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.