Fatal Cure

18

When Angela first opened her eyes at the sound of the alarm, she was disappointed not to find David next to her. Getting up she pulled the drapes. The overcast skies held the promise of showers.

Angela went down to look for David. She found him sitting in the family room.

"Have you been up for long?" Angela asked, trying to sound cheerful.

"Since four," David said. "But don't be alarmed. I think I feel a bit better today." He gave Angela a half smile.

Although Angela was still concerned about David, she was pleased with Nikki's respiratory status. Nikki woke with no congestion. And she'd again made it through the night with no nightmares. Even Angela had to admit that David might have been right about the benefits of his silly prank with the Halloween masks.

Unfortunately, Angela herself had had a nightmare. It was a dream in which she came home from shopping, carrying bags of groceries, only to find the kitchen drenched in blood. But it wasn't dried blood. It was fresh blood that was running down the walls and pooling on the floor.

After Nikki's respiratory treatment, Angela listened carefully to her chest. It was definitely clear. To Nikki's delight, Angela told her she could go to school.

Despite the possibility of rain, David insisted on riding his bike to work. Angela didn't try to talk him out of it. She felt it was encouraging that he was able to muster the enthusiasm for it.

After dropping Nikki off, Angela drove on to the lab, eager to get to work. Mondays were usually busy since there was a pile-up of laboratory work from the weekend. Breezing into her office, Angela had her coat on its hanger before she noticed Wadley. He'd been standing motionless near the connecting door.

"Good morning," Angela said, again trying to sound cheerful. She hung her coat up and turned to face her chief. It was immediately apparent he wasn't happy.

"It has been brought to my attention that you did an autopsy here in the lab," Wadley said angrily.

"It's true," Angela admitted. "But I did it on my own time."

"You might have done it on your own time, but it was done in my lab," Wadley said.

"It's true I used hospital facilities," Angela said. She didn't agree that it was Wadley's lab. It was a hospital facility. He was an employee just as she was.

"You were specifically told no autopsies," Wadley said.

"I was specifically told they were not paid for by CMV," Angela said.

Wadley's cold eyes bore into Angela. "Then allow me to clear up a misunderstanding," he said. "No autopsies are to be done in this department unless I approve them. I run the department, not you. Furthermore, I've ordered the techs not to process the slides, the cultures, or the toxicological samples."

With that, Wadley returned to his office and closed the connecting door with a slam.

As usual, after one of their increasingly frequent confrontations, Angela was upset. As soon as she had composed herself, she retrieved the tissue specimens, the cultures, and the toxicological samples she had taken from Mary Ann. She then carefully packed the cultures and the toxicological material and sent them to the department where she'd trained in Boston. She had enough friends there to get them processed. The tissue samples she kept, planning on doing the slides herself.

David made the rounds of his patients, purposefully leaving Jonathan for last. When he walked into his room he was shocked. The bed was empty.

Assuming he'd been transferred to another room for some ridiculous reason as John Tarlow had been, David went to the nurses' station to ask where he could find Jonathan. Janet Colburn told him that Mr. Eakins had been transferred to the ICU by the ER physician during the night.

David was dumbfounded.

"Mr. Eakins developed difficulty breathing and lapsed into a coma," Janet added.

"Why wasn't I called?" David demanded.

"We had a specific order not to call you," Janet said.

"Issued by whom?" David asked.

"By Michael Caldwell," Janet said. "The medical director of the hospital."

"That's absurd…" David shouted. "Why…"

"We were told that if you had any questions you should call Ms. Beaton," Janet said. "Don't blame us."

David was beside himself with fury. The medical director did not have the right to leave such an order. David had never heard of anything more absurd. It was bad enough that these administrators were second-guessing him. But to intercede in patient care so directly seemed a total violation.

But David understood his argument wasn't with the nurse. He left immediately to find his patient. He arrived to discover that Jonathan's condition was indeed critical. He was in a coma and on a respirator just as Mary Ann had so recently been. David listened to his chest. Jonathan was also developing pneumonia. Twisting the IV bottle around, David saw that he was getting continuous intravenous antibiotics.

David went to the central desk to study Jonathan's chart. He quickly realized that Jonathan's course had begun to mirror David's three deceased patients. Jonathan had developed problems of the GI system, the central nervous system, and the blood system.

David picked up the phone to call Helen Beaton when the ICU unit coordinator tapped him on the shoulder and handed him another phone. It was Charles Kelley.

"The nurses told me you'd come into the ICU," Kelley said. "I'd asked them to call me the moment you appeared. I wanted to inform you that the Eakins case has been transferred to another CMV physician."

"You can't do that," David said angrily.

"Hold on, Dr. Wilson," Kelley said. "CMV certainly can transfer a patient, and I have done so. I've also notified the family, and they are in full agreement."

"Why?" David demanded. Hearing that the family was also behind the change, his voice lost most of its sting.

"We feel that you are too emotionally involved," Kelley said. "We decided it was better for everyone if you were taken off. It will give you a chance to calm down. I know you've been under a lot of strain."

David didn't know what to think, much less say. He thought about pointing out that Jonathan's condition had gone downhill just as he'd feared, but he decided against it. Kelley wasn't likely to consider anything he had to say.

"Don't forget what we said yesterday," Kelley continued. "I know you'll understand our point of view if you give it some thought."

David was of two minds when he hung up. On the one hand he was still furious to have been unilaterally removed from the case. On the other, there was an element of truth in what Kelley had said. David had only to look at his trembling hands to recognize he was overly emotionally involved.

David stumbled out of the ICU. He didn't even look at Jonathan as he passed by. Out in the hall he checked his watch. It was still too early to go to his office. Instead, he went to medical records.

David pulled the charts on Marjorie, John, and Mary Ann. Sitting in the isolation of a dictation booth, he reviewed each chart, going over the respective hospital courses. He read all his entries, all the nurses' notes, and looked at all the laboratory values and the results of diagnostic tests.

David was still toying with the idea that an unknown infection was responsible, something that his patients may have contracted while in the hospital. Such an infection was called a nosocomial infection. David had read about such incidents at other hospitals. All his patients had had pneumonia but each case had been caused by a different strain of bacteria. The pneumonia had to have been the result of some underlying infection.

The only common element in all three cases was the history. Each patient had been treated for cancer with varying mixtures of surgery, chemotherapy, and radiotherapy. Of the three treatment modalities, only chemotherapy was common to all three patients.

David was well aware that one of the side effects of chemotherapy was a general lowering of a patient's resistance because of a depressed immune system. He wondered if that fact could have had something to do with the rapid downhill courses these patients experienced. Yet the oncologist, the expert in such matters, had given this common factor little import since in all three cases the chemotherapy had been completed long before the hospitalization. The immune systems of all three patients had long since returned to normal.

The pager on David's belt interrupted his thoughts. Looking at the LCD screen he recognized the number: it was the emergency room. Replacing the charts, David hurried downstairs.

The patient was Donald Anderson, another one of David's frequent visitors. Donald's diabetes was particularly hard to regulate. It was the main source of his frequent medical complaints. This visit was no exception. When David entered the examining stall he could immediately tell that Donald's blood sugar was out of control. Donald was semi-comatose.

David ordered a stat blood sugar and started an IV. While he was waiting for the lab result, he spoke with Shirley Anderson, Donald's wife.

"He's been having trouble for a week," Shirley complained. "But you know how stubborn he is. He refused to come to see you."

"I think we'll have to admit him," David said. "It will take a few days to get him on a new regimen."

"I was hoping you would," Shirley said. "It's difficult when he gets like this with the kids and all."

When David got the results of the blood sugar he was surprised that Donald hadn't been even more obtunded than he was. As David walked back to talk with Donald, who was now lucid thanks to the IV, David did a double-take. Looking into one of the other examining stalls he saw a familiar face: it was Caroline Helmsford, Nikki's friend. Dr. Pilsner was at her side.

David slipped in alongside Caroline, opposite Dr. Pilsner. She looked up at David with pleading eyes. Covering the lower part of her face was a clear plastic mask providing oxygen. Her complexion was ashen with a slightly bluish cast. Her breathing was labored.

Dr. Pilsner was listening to her chest. He smiled at David when he saw him. When he finished auscultating, he took David aside.

"Poor thing is having a hard time," Dr. Pilsner said.

"What's wrong?" David asked.

"The usual," Dr. Pilsner replied. "She's congested and she's running a high fever."

"Will you admit her?" David asked.

"Absolutely," Dr. Pilsner said. "You know better than most that we can't take any chances with this kind of problem."

David nodded. He did know. He looked back at Caroline struggling to breathe. She looked so tiny on the big gurney and so vulnerable. The sight made him worry about Nikki. Given her cystic fibrosis, it could have been Nikki on the gurney, not Caroline.

"You've got a call from the chief medical examiner," one of the secretaries told Angela. Angela picked up the phone.

"Hope I'm not disturbing you," Walt said.

"Not at all," Angela answered.

"Got a couple of updates on the Hodges autopsy," Walt said. "Are you still interested?"

"Absolutely," Angela said.

"First of all, the man had significant alcohol in his ocular fluid," Walt said.

"I didn't know you could tell after so long," Angela said.

"If we can get ocular fluid it's easy," Walt said. "Alcohol is reasonably stable. We also got confirmation that the DNA of the skin under his nails was different from his. So it's undoubtedly the DNA of his killer."

"What about those carbon particles in the skin?" Angela asked. "Did you have any more thoughts about them?"

"To be honest, I haven't given it a lot of thought," Walt said. "But I did change my mind about it being contemporary with the struggle. I realized the particles were in the dermis, not the epidermis. It must have been some old injury, like having been stabbed with a pencil when he was in grammar school. I have such a deposit on my arm."

"I've got one in the palm of my right hand," Angela said.

"The reason I haven't done much on the case is because there's been no pressure from either the state's attorney or the state police. Unfortunately, I've been swamped with other cases where there's considerable pressure."

"I understand," Angela said. "But I'm still interested. So if there are any more developments, please let me know."

After hanging up Angela's thoughts remained on the Hodges affair, wondering what Phil Calhoun was doing. She'd heard nothing from him since she'd visited the man and had given him his retainer. And thinking about Hodges and Calhoun made her remember how vulnerable she'd felt when David had left in the night to go to the hospital.

Checking her watch, Angela realized it was time for her lunch break. She turned off her microscope, grabbed her coat, and went out to the car. She'd told David that she wanted to get a gun, and she'd meant it.

There were no sporting goods stores in Bartlet, but Staley's Hardware Store carried a line of firearms. When she explained what she wanted, Mr. Staley was instantly helpful. He asked her what her reasons were for wanting to purchase a gun. When she told him protection of her home, he talked her into a shotgun.

It took Angela less than fifteen minutes to make her selection. She bought a pump-action twelve-gauge shotgun. Mr. Staley was more than happy to show her how to load and unload the rifle. He was particularly careful to show her the safety. The firearm also came with a brochure, and Mr. Staley encouraged her to read it.

On the walk back to the car, Angela felt self-conscious about her package even though she'd insisted that Mr. Staley wrap it in manila paper; the object within was still quite recognizable. She'd never carried a gun before. In her other hand she had a bag containing a box of shells.

With definite relief Angela put the rifle in the trunk of the car. Heading around to the driver's side door she looked across the green at the police station and hesitated. Ever since the confrontation with Robertson the previous morning she'd felt guilty. She also knew David had been right; it was foolhardy for her to make an enemy of the chief of police despite the fact that he was such a dolt.

Letting go of the car door, Angela walked across the green and into the police station. Robertson agreed to see her after a ten-minute wait.

"I hope I'm not bothering you," Angela said.

"No bother," he said as she entered his office.

Angela sat down. "I don't want to take much of your time," Angela said.

"I'm a public servant," Robertson said brazenly.

"I've come to apologize for yesterday," Angela said.

"Oh?" Robertson said, clearly taken aback.

"My behavior was inappropriate," Angela said. "And I'm sorry. It's just that I've really been overwhelmed by the discovery of that dead body in my house."

"Well, it's nice of you to come in," Robertson said, clearly flustered. He hadn't expected this. "I'm sorry about Hodges. We'll keep the case open and let you know if anything turns up."

"Something did turn up this morning," Angela said. She then told Robertson about the possibility of Hodges' killer having a deposit of carbon from a pencil on his arm.

"From a pencil?" Robertson asked.

"Yes," Angela said. She stood up and extended her right palm and pointed to a small, dark stain beneath the skin. "Something like this," she said. "I got it in the third grade."

"Oh, I see," Robertson said, nodding his head as a wry smile turned up the corners of his mouth. "Well, thank you for this tip."

"Just thought I'd pass it along," Angela said. "The medical examiner also said that the skin under Hodges' fingernails was definitely his killer's. He has a DNA fingerprint."

"Trouble is, super-sophisticated DNA malarkey is not much help without a suspect," Robertson said.

"There was a small town in England that solved a rape with a DNA fingerprint," Angela said. "All they did was do a DNA test on everybody in the town."

"Wow," Robertson said. "I can just imagine what the American Civil Liberties Union would say if I tried that here in Bartlet."

"I'm not suggesting you try," Angela said. "But I did want you to know about the DNA fingerprint."

"Thank you," Robertson said. "And thanks for coming by." He stood up when Angela got up to go.

He watched through his window as Angela got in her car.

As she drove off, Robertson picked up his phone and pressed one of the automatic dialers. "You're not going to believe this, but she's still at it. She's like a dog with a bone."

Angela felt a little better for having tried to clear things up with Robertson. At the same time she didn't delude herself into thinking that she'd changed anything. Intuitively she knew he still wasn't about to lift a finger to get Hodges' murder case solved.

At the hospital, all the parking slots reserved for the professional staff near the back entrance of the hospital were occupied. Angela had to zig-zag back and forth through the lot looking for a vacant spot. Finding nothing, she drove into the upper lot. She finally located a spot way up in the far corner. It took her almost five minutes to walk back to the hospital door.

"This isn't my day," Angela said aloud as she entered the building.

"But you won't even be able to see the parking garage from the town," Traynor said into the phone. His frustration was thinly masked. He was talking to Ned Banks, who had become one of the town's Selectmen the previous year.

"No, no, no," Traynor reiterated. "It's not going to look like a World War II bunker. Why don't you meet me sometime at the hospital and I'll show you the model. I promise you, it's rather attractive. And if Bartlet Community Hospital intends to be the referral hospital of the state, we need it."

Collette, Traynor's secretary, came into the room and placed a business card on the desk blotter in front of Traynor. At that moment Ned was carrying on about Bartlet losing its charm. Traynor picked up the card. It read: "Phil Calhoun, Private Investigation, Satisfaction Guaranteed."

Traynor covered the mouthpiece and whispered: "Who the hell is Phil Calhoun?"

Collette shrugged. "I've never seen him before, but he says he knows you. Anyway, he's waiting outside. I've got to run over to the post office."

Traynor waved goodbye to his secretary and then put down the business card. Meanwhile, Ned was still lamenting the recent changes in Bartlet, especially the condominium development near the interstate.

"Look, Ned, I've got to run," Traynor interrupted. "I really hope you give this hospital parking garage some thought. I know that Wiggins has been bad-mouthing it, but it's important for the hospital. And frankly, I need all the votes I can get."

Traynor hung up the phone with disgust. He had trouble understanding the short-sightedness of most of the Selectmen. None of them seemed to appreciate the economic significance of the hospital, and that made his job as chairman of the hospital board that much more difficult.

Traynor peered into the outer office to get a glimpse of the PI he supposedly knew. Flipping through one of the hospital quarterly reports was a big man in a black and white checkered shirt. Traynor thought he looked vaguely familiar, but he couldn't place him.

Traynor invited Calhoun inside. While they shook hands, Traynor scoured his memory, but he still drew a blank. He motioned toward a chair. The two men sat down.

It wasn't until Calhoun mentioned that he'd been a state policeman that it came to Traynor. "I remember," he said. "You used to be friends with Harley Strombell's brother."

Calhoun nodded and complimented Traynor on his memory.

"Never forget a face," Traynor boasted.

"I wanted to ask you a few questions about Dr. Hodges," Calhoun said, getting to the point.

Traynor nervously fingered the gavel he used for hospital board meetings. He didn't like answering questions about Hodges, yet he was afraid not to. He didn't want to make it an issue. He wished this whole Hodges mess would go away.

"Is your interest personal or professional?" Traynor asked.

"Combination," Calhoun said.

"Have you been retained?" Traynor asked.

"You might say so," Calhoun said.

"By whom?"

"I'm not at liberty to say," Calhoun said. "As a lawyer, I'm sure you understand."

"If you expect me to be cooperative," Traynor said, "then you'll have to be a bit more open yourself."

Calhoun took out his Antonio y Cleopatras and asked if he could smoke. Traynor nodded. Calhoun offered one to Traynor, but Traynor declined. Calhoun took his time lighting up. He blew smoke up at the ceiling, and then spoke: "The family is interested in finding out who was responsible for the doctor's brutal murder."

"That's understandable," Traynor said. "Can I have your word that whatever I say remains discreet?"

"Absolutely," Calhoun said.

"Okay, what do you want to ask me?"

"I'm making a list of people who disliked Hodges," Calhoun said. "Do you have anyone to put on my list?"

"Half the town," Traynor said with a short laugh. "But I don't feel comfortable giving names."

"I understand you saw Hodges the night of his murder," Calhoun said.

"Hodges burst in on a meeting we were having at the hospital," Traynor said. "It was an unpleasant habit of his that he indulged all too frequently."

"I understand Hodges was angry," Calhoun said.

"Where did you hear that?" Traynor asked.

"I've been speaking to a number of people in town," Calhoun said.

"Hodges was angry all the time," Traynor said. "He was chronically unhappy with the way we manage the hospital. You see, Dr. Hodges had a proprietary feeling about the institution. He was also dated in his thinking. He was an old-school 'doc' who ran the hospital when it was a cost-plus situation. He had no feeling for the new environment of managed care and managed competition. He just didn't understand."

"I don't think I know too much about that, either," Calhoun admitted.

"You'd better learn," Traynor warned. "Because it's here. What kind of health plan are you under?"

"CMV," Calhoun said.

"There you go," Traynor said. "Managed care. You're already part of it and you don't even know it."

"I understand when Dr. Hodges burst into your hospital meeting he had some hospital charts with him."

"Parts of charts," Traynor corrected. "But I didn't get a look at them. I was planning on having lunch with him the following day to discuss whatever was on his mind. It undoubtedly concerned some of his former patients. He was always complaining about his former patients not getting VIP treatment. Frankly, he was a pain in the ass."

"Did Dr. Hodges bother the new hospital administrator, Helen Beaton?" Calhoun asked.

"Oh, God, yes!" Traynor said. "Hodges would think nothing of barging into her office any time of the day. Helen Beaton was probably the person who suffered from Hodges' barrages the most. After all, she had his old position. And who knew how to do it better than himself?"

"I understand that you ran into Hodges a second time that night he burst in on your meeting," Calhoun said.

"Unfortunately," Traynor said. "At the inn. After most hospital meetings, we go to the inn. That night Hodges was there drinking as usual and as belligerent as usual."

"And he had unpleasant words with Robertson?" Calhoun asked.

"He sure did," Traynor said.

"And with Sherwood?" Calhoun said.

"Who have you been talking with?" Traynor asked.

"Just a handful of townsfolk," Calhoun said. "I understand Dr. Cantor said some unflattering things about Hodges too."

"I can't remember," Traynor said. "But Cantor hadn't liked Hodges for years."

"How come?" Calhoun asked.

"Hodges took over radiology and pathology for the hospital," Traynor said. "He wanted the hospital to accrue the windfall profits those departments generated from equipment the hospital owned."

"What about you?" Calhoun asked. "I've heard you weren't fond of Dr. Hodges either."

"I already told you," Traynor said. "He was a pain in the ass. It was hard enough trying to run the hospital without his continual interference."

"I heard it was something personal," Calhoun said. "Something about your sister."

"My, your sources are good," Traynor said.

"Just town gossip," Calhoun said.

"You're right," Traynor said. "It's no secret. My sister Sunny committed suicide after Hodges pulled her husband's hospital privileges."

"So you blamed Hodges?" Calhoun asked.

"More then than now," Traynor said. "Hell, Sunny's husband was a drunkard. Hodges should have taken away his privileges before he had a chance to cause real harm."

"One last question," Calhoun said. "Do you know who killed Dr. Hodges?"

Traynor laughed, then shook his head. "I haven't the slightest idea, and I don't care. The only thing I care about is the effect his death might have on the hospital."

Calhoun stood up and stubbed out his cigar in an ashtray on the corner of Traynor's desk.

"Do me a favor," Traynor said. "I've made it easy for you. I didn't have to tell you anything. All I ask is that you not make a big deal about this Hodges affair. If you find out who did it and plan to expose the individual, let me know so the hospital can make some plans with respect to publicity, especially if the killer has anything to do with the hospital. We're already dealing with a public relations problem on another matter. We don't need to be blindsided by something else."

"Sounds reasonable," Calhoun said.

After Traynor showed Calhoun out, he returned to his desk, looked up Clara Hodges' Boston number, and dialed.

"I wanted to ask you a question," he said after the usual pleasantries. "Are you familiar with a gentleman by the name of Phil Calhoun?"

"Not that I recall," Clara said. "Why do you ask?"

"He was just in my office," Traynor explained. "He's a private investigator. He was here to ask questions about Dennis. He implied that he'd been retained by the family."

"I certainly haven't hired any private investigator," Clara said. "And I cannot imagine anyone else in the family doing so either, especially without my knowing about it."

"I was afraid of that. If you hear anything more about this guy, please let me know."

"I certainly will," Clara said.

Traynor hung up the phone and sighed. He had the unpleasant feeling that more trouble was corning. Even beyond the grave, Hodges was a curse.

"You've got one more patient," Susan said as she handed David the chart. "I told her to come right in. She's one of the nurses from the second floor."

David took the chart and pushed into the examining room. The nurse was Beverly Hopkins. David knew her vaguely; she was on nights.

"What's the problem?" David asked with a smile.

Beverly was sitting on the examining table. She was a tall, slender woman with light brown hair. She was holding a kidney dish Susan had given her for nausea. Her face was pale.

"I'm sorry to bother you, Dr. Wilson," Beverly said. "I think it's the flu. I would have just stayed home in bed, but as you know, we're encouraged to come and see you if we're going to take time off."

"No problem," David said. "That's what I'm here for. What are your symptoms?"

The symptoms were similar to those of the other four nurses: general malaise, mild GI complaints, and low-grade fever. David agreed with Beverly's assessment. He sent her home for bed rest, telling her to drink plenty of fluids and take aspirin as needed.

After finishing up at the office, David headed over to the hospital to see his patients. As he walked, he began to mull over the fact that the only people he'd seen with the flu so far were nurses, and all five had been from the second floor.

David stopped in his tracks. He wondered if it were a coincidence that the nurses were all from the same floor, the same floor where all his mortally ill patients had been. Of course, ninety percent of the patients went to the second floor. But David thought it strange that no nurses from the OR or the emergency room were coming down with this flu.

David recommenced walking, and as he did so his thoughts returned to the possibility that his patients had died from an infectious disease contracted in the hospital. The flu-like symptoms the nurses were experiencing could be related. Using a dialectic approach, David posed himself a question: what if the nurses who were generally healthy got a mild illness when exposed to the mysterious disease, but patients who'd had chemotherapy and, as a result, had mildly compromised immune systems, got a fulminating and fatal illness?

David thought his reasoning was valid, but when he tried to think of some known illness that fit this bill, he couldn't come up with any. The disease would have to affect the GI system, the central nervous system, and the blood, yet be difficult to diagnose even for an expert in the field like Dr. Martin Hasselbaum.

What about an environmental poison, David wondered. He remembered Jonathan's symptom of excessive salivation. The complaint had made David think of mercury. Even so, the idea of some poison being involved seemed farfetched. How would it be spread? If it were airborne, then many more people would have come down with symptoms than four patients and five nurses. But still, a poison was a possibility. David decided to reserve judgment until he received the toxicology results on Mary Ann.

Quickening his pace, David climbed to the second floor. What patients he had left were doing well. Even Donald didn't require much attention although David did adjust his insulin dosage again.

When he was finished with his rounds, David went down to the first floor to search the lab for Angela. He found her in the chemistry area trying to solve a problem with one of the multi-track analyzers.

"Are you finished already?" Angela asked, catching sight of David.

"For a change," David said.

"How's Eakins?" Angela asked.

"I'll tell you later," David said.

Angela looked at him closely. "Is everything all right?"

"Hardly," David said. "But I don't want to talk about it now."

Angela excused herself from the laboratory tech with whom she was working and took David aside.

"I had a little surprise when I got in here this morning," she said. "Wadley hit the ceiling about my doing the autopsy."

"I'm sorry," David said.

"It's not your fault," Angela said. "Wadley is just being an ass. His ego has been bruised. But the problem is, he's refused to allow any of the specimens to be processed."

"Damn," David said. "I really wanted the toxicology done."

"No need to worry," Angela said. "I sent the toxicology and cultures to Boston. I'm going to do the slides. In fact, I'll stay tonight to do them. Will you make dinner for you and Nikki?"

David told her he'd be happy to.

David was relieved to get out of the hospital. It was exhilarating to ride his bike through the crisp New England air. He felt disappointed the trip was over as he peddled up the driveway.

After sending Alice home, David enjoyed spending time with Nikki. The two of them worked out in the yard until darkness drove them inside. While Nikki did her homework, David made a simple meal of steak and salad.

After dinner David broke the news about Caroline.

"Is she real sick?" Nikki asked.

"She looked very uncomfortable when I saw her," David said.

"I want to go visit her tomorrow," Nikki said.

"I'm sure you do," David said. "But remember, you were a little congested yourself last night. I think we better wait until we know for sure what Caroline has. Okay?"

Nikki nodded, but she wasn't happy.

To be on the safe side, David insisted Nikki do her postural drainage even though she usually only did it in the morning unless she wasn't feeling well. Nikki didn't complain.

After Nikki went to bed, David began to peruse the infectious disease section of one of his medical textbooks. He wasn't looking for anything in particular. He thought there was a chance he might discover something along the lines of the infection he'd envisioned earlier in the day, but nothing jumped out at him.

Before he knew it, David was waking up with his heavy textbook of medicine open on his lap. Shades of medical school, he thought with a chuckle. It had been a while since he'd fallen asleep over one of his books. Checking the clock over the fireplace he was surprised to see it was after eleven. Angela still wasn't home.

Feeling mildly anxious, David called the hospital. The operator put him through to the lab.

"What's going on?" he asked when he heard Angela's voice.

"It's just taking me longer than I thought," Angela said. "The staining takes time. Makes me appreciate the techs who normally do it. I should have called you, but I'm almost finished. I'll be home within the hour."

"I'll be waiting," David said.

It was more than an hour by the time Angela was completely finished. She took a selection of slides and loaded them in a metal briefcase. She thought David might want to take a peek at them. Angela's own microscope was at home so he could easily have a look if he were interested.

She said goodnight to the night-shift techs, then headed out to the parking lot.

She didn't see her old Volvo in the reserved parking area. For a moment, she thought the car had been stolen, then she remembered she'd been forced to park in the far reaches of the upper lot.

Setting off at a brisk pace, Angela quickly slowed. Not only was she carrying a heavy briefcase, but she was exhausted. Halfway across the lot she had to transfer the briefcase to the other hand.

There were a few cars in the parking lot belonging to the night-shift personnel, but they soon fell behind as Angela trudged toward the path that led to the upper lot. Angela noticed that she was entirely alone. There were no other people; the evening shift had long since departed.

As Angela approached the path she began to feel uneasy. She was unaccustomed to being out at such an hour, and had certainly expected to see someone. Then she thought she heard something behind her. When she turned she saw nothing.

Continuing on, Angela started thinking about wild animals. She'd heard that black bears were occasionally spotted in the area. She wondered what she would do if she were suddenly confronted by a bear.

"You're being silly," she told herself. She pushed on. She had to get home; it was after midnight.

The lighting in the lower parking lot was more than adequate. But as Angela entered into the path leading up to the upper lot, she had to pause for a moment to allow her eyes to adjust to the darkness. There were no lights along the path, and dense evergreen trees on both sides formed a natural archway.

The barking of a dog in the distance made Angela jump. Nervously she moved deeper into the tunnel of trees, starting up a run of stairs constructed of railroad ties. She heard crackling noises in the forest and the rustling of the wind high in the pine trees. Feeling frightened, she recalled vividly the episode in the basement when David and Nikki had scared her, and the memory made her even more tense.

At the top of the stairs the path leveled and angled to the left. Up ahead Angela could see the light of the upper parking lot. There was only another fifty feet to go.

Angela had just about calmed herself when a man leaped out of the shadows. He came up on her so suddenly she didn't have a chance to flee. He was brandishing a club over his head; his face was covered by a dark ski mask.

Staggering back, Angela tripped on an exposed root and fell. The man flung himself at her. Angela screamed and rolled to the side. She could hear the thump of the club as it sliced into the soft ground where she had been only seconds before.

Angela scrambled to her feet. The man grabbed her with a gloved hand as he began to raise his club again. Angela swung her briefcase up into the man's crotch with all the strength she could muster. The man's grip on her arm released as he cried out in pain.

With the route back to the hospital blocked by the wheezing man, Angela ran for the upper lot. Empowered by terror Angela ran as she'd never run before, her flying feet crunching on the asphalt. She could hear the man behind her, but she didn't dare to look. She ran up to the Volvo with one thought in mind: the shotgun.

Dropping the briefcase to the pavement, Angela fumbled with her keys. Once she got the trunk open, she yanked the manila paper from the shotgun. Snatching up the bag of shells she hastily dumped them into the trunk. Picking up a single shell, she jammed it into the gun and pumped it into the firing chamber.

Angela whirled about, holding the gun at waist level, but no one was there. The lot was completely deserted. The man hadn't given chase. What she heard had been the echo of her own footfalls.

"Can't you do a little better than that?" Robertson asked. " 'Sorta tall.' Is that it? That's hardly a description. How are we supposed to find this guy if you women can't describe him better than that?"

"It was dark," Angela said. She was having a hard time keeping her emotions even. "And it happened so quickly. Besides, he was wearing a ski mask."

"What the hell were you doing out there in the trees after midnight anyway? Hell, all you nurses were warned."

"I'm not a nurse," Angela said. "I'm a doctor."

"Oh, boy!" Robertson said haughtily. "You think this rapist cared whether you were a nurse or a doctor?"

"The point I'm making is that I wasn't warned. The nurses may have been warned, but no one warned us doctors."

"Well, you should have known better," Robertson said.

"Are you trying to imply that this attack was somehow my fault?"

Robertson ignored her question. "What kind of club was he holding?" he asked.

"I have no idea," Angela said. "I told you it was dark."

Robertson shook his head and looked at his deputy. "You said Bill had just been up there in his cruiser?"

"That's right," the deputy said. "Not ten minutes before the incident he'd made a routine sweep of both parking lots."

"Christ, I don't know what to do," Robertson said. He looked down at Angela and shrugged his shoulders. "If you women would just be a little more cooperative, we wouldn't have this problem."

"May I use the phone?" Angela said.

Angela called David. When he answered she could tell he'd been asleep. She told him she'd be home in ten minutes.

"What time is it?" David asked. Then after a glance at the clock, he answered his own question. "Holy jeez, it's after one. What are you doing?"

"I'll tell you when I get home," Angela said.

After she'd hung up, Angela turned to Robertson. "May I leave now?" she asked testily.

"Of course," Robertson said. "But if you think of anything else, let us know. Would you like my deputy to drive you home?"

"I think I can manage," Angela said.

Ten minutes later, Angela was hugging David at their door. David had been alarmed not just by the late hour, but the sight of his wife coming from the car with a briefcase in one hand and a shotgun in the other. But he didn't ask about the gun. For the moment, he just hugged Angela. She was holding him tightly and wouldn't let go.

Angela finally released David, removed her soiled coat, and carried the briefcase and the shotgun into the family room. David followed, eyeing the shotgun. Angela sat on the couch, embraced her knees, and looked up at David.

"I'd like to stay calm," she said evenly. "Would you mind getting me a glass of wine?"

David complied immediately. As he handed her the glass he asked if she'd like something to eat. Angela shook her head before sipping the wine. She held the glass with both hands.

In a controlled voice Angela began to tell David about the attempted assault. But she didn't get far. Her emotions boiled over into tears. For five minutes she couldn't speak. David put his arms around her, telling her that it was his fault: he never should have let her work at the hospital so late at night.

Eventually, Angela regained her composure. She continued the story, choking back tears. When she got to the part about Robertson coming in to talk to her, her anger kicked in.

"I cannot believe that man," Angela sputtered. "He makes me so mad. He acted as if it were my fault."

"He's a jerk," David agreed.

Angela reached for the briefcase and handed it to David. She wiped the tears from her eyes. "All this effort and the slides didn't show much at all," she said. "There was no tumor in the brain. There was some perivascular inflammation, but it was nonspecific. A few neurons appeared damaged but it could have been a postmortem change."

"No sign of a systemic infectious disease?" David asked.

Angela shook her head. "I brought the slides home in case you wanted to look at them yourself," she said.

"I see you got a shotgun," David commented.

"It's loaded, too," Angela warned, "so be careful. And don't worry. I'll go over it with Nikki tomorrow."

A crash and the sound of breaking glass made them both sit bolt upright. Rusty started barking from Nikki's room, then he came bounding down the stairs. David picked up the shotgun.

"The safety is just above the trigger," Angela said.

With David leading, they made their way through to the darkened living room. David flipped on the light. Four panes of the bay window were smashed, along with their muntins. On the floor a few feet away from where they were standing was a brick. Attached to it was a copy of the note they'd received the night before.

"I'm calling the police," Angela said. "This is too much."

While they waited for the police to arrive, David sat Angela down.

"Did you do anything today related to the Hodges affair?" David asked.

"No," Angela said defensively. "Well, I did get a call from the medical examiner."

"Did you talk about Hodges with anyone?" David asked.

"His name came up when I talked with Robertson," Angela said.

"Tonight?" David asked with surprise.

"This afternoon," Angela said. "I stopped in to the police station to talk with Robertson on my way back from buying the shotgun."

"Why?" David asked with dismay. "After what happened in front of the church yesterday, I'm surprised you had the nerve to see the man."

"I wanted to apologize," Angela said. "But it was a mistake. Robertson is not about to do anything concerning Hodges' murderer."

"Angela," David pleaded, "we have to stop messing with this Hodges stuff. It's not worth it. A note on the door is one thing; a brick through the window is something else entirely."

Headlight beams played against the wall as a police cruiser pulled up the driveway.

"At least it's not Robertson," Angela said when they could see the approaching officer.

The policeman introduced himself as Bill Morrison. From the outset, it was clear he wasn't terribly interested in investigating this latest incident at the Wilsons' home. He was only asking enough questions to fill out the requisite form.

When he was ready to leave, Angela asked him if he was planning on taking the brick.

"Hadn't planned on it," Bill said.

"What about fingerprints?" Angela asked.

Bill's eyes went from Angela to David and then back to Angela. His face registered surprise and confusion. "Fingerprints?" he asked.

"What's so surprising?" Angela asked. "It's possible at times to get fingerprints from things like stone and brick."

"Well, I don't know if we'd send something like this to the state police," he said.

"Just in case, let me get you a bag," Angela said. She disappeared into the kitchen. When she returned she had a plastic bag. Turning it inside out, she reached down and picked up the brick. She handed the bag to Bill.

"There," Angela said. "Now you people are prepared if you happen to decide you want to try to solve a crime."

Bill nodded and went out to his cruiser. Angela and David watched it disappear down the driveway.

"I'm losing confidence in the local police," David said.

"I've never had any," Angela said.

"If Robertson is the only person you spoke to about Hodges today, it makes me wonder who's responsible for this brick coming through our window."

"Do you think the police might have done it?" Angela asked.

"I don't know," David said. "I can't believe they'd go that far, but it makes me think they know more than they're willing to say. Officer Bill certainly wasn't excited about the incident."

"I'm beginning to think this town is not quite the Utopia we thought it was," Angela said.

David went out to the barn and cut himself a piece of plywood to fit over the hole in the bay window. When he returned to the house, Angela was eating a bowl of cold cereal.

"Not much of a dinner," he said.

"I'm surprised I'm hungry at all," Angela said.

She accompanied him into the living room and watched him struggle to open the stepladder.

"Are you sure you should be doing this?" she asked.

He flashed her an exasperated look.

"You haven't told me about your day," Angela said as David climbed up the ladder. "What about Jonathan Eakins? How's he doing?"

"I don't know," David said. "I'm not his doctor anymore."

"Why not?" Angela asked.

"Kelley assigned another doctor."

"He can do that?"

"He did it," David said. He tried to align the piece of plywood, then get a nail out of his pocket. "I was furious at first. Now I'm resigned. The good part is that I don't have to feel responsible."

"But you will still feel responsible," Angela said. "I know you."

David had Angela hand him the hammer, and he tried nailing the plywood in place. Instead, one of the other window panes fell out and shattered on the floor. The noise brought Rusty out of Nikki's room to bark at the head of the stairs.

"Damn it all," David said.

"Maybe we should think about leaving Bartlet," Angela said.

"We can't just pick up and go. We've got mortgages and contracts. We aren't free like we used to be."

"But nothing is turning out the way we expected. We both have problems at work. I got assaulted. And this Hodges thing is driving me crazy."

"You have to let the Hodges affair go," David said. "Please, Angela."

"I can't," Angela said with new tears. "I'm even having nightmares now: nightmares about blood in the kitchen. Every time I go in there I think about it, and I can't get it out of my head that the person responsible is walking around and could come here any time he chose. It's no way to live, feeling you have to have a gun in the house."

"We shouldn't have a gun," David snapped.

"I'm not staying here at night when you go off to the hospital," Angela said irritably. "Not without a gun."

"You'd better be sure Nikki understands she's not allowed to touch it," David said.

"I'll discuss the gun with her tomorrow," Angela said.

"Speaking of Nikki," David said, "I happened to see Caroline in the emergency room. She's in the hospital with a high fever and respiratory distress."

"Oh, heavens no," Angela said. "Does Nikki know?"

"I told her this evening," David said.

"Does she have something contagious?" Angela asked. "She and Nikki were together yesterday."

"I don't know yet," David said. "I told Nikki she can't visit until we know."

"Poor Caroline," Angela said. "She seemed fine yesterday. God, I hope Nikki doesn't come down with the same thing."

"So do I," David said. "Angela, we've got more important things to think about than this nonsense involving Hodges' body. Please, let's let it go, for Nikki's sake if not our own."

"All right," Angela said reluctantly. "I'll try."

"Thank goodness," David said. Then he looked up at the broken window. "Now what am I going to do with this mess?"

"How about tape and a plastic bag?" Angela suggested.

David stared at her. "Why didn't I think of that?" he questioned.