Fever (36 page)

There were a few murmurs from the crowd, then a cheer as Frank scrambled to his feet. Then he ran as fast as his legs would carry his overweight body. As he neared the cars, he tried to stop but lost his footing and slid the last ten feet on his buttocks, slamming into the rear wheel of the police cruiser. A handful of deputies scurried around the car and pulled him up.

“Goddamn motherfucker!” Neilson shouted. “That's it! That little bastard is going to get what he deserves.”

Someone asked if he'd been hit with any bird shot, but the chief shook his head. Meticulously he shook off the snow, and adjusted his uniform and holster. “I was much too fast for him.”

A local TV news van pulled up and a camera crew alighted, quickly finding their way over to the police chief. The commentator was a bright young woman, dressed in a mink hat and a long, down-filled coat. After a brief word with Neilson, the camera lights went on, flooding the immediate area. The young woman made a rapid introduction, then turned to the police chief and stuck the microphone about an inch from his pug nose.

Frank Neilson's personality underwent a 180-degree change. Acting shy and embarrassed, he said, “I'm just doing my job the best way I know how.”

With the arrival of the TV camera, the politically minded town manager, John Randolph, materialized out of the crowd. He squeezed his way into the sphere of lights and put an arm
around Neilson. “And we think he's doing a splendid job. Let's hear it for our police chief.” John Randolph took his arm off the police chief and began clapping. The crowd followed suit.

The reporter pulled the microphone back and asked if Frank could give the audience an idea of what was happening.

“Well,” began Frank, leaning into the mike, “we got a crazy scientist holed up here.” He pointed awkwardly over his shoulder at the house. “He's got a sick kid he's keeping from the doctors. The man's heavily armed and dangerous, and there's a warrant for his arrest for child-snatching and grand larceny. But there's no need to panic because everything is under control.”

O'Sullivan wormed his way back out of the crowd, searching for Cathryn. He found her near her car, her hands pressed against her mouth. The spectacle terrified her.

“The outcome of all this is going to be tragic unless you intervene,” said Cathryn.

“I can't intervene,” explained O'Sullivan. “I told you that before I came up here. But I think everything will be all right as long as the press and the media are here. They'll keep the chief from doing anything crazy.”

“I want to get up to the house and be with Charles,” said Cathryn. “I'm afraid he might believe I brought the police.”

“Are you crazy?” asked O'Sullivan. “There must be forty men with guns surrounding this place. It's dangerous. Besides, they're not going to let you go up there. It just means one more hostage. Try to be a little patient. I'll talk to Frank Neilson again and try to convince him to call in the state police.”

The detective started back toward the police cruisers, wishing he'd stayed in Boston where he belonged. As he neared the makeshift command post, he again heard the police chief's voice magnified by the bull horn. It was snowing harder now and one of the deputies was asking whether the chief could be heard up at the house. One way or the other, Charles did not answer.

O'Sullivan went up to Neilson and suggested that it might
be easier to use the portable phone and call Charles. The chief pondered the suggestion and although he didn't respond, he climbed into his cruiser, got Charles's number, and dialed. Charles answered immediately.

“Okay, Martel. What are your conditions for letting the kid go?”

Charles's reply was short: “You can go to hell, Neilson.” The line went dead.

“Wonderful suggestion,” said Neilson to O'Sullivan as he put the phone back into the car. Then to no one in particular he said, “How the fuck can you negotiate when there's no demands? Huh? Somebody answer me that!”

“Chief,” called a voice. “How about letting me and my buddies storm the place.”

The suggestion horrified O'Sullivan. He tried to think of a way to get the chief to call in the state police.

In front of Neilson stood three men dressed in white, hooded militarylike parkas and white pants.

“Yeah,” said one of the smaller men, who was missing his front teeth. “We've checked out the place. It would be easy from the back. We'd run from the side of the barn, blow out the back door. It'd all be over.”

Neilson remembered the men. They were from Recycle, Ltd. “I haven't decided what I'm going to do,” he said.

“What about tear gas?” suggested O'Sullivan. “That would bring the good doctor out.”

Neilson glared at the detective. “Look, if I want your opinion, I'll ask for it. Trouble is that out here we don't have all sorts of sophisticated stuff and to get it I'd have to call in the state boys. I want to handle this affair locally.”

A yell pierced the afternoon, followed by a burst of shouting. O'Sullivan and Neilson turned in unison, seeing Cathryn run diagonally across the area in front of the cars.

“What the hell?” exclaimed Neilson.

“It's Martel's wife,” said O'Sullivan.

“Jesus Christ!” exclaimed Neilson. Then to the nearest
group of deputies he yelled, “Get her. Don't let her get up to the house!”

The faster Cathryn tried to run, the more trouble she had as her feet broke through the crusted snow. Upon reaching the driveway, the snowdrift left from the plowing acted like a barrier, and Cathryn was reduced to scrambling over it on all fours. Sliding down the opposite side, she got to her feet.

With a whoop of excitement, a half dozen of the idle deputies responded and struggled around the squad cars. It was a competition to see who got to the prize first. But the new-fallen snow made the going treacherous and the deputies inadvertently inhibited each other. Eventually two of them made it around the cars and began running up the drive as fast as they could. A murmur of excitement escaped from the crowd. O'Sullivan, on the other hand, found himself clenching his fists and urging Cathryn to greater efforts even though he knew her presence in the house would only complicate the situation.

Cathryn found herself gasping for breath. She could hear the heavy breathing of her pursuers and knew they were gaining on her. Desperately, she tried to think of some evasive maneuver but a growing pain in her side made thinking difficult.

Ahead she saw the red-spattered door swing open. Then there was a flash of orange light and an almost simultaneous explosion. Cathryn stopped, gasping for breath, waiting to feel something. Looking back, she could see that her pursuers had dropped into the snow for cover. She tried to run but couldn't. Reaching the front steps she had to pull herself up with her arms. Charles, holding the shotgun in his right hand, reached out to her and she felt him yank her forward and into the house.

Cathryn collapsed on the floor, her chest heaving. She could hear Michelle calling but she didn't move. Charles was running from window to window. After a minute, Cathryn pulled herself to her feet and walked over to Michelle.

“I missed you, Mommy,” said Michelle, putting her arms around her.

Cathryn knew she'd done the right thing.

Charles came back into the living room and checked out the front again. Satisfied, he came over to Cathryn and Michelle, and putting gun down, enveloped them in his arms. “Now I have both my women,” he said with a twinkle.

Cathryn immediately launched into an explanation of what happened, saying over and over that she had had nothing to do with the arrival of the police.

“I never thought for a second you did,” said Charles. “I'm glad to have you back. It's hard watching in two directions at once.”

“I don't trust the local police,” said Cathryn. “I think that Neilson is a psychopath.”

“I couldn't agree more,” said Charles.

“I wonder if it wouldn't be better if we gave up now. I'm afraid of Neilson and his deputies.”

Charles shook his head, silently mouthing, “No.”

“ . . . but listen to me . . . I think they're out there because they want violence.”

“I'm sure they do,” admitted Charles.

“If you give up, give the equipment back to the Weinburger, and explain to Dr. Keitzman what you are trying to do for Michelle, maybe you could continue your experiment at the hospital.”

“No way,” said Charles, smiling at Cathryn's naiveté. “The combined power of organized research and medicine would bar me from doing anything like this. They'd say that I wasn't mentally stable. If I lose control over Michelle now, I'll never get to touch her again. And that wouldn't be so good, would it?” Charles tousled Michelle's hair while Michelle nodded her head in agreement. “Besides,” continued Charles, “I think my body is starting to show some delayed hypersensitivity.”

“Really?” said Cathryn. It was hard for her to generate enthusiasm, having just witnessed the frenzied crowd outside. Charles's apparent calm amazed her.

“The last time I tested my T-lymphocytes there was some mild reaction to Michelle's leukemic cells. It's happening, but it's slow. Even so, I think I should take another challenge dose of the antigen when things quiet down.”

Outside Cathryn could hear the bull horn but it was muffled by the falling snow. She wished she could stop time. For the moment she felt secure, even as she sensed the evil outside.

 

Because of the snow, night came early. Charles chose dinner-time to have Cathryn help him take another injection of Michelle's antigen. He used a different technique, encouraging Cathryn to slip a catheter into one of his veins. It took Cathryn several tries but to her surprise she did it. With an intravenous line open, Charles gave her explicit instructions how to handle the expected anaphylactic reaction. He took epinephrine almost immediately after the antigen and the rather severe reaction was easily controlled.

Cathryn made dinner while Charles devised methods to secure the house. He boarded up the second-story windows and increased the barricades behind the doors. What worried him most was tear gas, and he put out the fire and stuffed the chimney to prevent someone from dropping in a canister.

As evening turned into night, Cathryn and Charles could see the crowd begin to disperse, disappointed and angry that there hadn't been any violence. A few persistent gawkers remained, but they, too, drifted off by nine-thirty as the thermometer dipped to a chilling five degrees above zero. Cathryn and Charles took turns either watching the windows or reading to Michelle. Her apparent improvement had leveled off and she was again weaker. She also had a mild bout of stomach cramps, but they abated spontaneously. By ten she fell asleep.

Except for the occasional sound of the oil burner kicking on, the house was silent, and Charles, who was taking the first watch, began to have difficulty staying awake. The wired feeling he'd gotten from the dose of epinephrine had long since worn off to be replaced by a powerful exhaustion. He poured himself a cup of lukewarm coffee and carried it back into the
living room. He had to move by feel because he'd turned out all the indoor lights. Sitting down next to one of the front windows, he looked between the planks and tried to visualize the police cars, but it wasn't possible. He let his head rest for a moment and in that moment fell into a deep, encompassing sleep.

A
t exactly 2
A.M.
Bernie Crawford gingerly put his arm over the front seat of the police cruiser and prepared to wake the snoring chief as he had been asked. The problem was that Frank hated being pulled from sleep. The last time Bernie had tried to wake the chief on a stakeout, the chief had punched him ferociously on the side of the head. When he'd finally become fully conscious, he'd apologized, but that didn't erase the pain. Pulling his arm back, Bernie decided on a different ploy. He got out of the car, noticing that the new snow had accumulated to three inches. Then he opened the rear door, reached in, and gave the chief a shove.

Neilson's head popped up and he tried to grab Bernie, who quickly backed up. In spite of his bulk, the chief bounded out of the car, obviously intent on catching his deputy, who was prepared to flee down Interstate 301. But as soon as Neilson hit the five-degree air, he stopped, looking disoriented.

“You all right, chief?” called Bernie from fifty feet away.

“Of course I'm all right,” grumbled Frank. “What the hell time is it?”

Back in the front seat of the cruiser, Neilson coughed for
almost three minutes, making it impossible to light up his cigarette. After he'd finally taken several puffs, he took out his walkie-talkie and contacted Wally Crabb. Neilson wasn't entirely happy with his plan, but as the deputies said, he didn't have a better idea. Midway through the evening, everyone had run out of patience and Neilson had felt obligated to do something or lose respect. It was at that time he had agreed to Wally Crabb's idea.

Wally had been a marine and had spent a good deal of time in Vietnam. He told Frank Neilson that as long as you went in fast, the people inside a house never had a chance to resist. Simple as that. Then he pointed out that after it was over, Neilson could personally take the suspect to Boston and the kid to the hospital. He'd be a hero.

“What about the guy's shotgun?” Frank had asked.

“You think he's going to be sitting there with the thing in his hot little hand? Naw. After we blow the back door away, we'll just sail in there and grab him. They'll be so surprised they won't move a muscle. Believe me, you'd think I'd do it if I didn't know it would work? I might be stupid, but I'm not crazy.”

So Neilson had relented. He liked the idea of being a hero. They decided on 2
A.M.
as the time and chose Wally Crabb, Giorgio Brezowski, and Angelo DeJesus to hit the door. Neilson didn't know the guys, but Wally Crabb said they'd been in Nam with him and were “real” experienced. Besides, they'd volunteered.

The walkie-talkie crackled in Frank's hand, and Wally's voice filled the cab. “We read you. We're all set. As soon as we open the front door, come on up.”

“You sure this will work?” asked Neilson.

“Relax, will you? Jesus Christ!”

“All right, we're standing by.”

Neilson switched off the walkie-talkie and tossed it in the back seat. There was nothing more he could do until he saw the front door open.

Wally slipped the tiny walkie-talkie into his parka and
zipped it up. His large frame shivered with anticipatory excitement. Violence for Wally was as good as sex, maybe even better because it was less complicated.

“You guys ready?” he asked the two forms huddled behind him. They nodded. The group had approached the Martel house from the south, moving through the pine trees until they came upon the barn. Dressed in white, courtesy of the management of Recycle, Ltd., they were almost invisible in the light but persistent snow.

Reaching the barn, they'd made their way around the eastern end until Wally, who was in the lead, had been able to look around the corner at the house. Except for a light on the back porch, the house was dark. From that point it was about a hundred feet to the back door.

“Okay, check the equipment,” said Wally. “Where's the shotgun?”

Angelo passed the gun to Brezo who passed it to Wally; the gun was a two-barrel, twelve-gauge Remington, loaded with triple zero magnum shells capable of blasting a hole through a car door. Wally flipped off the safety. Each man also had been issued a police thirty-eight.

“Everybody remember their job?” asked Wally. The plan was for Wally to lead, blast open the rear door, then pull the door open for Brezo and Angelo to rush inside. Wally thought it was a good plan, the kind that had kept him alive through five years of Vietnam. He'd made it a habit only to volunteer for the safe part of any assault.

Angelo and Brezo nodded, tense with excitement. They'd made a bet with each other. The one who got Martel first would be a hundred bucks richer.

“Okay,” said Wally. “I'm off. I'll signal for Angelo.”

After checking the dark house once more, Wally scrambled around the edge of the barn, running low to the ground. He crossed the hundred feet quickly and noiselessly, pulling himself into the shadows below the lip of the back porch. The house remained quiet so he waved to Angelo. Angelo and Brezo joined him holding their flashlights and pistols.

Wally glanced at the two men. “Remember he has to be shot from the front, not the back.”

With a burst of energy, Wally thundered up the back steps and aimed the shotgun at the lock of the back door. A blast sundered the peaceful night, blowing away a section of the back door. Wally grabbed the edge and yanked it open. At the same moment Brezo ran up the steps and past Wally, heading into the kitchen. Angelo was right behind him.

But when Wally opened the door it triggered Charles's trap. A cord pulled a pin from a simple mechanism which supported several hundred-pound bags of Idaho potatoes which had been in the root cellar. The potatoes were hung by a stout rope from a hook directly above the door, and when the pin was pulled the potatoes began a rapid, swinging plunge.

Brezo had just snapped on his flashlight when he saw the swinging sacks. He raised his hands to protect his face at the moment Angelo collided into the back of him. The potatoes hit Brezo square on. The impact made him accidentally pull the trigger of his pistol as he was knocked straight back off the porch into the snow. The bullet pierced Angelo's calf before burying itself in the floor of the porch. He, too, was knocked off the porch, but sideways, taking with him part of the balustrade with the gingerbread trim. Wally, not sure of what was happening, vaulted back over the railing and scrambled off toward the barn. Angelo was not aware he'd been shot until he tried to get up and his left foot refused to function. Brezo, having recovered enough to get to his feet, went to Angelo's aid.

Charles and Cathryn had bolted upright at the blast. When Charles recovered enough to orient himself, he reached frantically for the shotgun. When he found it, he ran into the kitchen. Cathryn rushed over to Michelle, but the child had not awakened.

Arriving in the kitchen, Charles could just make out the two sacks of potatoes still swinging in and out of the open back door. It was difficult to see beyond the sphere of light from the overhead back porch fixture, but he thought he made out
two white figures heading for the barn. Switching off the light, Charles could see the men better. One seemed to be supporting the other as they frantically moved behind the barn.

Pulling the splintered door closed, Charles used some rope to secure it. Then he stuffed the hole made by the shotgun blast with a cushion from one of the kitchen chairs. With a good deal of effort he restrung the potatoes. He knew that it had been a close call. In the distance he could hear the sound of an ambulance approaching, and he wondered if the man who'd been hit with the potatoes was seriously hurt.

Returning to the living room, he explained to Cathryn what had happened. Then he reached over and felt Michelle's forehead. The fever was back with a vengeance. Gently at first, then more forcibly, he tried to wake her. She finally opened her eyes and smiled, but fell immediately back to sleep.

“That's not a good sign,” said Charles.

“What is it?” questioned Cathryn.

“Her leukemic cells might be invading her central nervous system,” said Charles. “If that happens she's going to need radiotherapy.”

“Does that mean getting her to the hospital?” asked Cathryn.

“Yes.”

The rest of the night passed uneventfully, and Cathryn and Charles managed to keep to their three-hour watch schedule. When dawn broke, Cathryn looked out on six inches of new snow. At the end of the driveway only one police car remained.

Without waking Charles, Cathryn went into the kitchen and began making a big country breakfast. She wanted to forget what was happening around them, and the best way was to keep busy. She started fresh coffee, mixed biscuits, took bacon from the freezer, and scrambled eggs. When everything was ready, she loaded it on a tray and carried it into the living room. After awakening Charles, she unveiled the feast. Michelle woke up and seemed brighter than she had been during the night. But she wasn't hungry, and when Cathryn took her temperature, it was 102.

When they carried the dishes back to the kitchen, Charles told Cathryn that he was concerned about infection and that if Michelle's fever didn't respond to aspirin, he would feel obliged to start some antibiotics.

When they were done in the kitchen, Charles drew some blood from himself, laboriously separated out a population of T-lymphocytes, and mixed them with his own macrophages and Michelle's leukemic cells. Then he patiently watched under the phase contrast microscope. There was a reaction, definitely more than the previous day, but still not adequate. Even so, Charles whooped with a sense of success, swinging Cathryn around in a circle. When he calmed down, he told Cathryn that he expected that his delayed sensitivity might be adequate by the following day.

“Does that mean we don't have to inject you today?” asked Cathryn hopefully.

“I wish,” said Charles. “Unfortunately, I don't think we should argue with success. I think we'd better inject today, too.”

 

Frank Neilson pulled up at the bottom of the Martels' driveway, skidding as he did so, and bumped the front of the cruiser that had sat there overnight. Some of the snow slipped off with a thump, and Bernie Crawford emerged, heavy with sleep.

The chief got out of his car with Wally Crabb. “You haven't been sleeping, have you?”

“No,” said Bernie. “Been watching all night. No sign of life.”

Neilson looked up at the house. It appeared particularly peaceful with its fresh blanket of snow.

“How's the guy that got shot?” asked Bernie.

“He's okay. They got him over at the county hospital. But I tell you, Martel is in a lot more trouble now that he's shot a deputy.”

“But he didn't shoot him.”

“Makes no different. He wouldn't have got shot if it hadn't
been for Martel. Rigging up a booby trap is a goddamn crime in itself.”

“Reminds me of those gooks in Nam,” snarled Wally Crabb. “I think we ought to blow the house right off its fucking foundation.”

“Hold on,” said Neilson. “We got a sick kid and a woman to think about. I brought some sniper rifles. We'll have to try to isolate Martel.”

By midday, little had happened. Spectators from town drifted to the scene and, although as yet there weren't quite as many as the day before, it was a considerable crowd. The chief had issued the rifles and positioned the men in various spots around the house. Then he'd tried contacting Charles with the bull horn, asking him to come out on the front porch to talk about what he wanted. But Charles never responded. Whenever Frank Neilson called on the phone, Charles would hang up. Frank Neilson knew that if he didn't bring the affair to a successful conclusion soon, the state police would intervene and control would slip from his hands. That was something he wanted to avoid at all costs. He wanted to have the credit of resolving this affair because it was the biggest and most talked-about case since one of the mill owners' children had been kidnapped in 1862.

Angrily tossing the bull horn into the back seat of his cruiser, Neilson crossed the road for an Italian sausage in pita bread. As he was about to bite into the sandwich, he saw a long black limousine come around the bend and stop. Five men got out. Two were dressed in fancy city clothes, one with white hair and a long fur coat, the other with almost no hair and a shiny leather coat cinched at the waist. The other two men were dressed in blue suits that appeared a size too small. Neilson recognized the second two: they were bodyguards.

Frank took a bite from his sandwich as the men approached him.

“Neilson, my name is Dr. Carlos Ibanez. I'm honored to meet you.”

Frank Neilson shook the doctor's hand.

“This is Dr. Morrison,” said Ibanez, urging his colleague forward.

Neilson shook hands with Morrison, then took another bite of his sausage sandwich.

“Understand you got a problem here,” said Ibanez, looking up at the Martel house.

Frank shrugged. It was never good to admit to problems.

Turning back to the chief, Ibanez said, “We're the owners of all the expensive equipment your suspect has up there in his house. And we're very concerned about it.”