Devil's Plaything - Matt Richtel [16]
I hesitate. Could it be a virus? Or more information than I can handle?
I click to open the file.
A new message appears. It tells me that the file I’ve tried to download is password protected. It asks for my user name and password.
“Give me a break.”
I use the same ones that got me this far; no go. I make several attempts to guess at a user name and password. Nothing takes.
The best thing I can do at this point, I realize, is show the thumb drive to Bullseye. He’s a computer expert and can tell me if there’s a way to get around the password or determine the user name.
I call Magnolia Manor to check on Grandma. The nurse transfers me to the office of Vince, the jerk who runs the assisted-living facility.
“Hello, Vince. Why wasn’t I put through to my grandmother’s room? What’s going on?”
“You tell me, Mr. Idle.”
“Vince, I’m coming over there right now. I need to know now if she’s safe.”
“I’m not the one endangering her,” he responds.
“What the hell does that mean?” Even under less stressful conditions than these, officious Vince has a way of pinning my sense of humanity and humor to the ground, then putting it in a choke hold.
He explains that Grandma woke up agitated and mumbling.
“You want to tell me what happened last night?” he asks.
“Did Lane say something happened?”
“I’m inferring that you had an incident in the park.”
“Is that what she said, Vince?”
He laughs. “This is precisely what I expect from a Sunday Irregular.”
I have no idea what he means or why he’s attacking.
“I can handle you being a jerk but I’d prefer if you at least make sense,” I say.
“You think you can show up here every other weekend, tell her about your meager career conquests, play an occasional game of Scrabble, and get credit for caring for her, or knowing how to?”
“Vince, I’m not paying you for shitty psychoanalysis.”
“Did you suddenly start paying me?”
At last, I think, I understand what is eating Vince.
“Truce,” I say. “Please, Vince.”
I take his silence as assent.
“We were attacked by a stranger,” I say.
“Attacked? In the park?”
“In a grove, an open field, while we were walking.”
“Was she hurt?”
I explain that the cops came, and checked her out, and determined we didn’t need an ambulance.
“Did they catch the guy?” he asks.
“No.” I make a mental note to call the police and get an update.
“Did you get a good look at him?”
“No,” then add after a pause. “Why do you ask?”
He laughs again. “I care about the people who live here—their safety is everything to me.”
“I would’ve told you about it last night, Vince. But . . .” I pause, then continue . . . “you weren’t around.”
I’m struck with the most paranoid thought that Vince, so tired of my late payments, has decided to kill off the Idle clan.
“I was away on business,” he says.
I decide to take that at face value and move to the more pressing issue.
“You said my grandmother is agitated. What was she saying?” I ask.
He tells me that the nurse said Lane had at first refused to come to the recreation room with her friends. When the nurse pressed Grandma, she’d said something about being afraid to go to the park. Then she’d mumbled something about a bluebird.
“Bluebird? In the park, she referred to a man in blue.”
“Odd. Also, someone named Adrianna,” he says. “Something about ‘Adrianna not breathing.’ Is that a family member?”
I don’t respond. I’m processing two questions: Have I heard of an Adrianna? And, again, why is Vince taking such a keen interest? Does he often do that, with 250 elderly people to look after?
“I’ll be in shortly,” I finally say. “Keep her safe.”
“What are you suggesting?”
“Vince, sixty percent of people with dementia have a tendency to wander off.” I’m trying to mask the depth of my paranoia.
“I’ve never lost one, Mr. Idle.”
We hang up.
I dial Pauline. No answer. I text her: “Call me re package.”
From my creased brown wallet, I retrieve the card for Officer Everly, the pockmarked cop who attended us yesterday in the park. I consider the warning from the mystery stick: No police. I dial Officer Everly. At least I can ask