Fever

Ten

Although the sun had set on schedule at four-thirty, no one in New England had seen it go down, including Charles, who was parking at the base of Main Street in Shaftesbury at the time. A heavy bank of clouds had moved in from the Great Lakes. The New England meteorologists were trying to decide when the front was going to collide with a flow of warm air from the Gulf of Mexico. They all agreed it was going to snow, but no one could decide how much or when.

By five-thirty, Charles was still sitting behind the steering wheel of the Pinto parked in the lee of the row of deserted old mill buildings. Every so often he’d scrape off a bit of the frost on the inside of the windshield and peer out. He was waiting until it was completely dark. To keep warm he started the engine every quarter hour and let it idle for five minutes. Just after six he was satisfied that the sky was a uniformly dark blanket and he opened the door and got out.

Recycle, Ltd. was about two hundred yards ahead as evidenced mainly by the single light they had near the office door. It had started to snow with large flakes that settled like feathers in short swooping arcs.

Charles opened the trunk and collected his gear: a Polaroid camera, a flashlight, and a few sample jars. Then he crossed the snow to the shadow of the empty brick mill and started to trudge toward Recycle, Ltd. After leaving Cathryn at the hospital, he had tried to sort through his confusing emotions. He could not come to a decision about Michelle’s treatment although intuition still told him that the child was not going to go into remission. He couldn’t get himself to deny her treatment, but he couldn’t bear to see her suffer more than she had to. He felt trapped. As a consequence, he welcomed the idea of heading up to Shaftesbury and trying to obtain some hard evidence of benzene dumping. At least that satisfied his emotional need for action.

As he came to the end of the building, he stopped and looked around the corner. He now had a full view of the factory that had taken over the last abandoned mill building in the long row.

With the Polaroid and flashlight in his coat pockets and the sample jars in his hands, Charles rounded the corner and headed toward the Pawtomack River, initially moving parallel to the hurricane fence. Once he could no longer see the light over the factory entrance, he cut diagonally across the empty lot, reaching the fence close to the riverbank. First the flashlight, then the sample jars were gently tossed over to land in the snow. With the camera slung over his shoulder, Charles grasped the mesh and began to climb. He teetered on the top, then leaped for the ground, landing on his feet but tumbling over onto his back. Fearful of being seen in the open lot, he gathered his things and hurried over to the shadow of the old factory.

He waited for a few moments, listening to the familiar sounds coming from inside the building. From where he was standing, he could look across the mostly frozen Pawtomack River and make out the trees on the opposite bank. The river was about fifty yards wide at that point. When he had regained his breath, he struggled along the building, heading for the corner facing the river. The going was difficult because the snow covered all sorts of trash and debris.

Charles reached the side of the building facing the river and, shielding his eyes from the lazy snowflakes, he looked down at his goal: the two metal holding tanks. Unfortunately, they were close to the opposite end of the building. After a short pause, Charles set out climbing through the rusted and twisted remains of discarded machinery, only to find himself barred from further advance by a granite-lined sluice about ten feet across and five feet deep. The sluice came from a low arch beneath the building and ran toward the river bank where it was dammed with wooden planks. About midway in the opposite masonry wall was a connecting channel to a large lagoon. The fluid in the sluice and in the lagoon was not frozen and it had the unmistakable acrid smell of discarded industrial chemicals.

Immediately adjacent to the factory, Charles saw that two stout planks had been laid across the sluice. Putting his sample jars down, Charles flipped the planks over to rid them of their veneer of snow and ice. Then, with great care, he struggled across the makeshift bridge holding the sample jars under his right arm and using his left to support himself against the building.

On the opposite side of the sluice the ground sloped down and Charles could approach the level of the lagoon. From the makeshift appearance of the setup, particularly the incompetently constructed dam, Charles knew that the discarded chemicals in the lagoon continuously made their way into the river. He wanted a sample of that syrupy fluid. He bent down at the edge and, holding on to the upper lip of one of the jars, collected a pint or so of the slowly bubbling sludge. Using a bit of snow, Charles wiped off the jar, capped it, and left it to be retrieved on the way back. Meanwhile he wanted a photo of the dam, which kept this chemical cesspool from totally emptying itself into the river below.

Wally Crabb had taken an early dinner break from the rubber ovens with the two guys he played poker with: Angelo DeJesus and Giorgio Brezowski. Sitting at one of the picnic tables in the lunchroom, they’d played blackjack while they absentmindedly consumed their sandwiches. It hadn’t been a good evening for Wally. By six-twenty he was down about thirteen dollars and it didn’t seem like his luck was going to change. And to make matters worse, Brezowski was teasing him by flashing his toothless smile after every hand, silently saying “so long, sucker.” Brezo had lost his front teeth in a barroom brawl in Lowell, Massachusetts, two years ago.

Brezo dealt Wally a face card and a four of spades. When Wally asked him for a hit, Brezo socked him with another face card, sending him over twenty-one.

“Shit!” yelled Wally, slamming the cards down and swinging his massive legs from beneath the picnic table. He pushed himself to his feet and lumbered over to the cigarette machine.

“You out, big boy?” jeered Brezo, resuming play with Angelo.

Wally didn’t answer. He put his coins in the cigarette machine, punched his selection, and waited. Nothing happened. At least nothing inside the machine. Inside Wally’s brain it was like snapping a piano wire stretched to its tensile limit. With a powerful kick he jarred the machine, moving it back on its supports to thump the wall. Cocking his hand back to follow up with a right cross to the coin return, he saw a light flash outside the dark window.

To Brezo and Angelo’s disappointment—they had been hoping to watch the destruction of the cigarette machine—Wally’s cocked arm sank and he pressed his face against the window. “What the fuck, we going to have a thunderstorm now?” asked Wally. Then he saw the flash again, but this time caught a glimpse of its source. For an instant he saw a figure, arms to his face, legs slightly spread.

“It’s a goddamned camera,” said Wally, astonished. “Somebody is taking pictures of the lagoon.”

Wally reached for the phone and dialed Nat Archer’s office. He told the super what he’d seen.

“Must be that Martel nut,” said Nat Archer. “Who are you with, Wally?”

“Just Brezo and Angelo.”

“Why don’t you three go out there and see who it is. If it’s Martel, then teach him a lesson. Mr. Dawson told me that if he showed up again to make sure it was his last visit. Remember the guy is out there illegally. He’s trespassing.”

“You got it,” said Wally, hanging up the receiver. Turning to his buddies and cracking his knuckles, he said, “We’re going to have some fun. Get your coats.”

After photographing the dam, Charles worked his way over to the metal holding tanks. With the flashlight he tried to make sense out of the profusion of pipes and valves. One pipe led directly to a fenced-off area at the edge of the parking lot and obviously served as the off-load site. Another pipe coursed away from the tanks and with a T-connector joined the roof drain conduit on its way to the river bank. Using great care to keep from slipping down the embankment, Charles managed to get to the edge, which was some twenty feet above the surface of the river. The roof drain ended abruptly, spilling its contents down the embankment. The smell of benzene was intense and below the pipe was a patch of open water. The rest of the river was solidly frozen and covered with snow. After taking several pictures of the pipe, Charles leaned out with his second jar and caught some of the fluid dripping from the end. When he thought he had enough, he closed the jar and left it next to the first one. He was almost finished; his mission was more successful than he had hoped. He just wanted to photograph the T-connection between the pipe from the storage tanks and the drain conduit and the feed pipe from the storage tanks back to where it emerged from the factory.

A slight wind had come up, and the once-lazy snowflakes were now being driven into Charles’s face. Before taking the picture, he dusted the snow off the pipes, then sighed through the viewfinder. He wasn’t satisfied. He wanted to get the T-connector and the storage tanks in the same photo, so he stepped over the pipes, squatted down, and sighted again. Satisfied, he depressed the shutter mechanism but nothing happened. Looking at the camera, he realized he hadn’t turned the flash bar around. He did so quickly, then sighed again. Now he could see the storage tank, the pipe coming from the tank, and the juncture with the roof drain. It was perfect. He pushed the shutter release.

The flash of the camera was followed instantly by a sudden, powerful jerk as the Polaroid camera was torn from Charles’s fingers. He looked up from his crouching position to see three men in hooded parkas, silhouetted against the dark sky. They had him cornered against the storage tanks. Before Charles could move, the camera was tossed end over end into the center of the black lagoon.

Charles stood up, struggling to see the faces beneath the hoods. Without words, the two smaller men lunged forward and grabbed his arms. The sudden movement caught Charles off guard and he didn’t struggle. The third man, the big one, went through Charles’s coat pockets, finding the small collection of photographs. With a flick of the wrist they followed the camera into the chemical pond, appearing like white wafers on the surface.

The men let Charles go and stepped back. Charles still couldn’t see their faces, and it made their appearance that much more frightening. Charles panicked and tried to run between one of the smaller men and the storage tank. The man reacted instantly, jabbing a fist into Charles’s face and connecting with his nose. The blow stunned Charles, bringing a slight trickle of blood down his chin.

“Nice poke, Brezo,” laughed Wally.

Charles recognized the voice.

The men pushed him toward the chemical lagoon so that he stumbled over the pipes underfoot. Teasing him, they cuffed his head with open hands, slapping his ears. Charles vainly tried to parry the flutter of blows.

“Trespassing, eh?” said Brezo.

“Looking for trouble, eh?” said Angelo.

“I think he found it,” said Wally.

They crowded Charles to the very edge of the cesspool of acrid chemicals. A glancing blow knocked his hat into the fluid.

“How about a quick dip?” taunted Wally.

With one arm over his face, Charles drew out his flashlight with the other hand and lashed at his nearest assailant.

Brezo eluded the roundhouse blow easily by shifting his weight.

Expecting contact and not getting it, Charles slipped in the melted snow and fell to his hands and knees in the foul mud. The flashlight shattered.

Brezo, having eluded the blow, found himself teetering on the edge of the lagoon. To keep from falling bodily into the pool, he was forced into the ooze to mid-calf before Wally grabbed his jacket, pulling him free.

“Shit!” cried Brezo as he felt the corrosive chemical singe his skin. He knew he had to get his leg into water as soon as possible. Angelo pulled Brezo’s arm over his shoulder, supporting him and, as if in a three-legged race, the two men hurried back toward the entrance of Recycle, Ltd.

Charles scrambled to his feet and bolted for the two planks over the old sluice. Wally made a grab for Charles but missed him, and in the process slipped and fell to his hands and knees. Belying his bulk, he was back on his feet in an instant. Charles thundered over the planks forgetting his previous nervousness at crossing. He thought about pushing the planks into the sluice but Wally was too close behind.

Fearful of being thrown into the chemical lagoon, Charles ran as fast as possible, but the going was difficult. First he had to climb through the discarded machinery, then run across the snow-covered, littered lot until he got to the hurricane fence. Wally was hindered by the same objects but, used to working out, he made better time.

Charles started up the fence but unfortunately he’d picked a spot between two uprights. The lack of support, particularly near the top, made the climbing more difficult.

Wally Crabb reached the fence and began shaking it violently. Charles had all he could do to hold on, much less continue climbing. Then Wally reached up and grabbed Charles’s right foot. Charles tried to kick free but Wally had a good hold and he merely put his weight on it.

The force overrode Charles’s grasp, and he tumbled off the fence, directly on top of Wally. Desperately Charles searched beneath the snow for some object with which he could defend himself. He came up with an old shoe. He flung it at Wally, and although it missed its mark, it gave Charles a chance to stand and flee along the fence toward the river. For Charles, the situation was like being inside a cage with a raging animal.

Running in the snow along the fence was next to impossible. The crust sometimes supported Charles’s weight, other times it didn’t, and there was no way to tell before taking a step. Under the snow was a wide assortment of debris ranging from fresh garbage to wayward rubber tires and metal scrap that kept trapping him. Fearful he was going to be caught any moment, Charles glanced over his shoulder. One look was enough to ascertain that the obstacle course was equally difficult for Wally and Charles reached the river bank first.

His descent to the water was a marginally controlled fall. With his hands out at his sides like outriggers on a canoe, Charles slipped and slid down the embankment, coming to a jarring halt where the ice had buckled at the river’s edge. Avoiding the patch of open water, Charles scrambled out onto the ice, and tried to keep his balance. Wally came down the embankment with a bit more care and consequently lost some ground. Charles was around the portion of the fence that extended out from shore and starting back up the embankment when Wally reached the river’s edge.

Almost at the top of the embankment, Charles’s feet suddenly slid out from under him. Panic-stricken, his hands grasped for a hold. At the last second he caught a small bush and halted his backward movement. He tried to scramble back up but could not get any traction. Wally had already gained the shore and started up toward Charles, closing the short distance between them.

Wally reached up to grab Charles’s leg. He was inches away when he seemed to switch to slow motion. His legs stiffened but it was no use. Slowly at first, then rapidly, he slid backwards.

With renewed effort, Charles tried to climb the last five feet. By jamming his toes against the embankment he discovered he could create crude footholds. In this way, he inched upwards and threw his upper body over the edge. He pulled his feet up, then raised himself on his hands and knees. In so doing, he felt rocks and pieces of brick under the snow. He kicked them loose and picked up a handful. Wally had begun a new assault on the embankment and at that moment was only five feet away.

Cocking his arm back, Charles threw the stones. One hit Wally on the point of the shoulder and he grunted in pain. He grabbed the area with his opposite hand only to slip back down the embankment. Quickly Charles kicked loose additional stones and threw them down at Wally, who put his arms over his head and retreated out onto the ice.

Charles fled back toward the row of deserted mill buildings, intending to run around the end of the first building and get to the Pinto, which was parked a hundred yards back. But as he started in that direction, he saw several flashlights coming around the opposite end of the hurricane fence. They swung in his direction, momentarily blinding him, and he knew he’d been spotted. He had no choice. He ran directly for the empty building.

Dashing through a doorless opening Charles was quickly engulfed by impenetrable darkness. With his arms swinging in exploratory arcs he inched forward, encountering a wall. As if in a maze, he stumbled along the wall until he came to a door. Bending down and searching the floor, he found some rubble, which he tossed through the opening. It hit yet another wall and fell back to the floor. Without letting go of the doorjamb, Charles reached out in the darkness. His fingertips touched the wall that he’d hit with the rubble. He let go of the doorframe and walked along this new wall.

Hearing shouts behind him, Charles felt a surge of panic. He had to find a place to hide. He was convinced that these Recycle people were crazy and that they were planning to kill him. Charles was certain they had hoped to force him into the chemical lagoon, hoping perhaps to make it appear as an accident. He was, after all, a trespasser who could conceivably slip into that cesspool in the dark. And if they were willing to dump poisons into a public river, morality was not high on their priority list.

Charles came to a corner in the wall he was following. He strained to see but he couldn’t even detect his own hand moving in front of his face. Bending down, he gathered a few pebbles and tossed them around the corner to see how far away the next wall was. He waited for the sound of the stone to hit a wall, then a floor. There was neither. After a long delay, Charles heard the distant splash of water. He shrank back. Somewhere immediately in front of him was a void, perhaps an old elevator shaft.

Guessing that he was in a hallway, Charles threw some pebbles perpendicular to the wall he’d been following. The stones hit immediately, and stretching out in the darkness, Charles felt the opposite wall.

With his foot Charles began to kick loose plaster ahead of him to be sure that he’d pass the shaft. It worked, and he slowly moved ahead, gaining a certain amount of confidence. He had no way of judging the distance he’d traveled, but he felt it was significant. Then his hand touched another doorjamb. Feeling ahead, his other hand grasped a wooden door, open about a foot. The knob was missing. Charles pushed and the door reluctantly opened, restricted by debris on the floor. With great care Charles inched into the room, feeling ahead with his right foot, and smelling a foul, musty odor. He encountered a bale of material, then realized it was an old, rotting rug.

Behind him he heard someone yell into the cavernous interior. “We want to talk to you, Charles Martel.” The sound echoed in the blackness. Then he heard heavy footsteps and voices talking among themselves. With a surge of new fear, he let go of the door and started across the room, his hands sweeping around in front of him, hoping to find some hiding place. Almost immediately he tripped over another rug, then hit up against a low, metal object. He felt along the top of it, deciding it was a cabinet of sorts that had been tipped over. Stepping around it, he ducked down among a pile of smelly rags. He burrowed beneath the rags as best he could, feeling some movement of little feet. He hoped it was mice he’d disturbed and not something larger.

Except for the luminous dial on his watch, Charles could see nothing. He waited, his breath sounding harsh in the stillness and his heart beating audibly in his ears. He was caught. There was no place else to run. They could do to him what they wanted; no one would find his body, especially if it were thrown down the old elevator shaft. Charles had never felt such limitless terror.

A light flickered in the hallway, sending tiny reflections into Charles’s room. The flashlights were moving down the hallway, coming in his direction. For a moment they disappeared and utter blackness descended. He heard a distant splash as if a large object had been thrown down the elevator shaft, followed by laughter.

The flashlight beams returned to the hallway, swaying and searching as Charles’s pursuers drew nearer. Now he could hear every footstep. With a sudden, grating noise, the old wooden door was shoved open, and a sharp ray of light played around the room.

Charles pulled his head down like a turtle, hoping that his pursuer would be satisfied with a cursory glance. But such was not the case. Charles heard the man kick the roll of old rug and saw the light going over every inch of the floor. With a stab of panic he knew he was about to be discovered.

Leaping from beneath his scant cover, Charles bolted for the door. The pursuer whirled his light, silhouetting Charles in the doorway. “Here he is!” the man yelled.

Intending to try to retrace his steps out of the maze, Charles started down the corridor. Instead he crashed into another pursuer coming down the hall who grabbed him, dropping his flashlight in the process. Charles struck blindly, desperately trying to free himself. Then, even before he felt the pain, his legs buckled beneath him. The man had hit Charles on the back of his knees with a club.

Charles collapsed to the floor as his attacker reached for his flashlight. The other man emerged from the room Charles had been hiding in and his light played over the scene. For the first time, Charles got a look at the man who’d hit him. To his astonishment he found himself looking at Frank Neilson, Shaftesbury’s Chief of Police. The blue serge uniform with all its bits and pieces of decoration, including holster and hand gun, never looked so good.

“Okay, Martel, game’s over, on your feet!” said Neilson, slipping his billy club into its leather holster. He was a stocky man with slicked-back blond hair and a gut that swooped out from his chest, then curved back just above his trouser tops. His neck was the size of Charles’s thigh.

“Am I glad to see you,” said Charles, with heartfelt sincerity despite the fact he’d been struck.

“I’ll bet you are,” said Frank, grabbing Charles by the collar and hauling him to his feet.

Charles staggered for a moment, his leg muscles complaining.

“Cuffs?” asked the deputy. His name was Bernie Crawford. In contrast to his boss, the deputy was tall an lanky, like a basketball forward.

“Hell, no!” said Frank. “Let’s just get out of this shithole.”

Bernie went first, followed by Charles, then Frank, as the trio made their way back through the deserted factory. Passing the elevator shaft, Charles shuddered to think how close he’d come to tumbling into the pit. As he walked, he thought about Bernie’s question of “cuffs.” Obviously Recycle had called the police and had made a complaint.

No one spoke as they marched single file out of the old mill, across the empty lot, and to the Dodge Aspen squad car. Charles was put into the backseat, behind the thick mesh guard. Frank started the car and began to pull away from the curb.

“Hey, my car’s back that way,” said Charles, moving forward to speak through the mesh.

“We know where your car is,” said Frank.

Sitting back, Charles tried to calm down. His heart was still thumping in his chest and his legs ached horribly. He glanced out the window wondering if they were taking him to the station. But they didn’t make a U-turn. Instead they headed south and turned in at the gate for the Recycle parking lot.

Charles sat forward again. “Listen. I need your help. I need to get some hard evidence to prove that Recycle is dumping poisons into the Pawtomack. That’s what I was doing here when they jumped me and destroyed my camera.”

“You listen, Mack,” said Frank. “We got a call you were trespassing here. And on top of that you assaulted one of the workers, pushing him into some acid. Last night you shoved around the foreman, Nat Archer.”

Charles sat back, realizing that he was just going to have to wait out whatever protocol Frank had decided on. Presumably Frank wanted some positive identification. With a certain amount of exasperation clouding his relief, Charles resigned himself to having to go down to the police station.

They stopped a distance from the front entrance. Frank blew the horn three times and waited. Presently the aluminum storm door opened, and Charles watched Nat Archer come out, followed by a shorter fellow whose left leg was swathed from the knee down in bandages.

Frank struggled out from behind the wheel and came around the car to open the door for Charles. “Out,” was all he said.

Charles complied. There was about an inch and a half of new snow and Charles slid a little before regaining his balance. The bruises where he’d been hit by Frank’s billy club hurt more when he was standing.

Nat Archer and his companion trudged up to Frank and Charles.

“This the man?” asked Frank, bending a stick of gum and pushing it deep into his mouth.

Archer glared at Charles and said, “It’s him, all right.”

“Well, you want to press charges?” asked Frank, chewing his gum with loud snapping noises.

Archer trudged off toward the factory.

Frank, still snapping his gum, walked around the squad car and got in.

Charles, confused, turned to look at Brezo. The man stood in front of Charles smiling a toothless grin. Charles noticed a scar that ran down the side of his face across his cheek, making his smile slightly asymmetric.

In a flash of unexpected violence, Brezo unleashed a powerful blow to Charles’s midsection. Charles saw the blow coming and managed to deflect it slightly with his elbow. Still it caught Charles in the abdomen, doubling him up, and he crumbled to the cold earth, struggling for a breath. Brezo stood over him expecting more action, but he only kicked a bit of snow at Charles and walked off, limping slightly on his bandaged leg.

Charles pushed himself up onto his hands and knees. For a moment he was disoriented with pain. He heard a car door open and felt a tug on his arm, forcing him to his feet. Holding his side, Charles allowed himself to be led back to the squad car. Once inside, he let his head fall back on the seat.

He felt the car skid but didn’t care. He kept his eyes closed. It hurt too much just to breathe. After a short time, the car stopped and the door opened. Charles opened his eyes and saw Frank Neilson looking into the back seat. “Let’s go, buster. You should feel lucky you got off so easy.” He reached in and pulled Charles toward him.

Charles got out, feeling a little dizzy. Frank closed the rear door, then got back into the driver’s seat. He rolled down the window. “I think you’d better stay away from Recycle. It’s got around town pretty quick that you’re trying to cause trouble. Let me tell you something. If you keep at it, you’ll find it. In fact, you’ll find more trouble’n you’re bargaining for. The town survives on Recycle, and we law enforcement officers won’t be able to guarantee your safety if you try to change that. Or your family’s either. Think about it.”

Frank rolled his window up and spun his wheels, leaving Charles standing at the curb, his legs splattered with slush. The Pinto was twenty feet ahead, partially buried under a shroud of snow. Even through the pain, Charles felt a cold rage stirring inside himself. For Charles, adversity had always been a powerful stimulus for action.

Cathryn and Gina were cleaning up the kitchen when they heard a car turn into the drive. Cathryn ran to the window and pulled the red checkered curtain aside. She hoped to God it was Charles; she hadn’t heard from him since he’d fled from the hospital, and no one had answered his extension at the lab. She knew she had to tell Charles about the proceedings at the courthouse. She couldn’t let him learn about it when he got the court citation in the morning.

Watching the lights come up the driveway, Cathryn found herself whispering, “Let it be you, Charles, please.” The car swept around the final curve and passed the window. It was the Pinto! Cathryn sighed in relief. She turned back into the room and took the dish towel from Gina’s surprised hands.

“Mother, it’s Charles. Would you mind going into the other room? I want to talk to him for a moment, alone.”

Gina tried to protest but Cathryn put her fingers to her mother’s lips, gently silencing her. “It’s important.”

“You’ll be okay?”

“Of course,” said Cathryn, urging Gina toward the door. She heard the car door slam.

Cathryn went over to the door. When Charles started up the steps, she swung it open.

Before she could clearly see his face, she smelled him. It was a mildewy odor like wet towels stored in a closet in summer. As he came into the light she saw his bruised and swollen nose. There was a bit of dried blood crusted on his upper lip, and his whole face was curiously blackened. His sheepskin jacket was hopelessly soiled and his pants were torn over the right knee. But most disturbing of all was his expression of tension and barely controlled anger.

“Charles?” Something terrible was happening. She’d been worrying about him all afternoon and his appearance suggested her concern was justified.

“Just don’t say anything for a moment,” demanded Charles, avoiding Cathryn’s touch. After removing his coat, he headed for the phone and nervously flipped through the telephone pad.

Cathryn pulled a clean dish towel from the linen drawer, and wetting the end, tried to clean off his face to see where the blood had come from.

“Christ, Cathryn! Can you wait one second?” snapped Charles, pushing her away.

Cathryn stepped back. The man in front of her was a stranger. She watched him dial the phone, punching the buttons with a vengeance.

“Dawson,” yelled Charles into the phone. “I don’t care if you’ve got the police and the whole fucking town in your pocket. You’re not going to get away with it!” Charles punctuated his statement by crashing the receiver onto its bracket. He didn’t expect an answer, and wanted to beat Dawson in hanging up.

Having made the call, his tension eased a little. He rubbed his temples for a moment in a slow, circular motion. “I had no idea this quaint little town of ours was so corrupt,” he said in a near-to-normal voice.

Cathryn began to relax. “What happened to you? You’re hurt!”

Charles looked at her. He shook his head and to her surprise, laughed. “Mostly my sense of dignity. It’s hard abandoning all of one’s macho fantasies in one evening. No, I’m not hurt. Not badly anyway. Especially since at one point I thought it was all over. But for now, I need something to drink. Fruit juice. Anything.”

“I have a dinner for you in the oven, keeping warm.”

“Christ. I couldn’t eat,” said Charles, slowly sinking into one of the kitchen chairs. “But I’m thirstier than hell.” His hands trembled as he put them on the table. His stomach hurt where he’d been punched.

After pouring a glass of apple cider, Cathryn carried it to the table. She caught sight of Gina standing in the doorway with an innocent expression. In angry pantomime, Cathryn gestured for her mother to go back to the living room. She sat down at the table. At least for the moment she had abandoned her idea of telling Charles about the guardianship situation.

“There’s blood on your face,” she said solicitously.

Charles wiped under his nose with the back of his hand and stared at the flakes of dried blood. “Bastards!” he said.

There was a pause while Charles drank his cider.

“Are you going to tell me where you’ve been and what happened?” asked Cathryn finally.

“I’d rather hear about Michelle first,” said Charles, putting the glass on the table.

“Are you sure?” asked Cathryn. She reached over and put her hand on top of his.

“What do you mean, am I sure?” snapped Charles. “Of course I’m sure.”

“I didn’t mean that the way it sounded,” said Cathryn. “I know you’re concerned. I’m just worried about you. You took Michelle’s heart complication so hard.”

“What’s happened now?” demanded Charles, raising his voice, afraid that Cathryn was leading up to terrible news.

“Please calm down,” said Cathryn gently.

“Then tell me what’s happened to Michelle.”

“It’s just her fever,” said Cathryn. “It’s gone up and the doctors are concerned.”

“Oh God!” said Charles.

“Everything else seems OK. Her heart rate has stayed normal.” Cathryn was afraid to say anything about Michelle’s hair, which had started falling out. But Dr. Keitzman said it was an expected and entirely reversible side effect.

“Any sign of remission?” asked Charles.

“I don’t think so. They didn’t say anything.”

“How high is her fever?”

“Pretty high. It was one-oh-four when I left.”

“Why did you leave? Why didn’t you stay?”

“I suggested it but the doctors encouraged me to go. They said that parents with a sick child must be careful about neglecting the rest of their family. They told me there was nothing I could do. Should I have stayed? I really didn’t know. I wished you were there.”

“Oh God!” said Charles again. “Someone should be with her. High fever is not a good sign. The medications are knocking out her normal defenses and seemingly not touching her leukemic cells. A high fever at this point means infection.”

Abruptly Charles stood up. “I’m going back to the hospital,” he said with resolve. “Right now!”

“But why, Charles? What can you do now?” Cathryn felt a surge of panic, and she leaped to her feet.

“I want to be with her. Besides, I’ve made up my mind. The medications are going to be stopped. Or at least reduced to an orthodox dose. They’re experimenting and if it were going to work, we would have seen the circulatory leukemic cells go down. Instead they’ve gone up.”

“But the medicines have cured others.” Cathryn knew she had to talk Charles out of going to the hospital. If he did, there’d be a crisis… a confrontation.

“I know chemotherapy has helped others,” said Charles. “Unfortunately Michelle’s case is different. The normal protocol has already failed. I’m not going to let my daughter be experimented on. Keitzman had his chance. She’s not going to dissolve in front of my eyes like Elizabeth.”

Charles started for the door.

Carolyn clutched at his sleeve. “Charles, please. You can’t go now. You’re a mess.”

Looking down at himself, Charles realized Cathryn was right. But did he really care? He hesitated, then ran upstairs where he changed his clothes and washed his hands and face. When he ran back down, Cathryn realized that he had made up his mind. He was going to the hospital that night and had every intention of stopping Michelle’s medicines, her only chance at life. Once again, the doctors had correctly forecasted his reaction. Cathryn realized she had to tell him about the guardianship right away. She could not afford to wait.

Charles pulled on his befouled jacket, checking for his car keys in his pocket.

Cathryn leaned her back up against the counter, her hands gripping the Formica edge. “Charles,” she began in a quiet tone. “You cannot stop Michelle’s medicine.”

Charles found his keys. “Of course I can,” he said confidently.

“Arrangements have been made so that you cannot,” said Cathryn.

With his hand on the back door, Charles paused. The word “arrangements” had an ominous connotation. “What are you trying to say?”

“I want you to come back, take your coat off, and sit down,” said Cathryn, as if she were talking to a recalcitrant teenager.

Charles walked directly up to her. “I think you’d better tell me about these arrangements.”

Although Cathryn never would have imagined it possible, she felt a touch of fear as she gazed up into Charles’s narrowed eyes. “After you left the hospital so hastily this afternoon, I had a conference with Dr. Keitzman and Dr. Wiley. They felt that you were under a severe strain and might not be in the best position to make the right decisions about Michelle’s care.” Cathryn deliberately tried to echo the legal talk she’d heard at the meeting. What terrified her most was Charles’s reaction to her complicity. She wanted to emphasize that she had been a reluctant participant. She looked up into his face. His blue eyes were cold. “The hospital lawyer said that Michelle needed a temporary guardian and the doctors agreed. They told me they could do it without my cooperation but that it would be easier if I helped. I thought I was doing the right thing although it was a hard decision. I felt one of us should still be involved.”

“So what happened?” said Charles, his face becoming a dull red.

“There was an emergency hearing before a judge,” said Cathryn. She was telling it poorly and at a bad time. She was making a mess of everything. Doggedly she continued, “The judge agreed that Michelle should get the recognized treatment for her condition as outlined by Dr. Keitzman. I was appointed temporary guardian. There will be a hearing on this petition in three days and a full hearing in three weeks. The court also appointed a guardian and listen, Charles, believe me, I’ve done all this for Michelle. I’m not doing anything against you or to come between you and Michelle.”

Cathryn searched Charles’s face for a flicker of understanding. She saw only rage.

“Charles!” cried Cathryn. “Please believe me. The doctor convinced me you’ve been under great strain. You haven’t been yourself. Look at you! Dr. Keitzman is world-famous for treating childhood leukemias. I did it only for Michelle. It’s only temporary. Please.” Cathryn broke into tears.

Gina appeared instantly at the doorway. “Is everything all right?” she called out timidly.

Charles spoke very slowly, his eyes on Cathryn’s face. “I hope to God this isn’t true. I hope you’re making this up.”

“It’s true,” managed Cathryn. “It’s true. You left. I did the best I could. You’ll be served with a citation in the morning.”

Charles exploded with a violence he’d never known he’d possessed. The only handy object was a short stack of dishes. Snatching them off the counter he lifted them over his head and crashed them to the floor in a fearful splintering of china. “I can’t stand this. Everybody is against me. Everybody!”

Cathryn cringed by the sink, afraid to move. Gina was riveted to the doorway, wanting to flee but fearful for her daughter’s safety.

“Michelle is my daughter, my flesh and blood,” raged Charles. “No one is going to take her away from me.”

“She’s my adopted daughter,” sobbed Cathryn. “I feel just as strongly as you.” Overcoming her fear, she grabbed the lapels of Charles’s coat, shaking him as best she could. “Please calm down. Please,” she cried desperately.

The last thing Charles wanted was to be held down. By reflex his arm shot up and with unnecessary force, knocked Cathryn’s arms into the air. Following through with the blow, the side of his hand inadvertently caught her face, knocking her backwards against the kitchen table.

A chair fell over and Gina screamed, running into the room and positioning her corpulent bulk between Charles and her dazed daughter. She began reciting a prayer as she crossed herself.

Charles reached out and rudely shoved the woman aside. He grabbed Cathryn by both shoulders and shook her like a rag doll. “I want you to call and cancel those legal proceedings. Do you understand?”

Chuck heard the commotion and ran down the stairs. He took one look at the scene in front of him and sprang into the room, grabbing his father from behind, and pinning his arms to his side. Charles tried to twist loose but he couldn’t. Instead he released Cathryn, and lunged back with the point of his elbow, digging it into the pit of Chuck’s abdomen. The boy’s breath came out in a forceful huff. Charles spun, then shoved Chuck backwards so that he tripped, fell, and hit his head on the floor.

Cathryn screamed. The crisis was expanding in a chain reaction. She threw herself on top of Chuck to protect him from his father and it was at this point Charles realized that he was attacking his own son.

He took a step forward but Cathryn screamed again, shielding the crumpled boy. Gina stepped between Charles and the others murmuring something about the devil.

Charles looked up to see the confused face of Jean Paul in the doorway. The boy backed away when he saw Charles staring at him. Looking back at the others, Charles felt an overwhelming sense of alienation. Impulsively he turned and stormed out of the house.

Gina closed the back door behind him, while Cathryn helped Chuck into one of the kitchen chairs. They heard the Pinto rumble down the driveway.

“I hate him! I hate him!” cried Chuck, holding his stomach with both hands.

“No, no,” soothed Cathryn. “This is all a nightmare. We’ll all wake up and it will be over.”

“Your eye!” exclaimed Gina, coming up to Cathryn and tilting her head back.

“It’s nothing,” said Cathryn.

“Nothing? It’s becoming black and blue. I think you’d better get some ice on it.”

Cathryn got up and looked at herself in a small mirror hanging in the hallway. There was a minute cut on her right eyebrow and she was indeed getting a black eye. By the time she got back into the kitchen, Gina had the ice tray out.

Jean Paul reappeared at the doorway.

“If he ever hits you again, I’ll kill him,” said Chuck.

“Charles Jr.,” snapped Cathryn. “I don’t want to hear that kind of talk. Charles is not himself; he’s under a lot of strain. Besides, he didn’t mean to hit me. He was trying to get free from my grasp.”

“I think he’s let in the devil,” said Gina.

“That’s enough, all of you,” said Cathryn.

“I think he’s crazy,” persisted Chuck.

Cathryn took a breath in preparation for reprimanding Chuck but she hesitated because the boy’s comment made her wonder if Charles was having a nervous breakdown. The doctors suggested it as a possibility and they had been right about everything else. Cathryn wondered where she was going to find the reserve to hold the family together.

Her first concern was safety. Cathryn had never seen Charles lose control before. Thinking it best to get some professional advice, she called Dr. Keitzman’s exchange.

Keitzman called back five minutes later.

She told him the entire series of events, including the fact that Charles had decided to stop Michelle’s medications and added that Charles had left in his car, presumably en route to the hospital.

“Sounds like we petitioned for custody at the right time,” said Dr. Keitzman.

Cathryn was in no mood for self-congratulation. “That may be, but I’m concerned about Charles. I don’t know what to expect.”

“That’s precisely the problem,” said Dr. Keitzman. “He may be dangerous.”

“I can’t believe that,” said Cathryn.

“That’s something that cannot be ascertained unless he’s seen professionally. But, believe me, it’s a possibility. Maybe you should leave the house for a day or two. You’ve got a family to consider.”

“I suppose we could go to my mother’s,” said Cathryn. It was true she had others to think about besides herself.

“I think it would be best. Just until Charles calms down.”

“What if Charles goes to the hospital tonight?”

“No need for you to worry about that. I’ll alert the hospital, and I’ll let the floor know you have guardianship. Don’t worry, everything is going to be all right.”

Cathryn hung up, wishing she felt as optimistic as Dr. Keitzman. She still had the feeling that things were going to get worse.

A half hour later, with a good deal of misgiving, Cathryn, Gina, and the two boys trudged out into the snow with overnight bags and piled in the station wagon. They dropped Jean Paul at a school friend’s house where he’d been invited to stay, and began the drive into Boston. No one spoke.