Robin Cook - Fever

“Just a minute,” said Bernie.

Cathryn could hear a drawer open and Bernie fumbled around for something.

“Just a minute. I gotta find a pencil,” said Bernie, leaving the line again before Cathryn could talk. Outside she heard a yell, and Charles came scurrying into the kitchen, going up to the window on the north side facing the pond.

“Okay,” said Bernie coming back on the line. “What’s the address?”

Cathryn quickly gave the address.

“Zip code?” asked Bernie.

“Zip code?” questioned Cathryn. “We need help right now.”

“Lady, paperwork is paperwork. I gotta fill out a form before I dispatch a car.”

Cathryn gave a zip code.

“How many guys in the group?”

“I’m not sure. Half a dozen.”

Cathryn could hear the man writing.

“Are they kids?” asked Bernie.

“Cathryn!” yelled Charles. “I need you to watch out the front. They’re torching the playhouse but it may be just a diversion. Somebody has got to watch the front door.”

“Listen,” shouted Cathryn into the phone. “I can’t talk. Just send a car.” She slammed down the phone and ran back into the living room. From the small window next to the fireplace she could see the flickering glow from the playhouse. She turned her attention to the front lawn. The group with the torches was gone but she could see someone lifting something out of the trunk of one of the cars. In the darkness, it looked like a pail. “Oh, God, don’t let it be gasoline,” said Cathryn.

From the back of the house Cathryn could hear glass breaking. “Are you all right?” she called.

“I’m all right. The bastards are breaking the windows to your car.”

Cathryn heard Charles unlock the rear door. Then she heard the boom of his shotgun. The sound reverberated through the house. Then the door slammed shut.

“What happened?” yelled Cathryn.

Charles came back into the living room. “I shot into the air. I suppose it’s the only thing they respect. They ran around this way.”

Cathryn looked back out. The group had reassembled around the man coming from the car. In the light of the torches, Cathryn could see that he was carrying a gallon can. He knelt down, apparently opening it.

“Looks like paint,” said Cathryn.

“That’s what it is,” said Charles.

While they watched the group began to chant “Communist” over and over. The man with the paint can approached the house seemingly building up the courage of the rest of the group. As they got closer, Cathryn could see that the men were carrying an assortment of clubs. The chanting got progressively louder. Charles recognized Wally Crabb and the man who had punched him.

The group stopped about fifty feet from the house. The man with the paint kept walking as the others egged him on. Charles pulled away from the window, making her stand behind him. He had a clear view of the door, and he slipped his finger around the trigger.

They heard the footsteps stop and then the sound of a paintbrush against the shingles. After five minutes there was a final sound of paint splashing up against the front door, followed by the clatter of the can hitting the front porch.

Rushing back to the window, Charles could see that the men were yelling and whooping with laughter. Slowly they walked back down the drive pushing and shoving each other into the snow. At the base of the driveway and after several vociferous arguments, the men climbed into the two cars. With horns blaring they drove off into the night, heading north on Interstate 301 toward Shaftesbury.

As abruptly as it had been broken, the wintry silence returned. Charles let out a long breath. He put down the shotgun and took Cathryn’s hands in his. “Now that you’ve seen how unpleasant it is, perhaps it would be better for you to go back to your mother’s until this is over.”

“No way,” said Cathryn, shaking her head. Then she broke away to tend to Michelle.

Fifteen minutes later the Shaftesbury police cruiser skidded up the driveway and came to a sudden stop behind the station wagon. Frank Neilson hurried from the front seat as if he were responding to an emergency.

“You can just get right back inside your car, you son-of-a-bitch,” said Charles, who had come out on the front porch.

Frank, standing defiantly with his hands on his hips and his feet spread apart, just shrugged. “Well, if you don’t need me.”

“Just get the fuck off my land,” snarled Charles.

“Strange people this side of town,” said Frank loudly to his deputy as he got back into the car.

Morning crept over the frozen countryside, inhibited by a pewter-colored blanket of high clouds. Charles and Cathryn had taken turns standing watch, but the vandals had not returned. As dawn arrived Charles felt confident enough to return to the bed in front of the fireplace and slip in next to Cathryn.

Michelle had improved considerably and, although she was still extremely weak, she could sit up, courageously managing to smile when Charles pretended to be a waiter bringing in her breakfast.

While he drew some of his blood and again tested his T-lymphocytes for signs of delayed hypersensitivity to Michelle’s leukemic cells, Cathryn tried to make their topsy-turvy house more livable. Between Charles’s equipment and reagents, Michelle’s bed, and the king-sized mattress, the living room was like a maze. There was little Cathryn could do there, but the kitchen soon responded to her efforts.

“No sign of any appropriate reaction with my lymphocytes,” said Charles, coming in for some more coffee. “You’re going to have to give me another dose of Michelle’s antigen later today.”

“Sure,” said Cathryn, trying to buoy both her own and Charles’s confidence. She wasn’t sure she could do it again. The thought alone gave her gooseflesh.

“I must think of some way to make us more secure here,” said Charles. “I don’t know what I would have done if those men last night had been drunk enough to storm the back door.”

“Vandals are one thing,” said Cathryn. “What if the police come, wanting to arrest you?”

Charles turned back to Cathryn.

“Until I finish with what I’m doing, I have to keep everybody out of the house.”

“I think it’s just a matter of time before the police come,” said Cathryn. “And I’m afraid it will be a lot more difficult to keep them out. Just by resisting, you’ll be breaking the law, and they might feel obligated to use force.”

“I don’t think so,” said Charles. “There’s too much for them to lose and very little to gain.”

“The stimulus could be Michelle, thinking they need to recommence her treatment.”

Charles nodded slowly. “You might be right, but even if you are, there’s nothing else to be done.”

“I think there is,” said Cathryn. “Maybe I can stop the police from looking for you. I met the detective who’s handling the case. Perhaps I should go see him and tell him that I don’t want to press charges. If there are no charges, then they would stop looking for you.”

Charles took a large gulp of coffee. What Cathryn said made sense. He knew that if the police came in force, they could get him out of the house. That was one of the reasons he’d boarded up the windows so carefully; afraid of tear gas or the like. But he thought they probably would have other means which he hadn’t wanted to consider. Cathryn was right; the police would be real trouble.

“All right,” said Charles, “but you’ll have to use the rental van in the garage. I don’t think the station wagon has any windshield.”

Putting on their coats, they walked hand in hand through the inch of new snow to the locked barn. They both saw the charred remains of the playhouse at the pond’s edge and both avoided mentioning it. The still-smoldering ashes were too sharp a reminder of the terror of the previous night.