Fever (32 page)

“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 development 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 of 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.

“Coffee?” he asked.

Cathryn shook her head, keeping her eyes riveted on
Charles as he poured himself a cup. Then he sat down opposite Cathryn.

“First I want to say something,” began Charles, looking directly at Cathryn. “I've had a chance to think and I now understand the position you were in at the hospital. I'm sorry my own indecision about Michelle's treatment was inadvertently taken out on you. And I, more than a layman, know how doctors can bully patients and their families to get their own way. Anyway, I understand what happened in the guardianship situation. I understand there was no one at fault and there was no malevolence on anyone's part, least of all yours. I'm sorry that I reacted as I did, but I couldn't help it. I hope you'll forgive me. I know that you were trying to do what was best for Michelle.”

Cathryn didn't move. She wanted to rush to Charles and throw her arms around him because all at once he sounded so normal, but she couldn't move. So much had happened and there were still unanswered questions.

Charles picked up his coffee cup. His hand shook so much he had to use his left hand to steady it.

“Deciding what was best for Michelle was a very difficult problem,” continued Charles. “Like you, I hoped that orthodox medicine could give her more time. But it got to the point where I knew that they were failing and I had to do something.”

Cathryn could sense Charles's sincerity. What she couldn't decide was his rationality. Had he cracked under the strain as everyone suggested? Cathryn realized that she wasn't equipped to decide.

“All the doctors agreed that the medicines were her only chance to get a remission,” said Cathryn, feeling defensive about her actions. “Dr. Keitzman assured me that it was her only chance.”

“And I'm sure he believed what he said.”

“It's not true?”

“Of course she has to get a remission,” agreed Charles. “But their chemotherapy, even in the experimentally high doses,
was not touching her leukemic cells. At the same time they were destroying normal cells, particularly her own immune system.”

Cathryn wasn't sure she fully understood what Charles was saying but at least it sounded consistent. It didn't sound like the product of a deranged mind.