Fever

Fourteen

By nine-thirty they were settling in for the night. Earlier Cathryn had prepared some food while Charles worked in the makeshift lab. He’d taken a sample of his blood, separated the cells, and isolated some T-lymphocytes with the aid of sheep erythrocytes. Then he’d incubated the T-lymphocytes with some of his microphages and Michelle’s leukemic cells. While they had dinner he told Cathryn that there still was no sign of a delayed, cell-mediated hypersensitivity. He told her that in twenty-four hours, he’d have to give himself another challenge dose of Michelle’s antigen.

Michelle had awakened from her morphine-induced sleep and was overjoyed to see Cathryn. She’d not remembered seeing her stepmother arrive. Feeling somewhat better, she had even eaten some solid food.

“She seems better,” whispered Cathryn as they carried the dishes back to the kitchen.

“It’s more apparent than real,” said Charles. “Her system is just recovering from the other medicines.”

Charles had built a fire and brought their king-sized mattress down to the living room. He had wanted to be close to Michelle in case she needed him.

Once Cathryn lay down, she felt a tremendous fatigue. Believing that Michelle was as comfortable and content as possible, Cathryn allowed herself to relax for the first time in two days. As the wind blew snow against the front windows, she held on to Charles and let sleep overwhelm her.

Hearing the crash and tinkle of glass, Cathryn sat up by pure reflex, unsure what the noise had been. Charles, who had been awake, reacted more deliberately, rolling off the mattress onto the floor and standing up. As he did so he hefted his shotgun and released the safety catch.

“What was that?” demanded Cathryn, her heart pounding.

“Visitors,” said Charles. “Probably our friends from Recycle.”

Something thudded up against the front of the house, then fell with a thump on the porch floor.

“Rocks,” said Charles, moving over to the light switch and plunging the room into darkness. Michelle murmured and Cathryn made her way over to the child’s side to comfort her.

“Just as I thought,” said Charles, peering between the window boards.

Cathryn came up behind him and looked over his shoulder. Standing in their driveway about a hundred feet from the house was a group of men carrying makeshift torches. Down on the road were a couple of cars haphazardly parked.

“They’re drunk,” said Charles.

“What are we going to do?” whispered Cathryn.

“Nothing,” said Charles. “Unless they try to get inside or come too close with those torches.”

“Could you shoot someone?” asked Cathryn.

“I don’t know,” said Charles, “I really don’t know.”

“I’m going to call the police,” said Cathryn.

“Don’t bother,” said Charles. “I’m sure they know about this.”

“I’m still going to try,” returned Cathryn.

She left him by the window and made her way back to the kitchen where she dialed the operator and asked to be connected to the Shaftesbury police. The phone rang eight times before a tired voice answered. He identified himself as Bernie Crawford.

Cathryn reported that their house was being attacked by a group of drunks and that they needed immediate assistance.

“Just a minute,” said Bernie.

Cathryn could hear a drawer open and Bernie fumbled around for something.

“Just a minute. I gotta find a pencil,” said Bernie, leaving the line again before Cathryn could talk. Outside she heard a yell, and Charles came scurrying into the kitchen, going up to the window on the north side facing the pond.

“Okay,” said Bernie coming back on the line. “What’s the address?”

Cathryn quickly gave the address.

“Zip code?” asked Bernie.

“Zip code?” questioned Cathryn. “We need help right now.”

“Lady, paperwork is paperwork. I gotta fill out a form before I dispatch a car.”

Cathryn gave a zip code.

“How many guys in the group?”

“I’m not sure. Half a dozen.”

Cathryn could hear the man writing.

“Are they kids?” asked Bernie.

“Cathryn!” yelled Charles. “I need you to watch out the front. They’re torching the playhouse but it may be just a diversion. Somebody has got to watch the front door.”

“Listen,” shouted Cathryn into the phone. “I can’t talk. Just send a car.” She slammed down the phone and ran back into the living room. From the small window next to the fireplace she could see the flickering glow from the playhouse. She turned her attention to the front lawn. The group with the torches was gone but she could see someone lifting something out of the trunk of one of the cars. In the darkness, it looked like a pail. “Oh, God, don’t let it be gasoline,” said Cathryn.

From the back of the house Cathryn could hear glass breaking. “Are you all right?” she called.

“I’m all right. The bastards are breaking the windows to your car.”

Cathryn heard Charles unlock the rear door. Then she heard the boom of his shotgun. The sound reverberated through the house. Then the door slammed shut.

“What happened?” yelled Cathryn.

Charles came back into the living room. “I shot into the air. I suppose it’s the only thing they respect. They ran around this way.”

Cathryn looked back out. The group had reassembled around the man coming from the car. In the light of the torches, Cathryn could see that he was carrying a gallon can. He knelt down, apparently opening it.

“Looks like paint,” said Cathryn.

“That’s what it is,” said Charles.

While they watched the group began to chant “Communist” over and over. The man with the paint can approached the house seemingly building up the courage of the rest of the group. As they got closer, Cathryn could see that the men were carrying an assortment of clubs. The chanting got progressively louder. Charles recognized Wally Crabb and the man who had punched him.

The group stopped about fifty feet from the house. The man with the paint kept walking as the others egged him on. Charles pulled away from the window, making her stand behind him. He had a clear view of the door, and he slipped his finger around the trigger.

They heard the footsteps stop and then the sound of a paintbrush against the shingles. After five minutes there was a final sound of paint splashing up against the front door, followed by the clatter of the can hitting the front porch.

Rushing back to the window, Charles could see that the men were yelling and whooping with laughter. Slowly they walked back down the drive pushing and shoving each other into the snow. At the base of the driveway and after several vociferous arguments, the men climbed into the two cars. With horns blaring they drove off into the night, heading north on Interstate 301 toward Shaftesbury.

As abruptly as it had been broken, the wintry silence returned. Charles let out a long breath. He put down the shotgun and took Cathryn’s hands in his. “Now that you’ve seen how unpleasant it is, perhaps it would be better for you to go back to your mother’s until this is over.”

“No way,” said Cathryn, shaking her head. Then she broke away to tend to Michelle.

Fifteen minutes later the Shaftesbury police cruiser skidded up the driveway and came to a sudden stop behind the station wagon. Frank Neilson hurried from the front seat as if he were responding to an emergency.

“You can just get right back inside your car, you son-of-a-bitch,” said Charles, who had come out on the front porch.

Frank, standing defiantly with his hands on his hips and his feet spread apart, just shrugged. “Well, if you don’t need me.”

“Just get the fuck off my land,” snarled Charles.

“Strange people this side of town,” said Frank loudly to his deputy as he got back into the car.

Morning crept over the frozen countryside, inhibited by a pewter-colored blanket of high clouds. Charles and Cathryn had taken turns standing watch, but the vandals had not returned. As dawn arrived Charles felt confident enough to return to the bed in front of the fireplace and slip in next to Cathryn.

Michelle had improved considerably and, although she was still extremely weak, she could sit up, courageously managing to smile when Charles pretended to be a waiter bringing in her breakfast.

While he drew some of his blood and again tested his T-lymphocytes for signs of delayed hypersensitivity to Michelle’s leukemic cells, Cathryn tried to make their topsy-turvy house more livable. Between Charles’s equipment and reagents, Michelle’s bed, and the king-sized mattress, the living room was like a maze. There was little Cathryn could do there, but the kitchen soon responded to her efforts.

“No sign of any appropriate reaction with my lymphocytes,” said Charles, coming in for some more coffee. “You’re going to have to give me another dose of Michelle’s antigen later today.”

“Sure,” said Cathryn, trying to buoy both her own and Charles’s confidence. She wasn’t sure she could do it again. The thought alone gave her gooseflesh.

“I must think of some way to make us more secure here,” said Charles. “I don’t know what I would have done if those men last night had been drunk enough to storm the back door.”

“Vandals are one thing,” said Cathryn. “What if the police come, wanting to arrest you?”

Charles turned back to Cathryn.

“Until I finish with what I’m doing, I have to keep everybody out of the house.”

“I think it’s just a matter of time before the police come,” said Cathryn. “And I’m afraid it will be a lot more difficult to keep them out. Just by resisting, you’ll be breaking the law, and they might feel obligated to use force.”

“I don’t think so,” said Charles. “There’s too much for them to lose and very little to gain.”

“The stimulus could be Michelle, thinking they need to recommence her treatment.”

Charles nodded slowly. “You might be right, but even if you are, there’s nothing else to be done.”

“I think there is,” said Cathryn. “Maybe I can stop the police from looking for you. I met the detective who’s handling the case. Perhaps I should go see him and tell him that I don’t want to press charges. If there are no charges, then they would stop looking for you.”

Charles took a large gulp of coffee. What Cathryn said made sense. He knew that if the police came in force, they could get him out of the house. That was one of the reasons he’d boarded up the windows so carefully; afraid of tear gas or the like. But he thought they probably would have other means which he hadn’t wanted to consider. Cathryn was right; the police would be real trouble.

“All right,” said Charles, “but you’ll have to use the rental van in the garage. I don’t think the station wagon has any windshield.”

Putting on their coats, they walked hand in hand through the inch of new snow to the locked barn. They both saw the charred remains of the playhouse at the pond’s edge and both avoided mentioning it. The still-smoldering ashes were too sharp a reminder of the terror of the previous night.

As Cathryn backed the van out of the garage, she felt a reluctance to leave. With Michelle ostensibly feeling better and despite the vandals, Cathryn had enjoyed her newly found closeness with Charles. With some difficulty, since driving a large van was a new experience, Cathryn got the vehicle turned around. She waved good-bye to Charles and drove slowly down their slippery driveway.

Reaching the foot of the hill, she turned to look back at the house. In the steely light, it looked abandoned among the leafless trees. Across the front of the house, the word “Communist” was painted in careless, large block letters. The rest of the red paint had been splashed on the front door, and the way it had splattered and ran off the porch made it look like blood.

Driving directly to the Boston Police Headquarters on Berkeley Street, Cathryn rehearsed what she was going to say to Patrick O’Sullivan. Deciding that brevity was the best approach, she was confident that she’d be in and out in a matter of minutes.

She had a great deal of trouble finding a parking spot and ended up leaving the van in an illegal yellow zone. Taking the elevator to the sixth floor, she found O’Sullivan’s office without difficulty. The detective got up as she entered and came around his desk. He was dressed in exactly the same outfit as he’d had on twenty-four hours earlier when she’d met him. Even the shirt was the same because she remembered a coffee stain just to the right of his dark blue polyester tie. It was hard for Cathryn to imagine that this seemingly gentle man could muster the violence he obviously needed on occasion for his job.

“Would you like to sit down?” asked Patrick. “Can I take your coat?”

“That’s okay, thank you,” said Cathryn. “I’ll only take a moment of your time.”

The detective’s office looked like the set for a TV melodrama. There were the obligatory stern photos of some of the police hierarchy on the chipped and peeling walls. There was also a cork bulletin board filled with an assortment of wanted posters and photographs. The detective’s desk was awash with papers, envelopes, soup cans full of pencils, an old typewriter, and a picture of a chubby redheaded woman with five redheaded little girls.

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

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

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

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

The detective remained unresponsive, augmenting Cathryn’s anxiety.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cathryn didn’t say anything.

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

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

“What about the medical treatment?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cathryn stopped and turned back to the detective.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“All except for the guns,” said Cathryn.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What the hell?” exclaimed Neilson.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cathryn knew she’d done the right thing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m sure they do,” admitted Charles.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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