Fever by Robin Cook Page B

on Charles’s shoulder, reached across his desk for the receiver. Her hand rested on Charles as she said hello, but it was quickly removed. Abruptly she dumped the receiver in his lap and walked away. “It’s your wife.”
    Charles fumbled for the phone as it slid between his legs, retrieving it by pulling on the coiled cord. Of all the times for Cathryn to be calling, he thought.
    â€œWhat is it?” he asked impatiently.
    â€œI want you to come over here to Dr. Wiley’s office,” said Cathryn in a stiffly controlled voice.
    â€œWhat’s going on?”
    â€œI don’t want to discuss it over the phone.”
    â€œCathryn, this hasn’t been a good morning for me. Give me an idea of what’s happening.”
    â€œCharles, just come over here!”
    â€œCathryn, the roof has fallen in on top of me this morning. I can’t leave now.”
    â€œI’ll be waiting for you,” said Cathryn. Then she hung up.
    â€œFuck!” shouted Charles as he slammed down the receiver. He swung around in his chair and saw that Ellen had retreated behind her desk. “On top of everything, Cathryn wants meover at the pediatrician’s office but won’t tell me what it’s about. God! What else can happen today?”
    â€œThat’s what you get for marrying a typist.”
    â€œWhat?” asked Charles. He’d heard but the comment seemed out of context.
    â€œCathryn doesn’t understand what we are doing. I don’t think she can comprehend the pressures you feel.”
    Charles peered quizzically at Ellen, then shrugged. “You’re probably right. Obviously she thinks I can just drop everything and run over there. Maybe I should call Wiley and find out what’s going on.” Charles snapped the phone off the hook and started dialing, but midway he stopped. Slowly he replaced the receiver. The thought of Michelle planted a seed of concern under his irritation. Vividly he remembered the morning’s nosebleed. “I’d better run over there. It won’t take very long.”
    â€œBut what about our schedule?” asked Ellen.
    â€œWe’ll talk more when I get back. Meanwhile why don’t you prepare the dilution of Canceran for the mice. We’ll inject the first batch as soon as I return.” Charles went over to the metal locker near the door and pulled out his coat. “Have the mice brought up here to our own animal room. It will make it a lot easier.”
    Ellen watched the door close behind Charles. No matter what she resolved outside of the lab, whenever she was face to face with him, it seemed that her feelings were hurt. Ellen knew it was absurd but she couldn’t protect herself. And now she felt such a mixture of disappointment and anger that she could have cried. She had allowed the idea of working together at night to excite her. But it was stupid, adolescent. She knew deep down that it would not lead to anything and ultimately cause her more heartache.
    Thankful for something specific to do, Ellen forced herself over to the counter where the sterile bottles of Canceran had been left. It was a white powder, like confectioner’s sugar waiting for the introduction of sterile water. It wasn’t as stable in solution as it was in solid form so it had to be reconstituted before it was used. She got out the sterile water, then used thedesktop computer to work out the optimum dilution.
    As she was getting out the syringes, Dr. Morrison came into the lab.
    â€œDr. Martel isn’t here,” said Ellen.
    â€œI know,” said Morrison. “I saw him leave the building. I wasn’t looking for him. I wanted to talk to you for a moment.”
    Putting the syringe down, Ellen thrust her hands into her jacket pockets and came around the end of the counter to face the man. It was not usual for the head of the department of physiology to seek her out, especially behind Charles’s back. Yet