Robin Cook - Fever

Frank turned it in his hands and shrugged. “Don’t know. Tear gas? Something like that?”

Mr. Hoyt shook his head. “Nope. It’s a grenade.”

“A grenade?” exclaimed Frank, holding the object away from him.

“It’s called a concussion grenade. It’s what antiterrorist units use to rescue hostages. It’s thrown into a room or airplane and when it detonates, instead of hurting anything—except perhaps for breaking a few eardrums—it just befuddles everyone for ten, twenty, sometimes thirty seconds. I think you could use it to advantage in this situation.”

“Yeah, I’m sure we could,” said Frank. “But we got to get it into the house. And the guy’s boarded up all the windows.”

“Not all the windows,” said Mr. Hoyt. “We’ve noticed that the two attic windows which are easily accessible from the roof are free. Let me show you what I’d suggest.” Hoyt produced floor plans of the Martels’ house and, noticing the chief’s surprise, said: “It’s amazing what you can get with a little research. Look how the attic stairs come down to the main hall on the second floor. From that stairway it would be easy for someone like Tony Ferrullo, who’s an expert at this sort of thing, to toss a concussion grenade into the living room where the suspect is obviously staying. At that point, it would be easy to rush both the front and back doors and rescue the hostages.”

“When could we try it?” asked Frank Neilson.

“You’re the boss,” said Mr. Hoyt.

“Tonight?” asked Frank Neilson.

“Tonight it is,” said Mr. Hoyt.

Neilson left the limousine in a state of suppressed excitement. Dr. Morrison reached out and pulled the door closed.

Hoyt laughed: “It’s like taking candy from a child.”

“Will you be able to make it look like self-defense?” asked Dr. Ibanez.

Ferrullo straightened up. “I can make it look any way you want.”

At 10 P.M. exactly, Charles reached over and switched off the dialyzer. Then, as carefully as if he were handling the most precious commodity on earth, he reached into the machine and withdrew the dialyzate in a small vial. His fingers trembled as he transferred the crystal clear solution to the sterilizer. He had no idea of the structure of the small molecule contained in the vial except that it was dialyzable, which had been the final step in its isolation, and that it was not affected by the enzymes that broke down DNA, RNA, and peptide linkages in proteins. But the fact that the structure of the molecule was unknown was less important at this stage than knowledge of its effect. This was the mysterious transfer factor which would hopefully transfer his delayed hypersensitivity to Michelle.

That afternoon, Charles had again tested his T-lymphocyte response with Michelle’s leukemic cells. The reaction had been dramatic, with the T-lymphocytes instantly lysing and destroying the leukemic cells. As Charles had watched under the phase contrast microscope, he couldn’t believe the rapidity of the response. Apparently the T-lymphocytes, sensitized to a surface antigen on the leukemic cell, were able to pierce the leukemic cells’ membranes. Charles had shouted with joy the moment he saw the reaction.

Having found his delayed hypersensitivity response adequate, he had canceled the next dose of antigen he’d planned to give himself. This had pleased Cathryn, who had been finding the procedure increasingly distasteful. Instead he had announced that he wanted to draw off two pints of his blood. Cathryn had turned green, but Chuck had been able to overcome his distaste for blood and, along with Jean Paul, was able to help Charles with the task.

Before dinner, Charles had slowly separated out the white blood cells in one of the sophisticated machines he had taken from the Weinburger. In the early evening he had begun the arduous task of extracting from the white blood cells the small molecule that he was now sterilizing.

At that point, he knew he was flying blind. What he’d accomplished would have taken years under proper research conditions where each step would have been examined critically and reproduced hundreds of times. Yet what he’d accomplished so far had been essentially done before with different antigens like the one for the tuberculosis bacillus. But now Charles had a solution of an unknown molecule of an unknown concentration and of an unknown potency. There was no time to determine the best way to administer it. All he had was a theory: that in Michelle’s system was a blocking factor, which had to that point kept her immune system from responding to her leukemic cells’ antigen. Charles believed and hoped that the transfer factor would bypass that blocking or suppressor system and allow Michelle to become sensitized to her leukemic cells. But how much of the factor should he give her? And how? He was going to have to improvise and pray.

Michelle was not happy with the idea but she let Charles start another IV. Cathryn sat holding her hand and trying to distract her. The two boys were upstairs watching for any suspicious movement outside.

Without telling Cathryn or Michelle, Charles prepared for any eventuality when he gave his daughter the first dose of the transfer factor. Although he had diluted the solution with sterile water, he was still concerned about its side effects. After giving her a minute dose, he monitored her pulse and blood pressure. He was relieved when he could detect no response whatever.

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.”