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.