Morrison stopped in to check on our progress with Canceran. Instead he caught me working with the mice we’d given the mammary cancer antigen. Needless to say, he was shocked that we were doing our own work. I’m supposed to tell you to go to Dr. Ibanez’s office as soon as you appeared.”
   “But why did they take the books?” asked Charles. Fear blunted the edge of his anger. As much as he hated administrative authority, he also feared it. It had been that way ever since college where he’d learned that an arbitrary decision from the Dean’s office could affect his whole life. And now the administration had invaded his world and arbitrarily taken his lab books which for Charles was like taking a hostage. The contents of the lab books were associated in his mind with helping Michelle, despite how far-fetched that was in reality.
   “I think you’d better ask Dr. Morrison and Dr. Ibanez that question,” said Ellen. “Frankly, I knew it was going to come to something like this.”
   Ellen sighed and tossed her head in an I-told-you-so fashion. Charles watched her, surprised at her attitude. It added to his feeling of isolation.
   Leaving his lab, he wearily climbed up the fire stairs to the second floor and walked past the familiar row of secretaries and presented himself to Miss Veronica Evans for the second time in two days. Although she was obviously unoccupied, she took her sweet time looking up over her glasses at Charles.
   “Yes?” she said as if Charles were a servant. Then she told him to wait on a small leather couch. Charles was certain that the delay was made to impress upon him that he was a pawn. Time dragged while Charles could not decide which was the stronger emotion: anger, fear, or panic. But the need to get back his lab books kept him in his place. He had no idea if they were technically his property or the institute’s.
   The longer he sat, the less certain he became that the books detailing his recent work would be a strong bargaining point. He began to wonder if Ibanez might actually fire him. He tried to think what he could do if he had trouble getting another research position. He felt so out of touch with clinical medicine that he didn’t think he could do that. And if he got fired, he wondered with renewed panic if he’d still be covered by health insurance. That was a real concern because Michelle’s hospital bills were going to be astronomical.
   There was a discreet buzz on the intercom panel, and Miss Evans turned to Charles imperiously and said: “The director will see you now.”
   Dr. Carlos Ibanez stood up behind his antique desk as Charles entered. His figure was backlit from the windows, making his hair and goatee shine like polished silver.
   Directly in front of the desk were Joshua Weinburger, Sr. and Joshua Weinburger, Jr., whom Charles had met at infrequent mandatory social functions. Although close to eighty, the senior seemed more animated than the junior, with lively blue eyes. He regarded Charles with great interest.
   Joshua Weinburger, Jr. was the stereotypical businessman, impeccably attired, obviously extremely reserved. He glanced at Charles with a mixture of disdain and boredom, switching his attention back to Dr. Ibanez almost immediately.
   Seated to the right of the desk was Dr. Morrison, whose dress mirrored Joshua Weinburger, Jr.’s in its attention to detail. A silk handkerchief, which had been carefully folded, then casually flared, protruded from his breast pocket.
   “Come in, come in!” commanded Dr. Ibanez good-naturedly.
   Charles approached Dr. Ibanez’s huge desk, noticing the conspicuous lack of a fourth chair. He ended up standing between the Weinburgers and Morrison. Charles didn’t know what to do with his hands, so he stuck them into his pockets. He looked out of place among these businessman with his frayed oxford-cloth shirt, his wide out-of-style tie, and poorly pressed slacks.
   “I think we should get right to business,” said Dr. Ibanez. “The Weinburgers, as co-chairmen of the board of directors, have graciously come to help us manage the current crisis.”
   “Indeed,” said Weinburger, Jr., turning slightly in his chair so as to look up at Charles. He had a tremor of his head and it rotated rapidly in a short arc to and fro. “Dr. Martel, it’s not the policy of the board of directors to interfere in the creative process of research. However, there are occasionally circumstances in which we must violate this rule and the current crisis is such a time. I think you should know that Canceran is a potentially important drug for Lesley Pharmaceuticals. To be very blunt, Lesley Pharmaceuticals is in precarious financial condition. Within the last few years, their patents have run out on their line of antibiotics and tranquilizers, and they are in desperate need of a new drug to market. They have committed their scarce resources into developing a chemotherapy line, and Canceran is the product of that research. They hold the exclusive patent on Canceran but must get the drug on the market. The sooner the better.”
   Charles studied the faces of the men. Obviously they weren’t going to dismiss him summarily. The idea was to soften him up, make him understand the financial realities, then convince him to recommence work on Canceran. He had a glimmer of hope. The Weinburgers couldn’t have risen to their positions of power without intelligence, and Charles began to formulate in his mind the way he would convince them that Canceran was a bad investment, that it was a toxic drug and would probably never be marketed.
   “We already know what you discovered about the toxicity of Canceran,” said Dr. Ibanez, taking a short puff on his cigar and unknowingly undermining Charles. “We realize that Dr. Brighton’s estimates are not entirely accurate.”
   “That’s a generous way of putting it,” said Charles, realizing with dismay that his trump card had been snatched from him. “Apparently all the data in the Canceran studies done by Dr. Brighton has been falsified.” He watched the reaction of the Weinburgers out of the corners of his eyes, hoping for a response but seeing none.
   “Most unfortunate,” agreed Dr. Ibanez. “The solution is salvaging what we can and going forward.”
   “But my estimates suggest the drug is extremely toxic,” said Charles desperately, “so toxic, in fact, that it might have to be given in homeopathic doses.”
   “That’s not our concern,” said Joshua Weinburger, Jr. “That’s a marketing problem, and that’s the one department at Lesley Pharmaceuticals that is outstanding. They could sell ice to Eskimos.”
   Charles was dumbfounded. There wasn’t even the pretense of ethicality. Whether the product would help people made no difference. It was business—big business.
   “Charles!” said Dr. Morrison, speaking for the first time. “We want to ask if you could run the efficacy and toxicity studies concurrently.”
   Charles switched his gaze to Dr. Morrison and stared at him with contempt. “That kind of approach would be reducing inductive research to pure empiricism.”
   “We don’t care what you call it,” said Dr. Ibanez with a smile. “We just want to know if it could be done.”
   Joshua Weinburger, Sr. laughed. He liked aggressive people and aggressive ideas.
   “And we don’t care how many test animals you use,” said Morrison generously.
   “That’s right,” agreed Dr. Ibanez. “Although we’d recommend you use mice since they’re considerably cheaper, you can use as many as you’d like. What we’re suggesting is doing efficacy studies at a very wide range of dosages. At the conclusion of the experiment, new toxicity values could be extrapolated and then substituted for the falsified data in the original toxicity study done by Dr. Brighton. Simple as that, and we’d save lots of time! What do you say, Charles?”
   “Before you answer,” said Morrison, “I think I should warn you that if you refuse, it will be in the best interests of the institute to let you go and seek someone who will give Canceran the attention it deserves.”
   Charles looked from face to face. His fear and panic had disappeared. Anger and contempt remained. “Where are my lab books?” he asked with a tired voice.
   “Safe and sound in the vault,” said Dr. Ibanez. “They are the property of the institute but you will get them back as soon as you finish Canceran. You see, we want you to concentrate on Canceran and we feel that having your own books might be too much of a temptation.”
   “We can’t emphasize enough the need for speed,” added Joshua Weinburger, Jr. “But as an added incentive, if you can have a preliminary study done in five months, we’ll give you a bonus of ten thousand dollars.”
   “I’d say that is very generous,” said Dr. Ibanez. “But you don’t have to decide right this moment. In fact, we have agreed to give you twenty-four hours. We don’t want you to feel coerced. But just so you know, we will be making preliminary inquiries into finding your replacement. Until then, Dr. Charles Martel.”
   With disgust, Charles whirled and headed for the door. As he reached it, Dr. Ibanez called out: “One other thing. The board of directors and the administration want to convey their condolences regarding your daughter. We hope she recovers quickly. The Institute health plan, by the way, only holds while you are actively employed. Good day, doctor.”
   Charles wanted to scream. Instead he ran the length of the administrative department and thundered down the metal fire stairs to his office, but once there, he didn’t know whether he wanted to stay. For the first time he felt that being part of the Weinburger Institute was a disgrace. He hated the fact that they even knew about Michelle. On top of that they were using Michelle’s illness as leverage against him. It was an outrage. God!
   He looked around his laboratory, his home for the last eight years. He felt as if he knew every piece of glassware, each instrument, every bottle of reagent. It didn’t seem fair that he could be rudely plucked from this environment at whim, especially now that he was making such progress.
   His eye fell on the culture he’d set up with Michelle’s leukemia cells. With great effort he went over to the incubator, peering in at the rows of carefully arranged glass tubes. It appeared to be progressing well, and Charles felt a much-needed sense of satisfaction. As far as he could tell, his progress of isolating and augmenting a cancer antigen seemed to work as well with human cells as it did with animal cells. Since it was already time for the next step, Charles rolled up his sleeves and tucked his tie inside his shirt. Work was Charles’s anesthetic and he bent to the task. After all, he had twenty-four hours before he’d have to bow to the demands of the administration. He knew but did not want to admit to himself that he had to give in for Michelle’s sake. He really had no choice.

Nine

   Coming back from Beth Israel Hospital where she’d paid an unsuccessful visit to Marge Schonhauser, Cathryn felt she was being stretched to the limits of her endurance. She’d guessed that Marge must have been bad off or she wouldn’t have been hospitalized, but she was still not prepared for what she found. Apparently some vital thread had snapped in Marge’s brain when Tad had died, because she had sunk into an unresponsive torpor, refusing to eat or even sleep. Cathryn had sat with Marge in silence until a feeling of tension drove Cathryn away. It was as if Marge’s depression were infectious. Cathryn fled back to Pediatric Hospital, going from the casualty of one tragedy to the beginning of another.
   Rising in the crowded elevator to Anderson 6, she wondered if what happened to Marge could happen to her or even to Charles. He was a physician and she would have guessed he’d be more capable of dealing with this kind of reality, yet his behavior was far from reassuring. As difficult as she found hospitals and illness, Cathryn tried to gird herself against the future.
   The elevator arrived at Anderson 6 and Cathryn struggled to reach the front of the car before the doors closed. She was impatient to get back to Michelle, because the child had been very reluctant to let Cathryn leave. Cathryn had talked Michelle into letting her go after lunch by promising she’d be back in half an hour. Unfortunately it was now closer to an hour.
   Michelle had clung to Cathryn earlier that morning after Charles had left, insisting that Charles was angry with her. No matter what Cathryn had said, she’d not been able to change Michelle’s mind.
   Now Cathryn pushed open Michelle’s door, hoping the child might be napping. At first she thought perhaps she was, because Michelle didn’t move. But then Cathryn noticed the child had kicked off the covers and slid down in the bed with one leg tucked under her. From the doorway Cathryn could see that Michelle’s chest was heaving violently and worst of all, her face had an alarmingly bluish cast with deep maroon-colored lips.
   Rushing to the bedside, Cathryn grasped Michelle by the shoulders.
   “Michelle,” she cried, shaking the child. “What’s wrong?”
   Michelle’s lips moved and her lids fluttered open but only whites showed; her eyes were rolled up in their sockets.
   “Help!” cried Cathryn, running for the corridor. “Help!”
   The charge nurse came from behind the nurses’ station followed by an LPN. From a room beyond Michelle’s came another RN. They all rapidly converged on Michelle’s room, pushing past the panic-stricken Cathryn. One went to either side of the bed, another to the foot.
   “Call a code,” barked the charge nurse.
   The nurse at the foot of the bed sped over to the intercom and yelled for the clerk at the nurses’ station to call a code.
   Meanwhile the charge nurse could feel a rapid, thready pulse. “Feels like V-tack,” she said. “Her heart’s beating so fast it’s hard to feel individual beats.”
   “I agree,” said the other nurse, putting the blood pressure cuff around Michelle’s arm.
   “She’s breathing but cyanotic,” said the charge nurse. “Should I give her mouth-to-mouth?”
   “I don’t know,” said the second nurse, pumping up the blood pressure cuff. “Maybe it would help the cyanosis.”
   The third nurse came back to the bed and straightened out Michelle’s leg while the charge nurse bent over and, squeezing Michelle’s nose shut, placed her mouth over Michelle’s and blew.
   “I can get a blood pressure,” said the second nurse. “Sixty over forty, but it’s variable.”
   The charge nurse continued to breathe for Michelle but Michelle’s own rapid respiration made it difficult. The nurse straightened up. “I think I’m hindering her more than helping her. I’d better hold off.”
   Cathryn remained pressed against the wall, terrorized by the scene in front of her, afraid to move lest she be in the way. She had no idea what was happening although she knew it was bad. Where was Charles!
   A woman resident was the first doctor to arrive. She came through from the hallway so quickly that she had to grab the edge of the door to keep from falling on the polished vinyl floor. She ran directly to the bedside, grasping Michelle’s wrist for a pulse.
   “I think she has V-tack,” said the charge nurse. “She’s a leukemic. Myeloblastic. Day two of attempted induction.”
   “Any cardiac history?” demanded the woman resident, as she leaned over and elevated Michelle’s eyelids. “At least the pupils are down.”
   The three nurses looked at each other. “We don’t think she has any cardiac history. Nothing was said at report,” said the charge nurse.
   “Blood pressure?” asked the resident.
   “Last time it was sixty over forty but variable,” said the second nurse.
   “V-tack,” confirmed the woman resident. “Stand back a second.”
   The woman resident made a fist and brought it down on Michelle’s narrow thorax with a resounding thump that made Cathryn wince.
   An extremely young-looking chief resident arrived followed by two others pushing a cart filled with all sorts of medical paraphernalia and crowned with electronic instrumentation.
   The woman resident gave a terse explanation of Michelle’s condition while the nurses rapidly attached EKG leads to Michelle’s extremities.
   The charge nurse leaned over to one of the other nurses and told her to page Dr. Keitzman.
   The electronic box on the top of the cart began to spew forth an endless strip of narrow graph paper on which Cathryn could see the red squiggles of an EKG. The doctors grouped around the machine, momentarily forgetting Michelle.
   “V-tack all right,” said the chief resident. “With the dyspnea and cyanosis she’s obviously hemodynamically compromised. What does that mean, George?”
   One of the other residents looked up, startled. “Means we should cardiovert her immediately… I think.”
   “You think right,” concurred the chief resident. “But let’s draw up some Lidocaine. Let’s see, the kid’s about fifty kilograms, no?”
   “A little less,” said the woman resident.
   “All right, fifty milligrams of Lidocaine. Also draw up a milligram of atropine in case she goes into bradycardia.”
   The team functioned efficiently as one resident drew up the medications, another got out the electrode paddles, while the third helped position Michelle. One paddle went under Michelle’s back, the other anteriorly on her chest.
   “All right, stand back,” said the chief resident. “We’ll use a fifty-watt second shock to start, programmed to be delivered at the R-wave. Here goes.”
   He pressed a button and after a momentary delay Michelle’s body contracted, her arms and legs jumping off the surface of the bed.
   Cathryn watched in horror as the doctors stayed bent over the machine, ignoring Michelle’s violent reaction. Cathryn could see the child’s eyes open in utter bewilderment and her head lift off the bed. Thankfully her color rapidly reverted to normal.
   “Not bad!” yelled the chief resident, examining the EKG paper as it came out of the machine.
   “John, you’re getting good at this stuff,” agreed the woman resident. “Maybe you should think about doing it for a living.”
   All the doctors laughed and turned to Michelle.
   Dr. Keitzman arrived breathless, hands jammed into the pockets of his long white coat. He went directly to the bed, his bespectacled eyes quickly scanning Michelle’s body. He snatched up her hand, feeling for a pulse.
   “Are you okay, chicken?” he asked, getting out his stethoscope.
   Michelle nodded but didn’t speak. She appeared dazed.
   Cathryn watched as John, the chief resident, launched into a capsule summary of the event in what was to Cathryn incomprehensible medicalese.
   Dr. Keitzman’s upper lip pulled back in a characteristic spasm as he bent over Michelle, listening to her chest. Satisfied, he checked a run of EKG paper offered by John. At that moment he caught sight of Cathryn pressed up against the wall. Keitzman glanced at the charge nurse with a questioning expression. The charge nurse, following his line of sight, shrugged.
   “We didn’t know she was in here,” said the charge nurse defensively.
   Dr. Keitzman walked over to Cathryn and put a hand on her shoulder.
   “How about you, Mrs. Martel?” asked Dr. Keitzman. “Are you all right?”
   Cathryn tried to talk but her voice wouldn’t cooperate, so she nodded like Michelle.
   “I’m sorry you had to see this,” said Dr. Keitzman. “Michelle seems fine and she undoubtedly did not feel anything. But I know this kind of thing is shocking. Let’s go out in the hall for a moment. I’d like to talk to you.”
   Cathryn strained upward to see Michelle over Dr. Keitzman’s shoulder.
   “She’ll be okay for a moment,” assured Dr. Keitzman. Then, turning to the charge nurse, he said, “I’ll be just outside. I want a cardiac monitor in here, and I’d like a cardiac consult. See if Dr. Brubaker can see her right away.” Dr. Keitzman gently urged Cathryn out into the corridor. “Come down to the nurses’ station; we can talk there.”
   Dr. Keitzman led Cathryn down the busy corridor to the chart room. There were Formica Parsons tables, chairs, two dictating telephones, and the massive chart racks. Dr. Keitzman pulled out a chair for Cathryn and she gratefully sat down.
   “Can I get you something to drink?” suggested Dr. Keitzman. “Water?”
   “No, thank you,” managed Cathryn nervously. Dr. Keitzman’s extremely serious manner was a source of new anxiety and she searched the man’s face for clues. It was hard to see his eyes through his thick glasses.
   The charge nurse’s head came through the door. “Dr. Brubaker wants to know if he can see the patient in his office.”
   Dr. Keitzman’s face contorted for a second while he pondered. “Tell him that she just had an episode of V-tack and I’d prefer he see her before she’s moved around.”
   “Okay,” said the charge nurse.
   Dr. Keitzman turned to Cathryn. He sighed. “Mrs. Martel, I feel I must talk frankly with you. Michelle is not doing well at all. And I’m not referring specifically to this latest episode.”
   “What was this episode?” asked Cathryn, not liking the initial tone of the conversation.
   “Her heart speeded up,” said Dr. Keitzman. “Usually it’s the upper part of the heart that initiates the beat.” Dr. Keitzman gestured awkwardly to try to illustrate what he was saying. “But for some reason, the lower part of Michelle’s heart took over. Why? We don’t know yet. In any case, her heart suddenly began to beat so fast that there wasn’t time for the heart to fill properly, so it pumped inefficiently. But that seems to be under control. What is worrying me is that she does not seem to be responding to the chemotherapy.”
   “But she’s just started!” exclaimed Cathryn. The last thing that Cathryn wanted was for her hope to be undermined.
   “That’s true,” agreed Dr. Keitzman. “However, Michelle’s type of leukemia usually responds in the first few days. On top of that Michelle has the most aggressive case that I’ve ever seen. Yesterday we gave her a very strong and very successful drug called Daunorubicin. This morning when we did her blood count, I was shocked to see that there was almost no effect on the leukemic cells. This is very unusual although it does happen occasionally. So I decided to try something a little different. Usually we give a second dose of this medicine on the fifth day. Instead I gave her another dose today along with the Thioguanine and Cytarabine.”
   “Why are you telling me this?” asked Cathryn, certain that Dr. Keitzman knew she would not understand much of what he was saying.
   “Because of your husband’s response yesterday,” said Dr. Keitzman. “And because of what Dr. Wiley and I said to you. I’m afraid your husband’s emotions will interfere and he’ll want to stop the medicines.”
   “But if they’re not working, maybe they should be stopped,” said Cathryn.
   “Mrs. Martel. Michelle is an extremely sick child. These medicines are her only chance for survival. Yes, it’s disappointing that as yet they have been ineffective. Your husband is right in saying her chances are slim. But without chemotherapy, she has no chance at all.”
   Cathryn felt the stabbing pain of guilt; she should have brought Michelle to the hospital weeks ago.
   Dr. Keitzman stood up. “I hope you understand what I’m saying. Michelle needs your strength. Now, I want you to call your husband and have him come over. He’s got to be told what’s happened.”

   Even before the automatic radioactivity counter began to record the electrons emanating from the series of vials, Charles knew that the radioactive nucleotides had been absorbed and incorporated into the tissue culture of Michelle’s leukemic cells. He was now in the last stages of preparing a concentrated solution of a surface protein that differentiated Michelle’s leukemic cells from her normal cells. This protein was foreign to Michelle’s body but was not rejected because of the mysterious blocking factor that Charles knew was in Michelle’s system. It was this blocking factor that Charles had wanted to investigate. If only he knew something about the method of action of the blocking factor, perhaps it could be inhibited or eliminated. He was frustrated to be so close to a solution and have to stop. At the same time he realized that it was probably a five-year project with no guarantee of success.
   Closing the cover on the tissue culture incubator, he walked to his desk, vaguely wondering why Ellen had not appeared. He wanted to discuss the Canceran project with someone knowledgeable, and she was the only person he could trust.
   He sat down, trying not to think about the recent humiliating meeting with Dr. Ibanez and the Weinburgers. Instead he recalled the frustrating visit to the EPA offices that didn’t make him feel much better. Yet he could laugh at his own naiveté in thinking that he could walk into a government agency and expect to accomplish something. He wondered if there would be any way that he could get some sort of photographic proof of Recycle’s dumping. It was doubtful, but he’d try.
   Perhaps if he were responsible for getting the evidence, he should sue Recycle directly rather than waiting for the EPA to do so. Charles knew very little about law, but he remembered there was a source of information open to him. The Weinburger Institute law firm on retainer.
   The left lower drawer was Charles’s spot for miscellaneous pamphlets. Close to the bottom he found what he was looking for: a skinny red booklet entitled Welcome Aboard: This Is Your Weinburger Cancer Institute. In the back was a list of important phone numbers. Under services was Hubbert, Hubbert, Garachnik and Pearson, 1 State Street, followed by several phone numbers. He dialed the first.

   Identifying himself, Charles was immediately switched to Mr. Garachnik’s office. His secretary was particularly cordial and within minutes, Charles found himself talking with Mr. Garachnik himself. Apparently the Weinburger was a valued customer.
   “I need some information,” said Charles, “about suing a company dumping poisonous waste into a public river.”
   “It would be best,” said Mr. Garachnik, “if we have one of our environmental law persons look into the matter. However, if your questions are general, perhaps I can help. Is the Weinburger Institute becoming interested in environmental pursuits?”
   “No,” said Charles. “Unfortunately not. I’m interested in this personally.”
   “I see,” said Mr. Garachnik, his tone becoming cool. “Hubbert, Hubbert, Garachnik and Pearson does not handle personal Weinburger employee legal problems unless special arrangement is made with the individual.”
   “That could be arranged,” said Charles. “But as long as I’ve got you on the phone, why don’t you just give me an idea about the process.”
   There was a pause. Mr. Garachnik wanted Charles to realize that he felt Charles’s inquiry beneath his stature as a senior partner. “It could be done as an individual or class action suit. If it were an individual suit, you’d need specific damages and if…”
   “I’ve got damages!” interrupted Charles. “My daughter has come down with leukemia!”
   “Dr. Martel,” said Mr. Garachnik with irritation. “As a physician you should know that establishing causation between the dumping and the leukemia would be extremely difficult. However, with a class action suit for the purpose of securing an injunction against the factory, you don’t need specific damages. What you do need is the participation of thirty to forty people. If you want to pursue this further, I suggest you contact Thomas Wilson, one of our new, younger lawyers. He has a particular interest in environmental matters.”
   “Does it matter that the company is in New Hampshire?” asked Charles quickly.
   “No, other than that it must be sued in a New Hampshire court,” said Mr. Garachnik, obviously eager to terminate the conversation.
   “What if it’s owned by a corporation in New Jersey?”
   “That might and might not compound the difficulties,” said Mr. Garachnik, suddenly more interested. “What factory in New Hampshire are you talking about?”
   “A place called Recycle, Ltd. in Shaftesbury,” said Charles.
   “Which is owned by Breur Chemicals of New Jersey,” added Mr. Garachnik quickly.
   “That’s right,” said Charles, surprised. “How did you know?”
   “Because on occasion we indirectly represent Breur Chemicals. In case you’re not aware, Breur Chemicals owns the Weinburger Institute even though it’s run as a nonprofit organization.”
   Charles was stunned.
   Mr. Garachnik continued: “Breur Chemicals founded the Weinburger Institute when they expanded into the drug industry by purchasing Lesley Pharmaceuticals. I was against it back then, but Weinburger, Sr. was committed to the idea. I was afraid of an antitrust action, but it never materialized because of the nonprofit cover. In any case, Dr. Martel, you essentially work for Breur Chemicals and in that capacity, you’d better think twice about suing anyone.”
   Charles hung the phone up very slowly. He could not believe what he’d just heard. He’d never cared about the financial side of the institute except to the extent that the Weinburger could supply him with research space and equipment. But now he learned that he was working for a conglomerate which was ultimately responsible for dumping cancer-causing waste into a public river as well as running a research institute supposedly interested in curing cancer. As for Canceran, the parent company controlled both the drug firm holding the patents and the research firm chosen to ascertain its efficiency.
   No wonder Weinburger was so interested in Canceran!
   The phone jangled Charles’s taut nerves as it rang under his outstretched hand. As the source of the recent dreadful revelation, Charles debated answering it. Undoubtedly it was the administration calling, bent on harassing him with more pressure and more deceit.
   Abruptly Charles’s mind switched to Michelle. The call could be about his daughter. He snatched the receiver from the cradle and pressed it to his ear.
   He was right. It was Cathryn and her voice had the same stiff quality it had the day before. His heart jumped into his throat.
   “Is everything okay?”
   “Michelle is not doing so well. There’s been a complication. You’d better come over.”
   Charles grabbed his coat and ran out of his lab. At the front entrance, he knocked on the massive glass door, impatient for it to open.
   “All right, all right!” said Miss Andrews, pressing the door release under her desk.
   Charles squeezed out before the door was fully opened and disappeared from sight.
   “What’s the matter with him?” asked Miss Andrews, pressing the close switch. “Is he crazy or something?”
   Roy adjusted his worn holster and shrugged.
   Charles concentrated on hurrying to keep from guessing what had happened to Michelle. But after crossing the Charles, he got bogged down in traffic on Massachusetts Avenue. As he inched forward, he couldn’t help worrying about what he was going to find when he got to Pediatric Hospital. Cathryn’s words kept echoing in his head: “Michelle is not doing so well. There’s been a complication.” Charles felt panic tighten his stomach into a painful knot.
   When he reached the hospital, he rushed inside and forced his way onto a full elevator. Maddeningly the car stopped at every floor. Eventually it reached the sixth, and Charles pushed his way off and hurried down to Michelle’s room. The door was almost closed. He entered without knocking.
   An elegant blond-haired woman straightened up from leaning over Michelle. She’d been listening to the girl’s heart before Charles’s entry. On the opposite side of the bed was a young resident dressed in hospital whites.
   Charles gave the woman a cursory glance and looked down at his daughter with empathy submerging all other emotions. He wanted to grab her and shield her, but he was afraid she had become too fragile. His trained eyes inspected her rapidly and could detect a worsening in her condition since that morning. There was a greenish cast to her face, a change Charles had associated during his medical training with ensuing death. Her cheeks had become hollow with the skin taut over her facial bones. Despite an intravenous line attached to both arms, she looked dehydrated from the vomiting and high fever.
   Michelle, lying flat on her back, looked up at her father with tired eyes. Despite her discomfort she managed a weak smile and for a brief moment her eyes shone with the incredible luster that Charles remembered.
   “Michelle,” said Charles softly, bending down so his face was close to hers. “How do you feel?” He didn’t know what else to say.
   Michelle’s eyes clouded and she began to cry. “I want to go home, Daddy.” She was reluctant to admit how bad she felt.
   Biting his lip Charles glanced up at the woman next to him, embarrassed by his overwhelming emotion. Looking back down at Michelle, he put his hand on her forehead and smoothed back her thick black hair. Her forehead was hot and damp. Her fever had risen. Michelle reached up and grasped his hand.
   “We’ll talk about it,” said Charles, his lips quivering.
   “Excuse me,” said the woman. “You must be Dr. Martel. I’m Dr. Brubaker. Dr. Keitzman asked me to see Michelle. I’m a cardiologist. This is Dr. John Hershing, our chief resident.”
   Charles made no effort to respond to the introductions. “What happened?”
   “She had an acute episode of ventricular tachycardia,” said Dr. Hershing. “We cardioverted her immediately, and she’s been very stable.”
   Charles looked at Dr. Brubaker. She was a tall, handsome woman with sharp features. Her blond hair was piled on top of her head in a loose chignon.
   “What caused the arrhythmia?” asked Charles, still holding Michelle’s hand.
   “We don’t know yet,” said Dr. Brubaker. “My first thoughts are either an idiosyncratic reaction to the double dose of Daunorubicin, or a manifestation of her basic problem: some kind of infiltrative myopathy. But I’d like to finish my exam, if I may. Dr. Keitzman and your wife are in the chart room at the nurses’ station. I understand they are waiting for you.”
   Charles lowered his eyes to Michelle. “I’ll be right back, sweetheart.”
   “Don’t go, Daddy,” pleaded Michelle. “Stay with me.”
   “I won’t go far,” said Charles, gently loosing Michelle’s grip. He was preoccupied by Dr. Brubaker’s statement that Michelle had received a double dose of Daunorubicin. That sounded irregular.
   Cathryn saw Charles before he saw her and leaped to her feet, throwing her arms around his neck.
   “Charles, I’m so glad you’re here.” She buried her face in his neck. “This is so difficult for me to handle.”
   Holding Cathryn, Charles glanced around the small chart room. Dr. Wiley was leaning against the table, his eyes on the floor. Dr. Keitzman was sitting opposite from him, his legs crossed, and his hands clasped together over his knee. He appeared to be examining the fabric of his slacks. No one spoke, but Charles felt nervous, his eyes darting from one doctor to the other. The scene seemed too artificial, too staged. Something was coming and Charles hated the theatrics.
   “All right,” said Charles challengingly. “What’s happening?”
   Dr. Wiley and Dr. Keitzman started to speak simultaneously, then stopped.
   “It’s about Michelle,” said Dr. Keitzman finally.
   “I assumed as much,” said Charles. The vise on his stomach turned another notch tighter.
   “She’s not doing as we would have hoped,” said Dr. Keitzman with a sigh, looking up into Charles’s face for the first time. “Doctors’ families are always the most difficult. I think I’ll call it Keitzman’s law.”
   Charles was in no mood for humor. He stared at the oncologist, watching the man’s face twist into one of its characteristic spasms. “What’s this about a double dose of Daunorubicin?”
   Dr. Keitzman swallowed. “We gave her the first dose yesterday but she did not respond. We gave her another today. We’ve got to knock down her circulatory leukemic cells.”
   “That’s not the usual protocol, is it?” snapped Charles.
   “No,” Dr. Keitzman replied hesitantly, “but Michelle is not a usual case. I wanted to try…”
   “Try!” shouted Charles. “Listen, Dr. Keitzman,” Charles snapped, pointing a finger in Dr. Keitzman’s face. “My daughter isn’t here for you to try things on. What you’re really saying is that her chances of remission are so poor that you’re ready to experiment.”
   “Charles!” said Cathryn. “That’s not fair.”
   Charles ignored Cathryn. “The fact of the matter, Dr. Keitzman, is that you are so certain she’s terminal you abandoned orthodox chemotherapy. Well, I’m not sure your experimentation isn’t lessening her chances. What about this cardiac problem. She’s never had any trouble with her heart. Doesn’t Daunorubicin cause cardiac problems?”
   “Yes,” agreed Dr. Keitzman, “but not usually this fast. I don’t know what to think about this complication and that’s why I asked for a cardiac consult.”
   “Well, I think it’s the medicine,” said Charles. “I agreed to chemotherapy, but I assumed you would be using the standard doses. I’m not sure I agree with doubling the usual treatment.”

   “If that’s the case, then perhaps you should retain another oncologist,” said Dr. Keitzman wearily, standing up and gathering his things. “Or just handle the case yourself.”
   “No! Please!” said Cathryn, letting go of Charles and clutching Dr. Keitzman’s arm. “Please. Charles is just upset. Please don’t leave us.” Cathryn turned frantically to Charles. “Charles, the medicine is Michelle’s only chance.” She turned back to Dr. Keitzman, “Isn’t that right?”
   “That is true,” said Dr. Keitzman. “Increasing the chemotherapy, even if it is an unusual approach, is the only hope for a remission, and a remission has to be obtained quickly if Michelle is going to survive this acute episode.”
   “What are you proposing, Charles?” said Dr. Wiley. “To do nothing?”
   “She’s not going to go into remission,” said Charles angrily.
   “You can’t say that,” said Dr. Wiley.
   Charles backed up, watching the others in the room as if they were going to force him into submission.
   “How do you think she should be treated?” asked Dr. Wiley.
   “We can’t do nothing, Charles,” pleaded Cathryn.
   Charles’s mind screamed for him to get away. Within the hospital, close to Michelle, he could not think rationally. The idea of causing Michelle additional suffering was a torture, yet the concept of just allowing her to die without a fight was equally abhorrent. There were no alternatives open to him. Dr. Keitzman was making sense if there was a chance they could get a remission. But if a remission was impossible, then they were merely torturing the dying child. God!
   Abruptly Charles turned and strode from the room. Cathryn ran after him. “Charles. Where are you going? Charles, don’t go! Please. Don’t leave me.”
   At the stair he finally turned, gripping Cathryn’s shoulders. “I can’t think here. I don’t know what’s right. Each alternative is as bad as another. I’ve been through this before. Familiarity doesn’t make it easier. I’ve got to pull myself together. I’m sorry.”
   With a feeling of helplessness Cathryn watched him go through the door and disappear. She was alone in the busy corridor. She knew that if she had to, she could handle the situation even if Charles couldn’t. She had to, for Michelle’s sake. She walked back to the chart room.
   “The strange thing,” said Cathryn with a tremulous voice, “is that you two anticipated all this.”
   “Unfortunately we’ve had some experience with families of physicians,” said Dr. Keitzman. “It’s always difficult.”
   “But it’s usually not this difficult,” added Dr. Wiley.
   “We were talking while you were gone,” said Dr. Keitzman. “We feel that something must be done to ensure continuity of Michelle’s care.”
   “Some kind of guarantee,” said Dr. Wiley.
   “It’s mostly because time is so important,” said Dr. Keitzman. “Even if the treatment were stopped for a day or two, it could mean the difference between success and failure.”
   “We’re not suggesting that Charles’s concerns are unfounded,” assured Dr. Wiley.
   “Absolutely not,” agreed Dr. Keitzman. “In Michelle’s case, with circulating leukemic cells unresponsive to the Daunorubicin, the outlook is not the best. But I think she deserves a chance no matter what the odds. Don’t you agree, Mrs. Martel?”
   Cathryn looked at the two doctors. They were trying to suggest something but she had no idea what it was. “Of course,” said Cathryn. How could she disagree? Of course Michelle deserved every chance.
   “There are ways of making sure that Charles cannot arbitrarily stop Michelle’s treatment,” said Dr. Wiley.
   “The powers need only be evoked if they are needed,” said Dr. Keitzman. “But it’s good to have them just in case.”
   There was a pause.
   Cathryn had the distinct impression that the doctors expected her to respond, but she had no idea what they were talking about.
   “Let me give you an example,” said Dr. Wiley, leaning forward in his chair. “Suppose a child desperately needs a transfusion. If the transfusion is not given, then the child will die. And further, suppose that one of the parents is a Jehovah’s Witness. Then there is a conflict between the parents as to the proper treatment of the child. The doctors, of course, recognize the need for the transfusion to save the child. What do they do? They have the court award guardianship to the consenting parent. The court is willing to do this to guarantee the rights of the child. It’s not that they disrespect the beliefs of the nonconsenting parent. It’s just that they feel it’s unfair for one individual to deprive another of lifesaving treatment.”
   Cathryn stared at Dr. Wiley in consternation. “You want me to assume guardianship of Michelle behind Charles’s back?”
   “Only for the specific purpose of maintaining treatment,” said Dr. Keitzman. “It might save the child’s life. Please understand, Mrs. Martel, we could do it without your help. We would ask the court to appoint a guardian, which is what we do when both parents resist established medical treatment. But it would be much simpler if you participate.”
   “But you’re not giving Michelle standard treatment anymore,” said Cathryn, remembering Charles’s words.
   “Well, it’s not that unusual,” said Keitzman. “In fact I’ve been working on a paper about increased chemotherapeutic doses in cases as recalcitrant as your daughter’s.”
   “And you must admit that Charles has been acting bizarrely,” added Dr. Wiley. “The strain of this may be too great. He may be incapable of making sensible decisions. In fact, I’d feel much better if we could also get Charles to seek some professional help.”
   “You mean see a psychiatrist?” asked Cathryn.
   “I think it would be a good idea,” said Dr. Wiley.
   “Please understand us, Mrs. Martel,” said Dr. Keitzman, “we’re trying to do our best, and as Michelle’s doctors our primary concern is her well-being. We feel we must do everything in our power.”
   “I appreciate your efforts,” said Cathryn, “but…”
   “We know it sounds drastic,” said Dr. Keitzman, “but once the legal papers are obtained, guardianship doesn’t have to be evoked unless the situation calls for it. But then if Charles tried to take Michelle off treatment or even out of the hospital, we’d be in a position to do something about it.”
   “An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure,” said Dr. Wiley.
   “The idea doesn’t make me feel comfortable,” said Cathryn. “But Charles has been very strange. I can’t believe he left like he did just now.”
   “I can understand it,” said Dr. Keitzman. “I can sense that Charles is a man of action, and the fact that he cannot do anything for Michelle must drive him mad. He’s under a terrible emotional burden, and that’s why I think he could benefit from professional help.”
   “You don’t think he could have a nervous breakdown, do you?” asked Cathryn with increasing anxiety.
   Dr. Keitzman looked at Dr. Wiley to see if he wanted to answer, then he spoke: “I don’t feel qualified to say. Certainly the strain is there. It’s a matter of how strong his defenses are.”
   “I think it’s a possibility,” said Dr. Wiley. “In fact, I think he’s showing certain symptoms. He doesn’t seem to be in command of his emotions and I think his anger has been inappropriate.”
   Cathryn was swept by a turmoil of emotion. The idea that she was capable of going between Charles, the man she loved, and his daughter, whom she’d learned to love, was unthinkable. And yet if the strain was too much for Charles, and he interrupted Michelle’s treatment, she would have to share the blame for not having the courage to help the child’s doctors.
   “If I were to do as you ask,” said Cathryn, “what would be the procedure?”
   “Hold on,” said Dr. Keitzman, reaching for the phone. “I think the hospital attorney could answer that better than I.”

   Almost before Cathryn knew what was happening, the meeting with the hospital attorney was over, and Cathryn was hurrying after the man in the Boston courthouse. His name was Patrick Murphy. He had freckled skin and indeterminate light brown hair that could have been red at one time. But by far his most distinguishing characteristic was his personality. He was one of those rare people whom everyone instantly liked, and Cathryn was no exception. Even in her distraught state, she had been charmed by his gentle and forthright manner and engaging smile.
   Cathryn was not sure when the conversation with the attorney had changed from discussing a hypothetical situation to discussing an actual one. Making the decision to petition for legal guardianship for Michelle behind Charles’s back was so difficult that Cathryn had welcomed its accomplishment by default. Patrick had assured Cathryn, as had Dr. Keitzman, that the legal powers would not be used except in the unlikely instance that Charles tried to stop Michelle’s treatment.
   Still Cathryn felt very uneasy about the whole affair, especially since she had not had time to see Michelle in the rush to get to the court before the 4 P.M. deadline.
   “This way if you will,” said Patrick, pointing to a narrow stairwell. Cathryn had never been in a courthouse before, and it was nothing like she’d imagined. She’d thought it would be grand in some symbolic way, standing as it did for the concept of justice. Yet the Boston courthouse, which was actually over one hundred years old, was dirty and depressing, especially since, for security reasons, the public was forced to enter through the basement.
   After ascending the narrow steel stairs, which Cathryn could not believe served as the sole public entrance to the court, they reached the old main hall. Here there was at least a shadow of former grandness with an arched two-story ceiling; marble pilasters and marble floors. But the plaster was chipped and cracked, and the elaborate moldings gave the appearance they were about to break free and fall to the floor below.
   Cathryn had to run a few steps to catch up with Patrick as he turned into the Probate Court. It was a long, narrow room with a heavy, dusty appearance, especially with the hundreds of aged ledgers sitting sideways on their low shelves to the right. On the left was a long scuffed and pitted counter where a coterie of court employees seemed suddenly roused from their diurnal slumber at the prospect of quitting time.
   As Cathryn surveyed the room she did not feel the confidence and reassurance she’d hoped. Instead its shabbiness evoked images of being snared in a quagmire of red tape. Yet Patrick did not allow Cathryn to stop. He pulled her over to a smaller counter at the end of the room.
   “I’d like to speak to one of the Assistant Registers of Probate,” said Patrick to one of the bored clerks. She had a cigarette in the corner of her mouth, making her cock her head to the side to keep the smoke from stinging her eyes. She pointed to a man facing away from them.
   Hearing the request, the man turned; he was on the phone but put up a finger for them to wait. After finishing his conversation, he came over to Cathryn and Patrick. He was tremendously overweight, a middle-aged man with a thick, flaccid layer of fat that shook when he walked. His face was all jowls, wattles, and deep creases.
   “We have an emergency,” explained Patrick. “We’d like to see one of the judges.”
   “Hospital guardianship case, Mr. Murphy?” questioned the Assistant Register knowingly.
   “That’s correct,” said Patrick. “All the forms are filled out.”
   “Must say, you fellows are getting efficient,” said the man. He looked up at the face of the institutional clock. “My God, you’re cutting it close. It’s almost four. I’d better check to be sure Judge Pelligrino is still here.”
   He waddled through a nearby doorway, his arms swinging almost perpendicularly to his body.
   “Glandular problem,” whispered Patrick. He put his briefcase on the counter and snapped it open.
   Cathryn looked at the attractive young lawyer. He was dressed in the typical attorney fashion with a boxy, Ivy League, pin-striped suit. The slacks were slightly rumpled, particularly behind the knees, and they were about two inches too short, exposing black-socked ankles. With great attentiveness, he arranged the forms which Cathryn had signed.
   “Do you really think I should do this?” asked Cathryn abruptly.
   “Absolutely,” said Patrick, giving her one of his warm, spontaneous smiles. “It’s for the child.”
   Five minutes later they were in the judge’s chamber, and it was too late to turn back.
   As different as the Boston courthouse was from Cathryn’s imagination, so was Judge Louis Pelligrino. Instead of an older, gowned, Socratic figure, Cathryn found herself sitting across from a disturbingly handsome man wearing a well-tailored designer’s suit. After donning stylish reading glasses, he accepted the papers from Patrick saying, “Jesus Christ, Mr. Murphy. Why is it you always show up at four o’clock?”
   “Medical emergencies, your honor, adhere to a biological rather than a probate clock.”
   Judge Pelligrino peered at Patrick sharply over his half-glasses, apparently trying to decide if Patrick’s retort was clever or presumptuously brazen. A slow smile appeared as he decided on the former. “Very good, Mr. Murphy. I’ll accept that. Now, why don’t you fill me in on these petitions.”
   As Patrick skillfully outlined the circumstances surrounding Michelle’s illness and treatment as well as Charles’s behavior, Judge Pelligrino examined the forms, seemingly not paying attention to the young lawyer. But when Patrick made an insignificant grammatical error, the judge’s head shot up, and he corrected him.
   “Where are the affidavits by Doctors Wiley and Keitzman?” asked Judge Pelligrino as Patrick finished.
   The lawyer leaned forward and anxiously thumbed through the papers in the judge’s hands. He snapped open his briefcase, and with great relief found the two documents and handed them over with an apology.
   The judge read them in detail.
   “And this is the adopted mother, I presume,” said Judge Pelligrino, capturing Cathryn’s attention.
   “Indeed it is,” said Patrick, “and she is understandably concerned about maintaining the proper treatment for the young girl.”
   Judge Pelligrino scrutinized Cathryn’s face, and she felt herself blush defensively.
   “I think it’s important to emphasize,” added Patrick, “that there is no marital discord between Charles and Cathryn Martel. The only issue is the wish to maintain the established method of treatment advocated by the appropriate medical authorities.”
   “I understand that,” said Judge Pelligrino. “What I don’t understand or like is the fact that the biological father is not here to be cross-examined.”
   “But that’s precisely why Mrs. Martel is asking for emergency temporary guardianship,” said Patrick. “Just a few hours ago, Charles Martel rushed away from a meeting with Mrs. Martel and Michelle’s doctors. Mr. Martel expressed the belief that Michelle’s treatment, which is her only chance at survival, be stopped, then left the conference. And, off the record, the attending physicians are concerned about his mental stability.”
   “That sounds like something that should be part of the record,” said the judge.
   “I agree,” said Patrick, “but unfortunately that would require Mr. Martel seeing a psychiatrist. Perhaps it could be arranged for the full hearing.”
   “Would you like to add anything, Mrs. Martel?” asked the judge, turning to Cathryn.
   Cathryn declined in a barely audible voice.
   The judge arranged the papers on his desk, obviously thinking. He cleared his throat before he spoke: “I will allow the emergency temporary guardianship for the sole purpose of maintaining the recognized and established medical treatment.” With a flourish he signed the form. “I will also appoint a guardian ad litim on the petition for guardianship to serve until the full hearing on the merits, which I want scheduled in three weeks.”
   “That will be difficult,” said the Assistant Register, speaking for the first time. “Your schedule is fully booked.”
   “The hell with the schedule,” said Judge Pelligrino, signing the second document.
   “It will be difficult to prepare for a hearing in just three weeks,” protested Patrick. “We’ll need to obtain expert medical testimony. And there is legal research to be done. We need more time.”
   “That’s your problem,” said the judge without sympathy. “You’re going to be busy anyway with the preliminary hearing on the temporary guardianship. By statute that must be in three days. So you’d best get cracking. Also I want the father apprised of these proceedings as soon as possible. I want him served no later than tomorrow with a citation either at the hospital or at his place of work.”
   Cathryn sat bolt upright, stunned. “You’re going to tell Charles about this meeting?”
   “Absolutely,” said the judge, rising. “I hardly think it fair to deprive a parent of his guardianship rights without telling him. Now if you’ll excuse me.”
   “But…” blurted Cathryn. She didn’t finish her statement. Patrick thanked the judge and hurried Cathryn out of the judge’s lobby, back into the main room of the Probate Court.
   Cathryn was distraught. “But you said we wouldn’t use this unless Charles actually stopped treatment.”
   “That’s correct,” said Patrick, confused at Cathryn’s reaction.
   “But Charles is going to find out what I’ve done,” cried Cathryn. “You didn’t tell me that. My God!”

Ten

   Although the sun had set on schedule at four-thirty, no one in New England had seen it go down, including Charles, who was parking at the base of Main Street in Shaftesbury at the time. A heavy bank of clouds had moved in from the Great Lakes. The New England meteorologists were trying to decide when the front was going to collide with a flow of warm air from the Gulf of Mexico. They all agreed it was going to snow, but no one could decide how much or when.
   By five-thirty, Charles was still sitting behind the steering wheel of the Pinto parked in the lee of the row of deserted old mill buildings. Every so often he’d scrape off a bit of the frost on the inside of the windshield and peer out. He was waiting until it was completely dark. To keep warm he started the engine every quarter hour and let it idle for five minutes. Just after six he was satisfied that the sky was a uniformly dark blanket and he opened the door and got out.
   Recycle, Ltd. was about two hundred yards ahead as evidenced mainly by the single light they had near the office door. It had started to snow with large flakes that settled like feathers in short swooping arcs.
   Charles opened the trunk and collected his gear: a Polaroid camera, a flashlight, and a few sample jars. Then he crossed the snow to the shadow of the empty brick mill and started to trudge toward Recycle, Ltd. After leaving Cathryn at the hospital, he had tried to sort through his confusing emotions. He could not come to a decision about Michelle’s treatment although intuition still told him that the child was not going to go into remission. He couldn’t get himself to deny her treatment, but he couldn’t bear to see her suffer more than she had to. He felt trapped. As a consequence, he welcomed the idea of heading up to Shaftesbury and trying to obtain some hard evidence of benzene dumping. At least that satisfied his emotional need for action.
   As he came to the end of the building, he stopped and looked around the corner. He now had a full view of the factory that had taken over the last abandoned mill building in the long row.
   With the Polaroid and flashlight in his coat pockets and the sample jars in his hands, Charles rounded the corner and headed toward the Pawtomack River, initially moving parallel to the hurricane fence. Once he could no longer see the light over the factory entrance, he cut diagonally across the empty lot, reaching the fence close to the riverbank. First the flashlight, then the sample jars were gently tossed over to land in the snow. With the camera slung over his shoulder, Charles grasped the mesh and began to climb. He teetered on the top, then leaped for the ground, landing on his feet but tumbling over onto his back. Fearful of being seen in the open lot, he gathered his things and hurried over to the shadow of the old factory.
   He waited for a few moments, listening to the familiar sounds coming from inside the building. From where he was standing, he could look across the mostly frozen Pawtomack River and make out the trees on the opposite bank. The river was about fifty yards wide at that point. When he had regained his breath, he struggled along the building, heading for the corner facing the river. The going was difficult because the snow covered all sorts of trash and debris.
   Charles reached the side of the building facing the river and, shielding his eyes from the lazy snowflakes, he looked down at his goal: the two metal holding tanks. Unfortunately, they were close to the opposite end of the building. After a short pause, Charles set out climbing through the rusted and twisted remains of discarded machinery, only to find himself barred from further advance by a granite-lined sluice about ten feet across and five feet deep. The sluice came from a low arch beneath the building and ran toward the river bank where it was dammed with wooden planks. About midway in the opposite masonry wall was a connecting channel to a large lagoon. The fluid in the sluice and in the lagoon was not frozen and it had the unmistakable acrid smell of discarded industrial chemicals.
   Immediately adjacent to the factory, Charles saw that two stout planks had been laid across the sluice. Putting his sample jars down, Charles flipped the planks over to rid them of their veneer of snow and ice. Then, with great care, he struggled across the makeshift bridge holding the sample jars under his right arm and using his left to support himself against the building.
   On the opposite side of the sluice the ground sloped down and Charles could approach the level of the lagoon. From the makeshift appearance of the setup, particularly the incompetently constructed dam, Charles knew that the discarded chemicals in the lagoon continuously made their way into the river. He wanted a sample of that syrupy fluid. He bent down at the edge and, holding on to the upper lip of one of the jars, collected a pint or so of the slowly bubbling sludge. Using a bit of snow, Charles wiped off the jar, capped it, and left it to be retrieved on the way back. Meanwhile he wanted a photo of the dam, which kept this chemical cesspool from totally emptying itself into the river below.

   Wally Crabb had taken an early dinner break from the rubber ovens with the two guys he played poker with: Angelo DeJesus and Giorgio Brezowski. Sitting at one of the picnic tables in the lunchroom, they’d played blackjack while they absentmindedly consumed their sandwiches. It hadn’t been a good evening for Wally. By six-twenty he was down about thirteen dollars and it didn’t seem like his luck was going to change. And to make matters worse, Brezowski was teasing him by flashing his toothless smile after every hand, silently saying “so long, sucker.” Brezo had lost his front teeth in a barroom brawl in Lowell, Massachusetts, two years ago.
   Brezo dealt Wally a face card and a four of spades. When Wally asked him for a hit, Brezo socked him with another face card, sending him over twenty-one.
   “Shit!” yelled Wally, slamming the cards down and swinging his massive legs from beneath the picnic table. He pushed himself to his feet and lumbered over to the cigarette machine.
   “You out, big boy?” jeered Brezo, resuming play with Angelo.
   Wally didn’t answer. He put his coins in the cigarette machine, punched his selection, and waited. Nothing happened. At least nothing inside the machine. Inside Wally’s brain it was like snapping a piano wire stretched to its tensile limit. With a powerful kick he jarred the machine, moving it back on its supports to thump the wall. Cocking his hand back to follow up with a right cross to the coin return, he saw a light flash outside the dark window.
   To Brezo and Angelo’s disappointment—they had been hoping to watch the destruction of the cigarette machine—Wally’s cocked arm sank and he pressed his face against the window. “What the fuck, we going to have a thunderstorm now?” asked Wally. Then he saw the flash again, but this time caught a glimpse of its source. For an instant he saw a figure, arms to his face, legs slightly spread.
   “It’s a goddamned camera,” said Wally, astonished. “Somebody is taking pictures of the lagoon.”
   Wally reached for the phone and dialed Nat Archer’s office. He told the super what he’d seen.
   “Must be that Martel nut,” said Nat Archer. “Who are you with, Wally?”
   “Just Brezo and Angelo.”
   “Why don’t you three go out there and see who it is. If it’s Martel, then teach him a lesson. Mr. Dawson told me that if he showed up again to make sure it was his last visit. Remember the guy is out there illegally. He’s trespassing.”
   “You got it,” said Wally, hanging up the receiver. Turning to his buddies and cracking his knuckles, he said, “We’re going to have some fun. Get your coats.”

   After photographing the dam, Charles worked his way over to the metal holding tanks. With the flashlight he tried to make sense out of the profusion of pipes and valves. One pipe led directly to a fenced-off area at the edge of the parking lot and obviously served as the off-load site. Another pipe coursed away from the tanks and with a T-connector joined the roof drain conduit on its way to the river bank. Using great care to keep from slipping down the embankment, Charles managed to get to the edge, which was some twenty feet above the surface of the river. The roof drain ended abruptly, spilling its contents down the embankment. The smell of benzene was intense and below the pipe was a patch of open water. The rest of the river was solidly frozen and covered with snow. After taking several pictures of the pipe, Charles leaned out with his second jar and caught some of the fluid dripping from the end. When he thought he had enough, he closed the jar and left it next to the first one. He was almost finished; his mission was more successful than he had hoped. He just wanted to photograph the T-connection between the pipe from the storage tanks and the drain conduit and the feed pipe from the storage tanks back to where it emerged from the factory.
   A slight wind had come up, and the once-lazy snowflakes were now being driven into Charles’s face. Before taking the picture, he dusted the snow off the pipes, then sighed through the viewfinder. He wasn’t satisfied. He wanted to get the T-connector and the storage tanks in the same photo, so he stepped over the pipes, squatted down, and sighted again. Satisfied, he depressed the shutter mechanism but nothing happened. Looking at the camera, he realized he hadn’t turned the flash bar around. He did so quickly, then sighed again. Now he could see the storage tank, the pipe coming from the tank, and the juncture with the roof drain. It was perfect. He pushed the shutter release.
   The flash of the camera was followed instantly by a sudden, powerful jerk as the Polaroid camera was torn from Charles’s fingers. He looked up from his crouching position to see three men in hooded parkas, silhouetted against the dark sky. They had him cornered against the storage tanks. Before Charles could move, the camera was tossed end over end into the center of the black lagoon.
   Charles stood up, struggling to see the faces beneath the hoods. Without words, the two smaller men lunged forward and grabbed his arms. The sudden movement caught Charles off guard and he didn’t struggle. The third man, the big one, went through Charles’s coat pockets, finding the small collection of photographs. With a flick of the wrist they followed the camera into the chemical pond, appearing like white wafers on the surface.
   The men let Charles go and stepped back. Charles still couldn’t see their faces, and it made their appearance that much more frightening. Charles panicked and tried to run between one of the smaller men and the storage tank. The man reacted instantly, jabbing a fist into Charles’s face and connecting with his nose. The blow stunned Charles, bringing a slight trickle of blood down his chin.
   “Nice poke, Brezo,” laughed Wally.
   Charles recognized the voice.
   The men pushed him toward the chemical lagoon so that he stumbled over the pipes underfoot. Teasing him, they cuffed his head with open hands, slapping his ears. Charles vainly tried to parry the flutter of blows.
   “Trespassing, eh?” said Brezo.
   “Looking for trouble, eh?” said Angelo.
   “I think he found it,” said Wally.
   They crowded Charles to the very edge of the cesspool of acrid chemicals. A glancing blow knocked his hat into the fluid.
   “How about a quick dip?” taunted Wally.
   With one arm over his face, Charles drew out his flashlight with the other hand and lashed at his nearest assailant.
   Brezo eluded the roundhouse blow easily by shifting his weight.
   Expecting contact and not getting it, Charles slipped in the melted snow and fell to his hands and knees in the foul mud. The flashlight shattered.
   Brezo, having eluded the blow, found himself teetering on the edge of the lagoon. To keep from falling bodily into the pool, he was forced into the ooze to mid-calf before Wally grabbed his jacket, pulling him free.
   “Shit!” cried Brezo as he felt the corrosive chemical singe his skin. He knew he had to get his leg into water as soon as possible. Angelo pulled Brezo’s arm over his shoulder, supporting him and, as if in a three-legged race, the two men hurried back toward the entrance of Recycle, Ltd.
   Charles scrambled to his feet and bolted for the two planks over the old sluice. Wally made a grab for Charles but missed him, and in the process slipped and fell to his hands and knees. Belying his bulk, he was back on his feet in an instant. Charles thundered over the planks forgetting his previous nervousness at crossing. He thought about pushing the planks into the sluice but Wally was too close behind.
   Fearful of being thrown into the chemical lagoon, Charles ran as fast as possible, but the going was difficult. First he had to climb through the discarded machinery, then run across the snow-covered, littered lot until he got to the hurricane fence. Wally was hindered by the same objects but, used to working out, he made better time.
   Charles started up the fence but unfortunately he’d picked a spot between two uprights. The lack of support, particularly near the top, made the climbing more difficult.
   Wally Crabb reached the fence and began shaking it violently. Charles had all he could do to hold on, much less continue climbing. Then Wally reached up and grabbed Charles’s right foot. Charles tried to kick free but Wally had a good hold and he merely put his weight on it.
   The force overrode Charles’s grasp, and he tumbled off the fence, directly on top of Wally. Desperately Charles searched beneath the snow for some object with which he could defend himself. He came up with an old shoe. He flung it at Wally, and although it missed its mark, it gave Charles a chance to stand and flee along the fence toward the river. For Charles, the situation was like being inside a cage with a raging animal.
   Running in the snow along the fence was next to impossible. The crust sometimes supported Charles’s weight, other times it didn’t, and there was no way to tell before taking a step. Under the snow was a wide assortment of debris ranging from fresh garbage to wayward rubber tires and metal scrap that kept trapping him. Fearful he was going to be caught any moment, Charles glanced over his shoulder. One look was enough to ascertain that the obstacle course was equally difficult for Wally and Charles reached the river bank first.
   His descent to the water was a marginally controlled fall. With his hands out at his sides like outriggers on a canoe, Charles slipped and slid down the embankment, coming to a jarring halt where the ice had buckled at the river’s edge. Avoiding the patch of open water, Charles scrambled out onto the ice, and tried to keep his balance. Wally came down the embankment with a bit more care and consequently lost some ground. Charles was around the portion of the fence that extended out from shore and starting back up the embankment when Wally reached the river’s edge.
   Almost at the top of the embankment, Charles’s feet suddenly slid out from under him. Panic-stricken, his hands grasped for a hold. At the last second he caught a small bush and halted his backward movement. He tried to scramble back up but could not get any traction. Wally had already gained the shore and started up toward Charles, closing the short distance between them.

   Wally reached up to grab Charles’s leg. He was inches away when he seemed to switch to slow motion. His legs stiffened but it was no use. Slowly at first, then rapidly, he slid backwards.
   With renewed effort, Charles tried to climb the last five feet. By jamming his toes against the embankment he discovered he could create crude footholds. In this way, he inched upwards and threw his upper body over the edge. He pulled his feet up, then raised himself on his hands and knees. In so doing, he felt rocks and pieces of brick under the snow. He kicked them loose and picked up a handful. Wally had begun a new assault on the embankment and at that moment was only five feet away.
   Cocking his arm back, Charles threw the stones. One hit Wally on the point of the shoulder and he grunted in pain. He grabbed the area with his opposite hand only to slip back down the embankment. Quickly Charles kicked loose additional stones and threw them down at Wally, who put his arms over his head and retreated out onto the ice.
   Charles fled back toward the row of deserted mill buildings, intending to run around the end of the first building and get to the Pinto, which was parked a hundred yards back. But as he started in that direction, he saw several flashlights coming around the opposite end of the hurricane fence. They swung in his direction, momentarily blinding him, and he knew he’d been spotted. He had no choice. He ran directly for the empty building.
   Dashing through a doorless opening Charles was quickly engulfed by impenetrable darkness. With his arms swinging in exploratory arcs he inched forward, encountering a wall. As if in a maze, he stumbled along the wall until he came to a door. Bending down and searching the floor, he found some rubble, which he tossed through the opening. It hit yet another wall and fell back to the floor. Without letting go of the doorjamb, Charles reached out in the darkness. His fingertips touched the wall that he’d hit with the rubble. He let go of the doorframe and walked along this new wall.
   Hearing shouts behind him, Charles felt a surge of panic. He had to find a place to hide. He was convinced that these Recycle people were crazy and that they were planning to kill him. Charles was certain they had hoped to force him into the chemical lagoon, hoping perhaps to make it appear as an accident. He was, after all, a trespasser who could conceivably slip into that cesspool in the dark. And if they were willing to dump poisons into a public river, morality was not high on their priority list.
   Charles came to a corner in the wall he was following. He strained to see but he couldn’t even detect his own hand moving in front of his face. Bending down, he gathered a few pebbles and tossed them around the corner to see how far away the next wall was. He waited for the sound of the stone to hit a wall, then a floor. There was neither. After a long delay, Charles heard the distant splash of water. He shrank back. Somewhere immediately in front of him was a void, perhaps an old elevator shaft.
   Guessing that he was in a hallway, Charles threw some pebbles perpendicular to the wall he’d been following. The stones hit immediately, and stretching out in the darkness, Charles felt the opposite wall.
   With his foot Charles began to kick loose plaster ahead of him to be sure that he’d pass the shaft. It worked, and he slowly moved ahead, gaining a certain amount of confidence. He had no way of judging the distance he’d traveled, but he felt it was significant. Then his hand touched another doorjamb. Feeling ahead, his other hand grasped a wooden door, open about a foot. The knob was missing. Charles pushed and the door reluctantly opened, restricted by debris on the floor. With great care Charles inched into the room, feeling ahead with his right foot, and smelling a foul, musty odor. He encountered a bale of material, then realized it was an old, rotting rug.
   Behind him he heard someone yell into the cavernous interior. “We want to talk to you, Charles Martel.” The sound echoed in the blackness. Then he heard heavy footsteps and voices talking among themselves. With a surge of new fear, he let go of the door and started across the room, his hands sweeping around in front of him, hoping to find some hiding place. Almost immediately he tripped over another rug, then hit up against a low, metal object. He felt along the top of it, deciding it was a cabinet of sorts that had been tipped over. Stepping around it, he ducked down among a pile of smelly rags. He burrowed beneath the rags as best he could, feeling some movement of little feet. He hoped it was mice he’d disturbed and not something larger.
   Except for the luminous dial on his watch, Charles could see nothing. He waited, his breath sounding harsh in the stillness and his heart beating audibly in his ears. He was caught. There was no place else to run. They could do to him what they wanted; no one would find his body, especially if it were thrown down the old elevator shaft. Charles had never felt such limitless terror.
   A light flickered in the hallway, sending tiny reflections into Charles’s room. The flashlights were moving down the hallway, coming in his direction. For a moment they disappeared and utter blackness descended. He heard a distant splash as if a large object had been thrown down the elevator shaft, followed by laughter.
   The flashlight beams returned to the hallway, swaying and searching as Charles’s pursuers drew nearer. Now he could hear every footstep. With a sudden, grating noise, the old wooden door was shoved open, and a sharp ray of light played around the room.
   Charles pulled his head down like a turtle, hoping that his pursuer would be satisfied with a cursory glance. But such was not the case. Charles heard the man kick the roll of old rug and saw the light going over every inch of the floor. With a stab of panic he knew he was about to be discovered.
   Leaping from beneath his scant cover, Charles bolted for the door. The pursuer whirled his light, silhouetting Charles in the doorway. “Here he is!” the man yelled.
   Intending to try to retrace his steps out of the maze, Charles started down the corridor. Instead he crashed into another pursuer coming down the hall who grabbed him, dropping his flashlight in the process. Charles struck blindly, desperately trying to free himself. Then, even before he felt the pain, his legs buckled beneath him. The man had hit Charles on the back of his knees with a club.
   Charles collapsed to the floor as his attacker reached for his flashlight. The other man emerged from the room Charles had been hiding in and his light played over the scene. For the first time, Charles got a look at the man who’d hit him. To his astonishment he found himself looking at Frank Neilson, Shaftesbury’s Chief of Police. The blue serge uniform with all its bits and pieces of decoration, including holster and hand gun, never looked so good.
   “Okay, Martel, game’s over, on your feet!” said Neilson, slipping his billy club into its leather holster. He was a stocky man with slicked-back blond hair and a gut that swooped out from his chest, then curved back just above his trouser tops. His neck was the size of Charles’s thigh.
   “Am I glad to see you,” said Charles, with heartfelt sincerity despite the fact he’d been struck.
   “I’ll bet you are,” said Frank, grabbing Charles by the collar and hauling him to his feet.
   Charles staggered for a moment, his leg muscles complaining.
   “Cuffs?” asked the deputy. His name was Bernie Crawford. In contrast to his boss, the deputy was tall an lanky, like a basketball forward.
   “Hell, no!” said Frank. “Let’s just get out of this shithole.”
   Bernie went first, followed by Charles, then Frank, as the trio made their way back through the deserted factory. Passing the elevator shaft, Charles shuddered to think how close he’d come to tumbling into the pit. As he walked, he thought about Bernie’s question of “cuffs.” Obviously Recycle had called the police and had made a complaint.
   No one spoke as they marched single file out of the old mill, across the empty lot, and to the Dodge Aspen squad car. Charles was put into the backseat, behind the thick mesh guard. Frank started the car and began to pull away from the curb.
   “Hey, my car’s back that way,” said Charles, moving forward to speak through the mesh.
   “We know where your car is,” said Frank.
   Sitting back, Charles tried to calm down. His heart was still thumping in his chest and his legs ached horribly. He glanced out the window wondering if they were taking him to the station. But they didn’t make a U-turn. Instead they headed south and turned in at the gate for the Recycle parking lot.
   Charles sat forward again. “Listen. I need your help. I need to get some hard evidence to prove that Recycle is dumping poisons into the Pawtomack. That’s what I was doing here when they jumped me and destroyed my camera.”
   “You listen, Mack,” said Frank. “We got a call you were trespassing here. And on top of that you assaulted one of the workers, pushing him into some acid. Last night you shoved around the foreman, Nat Archer.”