Fever

Fifteen

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You sure this will work?” asked Neilson.

“Relax, will you? Jesus Christ!”

“All right, we’re standing by.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What is it?” questioned Cathryn.

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

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

“Yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But he didn’t shoot him.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Frank Neilson shook the doctor’s hand.

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

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

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

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

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

Frank nodded.

“We rode out here to offer our help,” said Ibanez magnanimously.

Frank looked from face to face. This was getting crazier by the minute.

“In fact, we brought two professional security men from Breur Chemicals with us. A Mr. Eliot Hoyt and Anthony Ferrullo.”

Frank found himself shaking hands with the two security men.

“Of course we know you have everything under control,” said Dr. Morrison. “But we thought you might find these men helpful and they have brought some equipment you might find interesting.”

Mr. Hoyt and Mr. Ferrullo smiled.

“But it’s up to you, of course,” said Dr. Morrison.

“Absolutely,” said Dr. Ibanez.

“I think I have enough manpower at the moment,” said Frank Neilson through a full mouth.

“Well, keep us in mind,” said Dr. Ibanez.

Neilson excused himself and strolled back to his makeshift command post, confused after meeting Ibanez and his friends. After he told Bernie to contact the men with the rifles and tell them there was to be no shooting until further notice, he got into his car. Maybe help from the chemical company wasn’t a bad idea. All they were interested in was the equipment, not the glory.

Ibanez and Morrison watched Neilson walk away from them, talk briefly with another policeman, then get into his squad car. Morrison adjusted his delicate horn-rimmed glasses. “Frightening that someone like that is in a position of authority.”

“It’s a travesty, all right,” agreed Dr. Ibanez. “Let’s get back into the car.”

They started off toward the limousine. “I don’t like this situation one bit,” said Dr. Ibanez. “All this press coverage may whip up sympathy for Charles: the quintessential American guarding his home against outside forces. If this goes on much longer, the media is going to plaster this on every TV screen in the country.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” said Dr. Morrison. “The irony is that Charles Martel, the man who hates the press, couldn’t have created for himself a better platform if he tried. The way things are going he could cause irreparable damage to the whole cancer establishment.”

“And to Canceran and the Weinburger in particular,” added Dr. Ibanez. “We’ve got to get that imbecile police chief to use our men.”

“We’ve planted the idea in his head,” said Morrison. “I don’t think there’s much else we can do at this point. It has to look like his decision.”

Neilson was jarred from a little postprandial catnap by someone tapping on the frosted window of the cruiser. He was about to leap from the car when he regained his senses. He rolled down the window and found himself looking into a sneering face behind thick, milk-bottle glasses. The guy had curly hair that stuck out from his head in a snow-covered bush; the chief guessed it was another big-city spectator.

“Are you Chief Neilson?” asked the man.

“Who wants to know?”

“I do. My name is Dr. Stephen Keitzman and this is Dr. Jordan Wiley behind me.”

The chief looked over Dr. Keitzman’s shoulder at the second man, wondering what was going on.

“Can we talk to you for a few minutes?” said Dr. Keitzman, shielding his face from the snow.

Neilson got out of the car, making it clear that it was an extraordinary effort.

“We’re the physicians of the little girl in the house,” explained Dr. Wiley. “We felt it was our duty to come up here in case there was anything we could do to help.”

“Will Martel listen to you guys?” asked the chief.

Dr. Keitzman and Dr. Wiley exchanged glances. “I doubt it,” admitted Dr. Keitzman. “I don’t think he’ll talk with anyone. He’s too hostile. We think he’s had a psychotic break.”

“A what?” asked Neilson.

“A nervous breakdown,” added Dr. Wiley.

“Figures,” said the chief.

“Anyway,” said Dr. Keitzman, swinging his arms against the cold, “we’re mostly concerned about the little girl. I don’t know if you realize how sick she is, but the fact of the matter is that every hour she’s without treatment, the closer she is to death.”

“That bad, huh?” said Neilson, looking up at the Martel house.

“Absolutely,” said Dr. Keitzman. “If you procrastinate too long, I’m afraid you’ll be rescuing a dead child.”

“We’re also concerned that Dr. Martel might be experimenting on the child,” said Dr. Wiley.

“No shit!” exclaimed Neilson. “That fucking bastard. Thanks for letting me know. I think I’ll tell this to my deputies.” Neilson called Bernie over, spoke to him a minute, then reached in for the walkie-talkie.

By midafternoon the crowd was even larger than the previous day. Word had drifted back to Shaftesbury that something was going to happen soon and even the schools were let out early. Joshua Wittenburg, the school superintendent, had decided that the lessons in civil law to be learned from the episode should not be passed up; besides, he felt that it was the biggest scandal in Shaftesbury since Widow Watson’s cat had been found frozen solid in Tom Brachman’s freezer.

Jean Paul drifted aimlessly on the periphery of the crowd. He’d never been subjected to derision before, and the experience was extremely disquieting. He’d always felt his father was a little weird but not crazy, and now that people were accusing him of being insane, he was upset. Besides, he couldn’t understand why his family hadn’t contacted him. The people with whom he was staying tried to comfort him but it was obvious they, too, questioned his father’s behavior.

Jean Paul wanted to go up to the house but he was afraid to approach the police, and it was easy to see the property was surrounded.

Ducking a snowball thrown by one of his former friends, Jean Paul walked back through the crowd, crossing the road. After a few minutes he thought he saw a familiar form. It was Chuck, dressed in a torn and tattered army parka with a fur-tipped hood.

“Chuck!” called Jean Paul eagerly.

Chuck took one look in Jean Paul’s direction, then turned and fled into a stand of trees. Jean Paul followed, calling out several more times.

“Chrissake!” hissed Chuck, when Jean Paul caught up to him in a small clearing. “Why don’t you yell a little louder so everybody hears you?”

“What do you mean?” asked Jean Paul, confused.

“I’m trying to keep a low profile to find out what the hell is going on,” said Chuck. “And you come along yelling my name. Jesus!”

Jean Paul had never considered the idea of concealing himself.

“I know what’s going on,” said Jean Paul. “The town is after Dad because he’s trying to shut down the factory. Everybody says he’s crazy.”

“It’s more than the town,” said Chuck. “It was on the news last night in Boston. Dad kidnapped Michelle from the hospital.”

“Really?” exclaimed Jean Paul.

“Really. Is that all you can say? I think it’s a goddamn miracle, and all you can say is really. Dad’s given the finger to the whole friggin’ establishment. I love it!”

Jean Paul examined his brother’s face. A situation he found disturbing Chuck seemed to find exhilarating.

“You know, if we worked together, we might be able to help,” said Chuck.

“Really?” said Jean Paul. It was a rare occurrence when Chuck offered to cooperate with anyone.

“Jesus. Say something a little more intelligent.”

“How could we help?” asked Jean Paul.

It took about five minutes for the boys to decide what they would do, then they crossed the road and approached the police cars. Chuck had appointed himself spokesman, and he went up to Frank Neilson.

The chief was overjoyed to find the boys. He did not know how to proceed when the kids had presented themselves. Although he dismissed their request to go up to the house to reason with their father, he convinced them to use the bull horn, and spent a good thirty minutes coaching them on what they should say. He hoped that Charles would talk to his sons and communicate his conditions for resolving the situation. Frank was pleased that the boys were so cooperative.

When everything was ready, Frank took the bull horn, greeted the spectators, then pointed it at the house. His voice boomed up the driveway calling for Charles to open the door and speak to his sons.

Neilson lowered the bull horn and waited. There was no sound or movement from the house. The chief repeated his message, then waited again, with the same result. Cursing under his breath, he handed the instrument to Chuck and told the boy to try.

Chuck took the bull horn with trembling hands. Pushing the button, he started speaking. “Dad, it’s me, Chuck, and Jean Paul. Can you hear me?”

After the third time, the paint-splattered door opened about six inches. “I hear you, Chuck,” Charles called.

At that moment, Chuck clambered over the front bumpers of two squad cars, discarding the bull horn. Jean Paul followed at his heels. Everyone, including the deputies, was intent on watching the house when the boys made their move, and for a moment they didn’t respond. It gave the boys a chance to clear the cars and start up the driveway.

“Get them, goddamn it! Get them!” shouted Neilson.

A murmur went up from the crowd. Several deputies led by Bernie Crawford sprinted around the ends of the two squad cars.

Although younger, Jean Paul was the athlete, and he quickly overtook his older brother, who was having difficulty making headway on the slippery driveway. About forty feet beyond the squad cars, Chuck’s feet went out from under him and he hit the ground hard. Gasping for breath he struggled up, but as he did so Bernie grabbed a handful of his tattered army parka. Chuck tried to wrench himself free but instead managed to yank Bernie off balance. The policeman fell over backwards, pulling the boy on top of him. Chuck’s bony buttocks knocked the wind out of Bernie with an audible wheeze.

Still entangled, the two slid a few feet back down the driveway, rolling into the next two deputies on their way up. The men fell in a comical fashion reminiscent of a silent-movie chase sequence. Taking advantage of the confusion, Chuck pulled himself free, scrambled out of reach, and ran after Jean Paul.

Although Bernie was temporarily winded, the other two deputies quickly resumed pursuit. They might have caught Chuck again had it not been for Charles. He stuck the shotgun through the door and fired a single round. Any thought of heroics on the deputies’ part vanished, and they instantly took refuge behind the trunk of one of the oaks lining the driveway.

As the boys reached the front porch, Charles opened the door, and they dashed inside. Charles slammed the door behind them, secured it, then checked the windows to make sure no one else was coming. Satisfied, he turned to his sons.

The two boys were standing self-consciously near the door, gasping for breath, and amazed at the transformation of their living room into a science-fiction laboratory. Chuck, an old-movie buff, noticing the boarded-up windows, said it looked like the set of a Frankenstein movie. They both began to smile, but became serious when they saw Charles’s dour expression.

“The one thing I thought I didn’t have to worry about was you two,” said Charles sternly. “Goddamn it! What on earth are you doing here?”

“We thought you needed help,” said Chuck lamely. “Everyone else is against you.”

“I couldn’t stand to hear what people were saying about you,” said Jean Paul.

“This is our family,” said Chuck. “We should be here, especially if we can help Michelle.”

“How is she, Dad?” asked Jean Paul.

Charles didn’t answer. His anger at the boys abruptly dissolved. Chuck’s comment was not only surprising, it was correct. They were a family, and the boys should not be summarily excluded. Besides, as far as Charles knew, it was the first unselfish thing Chuck had ever done.

“You little bastards!” Charles suddenly grinned.

Caught off guard by their father’s abrupt change of mood, the boys hesitated for a moment, then rushed to give him a hug.

Charles realized he couldn’t remember the last time he’d held his sons. Cathryn, who’d been watching since the boys first appeared, came up and kissed them both.

Then they all went over to Michelle, and Charles gently woke her. She gave them a broad grin and Chuck bent over and put his arms around her.