“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.”