“But I had no idea,” repeated Cathryn remorsefully.

“I’m not blaming you,” said Marge. “I just mean people in general. I suppose they just don’t know what to say or maybe they are afraid of the unknown, but it happens when you need people the most.”

“I’m terribly sorry,” said Cathryn, at a loss for something to say. She wished she’d called weeks ago. Marge was older than she, closer to Charles’s age. But they got along well, and Marge had been gracious and helpful when Cathryn had first come to Shaftesbury. The other New Englanders had been very cold.

“I don’t mean to take it out on you,” said Marge, “but I feel so upset. The doctors told me this morning that Tad might be terminal. They’re trying to prepare me. I don’t want him to suffer, but I don’t want him to die.”

Cathryn was stunned. Terminal? Die? These were words that referred to old people, not to a young boy who just a few weeks ago was in their kitchen bursting with life and energy. With difficulty she resisted an urge to run back downstairs. Instead she hugged Marge.

“I just can’t help but ask why,” sobbed Marge, struggling to control herself and allowing Cathryn to hold her. “They say the good Lord has His reasons, but I’d like to know why. He was such a good boy. It seems so unfair.”

Marshaling her strength, Cathryn began to talk. She hadn’t planned what she was going to say. It just came out. She talked about God and death in a way that surprised her because she wasn’t religious in the traditional sense. She’d been brought up a Catholic and had even talked briefly of becoming a nun when she was ten. But during college she had rebelled against the ritual of the Church and had become an agnostic of sorts, not bothering to examine her beliefs. Yet she must have made sense because Marge responded; whether it was to the content or just the human companionship, Cathryn didn’t know. But Marge calmed down and even managed a weak smile.

“I’ve got to go,” said Cathryn finally. “I’ve got to meet Michelle. But I’ll be back and I’ll call tonight, I promise.” Marge nodded and kissed Cathryn before going back in with her son. Cathryn stepped out into the hall. She stood by the door breathing rapidly. The hospital had lived up to her fears after all.

“It doesn’t seem to me that we have a whole lot of choice,” said Ellen as she put her coffee mug on the counter. She was sitting on a laboratory stool, looking down at Charles who was slumped in his chair before his desk. “It’s a shame to have to slow down on our work at this point, but what can we do? Maybe we should have kept Morrison informed of our progress.”

“No,” said Charles. His elbows were on the desk, his face in his hands, his coffee untouched. “If we’d done that he would have stopped us a dozen times to write some goddamned paper. We’d be years behind.”

“That’s the only way this could have been avoided,” said Ellen. She reached out and put her hand on Charles’s arm. Perhaps more than anyone, she realized how difficult this was for him. He detested any interference with his work, particularly an administrative interference. “But you’re right. If they had known what we were doing, they would have been in here every day.” She kept her hand on his arm. “It will be all right. We’ll just slow down a little.”

Charles looked up into Ellen’s eyes, which were so dark that the pupils merged with the irises. He was acutely aware of her hand. Since their affair she’d scrupulously avoided touching him. Now in the same morning she’d accused him of insensitivity and held his arm: such confusing signals. “This Canceran nonsense is going to take some time,” he said. “Six months to a year, and that’s only if everything goes very smoothly.”

“Why not do Canceran and our own work?” said Ellen. “We can extend our hours, work nights. I’ll be willing to do it for you.”

Charles stood up. Work nights? He looked at this woman whom he vaguely remembered sleeping with; it seemed so long ago. Her skin had been that same olive color as Elizabeth’s and Michelle’s. Although he had been physically attracted to Ellen, it had never seemed right with her; they were partners, coworkers, colleagues, not lovers. It had been an awkward affair; their lovemaking clumsy, like adolescents. Cathryn wasn’t as beautiful as Ellen but from the beginning it was more comfortable, more fulfilling.

“I’ve got a better idea,” said Charles. “Why don’t I go over Morrison’s head to the director and just lay the cards on the table, explain that it’s infinitely more important for us to stay with our own work.”

“I can’t imagine it will help,” cautioned Ellen. “Morrison told you the decision came from the board of directors. Dr. Ibanez is not going to reverse that. I think you’re just asking for trouble.”

“And I think it’s worth the risk. Help me get the lab books together. I’ll show him what we’ve been doing.”

Ellen slid off her stool and walked toward the door to the hall.

“Ellen?” called Charles, surprised by her actions.

She didn’t stop. “Just do what you want, Charles. You always do anyway.” The door closed behind her.

Charles’s first impulse was to go after her. But the impulse cooled quickly. He’d expected her support. Besides, he had more important things to do than worry about Ellen’s moods and behavior. Angrily, he put her out of his mind and concentrated on getting the main protocol book from his desk and the most recent data books from the workbench. Rehearsing what he would say, Charles headed back up the fire stairs.

The row of administrative secretaries warily monitored his progress down the hall. The entire group knew that he had been ordered to take over the Canceran study and that he wasn’t happy with the idea.

Charles ignored the stares although he felt like a wolf in a chicken coop as he approached Dr. Carlos Ibanez’s secretary, Miss Veronica Evans. Befitting her status, her area was separated from the rest of the room with paneled dividers. She’d been at the Weinburger even longer than Ibanez. She was a well-groomed woman of hefty proportions and indeterminate late middle age.

“I’d like to see the director,” said Charles in a no-nonsense voice.

“Do you have an appointment?” No one intimidated Miss Evans.

“Just tell him I’m here,” said Charles.

“I’m afraid…” began Miss Evans.

“If you don’t tell him I’m here, I’m going to barge right in.” Charles’s voice was stiffly controlled.

Marshaling one of her famous, disdainful expressions, Miss Evans reluctantly got up and disappeared within the inner office. When she reappeared, she merely held the door ajar and motioned Charles inside.

Ibanez’s office was a large, corner room that faced south and east. Besides the Boston University campus, part of the Boston skyline could be seen across the partially frozen Charles River. Ibanez was seated at a monstrous, antique Spanish desk. The view was at his back. Seated in front of the desk was Dr. Thomas Brighton.

Laughing at some conversational point made before Charles arrived, Dr. Carlos Ibanez gestured with the long, thin cigar he was smoking for Charles to take a chair. A halo of gray smoke hung above the director’s head like a rain cloud over a tropic island. He was a small man in his early sixties, given to sudden rapid movements, particularly of his hands. His perpetually tanned face was framed by silver hair and a silver goatee. His voice was surprisingly robust.

Charles sat, disturbed by Dr. Brighton’s presence. On one hand, he was furious with the man, both on professional and personal grounds. On the other, he felt sorry for the doctor, having to face up to a scandal and the sudden dissolution of his life.

Dr. Brighton gave Charles a rapid but unmistakably disdainful glance before turning back to Dr. Ibanez. That single look was enough to undermine Charles’s empathy. Charles studied Brighton’s profile. As far as Charles was concerned, he was young: thirty-one years old. And he appeared younger than that: blond and handsome in an effete Ivy League sort of way.