“Has Doe Troutman gotten a second opinion on any of these cases?”
“Nearest other doctor is sixty miles away,” Sam said. “He did call the State Health Authority yesterday afternoon, asked for one of their field men to come up and have a look. But they can’t send anyone until Monday. I guess they can’t get very excited about an epidemic of night chills.”
“The chills could be the tip of an iceberg.”
“Could be. But you know bureaucrats.” When he saw Paul glance at Rya and Mark again, Sam said, “Look, don’t worry about it. We’ll keep the kids away from everyone who’s sick.”
“I was supposed to take Jenny up the street to Ultman’s Cafe. We were going to have a nice quiet dinner together.”
“If you catch the flu from a waitress or another customer, you’ll pass it on to the kids. Skip the cafe. Have dinner here. You know I’m the best cook in Black River.”
Paul hesitated.
Laughing softly, stroking his beard with one hand, Sam said, “We’ll have an early dinner. Six o’clock. That’ll give you and Jenny plenty of time together. You can go for a ride later. Or
I’ll keep myself and the kids out of the den if you’d rather just stay home.”
Paul smiled. “What’s on the menu?”
“Manicotti.”
“Who needs Ultman’s Cafe?”
Sam nodded agreement. “Only the Ultmans.”
Rya and Mark hurried over to get Sam’s approval of the gifts they had chosen for themselves. Mark had two dollars’ worth of comic books, and Rya had two paperbacks. Each of them had small bags of candy.
Rya’s blue eyes seemed especially bright to Paul, as if there were lights behind them. She grinned and said, “Daddy, this is going to be the best vacation we’ve ever had!”
2
Thirty-one Months Earlier:
Friday, January 10, 1975
OGDEN SALSBURY ARRIVED ten minutes early for his three o’clock appointment. That was characteristic of him.
H. Leonard Dawson, president and principal stockholder of Futurex International, did not at once welcome Salsbury into his office. In fact Dawson kept him waiting until three fifteen. That was characteristic of him. He never allowed his associates to forget that his time was inestimably more valuable than theirs.
When Dawson’s secretary finally ushered Salsbury into the great man’s chambers, it was as if she were showing him to the altar in a hushed cathedral. Her attitude was reverent. The outer office had Muzak, but the inner office had pure silence. The room was sparsely furnished: a deep blue carpet, two somber oil paintings on the white walls, two chairs on this side of the desk, one chair on the other side of it, a coffee table, rich blue velvet drapes drawn back from seven hundred square feet of lightly tinted glass that overlooked midtown Manhattan. The secretary bowed out almost like an altar boy retreating from the sanctuary.
“How are you, Ogden?” He reached out to shake hands.
“Fine. Just fine-Leonard.”
Dawson’s hand was hard and dry; Salsbury’s was damp.
“How’s Miriam?” He noticed Salsbury’s hesitation. “Not ill?”
“We were divorced,” Salsbury said.
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
Was there a trace of disapproval in Dawson’s voice? Salsbury wondered. And why the hell should I care if there is?
“When did you split up?” Dawson asked.
“Twenty-five years ago-Leonard.” Salsbury felt as if he ought to use the other man’s last name rather than his first, but he was determined not to be intimidated by Dawson as he had been when they were both young men.
“It has been a long time since we’ve talked,” Dawson said. “That’s a shame. We had so many great times together.”
They had been fraternity brothers at Harvard and casual friends for a few years after they left the university. Salsbury could not remember a single “great” time they might have shared. Indeed, he had always thought of the name H. Leonard Dawson as a synonym for both prudery and boredom.
“Have you remarried?” Dawson asked.
Dawson frowned. “Marriage is essential to an ordered life. It gives a man stability.”
“You’re right,” Salsbury said, although he didn’t believe it. “I’ve been the worse for bachelorhood.”
Dawson had always made him uneasy. Today was no exception.