Fatal Cure

PROLOGUE

February seventeenth was a fateful day for Sam Flemming.

Sam considered himself an extremely lucky person. As a broker for one of the major Wall Street firms, he'd become wealthy by the age of forty-six. Then, like a gambler who knew when to quit, Sam had taken his earnings and fled north from the concrete canyons of New York to idyllic Bartlet, Vermont. There he'd begun to do what he'd always wanted to do: paint.

Part of Sam's good fortune had always been his health, yet at half past four on February seventeenth, something strange began to happen. Numerous water molecules within many of his cells began to split apart into two fragments: a relatively inoffensive hydrogen atom and a highly reactive, viciously destructive hydroxyl free radical.

As these molecular events transpired, Sam's cellular defenses were activated. But on this particular day those defenses against free radicals were quickly exhausted; even the antioxidant vitamins E, C, and beta carotene which he diligently took each day could not stem the sudden, overwhelming tide.

The hydroxyl free radicals began to nibble away at the core of Sam Flemming's body. Before long, the cell membranes of the affected cells began to leak fluid and electrolytes. At the same time some of the cells' protein enzymes were cleaved and inactivated. Even many DNA molecules were assaulted, and specific genes were damaged.

In his bed at Bartlet Community Hospital, Sam remained unaware of the high-stakes molecular battle within his cells. What he did notice was some of its sequelae: an elevation of his temperature, some digestive rumblings, and the beginnings of chest congestion.

Later that afternoon when Sam's surgeon, Dr. Portland, came in to see him, the doctor noted Sam's fever with disappointment and alarm. After listening to Sam's chest, Dr. Portland tried to tell Sam that a complication had apparently set in. Dr. Portland said that a touch of pneumonia was interfering with Sam's otherwise smooth recovery from the operation to repair his broken hip. But by then Sam had become apathetic and mildly disoriented. He didn't understand Dr. Portland's report on his status. The doctor's prescription for antibiotics and his assurances of a rapid recovery failed to register with him.

Worse still, the doctor's prognosis proved wrong. The prescribed antibiotic failed to stop the developing infection. Sam never recovered enough to appreciate the irony that he'd survived two muggings in New York City, a commuter plane crash in Westchester County, and a bad four-vehicle accident on the New Jersey Turnpike, only to die from complications arising from a fall on a patch of ice in front of Staley's Hardware Store on Main Street, Bartlet, Vermont.

Standing before Bartlet Community Hospital 's most important employees, Harold Traynor paused long enough to relish the moment. He'd just called the meeting to order. The group assembled-all heads of departments-had obediently fallen silent. All eyes were riveted on him. Traynor's dedication to his office as chairman of the hospital board was a point of pride. He savored moments such as this when it became clear his very presence inspired awe.

"Thank you all for coming out on this snowy evening. I've called this meeting to impress upon you how seriously the hospital board is taking the unfortunate assault on Nurse Prudence Huntington in the lower parking lot last week. The fact that the rape was thwarted by the serendipitous arrival of a member of the hospital security staff does not in any way lessen the seriousness of the offense."

Traynor paused, his eyes falling significantly on Patrick Swegler. The head of hospital security averted his gaze to avoid Traynor's accusatory glance. The attack on Miss Huntington had been the third such episode in the last year, and Swegler felt understandably responsible.

"These attacks must be stopped!" Traynor looked to Nancy Widner, the director of nursing. All three victims had been nurses under her supervision.

"The safety of our staff is a prime concern," Traynor said as his eyes jumped from Geraldine Polcari, head of dietary, to Gloria Suarez, head of housekeeping. "Consequently, the executive board has proposed the construction of a multi-storied parking facility to be built in the area of the lower parking lot. It will be directly attached to the main hospital building and will contain appropriate lighting and surveillance cameras."

Traynor gave Helen Beaton, president of the hospital, a nod. On his cue, Beaton lifted a cloth from the conference table to reveal a detailed architectural model of the existing hospital complex as well as the proposed addition: a massive, three-story structure protruding from the rear of the main building.

Amid exclamations of approval, Traynor stepped around the table to position himself next to the model. The hospital conference table was often a repository for medical paraphernalia under consideration for purchase. Traynor reached over to remove a rack of funnel-shaped test tubes so that the model could be better seen. Then he scanned his audience. All eyes were glued to the model; everyone except Werner Van Slyke had gotten to his feet.

Parking had always been a problem at Bartlet Community Hospital, especially in inclement weather. So Traynor knew that his proposed addition would be popular even before the recent string of attacks in the lower lot. He was pleased to see that his unveiling was progressing as successfully as he'd anticipated. The room was aglow with enthusiasm. Only sullen Van Slyke, the head of engineering and maintenance, remained impassive.

"What's the matter?" Traynor asked. "Doesn't this proposal meet with your approval?"

Van Slyke looked at Traynor, his expression still vacant.

"Well?" Traynor felt himself tense. Van Slyke had a way of irritating him. Traynor had never liked the man's laconic, unemotional nature.

"It's okay," Van Slyke said dully.

Before Traynor could respond the door to the conference room burst open and slammed against its stop on the floor. Everyone jumped, especially Traynor.

Standing in the doorway was Dennis Hodges, a vigorous, stocky seventy-year-old with rough-hewn features and weathered skin. His nose was rosy and bulbous, his beady eyes rheumy. He was dressed in a dark green boiled wool coat over creaseless corduroy trousers. On top of his head was a red plaid hunter's cap dusted with snow. In his raised left hand he was clutching a sheaf of papers.

There was no doubt Hodges was angry. He also smelled strongly of alcohol. His dark, gun-barrel-like eyes strafed the gathering, then trained in on Traynor.

"I want to talk to you about a few of my former patients, Traynor. You too, Beaton," Hodges said, throwing her a quick, disgusted look. "I don't know what kind of hospital you think you've been running here, but I can tell you I don't like it one bit!"

"Oh, no," Traynor muttered as soon as he'd recovered from Hodges' unexpected arrival. Irritation quickly overtook his shock. A rapid glance around the room assured him that the others were about as happy to see Hodges as he was.

"Dr. Hodges," Traynor began, forcing himself to be civil. "I think it is quite apparent that we are having a meeting here. If you will excuse us…"

"I don't care what the hell you people are doing," Hodges snapped. "Whatever it is, it pales in respect to what you and the board have been up to with my patients." He stalked toward Traynor. Instinctively, Traynor leaned back. The smell of whiskey was intense.

"Dr. Hodges," Traynor said with obvious anger. "This is not the time for one of your interruptions. I'll be happy to meet with you tomorrow to talk about your grievances. Now if you will kindly leave and let us get on with our business…"

"I want to talk now!" Hodges shouted. "I don't like what you and your board are doing."

"Listen, you old fool," Traynor snapped. "Lower your voice! I have no earthly idea what is on your mind. But I'll tell you what I and the board have been doing: we've been breaking our necks in the struggle to keep the doors of this hospital open, and that's no easy task for any hospital in this day and age. So I resent any implication to the contrary. Now be reasonable and leave us to our work."

"I ain't waiting," Hodges insisted. "I'm talking to you and Beaton right now. Nursing, dietary, and housekeeping nonsense can wait. This is important."

"Ha!" Nancy Widner said. "It's just like you, Dr. Hodges, bursting in here and suggesting that nursing concerns aren't important. I'll have you know…"

"Hold on!" Traynor said, extending his hands in a conciliatory gesture. "Let's not get into a free-for-all. The fact of the matter is, Dr. Hodges, we are here talking about the rape attempt that occurred last week. I'm sure you are not suggesting that one rape and two attempted rapes by a man in a ski mask are not important."

"It's important," Hodges agreed, "but not as important as what's on my mind. Besides, the rape problem is obviously an in-house affair."

"Just one second!" Traynor demanded. "Are you implying that you know the identity of the rapist?"

"Let's put it this way," Hodges said. "I have my suspicions. But right now I'm not interested in discussing them. I'm interested in these patients." For emphasis he slammed the papers he'd been holding onto the table.

Helen Beaton winced and said: "How dare you come charging in here as if you own the place, telling us what is important and what isn't. As administrator emeritus that's hardly your role."

"Thank you for your uninvited advice," Hodges said.

"All right, all right," Traynor sighed with frustration. His meeting had dissolved into a verbal melee. He picked up Hodges' papers, thrust them into the man's hand, then escorted the doctor from the room. Hodges resisted initially, but ultimately let himself be ushered out.

"We've got to talk, Harold," Hodges said once they were in the hall. "This is serious stuff."

"I'm sure it is," Traynor said, trying to sound sincere. Traynor knew that at some point he'd have to hear Hodges' grievances. Hodges had been the hospital administrator back when Traynor was still in grammar school. Hodges had taken the position when most doctors hadn't been interested in the responsibility. In his thirty years at the helm, Hodges had built Bartlet Community Hospital from a small rural hospital to a true tertiary care center. It was this sprawling institution he'd passed on to Traynor when he'd stepped down from his position three years before.

"Look," Traynor said, "whatever is on your mind, it can surely wait until tomorrow. We'll talk at lunch. In fact, I'll arrange for Barton Sherwood and Dr. Delbert Cantor to join us. If what you want to discuss concerns policy, which I assume it does, then it would be best to have the vice chairman and the chief of the professional staff there as well. Don't you agree?"

"I suppose," Hodges admitted reluctantly.

"Then it's settled," Traynor said soothingly, eager to get back and salvage what he could of his meeting now that Hodges was placated for the time being. "I'll contact them tonight."

"I might not be administrator any longer," Hodges added, "but I still feel responsible for what goes on around here. After all, if it hadn't been for me you wouldn't have been named to the board, much less elected chairman."

"I understand that," Traynor said. Then he joked: "But I don't know whether to thank you or curse you for this dubious honor."

"I'm worried you've let the power go to your head," Hodges said.

"Oh, come on!" Traynor said. "What do you mean, 'power'? This job is nothing but one headache after another."

"You're essentially running a hundred-million-dollar entity," Hodges said. "And it's the largest employer in this whole part of the state. That means power."

Traynor laughed nervously. "It's still a pain in the neck. And we're lucky to be in business. I don't have to remind you that our two competitors no longer are. Valley Hospital closed, and the Mary Sackler has been turned into a nursing home."

"We might still be open, but I'm afraid you money men are forgetting the hospital's mission."

"Oh, bullcrap!" Traynor snapped, losing a bit of control. "You old docs have to wake up to a new reality. It's not easy running a hospital in the current environment of cost-cutting, managed care, and government intervention. It isn't cost-plus anymore like you had it. Times have changed, demanding new adaptations and new strategies for survival. Washington is mandating it."

Hodges laughed derisively: " Washington sure isn't mandating what you and your cohorts are doing."

"The hell they aren't," Traynor argued. "It's called competition, Dennis. Survival of the fittest and the leanest. No more sleight-of-hand cost-shifting like you used to get away with."

Traynor paused, realizing that he was losing his composure. He wiped away the perspiration that had broken out on his forehead. He took a deep breath. "Listen, Dennis, I've got to get back into the conference room. You go home, calm down, relax, get some sleep. We'll get together tomorrow and go over whatever is on your mind, okay?"

"I am a bit tuckered," Hodges admitted.

"Sure you are," Traynor agreed.

"Tomorrow for lunch? Promise? No excuses?"

"Absolutely," Traynor said as he gave Hodges a prodding pat on the back. "At the inn at twelve sharp."

With relief Traynor watched his old mentor trudge toward the hospital lobby with his distinctive lumbering gait, rocking on his hips as if they were stiff. Turning back toward the conference room, Traynor marveled at the man's uncanny flair for causing turmoil. Unfortunately, Hodges was going beyond being a nuisance. He was becoming a virtual albatross.

"Can we have some order here," Traynor called out over the bedlam to which he returned. "I apologize for the interruption. Unfortunately, old Doc Hodges has a particular knack for showing up at the most inopportune times."

"That's an understatement," Beaton said. "He's forever barging into my office to complain that one of his former patients isn't getting what he considers VIP treatment. He acts as if he's still running this place."

"The food is never to his liking," Geraldine Polcari complained.

"Nor is the room cleaning," added Gloria Suarez.

"He comes into my office about once a week," Nancy Widner said. "It's always the same complaint. The nurses aren't responding quickly enough to his former patients' requests."

"He's their self-elected ombudsman," Beaton said.

"They're the only people in the town that can stand him," Nancy said. "Just about everyone else thinks he's a crotchety old coot."

"Do you think he knows the identity of the rapist?" Patrick Swegler asked.

"Heavens, no," Nancy said. "The man's just a blowhard."

"What do you think, Mr. Traynor?" Patrick Swegler persisted.

Traynor shrugged. "I doubt he knows anything, but I'll certainly ask when I meet with him tomorrow."

"I don't envy you that lunch," Beaton said.

"I'm not looking forward to it," Traynor admitted. "I've always felt he deserved a certain amount of respect, but to be truthful my resolve is wearing a bit thin.

"Now, let's get back to the matter at hand." Traynor soon had the meeting back on track, but for him the joy of the evening had been lost.

Hodges trudged straight up Main Street in the middle of the road. For the moment there were no vehicles moving in either direction. The plows hadn't come through yet; two inches of powdery new snow blanketed the town as still more flakes fell.

Hodges cursed under his breath, giving partial vent to his unappeased anger. Now that he was on his way home he felt angry for having allowed Traynor to put him off.

Coming abreast of the town green with its deserted, snow-covered gazebo, Hodges could see north past the Methodist church. There, in the distance, directly up Front Street, he could just make out the hospital's main building. Hodges paused, gazing wistfully at the structure. A sense of foreboding descended over him with a shiver. He'd devoted his life to the hospital so that it would serve the people of the town. But now he feared that it was faltering in its mission.

Turning away, Hodges recommenced his trek up Main Street. He jammed the copy-machine papers he was holding into his coat pocket. His fingers had gone numb. Half a block farther he stopped again. This time he gazed at the mullioned windows of the Iron Horse Inn. A beckoning, incandescent glow spilled out onto the frigid, snow-covered lawn.

It only took a moment of rationalization for Hodges to decide he could use another drink. After all, now that his wife, Clara, spent more time with her family in Boston than she did with him in Bartlet, it wasn't as if she'd be waiting up for him. There were certainly some advantages to their virtual estrangement. Hodges knew he would be glad for the extra fortification for the twenty-five-minute walk he faced to get home.

In the outer room Hodges stomped the snow from his rubber-soled workboots and hung up his coat on a wooden peg. His hat went into a cubbyhole above. Passing an empty coat-check booth used for parties, Hodges went down a short hallway and paused at the entryway of the bar.

The room was constructed of unfinished pine that had an almost charred look from two centuries of use. A huge fieldstone fireplace with a roaring fire dominated one wall.

Hodges scanned the chamber. From his point of view, the cast of characters assembled was unsavory, hardly reminiscent of NEC's "Cheers." He saw Barton Sherwood, the president of the Green Mountain National Bank, and now, thanks to Traynor, vice chairman of the hospital's board of directors. Sherwood was sitting in a booth with Ned Banks, the obnoxious owner of the New England Coat Hanger Company.

At another table, Dr. Delbert Cantor was sitting with Dr. Paul Darnell. The table was laden with beer bottles, baskets of potato chips, and platters of cheese. To Hodges they looked like a couple of pigs at the trough.

For a split second Hodges thought about pulling his papers from his coat and getting Sherwood and Cantor to sit down and talk with him. But he abandoned the idea immediately. He didn't have the energy and both Cantor and Darnell hated his guts. Cantor, a radiologist, and Darnell, a pathologist, had both suffered when Hodges had arranged for the hospital to take over those departments five years earlier. They weren't likely to be a receptive audience for his complaints.

At the bar stood John MacKenzie, another local Hodges would just as soon avoid. Hodges had had a long-standing disagreement with the man. John owned the Mobil station out near the interstate and had serviced Hodges' vehicles for many years. But the last time he'd worked on Hodges' car, the problem had not been fixed. Hodges had had to drive all the way to the dealership in Rutland to get it repaired. Consequently he'd never paid John.

A couple of stools beyond John MacKenzie, Hodges saw Pete Bergan, and he groaned inwardly. Pete had been a "blue baby" who'd never finished the sixth grade. At age eighteen he dropped out of school and supported himself by doing odd jobs. Hodges had arranged for his job helping the hospital grounds crew but had had to acquiesce to his firing when he proved too unreliable. Since then Pete had held a grudge.

Beyond Pete stretched a row of empty bar stools. Beyond the bar and down a step were two pool tables. Music thudded out of an old-fashioned fifties-style jukebox against the far wall. Grouped around the pool tables were a handful of students from Bartlet College, a small liberal arts institution that had recently gone coed.

For a moment Hodges teetered on the threshold, trying to decide if a drink was worth crossing paths with any of these people. In the end the memory of the cold and the anticipation of the taste of the scotch propelled him into the room.

Ignoring everyone Hodges went to the far end of the bar and climbed up on an empty stool. The radiant heat from the fire warmed his back. A tumbler appeared in front of him, and Carleton Harris, the overweight bartender, poured him a glass of Dewar's without ice. Carleton and Hodges had known each other for a long time.

"I think you'll want to find another seat," Carleton advised.

"Why's that?" Hodges asked. He'd been pleased that no one had noticed his entrance.

Carleton nodded at a half-empty highball glass on the bar two stools away. "I'm afraid our fearless chief of police, Mr. Wayne Robertson, has stopped in for a snort. He's in the men's room."

"Oh, damn!" Hodges said.

"Don't say I didn't warn you," Carleton added as he headed toward several students who'd approached the bar.

"Hell, it's six of one, half a dozen of the other," Hodges murmured to himself. If he moved to the other end, he'd have to face John MacKenzie. Hodges decided to stay where he was. He lifted his glass to his lips.

Before he could take a drink, Hodges felt a slap on his back. It was all he could do to keep his drink from clanking against his teeth and spilling.

"Well, if it isn't the Quack!"

Swinging around, Hodges glared into the inebriated face of Wayne Robertson. Robertson was forty-two and heavyset. At one time he'd been all muscle. Now he was half muscle and half fat. The most prominent aspect of his profile was his abdomen, which practically draped his official belt buckle. Robertson was still in uniform, gun and all.

" Wayne, you're drunk," Hodges said. "So why don't you just go home and sleep it off." Hodges turned back to the bar and tried once more to take a sip of his drink.

"There's nothing to go home to, thanks to you."

Hodges slowly turned around again and looked at Robertson. Robertson's eyes were red, almost as red as his fat cheeks. His blond hair was clipped short in a fifties-style butch.

" Wayne," Hodges began, "we're not going over this again. Your wife, rest her soul, was not my patient. You're drunk. Go home."

"You were running the freakin' hospital," Robertson said.

"That doesn't mean I was responsible for every case, you lunkhead," Hodges said. "Besides, it was ten years ago." He again tried to turn away.

"You bastard!" Robertson snarled. Reaching out, he grabbed Hodges' shirt at the collar and tried to lift Hodges off the barstool.

Carleton Harris came around the bar with a swiftness that belied his bulk and insinuated himself between the two men. He opened Robertson's grip on Hodges' shirt one finger at a time. "Okay, you two," he said. "Off to your own corners. We don't allow sparring here at the Iron Horse."

Hodges straightened his shirt indignantly, snatched up his drink, and walked to the other end of the bar. As he passed behind John MacKenzie he heard the man mutter: "Deadbeat." Hodges refused to be provoked.

"Carleton, you shouldn't have interfered," Dr. Cantor called out to the bartender. "If Robertson had blown old Hodges away half the town would have cheered."

Dr. Cantor and Dr. Darnell laughed uproariously at Cantor's comment. Each one encouraged the other until they were slapping their knees and choking on their beers. Carleton ignored them as he stepped around the bar to help Barton Sherwood who'd approached for refills.

"Dr. Cantor's right," Sherwood said loud enough for everyone in the bar to hear. "Next time Hodges and Robertson face off, leave them be."

"Not you too," Carleton said as he deftly mixed Sherwood's drinks.

"Let me tell you about Dr. Hodges," Sherwood said, still loud enough for everyone to hear. "A good neighbor he isn't. By a historical accident he owns a little tongue of land that happens to separate my two lots. So what does he do? He builds this gigantic fence."

"Of course I fenced that land," Hodges called out, unable to hold his tongue. "It was the only way to keep your goddamn horses from dropping their shit all over my property."

"Then why not sell the strip of land?" Sherwood demanded, turning to face Hodges. "It's of no use to you."

"I can't sell it because it's in my wife's name," Hodges answered.

"Nonsense," Sherwood said. "The fact that your house and land are in your wife's name is merely a legacy of an old ruse to protect your assets from any malpractice judgment. You told me so yourself."

"Then perhaps you should know the truth," Hodges said. "I was trying to be diplomatic. I won't sell you the land because I despise you. Is that easier for your pea brain to comprehend?"

Sherwood turned to the room and addressed everyone present. "You're all witnesses. Dr. Hodges is admitting he's acting out of spite. No surprise, of course, and hardly a Christian attitude."

"Oh, shut up," Hodges retorted. "It's a bit hypocritical for a bank president to question someone else's Christian ethics with all the foreclosures on your conscience. You've put families out of their homes."

"That's different," Sherwood said. "That's business. I have my stockholders to consider."

"Oh, bull," Hodges said with a wave of dismissal.

A sudden commotion at the door caught Hodges' attention. He turned in time to see Traynor and the rest of the attendees of the hospital meeting troop into the bar. He could tell that Traynor was not at all pleased to see him. Hodges shrugged and turned back to his drink. But he couldn't dismiss the fortuitous fact that all three principals were there: Traynor, Sherwood, and Cantor.

Grabbing his whiskey, Hodges slipped off his stool and followed Traynor to Sherwood and Banks's table. Hodges tapped him on his shoulder.

"How about talking now?" Hodges suggested. "We're all here."

"Goddamn it, Hodges," Traynor blurted out. "How many times do I have to tell you? I don't want to talk tonight. We'll talk tomorrow!"

"What does he want to talk about?" Sherwood asked.

"Something about a few of his old patients," Traynor said. "I told him that we'd meet him for lunch tomorrow."

"What's going on?" Dr. Cantor asked, joining the fray. He'd sensed blood and had been drawn over to the table like a shark attracted to chum.

"Dr. Hodges isn't happy with the way we are running the hospital," Traynor said. "We're to hear about it tomorrow."

"No doubt the same old complaint," Sherwood interjected. "No VIP treatment for his old patients."

"Some gratitude!" Dr. Cantor said, interrupting Hodges who'd tried to respond. "Here we are donating our time pro bono to keep the hospital afloat and what do we get in return: nothing but criticism."

"Pro bono my ass," Hodges sneered. "None of you fool me. Your involvement isn't charity. Traynor, you've come to use the place to support your newly discovered grandiosity. Sherwood, your interest isn't even that sophisticated. It's purely financial, since the hospital is the bank's largest customer. And Cantor, yours is just as simple. All you're interested in is the Imaging Center, that joint venture I allowed in a moment of insanity. Of all the decisions I made as hospital administrator, that's the one I regret the most."

"You thought it was a good deal when you made it," Dr. Cantor said.

"Only because I thought it was the only way to update the hospital's CAT scanner," Hodges said. "But that was before I realized the machine would pay for itself in less than a year which, of course, made me realize you and the other private radiologist were robbing the hospital of money it should have been earning."

"I'm not interested in opening this old battle," Dr. Cantor said.

"Nor am I," Hodges agreed. "But the point is there's little or no charity involved with you people. Your concern is financial gain, not the good of your patients or the community."

"You're no one to talk," Traynor snapped. "You ran the hospital like a personal fiefdom. Tell us who's been taking care of that house of yours all these years?"

"What do you mean?" Hodges stammered, his eyes darting back and forth among the men in front of him.

"It's not a complicated question," Traynor said, his anger driving him on. He'd stuck Hodges with a knife and now he wanted to push it in to the hilt.

"I don't know what my house has to do with this," Hodges managed.

Traynor went up on his toes to survey the room. "Where's Van Slyke?" he asked. "He's here somewhere."

"He's by the fire," Sherwood said, pointing. He had to struggle to suppress a contented smile. This issue about Hodges' house had nettled him for some time. The only reason he'd never brought it up was because Traynor had forbidden it.

Traynor called to Van Slyke, but the man didn't seem to hear. Traynor called again, this time loud enough for everyone in the bar to hear. Conversation stopped. Except for the music emanating from the jukebox, the room was momentarily silent.

Van Slyke moved slowly across the room, uncomfortable in the spotlight. He was aware most of the people were watching him. But they soon lost interest and conversations recommenced where they had left off.

"Good grief, man," Traynor said to Van Slyke. "You look like you're moving through molasses. Sometimes you act eighty years old instead of thirty."

"Sorry," Van Slyke said, maintaining his bland facial expression.

"I want to ask you a question," Traynor continued. "Who has been taking care of Dr. Hodges' house and property?"

Van Slyke looked from Traynor to Hodges, a wry smile curling on his lips. Hodges looked away.

"Well?" Traynor questioned.

"We have been," Van Slyke said.

"Be a little more specific," Traynor said. "Who is 'we'?"

"The hospital grounds crew," Van Slyke said. He didn't take his eyes off Hodges. Nor did his smile change.

"How long has this been going on?" Traynor asked.

"Since way before I arrived," Van Slyke said.

"It's going to stop as of today," Traynor said. "Understand?"

"Sure," Van Slyke said.

"Thank you, Werner," Traynor said. "Why don't you go over to the bar and have a beer while we finish chatting with Dr. Hodges." Van Slyke returned to his place by the fire.

"You know that old expression," Traynor said, " 'People in glass houses…' "

"Shut up!" Hodges snapped. He started to say something else but stopped himself. Instead he stalked from the room in a fit of frustrated anger, grabbed his coat and hat, and plunged out into the snowy night.

"You old fool," Hodges muttered as he headed south out of town. He was furious at himself for allowing a "perk" to derail momentarily his indignation about patient care. Yet it was true that hospital maintenance had been taking care of his grounds. It had started years ago. The crew had simply shown up one day. Hodges had never asked for the service, but he'd never done anything to stop it, either.

The long walk home in the frosty night helped dampen Hodges' guilt about the yard service. After all, it didn't have anything to do with patient care. As he turned into his unplowed driveway he resolved to offer to pay some reasonable figure for the services rendered. He wasn't about to allow this affair to stifle his protest about more serious matters.

When Hodges reached the midpoint of his long driveway he could see down into the lower meadow. Through the blowing snow he could just make out the fence that he'd erected to keep Sherwood's horses from crossing his property. He'd never sell that strip of land to that bastard. Sherwood had gotten the second piece of land on a foreclosure of a family whose breadwinner had been one of Hodges' patients. In fact, he was one of the patients whose hospital admission summary Hodges had in his pocket.

Leaving the driveway, Hodges took a shortcut that skirted the frog pond. He could tell some of the neighborhood kids had been skating because the snow had been pushed off the ice and a makeshift hockey goal had been erected. Beyond the pond Hodges' empty house loomed out of the snowy darkness.

Rounding the building, Hodges approached the side door of the clapboard addition that connected the house with the barn. He knocked the snow off his boots and entered. In the mud room he removed his coat and hat and hung them up. Fumbling in his coat pocket he pulled out the papers he'd been carrying and took them into the kitchen.

After placing the papers on the kitchen table, Hodges headed for the library to pour himself a drink in lieu of the one he'd abandoned at the inn. Insistent knocking at his door stopped him midway across the dining room.

Hodges looked at his watch in puzzlement. Who could be calling at that hour and on such a night? Reversing his direction, he went back through the kitchen and into the mud room. Using his shirt sleeve he wiped away the condensation on one of the door's panes of glass. He could just make out the figure outside.

"What now?" Hodges muttered as he reached down and unlatched the door. He pulled it wide open and said: "Considering everything it's a bit strange for you to come visiting, especially at this hour."

Hodges stared at his visitor, who said nothing. Snow swirled in around Hodges' legs.

"Oh, hell," Hodges said with a shrug. "Whatever you want, come in." He let go of the door and headed toward the kitchen. "Just don't expect me to play the role of the hospitable host. And close the door behind you!"

When Hodges reached the single step up to the kitchen level, he started to turn to make sure the door had been closed tight against the weather. Out of the corner of his eye he saw something speeding toward his head. By reflex, he ducked.

The sudden movement saved Hodges' life. A flat metal rod glanced off the side of his head, but not before cutting deeply into his scalp. The force of the blow carried the metal rod to the top of his shoulder where it fractured his collarbone. Its power also sent the stunned Hodges hurtling into the kitchen.

Hodges collided with the kitchen table. His hands clutched the edges, keeping him on his feet. Blood spurted in tiny pulsating jets from the open scalp wound onto his papers. Hodges turned in time to see his attacker closing in on him with arm raised. In a gloved hand he clutched a rod that looked like a short, flat crowbar.

As the weapon started down for a second blow, Hodges reached up and grabbed the exposed forearm, impeding the impact. Still, the metal cut into Hodges' scalp at the hairline. Fresh blood squirted from severed arteries.

Hodges desperately dug his fingernails into the assailant's forearm. He knew intuitively he could not let go; he had to keep from being struck again.

For a few moments the two figures struggled against each other. In a dance of death they pirouetted around the kitchen, smashing into the walls, upsetting chairs, and breaking dishes. Blood spattered indiscriminately.

The attacker cried in pain as he pulled his arm free from Hodges' grip. Once again the steel rod rose up to a frightening apogee before smashing down onto Hodges' raised forearm. Bones snapped like twigs under the impact.

Again the metal bar was lifted above the now hapless Hodges and brought down hard. This time its arc was unhindered, and the weapon impacted directly onto the top of Hodges' unprotected head, crushing in a sharply defined fragment of his skull and driving it deeply into his brain.

Hodges fell heavily to the floor, mercifully insensitive.