by Robin Cook
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.
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.
