Electric Blue (22 page)

The hallways were covered in commercial carpet, and as I was in the Blue Wing, everything was blue. There were signs on the doors with the patients’ names. Some of the doors were ajar, and I glanced in to see elderly men and women watching television from chairs and beds. They didn’t notice me.

The employees all wore sage green short-sleeve shirts and pants with name tags. They smiled at me as I cruised the halls, clearly unconcerned to have me around.

In my wanderings I found a set of locked doors. I punched in the code and was admitted to the Alzheimer’s wing. The color here was yellow. A number of patients sat in chairs in the hallway. Others wandered restlessly, talking to themselves, sometimes almost marching. Hands reached out and touched the fabric of my skirt as I passed. “Nice,” one woman said. A male patient continually rattled the handles to the door at the end of the hall that led outside. Staring out the window, he said, “She went there. She went there. She went there…”

I left quickly, returning to the main facility through the same door I’d entered after punching in 1,2,3,4 again. I looked around, making sure nobody walked out with me, then I headed toward the main part of the building, following a sign on the wall that pointed to reception and administration. Administration, okay, but I sure as hell didn’t want to leave the inner sanctum and face the pinch-faced receptionist again. As I headed toward the front of the building, I found the jog in the hallway that led to the administrative offices.

I hesitated a moment, wondering what story I could cook up. As I stood there, a man came around the corner, nearly running into me. “Whoa,” he said, holding out a hand to keep from barreling into me.

“Hi.” I kind of laughed.

“Sorry,” he apologized. “Are you lost? Reception’s back that way.” He hooked a thumb toward the front of the building. He was sandy-haired, a tad pudgy, sporting a nice smile. His tag read Dr. Cal Bergin, and his eyes lingered on me as he added, “Unless…I can help you?”

A godsend. I gave him my best smile. “I was just wanting to talk about River Shores. Do you mind? Are you busy?”

He glanced at his watch, but it was all for show. “Come on in.”

He led me into a rabbit warren of offices, walking briskly as if he didn’t want any of the administrative staff, mostly young women, asking him any questions. I took note of the partitioned areas. Computer monitors sat on almost every desk, whether they were manned or not. I wish I were better with electronics in general, computers in particular. I’d love to be an ace hacker. The information available at the press of a few buttons is mind-boggling. What I did know was human nature, and I would bet money that, if given fifteen minutes alone at one of those cubicles, I would be able to find the passwords and/or User IDs needed to access the system. I’d learned from someone I knew in the medical field that many hospitals, clinics and institutions make their personnel change their passwords every six months for security reasons. And you aren’t allowed to use any password you’ve used before. This being the case, those passwords cannot be committed to memory. They’re scratched down on a piece of paper somewhere, or hidden in a book, or taped to the inside of a drawer, but they’re just waiting for someone to discover them.

“What can I help you with Ms…?”

“Kellogg,” I said, reaching a hand across his desk. We shook hands and I smoothed my skirt and sat down. “Call me Veronica. Actually, call me Ronnie.”

“I’m Cal,” he said.

“I know the Purcell family,” I said, trying out the name on him. It didn’t immediately click, which was a plus in my mind. Around Portland you can practically assume everyone’s heard of the Purcells, but start heading toward the suburbs and beyond, and they’re not as well known. “They’ve spoken highly of River Shores. I believe it was called Haven of Rest once?”

“Oh, way back. It was changed over thirty years ago.”

“That’s about right, then. One of the Purcell daughters was a patient here for a few years when she was in her teens.”

“Our facility’s known for its young adult treatment. We also handle alcohol-and drug-related problems, which, unfortunately, are a major part of the teen culture.”

“But also, more serious ailments…?” I was groping, struggling to find a way to ask for the information I sought. “Schizophrenia?”

“Yes.” He looked properly sober. “Schizophrenia often manifests itself at the young adult stage.”

“Actually, I believe Lily’s problems were depression related.” More utter bullshit. I was running blind. “My own sister suffers from depression as well. I was wondering, do you still have the records for Lily Purcell? I’m not asking to see them,” I said hurriedly. “I’m just feeling my way here, trying to determine if River Shores is the best facility for her.”

“Oh, I’m certain you’ll find River Shores one of the best institutions in the state. I’ve been here for five years.”

“Is it possible for you to check the files on Lily?” I gestured toward the computer.

“That long ago, her records wouldn’t be on computer. They’d be stored in our records room.”

“Records room,” I repeated.

“All the old files are in the basement. Some newer ones, as well. I could go down and check your friend’s file, but I wouldn’t be able to give any information to you. It would have to be a member of the family.” He gazed at me a little uncertainly.

“Oh, don’t worry about it,” I gushed. “My friends just didn’t seem to have saved any of the records, and since I was in the area I thought I’d drop in and check out things for myself. If I need more information, I’ll ask them to contact River Shores. Should I have them ask for you?”

“Sure.”

I got up hurriedly and extended my hand. I hoped I hadn’t overplayed my part.

Cal shook my hand, looking like he wanted to linger, but I headed out of the administration offices and back toward the party, my eyes peeled for stairways leading downward. I was nearly to the open doors to the backyard and Geraldine’s big event when I found the stairs. There was no second story on the building, so these had to head to the basement.

I actually stepped outside for a moment, letting everyone think I was just another party member. The birthday party itself was winding down. Junior had frosting smeared across his sweater-vest. He was chasing another little boy and shooting at him with his thumb and forefinger. The other little boy was shrieking with laughter and “firing” back at him. A sugar high. With weapons.

Heading back inside, I was just starting for the stairs when a woman jumped in front of me, surprising me. I stopped short. She wore a pair of brown polyester pants that covered a round belly, and a loose top smeared with pink frosting and white cake. Her gray hair was crumpled on one side, as if she’d just gotten up from a nap. Her mouth was open and her tongue lay on her bottom lip. Her eyes were rolling around in her head like marbles. In one hand she clasped the
NINETY
-
NINE YEARS YOUNG
! Mylar balloon; in the other the serving knife.

With growing dread, I reheard my discussion with Cal Bergin about schizophrenia. Maybe that wasn’t what it was, but something was definitely not okay with her.

I saw again the Alzheimer’s patient at the door.
She went out there…she went out there…she went out there…

And Junior shouting at the top of his lungs:
1, 2, 3, 4. That’s the code for the door!

Despite the smeared icing, this was no party guest. And the way she held the knife, her fist wrapped around it tightly, did not convince me her intentions were benign.

“Excuse me,” I said, my eyes on the knife.

For an answer she jabbed it at me. I backed away quickly. My brain sizzled. What?
What?
I sensed she was simply reacting. She had no particular animosity toward me. That made it even scarier. No logic. No way to convince her to stop.

She lunged again. I danced to one side, my shoulder hitting the wall. She came charging again and I jumped the other way. There was no finesse. No art. She came at me, bullish and direct. Noises were issuing from my throat. Feral noises, full of fear. She hauled back and lifted the blade high.
Whoosh!
I twisted, but she caught a bit of my ponytail. My breath came out in gasps. I jumped away, but she charged. I stepped to one side and she slammed into me with her shoulder, sending me reeling. Pushing off the wall, I faced her, desperately dancing out of her murderous path. I wanted back outside but she caught my intention and leaped at me again. I slammed myself toward the opposite wall and she was on me. I kicked and she sliced, this time catching the side of my ear.

That
hurt!

I was suddenly furious at the fates. Furious at myself. Furious at Dwayne!
Damn you, Dwayne
, I thought. Damn you for talking me into this! I knew better than to ever think I could be an information specialist!

“You—get—out—of—
here!
” she shrieked.

In the distance I heard running footsteps. “Gina!” someone yelled. “Gina, where are you?”

“Say a word and I’ll kill you!” she whispered harshly. Her eyes wouldn’t stay focused.

For an answer I screamed as loud as I could, a shrieking siren of a wail. Green-suited employees ran our way, pounding down the corridors. Gina glanced around and I shoved her for all I was worth. She stumbled forward, hand clutching the knife, slicing wildly at the arriving employees. Everybody backed off.

Outside, there was pandemonium at the party. My scream had sent them into panic mode. One quick glance out of the side of my eye and I saw the guests were scattering across the lawn.

In a moment all hell would break loose. Questions, recriminations, God knew what else. I didn’t want any part of it. Without consciously planning it, I simply slipped down the stairs and left Gina, now growling like a beast, in the somewhat capable hands of the frightened River Shores staff.

Sometimes I surprise myself. I really do. I wouldn’t call myself a cool head in times of trouble. I’m certainly not overly emotional and reactive, but I don’t think of myself as someone who can make calm choices in times of extreme upset.

However, it was as if I’d choreographed the whole thing. Swallowing back my anger at Dwayne, I hurried down the steps to the basement and simply strode toward the doors at the end of the hall. My heartbeat was light and fast; more adrenaline. A brief search led me to the records room. I fully expected the door to be locked and it was, but it was one of those winky, rattly door locks that says nobody gives a rat’s ass whether it stays shut or not. I opened it with one hard kick.

No one was about. The whole basement smelled forgotten. If there’d been anyone on this level, the commotion upstairs had undoubtedly brought them to the surface. I strolled in, switched on the fluorescent lights, and took a look around.

The room was a large rectangle with several thick concrete posts holding it up in the center. Metal shelving ran from ceiling to floor around the perimeter, and there were more shelves lined up in the center of the room as well. It was like a poor man’s library, cold, vacant and bare. Manila files, some in protective plastic sleeves, some not, took up every bit of available space. Nearby were stacks of computer disks. Everything was dated, so it was easy to pluck whatever information was needed without a lot of searching.

I had a pretty good idea when Lily Purcell had been a patient here, so I scanned the dates covering that five-year period around her incarceration. Within each year the files were listed alphabetically. The gods of fortune must have been smiling upon me because I came across Lily’s file within five minutes.

In the back of my mind was the idea of simply lifting it. I’d given Dr. Bergin a hell of a lot of information about whom I was looking for, and he might be able to finger me should something backfire, but he didn’t know my name, and honestly, I was in a strange state of exhilaration where I didn’t much care anyway.

I scanned the file. It was filled with copious writings about Lily’s day-to-day pharmaceutical and nutritional intake. I considered that she might have been heavily drugged, but that didn’t appear to be the case.

The doctors’ notes were strange. I could swear they seemed stilted, careful, as if they were overly concerned about who would view them. Maybe families just don’t want to know how unhinged one of their members might be. Maybe that’s what all the euphemisms were about, such as “low-spirited”—read depression for that—or “not engaged”—sounds like antisocial to me—or—“passive and quiet”—could be catatonia.

But then I read a passage that made me silently say, “
What?
” to the empty room. I read it again, then heard approaching footsteps. Quickly I slipped the file behind my back and pressed myself to the wall, heart thumping.

Someone entered the room. I closed my eyes and prayed it wasn’t Dr. Bergin. I was pretty much tapped out of explanations, and I was just too tired to come up with something new.

When my hiding place wasn’t immediately discovered, I carefully peeked through the racks. It was a young, green-suited woman, and she was gazing down at the pile of CDs. After a moment, she hauled up quite a stack of them, staggering under the weight. She tried to slam the door shut behind her but it was impossible with what she was carrying. If she noticed the splintered wood beside the lock, she didn’t react.