“You have no idea,” agreed Cathryn.

“If we can help in any way,” said Dr. Morrison.

Cathryn tried to smile.

Patrick O’Sullivan came back. “Well, we’ve found his car. He left it in a parking lot in Harvard Square.”

As Cathryn drove along Interstate 301 she felt increasingly unhappy. The reaction surprised her because one of the reasons she’d wanted to go home, besides being close to the phone in case Charles called, was to lift her spirits. She appreciated her mother’s efforts to help, but she also resented Gina’s disapproving comments about Charles and her self-righteous attitude. Having been abandoned herself, Gina had a low regard for men in general, particularly nonreligious men like Charles. She’d never been wholeheartedly behind Cathryn’s marriage, and she let Cathryn know how she felt.

So Cathryn had looked forward to getting back to her own home although she realized it would no longer be the happy refuge she knew. Coming upon their property, Cathryn took her foot off the accelerator and braked. The first thing she saw was the mailbox. It had been knocked over and crushed. She started up the drive, moving between the rows of trees which in the summer formed a long gallery of shade. Through the now-naked branches Cathryn could see the house, stark white against the dark shadow of evergreens behind the barn.

Pulling the station wagon to a point opposite the back porch, Cathryn turned off the ignition. As she looked at the house she thought how cruel life could be. It seemed that one episode could initiate a chain reaction like a series of dominoes standing on end, each inevitably knocking over the next. As Cathryn got out of the car, she noticed the door to the playhouse was swinging in the wind, repeatedly thumping against the outside shingles. Looking more closely, she could see that most of the small panes of glass in the mullioned windows had been broken. Retrieving her keys, she walked through the snow to the back door, turned her key, and stepped into the kitchen.

Cathryn screamed. There was a sudden movement, and a figure came from behind the door and lunged at her.

In the next instant, she was pushed up against the kitchen wall. The door crashed shut with a concussion that made the old frame house shudder.

Cathryn’s scream faltered and trailed off in her throat. It was Charles! Speechless, she watched while he frantically ran from window to window, looking outside. In his right hand he held his old twelve-gauge shotgun. Cathryn noticed the windows had been crudely boarded up and Charles had to peer out between the cracks.

Before she could recover her equilibrium, Charles grabbed her arm and forced her rapidly out of the kitchen, stumbling down the short hall into the living room. Then he let go of her and again ran from window to window, looking out.

Cathryn was paralyzed by surprise and fear. When he finally turned back to her, she saw he was exhausted.

“Are you alone?” he demanded.

“Yes,” said Cathryn, afraid to say anything else.

“Thank God,” said Charles. His tense face visibly relaxed.

“What are you doing here?” asked Cathryn.

“This is my home,” said Charles, taking a deep breath and letting it out through pursed lips.

“I don’t understand,” said Cathryn. “I thought you’d taken Michelle and run away. They’ll find you here!”

For the first time Cathryn took her eyes off Charles. She noticed the living room had been totally changed. The gleaming, high-tech instruments from the Weinburger were grouped around the wall. In the middle of the room, in a makeshift hospital bed, Michelle slept.

“Michelle,” cried Cathryn, running over and grasping the child’s hand. Charles came up behind her.

Michelle’s eyes opened and for an instant there was a flicker of recognition, then the lids closed. Cathryn turned to Charles.

“Charles, what in heaven’s name are you doing?”

“I’ll tell you in a moment,” said Charles, adjusting Michelle’s intravenous flow. He took Cathryn’s arm and urged her to follow him back to the kitchen.

“Coffee?” he asked.

Cathryn shook her head, keeping her eyes riveted on Charles as he poured himself a cup. Then he sat down opposite Cathryn.

“First I want to say something,” began Charles, looking directly at Cathryn. “I’ve had a chance to think and I now understand the position you were in at the hospital. I’m sorry my own indecision about Michelle’s treatment was inadvertently taken out on you. And I, more than a layman, know how doctors can bully patients and their families to get their own way. Anyway, I understand what happened in the guardianship situation. I understand there was no one at fault and there was no malevolence on anyone’s part, least of all yours. I’m sorry that I reacted as I did, but I couldn’t help it. I hope you’ll forgive me. I know that you were trying to do what was best for Michelle.”

Cathryn didn’t move. She wanted to rush to Charles and throw her arms around him because all at once he sounded so normal, but she couldn’t move. So much had happened and there were still unanswered questions.

Charles picked up his coffee cup. His hand shook so much he had to use his left hand to steady it.

“Deciding what was best for Michelle was a very difficult problem,” continued Charles. “Like you, I hoped that orthodox medicine could give her more time. But it got to the point where I knew that they were failing and I had to do something.”

Cathryn could sense Charles’s sincerity. What she couldn’t decide was his rationality. Had he cracked under the strain as everyone suggested? Cathryn realized that she wasn’t equipped to decide.

“All the doctors agreed that the medicines were her only chance to get a remission,” said Cathryn, feeling defensive about her actions. “Dr. Keitzman assured me that it was her only chance.”

“And I’m sure he believed what he said.”

“It’s not true?”

“Of course she has to get a remission,” agreed Charles. “But their chemotherapy, even in the experimentally high doses, was not touching her leukemic cells. At the same time they were destroying normal cells, particularly her own immune system.”

Cathryn wasn’t sure she fully understood what Charles was saying but at least it sounded consistent. It didn’t sound like the product of a deranged mind.

“And I feel,” continued Charles, “that if she has a chance, she has to have an intact immune system.”

“You mean you have another treatment?” asked Cathryn.

Charles sighed. “I think so. I hope so!”

“But all the other doctors agreed that chemotherapy was the only way.”

“Of course,” said Charles. “Just like a surgeon believes in surgery. People are biased by what they know. It’s human. But cancer research has been my life for the last nine years, and I think there’s a chance I can do something.” Charles paused.

Obviously he believed what he was saying, but was it based on reality or on delusion? Cathryn wanted desperately to believe also, but under the circumstances, it was difficult. “Do you mean there’s a chance you can cure her?”

“I don’t want to get your hopes up too high,” said Charles, “but I think there is a chance. Maybe small, but a chance. And, more important, my treatment won’t hurt her.”

“Have you been able to cure any of your laboratory animals that had cancer?” asked Cathryn.

“No I haven’t,” admitted Charles, but then he added quickly, “I know that makes it sound unrealistic, but I think I didn’t have luck with the animals because I was working so slowly and carefully. The purpose there was pure research. But I was just about to try a new technique to use healthy mice as an intermediary to cure the diseased mice.”

“But you don’t have any animals here,” said Cathryn, remembering Detective O’Sullivan’s questions.

“Not true,” said Charles. “I have one large experimental animal. Me!”