Jane Haddam - Gregor Demarkian 12 - Fountain of Death by Jane Haddam Page A
Authors: Jane Haddam
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tired. There wasn’t enough light out here and he was afraid of the dark.
“Nigger nigger jungle bunny,” the man behind the counter screamed out after him.
The words went bounding around the brick and concrete and old dry-wood, getting bigger and bigger, louder and louder, until no other sound seemed to be possible in the universe.
Nick Bannerman was standing alone on a street corner at the end of his perfect day, feeling like he wanted to get his hands around the neck of the next white person he saw, and squeeze and squeeze and squeeze until he heard the neck bones snap.
6
C HRISTIE MULLIGAN HAD BEGUN to develop a phobia for her telephone. It had started one week ago today, and now—at nine thirty on the night of Monday, December 6—it had grown into legendary wackiness, so that she couldn’t even pick up the receiver when she knew that the voice on the other end was going to be somebody she wanted to hear. Nine thirty on Monday nights was when Christie’s boyfriend called her from his dorm at the University of Chicago. That was the time they had both decided would be optimal, since it was a time when neither one of them expected ever to have anything else they wanted to do. Monday nights were dead boring in New Haven. Everybody had gotten over their weekend hangovers and gone back to work. Out in the common room, Christie Mulligan’s suitemates were quizzing each other for an anthropology test that was supposed to take place at the end of the week. Christie was taking the same anthropology course. She ought to be out there with them, instead of lying here on her bed listening to the phone ring and ring and ring but not answering it.
“Christie?” Tara’s voice, coming through the door, muffled. “Christie, are you all right? Your phone’s ringing.”
“I’m fine,” Christie said. “I don’t want to answer it.”
Consultation out in the common room. More muffled words, so muffled they were indecipherable. “Okay,” Tara said finally. “As long as we know you’re all right.”
“I’m fine,” Christie said again.
Her hand went to her chest, under her sweater, under her turtleneck, under the skimpy little bra she wore because she was so small-breasted she didn’t really need a bra at all. The lump was still there, in her left breast, just where it had been two weeks ago when she had gone in to see the doctor. It was less like a lump than a marble, planted just underneath the skin. It was a hard round ball that seemed to move when Christie touched it, but never went away.
“This does not have to be the end of the world,” Dr. Hornig had said, one week ago, when the biopsy results came back. “Breast cancer is a curable condition as long as you catch it early enough to do something about it right away.”
“Did we catch it early enough?” Christie asked.
“Yes,” Dr. Hornig said. “We’re going to have to put you on radiation after the operation, but yes. But Christie, we have to do something about this right away .”
Breast cancer.
I can’t have breast cancer, Christie thought now. I’m too young to have it. Breast cancer happens to women who have been through menopause.
The phone was sitting on a big black steamer trunk Christie had brought to Yale from her room at home in Bellmare, Ohio. The steamer trunk had belonged to Christie’s mother when she was a student at Vassar in the early 1970s. Christie’s mother had died of breast cancer at the age of twenty-seven, when Christie was five.
The phone stopped ringing. Christie thought of David out there in Chicago, feeling half annoyed and half anxious because Christie had broken their covenant. That was what David always called what was going on between them. A covenant. David’s family were very religious Jews, and David like to give a biblical perspective to everything he could.
Now that the phone was quiet, it was too quiet. Christie sat up and wondered if she should call David back. Then she wondered what she would
“Nigger nigger jungle bunny,” the man behind the counter screamed out after him.
The words went bounding around the brick and concrete and old dry-wood, getting bigger and bigger, louder and louder, until no other sound seemed to be possible in the universe.
Nick Bannerman was standing alone on a street corner at the end of his perfect day, feeling like he wanted to get his hands around the neck of the next white person he saw, and squeeze and squeeze and squeeze until he heard the neck bones snap.
6
C HRISTIE MULLIGAN HAD BEGUN to develop a phobia for her telephone. It had started one week ago today, and now—at nine thirty on the night of Monday, December 6—it had grown into legendary wackiness, so that she couldn’t even pick up the receiver when she knew that the voice on the other end was going to be somebody she wanted to hear. Nine thirty on Monday nights was when Christie’s boyfriend called her from his dorm at the University of Chicago. That was the time they had both decided would be optimal, since it was a time when neither one of them expected ever to have anything else they wanted to do. Monday nights were dead boring in New Haven. Everybody had gotten over their weekend hangovers and gone back to work. Out in the common room, Christie Mulligan’s suitemates were quizzing each other for an anthropology test that was supposed to take place at the end of the week. Christie was taking the same anthropology course. She ought to be out there with them, instead of lying here on her bed listening to the phone ring and ring and ring but not answering it.
“Christie?” Tara’s voice, coming through the door, muffled. “Christie, are you all right? Your phone’s ringing.”
“I’m fine,” Christie said. “I don’t want to answer it.”
Consultation out in the common room. More muffled words, so muffled they were indecipherable. “Okay,” Tara said finally. “As long as we know you’re all right.”
“I’m fine,” Christie said again.
Her hand went to her chest, under her sweater, under her turtleneck, under the skimpy little bra she wore because she was so small-breasted she didn’t really need a bra at all. The lump was still there, in her left breast, just where it had been two weeks ago when she had gone in to see the doctor. It was less like a lump than a marble, planted just underneath the skin. It was a hard round ball that seemed to move when Christie touched it, but never went away.
“This does not have to be the end of the world,” Dr. Hornig had said, one week ago, when the biopsy results came back. “Breast cancer is a curable condition as long as you catch it early enough to do something about it right away.”
“Did we catch it early enough?” Christie asked.
“Yes,” Dr. Hornig said. “We’re going to have to put you on radiation after the operation, but yes. But Christie, we have to do something about this right away .”
Breast cancer.
I can’t have breast cancer, Christie thought now. I’m too young to have it. Breast cancer happens to women who have been through menopause.
The phone was sitting on a big black steamer trunk Christie had brought to Yale from her room at home in Bellmare, Ohio. The steamer trunk had belonged to Christie’s mother when she was a student at Vassar in the early 1970s. Christie’s mother had died of breast cancer at the age of twenty-seven, when Christie was five.
The phone stopped ringing. Christie thought of David out there in Chicago, feeling half annoyed and half anxious because Christie had broken their covenant. That was what David always called what was going on between them. A covenant. David’s family were very religious Jews, and David like to give a biblical perspective to everything he could.
Now that the phone was quiet, it was too quiet. Christie sat up and wondered if she should call David back. Then she wondered what she would
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