Robin Cook: Fatal Cure

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.

"We're coming to a river up ahead," David Wilson said to his daughter, Nikki, who was sitting in the passenger seat next to him. "Do you know what its name is?"

Nikki turned her mahogany eyes toward her father and pushed a wisp of hair to the side. David hazarded a glance in her direction, and with the help of the sunlight coming through the windshield, he caught some of the subtle spokes of yellow that radiated from her pupils through her irises. They were matched with strands of honey in her hair.

"The only rivers I know," Nikki said, "are the Mississippi, the Nile, and the Amazon. Since none of them are here in New England, I'll have to say I don't know."

Neither David nor his wife, Angela, could suppress a giggle.

"What's so funny?" Nikki demanded indignantly.

David looked into the rearview mirror and exchanged knowing glances with Angela. Both were thinking the same thought, and they had spoken of it often: Nikki frequently sounded more mature than expected for her chronological age of eight. They considered the trait an endearing one, indicative of her intelligence. At the same time, they realized their daughter was growing up faster than she might otherwise have because of her health problems.

"Why did you laugh?" Nikki persisted.

"Ask your mother," David said.

"No, I think your father should explain."

"Come on, you guys," Nikki protested. "That's not fair. But I don't care if you laugh or not because I can find the name of the river myself." She took a map from the glove compartment.

"We're on Highway 89," David said.

"I know!" Nikki said with annoyance. "I don't want any help."

"Excuse me," David said with a smile.

"Here it is," Nikki said triumphantly. She twisted the map on its side so she could read the lettering. "It's the Connecticut River. Just like the state."

"Right you are," David said. "And it forms the boundary between what and what?"

Nikki looked back at the map for a moment. "It separates Vermont from New Hampshire."

"Right again," David said. And then, gesturing ahead, he added: "And here it is."

They were all quiet as their blue, eleven-year-old Volvo station wagon sped over the span. Below the water roiled southward.

"I guess the snow is still melting in the mountains," David said.

"Are we going to see mountains?" Nikki asked.

"We sure are," David said. "The Green Mountains."

They reached the other side of the bridge where the highway gradually swung back toward the northwest.

"Are we in Vermont now?" Angela asked,

"Yes, Mom!" Nikki said with impatience.

"How much further to Bartlet?" Angela asked.

"I'm not quite sure," David said. "Maybe an hour."

An hour and fifteen minutes later the Wilsons ' Volvo passed the sign reading: "Welcome to Bartlet, Home of Bartlet College."

David let up on the accelerator and the car slowed. They were on a wide avenue aptly called Main Street. The street was lined with large oaks. Behind the trees were white clapboard homes. The architecture was a potpourri of colonial and Victorian.

"So far it looks story-bookish," Angela said.

"Some of these New England towns look like they belong in Disney World," David said.

Angela laughed. "Sometimes I think you feel a replica is better than an original."

After a short drive the homes gave way to commercial and civic buildings which were constructed mostly of brick with Victorian decorations. In the downtown area stood rows of three- and four-story brick structures. Engraved stone plaques announced the year each was constructed. Most of the dates were either late nineteenth century or early twentieth.

"Look!" Nikki said. "There's a movie theater." She pointed at a shabby marquee announcing a current movie in large block letters. Next to the movie theater was a post office with a tattered American flag snapping in the breeze.

"We're really lucky with this weather," Angela remarked. The sky was pale blue and dotted with small, puffy white clouds. The temperature was in the high sixties.