The two boys were standing self-consciously near the door, gasping for breath, and amazed at the transformation of their living room into a science-fiction laboratory. Chuck, an old-movie buff, noticing the boarded-up windows, said it looked like the set of a Frankenstein movie. They both began to smile, but became serious when they saw Charles’s dour expression.
“The one thing I thought I didn’t have to worry about was you two,” said Charles sternly. “Goddamn it! What on earth are you doing here?”
“We thought you needed help,” said Chuck lamely. “Everyone else is against you.”
“I couldn’t stand to hear what people were saying about you,” said Jean Paul.
“This is our family,” said Chuck. “We should be here, especially if we can help Michelle.”
“How is she, Dad?” asked Jean Paul.
Charles didn’t answer. His anger at the boys abruptly dissolved. Chuck’s comment was not only surprising, it was correct. They were a family, and the boys should not be summarily excluded. Besides, as far as Charles knew, it was the first unselfish thing Chuck had ever done.
“You little bastards!” Charles suddenly grinned.
Caught off guard by their father’s abrupt change of mood, the boys hesitated for a moment, then rushed to give him a hug.
Charles realized he couldn’t remember the last time he’d held his sons. Cathryn, who’d been watching since the boys first appeared, came up and kissed them both.
Then they all went over to Michelle, and Charles gently woke her. She gave them a broad grin and Chuck bent over and put his arms around her.
Sixteen
Neilson had never been in a limousine before, and he wasn’t sure he was going to like it. But once he’d ducked through the door and settled back in the plush seat, he felt right at home: it had a bar. He refused a mixed drink on account of being on duty but accepted straight brandy for its medicinal powers against the cold.
After the Martel boys had managed to get up to the house, Neilson had had to admit the situation was deteriorating. Rather than rescuing hostages, he was adding them. Instead of a crazy guy and a sick kid, he was now confronted by a whole family barricaded in their home. Something had to be done right away. Someone suggested calling in the state police but that was just what Neilson wanted to avoid. Yet it would be inevitable if he wasn’t successful in resolving the incident within the next twelve hours. It was this time pressure that had made him decide to talk to the doctors.
“Knowing how sick the little girl is, I felt I couldn’t turn down your offer to help,” he said.
“That’s why we’re here,” said Dr. Ibanez. “Mr. Hoyt and Mr. Ferrullo are ready and willing to take orders from you.”
The two security men, positioned on either side of the bar, nodded in agreement.
“That’s great,” said Frank Neilson. The trouble was that he didn’t know what kind of orders to give. His mind raced in circles until he remembered something Dr. Ibanez had said. “You mentioned special equipment?”
“I certainly did,” said Dr. Ibanez. “Mr. Hoyt, perhaps you’d like to show us.”
Mr. Hoyt was a handsome man, lean but obviously muscular. Frank recognized the bulge of a shoulder holster under his suit.
“My pleasure,” said Hoyt, leaning toward Frank. “What do you think this is, Mr. Neilson?” He handed Frank a weighty object that was shaped like a tin can with a handle protruding from one end.
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.