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.

“Goddamn motherfucker!” Neilson shouted. “That’s it! That little bastard is going to get what he deserves.”

Someone asked if he’d been hit with any bird shot, but the chief shook his head. Meticulously he shook off the snow, and adjusted his uniform and holster. “I was much too fast for him.”

A local TV news van pulled up and a camera crew alighted, quickly finding their way over to the police chief. The commentator was a bright young woman, dressed in a mink hat and a long, down-filled coat. After a brief word with Neilson, the camera lights went on, flooding the immediate area. The young woman made a rapid introduction, then turned to the police chief and stuck the microphone about an inch from his pug nose.

Frank Neilson’s personality underwent a 180-degree change. Acting shy and embarrassed, he said, “I’m just doing my job the best way I know how.”

With the arrival of the TV camera, the politically minded town manager, John Randolph, materialized out of the crowd. He squeezed his way into the sphere of lights and put an arm around Neilson. “And we think he’s doing a splendid job. Let’s hear it for our police chief.” John Randolph took his arm off the police chief and began clapping. The crowd followed suit.

The reporter pulled the microphone back and asked if Frank could give the audience an idea of what was happening.

“Well,” began Frank, leaning into the mike, “we got a crazy scientist holed up here.” He pointed awkwardly over his shoulder at the house. “He’s got a sick kid he’s keeping from the doctors. The man’s heavily armed and dangerous, and there’s a warrant for his arrest for child-snatching and grand larceny. But there’s no need to panic because everything is under control.”

O’Sullivan wormed his way back out of the crowd, searching for Cathryn. He found her near her car, her hands pressed against her mouth. The spectacle terrified her.

“The outcome of all this is going to be tragic unless you intervene,” said Cathryn.

“I can’t intervene,” explained O’Sullivan. “I told you that before I came up here. But I think everything will be all right as long as the press and the media are here. They’ll keep the chief from doing anything crazy.”

“I want to get up to the house and be with Charles,” said Cathryn. “I’m afraid he might believe I brought the police.”

“Are you crazy?” asked O’Sullivan. “There must be forty men with guns surrounding this place. It’s dangerous. Besides, they’re not going to let you go up there. It just means one more hostage. Try to be a little patient. I’ll talk to Frank Neilson again and try to convince him to call in the state police.”

The detective started back toward the police cruisers, wishing he’d stayed in Boston where he belonged. As he neared the makeshift command post, he again heard the police chief’s voice magnified by the bull horn. It was snowing harder now and one of the deputies was asking whether the chief could be heard up at the house. One way or the other, Charles did not answer.

O’Sullivan went up to Neilson and suggested that it might be easier to use the portable phone and call Charles. The chief pondered the suggestion and although he didn’t respond, he climbed into his cruiser, got Charles’s number, and dialed. Charles answered immediately.

“Okay, Martel. What are your conditions for letting the kid go?”

Charles’s reply was short: “You can go to hell, Neilson.” The line went dead.

“Wonderful suggestion,” said Neilson to O’Sullivan as he put the phone back into the car. Then to no one in particular he said, “How the fuck can you negotiate when there’s no demands? Huh? Somebody answer me that!”

“Chief,” called a voice. “How about letting me and my buddies storm the place.”

The suggestion horrified O’Sullivan. He tried to think of a way to get the chief to call in the state police.

In front of Neilson stood three men dressed in white, hooded militarylike parkas and white pants.

“Yeah,” said one of the smaller men, who was missing his front teeth. “We’ve checked out the place. It would be easy from the back. We’d run from the side of the barn, blow out the back door. It’d all be over.”