An animal moved in the underbrush.
Overhead, above the canopy of trees, a hawk screamed.
Suddenly the summer forest seemed much too dark, too dense, too wild: sinister.
You’re being foolish, he thought. You’re no fortune teller. You’re no clairvoyant.
Nevertheless, he hurried along the winding path, anxious to catch up with Mark and Rya.
At 11:15 that morning, Dr. Walter Troutman was at the big mahogany desk in his surgery. He was eating an early lunch- two roast beef sandwiches, an orange, a banana, an apple, a cup of butterscotch pudding, and several glasses of iced tea- and reading a medical journal.
As the only physician in Black River, he felt that he had two primary responsibilities to the people in the area. The first was to be certain that, in the event of a catastrophe at the mill or some other medical crisis, he would never find himself undernourished and in want of energy to fulfill his duties. The second was to be aware of all developments in medical techniques and theory, so that the people who came to him would receive the most modern treatment available. Scores of satisfied patients- and the reverence and affection with which the whole town regarded him-testified to his success in meeting his second responsibility. As for the first, he stood five eleven and weighed two hundred and seventy pounds.
When an overweight patient, in the middle of one of the doctor’s lectures, had the temerity to mention Troutman’s own excess poundage, he was always countered with the same joke. “Obese? Me?” Troutman would ask, clearly astonished. “This isn’t fat I’m carrying. It’s stored energy, ready to be tapped if there’s ever a catastrophe up at the mill.” Then he would continue his lecture.
In truth, of course, he was an almost compulsive eater and had been all of his life. By the time he was thirty, he had given
up dieting and psychotherapy as truly lost causes. The same year, having been guaranteed a handsome stipend by the Big Union Supply Company, he had come to Black River where the people were so pleased to have a doctor of their own that they didn’t care if he was fat, thin, white, black, or green. For twenty years now, he had been accommodating his compulsion, stuffing himself with cakes and cookies and pies and five square meals a day; and in sum he felt that his life held more enjoyment than that of any other man he knew.
As he was about to enjoy it even more, as he was picking up the second roast beef sandwich, the telephone rang. He considered not answering it. But he was the kind of doctor who went out on house calls at any hour of the day or night. Even lunch had to be put aside if a patient needed help. He picked up the receiver. “Hello?”
“Dr. Troutman?”
“Yes.”
The voice on the other end of the line was cold and sharp. “I am the key, Dr. Troutman.”
“I am the lock,” Troutman said without hesitation.
“Are you alone in the house?”
“Yes.”
“Where is your nurse, Miss MacDonald?”
“I don’t know. At home, I suppose.”
“When will she be coming to work?”
“Half an hour before the office opens.”
“And the office opens at one thirty?”
“That’s correct,” Troutman said.
“Are you expecting anyone else before one o’clock?”
“No. No one.”
The stranger was silent for a moment.
Troutman listened to his desk clock ticking. He glanced at the food laid out on a linen napkin in front of him, picked a Sliver of roast beef from the sandwich, and ate it quickly like a fish taking a fly.
When the man on the other end of the line had decided on his approach, he said, “I’m going to ask you a number of important questions, doctor. You will give me complete answers to the best of your ability.”
“Yes, of course.”
“Have you recently had an epidemic of any sort in Black River?”
“Yes, we have.”
“Of what?”
“Night chills.”
“Explain what you mean by that term, doctor.”
“Severe chills, cold sweats, nausea but without vomiting-and the resultant insomnia.”
“When were the first cases reported to you?”