Fever

Sixteen

Neilson had never been in a limousine before, and he wasn’t sure he was going to like it. But once he’d ducked through the door and settled back in the plush seat, he felt right at home: it had a bar. He refused a mixed drink on account of being on duty but accepted straight brandy for its medicinal powers against the cold.

After the Martel boys had managed to get up to the house, Neilson had had to admit the situation was deteriorating. Rather than rescuing hostages, he was adding them. Instead of a crazy guy and a sick kid, he was now confronted by a whole family barricaded in their home. Something had to be done right away. Someone suggested calling in the state police but that was just what Neilson wanted to avoid. Yet it would be inevitable if he wasn’t successful in resolving the incident within the next twelve hours. It was this time pressure that had made him decide to talk to the doctors.

“Knowing how sick the little girl is, I felt I couldn’t turn down your offer to help,” he said.

“That’s why we’re here,” said Dr. Ibanez. “Mr. Hoyt and Mr. Ferrullo are ready and willing to take orders from you.”

The two security men, positioned on either side of the bar, nodded in agreement.

“That’s great,” said Frank Neilson. The trouble was that he didn’t know what kind of orders to give. His mind raced in circles until he remembered something Dr. Ibanez had said. “You mentioned special equipment?”

“I certainly did,” said Dr. Ibanez. “Mr. Hoyt, perhaps you’d like to show us.”

Mr. Hoyt was a handsome man, lean but obviously muscular. Frank recognized the bulge of a shoulder holster under his suit.

“My pleasure,” said Hoyt, leaning toward Frank. “What do you think this is, Mr. Neilson?” He handed Frank a weighty object that was shaped like a tin can with a handle protruding from one end.

Frank turned it in his hands and shrugged. “Don’t know. Tear gas? Something like that?”

Mr. Hoyt shook his head. “Nope. It’s a grenade.”

“A grenade?” exclaimed Frank, holding the object away from him.

“It’s called a concussion grenade. It’s what antiterrorist units use to rescue hostages. It’s thrown into a room or airplane and when it detonates, instead of hurting anything—except perhaps for breaking a few eardrums—it just befuddles everyone for ten, twenty, sometimes thirty seconds. I think you could use it to advantage in this situation.”

“Yeah, I’m sure we could,” said Frank. “But we got to get it into the house. And the guy’s boarded up all the windows.”

“Not all the windows,” said Mr. Hoyt. “We’ve noticed that the two attic windows which are easily accessible from the roof are free. Let me show you what I’d suggest.” Hoyt produced floor plans of the Martels’ house and, noticing the chief’s surprise, said: “It’s amazing what you can get with a little research. Look how the attic stairs come down to the main hall on the second floor. From that stairway it would be easy for someone like Tony Ferrullo, who’s an expert at this sort of thing, to toss a concussion grenade into the living room where the suspect is obviously staying. At that point, it would be easy to rush both the front and back doors and rescue the hostages.”

“When could we try it?” asked Frank Neilson.

“You’re the boss,” said Mr. Hoyt.

“Tonight?” asked Frank Neilson.

“Tonight it is,” said Mr. Hoyt.

Neilson left the limousine in a state of suppressed excitement. Dr. Morrison reached out and pulled the door closed.

Hoyt laughed: “It’s like taking candy from a child.”

“Will you be able to make it look like self-defense?” asked Dr. Ibanez.

Ferrullo straightened up. “I can make it look any way you want.”

At 10 P.M. exactly, Charles reached over and switched off the dialyzer. Then, as carefully as if he were handling the most precious commodity on earth, he reached into the machine and withdrew the dialyzate in a small vial. His fingers trembled as he transferred the crystal clear solution to the sterilizer. He had no idea of the structure of the small molecule contained in the vial except that it was dialyzable, which had been the final step in its isolation, and that it was not affected by the enzymes that broke down DNA, RNA, and peptide linkages in proteins. But the fact that the structure of the molecule was unknown was less important at this stage than knowledge of its effect. This was the mysterious transfer factor which would hopefully transfer his delayed hypersensitivity to Michelle.

That afternoon, Charles had again tested his T-lymphocyte response with Michelle’s leukemic cells. The reaction had been dramatic, with the T-lymphocytes instantly lysing and destroying the leukemic cells. As Charles had watched under the phase contrast microscope, he couldn’t believe the rapidity of the response. Apparently the T-lymphocytes, sensitized to a surface antigen on the leukemic cell, were able to pierce the leukemic cells’ membranes. Charles had shouted with joy the moment he saw the reaction.

Having found his delayed hypersensitivity response adequate, he had canceled the next dose of antigen he’d planned to give himself. This had pleased Cathryn, who had been finding the procedure increasingly distasteful. Instead he had announced that he wanted to draw off two pints of his blood. Cathryn had turned green, but Chuck had been able to overcome his distaste for blood and, along with Jean Paul, was able to help Charles with the task.

Before dinner, Charles had slowly separated out the white blood cells in one of the sophisticated machines he had taken from the Weinburger. In the early evening he had begun the arduous task of extracting from the white blood cells the small molecule that he was now sterilizing.

At that point, he knew he was flying blind. What he’d accomplished would have taken years under proper research conditions where each step would have been examined critically and reproduced hundreds of times. Yet what he’d accomplished so far had been essentially done before with different antigens like the one for the tuberculosis bacillus. But now Charles had a solution of an unknown molecule of an unknown concentration and of an unknown potency. There was no time to determine the best way to administer it. All he had was a theory: that in Michelle’s system was a blocking factor, which had to that point kept her immune system from responding to her leukemic cells’ antigen. Charles believed and hoped that the transfer factor would bypass that blocking or suppressor system and allow Michelle to become sensitized to her leukemic cells. But how much of the factor should he give her? And how? He was going to have to improvise and pray.

Michelle was not happy with the idea but she let Charles start another IV. Cathryn sat holding her hand and trying to distract her. The two boys were upstairs watching for any suspicious movement outside.

Without telling Cathryn or Michelle, Charles prepared for any eventuality when he gave his daughter the first dose of the transfer factor. Although he had diluted the solution with sterile water, he was still concerned about its side effects. After giving her a minute dose, he monitored her pulse and blood pressure. He was relieved when he could detect no response whatever.

At midnight the family came together in the living room. Charles had given Michelle approximately one-sixteenth of the transfer factor. The only apparent change in her status was a slight rise in her fever, and she had fallen asleep spontaneously.

They decided to take two-hour watches. Although they were all exhausted, Chuck insisted on taking the first watch and went upstairs. Charles and Cathryn fell asleep almost instantly. Jean Paul lay awake for a while, hearing his brother wander from room to room upstairs.

The next thing Jean Paul knew was that Chuck was gently nudging him. It seemed like he’d just fallen asleep but Chuck said it was 2 A.M. and time for him to get up. “It’s been quiet, except a van came about an hour ago and stopped by the police cars. But I haven’t seen anybody.”

Jean Paul nodded, then went into the downstairs bathroom to wash his face. Coming back into the dark living room, he debated whether to stay on the ground floor or go upstairs. Since it was difficult to move around in the living room, he went up to his own room. The bed looked inviting but he resisted the temptation. Instead he looked out between the planks covering the window. He couldn’t see much, or even enough to tell if it was snowing or just blowing. In any case there was lots of snow in the air.

Slowly he went from room to room as he’d heard Chuck do, gazing out at the dark. It was utterly silent except for an occasional gust of wind which would rattle the storm windows. Sitting in his parents’ bedroom which looked down the driveway, Jean Paul tried to make out a van but he was unable to. Then he heard a sound, like metal against stone. Looking in the direction of the noise, he found himself facing the fireplace. It shared the same chimney as the living room fireplace. He heard the sound again.

With no further hesitation, he ran back down to the living room.

“Dad,” whispered Jean Paul, “wake up.”

Charles blinked, then sat up.

“Four o’clock?” asked Charles.

“No,” whispered Jean Paul. “I heard a noise up in your bedroom. Sounded like it came from the fireplace.”

Charles sprang up, waking Cathryn and Chuck.

“Jean Paul thinks he heard a noise,” whispered Chuck.

“I know I heard a noise,” returned Jean Paul, indignant.

“Okay! Okay!” said Charles. “Listen, we need at least one more day. If they’re trying to break in, we’ve got to stop them.”

Charles gave the gun to Cathryn and sent her to the back door. He positioned the boys by the front door with Jean Paul’s baseball bat. Taking the poker for himself, Charles climbed the stairs and went into the master bedroom. Standing by the fireplace he congratulated himself on having the foresight to pack the chimneys. But he heard nothing except the wind under the eaves.

After several minutes Charles walked out of the master bedroom, crossed the hall, and entered Michelle’s room. From here he could see the barn, where the previous night’s assault had originated, but all he saw now were the pines, rustling in the wind.

Anthony Ferrullo placed an aluminum ladder against the chimney and climbed onto the roof. Catlike, he moved along the ridge to one of the attic windows. Then, using a rope as a precaution against slipping, he worked his way down the slope of the roof to the base of one of the dormers, where he cut out a small circle of glass. Slowly he opened the window, smelling the musty odor of the attic. Turning on his flashlight, he looked inside. There were the usual trunks and cartons, and he was pleased to see a floor rather than widely spaced beams. He dropped into the room without making the slightest noise.

Ferrullo waited, listening for sounds of movement in the house. He was in no hurry. He was certain Hoyt was already in position below the front porch, ready to storm the front door. Neilson had insisted that two of his deputies participate. They were to storm the back door after the explosion, but if things went the way Ferrullo intended, the job would be over before they entered.

Satisfied all was quiet, Anthony moved forward slowly, testing each place he put his foot before he shifted his weight onto it. He was directly over Charles’s head.

Charles stared at the barn for some five minutes, until he was convinced there was no activity there. Wondering what Jean Paul could have heard, he turned back toward the hall. Suddenly the ceiling joists above him squeaked. Freezing, Charles listened intently, hoping he’d imagined the sound. Then it was repeated.

A shiver of fear passed through his exhausted body. Someone was in the attic!

Gripping the poker and feeling the perspiration on his hands, Charles began to follow the sounds above him. Soon he’d advanced to the wall of Michelle’s room, behind which were the attic stairs. Looking out into the hall, he could just make out the attic door in the darkness. It was closed but not locked. The skeleton key protruded temptingly from the mechanism. Hearing the first step on the stairs, his heart began to pound. He’d never experienced such terror. Frantically he debated whether to lock the door or just wait for the intruder to appear.

Whoever was coming down the stairs was agonizingly slow. Charles gripped the poker with all the force he could muster. Abruptly the furtive steps halted and there was nothing but silence. He waited, his panic growing.

Downstairs, Charles heard Michelle stir in her sleep. He winced, hoping no one would call up to him, or worse yet, come up the stairs. He heard Jean Paul whisper something to Chuck.

The noises coming from the living room seemed to activate the movement on the attic stairs. Charles heard the sound of another step, then to his horror the knob began to turn very slowly. He grasped the poker with both hands and lifted it above his head.

Anthony Ferrullo slowly opened the door about eight inches. He could see across the short hall to the balustrade connecting to the banister of the main stairs. From there it was a straight drop to the living room. After checking the position of his holster, he unclipped the concussion grenade from his belt and pulled the pin from the timing fuse.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Who are you?” asked Charles.

Anthony Ferrullo sat as if carved from stone.

“What are you doing here?”

Silence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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