Robin Cook - Fatal Cure_玖贝云文库

Robin Cook

Fatal Cure(1993)

____________________________________________________________

PROLOGUE

February seventeenth was a fateful day for Sam Flemming.

Sam considered himself an extremely lucky person. As a broker far 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.

____________________________________________________________

THURSDAY,

MARCH 18

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.”

Robin Cook - Fatal Cure

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