Full dark,no stars (37 page)

Thats harsh, Henderson said. You know youre apt to relapse, dont you?

Tell that to the tumors, Streeter said. The ones that are no longer there.

Henderson looked at the images of Deepest Darkest Streeter that were still flicking past at twenty-second intervals on the conference rooms monitor and sighed. They were good pictures, even Streeter knew that, but they seemed to make his doctor unhappy.

Relax, Roddy. Streeter spoke gently, as he might once have spoken to May or Justin when a favorite toy got lost or broken. Shit happens; sometimes miracles happen, too. I read it in the Readers Digest.

In my experience, one has never happened in an MRI tube. Henderson picked up a pen and tapped it against Streeters file, which had fattened considerably over the last three months.

Theres a first time for everything, Streeter said.

Thursday evening in Derry; dusk of a summer night. The declining sun casting its red and dreamy rays over the three perfectly clipped, watered, and landscaped acres Tom Goodhugh had the temerity to call the old backyard. Streeter sat in a lawn chair on the patio, listening to the rattle of plates and the laughter of Janet and Norma as they loaded the dishwasher.

Yard? Its not a yard, its a Shopping Channel fans idea of heaven.

There was even a fountain with a marble child standing in the middle of it. Somehow it was the bare-ass cherub (pissing, of course) that offended Streeter the most. He was sure it had been Normas idea-she had gone back to college to get a liberal arts degree, and had half-assed Classical pretensions-but still, to see such a thing here in the dying glow of a perfect Maine evening and know its presence was a result of Toms garbage monopoly

And, speak of the devil (or the Elvid, if you like that better, Streeter thought), enter the Garbage King himself, with the necks of two sweating bottles of Spotted Hen Microbrew caught between the fingers of his left hand. Slim and erect in his open-throated Oxford shirt and faded jeans, his lean face perfectly lit by the sunset glow, Tom Goodhugh looked like a model in a magazine beer ad. Streeter could even see the copy: Live the good life, reach for a Spotted Hen.

Thought you might like a fresh one, since your beautiful wife says shes driving.

Thanks. Streeter took one of the bottles, tipped it to his lips, and drank. Pretentious or not, it was good.

As Goodhugh sat down, Jacob the football player came out with a plate of cheese and crackers. He was as broad-shouldered and handsome as Tom had been back in the day. Probably has cheerleaders crawling all over him, Streeter thought. Probably has to beat them off with a damn stick.

Mom thought you might like these, Jacob said.

Thanks, Jake. You going out?

Just for a little while. Throw the Frisbee with some guys down in the Barrens until it gets dark, then study.

Stay on this side. Theres poison ivy down there since the crap grew back.

Yeah, we know. Denny caught it when we were in junior high, and it was so bad his mother thought he had cancer.

Ouch! Streeter said.

Drive home carefully, son. No hot-dogging.

You bet. The boy put an arm around his father and kissed his cheek with a lack of self-consciousness that Streeter found depressing. Tom not only had his health, a still-gorgeous wife, and a ridiculous pissing cherub; he had a handsome eighteen-year-old son who still felt all right about kissing his dad goodbye before going out with his best buds.

Hes a good boy, Goodhugh said fondly, watching Jacob mount the stairs to the house and disappear inside. Studies hard and makes his grades, unlike his old man. Luckily for me, I had you.

Lucky for both of us, Streeter said, smiling and putting a goo of Brie on a Triscuit. He popped it into his mouth.

Does me good to see you eating, chum, Goodhugh said. Me n Norma were starting to wonder if there was something wrong with you.

Never better, Streeter said, and drank some more of the tasty (and no doubt expensive) beer. Ive been losing my hair in front, though. Jan says it makes me look thinner.

Thats one thing the ladies dont have to worry about, Goodhugh said, and stroked a hand back through his own locks, which were as full and rich as they had been at eighteen. Not a touch of gray in them, either. Janet Streeter could still look forty on a good day, but in the red light of the declining sun, the Garbage King looked thirty-five. He didnt smoke, he didnt drink to excess, and he worked out at a health club that did business with Streeters bank but which Streeter could not afford himself. His middle child, Carl, was currently doing the European thing with Justin Streeter, the two of them traveling on Carl Goodhughs dime. Which was, of course, actually the Garbage Kings dime.

O man who has everything, thy name is Goodhugh, Streeter thought, and smiled at his old friend.

His old friend smiled back, and touched the neck of his beer bottle to Streeters. Life is good, wouldnt you say?

Very good, Streeter agreed. Long days and pleasant nights.

Goodhugh raised his eyebrows. Whered you get that?

Made it up, I guess, Streeter said. But its true, isnt it?

If it is, I owe a lot of my pleasant nights to you, Goodhugh said. It has crossed my mind, old buddy, that I owe you my life. He toasted his insane backyard. The tenderloin part of it, anyway.

Nah, youre a self-made man.

Goodhugh lowered his voice and spoke confidentially. Want the truth? The woman made this man. The Bible says Who can find a good woman? For her price is above rubies. Something like that, anyway. And you introduced us. Dont know if you remember that.

Streeter felt a sudden and almost irresistible urge to smash his beer bottle on the patio bricks and shove the jagged and still foaming neck into his old friends eyes. He smiled instead, sipped a little more beer, then stood up. Think I need to pay a little visit to the facility.

You dont buy beer, you only rent it, Goodhugh said, then burst out laughing. As if he had invented this himself, right on the spot.

Truer words, et cetera, Streeter said. Excuse me.

You really are looking better, Goodhugh called after him as Streeter mounted the steps.

Thanks, Streeter said. Old buddy.

He closed the bathroom door, pushed in the locking button, turned on the lights, and-for the first time in his life-swung open the medicine cabinet door in another persons house. The first thing his eye lighted on cheered him immensely: a tube of Just For Men shampoo. There were also a few prescription bottles.

Streeter thought, People who leave their drugs in a bathroom the guests use are just asking for trouble. Not that there was anything sensational: Norma had asthma medicine; Tom was taking blood pressure medicine-Atenolol-and using some sort of skin cream.

The Atenolol bottle was half full. Streeter took one of the tablets, tucked it into the watch-pocket of his jeans, and flushed the toilet. Then he left the bathroom, feeling like a man who has just snuck across the border of a strange country.

The following evening was overcast, but George Elvid was still sitting beneath the yellow umbrella and once again watching Inside Edition on his portable TV. The lead story had to do with Whitney Houston, who had lost a suspicious amount of weight shortly after signing a huge new recording contract. Elvid disposed of this rumor with a twist of his pudgy fingers and regarded Streeter with a smile.

How have you been feeling, Dave?

Better.

Yes?

Yes.

Vomiting?

Not today.

Eating?

Like a horse.

And Ill bet youve had some medical tests.

How did you know?

Id expect no less of a successful bank official. Did you bring me something?

For a moment Streeter considered walking away. He really did. Then he reached into the pocket of the light jacket he was wearing (the evening was chilly for August, and he was still on the thin side) and brought out a tiny square of Kleenex. He hesitated, then handed it across the table to Elvid, who unwrapped it.

Ah, Atenolol, Elvid said. He popped the pill into his mouth and swallowed.

Streeters mouth opened, then closed slowly.

Dont look so shocked, Elvid said. If you had a high-stress job like mine, youd have blood pressure problems, too. And the reflux I suffer from, oy. You dont want to know.

What happens now? Streeter asked. Even in the jacket, he felt cold.

Now? Elvid looked surprised. Now you start enjoying your fifteen years of good health. Possibly twenty or even twenty-five. Who knows?

And happiness?

Elvid favored him with the roguish look. It would have been amusing if not for the coldness Streeter saw just beneath. And the age. In that moment he felt certain that George Elvid had been doing business for a very long time, reflux or no reflux. The happiness part is up to you, Dave. And your family, of course-Janet, May, and Justin.

Had he told Elvid their names? Streeter couldnt remember.

Perhaps the children most of all. Theres an old saying to the effect that children are our hostages to fortune, but in fact its the children who take the parents hostage, thats what I think. One of them could have a fatal or disabling accident on a deserted country road fall prey to a debilitating disease

Are you saying-

No, no, no! This isnt some half-assed morality tale. Im a businessman, not a character out of The Devil and Daniel Webster. All Im saying is that your happiness is in your hands and those of your nearest and dearest. And if you think Im going to show up two decades or so down the line to collect your soul in my moldy old pocketbook, youd better think again. The souls of humans have become poor and transparent things.

He spoke, Streeter thought, as the fox might have done after repeated leaps had proved to it that the grapes were really and truly out of reach. But Streeter had no intention of saying such a thing. Now that the deal was done, all he wanted to do was get out of here. But still he lingered, not wanting to ask the question that was on his mind but knowing he had to. Because there was no gift-giving going on here; Streeter had been making deals in the bank for most of his life, and he knew a horse-trade when he saw one. Or when he smelled it: a faint, unpleasant stink like burned aviation fuel.

In words of one syllable, you have to do the dirty to someone else if the dirty is to be lifted from you.

But stealing a single hypertension pill wasnt exactly doing the dirty. Was it?

Elvid, meanwhile, was yanking his big umbrella closed. And when it was furled, Streeter observed an amazing and disheartening fact: it wasnt yellow at all. It was as gray as the sky. Summer was almost over.

Most of my clients are perfectly satisfied, perfectly happy. Is that what you want to hear?

It was and wasnt.

I sense you have a more pertinent question, Elvid said. If you want an answer, quit beating around the bush and ask it. Its going to rain, and I want to get undercover before it does. The last thing I need at my age is bronchitis.

Wheres your car?

Oh, was that your question? Elvid sneered openly at him. His cheeks were lean, not in the least pudgy, and his eyes turned up at the corners, where the whites shaded to an unpleasant and-yes, it was true-cancerous black. He looked like the worlds least pleasant clown, with half his makeup removed.

Your teeth, Streeter said stupidly. They have points.

Your question, Mr. Streeter!

Is Tom Goodhugh going to get cancer?

Elvid gaped for a moment, then started to giggle. The sound was wheezy, dusty, and unpleasant-like a dying calliope.

No, Dave, he said. Tom Goodhugh isnt going to get cancer. Not him.

What, then? What?

The contempt with which Elvid surveyed him made Streeters bones feel weak-as if holes had been eaten in them by some painless but terribly corrosive acid. Why would you care? You hate him, you said so yourself.

But-

Watch. Wait. Enjoy. And take this. He handed Streeter a business card. Written on it was THE NON-SECTARIAN CHILDRENS FUND and the address of a bank in the Cayman Islands.

Tax haven, Elvid said. Youll send my fifteen percent there. If you short me, Ill know. And then woe is you, kiddo.

What if my wife finds out and asks questions?

Your wife has a personal checkbook. Beyond that, she never looks at a thing. She trusts you. Am I right?

Well Streeter observed with no surprise that the raindrops striking Elvids hands and arms smoked and sizzled. Yes.

Of course I am. Our dealing is done. Get out of here and go back to your wife. Im sure shell welcome you with open arms. Take her to bed. Stick your mortal penis in her and pretend shes your best friends wife. You dont deserve her, but lucky you.

What if I want to take it back, Streeter whispered.

Elvid favored him with a stony smile that revealed a jutting ring of cannibal teeth. You cant, he said.

That was in August of 2001, less than a month before the fall of the Towers.

In December (on the same day Winona Ryder was busted for shoplifting, in fact), Dr. Roderick Henderson proclaimed Dave Streeter cancer-free-and, in addition, a bona fide miracle of the modern age.

I have no explanation for this, Henderson said.

Streeter did, but kept his silence.

Their consultation took place in Hendersons office. At Derry Home Hospital, in the conference room where Streeter had looked at the first pictures of his miraculously cured body, Norma Goodhugh sat in the same chair where Streeter had sat, looking at less pleasant MRI scans. She listened numbly as her doctor told her-as gently as possible-that the lump in her left breast was indeed cancer, and it had spread to her lymph nodes.

The situation is bad, but not hopeless, the doctor said, reaching across the table to take Normas cold hand. He smiled. Well want to start you on chemotherapy immediately.