Fever (34 page)

When she went into the living room, Charles was holding a syringe with its needle up, tapping it with his index finger to get rid of air bubbles. Quietly she took a seat and watched. Michelle was still sleeping, her thin hair splayed out on the white pillow. Through the boards on the windows, Cathryn
could see it was snowing again. In the basement, she could hear the oil burner kick on.

“Now I'm going to inject this into my arm vein,” said Charles, looking for a tourniquet. “I don't suppose you'd be willing to do it for me.”

Cathryn felt her mouth go dry. “I can try,” she said reluctantly. In truth she wanted no part of the syringe. Even looking at it made her feel faint.

“Would you?” asked Charles. “Unless you're an addict, it's harder than hell to stick yourself in a vein. Also I want to tell you how to give me epinephrine if I need it. With the first intravenous dose of Michelle's antigen, I developed some anaphylaxis, meaning an allergic reaction which makes breathing difficult.”

“Oh, God,” said Cathryn to herself. Then to Charles she said: “Isn't there another way to take the antigen, like eating it?”

Charles shook his head. “I tried that but stomach acid breaks it down. I even tried sniffing a powdered form like cocaine, but the mucous membrane in my nose swelled unbelievably. Since I'm in a hurry I decided I'd have to mainline it. The problem is that my body's first response has been to develop a simple allergy, what they call immediate hypersensitivity. I've tried to cut down on that effect by altering the protein slightly. I want delayed hypersensitivity, not immediate.”

Cathryn nodded as if she understood, but she'd comprehended nothing except the cold feel of the syringe. She held it with her fingertips as if she expected it to injure her. Charles brought a chair over and placed it in front of hers. On a counter top within reach he put two smaller syringes.

“These other syringes are the epinephrine. If I suddenly go red as a beet and can't breathe, just jam one of these into any muscle and inject. If there's no response in thirty seconds, use the next one.”

Cathryn felt a strange terror. But Charles seemed blithely unconcerned. He unbuttoned his sleeve and rolled it up above his elbow. Using his teeth to hold one end of the tourniquet,
Charles applied the rubber tubing to his own upper arm. Quickly his veins engorged and stood out.

“Take off the plastic cover,” instructed Charles, “then just put the needle into the vein.”

With visibly trembling hands, Cathryn got the cover off the needle. Its sharp point glistened in the light. Charles tore open an alcohol pad with his right hand, holding the packet in his teeth. Vigorously he swabbed the area.

“Okay, do your stuff,” said Charles looking away.

Cathryn took a breath. Now she knew why she'd never considered medicine as a career. Trying to hold the syringe steady she put the needle on Charles's skin and gently pushed. The skin merely indented.

“You have to give it a shove,” said Charles, still looking away.

Cathryn gave the syringe a little push. It indented Charles's skin a little more.

Charles looked down at his arm. Reaching around with his free hand he gave the needle a sudden forceful lunge and it broke through the skin, impaling the vein.

“Perfect,” he said. “Now draw back on the plunger without disturbing the tip.”

Cathryn did as Charles asked and some bright red blood swished into the syringe.

“Bull's-eye,” said Charles, as he took off his tourniquet. “Now slowly inject.”

Cathryn pushed the plunger. It moved easily. When it was slightly more than halfway, her finger slipped. The needle dove into Charles more deeply as the plunger completed its movement. A small egg rapidly appeared on his arm.

“That's okay,” said Charles. “Not bad for your first time. Now pull it out.”

Cathryn pulled the needle out and Charles slapped a piece of gauze over the site.

“I'm sorry,” said Cathryn, terrified that she'd hurt him.

“No problem. Maybe putting some of the antigen subcutaneously will help. Who knows?” Suddenly his face began to
get red. He shivered. “Damn,” he managed. Cathryn could hear his voice had changed. It was much higher. “Epinephrine,” he said with some difficulty.

She grabbed for one of the smaller syringes. In her haste to remove the plastic cover she bent the needle. She grabbed for the other one. Charles, who was now blotching with hives, pointed to his left upper arm. Holding her breath, Cathryn jammed the needle into the muscle. This time she used ample force. She pressed the plunger and pulled it out. Quickly she discarded the used syringe, and picked up the first one, trying to straighten the bent needle. She was about to give it to Charles when he held up his hand.

“It's okay,” he managed, his voice still abnormal. “I can already feel the reaction subsiding. Whew! Good thing you were here.”

Cathryn put down the syringe. If she thought she was trembling before, now she was shaking. For Cathryn, using a needle on Charles had been the supreme test.

B
y nine-thirty they were settling in for the night. Earlier Cathryn had prepared some food while Charles worked in the makeshift lab. He'd taken a sample of his blood, separated the cells, and isolated some T-lymphocytes with the aid of sheep erythrocytes. Then he'd incubated the T-lymphocytes with some of his microphages and Michelle's leukemic cells. While they had dinner he told Cathryn that there still was no sign of a delayed, cell-mediated hypersensitivity. He told her that in twenty-four hours, he'd have to give himself another challenge dose of Michelle's antigen.

Michelle had awakened from her morphine-induced sleep and was overjoyed to see Cathryn. She'd not remembered seeing her stepmother arrive. Feeling somewhat better, she had even eaten some solid food.

“She seems better,” whispered Cathryn as they carried the dishes back to the kitchen.

“It's more apparent than real,” said Charles. “Her system is just recovering from the other medicines.”

Charles had built a fire and brought their king-sized mattress down to the living room. He had wanted to be close to Michelle in case she needed him.

Once Cathryn lay down, she felt a tremendous fatigue. Believing that Michelle was as comfortable and content as possible, Cathryn allowed herself to relax for the first time in two days. As the wind blew snow against the front windows, she held on to Charles and let sleep overwhelm her.

Hearing the crash and tinkle of glass, Cathryn sat up by pure reflex, unsure what the noise had been. Charles, who had been awake, reacted more deliberately, rolling off the mattress onto the floor and standing up. As he did so he hefted his shotgun and released the safety catch.

“What was that?” demanded Cathryn, her heart pounding.

“Visitors,” said Charles. “Probably our friends from Recycle.”

Something thudded up against the front of the house, then fell with a thump on the porch floor.

“Rocks,” said Charles, moving over to the light switch and plunging the room into darkness. Michelle murmured and Cathryn made her way over to the child's side to comfort her.

“Just as I thought,” said Charles, peering between the window boards.

Cathryn came up behind him and looked over his shoulder. Standing in their driveway about a hundred feet from the house was a group of men carrying makeshift torches. Down on the road were a couple of cars haphazardly parked.

“They're drunk,” said Charles.

“What are we going to do?” whispered Cathryn.

“Nothing,” said Charles. “Unless they try to get inside or come too close with those torches.”

“Could you shoot someone?” asked Cathryn.

“I don't know,” said Charles, “I really don't know.”

“I'm going to call the police,” said Cathryn.

“Don't bother,” said Charles. “I'm sure they know about this.”

“I'm still going to try,” returned Cathryn.

She left him by the window and made her way back to the kitchen where she dialed the operator and asked to be connected to the Shaftesbury police. The phone rang eight times
before a tired voice answered. He identified himself as Bernie Crawford.

Cathryn reported that their house was being attacked by a group of drunks and that they needed immediate assistance.

“Just a minute,” said Bernie.

Cathryn could hear a drawer open and Bernie fumbled around for something.

“Just a minute. I gotta find a pencil,” said Bernie, leaving the line again before Cathryn could talk. Outside she heard a yell, and Charles came scurrying into the kitchen, going up to the window on the north side facing the pond.

“Okay,” said Bernie coming back on the line. “What's the address?”

Cathryn quickly gave the address.

“Zip code?” asked Bernie.

“Zip code?” questioned Cathryn. “We need help right now.”

“Lady, paperwork is paperwork. I gotta fill out a form before I dispatch a car.”

Cathryn gave a zip code.

“How many guys in the group?”

“I'm not sure. Half a dozen.”

Cathryn could hear the man writing.

“Are they kids?” asked Bernie.

“Cathryn!” yelled Charles. “I need you to watch out the front. They're torching the playhouse but it may be just a diversion. Somebody has got to watch the front door.”

“Listen,” shouted Cathryn into the phone. “I can't talk. Just send a car.” She slammed down the phone and ran back into the living room. From the small window next to the fireplace she could see the flickering glow from the playhouse. She turned her attention to the front lawn. The group with the torches was gone but she could see someone lifting something out of the trunk of one of the cars. In the darkness, it looked like a pail. “Oh, God, don't let it be gasoline,” said Cathryn.

From the back of the house Cathryn could hear glass breaking. “Are you all right?” she called.

“I'm all right. The bastards are breaking the windows to your car.”

Cathryn heard Charles unlock the rear door. Then she heard the boom of his shotgun. The sound reverberated through the house. Then the door slammed shut.

“What happened?” yelled Cathryn.

Charles came back into the living room. “I shot into the air. I suppose it's the only thing they respect. They ran around this way.”

Cathryn looked back out. The group had reassembled around the man coming from the car. In the light of the torches, Cathryn could see that he was carrying a gallon can. He knelt down, apparently opening it.

“Looks like paint,” said Cathryn.

“That's what it is,” said Charles.

While they watched the group began to chant “Communist” over and over. The man with the paint can approached the house seemingly building up the courage of the rest of the group. As they got closer, Cathryn could see that the men were carrying an assortment of clubs. The chanting got progressively louder. Charles recognized Wally Crabb and the man who had punched him.

The group stopped about fifty feet from the house. The man with the paint kept walking as the others egged him on. Charles pulled away from the window, making her stand behind him. He had a clear view of the door, and he slipped his finger around the trigger.

They heard the footsteps stop and then the sound of a paintbrush against the shingles. After five minutes there was a final sound of paint splashing up against the front door, followed by the clatter of the can hitting the front porch.

Rushing back to the window, Charles could see that the men were yelling and whooping with laughter. Slowly they walked back down the drive pushing and shoving each other into the snow. At the base of the driveway and after several vociferous arguments, the men climbed into the two cars. With horns
blaring they drove off into the night, heading north on Interstate 301 toward Shaftesbury.

As abruptly as it had been broken, the wintry silence returned. Charles let out a long breath. He put down the shotgun and took Cathryn's hands in his. “Now that you've seen how unpleasant it is, perhaps it would be better for you to go back to your mother's until this is over.”

“No way,” said Cathryn, shaking her head. Then she broke away to tend to Michelle.

Fifteen minutes later the Shaftesbury police cruiser skidded up the driveway and came to a sudden stop behind the station wagon. Frank Neilson hurried from the front seat as if he were responding to an emergency.

“You can just get right back inside your car, you son-of-a-bitch,” said Charles, who had come out on the front porch.

Frank, standing defiantly with his hands on his hips and his feet spread apart, just shrugged. “Well, if you don't need me.”

“Just get the fuck off my land,” snarled Charles.

“Strange people this side of town,” said Frank loudly to his deputy as he got back into the car.

 

Morning crept over the frozen countryside, inhibited by a pewter-colored blanket of high clouds. Charles and Cathryn had taken turns standing watch, but the vandals had not returned. As dawn arrived Charles felt confident enough to return to the bed in front of the fireplace and slip in next to Cathryn.

Michelle had improved considerably and, although she was still extremely weak, she could sit up, courageously managing to smile when Charles pretended to be a waiter bringing in her breakfast.

While he drew some of his blood and again tested his T-lymphocytes for signs of delayed hypersensitivity to Michelle's leukemic cells, Cathryn tried to make their topsy-turvy house more livable. Between Charles's equipment and reagents, Michelle's bed, and the king-sized mattress, the living
room was like a maze. There was little Cathryn could do there, but the kitchen soon responded to her efforts.

“No sign of any appropriate reaction with my lymphocytes,” said Charles, coming in for some more coffee. “You're going to have to give me another dose of Michelle's antigen later today.”

“Sure,” said Cathryn, trying to buoy both her own and Charles's confidence. She wasn't sure she could do it again. The thought alone gave her gooseflesh.

“I must think of some way to make us more secure here,” said Charles. “I don't know what I would have done if those men last night had been drunk enough to storm the back door.”

“Vandals are one thing,” said Cathryn. “What if the police come, wanting to arrest you?”

Charles turned back to Cathryn.

“Until I finish with what I'm doing, I have to keep everybody out of the house.”

“I think it's just a matter of time before the police come,” said Cathryn. “And I'm afraid it will be a lot more difficult to keep them out. Just by resisting, you'll be breaking the law, and they might feel obligated to use force.”

“I don't think so,” said Charles. “There's too much for them to lose and very little to gain.”

“The stimulus could be Michelle, thinking they need to recommence her treatment.”

Charles nodded slowly. “You might be right, but even if you are, there's nothing else to be done.”

“I think there is,” said Cathryn. “Maybe I can stop the police from looking for you. I met the detective who's handling the case. Perhaps I should go see him and tell him that I don't want to press charges. If there are no charges, then they would stop looking for you.”

Charles took a large gulp of coffee. What Cathryn said made sense. He knew that if the police came in force, they could get him out of the house. That was one of the reasons he'd boarded up the windows so carefully; afraid of tear gas or the like. But he thought they probably would have other means
which he hadn't wanted to consider. Cathryn was right; the police would be real trouble.

“All right,” said Charles, “but you'll have to use the rental van in the garage. I don't think the station wagon has any windshield.”

Putting on their coats, they walked hand in hand through the inch of new snow to the locked barn. They both saw the charred remains of the playhouse at the pond's edge and both avoided mentioning it. The still-smoldering ashes were too sharp a reminder of the terror of the previous night.

As Cathryn backed the van out of the garage, she felt a reluctance to leave. With Michelle ostensibly feeling better and despite the vandals, Cathryn had enjoyed her newly found closeness with Charles. With some difficulty, since driving a large van was a new experience, Cathryn got the vehicle turned around. She waved good-bye to Charles and drove slowly down their slippery driveway.

Reaching the foot of the hill, she turned to look back at the house. In the steely light, it looked abandoned among the leafless trees. Across the front of the house, the word “Communist” was painted in careless, large block letters. The rest of the red paint had been splashed on the front door, and the way it had splattered and ran off the porch made it look like blood.

Driving directly to the Boston Police Headquarters on Berkeley Street, Cathryn rehearsed what she was going to say to Patrick O'Sullivan. Deciding that brevity was the best approach, she was confident that she'd be in and out in a matter of minutes.

She had a great deal of trouble finding a parking spot and ended up leaving the van in an illegal yellow zone. Taking the elevator to the sixth floor, she found O'Sullivan's office without difficulty. The detective got up as she entered and came around his desk. He was dressed in exactly the same outfit as he'd had on twenty-four hours earlier when she'd met him. Even the shirt was the same because she remembered a coffee stain just to the right of his dark blue polyester tie. It was hard for Cathryn to imagine that this seemingly gentle man could
muster the violence he obviously needed on occasion for his job.

“Would you like to sit down?” asked Patrick. “Can I take your coat?”

“That's okay, thank you,” said Cathryn. “I'll only take a moment of your time.”

The detective's office looked like the set for a TV melodrama. There were the obligatory stern photos of some of the police hierarchy on the chipped and peeling walls. There was also a cork bulletin board filled with an assortment of wanted posters and photographs. The detective's desk was awash with papers, envelopes, soup cans full of pencils, an old typewriter, and a picture of a chubby redheaded woman with five redheaded little girls.