Fever (38 page)

Charles could not stand the waiting another second, especially since he was sure he wouldn't be able to actually strike the intruder. Impulsively he lifted his foot and kicked the attic door closed. He felt a slight resistance but not enough to keep it from slamming shut. He leaped forward, intending to turn the key in the lock.

He never got to the door. There was a tremendous explosion. The attic door burst open, sending Charles flying back into Michelle's room with his ears ringing. Scrambling on all fours, he saw Ferrullo topple from the attic stairs to the hall floor.

Cathryn and the boys jumped at the explosion, which was followed by a rush of footsteps on the front and back porches. In the next instant a sledgehammer crashed through the glass panel and its wooden cover next to the front door just inches from Chuck's head. A groping hand reached through the opening for the doorknob. Chuck reacted by grabbing the hand and pulling. Jean Paul dropped the bat and leaped to his brother's aid. Their combined strength pulled the unwilling arm to its limit, forcing it up against the shards of glass left in the panel. The unseen man yelled in pain. A pistol sounded and splinters flew from the door, convincing the boys to let go.

In the kitchen Cathryn tightened her hold on the shotgun as two men wrestled with the already broken back door. They succeeded in releasing the securing rope and pulled the door open. The potatoes swung out, but this time the men were able to duck. Wally Crabb grabbed the sack on its return swing, while Brezo headed through the door. With the gun pointed
downward, Cathryn pulled the trigger. A load of bird shot roared into the linoleum, ricocheting up and spraying the doorway and Brezo. Brezo reversed direction and followed Wally off the porch as Cathryn pumped another shell into the chamber and blasted the empty doorway.

As abruptly as the violence started it was over. Jean Paul ran into the kitchen to find Cathryn immobilized by the experience. He closed the back door and resecured it, then took the gun from her shaking hands. Chuck went upstairs to see if Charles was all right and was surprised to see his father bending over, examining a scorched and dazed stranger.

With Chuck's help, Charles got the man downstairs and bound him to a chair in the living room. Cathryn and Jean Paul came in from the kitchen and the family tried to pull themselves together after the nerve-shattering excitement. There was no hope for sleep for anyone except Michelle. After a few minutes the boys volunteered to resume watch and disappeared upstairs. Cathryn went into the kitchen to make fresh coffee.

Charles returned to his machines, his heart still pounding. He gave Michelle another dose of the transfer factor through her IV, which she again tolerated with no apparent ill effects. In fact, she didn't even wake up. Convinced the molecule was nontoxic, Charles took the rest of the solution and added it to Michelle's half-empty intravenous bottle, fixing it to run in over the next five hours.

With that done, Charles went over to his unexpected prisoner, who had regained his senses. Despite his burns, he was a handsome man with intelligent eyes. He looked nothing at all like the local thug Charles expected. What worried him was the fact that the man seemed to be a professional. When Charles had examined him, he'd removed a shoulder holster containing a Smith & Wesson stainless steel .38 special. That wasn't a casual firearm.

“Who are you?” asked Charles.

Anthony Ferrullo sat as if carved from stone.

“What are you doing here?”

Silence.

Self-consciously, Charles reached into the man's jacket pockets, finding a wallet. He pulled it out. Mr. Ferrullo did not move. Charles opened the wallet, shocked at the number of hundred-dollar bills inside. There were the usual credit cards, as well as a driver's license. Charles slipped the driver's license out and held it up to the light. Anthony L. Ferrullo, Leonia, New Jersey. New Jersey? He turned back to the wallet and found a business card. Anthony L. Ferrullo; Breur Chemicals; Security. Breur Chemicals!

Charles felt a shiver of fear pass over him. Up until that moment he had felt that whatever risk he was taking in standing up against organized medical and industrial interests could be resolved in a court of law. Mr. Anthony Ferrullo's presence suggested the risk was considerably more deadly. And most disturbing, Charles realized that the risk extended to his whole family. In Mr. Ferrullo's case, “security” was obviously a euphemism for coercion and violence. For a moment the security man was less an individual than a symbol of evil, and Charles had to keep himself from striking out at him in blind anger. Instead he began turning on lights, all of them. He wanted no darkness, no more secrecy.

Calling the boys down from upstairs, the family gathered in the kitchen.

“Tomorrow it's over,” said Charles. “We're going to walk out of here and give up.”

Cathryn was glad, but the boys looked at each other in consternation. “Why?” asked Chuck.

“I've done what I wanted to do for Michelle, and the fact of the matter is that she might need some radiotherapy at the hospital.”

“Is she going to get better?” said Cathryn.

“I have no idea,” admitted Charles. “Theoretically there's no reason why not, but there's a hundred questions I haven't answered. It's a technique outside of all accepted medical practices. At this point all we can do is hope.”

Charles walked over to the phone and called all the media
people he could think of, including the Boston TV stations. He told anyone who'd listen that he and his family would emerge at noon.

Then he called the Shaftesbury police, told a deputy who he was, and asked to speak to Frank Neilson. Five minutes later the chief was on the phone. Charles told him that he'd called the media and informed them that he and his family were coming out at noon. Then he hung up. Charles hoped that the presence of so many newspaper and TV reporters would eliminate any possible violence.

 

At exactly 12 o'clock, Charles removed the planks securing the front door and released the lock. It was a glorious day with a clear blue sky and a pale winter sun. At the bottom of the drive, in front of a crowd of people, were an ambulance, the two police cars, and a handful of TV news vans.

Charles looked back at his family and felt a rush of pride and love. They'd stood behind him more than he could have hoped. Walking back to the makeshift bed, he scooped Michelle into his arms. Her eyelids fluttered but remained closed.

“All right, Mr. Ferrullo, after you,” said Charles.

The security man stepped out onto the porch, his scorched face gleaming in the sun. Next came the two boys, followed by Cathryn. Charles brought up the rear with Michelle. In a tight group they started down the driveway.

To his surprise Charles saw Dr. Ibanez, Dr. Morrison, Dr. Keitzman, and Dr. Wiley all standing together near the ambulance. As they got closer and the crowd realized there would not be any violence, a number of the men began to boo, particularly those from Recycle, Ltd. Only one person clapped, and that was Patrick O'Sullivan, who was immensely pleased the affair was coming to a peaceful close.

Standing in the shadow of the trees, Wally Crabb was silent. He slid his right index finger under the trigger of his favorite hunting rifle and pressed his cheek against the cold stock. As he tried to sight, the front of the rifle shook from all the bourbon he'd consumed that morning. Leaning up against a nearby
branch helped considerably, but Brezo's urging to hurry made him nervous.

The sharp crack of a firearm shattered the winter stillness. The crowd strained forward as they saw Charles Martel stumble. He didn't fall but rather sank to his knees, and as gently as if handling a newborn infant, he laid his daughter in the snow before he fell facedown beside her. Cathryn turned and screamed, then threw herself to her knees, trying to see how badly her husband was hurt.

Patrick O'Sullivan was the first to react. By professional reflex, his right hand sought the handle of his service revolver. He didn't draw the gun but rather held on to it as he bullied his way between several onlookers and charged up the driveway. Hovering over Cathryn and Charles like a hawk guarding its nest, his eyes scanned the crowd, looking for suspicious movement.

N
ever having been a hospital patient before, Charles found the experience agonizing. He'd read some editorials in the past about the problems associated with the technological invasion of medicine, but he never imagined the state of insecurity and powerlessness he would feel. It had been three days since he'd been shot and then operated on, and as he looked up at the tangle of tubes and bottles, monitors and recorders, he felt like one of his own experimental animals. Thankfully, the day before he had been transferred out of the frenzied terror of the intensive care unit, and deposited like a piece of meat in a private room in the fancy section of the hospital.

Trying to adjust his position, Charles felt a frightening stab of pain that tightened around his chest like a band of fire. For a moment he held his breath, wondering if he had opened his incision, and waited for the pain to return. To his relief it didn't, but he lay perfectly still, afraid to move. From his left side, between his ribs, protruded a rubber tube that ran down to a bottle on the floor next to the bed. His left arm was strung up in traction by a complicated net of wires and pulleys. He was immobilized and totally at the mercy of the staff for even the most basic of functions.

A soft knock caught his attention. Before he could respond, the door silently opened. Charles was afraid it was the technician who came every four hours to forcibly inflate his lungs, a procedure Charles was sure had not been equaled in pain since the Inquisition. Instead it was Dr. Keitzman.

“Could you stand a short visit?” he asked.

Charles nodded. Although he didn't feel like talking, he was eager to hear about Michelle. Cathryn had not been able to tell him anything except that she wasn't worse.

Dr. Keitzman came into the room self-consciously, pulling a metal and vinyl chair over next to Charles's bed. His face contorted with the tic that usually connoted tension and he adjusted his glasses.

“How do you feel, Charles?” he asked.

“Couldn't be better,” said Charles, unable to keep the sarcasm from surfacing. Talking, even breathing, were risky affairs and at any moment he expected the pain to return.

“Well, I have some good news. It might be a little premature, but I think you should know.”

Charles didn't say anything. He watched the oncologist's face, afraid to let his hopes rise.

“First,” said Dr. Keitzman. “Michelle responded to the radiotherapy extremely well. A single treatment seems to have taken care of the infiltration of her central nervous system. She's alert and oriented.”

Charles nodded, hoping that was not all Dr. Keitzman had come to say.

There was a silence.

Then the door to the room burst open and in walked the respiratory technician, pushing the hated IPPB machine. “Time for your treatment, Dr. Martel,” said the technician brightly, as if he were bringing some wonderfully pleasurable service. Seeing Dr. Keitzman, the technician skidded to a respectful halt. “Excuse me, Doctor.”

“That's quite all right,” said Dr. Keitzman, seemingly pleased at the interruption. “I've got to be going anyway.” Then looking down at Charles, he said: “The other thing I
wanted to say was that Michelle's leukemic cells have all but disappeared. I think she's in remission.”

Charles felt a warm glow suffuse his body. “God! That's great,” he said with enthusiasm. Then he got a sharp twinge that reminded him where he was.

“It certainly is,” agreed Dr. Keitzman. “We're all very pleased. Tell me, Charles. What did you do to Michelle while she was in your house?”

Charles had trouble containing his joy. His hopes soared. Maybe Michelle was cured. Maybe everything worked as he had guessed. Looking up at Keitzman, Charles thought for a moment. Realizing that he didn't want to go into a detailed explanation at that point, he said: “I just tried to stimulate her immune system.”

“You mean by using an adjuvant like BCG?” asked Dr. Keitzman.

“Something like that,” agreed Charles. He was in no shape to get into a scientific discussion.

“Well,” said Dr. Keitzman, heading for the door. “We'll have to talk about it. Obviously whatever you did helped the chemotherapy she'd been given before you took her from the hospital. I don't understand the time sequence, but we'll talk about it when you feel stronger.”

“Yes,” agreed Charles. “When I'm stronger.”

“Anyway, I'm sure you know the custody proceedings have been canceled.” Dr. Keitzman adjusted his glasses, nodded to the technician, and left.

Charles's elation over Dr. Keitzman's news dulled the painful respiratory treatment, even better than the morphine. As the technician stood by, the positive pressure machine forcibly inflated Charles's lungs, something a patient would not do himself because of the severity of the pain. The procedure lasted for twenty minutes and when the technician finally left, Charles was exhausted. In spite of the lingering pain, he fell into a fitful sleep.

Unsure of how much time had passed, Charles was roused by a sound from the other side of the room. He turned his
head toward the door and was shocked to discover he wasn't alone. There, next to the bed, not more than four feet away, sat Dr. Carlos Ibanez. With his bony hands folded in his lap and his silver hair disheveled, he looked old and frail.

“I hope I'm not disturbing you,” said Dr. Ibanez softly.

Charles felt a surge of anger, but remembering Keitzman's news, it passed. Instead he looked with indifference.

“I'm glad you're doing so well,” said Dr. Ibanez. “The surgeons told me you were very lucky.”

Luck! What a relative term, thought Charles with irritation. “You think getting shot in the chest is lucky?” he asked.

“That's not what I meant,” said Dr. Ibanez with a smile. “Hitting your left arm apparently slowed the bullet so that when it entered your chest, it missed your heart. That was lucky.”

Charles felt a little stab of pain. Although he didn't feel particularly fortunate, he wasn't in the mood for an argument. He shook his head slightly to acknowledge Dr. Ibanez's comment. In truth, he wondered why the old man had come.

“Charles!” said Dr. Ibanez with renewed emphasis. “I'm here to negotiate.”

Negotiate? thought Charles, his eyes puzzled. What the hell is he talking about?

“I've given a lot of thought to everything,” said Dr. Ibanez, “and I'm willing to admit that I made some mistakes. I'd like to make up for them if you're willing to cooperate.”

Charles rolled his head and looked up at the bottles over his head, watching the intravenous fluid drip from the micropore filter. He controlled himself from telling Ibanez to go to hell.

The director waited for Charles to respond, but seeing that he would not, the old man cleared his throat. “Let me be very frank, Charles. I know that you could cause us a great deal of trouble now that you've become a celebrity of sorts. But that wouldn't be good for anyone. I have convinced the board of directors not to press any charges against you and to give you your job back . . .”

“The hell with your job,” said Charles sharply. He winced with pain.

“All right,” said Ibanez consolingly. “I can understand if you don't want to return to the Weinburger. But there are other institutions where we can help you get the kind of job you want, a position where you'll be able to do your research unhindered.”

Charles thought about Michelle, wondering about what he'd done to her. Had he really hit on something? He didn't know but he had to find out. To do that he needed laboratory facilities.

He turned and examined Dr. Ibanez's face. In contrast to Morrison, Charles had never disliked Dr. Ibanez. “I have to warn you that if I negotiate, I'm going to have a lot of demands.” In actuality Charles had not given one thought to what he was going to do after he recovered. But lying there, looking at the director, his mind rapidly reviewed the alternatives.

“I'm prepared to meet your demands, provided they are reasonable,” said Dr. Ibanez.

“And what do you want from me?” asked Charles.

“Only that you won't embarrass the Weinburger. We've had enough scandal.”

For a second, Charles was not sure what Dr. Ibanez meant. If nothing else, the events of the previous week had impressed him with his own impotence and vulnerability. Isolated first in his house, then in intensive care, he had not realized the extent to which he had become a media figure. As a prominent scientist who had risked his life to save his daughter, the press would be happy to hear any criticism he might have of the Weinburger, particularly after the bad notices the institute had already received.

Dimly Charles began to assess his negotiating strength. “All right,” he said slowly, “I want a research position where I'll be my own boss.”

“That can be arranged. I've already been in contact with a friend in Berkeley.”

“And the Canceran evaluation,” said Charles. “All the existing tests have to be scrapped. The drug has to be studied as if you'd just received it.”

“We already were aware of that,” said Dr. Ibanez. “We've started an entirely new toxicity study.”

Charles stared, his face reflecting astonishment at what Ibanez was saying. “And then there's the matter of Recycle, Ltd. Dumping of chemicals into the river must stop.”

Dr. Ibanez nodded. “Your lawyer's activities got the EPA involved in that affair and I understand the problem will be solved shortly.”

“And,” said Charles, wondering how far he could go, “I want Breur Chemicals to make a compensatory payment to the Schonhauser family. They can keep their name out of the affair.”

“I think I can arrange that, particularly if it remains anonymous.”

There was a pause.

“Anything else?” asked Dr. Ibanez.

Charles was amazed that he'd gotten so far. He tried to think of something else but couldn't. “I guess that's it.”

Dr. Ibanez stood up and placed the chair back against the wall. “I'm sorry that we are going to lose you, Charles. I really am.”

Charles watched Ibanez as he closed the door silently behind him.

 

Charles decided if he ever drove cross-country again, it would be without kids and with air conditioning. And if he had to choose between those two conditions, it would be without children. The three had been at each other's throats ever since they left New Hampshire, though that morning they had been relatively quiet as if the vast expanse of the Utah desert awed them into silence. Charles glanced in the rearview mirror. Jean Paul was directly behind him, gazing out his side of the car. Michelle was next to him, bored and fidgety. Way in the back of the refurbished station wagon, Chuck had made a nest for
himself. He had been reading for most of the trip—a chemistry text, of all things. Charles shook his head, acknowledging that he was never going to understand the boy, who now said he wanted to take a summer session at the university. Even if it were a passing fancy, Charles was inordinately pleased when his older son announced that he wanted to be a doctor.

As they crossed the Bonneville Salt Flats west of Salt Lake City, Charles hazarded a glance at Cathryn sitting next to him. She'd taken up needlepoint at the beginning of the trip and seemed absorbed in the repetitive motion. But sensing Charles's stare, she looked up and their eyes met. Despite the annoyance of the kids, they both shared a building joy as the harrowing experience of Michelle's illness and that last violent morning faded into the past.

Cathryn reached over and placed a hand on Charles's leg. He'd lost a lot of weight, but she thought he appeared handsomer than he had in years. And the tension that normally tightened the skin around his eyes was gone. To Cathryn's relief, Charles was at last relaxed, hypnotized by the rushing road and the numbing blur of scenery.

“The more I think about what's happened, the less I understand it,” said Cathryn.

Charles shifted in his seat to find a position that accommodated the fact that his left arm was in a cast. Although he had yet to come to terms with most of the emotions engendered by the affair, there was one thing he had acknowledged. Cathryn had become his best friend. If nothing else, that made the experience worthwhile.

“So you've been thinking?” said Charles, letting Cathryn pick up the conversation wherever she wished.

Cathryn continued pushing her bright-colored yarn through the canvas mesh. “After all the frenzy of packing and actually leaving, I've never really sorted out exactly what happened.”

“What is it you don't understand?” asked Charles.

“Dad!” called Jean Paul from the back seat. “Do they play hockey in Berkeley? I mean is there ice and all that?”

Craning his neck so he could see Jean Paul's face, Charles
said, “I'm afraid there's no ice. It's more like continuous spring in Berkeley.”

“How stupid can you be?” groaned Chuck, tapping Jean Paul on the top of the head.

“Shut up,” said Jean Paul, twisting in his seat to swipe at Chuck's boot. “I wasn't talking to you.”