"Nancy Kress - Evolution" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kress Nancy)

"I'm sure." I take the clothespins off Sean's t-shirt. The front says
SEE DICK DRINK. SEE DICK DRIVE. SEE DICK DIE. "Ceci, Jackie is not on any
antibiotics."
"Good thing," Ceci says, and for a moment she studies her fingernails,
very casual. "They say Dr. Bennett prescribed endozine again last week. For
the youngest Nordstrum boy. _Without_ sending him to the hospital."
I don't answer. The back of Sean's t-shirt says DON'T BE A DICK.
Irritated by my silence, Ceci says, "I don't see how you can let your son wear
that obscene clothing!"
"It's his choice. Besides, Ceci, it's a health message. About not
drinking and driving. Aren't you the one that thinks strong health messages
are a good thing?"
Our eyes lock. The silence lengthens. Finally Ceci says, "Well,
haven't _we_ gotten serious all of a sudden."
I say, "Murder is serious."
"Yes. I'm sure the cops will catch whoever did it. Probably one of
those scum that hang around the Rainbow Bar."
"Dr. Bennett wasn't the type to hang around with scum."
"Oh, I don't mean he _knew_ them. Some low-life probably killed him
for his wallet." She looks straight into my eyes. "I can't think of any
other motive. Can you?"
I look east, toward the river. On the other side, just visible over
the tops of houses on its little hill, rise the three stories of Emerton
Soldiers and Sailors Memorial Hospital. The bridge over the river was blown
up three weeks ago. No injuries, no suspects. Now anybody who wants to go to
the hospital has to drive ten miles up West River Road and cross at the
interstate. Jack told me that the Department of Transportation says two years
to get a new bridge built.
I say, "Dr. Bennett was a good doctor. And a good man."
"Well, did anybody say he wasn't? Really, Betty, you should use your
dryer and save yourself all that bending and stooping. Bad for the back.
We're not getting any younger. Ta-ta." She waves her right hand, just a
waggle of fingers, and walks off. Her nails, I notice, are painted the
delicate fragile pinky white of freshly unscabbed skin.
****
"You have no proof," Jack says. "Just some wild suspicions."
He has his stubborn face on. He sits with his Michelob at the kitchen
table, dog-tired from his factory shift plus three hours overtime, and he
doesn't want to hear this. I don't blame him. I don't want to be saying it.
In the living room Jackie plays Nintendo frantically, trying to cram in as
many electronic explosions as she can before her father claims the TV for
Monday night football. Sean has already gone out with his friends, before his
stepfather got home.
I sit down across from Jack, a fresh mug of coffee cradled between my
palms. For warmth. "I know I don't have any proof, Jack. I'm not some
detective."
"So let the cops handle it. It's their business, not ours. You stay
out of it."
"I am out of it. You know that." Jack nods. We don't mix with cops,
don't serve on any town committees, don't even listen to the news much. We