gently as he could. "Without a notice in the paper, you'll have to call people.”
Her shoulders hunched slightly and the fingers that reached for the doorknob shook. "I know," she said.
And was gone.
The younger Mr. Hutchinson sank back down into his chair and rubbed at his temples. "Recognizing there's nothing you can do to help," he told a potted palm with a sigh, "has got to be the hardest part of this business.”
The old neighborhood had gotten smaller. The vast expanse of backyard behind the corner house at Division and Quebec Streets that she'd grown up envying had somehow shrunk to postage stamp size. The convenience store at Division and Pine had become a flower shop and the market across from it, where at twelve she'd argued her way into her first part-time job, was gone. The drugstore still stood at York Street but, where it had once seemed a respectable distance away, Vicki now felt she could reach out and touch it.
Down on Quebec Street, not even the stump remained of the huge maple that had shaded the Thompson house and not even the spring sunlight could erase the shabby, unlived in look of the whole area.
Standing in the front parking lot of the sixteen-unit apartment building they'd moved to when her father's departure had lost them the house in Collins Bay, Vicki wondered when it had happened. She'd been back any number of times in the last fourteen years, had been back not so long before and had never noticed such drastic changes.
Maybe because the one thing I came back for never changed. . . .
She couldn't put it off any longer.
The security door had been propped open. A security door protects nothing unless it's closed and locked. If I told her once I told her . . . I told her . . . The reinforced glass trembled but held as she slammed it shut and stumbled down the half flight of stairs to her mother's apartment.
"Vicki? Ha, I should've known it was you slamming doors.”
"The security door has to be kept closed, Mr. Delgado." She couldn't seem to get her key into the lock.
"Ha, you, always a cop. You don't see me bringing my work home." Mr. Delgado came a little farther into the hall and frowned.
"You don't look so good, Vicki. You okay? Your mother know you're home?”
"My mother . . ." Her throat closed. She swallowed and forced herself to breathe. So many different ways to say it. So many different gentle euphemisms, all meaning the same thing. "My mother . . . died this morning.”
Hearing her own voice say the words, finally made it real.
"Dr. Burke? It's Donald.”
Dr. Burke pulled her glasses off and rubbed at one temple with the heel of her hand. "Donald, at the risk of sounding clichéd, I thought I told you not to call me here.”
"Yeah, you did, but I just thought you should know that Mr. Hutchinson has gone to get the subject.”
"Which Mr. Hutchinson?”
"The younger one.”
"And he'll be back?”
"In about an hour. There's no one else here, so he's going to start working on it immediately.”
Dr. Burke sighed. "When you say no one else, Donald, do you mean staff or clients?”
"Clients. All the staff are here; the old Mr. Hutchinson and Christy.”
"Very well. You know what to do.”
"But . , .”
"I'll see to it that the interruptions occur. All you have to worry about is playing your assigned role. This is vitally important to our research, Donald. It could bring final results and their accompanying rewards practically within our grasp.”
She could hear his grin over the phone as he broadly returned the cliché circumstances demanded. "I won't let you down, Dr.
Burke.”
"Of course you won't." She depressed the cutoff with her thumb and contacted the lab. "Catherine, I've just heard from Donald.
You've got a little more than an hour.”
"Well, I've got number eight on dialysis right now, but he shouldn't take much more than another forty minutes.”
"Then you'll have plenty of time. Call me just before you arrive and I'll have
Her shoulders hunched slightly and the fingers that reached for the doorknob shook. "I know," she said.
And was gone.
The younger Mr. Hutchinson sank back down into his chair and rubbed at his temples. "Recognizing there's nothing you can do to help," he told a potted palm with a sigh, "has got to be the hardest part of this business.”
The old neighborhood had gotten smaller. The vast expanse of backyard behind the corner house at Division and Quebec Streets that she'd grown up envying had somehow shrunk to postage stamp size. The convenience store at Division and Pine had become a flower shop and the market across from it, where at twelve she'd argued her way into her first part-time job, was gone. The drugstore still stood at York Street but, where it had once seemed a respectable distance away, Vicki now felt she could reach out and touch it.
Down on Quebec Street, not even the stump remained of the huge maple that had shaded the Thompson house and not even the spring sunlight could erase the shabby, unlived in look of the whole area.
Standing in the front parking lot of the sixteen-unit apartment building they'd moved to when her father's departure had lost them the house in Collins Bay, Vicki wondered when it had happened. She'd been back any number of times in the last fourteen years, had been back not so long before and had never noticed such drastic changes.
Maybe because the one thing I came back for never changed. . . .
She couldn't put it off any longer.
The security door had been propped open. A security door protects nothing unless it's closed and locked. If I told her once I told her . . . I told her . . . The reinforced glass trembled but held as she slammed it shut and stumbled down the half flight of stairs to her mother's apartment.
"Vicki? Ha, I should've known it was you slamming doors.”
"The security door has to be kept closed, Mr. Delgado." She couldn't seem to get her key into the lock.
"Ha, you, always a cop. You don't see me bringing my work home." Mr. Delgado came a little farther into the hall and frowned.
"You don't look so good, Vicki. You okay? Your mother know you're home?”
"My mother . . ." Her throat closed. She swallowed and forced herself to breathe. So many different ways to say it. So many different gentle euphemisms, all meaning the same thing. "My mother . . . died this morning.”
Hearing her own voice say the words, finally made it real.
"Dr. Burke? It's Donald.”
Dr. Burke pulled her glasses off and rubbed at one temple with the heel of her hand. "Donald, at the risk of sounding clichéd, I thought I told you not to call me here.”
"Yeah, you did, but I just thought you should know that Mr. Hutchinson has gone to get the subject.”
"Which Mr. Hutchinson?”
"The younger one.”
"And he'll be back?”
"In about an hour. There's no one else here, so he's going to start working on it immediately.”
Dr. Burke sighed. "When you say no one else, Donald, do you mean staff or clients?”
"Clients. All the staff are here; the old Mr. Hutchinson and Christy.”
"Very well. You know what to do.”
"But . , .”
"I'll see to it that the interruptions occur. All you have to worry about is playing your assigned role. This is vitally important to our research, Donald. It could bring final results and their accompanying rewards practically within our grasp.”
She could hear his grin over the phone as he broadly returned the cliché circumstances demanded. "I won't let you down, Dr.
Burke.”
"Of course you won't." She depressed the cutoff with her thumb and contacted the lab. "Catherine, I've just heard from Donald.
You've got a little more than an hour.”
"Well, I've got number eight on dialysis right now, but he shouldn't take much more than another forty minutes.”
"Then you'll have plenty of time. Call me just before you arrive and I'll have
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