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.
1
SATURDAY, APRIL 24
“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.”