It seemed even emptier now.
There’s something pathetic about the ease with which a room gives up its owner. Especially when it was someone who’d lived over a century.
The door across the hall creaked open. A withered man with a large liver spot on his forehead peeked out at me.
“Dan?” he said.
“No.”
“Dan, is that you, Dan?”
“No, my name’s Tom. I’m not Dan.”
“Oh.” Suddenly at sea, he retreated behind a door festooned with faded children’s drawings.
I walked in and sat down on Belinda’s old bed.
Hello, Mom. It’s Benjy. Happy birthday. I forgive you.
On the way out, I ran into Mr. Birdwell.
Literally.
I was walking with my head down, kind of mesmerized by the alternating black and white tiles in the linoleum floor, and bumped straight into him as he turned the corner of the hallway.
He didn’t seem pleased.
“What are you doing here?”
“I needed to check something.”
“Check what?”
“Whether I could get in without anyone knowing.”
Mr. Birdwell looked even less pleased than before. He folded his arms and stared at me as if I were one of his elderly charges who’d been caught disobeying a home rule. Snatching an extra cookie at snack time, or pinching a nurse’s bottom.
“Now that wasn’t very smart of you.”
“Why not?”
“For one thing, that’s trespassing. I explained that you have to register at the front desk. For another thing, you didn’t get in here without anyone knowing, did you?”
“Well, I didn’t get out without anyone knowing. I’m not sure that’s the same thing. Getting in was kind of easy.”
“To what purpose? You mind telling me that?”
“I’m not doing an exposé on nursing home security, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“Why don’t you let me decide what I’m worried about? You broke into my home and I’d like to know why.”
“Isn’t ‘broke’ a little dramatic? The back door was open.”
“You entered without permission.” Mr. Birdwell was getting flustered. His cheeks had reddened; he was rocking back and forth on his heels. “You think we can have anyone just walk into a nursing home filled with sick and frightened people?”
“Exactly.”
“Exactly what?”
“You can have anyone walk in. I just did.”
“We’re talking in circles here, Mr. Valle.”
“I wanted to know if Belinda Washington might’ve had a visitor you didn’t know about. You said it wasn’t possible. I wanted to see if it was. That’s all.”
“What visitor?”
“I don’t know. But she had one.”
“Great. Bravo. I’m sure you’re on your way to a Pulitzer. On the other hand, the halls of journalism aren’t exactly ringing with your praises these days, Mr. Valle, are they?”
He smiled. That was the worst part, really-the smile. Not that he knew, not that he’d looked me up or talked to Swenson or bumped into Hinch and knew, but that smugly superior smile.
I had no answer for that smile. None.
Once upon a time, my dad bought me a Hardy Boys crime-detection magnifying glass on the last birthday we celebrated as a family. After he left, I would sit outside in the searing afternoon sun and train the glass on my naked palm until blisters formed and I couldn’t stand the pain.
That’s what Mr. Birdwell’s smile felt like on my quickly retreating back. It burned a hole in me.
FOURTEEN
Where was I?
I’m losing track here.
Maybe because I’ve eaten once in the last two days. Make that three days-I’m not sure. I’m all out of Nabisco crackers-that’s the sad truth. No more Tostitos or Jolly Ranchers or beef jerky, provisions scored from my last foraging expedition to 7-Eleven, when I emerged from the motel room wearing Ray-Bans and a cowboy hat and scared the 7-Eleven clerk half to death. When I pulled out my loose cash, she looked relieved that it wasn’t a gun.
I have to take precautions.
They’re looking for me. I am a marked man.
Where was I?
Finding the note?
I’ve been through that, correct? The note from Benjy, complete with postscript greetings from the mysterious Kara. Kara Bolka. Who’s this Kara anyway? Benjy’s wife? His girlfriend?
Hold on. Be patient. Soon enough you’ll know who Kara Bolka is. You’ll know who everyone is. Soon enough you’ll know about the accident, about everything. The dead will all stand up and take a bow.
Not yet.
I need to pick up the thread.
To sew things up nicely and neatly, even professionally.
My journalism professor used to say that every reporter has one great story in them.
This is mine.
I told you about the note. I distinctly remember telling you about it.
Happy hundred birthday.
Love, Benjy.
Greetings from Kara Bolka.
Like a haiku.
Haikus may read simple, but they’re infused with mystery.
Wait.
Did I mention my Miata? That it broke down?
No, not the first time, at the bowling alley.
The second time, four blocks away from the nursing home.
FIFTEEN
I was driving, then I wasn’t.
The engine went dead, and the car lurched to the side of the street like the victim of a stroke.
I was pissed off on two counts.
No car and no air-conditioning.
It was wicked hot.
On the other hand, at least I had a chance. Something about a loose coil wire, Anna had said. I had a clue.
I lifted up the sizzling hood and looked inside with a vague sense of hope. I zeroed in on the place I’d seen Anna poking around. Sure enough, there it was-a loose wire hanging out of the fuselage.
I managed to reconnect it. I was about to shut the hood when I noticed the words written on my transmission cover. I believe it’s a transmission cover.
Someone’s finger had traced the letters through the built-up grime.
It was an SN. Screen name, for those of you who haven’t yet joined the Internet generation.
AOL: Kkraab.
Anna had left me the modern equivalent of her phone number.
I thought that was kind of cute. Okay, more than that.
I’m not going to pretend casual indifference. I hadn’t had a woman I liked like me for a while. It had been a long time between watering holes-a bedouin expression.
I was parched.
When I got back home, I tried it out. I signed onto AOL, where I was known as Starreport, a screen moniker I’d taken before Ken Starr spent 80 million taxpayer dollars investigating oral sex. Also before my own actions made a derivation of star reporter farcical in the extreme.
I’d never bothered to change it.
The profile for Kkraab read as follows:
Name: Anna Graham.
Location: The State of Confusion and occasional Kkrabbiness.
Gender: Guess.
Marital Status: Isn’t that an oxymoron?
Hobbies and Interests: I play the conundrums.
Occupation: Yes.
Her personal quote was a song lyric from one Robert Zimmerman, a.k.a. Bob Dylan: You better start swimming or you’ll sink like a stone.
It was hard to resist a profile like that-especially her homage to one of the seminal songs of the twentieth century, a personal favorite of mine already safely ensconced in my iPod.
I checked to see if Kkraab was currently online. She wasn’t.
I sent her an e-mail.
At least, I attempted to. I tried to strike the right balance between casual friendliness and raging lust. To do so in a manner that seemed remotely intelligent and witty.