Robin Cook: Fever

Angrily tossing the bull horn into the back seat of his cruiser, Neilson crossed the road for an Italian sausage in pita bread. As he was about to bite into the sandwich, he saw a long black limousine come around the bend and stop. Five men got out. Two were dressed in fancy city clothes, one with white hair and a long fur coat, the other with almost no hair and a shiny leather coat cinched at the waist. The other two men were dressed in blue suits that appeared a size too small. Neilson recognized the second two: they were bodyguards.

Frank took a bite from his sandwich as the men approached him.

“Neilson, my name is Dr. Carlos Ibanez. I’m honored to meet you.”

Frank Neilson shook the doctor’s hand.

“This is Dr. Morrison,” said Ibanez, urging his colleague forward.

Neilson shook hands with Morrison, then took another bite of his sausage sandwich.

“Understand you got a problem here,” said Ibanez, looking up at the Martel house.

Frank shrugged. It was never good to admit to problems.

Turning back to the chief, Ibanez said, “We’re the owners of all the expensive equipment your suspect has up there in his house. And we’re very concerned about it.”

Frank nodded.

“We rode out here to offer our help,” said Ibanez magnanimously.

Frank looked from face to face. This was getting crazier by the minute.

“In fact, we brought two professional security men from Breur Chemicals with us. A Mr. Eliot Hoyt and Anthony Ferrullo.”

Frank found himself shaking hands with the two security men.

“Of course we know you have everything under control,” said Dr. Morrison. “But we thought you might find these men helpful and they have brought some equipment you might find interesting.”

Mr. Hoyt and Mr. Ferrullo smiled.

“But it’s up to you, of course,” said Dr. Morrison.

“Absolutely,” said Dr. Ibanez.

“I think I have enough manpower at the moment,” said Frank Neilson through a full mouth.

“Well, keep us in mind,” said Dr. Ibanez.

Neilson excused himself and strolled back to his makeshift command post, confused after meeting Ibanez and his friends. After he told Bernie to contact the men with the rifles and tell them there was to be no shooting until further notice, he got into his car. Maybe help from the chemical company wasn’t a bad idea. All they were interested in was the equipment, not the glory.

Ibanez and Morrison watched Neilson walk away from them, talk briefly with another policeman, then get into his squad car. Morrison adjusted his delicate horn-rimmed glasses. “Frightening that someone like that is in a position of authority.”

“It’s a travesty, all right,” agreed Dr. Ibanez. “Let’s get back into the car.”

They started off toward the limousine. “I don’t like this situation one bit,” said Dr. Ibanez. “All this press coverage may whip up sympathy for Charles: the quintessential American guarding his home against outside forces. If this goes on much longer, the media is going to plaster this on every TV screen in the country.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” said Dr. Morrison. “The irony is that Charles Martel, the man who hates the press, couldn’t have created for himself a better platform if he tried. The way things are going he could cause irreparable damage to the whole cancer establishment.”

“And to Canceran and the Weinburger in particular,” added Dr. Ibanez. “We’ve got to get that imbecile police chief to use our men.”

“We’ve planted the idea in his head,” said Morrison. “I don’t think there’s much else we can do at this point. It has to look like his decision.”

Neilson was jarred from a little postprandial catnap by someone tapping on the frosted window of the cruiser. He was about to leap from the car when he regained his senses. He rolled down the window and found himself looking into a sneering face behind thick, milk-bottle glasses. The guy had curly hair that stuck out from his head in a snow-covered bush; the chief guessed it was another big-city spectator.

“Are you Chief Neilson?” asked the man.

“Who wants to know?”

“I do. My name is Dr. Stephen Keitzman and this is Dr. Jordan Wiley behind me.”

The chief looked over Dr. Keitzman’s shoulder at the second man, wondering what was going on.

“Can we talk to you for a few minutes?” said Dr. Keitzman, shielding his face from the snow.

Neilson got out of the car, making it clear that it was an extraordinary effort.

“We’re the physicians of the little girl in the house,” explained Dr. Wiley. “We felt it was our duty to come up here in case there was anything we could do to help.”

“Will Martel listen to you guys?” asked the chief.

Dr. Keitzman and Dr. Wiley exchanged glances. “I doubt it,” admitted Dr. Keitzman. “I don’t think he’ll talk with anyone. He’s too hostile. We think he’s had a psychotic break.”

“A what?” asked Neilson.

“A nervous breakdown,” added Dr. Wiley.

“Figures,” said the chief.

“Anyway,” said Dr. Keitzman, swinging his arms against the cold, “we’re mostly concerned about the little girl. I don’t know if you realize how sick she is, but the fact of the matter is that every hour she’s without treatment, the closer she is to death.”

“That bad, huh?” said Neilson, looking up at the Martel house.

“Absolutely,” said Dr. Keitzman. “If you procrastinate too long, I’m afraid you’ll be rescuing a dead child.”

“We’re also concerned that Dr. Martel might be experimenting on the child,” said Dr. Wiley.

“No shit!” exclaimed Neilson. “That fucking bastard. Thanks for letting me know. I think I’ll tell this to my deputies.” Neilson called Bernie over, spoke to him a minute, then reached in for the walkie-talkie.

By midafternoon the crowd was even larger than the previous day. Word had drifted back to Shaftesbury that something was going to happen soon and even the schools were let out early. Joshua Wittenburg, the school superintendent, had decided that the lessons in civil law to be learned from the episode should not be passed up; besides, he felt that it was the biggest scandal in Shaftesbury since Widow Watson’s cat had been found frozen solid in Tom Brachman’s freezer.

Jean Paul drifted aimlessly on the periphery of the crowd. He’d never been subjected to derision before, and the experience was extremely disquieting. He’d always felt his father was a little weird but not crazy, and now that people were accusing him of being insane, he was upset. Besides, he couldn’t understand why his family hadn’t contacted him. The people with whom he was staying tried to comfort him but it was obvious they, too, questioned his father’s behavior.

Jean Paul wanted to go up to the house but he was afraid to approach the police, and it was easy to see the property was surrounded.

Ducking a snowball thrown by one of his former friends, Jean Paul walked back through the crowd, crossing the road. After a few minutes he thought he saw a familiar form. It was Chuck, dressed in a torn and tattered army parka with a fur-tipped hood.

“Chuck!” called Jean Paul eagerly.

Chuck took one look in Jean Paul’s direction, then turned and fled into a stand of trees. Jean Paul followed, calling out several more times.

“Chrissake!” hissed Chuck, when Jean Paul caught up to him in a small clearing. “Why don’t you yell a little louder so everybody hears you?”

“What do you mean?” asked Jean Paul, confused.

“I’m trying to keep a low profile to find out what the hell is going on,” said Chuck. “And you come along yelling my name. Jesus!”

Jean Paul had never considered the idea of concealing himself.