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?”