by Robin Cook
At midnight the family came together in the living room. Charles had given Michelle approximately one-sixteenth of the transfer factor. The only apparent change in her status was a slight rise in her fever, and she had fallen asleep spontaneously.
They decided to take two-hour watches. Although they were all exhausted, Chuck insisted on taking the first watch and went upstairs. Charles and Cathryn fell asleep almost instantly. Jean Paul lay awake for a while, hearing his brother wander from room to room upstairs.
The next thing Jean Paul knew was that Chuck was gently nudging him. It seemed like he’d just fallen asleep but Chuck said it was 2 A.M. and time for him to get up. “It’s been quiet, except a van came about an hour ago and stopped by the police cars. But I haven’t seen anybody.”
Jean Paul nodded, then went into the downstairs bathroom to wash his face. Coming back into the dark living room, he debated whether to stay on the ground floor or go upstairs. Since it was difficult to move around in the living room, he went up to his own room. The bed looked inviting but he resisted the temptation. Instead he looked out between the planks covering the window. He couldn’t see much, or even enough to tell if it was snowing or just blowing. In any case there was lots of snow in the air.
Slowly he went from room to room as he’d heard Chuck do, gazing out at the dark. It was utterly silent except for an occasional gust of wind which would rattle the storm windows. Sitting in his parents’ bedroom which looked down the driveway, Jean Paul tried to make out a van but he was unable to. Then he heard a sound, like metal against stone. Looking in the direction of the noise, he found himself facing the fireplace. It shared the same chimney as the living room fireplace. He heard the sound again.
With no further hesitation, he ran back down to the living room.
“Dad,” whispered Jean Paul, “wake up.”
Charles blinked, then sat up.
“Four o’clock?” asked Charles.
“No,” whispered Jean Paul. “I heard a noise up in your bedroom. Sounded like it came from the fireplace.”
Charles sprang up, waking Cathryn and Chuck.
“Jean Paul thinks he heard a noise,” whispered Chuck.
“I know I heard a noise,” returned Jean Paul, indignant.
“Okay! Okay!” said Charles. “Listen, we need at least one more day. If they’re trying to break in, we’ve got to stop them.”
Charles gave the gun to Cathryn and sent her to the back door. He positioned the boys by the front door with Jean Paul’s baseball bat. Taking the poker for himself, Charles climbed the stairs and went into the master bedroom. Standing by the fireplace he congratulated himself on having the foresight to pack the chimneys. But he heard nothing except the wind under the eaves.
After several minutes Charles walked out of the master bedroom, crossed the hall, and entered Michelle’s room. From here he could see the barn, where the previous night’s assault had originated, but all he saw now were the pines, rustling in the wind.
Anthony Ferrullo placed an aluminum ladder against the chimney and climbed onto the roof. Catlike, he moved along the ridge to one of the attic windows. Then, using a rope as a precaution against slipping, he worked his way down the slope of the roof to the base of one of the dormers, where he cut out a small circle of glass. Slowly he opened the window, smelling the musty odor of the attic. Turning on his flashlight, he looked inside. There were the usual trunks and cartons, and he was pleased to see a floor rather than widely spaced beams. He dropped into the room without making the slightest noise.
Ferrullo waited, listening for sounds of movement in the house. He was in no hurry. He was certain Hoyt was already in position below the front porch, ready to storm the front door. Neilson had insisted that two of his deputies participate. They were to storm the back door after the explosion, but if things went the way Ferrullo intended, the job would be over before they entered.
Satisfied all was quiet, Anthony moved forward slowly, testing each place he put his foot before he shifted his weight onto it. He was directly over Charles’s head.
Charles stared at the barn for some five minutes, until he was convinced there was no activity there. Wondering what Jean Paul could have heard, he turned back toward the hall. Suddenly the ceiling joists above him squeaked. Freezing, Charles listened intently, hoping he’d imagined the sound. Then it was repeated.
A shiver of fear passed through his exhausted body. Someone was in the attic!
Gripping the poker and feeling the perspiration on his hands, Charles began to follow the sounds above him. Soon he’d advanced to the wall of Michelle’s room, behind which were the attic stairs. Looking out into the hall, he could just make out the attic door in the darkness. It was closed but not locked. The skeleton key protruded temptingly from the mechanism. Hearing the first step on the stairs, his heart began to pound. He’d never experienced such terror. Frantically he debated whether to lock the door or just wait for the intruder to appear.
Whoever was coming down the stairs was agonizingly slow. Charles gripped the poker with all the force he could muster. Abruptly the furtive steps halted and there was nothing but silence. He waited, his panic growing.
Downstairs, Charles heard Michelle stir in her sleep. He winced, hoping no one would call up to him, or worse yet, come up the stairs. He heard Jean Paul whisper something to Chuck.
The noises coming from the living room seemed to activate the movement on the attic stairs. Charles heard the sound of another step, then to his horror the knob began to turn very slowly. He grasped the poker with both hands and lifted it above his head.
Anthony Ferrullo slowly opened the door about eight inches. He could see across the short hall to the balustrade connecting to the banister of the main stairs. From there it was a straight drop to the living room. After checking the position of his holster, he unclipped the concussion grenade from his belt and pulled the pin from the timing fuse.
Charles could not stand the waiting another second, especially since he was sure he wouldn’t be able to actually strike the intruder. Impulsively he lifted his foot and kicked the attic door closed. He felt a slight resistance but not enough to keep it from slamming shut. He leaped forward, intending to turn the key in the lock.
He never got to the door. There was a tremendous explosion. The attic door burst open, sending Charles flying back into Michelle’s room with his ears ringing. Scrambling on all fours, he saw Ferrullo topple from the attic stairs to the hall floor.
Cathryn and the boys jumped at the explosion, which was followed by a rush of footsteps on the front and back porches. In the next instant a sledgehammer crashed through the glass panel and its wooden cover next to the front door just inches from Chuck’s head. A groping hand reached through the opening for the doorknob. Chuck reacted by grabbing the hand and pulling. Jean Paul dropped the bat and leaped to his brother’s aid. Their combined strength pulled the unwilling arm to its limit, forcing it up against the shards of glass left in the panel. The unseen man yelled in pain. A pistol sounded and splinters flew from the door, convincing the boys to let go.
In the kitchen Cathryn tightened her hold on the shotgun as two men wrestled with the already broken back door. They succeeded in releasing the securing rope and pulled the door open. The potatoes swung out, but this time the men were able to duck. Wally Crabb grabbed the sack on its return swing, while Brezo headed through the door. With the gun pointed downward, Cathryn pulled the trigger. A load of bird shot roared into the linoleum, ricocheting up and spraying the doorway and Brezo. Brezo reversed direction and followed Wally off the porch as Cathryn pumped another shell into the chamber and blasted the empty doorway.
As abruptly as the violence started it was over. Jean Paul ran into the kitchen to find Cathryn immobilized by the experience. He closed the back door and resecured it, then took the gun from her shaking hands. Chuck went upstairs to see if Charles was all right and was surprised to see his father bending over, examining a scorched and dazed str
anger.
With Chuck’s help, Charles got the man downstairs and bound him to a chair in the living room. Cathryn and Jean Paul came in from the kitchen and the family tried to pull themselves together after the nerve-shattering excitement. There was no hope for sleep for anyone except Michelle. After a few minutes the boys volunteered to resume watch and disappeared upstairs. Cathryn went into the kitchen to make fresh coffee.
Charles returned to his machines, his heart still pounding. He gave Michelle another dose of the transfer factor through her IV, which she again tolerated with no apparent ill effects. In fact, she didn’t even wake up. Convinced the molecule was nontoxic, Charles took the rest of the solution and added it to Michelle’s half-empty intravenous bottle, fixing it to run in over the next five hours.
With that done, Charles went over to his unexpected prisoner, who had regained his senses. Despite his burns, he was a handsome man with intelligent eyes. He looked nothing at all like the local thug Charles expected. What worried him was the fact that the man seemed to be a professional. When Charles had examined him, he’d removed a shoulder holster containing a Smith & Wesson stainless steel .38 special. That wasn’t a casual firearm.
“Who are you?” asked Charles.
Anthony Ferrullo sat as if carved from stone.
“What are you doing here?”
Silence.
Self-consciously, Charles reached into the man’s jacket pockets, finding a wallet. He pulled it out. Mr. Ferrullo did not move. Charles opened the wallet, shocked at the number of hundred-dollar bills inside. There were the usual credit cards, as well as a driver’s license. Charles slipped the driver’s license out and held it up to the light. Anthony L. Ferrullo, Leonia, New Jersey. New Jersey? He turned back to the wallet and found a business card. Anthony L. Ferrullo; Breur Chemicals; Security. Breur Chemicals!
Charles felt a shiver of fear pass over him. Up until that moment he had felt that whatever risk he was taking in standing up against organized medical and industrial interests could be resolved in a court of law. Mr. Anthony Ferrullo’s presence suggested the risk was considerably more deadly. And most disturbing, Charles realized that the risk extended to his whole family. In Mr. Ferrullo’s case, “security” was obviously a euphemism for coercion and violence. For a moment the security man was less an individual than a symbol of evil, and Charles had to keep himself from striking out at him in blind anger. Instead he began turning on lights, all of them. He wanted no darkness, no more secrecy.
Calling the boys down from upstairs, the family gathered in the kitchen.
“Tomorrow it’s over,” said Charles. “We’re going to walk out of here and give up.”
Cathryn was glad, but the boys looked at each other in consternation. “Why?” asked Chuck.
“I’ve done what I wanted to do for Michelle, and the fact of the matter is that she might need some radiotherapy at the hospital.”
“Is she going to get better?” said Cathryn.
“I have no idea,” admitted Charles. “Theoretically there’s no reason why not, but there’s a hundred questions I haven’t answered. It’s a technique outside of all accepted medical practices. At this point all we can do is hope.”
Charles walked over to the phone and called all the media people he could think of, including the Boston TV stations. He told anyone who’d listen that he and his family would emerge at noon.
Then he called the Shaftesbury police, told a deputy who he was, and asked to speak to Frank Neilson. Five minutes later the chief was on the phone. Charles told him that he’d called the media and informed them that he and his family were coming out at noon. Then he hung up. Charles hoped that the presence of so many newspaper and TV reporters would eliminate any possible violence.
At exactly 12 o’clock, Charles removed the planks securing the front door and released the lock. It was a glorious day with a clear blue sky and a pale winter sun. At the bottom of the drive, in front of a crowd of people, were an ambulance, the two police cars, and a handful of TV news vans.
Charles looked back at his family and felt a rush of pride and love. They’d stood behind him more than he could have hoped. Walking back to the makeshift bed, he scooped Michelle into his arms. Her eyelids fluttered but remained closed.
“All right, Mr. Ferrullo, after you,” said Charles.
The security man stepped out onto the porch, his scorched face gleaming in the sun. Next came the two boys, followed by Cathryn. Charles brought up the rear with Michelle. In a tight group they started down the driveway.
To his surprise Charles saw Dr. Ibanez, Dr. Morrison, Dr. Keitzman, and Dr. Wiley all standing together near the ambulance. As they got closer and the crowd realized there would not be any violence, a number of the men began to boo, particularly those from Recycle, Ltd. Only one person clapped, and that was Patrick O’Sullivan, who was immensely pleased the affair was coming to a peaceful close.
Standing in the shadow of the trees, Wally Crabb was silent. He slid his right index finger under the trigger of his favorite hunting rifle and pressed his cheek against the cold stock. As he tried to sight, the front of the rifle shook from all the bourbon he’d consumed that morning. Leaning up against a nearby branch helped considerably, but Brezo’s urging to hurry made him nervous.
The sharp crack of a firearm shattered the winter stillness. The crowd strained forward as they saw Charles Martel stumble. He didn’t fall but rather sank to his knees, and as gently as if handling a newborn infant, he laid his daughter in the snow before he fell facedown beside her. Cathryn turned and screamed, then threw herself to her knees, trying to see how badly her husband was hurt.
Patrick O’Sullivan was the first to react. By professional reflex, his right hand sought the handle of his service revolver. He didn’t draw the gun but rather held on to it as he bullied his way between several onlookers and charged up the driveway. Hovering over Cathryn and Charles like a hawk guarding its nest, his eyes scanned the crowd, looking for suspicious movement.
SEVENTEEN
Never having been a hospital patient before, Charles found the experience agonizing. He’d read some editorials in the past about the problems associated with the technological invasion of medicine, but he never imagined the state of insecurity and powerlessness he would feel. It had been three days since he’d been shot and then operated on, and as he looked up at the tangle of tubes and bottles, monitors and recorders, he felt like one of his own experimental animals. Thankfully, the day before he had been transferred out of the frenzied terror of the intensive care unit, and deposited like a piece of meat in a private room in the fancy section of the hospital.
Trying to adjust his position, Charles felt a frightening stab of pain that tightened around his chest like a band of fire. For a moment he held his breath, wondering if he had opened his incision, and waited for the pain to return. To his relief it didn’t, but he lay perfectly still, afraid to move. From his left side, between his ribs, protruded a rubber tube that ran down to a bottle on the floor next to the bed. His left arm was strung up in traction by a complicated net of wires and pulleys. He was immobilized and totally at the mercy of the staff for even the most basic of functions.
A soft knock caught his attention. Before he could respond, the door silently opened. Charles was afraid it was the technician who came every four hours to forcibly inflate his lungs, a procedure Charles was sure had not been equaled in pain since the Inquisition. Instead it was Dr. Keitzman.
“Could you stand a short visit?” he asked.
Charles nodded. Although he didn’t feel like talking, he was eager to hear about Michelle. Cathryn had not been able to tell him anything except that she wasn’t worse.
Dr. Keitzman came into the room self-consciously, pulling a metal and vinyl chair over next to Charles’s bed. His face contorted with the tic that usually connoted tension and he adjusted his glasses.
“How do you feel, Charles?” he asked.
“Couldn’t be better,” sai
d Charles, unable to keep the sarcasm from surfacing. Talking, even breathing, were risky affairs and at any moment he expected the pain to return.
“Well, I have some good news. It might be a little premature, but I think you should know.”
Charles didn’t say anything. He watched the oncologist’s face, afraid to let his hopes rise.
“First,” said Dr. Keitzman. “Michelle responded to the radiotherapy extremely well. A single treatment seems to have taken care of the infiltration of her central nervous system. She’s alert and oriented.”
Charles nodded, hoping that was not all Dr. Keitzman had come to say.
There was a silence.
Then the door to the room burst open and in walked the respiratory technician, pushing the hated IPPB machine. “Time for your treatment, Dr. Martel,” said the technician brightly, as if he were bringing some wonderfully pleasurable service. Seeing Dr. Keitzman, the technician skidded to a respectful halt. “Excuse me, Doctor.”
“That’s quite all right,” said Dr. Keitzman, seemingly pleased at the interruption. “I’ve got to be going anyway.” Then looking down at Charles, he said: “The other thing I wanted to say was that Michelle’s leukemic cells have all but disappeared. I think she’s in remission.”
Charles felt a warm glow suffuse his body. “God! That’s great,” he said with enthusiasm. Then he got a sharp twinge that reminded him where he was.
“It certainly is,” agreed Dr. Keitzman. “We’re all very pleased. Tell me, Charles. What did you do to Michelle while she was in your house?”
Charles had trouble containing his joy. His hopes soared. Maybe Michelle was cured. Maybe everything worked as he had guessed. Looking up at Keitzman, Charles thought for a moment. Realizing that he didn’t want to go into a detailed explanation at that point, he said: “I just tried to stimulate her immune system.”