Robin Cook - Fever

Charles felt a shiver of fear pass over him. Up until that moment he had felt that whatever risk he was taking in standing up against organized medical and industrial interests could be resolved in a court of law. Mr. Anthony Ferrullo’s presence suggested the risk was considerably more deadly. And most disturbing, Charles realized that the risk extended to his whole family. In Mr. Ferrullo’s case, “security” was obviously a euphemism for coercion and violence. For a moment the security man was less an individual than a symbol of evil, and Charles had to keep himself from striking out at him in blind anger. Instead he began turning on lights, all of them. He wanted no darkness, no more secrecy.

Calling the boys down from upstairs, the family gathered in the kitchen.

“Tomorrow it’s over,” said Charles. “We’re going to walk out of here and give up.”

Cathryn was glad, but the boys looked at each other in consternation. “Why?” asked Chuck.

“I’ve done what I wanted to do for Michelle, and the fact of the matter is that she might need some radiotherapy at the hospital.”

“Is she going to get better?” said Cathryn.

“I have no idea,” admitted Charles. “Theoretically there’s no reason why not, but there’s a hundred questions I haven’t answered. It’s a technique outside of all accepted medical practices. At this point all we can do is hope.”

Charles walked over to the phone and called all the media people he could think of, including the Boston TV stations. He told anyone who’d listen that he and his family would emerge at noon.

Then he called the Shaftesbury police, told a deputy who he was, and asked to speak to Frank Neilson. Five minutes later the chief was on the phone. Charles told him that he’d called the media and informed them that he and his family were coming out at noon. Then he hung up. Charles hoped that the presence of so many newspaper and TV reporters would eliminate any possible violence.

At exactly 12 o’clock, Charles removed the planks securing the front door and released the lock. It was a glorious day with a clear blue sky and a pale winter sun. At the bottom of the drive, in front of a crowd of people, were an ambulance, the two police cars, and a handful of TV news vans.

Charles looked back at his family and felt a rush of pride and love. They’d stood behind him more than he could have hoped. Walking back to the makeshift bed, he scooped Michelle into his arms. Her eyelids fluttered but remained closed.

“All right, Mr. Ferrullo, after you,” said Charles.

The security man stepped out onto the porch, his scorched face gleaming in the sun. Next came the two boys, followed by Cathryn. Charles brought up the rear with Michelle. In a tight group they started down the driveway.

To his surprise Charles saw Dr. Ibanez, Dr. Morrison, Dr. Keitzman, and Dr. Wiley all standing together near the ambulance. As they got closer and the crowd realized there would not be any violence, a number of the men began to boo, particularly those from Recycle, Ltd. Only one person clapped, and that was Patrick O’Sullivan, who was immensely pleased the affair was coming to a peaceful close.

Standing in the shadow of the trees, Wally Crabb was silent. He slid his right index finger under the trigger of his favorite hunting rifle and pressed his cheek against the cold stock. As he tried to sight, the front of the rifle shook from all the bourbon he’d consumed that morning. Leaning up against a nearby branch helped considerably, but Brezo’s urging to hurry made him nervous.

The sharp crack of a firearm shattered the winter stillness. The crowd strained forward as they saw Charles Martel stumble. He didn’t fall but rather sank to his knees, and as gently as if handling a newborn infant, he laid his daughter in the snow before he fell facedown beside her. Cathryn turned and screamed, then threw herself to her knees, trying to see how badly her husband was hurt.

Patrick O’Sullivan was the first to react. By professional reflex, his right hand sought the handle of his service revolver. He didn’t draw the gun but rather held on to it as he bullied his way between several onlookers and charged up the driveway. Hovering over Cathryn and Charles like a hawk guarding its nest, his eyes scanned the crowd, looking for suspicious movement.

Never having been a hospital patient before, Charles found the experience agonizing. He’d read some editorials in the past about the problems associated with the technological invasion of medicine, but he never imagined the state of insecurity and powerlessness he would feel. It had been three days since he’d been shot and then operated on, and as he looked up at the tangle of tubes and bottles, monitors and recorders, he felt like one of his own experimental animals. Thankfully, the day before he had been transferred out of the frenzied terror of the intensive care unit, and deposited like a piece of meat in a private room in the fancy section of the hospital.

Trying to adjust his position, Charles felt a frightening stab of pain that tightened around his chest like a band of fire. For a moment he held his breath, wondering if he had opened his incision, and waited for the pain to return. To his relief it didn’t, but he lay perfectly still, afraid to move. From his left side, between his ribs, protruded a rubber tube that ran down to a bottle on the floor next to the bed. His left arm was strung up in traction by a complicated net of wires and pulleys. He was immobilized and totally at the mercy of the staff for even the most basic of functions.

A soft knock caught his attention. Before he could respond, the door silently opened. Charles was afraid it was the technician who came every four hours to forcibly inflate his lungs, a procedure Charles was sure had not been equaled in pain since the Inquisition. Instead it was Dr. Keitzman.

“Could you stand a short visit?” he asked.

Charles nodded. Although he didn’t feel like talking, he was eager to hear about Michelle. Cathryn had not been able to tell him anything except that she wasn’t worse.

Dr. Keitzman came into the room self-consciously, pulling a metal and vinyl chair over next to Charles’s bed. His face contorted with the tic that usually connoted tension and he adjusted his glasses.

“How do you feel, Charles?” he asked.

“Couldn’t be better,” said Charles, unable to keep the sarcasm from surfacing. Talking, even breathing, were risky affairs and at any moment he expected the pain to return.

“Well, I have some good news. It might be a little premature, but I think you should know.”

Charles didn’t say anything. He watched the oncologist’s face, afraid to let his hopes rise.

“First,” said Dr. Keitzman. “Michelle responded to the radiotherapy extremely well. A single treatment seems to have taken care of the infiltration of her central nervous system. She’s alert and oriented.”

Charles nodded, hoping that was not all Dr. Keitzman had come to say.

There was a silence.

Then the door to the room burst open and in walked the respiratory technician, pushing the hated IPPB machine. “Time for your treatment, Dr. Martel,” said the technician brightly, as if he were bringing some wonderfully pleasurable service. Seeing Dr. Keitzman, the technician skidded to a respectful halt. “Excuse me, Doctor.”

“That’s quite all right,” said Dr. Keitzman, seemingly pleased at the interruption. “I’ve got to be going anyway.” Then looking down at Charles, he said: “The other thing I wanted to say was that Michelle’s leukemic cells have all but disappeared. I think she’s in remission.”

Charles felt a warm glow suffuse his body. “God! That’s great,” he said with enthusiasm. Then he got a sharp twinge that reminded him where he was.