"He sure did," Traynor said.

"And with Sherwood?" Calhoun said.

"Who have you been talking with?" Traynor asked.

"Just a handful of townsfolk," Calhoun said. "I understand Dr. Cantor said some unflattering things about Hodges too."

"I can't remember," Traynor said. "But Cantor hadn't liked Hodges for years."

"How come?" Calhoun asked.

"Hodges took over radiology and pathology for the hospital," Traynor said. "He wanted the hospital to accrue the windfall profits those departments generated from equipment the hospital owned."

"What about you?" Calhoun asked. "I've heard you weren't fond of Dr. Hodges either."

"I already told you," Traynor said. "He was a pain in the ass. It was hard enough trying to run the hospital without his continual interference."

"I heard it was something personal," Calhoun said. "Something about your sister."

"My, your sources are good," Traynor said.

"Just town gossip," Calhoun said.

"You're right," Traynor said. "It's no secret. My sister Sunny committed suicide after Hodges pulled her husband's hospital privileges."

"So you blamed Hodges?" Calhoun asked.

"More then than now," Traynor said. "Hell, Sunny's husband was a drunkard. Hodges should have taken away his privileges before he had a chance to cause real harm."

"One last question," Calhoun said. "Do you know who killed Dr. Hodges?"

Traynor laughed, then shook his head. "I haven't the slightest idea, and I don't care. The only thing I care about is the effect his death might have on the hospital."

Calhoun stood up and stubbed out his cigar in an ashtray on the corner of Traynor's desk.

"Do me a favor," Traynor said. "I've made it easy for you. I didn't have to tell you anything. All I ask is that you not make a big deal about this Hodges affair. If you find out who did it and plan to expose the individual, let me know so the hospital can make some plans with respect to publicity, especially if the killer has anything to do with the hospital. We're already dealing with a public relations problem on another matter. We don't need to be blindsided by something else."

"Sounds reasonable," Calhoun said.

After Traynor showed Calhoun out, he returned to his desk, looked up Clara Hodges' Boston number, and dialed.

"I wanted to ask you a question," he said after the usual pleasantries. "Are you familiar with a gentleman by the name of Phil Calhoun?"

"Not that I recall," Clara said. "Why do you ask?"

"He was just in my office," Traynor explained. "He's a private investigator. He was here to ask questions about Dennis. He implied that he'd been retained by the family."

"I certainly haven't hired any private investigator," Clara said. "And I cannot imagine anyone else in the family doing so either, especially without my knowing about it."

"I was afraid of that. If you hear anything more about this guy, please let me know."

"I certainly will," Clara said.

Traynor hung up the phone and sighed. He had the unpleasant feeling that more trouble was corning. Even beyond the grave, Hodges was a curse.

"You've got one more patient," Susan said as she handed David the chart. "I told her to come right in. She's one of the nurses from the second floor."

David took the chart and pushed into the examining room. The nurse was Beverly Hopkins. David knew her vaguely; she was on nights.

"What's the problem?" David asked with a smile.

Beverly was sitting on the examining table. She was a tall, slender woman with light brown hair. She was holding a kidney dish Susan had given her for nausea. Her face was pale.

"I'm sorry to bother you, Dr. Wilson," Beverly said. "I think it's the flu. I would have just stayed home in bed, but as you know, we're encouraged to come and see you if we're going to take time off."

"No problem," David said. "That's what I'm here for. What are your symptoms?"

The symptoms were similar to those of the other four nurses: general malaise, mild GI complaints, and low-grade fever. David agreed with Beverly's assessment. He sent her home for bed rest, telling her to drink plenty of fluids and take aspirin as needed.

After finishing up at the office, David headed over to the hospital to see his patients. As he walked, he began to mull over the fact that the only people he'd seen with the flu so far were nurses, and all five had been from the second floor.

David stopped in his tracks. He wondered if it were a coincidence that the nurses were all from the same floor, the same floor where all his mortally ill patients had been. Of course, ninety percent of the patients went to the second floor. But David thought it strange that no nurses from the OR or the emergency room were coming down with this flu.

David recommenced walking, and as he did so his thoughts returned to the possibility that his patients had died from an infectious disease contracted in the hospital. The flu-like symptoms the nurses were experiencing could be related. Using a dialectic approach, David posed himself a question: what if the nurses who were generally healthy got a mild illness when exposed to the mysterious disease, but patients who'd had chemotherapy and, as a result, had mildly compromised immune systems, got a fulminating and fatal illness?

David thought his reasoning was valid, but when he tried to think of some known illness that fit this bill, he couldn't come up with any. The disease would have to affect the GI system, the central nervous system, and the blood, yet be difficult to diagnose even for an expert in the field like Dr. Martin Hasselbaum.

What about an environmental poison, David wondered. He remembered Jonathan's symptom of excessive salivation. The complaint had made David think of mercury. Even so, the idea of some poison being involved seemed farfetched. How would it be spread? If it were airborne, then many more people would have come down with symptoms than four patients and five nurses. But still, a poison was a possibility. David decided to reserve judgment until he received the toxicology results on Mary Ann.

Quickening his pace, David climbed to the second floor. What patients he had left were doing well. Even Donald didn't require much attention although David did adjust his insulin dosage again.

When he was finished with his rounds, David went down to the first floor to search the lab for Angela. He found her in the chemistry area trying to solve a problem with one of the multi-track analyzers.

"Are you finished already?" Angela asked, catching sight of David.

"For a change," David said.

"How's Eakins?" Angela asked.

"I'll tell you later," David said.

Angela looked at him closely. "Is everything all right?"

"Hardly," David said. "But I don't want to talk about it now."

Angela excused herself from the laboratory tech with whom she was working and took David aside.

"I had a little surprise when I got in here this morning," she said. "Wadley hit the ceiling about my doing the autopsy."

"I'm sorry," David said.

"It's not your fault," Angela said. "Wadley is just being an ass. His ego has been bruised. But the problem is, he's refused to allow any of the specimens to be processed."

"Damn," David said. "I really wanted the toxicology done."

"No need to worry," Angela said. "I sent the toxicology and cultures to Boston. I'm going to do the slides. In fact, I'll stay tonight to do them. Will you make dinner for you and Nikki?"

David told her he'd be happy to.

David was relieved to get out of the hospital. It was exhilarating to ride his bike through the crisp New England air. He felt disappointed the trip was over as he peddled up the driveway.

After sending Alice home, David enjoyed spending time with Nikki. The two of them worked out in the yard until darkness drove them inside. While Nikki did her homework, David made a simple meal of steak and salad.