Sorrow Road (Bell Elkins #5) - Julia Keller Page 0,42
felt after most contacts, on the phone or in person, with Steve Black. But she could not show it. Alienating a fellow prosecutor would only make life harder for her; there was always a fair bit of horse-trading and deal-making and favor-granting between country prosecutors, with goodwill as the necessary emollient.
And so she had headed on out to the Terrace—not exactly with Black’s blessing, but at least he’d been notified.
Bell parked her Explorer in the second row of spaces. She backed in, so that she would be facing the facility. There were only three other vehicles in the lot. They probably belonged to staffers, she thought. In this weather, the number of visitors surely suffered a precipitous downturn.
Arms squared over the steering wheel, she took a moment to appraise the exterior. The main building was a large two-story redbrick box with decorative white shutters framing the second-floor windows, apparently to give it a homey touch. There was a smaller, one-story structure off to one side, also brick. It was linked to the main building by a winding concrete path that had been shovel-cleared; the strokes were still visible in the frosty residue glittering in the muted winter sunshine. A sign indicated it was a skilled nursing and rehab adjunct to Thornapple Terrace. A third structure on the other side, much less grand, appeared to be a maintenance shed.
Overhanging the main entrance was a dark green awning that jutted out at least two car widths, with the letters TT in swirling white on the front. If anyone was being dropped off or picked up here, they would be protected from the elements. Indeed, protection seemed to be the real cornerstone of the place, Bell decided. The bricks rose in straight rows, the edges met in sharp points, the roof was weather-tight. Quiet calmness prevailed. It was all very tasteful, and orderly, and civilized.
Yet on this day, a day of bone-white sky and insinuating cold, the Terrace also had a mildly sinister feel, as if rampant unruliness lurked just out of sight, waiting to break ranks and smash through all that carefulness, all that neatness, all that steady poise. Most people were brought here against their wills, angry and confused, by family members at the end of their tether. Their minds were disintegrating, piece by piece, like that early morning fog as the day advanced, and the internal violence of the loss—the terrible whirling flight of reason, the fleeing of memory—should somehow be palpable, Bell thought. There should be panic radiating from the outer walls like a heat signature on an infrared map. No one ought to give up the core of themselves without a struggle. No one should let the memories go without a fight.
But the fury and the desperation were all subdued, struck down by time and by futility and by the very fact of institutionalization—the dull soothing sameness of routine. Bell had a rough idea of what she would see on the inside of the Terrace. She would see women and men in baggy clothes shuffling slowly through carpeted corridors. Their faces would be blank. Their eyes would be like clear lakes in the wilderness, reflecting the sky above but not the depths below. There were no depths below. Not anymore.
Bell hated the idea that someone could be defeated by something as miniscule as plaques and tangles in the brain, that memories could be stripped away, layer by layer, until the only thing left was a spongy once-bedrock of nothingness. A wiser part of her, however, understood that it was not a matter of defeat, or of weakness. It was not a matter of will. It was just what happened.
She opened the double doors.
A receptionist behind a circular wooden counter looked up, offering Bell a neutral face. The lobby was otherwise deserted; no one sat on the couch or chairs. That surprised Bell, even considering the weather. Fifty-seven people lived here, she had learned from her research, and you’d think at least a few of them would have visitors waiting to see them. Or be walking through the lobby themselves. Then she reminded herself that this was not a regular nursing home. It was a place for people with Alzheimer’s. She saw the thick green metal door leading to the hallway, and the keypad on the wall next to the door. There would be an identical keypad on the other side, Bell knew. The code was usually simple—1,2,3,4—but it was enough to keep vulnerable residents inside.