Robin Cook - Fatal Cure

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.