Robin Cook - Fever

“We got him surrounded,” said Bernie loud enough so that when O’Sullivan held the phone away from his ear, Cathryn could hear. “But that Martel is crazy. He’s boarded up his house like a fort. He’s got a shotgun which he knows how to use and he’s got his kid as a hostage.”

“Sounds like a difficult situation,” said O’Sullivan. “I suppose you’ve called in the state police for assistance?”

“Hell, no!” said Bernie. “We’ll take care of him. We’ve deputized a handful of volunteers. We’ll give you a call as soon as we bring him in so you can make arrangements to ship him down to Boston.”

Patrick thanked Bernie, who in turn told the detective not to mention it and that the Shaftesbury police force was always ready and willing to help.

O’Sullivan looked over at Cathryn. The conversation with Bernie had substantiated her claims. The Shaftesbury deputy seemed a far cry from a professional policeman. And the idea of deputizing volunteers sounded like something out of a Clint Eastwood western.

“There’s going to be trouble,” said Cathryn, shaking her head. “There is going to be a confrontation. And because of Michelle, Charles is very determined. I’m afraid he’ll fight back.”

“Christ!” said O’Sullivan, standing up and getting his coat from a rack near the door. “God, how I hate custody cases. Come on, I’ll go up there with you, but remember, I have no authority in New Hampshire.”

Cathryn drove as fast as she thought she could get away with in the van while Patrick O’Sullivan followed in a plain blue Chevy Nova. As they neared Shaftesbury, Cathryn could feel her pulse quicken. Rounding the last turn before the house she was almost in a panic. As she came up to their property, she saw a large crowd of people. Cars were parked on either side of Interstate 301 for fifty yards in both directions. At the base of their driveway two police cruisers blocked the entrance.

Parking the van as close as she could, Cathryn got out and waited for O’Sullivan, who pulled up behind her. The crowd gave the scene a carnival aspect despite freezing temperatures. Across the road some enterprising individual had set up a makeshift charcoal grill. On it sizzled Italian sausages which were selling briskly in a pocket of pita bread for $2.50. Next to the grill was an ash can of Budweiser beer and ice. Behind the concession a group of kids were building opposing snow forts in preparation for a snowball fight.

O’Sullivan came up beside Cathryn and said, “Jesus, this looks like a high school outing.”

“All except for the guns,” said Cathryn.

Grouped behind the two police cruisers was a throng of men dressed in all manner of clothing, from army fatigues to ski parkas, and each armed with a hunting rifle. Some carried their guns in one hand, Budweiser in the other. In the center of the group was Frank Neilson, with his foot on the bumper of one of the police cars, pressing a small walkie-talkie to his ear and apparently coordinating unseen, armed men as they completed surrounding the house.

O’Sullivan left Cathryn and walked up to Frank Neilson, introducing himself. From where Cathryn was standing, she could tell that the Shaftesbury police chief viewed the detective as an intruder. As if it were an effort, Neilson withdrew his foot from the car bumper and assumed his full height, towering a foot over O’Sullivan. The two men did not look as if they shared the same profession. Neilson was wearing his usual blue police uniform, complete with massive leather-holstered service revolver. On his head he had a Russian-style fake fur hat with all the flaps tied on top. O’Sullivan, on the other hand, had on a weather-beaten, wool-lined khaki coat. He wore no hat and his hair was disheveled.

“How’s it going?” asked O’Sullivan casually.

“Fine,” said Neilson. “Everything under control.” He wiped his snub nose with the back of his hand.

The walkie-talkie crackled and Neilson excused himself. He spoke into the machine saying that the tomcat group should approach to one hundred yards and hold. Then he turned back to O’Sullivan. “Gotta make sure the suspect doesn’t sneak out the back door.”

O’Sullivan turned away from Neilson and eyed the armed men. “Do you think it’s advisable to have this much firepower on hand?”

“I suppose you want to tell me how to handle this situation?” asked Neilson sarcastically. “Listen, detective, this is New Hampshire, not Boston. You’ve got no authority here. And to tell you the honest truth, I don’t appreciate you big city boys feeling you gotta come out here and give advice. I’m in charge here. I know how to handle a hostage situation. First secure the area, then negotiate. So if you’ll excuse me, I got work to do.”

Neilson turned his back on O’Sullivan and redirected his attention to the walkie-talkie.

“Pardon me?” said a tall, gaunt man tapping O’Sullivan on the shoulder. “Name’s Harry Barker, Boston Globe. You’re Detective O’Sullivan from the Boston police, right?”

“You guys don’t waste any time, do you?” said O’Sullivan.

“The Shaftesbury Sentinel was good enough to give us a jingle. This could be a great story. Lots of human interest. Can you give me some background?”

O’Sullivan pointed out Frank Neilson. “There is the man in charge. Let him give you the story.”

As O’Sullivan watched, Neilson picked up a bull horn and was preparing to use it when Harry Barker accosted him. There was a brief exchange of words, then the reporter stepped aside. Pressing the button on the bull horn, Frank Neilson’s husky voice thundered out over the winter landscape. The deputized men stopped laughing and shouting and even the children were silent.

“Okay, Martel, your place is surrounded. I want you to come out with your hands up.”

The crowd stayed perfectly still and the only movement was a few snowflakes drifting down among the branches of the trees. Not a sound emanated from the white Victorian house. Neilson tried the same message again with the same result. The only noise was the wind in the pines behind the barn.

“I’m going closer,” said Neilson to no one in particular.

“I’m not so sure that’s a good idea,” said O’Sullivan, loud enough for everyone in the immediate vicinity to hear.

After glaring at the detective, Neilson took the bull horn in his right hand and with great ceremony started around the police car. As he passed O’Sullivan he was laughing. “The day that Frank Neilson can’t handle a piss pot of a doctor will be the day he turns in his badge.”

While the crowd murmured excitedly, Neilson lumbered up the driveway to a point about fifty feet beyond the two police cruisers. It was snowing a little harder now and the top of his hat was dusted with flakes.

“Martel,” boomed the police chief through the bull horn, “I’m warning you, if you don’t come out, we’ll come in.”

Silence descended the instant the last word issued from the cone of the horn. Neilson turned back to the group and made an exasperated gesture, like he was dealing with a garden pest. Then he began walking closer to the house.

Not one of the spectators moved or spoke. There was an excited anticipation as they all hoped something would happen. Neilson was now about a hundred feet from the front of the house.

Suddenly the red-paint-spattered front door burst open and Charles Martel emerged holding his shotgun. There were two almost simultaneous explosions.

Neilson dove headfirst into the snowbank lining the drive, while the spectators either fled or took cover behind cars or trees. As Charles slammed the front door, bird shot rained harmlessly down over the area.

There were a few murmurs from the crowd, then a cheer as Frank scrambled to his feet. Then he ran as fast as his legs would carry his overweight body. As he neared the cars, he tried to stop but lost his footing and slid the last ten feet on his buttocks, slamming into the rear wheel of the police cruiser. A handful of deputies scurried around the car and pulled him up.