by Robin Cook
“I didn’t notice his eyes,” said the nurse.
“What was he wearing?” asked William.
“Oh God!” exclaimed Cathryn in frustration. “Please do something.”
“A long white coat,” said the nurse.
“Okay,” said William. “Someone calls, gets Mrs. Martel out of the child’s room, presents a bogus X-ray request, then wheels the child off as if he’s going to surgery. Right?”
Everyone nodded except Cathryn who had put a hand to her forehead to try to control herself.
“Then, how long before security was notified?” asked William.
“Just a couple of minutes,” said the nurse.
“That’s why we think they are still in the hospital,” said the administrator.
“But her clothes are gone,” said Cathryn. “They’ve left the hospital. That’s why you have to do something before it’s too late. Please!”
Everyone looked at Cathryn as if she were a child. She returned their stares then threw up her hands in exasperation. “Jesus Christ.”
William turned to the administrator. “Is there someplace in the hospital someone could take a child?” he asked.
“There are lots of temporary hiding places,” agreed the administrator. “But there’s no place they won’t be found.”
“All right,” said William. “Suppose it was the father who took the child. Why?”
“Because he didn’t agree with the treatment,” said Cathryn. “That’s why the temporary guardianship was granted: so that the treatment would be maintained. Unfortunately my husband has been under a lot of stress, not just the child’s illness, but his job.”
William whistled. “If he didn’t like the treatment here,” he said, “what was he interested in? Laetrile, something like that?”
“He didn’t say,” said Cathryn, “but I know he wasn’t interested in Laetrile.”
“We’ve had a few of those Laetrile cases,” said William, ignoring Cathryn’s last statement. Turning to his partner, Michael Grady, he said: “Remember that kid that went to Mexico?”
“Sure do,” said Michael.
Turning back to the group, William said: “We’ve had some experience with parents seeking unorthodox treatment for their kids. I think we’d better alert the airport. They might be on their way out of the country.”
Dr. Keitzman arrived in a whirlwind of nervous motion. Cathryn was tremendously relieved to see him. He immediately dominated the small gathering and demanded to be told everything. Paul Mansford and the charge nurse teamed up to give him a rapid report.
“This is terrible!” said Dr. Keitzman, nervously adjusting his rimless glasses. “It sounds to me like Dr. Charles Martel has definitely had some sort of breakdown.”
“How long will the little girl live without treatment?” asked William.
“Hard to say. Days, weeks, a month at most. We have several more drugs to try on the child, but it has to be sooner rather than later. There is still a chance for remission.”
“Well, we’ll get right on it,” said William. “I’ll finish the report and turn it over to the detectives immediately.”
As the two patrolmen walked out of the hospital a half hour later, Michael Grady turned to his partner and said, “What a story! Makes you feel terrible. Kid with leukemia and all that.”
“It sure does. Makes you feel thankful your own kids are at least healthy.”
“Do you think the detectives will get right on it?”
“Now? You kidding? These custody cases are a pain in the ass. Thankfully they usually solve themselves in twenty-four hours. Anyway, the detectives won’t even look at it until tomorrow.”
They climbed into their patrol car, checked in by radio, then pulled away from the curb.
Cathryn opened her eyes and looked around in confusion. She recognized the yellow curtains, the white bureau with its doily and collection of bric-a-brac, the pink vanity that had doubled as her high school desk, her yearbooks on the shelf, and the plastic crucifix she’d gotten when she’d been confirmed. She knew she was in her old room that her mother had compulsively maintained since she had left for college. What confused Cathryn was why she was there.
She shook her head to rid herself of the numbing remnants of the sleeping pills Dr. Keitzman had insisted she take. Leaning over she snatched up her watch and tried to make sense out of the numbers. She couldn’t believe it. It was a quarter to twelve. Cathryn blinked her eyes and looked again. No, it was nine o’clock. Even that was later than she’d wanted to sleep.
Slipping on an old plaid flannel robe, Cathryn opened the door and hurried down to the kitchen, smelling the aroma of fresh biscuits and bacon. When she entered, her mother looked up, pleased to have her daughter home no matter what the reason.
“Has Charles called?” asked Cathryn.
“No, but I’ve fixed you a nice breakfast.”
“Has anybody called? The hospital? The police?”
“No one has called. So relax. I made your favorite, baking-powder biscuits.”
“I can’t eat,” said Cathryn, her mind a whirl. But she wasn’t too preoccupied to see her mother’s face immediately fall. “Well, maybe some biscuits.”
Gina perked up and got out a cup and saucer for Cathryn.
“I’d better get Chuck up,” said Cathryn, starting back to the hall.
“He’s up, breakfasted, and gone,” said Gina triumphantly. “He likes biscuits as much as you. Said he had a nine o’clock class.”
Cathryn turned and sat down at the table while her mother poured the coffee. She felt useless. She’d tried so hard to be a wife and mother and now she had the feeling that she’d bungled it. Getting her adopted son up for school was hardly the criterion for being a good mother, yet the fact that she’d not done it seemed representative of her whole incompetent performance.
Battling her emotions, she lifted the coffee cup to her mouth, mindless of its temperature. As she took a sip, the hot fluid scalded her lips and she pulled the cup away, sloshing some of the fluid on her hand. Burned, she released her grasp on the mug and let it go. The cup fell to the table, shattering itself and the saucer. At the same moment, Cathryn broke into tears.
Gina quickly had the mess cleaned up, and repeatedly reassured her daughter that she shouldn’t cry because Gina didn’t care about any old cup that she’d bought as a souvenir in Venice on her only trip to that beautiful city that she loved more than any place in the world.
Cathryn got control of herself. She knew that the Venetian cup was one of her mother’s treasures and she felt badly about breaking it, but Gina’s overreaction helped calm down her emotions.
“I think I’ll drive up to Shaftesbury,” said Cathryn at length. “I’ll get some more clothes for Chuck and check on Jean Paul.”
“Chuck’s got what he needs,” said Gina. “The money it costs to drive up there, you could buy him a new outfit in Filene’s basement.”
“True,” admitted Cathryn. “I guess I want to be around the phone if Charles calls.”
“If he calls and gets no answer, he’ll call here,” said Gina. “After all, he’s not stupid. Where do you think he’s gone with Michelle?”
“I don’t know,” said Cathryn. “Last night the police talked about Mexico. Apparently a lot of people looking for unusual cancer cures go to Mexico. But Charles wouldn’t go there. I know that much.”
“I hate to say I told you so,” said Gina, “but I warned you about marrying an older man with three children. It’s always trouble. Always!”
Cathryn held back the anger that only her mother was capable of causing. Then the phone rang.
Gina answered it while Cathryn held her breath.
“It’s for you,” said Gina. “A detective named Patrick O’Sullivan.”
Expecting the worst, Cathryn picked up the phone. Patrick O’Sullivan quickly reassured her, saying that they had no new information about Charles or Michelle. He said that there had been an interesting developme
nt in the case and asked if Cathryn would meet him at the Weinburger Research Institute. She agreed immediately.
Fifteen minutes later she was ready to leave. She told Gina that after stopping at the Weinburger she was going to drive back to New Hampshire. Gina tried to protest but Cathryn was insistent, saying that she had to have some time alone. She told her mother that she’d be back in time for dinner with Chuck.
The ride across Boston and down Memorial Drive was uneventful. Pulling the old Dodge into the Weinburger parking lot made her remember that summer two years before when she’d met Charles for the first time. Could it really have been only two years ago?
There were two police cars pulled up close to the entrance and when Cathryn walked by them she could hear the familiar crackle of their radios. Seeing police cars wasn’t an auspicious sign, but Cathryn refused to allow herself to speculate. The front door of the institute slid open for her, and she made her way down to Charles’s lab.
The door was ajar and Cathryn walked in. The first thing she noticed was that the lab had already been dismantled. She’d been in it on several occasions in the past, so she’d had an idea of what to expect. Now all the science-fiction-like machines were gone. The counter tops were bare like a store that had gone bankrupt.
There were six people in the room. Ellen, whom Cathryn recognized, was talking to two uniformed policemen who were engaged in filling out the police report. Seeing the policemen painstakingly printing brought back a memory of the previous night. Dr. Ibanez and Dr. Morrison were standing near Charles’s desk talking with a freckle-faced man in a blue polyester sports coat. The man saw Cathryn enter and immediately approached her.
“Mrs. Martel?” questioned the man.
Cathryn nodded and took the man’s outstretched hand. It was soft and slightly moist.
“I’m Detective Patrick O’Sullivan. I’ve been assigned to your case. Thanks for coming.”
Over Patrick’s shoulder Cathryn could see Ellen point to an empty space on the counter before she started talking again. Cathryn couldn’t quite make out what she was saying but she could tell it was something about equipment. Glancing over at the doctors she could see they were engaged in heated discussion. She couldn’t hear what they were saying, but she saw Dr. Morrison strike his open palm in apparent anger.
“What’s going on?” asked Cathryn, looking up into the detective’s soft green eyes.
“It seems that your husband, after having been dismissed from his position here at the institute, stole most of his equipment.”
Cathryn’s eyes widened in disbelief. “I don’t believe that.”
“The evidence is pretty irrefutable. The two evening security men apparently helped Charles strip the lab and load the stuff.”
“But why?” asked Cathryn.
“I was hoping you’d be able to tell me,” said the detective.
Cathryn glanced around the room, trying to comprehend the extent of Charles’s folly.
“I haven’t the slightest idea,” said Cathryn. “It seems absurd.”
The detective lifted his eyebrows and wrinkled his forehead as he followed Cathryn’s eyes around the lab. “It’s absurd all right. It’s also grand larceny, Mrs. Martel.”
Cathryn looked back at the detective.
The detective glanced down and shuffled his feet. “This puts a different light on your husband’s disappearance. Child-snatching by a parent is one thing, and to tell you the honest truth, we don’t get too excited about it. But theft is something else. We’re going to have to put out the details and a warrant for Dr. Martel’s arrest on the NCIC teletype.”
Cathryn shuddered. Every time she thought she understood the details of the nightmare it got worse. Charles was now a fugitive. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Our condolences, Mrs. Martel,” said Dr. Ibanez, coming up behind her.
She turned and saw the director’s sympathetic expression.
“It’s a tragedy,” agreed Dr. Morrison with the same expression. “And to think Charles was once such a promising researcher.”
There was an uncomfortable pause. Morrison’s comment angered Cathryn, but she was at a loss for words.
“Exactly why was Dr. Martel fired?” asked Patrick O’Sullivan, breaking the silence.
Cathryn turned to the detective. He had asked the question she would have liked to pose if she’d had the courage.
“Basically, it was because Dr. Martel had been acting a bit bizarrely. We began to question his mental stability.” Dr. Ibanez paused. “He also was not what you would call a team player. In fact, he was a loner and lately he’d become uncooperative.”
“What kind of research was he doing?” asked the detective.
“It’s hard to describe to a layman,” said Morrison. “Basically Charles was working on the immunological approach to cancer. Unfortunately this approach is somewhat dated. Ten years ago it held great promise but initial hopes were not borne out by subsequent developments. Charles couldn’t or wouldn’t make the adaptation. And, as you know, the advancement of science does not wait for anyone.” Morrison smiled as he finished his statement.
“Why do you think Dr. Martel took all this equipment?” asked O’Sullivan, making a sweeping gesture around the room.
Dr. Ibanez shrugged. “I haven’t the faintest idea.”
“I think it was spite,” said Dr. Morrison. “It’s like the kid who takes home his ball when the others don’t want to play by his rules.”
“Could Dr. Martel have taken the equipment to continue his research?” said O’Sullivan.
“No,” said Dr. Morrison. “Impossible! The key to this kind of research is the highly bred animal systems we use. These animals are absolutely essential to the research, and Charles did not take any of his mice. And as a fugitive, I think he’d find it difficult to get them.”
“I suppose you could give me a list of suppliers,” said the detective.
“Absolutely,” answered Dr. Morrison.
In the background the phone rang. Cathryn had no idea why she jumped but she did. Ellen answered it and called out for Detective O’Sullivan.
“This must be a very difficult time for you,” said Dr. Ibanez to Cathryn.
“You have no idea,” agreed Cathryn.
“If we can help in any way,” said Dr. Morrison.
Cathryn tried to smile.
Patrick O’Sullivan came back. “Well, we’ve found his car. He left it in a parking lot in Harvard Square.”
As Cathryn drove along Interstate 301 she felt increasingly unhappy. The reaction surprised her because one of the reasons she’d wanted to go home, besides being close to the phone in case Charles called, was to lift her spirits. She appreciated her mother’s efforts to help, but she also resented Gina’s disapproving comments about Charles and her self-righteous attitude. Having been abandoned herself, Gina had a low regard for men in general, particularly nonreligious men like Charles. She’d never been wholeheartedly behind Cathryn’s marriage, and she let Cathryn know how she felt.
So Cathryn had looked forward to getting back to her own home although she realized it would no longer be the happy refuge she knew. Coming upon their property, Cathryn took her foot off the accelerator and braked. The first thing she saw was the mailbox. It had been knocked over and crushed. She started up the drive, moving between the rows of trees which in the summer formed a long gallery of shade. Through the now-naked branches Cathryn could see the house, stark white against the dark shadow of evergreens behind the barn.
Pulling the station wagon to a point opposite the back porch, Cathryn turned off the ignition. As she looked at the house she thought how cruel life could be. It seemed that one episode could initiate a chain reaction like a series of dominoes standing on end, each inevitably knocking over the next. As Cathryn got out of the car, she noticed the door to the playhouse was swinging in the wind, repeatedly thumping against the outside shingles. Looking more closely, she could see that most of the small panes o
f glass in the mullioned windows had been broken. Retrieving her keys, she walked through the snow to the back door, turned her key, and stepped into the kitchen.
Cathryn screamed. There was a sudden movement, and a figure came from behind the door and lunged at her.
In the next instant, she was pushed up against the kitchen wall. The door crashed shut with a concussion that made the old frame house shudder.
Cathryn’s scream faltered and trailed off in her throat. It was Charles! Speechless, she watched while he frantically ran from window to window, looking outside. In his right hand he held his old twelve-gauge shotgun. Cathryn noticed the windows had been crudely boarded up and Charles had to peer out between the cracks.
Before she could recover her equilibrium, Charles grabbed her arm and forced her rapidly out of the kitchen, stumbling down the short hall into the living room. Then he let go of her and again ran from window to window, looking out.
Cathryn was paralyzed by surprise and fear. When he finally turned back to her, she saw he was exhausted.
“Are you alone?” he demanded.
“Yes,” said Cathryn, afraid to say anything else.
“Thank God,” said Charles. His tense face visibly relaxed.
“What are you doing here?” asked Cathryn.
“This is my home,” said Charles, taking a deep breath and letting it out through pursed lips.
“I don’t understand,” said Cathryn. “I thought you’d taken Michelle and run away. They’ll find you here!”
For the first time Cathryn took her eyes off Charles. She noticed the living room had been totally changed. The gleaming, high-tech instruments from the Weinburger were grouped around the wall. In the middle of the room, in a makeshift hospital bed, Michelle slept.
“Michelle,” cried Cathryn, running over and grasping the child’s hand. Charles came up behind her.
Michelle’s eyes opened and for an instant there was a flicker of recognition, then the lids closed. Cathryn turned to Charles.
“Charles, what in heaven’s name are you doing?”
“I’ll tell you in a moment,” said Charles, adjusting Michelle’s intravenous flow. He took Cathryn’s arm and urged her to follow him back to the kitchen.