“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.

“I know what’s going on,” said Jean Paul. “The town is after Dad because he’s trying to shut down the factory. Everybody says he’s crazy.”

“It’s more than the town,” said Chuck. “It was on the news last night in Boston. Dad kidnapped Michelle from the hospital.”

“Really?” exclaimed Jean Paul.

“Really. Is that all you can say? I think it’s a goddamn miracle, and all you can say is really. Dad’s given the finger to the whole friggin’ establishment. I love it!”

Jean Paul examined his brother’s face. A situation he found disturbing Chuck seemed to find exhilarating.

“You know, if we worked together, we might be able to help,” said Chuck.

“Really?” said Jean Paul. It was a rare occurrence when Chuck offered to cooperate with anyone.

“Jesus. Say something a little more intelligent.”

“How could we help?” asked Jean Paul.

It took about five minutes for the boys to decide what they would do, then they crossed the road and approached the police cars. Chuck had appointed himself spokesman, and he went up to Frank Neilson.

The chief was overjoyed to find the boys. He did not know how to proceed when the kids had presented themselves. Although he dismissed their request to go up to the house to reason with their father, he convinced them to use the bull horn, and spent a good thirty minutes coaching them on what they should say. He hoped that Charles would talk to his sons and communicate his conditions for resolving the situation. Frank was pleased that the boys were so cooperative.

When everything was ready, Frank took the bull horn, greeted the spectators, then pointed it at the house. His voice boomed up the driveway calling for Charles to open the door and speak to his sons.

Neilson lowered the bull horn and waited. There was no sound or movement from the house. The chief repeated his message, then waited again, with the same result. Cursing under his breath, he handed the instrument to Chuck and told the boy to try.

Chuck took the bull horn with trembling hands. Pushing the button, he started speaking. “Dad, it’s me, Chuck, and Jean Paul. Can you hear me?”

After the third time, the paint-splattered door opened about six inches. “I hear you, Chuck,” Charles called.

At that moment, Chuck clambered over the front bumpers of two squad cars, discarding the bull horn. Jean Paul followed at his heels. Everyone, including the deputies, was intent on watching the house when the boys made their move, and for a moment they didn’t respond. It gave the boys a chance to clear the cars and start up the driveway.

“Get them, goddamn it! Get them!” shouted Neilson.

A murmur went up from the crowd. Several deputies led by Bernie Crawford sprinted around the ends of the two squad cars.

Although younger, Jean Paul was the athlete, and he quickly overtook his older brother, who was having difficulty making headway on the slippery driveway. About forty feet beyond the squad cars, Chuck’s feet went out from under him and he hit the ground hard. Gasping for breath he struggled up, but as he did so Bernie grabbed a handful of his tattered army parka. Chuck tried to wrench himself free but instead managed to yank Bernie off balance. The policeman fell over backwards, pulling the boy on top of him. Chuck’s bony buttocks knocked the wind out of Bernie with an audible wheeze.

Still entangled, the two slid a few feet back down the driveway, rolling into the next two deputies on their way up. The men fell in a comical fashion reminiscent of a silent-movie chase sequence. Taking advantage of the confusion, Chuck pulled himself free, scrambled out of reach, and ran after Jean Paul.

Although Bernie was temporarily winded, the other two deputies quickly resumed pursuit. They might have caught Chuck again had it not been for Charles. He stuck the shotgun through the door and fired a single round. Any thought of heroics on the deputies’ part vanished, and they instantly took refuge behind the trunk of one of the oaks lining the driveway.

As the boys reached the front porch, Charles opened the door, and they dashed inside. Charles slammed the door behind them, secured it, then checked the windows to make sure no one else was coming. Satisfied, he turned to his sons.