They followed her into the next room. The house was cluttered with cardboard boxes stacked up and piles of unread, folded newspapers and magazines and what looked to be insurance and medical papers. Dust had accumulated on every surface that Pine could see. Two large oxygen tanks sat in holders against one wall, along with a portable oxygen concentrator that was connected to the line attached to Atkins’s cannula; there were also boxes of tubing and what looked to be a CPAP machine on a table. Two aluminum walkers were perched against a wall. A blood pressure monitor hung on a stand, and a gurney with collapsible sides was set against another wall. Prescription bottles lined one table and sat next to an elongated pill dispenser organized by days of the week. The dispenser’s bins were chock-full of pills.
It looked like an ICU room in the suburbs.
Strapped into a wheelchair was, Pine assumed, Len Atkins. His bald head and withered body listed to one side, his tongue was hanging out, and he was drooling onto a bib tied around his neck. He looked like the roughened shell of a human being nearing its expiration date.
Atkins poured some liquid from a brown bottle into a small measuring cup, eyeing the dosage carefully, and then poured that into a glass of water. She then placed a straw in the glass.
“Len? It’s time, sweetie. You need to drink this.”
Len perked up a bit, his gaze running around the room until it found his wife standing right in front of him. She put the straw in his mouth and he started to suck on it. It took about a minute but he got the liquid down. She wiped his mouth and put the glass down.
She turned to them and said in a very low voice, “He had a stroke last year. The doctors say this is as good as he’s going to be. He can’t walk or talk or do much of anything else, really. I think he can understand most things. We have an aide that comes in four times a week. But on days she’s not here, it’s tough. Most times I get the lady next door to help. She’s in her thirties and very strong. And I’m not without disabilities, either.” She glanced at the oxygen tank. “I have pretty bad COPD. Please, God, never pick up a cigarette. It’s not pretty. And I’m ashamed to say I still can’t kick the nicotine habit. But what the hell does it matter now?”
Pine said, “Well, with all this oxygen around, it might matter a lot if some of it leaks.”
“That’s why I vape. No need for matches. We can leave Len here if you want. And talk in the kitchen about Joe.”
“You said he can understand things?” said Pine.
“Yes.”
“Then if you don’t mind, I’d prefer that he listen in.”
Atkins stiffened at this remark, but raised no objection.
CHAPTER
15
PINE SHIFTED STACKS OF PAPERS and mail out of the way to make room for her and Blum to sit. Atkins perched on a piano bench in front of an old, scarred upright, its row of white keys yellowed by time, too much sunlight, and lack of care.
“Now what’s this about Joe?”
“We’ve been to your old trailer in Georgia,” began Pine. “It’s full of snakes.”
She scowled. “I’m not surprised. We didn’t even bother to sell it. We just left. Nobody would have wanted that thing. Over the years we got all new furniture.”
“And you moved here about, what, eighteen or so years ago?”
“Something like that. Look, what is this about?” she added sharply.
“It’s about this.” Pine took something out of her pocket. It was the photo of Len and Wanda Atkins and Mercy that Pine had found in the attic of Ito Vincenzo’s beach house in New Jersey.
She held it up for Atkins to see. The woman blinked rapidly and then let out a little gasp, her shaky hand going to her quivering lips.