“Sure,” Van Slyke said.
“Thank you, Werner,” Traynor said. “Why don’t you go over to the bar and have a beer while we finish chatting with Dr. Hodges.” Van Slyke returned to his place by the fire.
“You know that old expression,” Traynor said, ” ‘People in glass houses . . .’ ”
“Shut up!” Hodges snapped. He started to say something else but stopped himself. Instead he stalked from the room in a fit of frustrated anger, grabbed his coat and hat, and plunged out into the snowy night.
“You old fool,” Hodges muttered as he headed south out of town. He was furious at himself for allowing a “perk” to derail momentarily his indignation about patient care. Yet it was true that hospital maintenance had been taking care of his grounds. It had started years ago. The crew had simply shown up one day. Hodges had never asked for the service, but he’d never done anything to stop it, either.
The long walk home in the frosty night helped dampen Hodges’ guilt about the yard service. After all, it didn’t have anything to do with patient care. As he turned into his unplowed driveway he resolved to offer to pay some reasonable figure for the services rendered. He wasn’t about to allow this affair to stifle his protest about more serious matters.
When Hodges reached the midpoint of his long driveway he could see down into the lower meadow. Through the blowing snow he could just make out the fence that he’d erected to keep Sherwood’s horses from crossing his property. He’d never sell that strip of land to that bastard. Sherwood had gotten the second piece of land on a foreclosure of a family whose breadwinner had been one of Hodges’ patients. In fact, he was one of the patients whose hospital admission summary Hodges had in his pocket.
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.