Fever (35 page)

O'Sullivan tipped back in his chair, his fingers linked over his stomach. His expression was entirely blank. Cathryn realized she had no idea what the man was thinking.

“Well,” she said uneasily, her confidence waning. “The reason I came is to tell you that I'm not interested in pressing charges against my husband.”

Detective O'Sullivan's face did not alter in the slightest detail.

Cathryn looked away for a moment. Already the meeting was not going according to plan. She continued: “In other words, I don't want guardianship of the child.”

The detective remained unresponsive, augmenting Cathryn's anxiety.

“It's not that I don't care,” added Cathryn quickly. “It's just that my husband is the biological parent, and he is an M.D., so I think he's in the best position to determine the kind of treatment the child should receive.”

“Where is your husband?” asked O'Sullivan.

Cathryn blinked. The detective's question made it sound as if he hadn't been listening to her at all. Then she realized she shouldn't have paused. “I don't know,” said Cathryn, feeling she sounded less than convincing.

Abruptly O'Sullivan tipped forward in his chair, bringing
his arms down on the top of his desk. “Mrs. Martel, I think I'd better inform you of something. Even though you initiated the legal proceedings, you cannot unilaterally stop them before the hearing. The judge who granted you emergency temporary guardianship also appointed a guardian
ad litim
by the name of Robert Taber. How does Mr. Taber feel about pressing charges against your husband in order to get Michelle Martel back into the hospital?”

“I don't know,” said Cathryn meekly, confused at this complication.

“I had been led to believe,” continued Detective O'Sullivan, “that the child's life was at stake unless she got very specific treatment as soon as possible.”

Cathryn didn't say anything.

“It's apparent to me that you have been talking with your husband.”

“I've spoken with him,” admitted Cathryn, “and the child is doing all right.”

“What about the medical treatment?”

“My husband is a physician,” said Cathryn, as if stating Charles's qualifications answered the detective's question.

“That may be, Mrs. Martel, but the court will only agree to accepted treatment.”

Cathryn marshaled her courage and stood up. “I think I should go.”

“Perhaps you should tell us where your husband is, Mrs. Martel.”

“I'd rather not say,” said Cathryn, abandoning any pretense of ignorance.

“You do remember we have a warrant for his arrest. The authorities at the Weinburger Institute are very eager to press charges.”

“They'll get every piece of their equipment back,” said Cathryn.

“You should not allow yourself to become an accessory to the crime,” said Patrick O'Sullivan.

“Thank you for your time,” said Cathryn as she turned for the door.

“We already know where Charles is,” called Detective O'Sullivan.

Cathryn stopped and turned back to the detective.

“Why don't you come back and sit down.”

For a moment Cathryn didn't move. At first she was going to leave, but then she realized she'd better find out what they knew and more importantly, what they planned to do. Reluctantly, she returned to her seat.

“I should explain something else to you,” said O'Sullivan. “We didn't put out the warrant for your husband's arrest on the NCIC teletype until this morning. My feeling was that this was not a usual case, and despite what the people at the Weinburger said, I didn't think your husband stole the equipment. I thought he'd taken it, but not stolen it. What I hoped was that somehow the case would solve itself. I mean, like your husband would call somebody and say ‘I'm sorry, here's all the equipment and here's the kid; I got carried away . . .' and so forth. If that happened I think we could have avoided any indictments. But then we got pressure from the Weinburger and also the hospital. So your husband's warrant went out over the wires this morning and we heard back immediately. The Shaftesbury police phoned to say that they knew Charles Martel was in his house and that they'd be happy to go out and apprehend him. So I said . . .”

“Oh God, no!” exclaimed Cathryn, her face blanching. Detective O'Sullivan paused in mid-sentence, watching Cathryn. “Are you all right, Mrs. Martel?”

Cathryn closed her eyes and placed her hands over her face. After a minute she took her hands down and looked at O'Sullivan. “What a nightmare, and it continues.”

“What are you talking about?” asked the detective.

Cathryn described Charles's crusade against Recycle, Ltd. and the attitude of the local police, also the police's reaction to the attack on their house.

“They did seem a bit eager,” admitted O'Sullivan, remembering his conversation with Frank Neilson.

“Can you call them back and tell them to wait?” asked Cathryn.

“It's been too long for that,” said O'Sullivan.

“Could you just call and make contact so that the local police don't feel they are operating by themselves,” pleaded Cathryn.

O'Sullivan picked up his phone and asked the switchboard operator to put him through to Shaftesbury.

Cathryn asked if he would be willing to go to New Hampshire and oversee things.

“I don't have any authority up there,” said the detective. Then as the call went through he directed his attention to the receiver.

“We got him surrounded,” said Bernie loud enough so that when O'Sullivan held the phone away from his ear, Cathryn could hear. “But that Martel is crazy. He's boarded up his house like a fort. He's got a shotgun which he knows how to use and he's got his kid as a hostage.”

“Sounds like a difficult situation,” said O'Sullivan. “I suppose you've called in the state police for assistance?”

“Hell, no!” said Bernie. “We'll take care of him. We've deputized a handful of volunteers. We'll give you a call as soon as we bring him in so you can make arrangements to ship him down to Boston.”

Patrick thanked Bernie, who in turn told the detective not to mention it and that the Shaftesbury police force was always ready and willing to help.

O'Sullivan looked over at Cathryn. The conversation with Bernie had substantiated her claims. The Shaftesbury deputy seemed a far cry from a professional policeman. And the idea of deputizing volunteers sounded like something out of a Clint Eastwood western.

“There's going to be trouble,” said Cathryn, shaking her head. “There is going to be a confrontation. And because of
Michelle, Charles is very determined. I'm afraid he'll fight back.”

“Christ!” said O'Sullivan, standing up and getting his coat from a rack near the door. “God, how I hate custody cases. Come on, I'll go up there with you, but remember, I have no authority in New Hampshire.”

Cathryn drove as fast as she thought she could get away with in the van while Patrick O'Sullivan followed in a plain blue Chevy Nova. As they neared Shaftesbury, Cathryn could feel her pulse quicken. Rounding the last turn before the house she was almost in a panic. As she came up to their property, she saw a large crowd of people. Cars were parked on either side of Interstate 301 for fifty yards in both directions. At the base of their driveway two police cruisers blocked the entrance.

Parking the van as close as she could, Cathryn got out and waited for O'Sullivan, who pulled up behind her. The crowd gave the scene a carnival aspect despite freezing temperatures. Across the road some enterprising individual had set up a makeshift charcoal grill. On it sizzled Italian sausages which were selling briskly in a pocket of pita bread for $2.50. Next to the grill was an ash can of Budweiser beer and ice. Behind the concession a group of kids were building opposing snow forts in preparation for a snowball fight.

O'Sullivan came up beside Cathryn and said, “Jesus, this looks like a high school outing.”

“All except for the guns,” said Cathryn.

Grouped behind the two police cruisers was a throng of men dressed in all manner of clothing, from army fatigues to ski parkas, and each armed with a hunting rifle. Some carried their guns in one hand, Budweiser in the other. In the center of the group was Frank Neilson, with his foot on the bumper of one of the police cars, pressing a small walkie-talkie to his ear and apparently coordinating unseen, armed men as they completed surrounding the house.

O'Sullivan left Cathryn and walked up to Frank Neilson, introducing himself. From where Cathryn was standing, she
could tell that the Shaftesbury police chief viewed the detective as an intruder. As if it were an effort, Neilson withdrew his foot from the car bumper and assumed his full height, towering a foot over O'Sullivan. The two men did not look as if they shared the same profession. Neilson was wearing his usual blue police uniform, complete with massive leather-holstered service revolver. On his head he had a Russian-style fake fur hat with all the flaps tied on top. O'Sullivan, on the other hand, had on a weather-beaten, wool-lined khaki coat. He wore no hat and his hair was disheveled.

“How's it going?” asked O'Sullivan casually.

“Fine,” said Neilson. “Everything under control.” He wiped his snub nose with the back of his hand.

The walkie-talkie crackled and Neilson excused himself. He spoke into the machine saying that the tomcat group should approach to one hundred yards and hold. Then he turned back to O'Sullivan. “Gotta make sure the suspect doesn't sneak out the back door.”

O'Sullivan turned away from Neilson and eyed the armed men. “Do you think it's advisable to have this much firepower on hand?”

“I suppose you want to tell me how to handle this situation?” asked Neilson sarcastically. “Listen, detective, this is New Hampshire, not Boston. You've got no authority here. And to tell you the honest truth, I don't appreciate you big city boys feeling you gotta come out here and give advice. I'm in charge here. I know how to handle a hostage situation. First secure the area, then negotiate. So if you'll excuse me, I got work to do.”

Neilson turned his back on O'Sullivan and redirected his attention to the walkie-talkie.

“Pardon me?” said a tall, gaunt man tapping O'Sullivan on the shoulder. “Name's Harry Barker,
Boston Globe.
You're Detective O'Sullivan from the Boston police, right?”

“You guys don't waste any time, do you?” said O'Sullivan.

“The Shaftesbury
Sentinel
was good enough to give us a
jingle. This could be a great story. Lots of human interest. Can you give me some background?”

O'Sullivan pointed out Frank Neilson. “There is the man in charge. Let him give you the story.”

As O'Sullivan watched, Neilson picked up a bull horn and was preparing to use it when Harry Barker accosted him. There was a brief exchange of words, then the reporter stepped aside. Pressing the button on the bull horn, Frank Neilson's husky voice thundered out over the winter landscape. The deputized men stopped laughing and shouting and even the children were silent.

“Okay, Martel, your place is surrounded. I want you to come out with your hands up.”

The crowd stayed perfectly still and the only movement was a few snowflakes drifting down among the branches of the trees. Not a sound emanated from the white Victorian house. Neilson tried the same message again with the same result. The only noise was the wind in the pines behind the barn.

“I'm going closer,” said Neilson to no one in particular.

“I'm not so sure that's a good idea,” said O'Sullivan, loud enough for everyone in the immediate vicinity to hear.

After glaring at the detective, Neilson took the bull horn in his right hand and with great ceremony started around the police car. As he passed O'Sullivan he was laughing. “The day that Frank Neilson can't handle a piss pot of a doctor will be the day he turns in his badge.”

While the crowd murmured excitedly, Neilson lumbered up the driveway to a point about fifty feet beyond the two police cruisers. It was snowing a little harder now and the top of his hat was dusted with flakes.

“Martel,” boomed the police chief through the bull horn, “I'm warning you, if you don't come out, we'll come in.”

Silence descended the instant the last word issued from the cone of the horn. Neilson turned back to the group and made an exasperated gesture, like he was dealing with a garden pest. Then he began walking closer to the house.

Not one of the spectators moved or spoke. There was an
excited anticipation as they all hoped something would happen. Neilson was now about a hundred feet from the front of the house.

Suddenly the red-paint-spattered front door burst open and Charles Martel emerged holding his shotgun. There were two almost simultaneous explosions.

Neilson dove headfirst into the snowbank lining the drive, while the spectators either fled or took cover behind cars or trees. As Charles slammed the front door, bird shot rained harmlessly down over the area.