Fever

Thirteen

Cathryn tried to be both patient and understanding, but as time passed she became increasingly nervous. She castigated herself for leaving Michelle to answer the telephone. She should have had the call transferred directly to Michelle’s room.

As she paced the lounge, she involuntarily thought about Michelle’s comment: “I think it would be better if I were dead.” She’d initially put the statement out of her mind, but now that Michelle had not reappeared, it kept coming back to haunt her. Cathryn had no idea if Michelle could do herself harm but, having heard all sorts of grisly stories, she could not dismiss her fear.

Checking her watch, Cathryn walked out of the lounge and approached the nurses’ station. How could a hospital lose a sick twelve-year-old child who was so weak she could barely walk?

“Any news?” asked Cathryn, directing her question to the evening charge nurse. There were now a half dozen nurses sitting around the station chatting casually.

“Not yet,” said the nurse, interrupting a discussion with a colleague. “Security has checked all the stairwells. I’m still waiting for a call from radiology. I’m sure Martel was the name of the child radiology came and picked up.”

“It’s been almost a half hour,” said Cathryn. “I’m terrified. Could you call radiology again?”

Not bothering to hide her irritation, the nurse called again and told Cathryn that the radiology technician had not come back from the OR but that he’d call when he did.

Cathryn turned away from the nurses’ station, acutely aware how the medical people intimidated her. She was furious at the hospital, yet was unable to show her anger no matter how justified she thought it was. Instead she thanked the nurse and wandered back down to Michelle’s empty room. Absentmindedly she looked into the bathroom again, avoiding her reflection in the mirror. Next to the bathroom was the closet, and Cathryn looked inside. She had the door almost closed when she reopened it and stared, dumbfounded.

Running back to the nurses’ station, she tried to get the charge nurse’s attention. The nurses from the evening shift who were going off duty and the night nurses who were coming on duty were grouped around the center of the nurses’ station having their inviolable report. It was a time when emergencies were proscribed, medical or otherwise. Cathryn had to yell to get attention.

“I just discovered my daughter’s clothes are missing,” said Cathryn anxiously.

There was silence.

The charge nurse cleared her throat. “We’ll be finished here in a few moments, Mrs. Martel.”

Cathryn turned away angrily. Obviously her emergency wasn’t as important as the ward routine, but if Michelle’s clothes were gone, she had probably left the hospital.

The phone call must have been from Charles, and its purpose was to get Cathryn out of Michelle’s room. All at once the image of the man pushing the child to surgery flashed before Cathryn’s eyes. He was the correct height, the right build. It had to have been Charles! Cathryn rushed back to the nurses’ station. Now she was sure that Michelle had been abducted.

“Now let me get it straight,” said the stocky Boston police officer. Cathryn had noticed his name tag said William Kerney. “You were sleeping in here when a nurse tapped you on the shoulder.”

“Yes! Yes!” shouted Cathryn, exasperated at the slow pace of the investigation. She’d hoped that calling the police would speed up the whole affair. “I’ve told you ten times exactly what happened. Can’t you go out and try to find the child?”

“We have to finish our report,” explained William. He held a weather-beaten clipboard in the crook of his left arm. In his right hand he struggled with a pencil, licking the end every so often.

The group was standing in Michelle’s vacant room. It included Cathryn, two Boston police officers, the evening charge nurse, and the assistant administrator. The administrator was a tall, handsome man, dressed in an elegant gray business suit. He had a curious habit of smiling after each sentence, reducing his eyes to narrow slits. His face was gloriously tan as if he’d just returned from a vacation in the Caribbean.

“How long were you out of the room?” asked William.

“I told you,” snapped Cathryn. “Five minutes… ten minutes. I don’t know exactly.”

“Uh huh,” murmured William, printing the answer.

Michael Grady, the other Boston police officer, was reading the temporary guardianship papers. When he finished, he handed them to the administrator. “It’s a child-snatching case. No doubt about it.”

“Uh huh,” murmured William, moving up to the top of the form to print “Child Snatching.” He didn’t know the code number for the offense and made a mental note to look it up when he got back to the station.

In desperation, Cathryn turned to the administrator. “Can’t you do something? I’m sorry I can’t remember your name.”

“Paul Mansford,” said the administrator before flashing a smile. “No need to apologize. We are doing something. The police are here.”

“But I’m afraid something is going to happen to the child with all this delay,” said Cathryn.

“And you saw a man pushing a child to surgery?” asked William.

“Yes!” shouted Cathryn.

“But no child went to surgery,” said the nurse.

William turned to the nurse. “What about the man with the X-ray form? Can you describe him?”

The nurse looked up toward the ceiling. “Medium height, medium build, brown hair…”

“That’s not too specific,” said William.

“What about his blue eyes?” asked Cathryn.

“I didn’t notice his eyes,” said the nurse.

“What was he wearing?” asked William.

“Oh God!” exclaimed Cathryn in frustration. “Please do something.”

“A long white coat,” said the nurse.

“Okay,” said William. “Someone calls, gets Mrs. Martel out of the child’s room, presents a bogus X-ray request, then wheels the child off as if he’s going to surgery. Right?”

Everyone nodded except Cathryn who had put a hand to her forehead to try to control herself.

“Then, how long before security was notified?” asked William.

“Just a couple of minutes,” said the nurse.

“That’s why we think they are still in the hospital,” said the administrator.

“But her clothes are gone,” said Cathryn. “They’ve left the hospital. That’s why you have to do something before it’s too late. Please!”

Everyone looked at Cathryn as if she were a child. She returned their stares then threw up her hands in exasperation. “Jesus Christ.”

William turned to the administrator. “Is there someplace in the hospital someone could take a child?” he asked.

“There are lots of temporary hiding places,” agreed the administrator. “But there’s no place they won’t be found.”

“All right,” said William. “Suppose it was the father who took the child. Why?”

“Because he didn’t agree with the treatment,” said Cathryn. “That’s why the temporary guardianship was granted: so that the treatment would be maintained. Unfortunately my husband has been under a lot of stress, not just the child’s illness, but his job.”

William whistled. “If he didn’t like the treatment here,” he said, “what was he interested in? Laetrile, something like that?”

“He didn’t say,” said Cathryn, “but I know he wasn’t interested in Laetrile.”

“We’ve had a few of those Laetrile cases,” said William, ignoring Cathryn’s last statement. Turning to his partner, Michael Grady, he said: “Remember that kid that went to Mexico?”

“Sure do,” said Michael.

Turning back to the group, William said: “We’ve had some experience with parents seeking unorthodox treatment for their kids. I think we’d better alert the airport. They might be on their way out of the country.”

Dr. Keitzman arrived in a whirlwind of nervous motion. Cathryn was tremendously relieved to see him. He immediately dominated the small gathering and demanded to be told everything. Paul Mansford and the charge nurse teamed up to give him a rapid report.

“This is terrible!” said Dr. Keitzman, nervously adjusting his rimless glasses. “It sounds to me like Dr. Charles Martel has definitely had some sort of breakdown.”

“How long will the little girl live without treatment?” asked William.

“Hard to say. Days, weeks, a month at most. We have several more drugs to try on the child, but it has to be sooner rather than later. There is still a chance for remission.”

“Well, we’ll get right on it,” said William. “I’ll finish the report and turn it over to the detectives immediately.”

As the two patrolmen walked out of the hospital a half hour later, Michael Grady turned to his partner and said, “What a story! Makes you feel terrible. Kid with leukemia and all that.”

“It sure does. Makes you feel thankful your own kids are at least healthy.”

“Do you think the detectives will get right on it?”

“Now? You kidding? These custody cases are a pain in the ass. Thankfully they usually solve themselves in twenty-four hours. Anyway, the detectives won’t even look at it until tomorrow.”

They climbed into their patrol car, checked in by radio, then pulled away from the curb.

Cathryn opened her eyes and looked around in confusion. She recognized the yellow curtains, the white bureau with its doily and collection of bric-a-brac, the pink vanity that had doubled as her high school desk, her yearbooks on the shelf, and the plastic crucifix she’d gotten when she’d been confirmed. She knew she was in her old room that her mother had compulsively maintained since she had left for college. What confused Cathryn was why she was there.

She shook her head to rid herself of the numbing remnants of the sleeping pills Dr. Keitzman had insisted she take. Leaning over she snatched up her watch and tried to make sense out of the numbers. She couldn’t believe it. It was a quarter to twelve. Cathryn blinked her eyes and looked again. No, it was nine o’clock. Even that was later than she’d wanted to sleep.

Slipping on an old plaid flannel robe, Cathryn opened the door and hurried down to the kitchen, smelling the aroma of fresh biscuits and bacon. When she entered, her mother looked up, pleased to have her daughter home no matter what the reason.

“Has Charles called?” asked Cathryn.

“No, but I’ve fixed you a nice breakfast.”

“Has anybody called? The hospital? The police?”

“No one has called. So relax. I made your favorite, baking-powder biscuits.”

“I can’t eat,” said Cathryn, her mind a whirl. But she wasn’t too preoccupied to see her mother’s face immediately fall. “Well, maybe some biscuits.”

Gina perked up and got out a cup and saucer for Cathryn.

“I’d better get Chuck up,” said Cathryn, starting back to the hall.

“He’s up, breakfasted, and gone,” said Gina triumphantly. “He likes biscuits as much as you. Said he had a nine o’clock class.”

Cathryn turned and sat down at the table while her mother poured the coffee. She felt useless. She’d tried so hard to be a wife and mother and now she had the feeling that she’d bungled it. Getting her adopted son up for school was hardly the criterion for being a good mother, yet the fact that she’d not done it seemed representative of her whole incompetent performance.

Battling her emotions, she lifted the coffee cup to her mouth, mindless of its temperature. As she took a sip, the hot fluid scalded her lips and she pulled the cup away, sloshing some of the fluid on her hand. Burned, she released her grasp on the mug and let it go. The cup fell to the table, shattering itself and the saucer. At the same moment, Cathryn broke into tears.

Gina quickly had the mess cleaned up, and repeatedly reassured her daughter that she shouldn’t cry because Gina didn’t care about any old cup that she’d bought as a souvenir in Venice on her only trip to that beautiful city that she loved more than any place in the world.

Cathryn got control of herself. She knew that the Venetian cup was one of her mother’s treasures and she felt badly about breaking it, but Gina’s overreaction helped calm down her emotions.

“I think I’ll drive up to Shaftesbury,” said Cathryn at length. “I’ll get some more clothes for Chuck and check on Jean Paul.”

“Chuck’s got what he needs,” said Gina. “The money it costs to drive up there, you could buy him a new outfit in Filene’s basement.”

“True,” admitted Cathryn. “I guess I want to be around the phone if Charles calls.”

“If he calls and gets no answer, he’ll call here,” said Gina. “After all, he’s not stupid. Where do you think he’s gone with Michelle?”

“I don’t know,” said Cathryn. “Last night the police talked about Mexico. Apparently a lot of people looking for unusual cancer cures go to Mexico. But Charles wouldn’t go there. I know that much.”

“I hate to say I told you so,” said Gina, “but I warned you about marrying an older man with three children. It’s always trouble. Always!”

Cathryn held back the anger that only her mother was capable of causing. Then the phone rang.

Gina answered it while Cathryn held her breath.

“It’s for you,” said Gina. “A detective named Patrick O’Sullivan.”

Expecting the worst, Cathryn picked up the phone. Patrick O’Sullivan quickly reassured her, saying that they had no new information about Charles or Michelle. He said that there had been an interesting development in the case and asked if Cathryn would meet him at the Weinburger Research Institute. She agreed immediately.

Fifteen minutes later she was ready to leave. She told Gina that after stopping at the Weinburger she was going to drive back to New Hampshire. Gina tried to protest but Cathryn was insistent, saying that she had to have some time alone. She told her mother that she’d be back in time for dinner with Chuck.

The ride across Boston and down Memorial Drive was uneventful. Pulling the old Dodge into the Weinburger parking lot made her remember that summer two years before when she’d met Charles for the first time. Could it really have been only two years ago?

There were two police cars pulled up close to the entrance and when Cathryn walked by them she could hear the familiar crackle of their radios. Seeing police cars wasn’t an auspicious sign, but Cathryn refused to allow herself to speculate. The front door of the institute slid open for her, and she made her way down to Charles’s lab.

The door was ajar and Cathryn walked in. The first thing she noticed was that the lab had already been dismantled. She’d been in it on several occasions in the past, so she’d had an idea of what to expect. Now all the science-fiction-like machines were gone. The counter tops were bare like a store that had gone bankrupt.

There were six people in the room. Ellen, whom Cathryn recognized, was talking to two uniformed policemen who were engaged in filling out the police report. Seeing the policemen painstakingly printing brought back a memory of the previous night. Dr. Ibanez and Dr. Morrison were standing near Charles’s desk talking with a freckle-faced man in a blue polyester sports coat. The man saw Cathryn enter and immediately approached her.

“Mrs. Martel?” questioned the man.

Cathryn nodded and took the man’s outstretched hand. It was soft and slightly moist.

“I’m Detective Patrick O’Sullivan. I’ve been assigned to your case. Thanks for coming.”

Over Patrick’s shoulder Cathryn could see Ellen point to an empty space on the counter before she started talking again. Cathryn couldn’t quite make out what she was saying but she could tell it was something about equipment. Glancing over at the doctors she could see they were engaged in heated discussion. She couldn’t hear what they were saying, but she saw Dr. Morrison strike his open palm in apparent anger.

“What’s going on?” asked Cathryn, looking up into the detective’s soft green eyes.

“It seems that your husband, after having been dismissed from his position here at the institute, stole most of his equipment.”

Cathryn’s eyes widened in disbelief. “I don’t believe that.”

“The evidence is pretty irrefutable. The two evening security men apparently helped Charles strip the lab and load the stuff.”

“But why?” asked Cathryn.

“I was hoping you’d be able to tell me,” said the detective.

Cathryn glanced around the room, trying to comprehend the extent of Charles’s folly.

“I haven’t the slightest idea,” said Cathryn. “It seems absurd.”

The detective lifted his eyebrows and wrinkled his forehead as he followed Cathryn’s eyes around the lab. “It’s absurd all right. It’s also grand larceny, Mrs. Martel.”

Cathryn looked back at the detective.

The detective glanced down and shuffled his feet. “This puts a different light on your husband’s disappearance. Child-snatching by a parent is one thing, and to tell you the honest truth, we don’t get too excited about it. But theft is something else. We’re going to have to put out the details and a warrant for Dr. Martel’s arrest on the NCIC teletype.”

Cathryn shuddered. Every time she thought she understood the details of the nightmare it got worse. Charles was now a fugitive. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Our condolences, Mrs. Martel,” said Dr. Ibanez, coming up behind her.

She turned and saw the director’s sympathetic expression.

“It’s a tragedy,” agreed Dr. Morrison with the same expression. “And to think Charles was once such a promising researcher.”

There was an uncomfortable pause. Morrison’s comment angered Cathryn, but she was at a loss for words.

“Exactly why was Dr. Martel fired?” asked Patrick O’Sullivan, breaking the silence.

Cathryn turned to the detective. He had asked the question she would have liked to pose if she’d had the courage.

“Basically, it was because Dr. Martel had been acting a bit bizarrely. We began to question his mental stability.” Dr. Ibanez paused. “He also was not what you would call a team player. In fact, he was a loner and lately he’d become uncooperative.”

“What kind of research was he doing?” asked the detective.

“It’s hard to describe to a layman,” said Morrison. “Basically Charles was working on the immunological approach to cancer. Unfortunately this approach is somewhat dated. Ten years ago it held great promise but initial hopes were not borne out by subsequent developments. Charles couldn’t or wouldn’t make the adaptation. And, as you know, the advancement of science does not wait for anyone.” Morrison smiled as he finished his statement.

“Why do you think Dr. Martel took all this equipment?” asked O’Sullivan, making a sweeping gesture around the room.

Dr. Ibanez shrugged. “I haven’t the faintest idea.”

“I think it was spite,” said Dr. Morrison. “It’s like the kid who takes home his ball when the others don’t want to play by his rules.”

“Could Dr. Martel have taken the equipment to continue his research?” said O’Sullivan.

“No,” said Dr. Morrison. “Impossible! The key to this kind of research is the highly bred animal systems we use. These animals are absolutely essential to the research, and Charles did not take any of his mice. And as a fugitive, I think he’d find it difficult to get them.”

“I suppose you could give me a list of suppliers,” said the detective.

“Absolutely,” answered Dr. Morrison.

In the background the phone rang. Cathryn had no idea why she jumped but she did. Ellen answered it and called out for Detective O’Sullivan.

“This must be a very difficult time for you,” said Dr. Ibanez to Cathryn.

“You have no idea,” agreed Cathryn.

“If we can help in any way,” said Dr. Morrison.

Cathryn tried to smile.

Patrick O’Sullivan came back. “Well, we’ve found his car. He left it in a parking lot in Harvard Square.”

As Cathryn drove along Interstate 301 she felt increasingly unhappy. The reaction surprised her because one of the reasons she’d wanted to go home, besides being close to the phone in case Charles called, was to lift her spirits. She appreciated her mother’s efforts to help, but she also resented Gina’s disapproving comments about Charles and her self-righteous attitude. Having been abandoned herself, Gina had a low regard for men in general, particularly nonreligious men like Charles. She’d never been wholeheartedly behind Cathryn’s marriage, and she let Cathryn know how she felt.

So Cathryn had looked forward to getting back to her own home although she realized it would no longer be the happy refuge she knew. Coming upon their property, Cathryn took her foot off the accelerator and braked. The first thing she saw was the mailbox. It had been knocked over and crushed. She started up the drive, moving between the rows of trees which in the summer formed a long gallery of shade. Through the now-naked branches Cathryn could see the house, stark white against the dark shadow of evergreens behind the barn.

Pulling the station wagon to a point opposite the back porch, Cathryn turned off the ignition. As she looked at the house she thought how cruel life could be. It seemed that one episode could initiate a chain reaction like a series of dominoes standing on end, each inevitably knocking over the next. As Cathryn got out of the car, she noticed the door to the playhouse was swinging in the wind, repeatedly thumping against the outside shingles. Looking more closely, she could see that most of the small panes of glass in the mullioned windows had been broken. Retrieving her keys, she walked through the snow to the back door, turned her key, and stepped into the kitchen.

Cathryn screamed. There was a sudden movement, and a figure came from behind the door and lunged at her.

In the next instant, she was pushed up against the kitchen wall. The door crashed shut with a concussion that made the old frame house shudder.

Cathryn’s scream faltered and trailed off in her throat. It was Charles! Speechless, she watched while he frantically ran from window to window, looking outside. In his right hand he held his old twelve-gauge shotgun. Cathryn noticed the windows had been crudely boarded up and Charles had to peer out between the cracks.

Before she could recover her equilibrium, Charles grabbed her arm and forced her rapidly out of the kitchen, stumbling down the short hall into the living room. Then he let go of her and again ran from window to window, looking out.

Cathryn was paralyzed by surprise and fear. When he finally turned back to her, she saw he was exhausted.

“Are you alone?” he demanded.

“Yes,” said Cathryn, afraid to say anything else.

“Thank God,” said Charles. His tense face visibly relaxed.

“What are you doing here?” asked Cathryn.

“This is my home,” said Charles, taking a deep breath and letting it out through pursed lips.

“I don’t understand,” said Cathryn. “I thought you’d taken Michelle and run away. They’ll find you here!”

For the first time Cathryn took her eyes off Charles. She noticed the living room had been totally changed. The gleaming, high-tech instruments from the Weinburger were grouped around the wall. In the middle of the room, in a makeshift hospital bed, Michelle slept.

“Michelle,” cried Cathryn, running over and grasping the child’s hand. Charles came up behind her.

Michelle’s eyes opened and for an instant there was a flicker of recognition, then the lids closed. Cathryn turned to Charles.

“Charles, what in heaven’s name are you doing?”

“I’ll tell you in a moment,” said Charles, adjusting Michelle’s intravenous flow. He took Cathryn’s arm and urged her to follow him back to the kitchen.

“Coffee?” he asked.

Cathryn shook her head, keeping her eyes riveted on Charles as he poured himself a cup. Then he sat down opposite Cathryn.

“First I want to say something,” began Charles, looking directly at Cathryn. “I’ve had a chance to think and I now understand the position you were in at the hospital. I’m sorry my own indecision about Michelle’s treatment was inadvertently taken out on you. And I, more than a layman, know how doctors can bully patients and their families to get their own way. Anyway, I understand what happened in the guardianship situation. I understand there was no one at fault and there was no malevolence on anyone’s part, least of all yours. I’m sorry that I reacted as I did, but I couldn’t help it. I hope you’ll forgive me. I know that you were trying to do what was best for Michelle.”

Cathryn didn’t move. She wanted to rush to Charles and throw her arms around him because all at once he sounded so normal, but she couldn’t move. So much had happened and there were still unanswered questions.

Charles picked up his coffee cup. His hand shook so much he had to use his left hand to steady it.

“Deciding what was best for Michelle was a very difficult problem,” continued Charles. “Like you, I hoped that orthodox medicine could give her more time. But it got to the point where I knew that they were failing and I had to do something.”

Cathryn could sense Charles’s sincerity. What she couldn’t decide was his rationality. Had he cracked under the strain as everyone suggested? Cathryn realized that she wasn’t equipped to decide.

“All the doctors agreed that the medicines were her only chance to get a remission,” said Cathryn, feeling defensive about her actions. “Dr. Keitzman assured me that it was her only chance.”

“And I’m sure he believed what he said.”

“It’s not true?”

“Of course she has to get a remission,” agreed Charles. “But their chemotherapy, even in the experimentally high doses, was not touching her leukemic cells. At the same time they were destroying normal cells, particularly her own immune system.”

Cathryn wasn’t sure she fully understood what Charles was saying but at least it sounded consistent. It didn’t sound like the product of a deranged mind.

“And I feel,” continued Charles, “that if she has a chance, she has to have an intact immune system.”

“You mean you have another treatment?” asked Cathryn.

Charles sighed. “I think so. I hope so!”

“But all the other doctors agreed that chemotherapy was the only way.”

“Of course,” said Charles. “Just like a surgeon believes in surgery. People are biased by what they know. It’s human. But cancer research has been my life for the last nine years, and I think there’s a chance I can do something.” Charles paused.

Obviously he believed what he was saying, but was it based on reality or on delusion? Cathryn wanted desperately to believe also, but under the circumstances, it was difficult. “Do you mean there’s a chance you can cure her?”

“I don’t want to get your hopes up too high,” said Charles, “but I think there is a chance. Maybe small, but a chance. And, more important, my treatment won’t hurt her.”

“Have you been able to cure any of your laboratory animals that had cancer?” asked Cathryn.

“No I haven’t,” admitted Charles, but then he added quickly, “I know that makes it sound unrealistic, but I think I didn’t have luck with the animals because I was working so slowly and carefully. The purpose there was pure research. But I was just about to try a new technique to use healthy mice as an intermediary to cure the diseased mice.”

“But you don’t have any animals here,” said Cathryn, remembering Detective O’Sullivan’s questions.

“Not true,” said Charles. “I have one large experimental animal. Me!”

Cathryn swallowed. For the first moment in the conversation a red flag went up, questioning Charles’s state of mind.

“That idea surprises you,” he said. “Well, it shouldn’t. In the past most great medical researchers used themselves as experimental subjects. Anyway, let me try to explain to you what I am doing. First of all my research has advanced to the point where I can take a cancerous cell from an organism and isolate a protein, or what is called an antigen, on its surface, which makes that cell different from all the other cells. That, in itself, is a major advance. My problem then was getting the organism’s immune system to react to the protein and therefore rid itself of the abnormal cancerous cells. This, I believe, is what happens in normal organisms. I think cancer is a fairly frequent occurrence but that the body’s immune system takes care of it. When the immune system fails, that’s when a particular cancer takes root and grows. Do you understand so far?”

Cathryn nodded.

“When I tried to get the cancerous animals to respond to the isolated protein, I couldn’t. I think there is some kind of blocking mechanism and that’s where I was when Michelle got sick. But then I got the idea to inject the isolated surface antigen into well animals to make them immune to it. I didn’t have time to carry out the tests but I’m certain it would be easy because the well animal will recognize the antigen as being very foreign to itself whereas in the sick animal the antigen is only slightly different from its normal proteins.”

Cathryn’s comprehension faltered, though she tried to smile.

Charles impulsively reached across the table and grasped Cathryn’s shoulders. “Cathryn, try to understand. I want you to believe in what I’m doing. I need you to help me.”

Cathryn felt some inner bond loosen and fall. Charles was her husband and the fact that he needed her and admitted it was a tremendous incentive.

“Do you remember that horses were used to make diphtheria antiserum?” asked Charles.

“I think so,” said Cathryn.

“What I’m explaining to you is something like that. What I’ve done is to isolate the surface antigen of Michelle’s leukemic cells that makes them different from her normal cells, and I’ve been injecting the antigen into myself.”

“So you become allergic to Michelle’s leukemic cells?” asked Cathryn, struggling to comprehend.

“Exactly,” said Charles with excitement.

“Then you’ll inject your antibodies into Michelle?” asked Cathryn.

“No,” said Charles. “Her immune system wouldn’t accept my antibodies. But luckily modern immunology has found a way to transfer what they call cellular immunity or sensitivity from one organism to another. Once my T-lymphocytes are sensitized to Michelle’s leukemic antigen, I will isolate from my white cells what is called a transfer factor and inject that into Michelle. Hopefully that will stimulate her own immune system to sensitize against her leukemic cells. In that way she’ll be able to eliminate her existing leukemic cells and any new ones that evolve.”

“So she’d be cured?” said Cathryn.

“So she’d be cured,” repeated Charles.

Cathryn was not sure she understood everything Charles had said, but his plan certainly seemed sound. It didn’t seem possible that he could have figured it out if he were in the midst of a nervous breakdown. She realized that from his point of view, everything he’d done had been rational.

“How long will all this take?” asked Cathryn.

“I don’t know for sure it will even work,” said Charles. “But from the way my body is reacting to the antigen, I’ll know in a couple of days. That’s why I’ve boarded up the house. I’m prepared to fight any attempts to have Michelle taken back to the hospital.”

Cathryn glanced around the kitchen, noting again the boarded windows. Turning back to Charles, she said: “I guess you know the Boston police are looking for you. They think you’ve fled to Mexico to get Laetrile.”

Charles laughed. “That’s absurd. And they can’t be looking for me too hard because our local police know very well that I’m here. Did you notice the mailbox and the playhouse?”

“I saw that the mailbox was crushed and the windows were broken in the playhouse.”

“That’s all thanks to our local authorities. Last night a group came up from Recycle, Ltd. bent on vandalism. I called the police and thought they’d never showed up until I noticed one of the squad cars parked down the road. Obviously they condoned the whole thing.”

“Why?” asked Cathryn, aghast.

“I retained a young aggressive lawyer and apparently he’s successfully giving Recycle some trouble. I think they believe they can frighten me into calling him off.”

“My God!” exclaimed Cathryn, beginning to appreciate the extent of Charles’s isolation.

“Where are the boys?” asked Charles.

“Chuck’s at Mother’s. Jean Paul is in Shaftesbury, staying with a friend.”

“Good,” said Charles. “Things might get rough around here.”

Husband and wife, both at the limits of their emotional reserves, stared at each other across the kitchen table. A surge of love swept over them. They stood up and fell into each other’s arms, holding on desperately as if they were afraid something would force them apart. They both knew nothing was resolved, but the reaffirmation of their love gave them new strength.

“Please trust me, and love me,” said Charles.

“I love you,” said Cathryn, feeling tears on her cheek. “That’s never been a problem. The issue has only been Michelle.”

“Then trust that I have only her best interests at heart,” said Charles. “You know how much I love her.”

Cathryn pulled away to look up into Charles’s face. “Everyone thinks you’ve had a nervous breakdown. I didn’t know what to think, particularly with your carrying on about Recycle when the real issue was Michelle’s treatment.”

“Recycle just gave me something to do. The most frustrating part of Michelle’s illness was that I couldn’t do anything, which is what happened with Elizabeth. Back then all I could do was watch her die, and it seemed as if it was going to be the same situation with Michelle. I needed something to focus on, and Recycle galvanized my need for action. But my anger about what they’re doing is real enough, as well as my commitment to get them to stop. But obviously my main interest is Michelle, otherwise I wouldn’t be here now.”

Cathryn felt as if she’d been freed from an enormous weight. She was now certain that Charles had never lost contact with reality.

“What about Michelle’s condition?” asked Cathryn.

“Not good,” admitted Charles. “She’s a terribly sick child. It’s amazing how aggressive her disease is. I’ve given her morphine because she’s had awful stomach cramps.” Charles embraced Cathryn again and averted his face.

“She had some while I was with her, too,” said Cathryn. She could feel Charles tremble as he fought back his tears. Cathryn held him as tightly as she could.

They stood together for another five minutes. There were no words but the communication was total. Finally Charles pulled away. When he turned back she saw that his eyes were red, his expression serious.

“I’m glad we had the opportunity to talk,” said Charles. “But I don’t think you should stay here. Without doubt there will be trouble. It’s not that I don’t want you to be with me; in fact, selfishly I’d like you to stay. But I know it would be better if you got Jean Paul and went back to your mother’s.” Charles nodded his head as if he were convincing himself.

“I want you to be selfish,” said Cathryn. She experienced a new sense of confidence that she could be a wife. “My place is here. Jean Paul and Chuck will be all right.”

“But Cathryn…”

“No buts,” said Cathryn. “I’m staying and I’m helping.”

Charles examined his wife’s face. She looked positively defiant.

“And if you think,” she continued with a vehemence that he had never seen, “that you can get rid of me now that you’ve convinced me what you’re doing is right, you are crazy! You’ll have to throw me out bodily.”

“All right, all right,” said Charles with a smile. “I won’t throw you out. But we could be in for a rough time.”

“It’s as much my responsibility as yours,” said Cathryn with conviction. “This is a family affair and I’m part of this family. We both recognized that when we decided to get married. I’m not here just to share the happiness.”

Charles experienced a mixture of emotions, but the primary one was pride. He had been guilty of not giving Cathryn the credit she deserved. She was right; Charles had tried whenever it was possible to shield her from the negative aspects of their life, and that was wrong. He should have been more open, more trusting. Cathryn was his wife, not his child.

“If you want to stay, please do,” he said.

“I want to stay,” said Cathryn simply.

Charles kissed her gently on the lips. Then he stepped back to look at her with an admiring eye.

“You really can help,” he said, checking his watch. “It’s almost time to give myself another dose of Michelle’s antigen. I’ll explain what you can do to help after I get it prepared. Okay?”

Cathryn nodded and let Charles squeeze her hand before he walked back to the living room.

Holding on to the back of one of the kitchen chairs, Cathryn felt a little dizzy. Everything that had happened in the last several days was unexpected. There had never been a moment that she’d thought Charles would have taken Michelle to their home. She wondered if there were some way to cancel the guardianship proceedings and eliminate one of the reasons Charles was being sought by the police.

Picking up the phone, she dialed her mother. While she waited for the connection, she realized that if she told her mother that Charles was there it would precipitate an argument, so she decided to say nothing.

Gina answered on the second ring. Cathryn kept the conversation light, not mentioning her visit to the Weinburger or the fact that Charles was suspected of grand larceny. When there was a pause, she cleared her throat and said: “Provided you don’t mind seeing that Chuck gets some dinner and gets off to school in the morning, I think I’ll spend the night here. I want to be available in case Charles calls.”

“Honey, don’t feel that you have to sit around and wait for that man. I tell you, he’ll call here if there’s no answer at your house. Besides, I’ve been planning on having a wonderful dinner tonight. Try and guess what I’m making.”

Cathryn let out her breath in a quiet sigh. It never failed to amaze her that her mother always believed that a good meal could fix everything.

“Mother, I don’t want to guess what you are having for dinner. I want to stay here tonight in my own home.”

Cathryn could tell she’d hurt her mother’s feelings, but under the circumstances she didn’t feel she had much choice. As quickly as she could without seeming to be rude, Cathryn hung up.

Thinking of food, Cathryn checked the refrigerator. Except for being low on milk and eggs, they were reasonably well stocked, especially with the old-fashioned root cellar in the basement. Closing the refrigerator, Cathryn looked around her boarded-up kitchen, marveling at being a prisoner in her own house.

She wondered about Charles’s treatment for Michelle. She acknowledged that she didn’t understand its details, but it sounded good. At the same time, she recognized that if she were with Dr. Keitzman, she’d probably believe what he said. Medicine was too complicated for her to feel confident enough to question the experts. As a lay person she was put in an impossible situation when the doctors disagreed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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