Life in Death by Harlow Drake Read Free Book Online

could live so well?"
    “The common thread seems to be these foster kids,” Nicolet said.
    “It’s time we paid the Frosts another visit. We need to talk to those kids without Ms.-butter-won’t-melt-in-my-fucking-mouth Andrea Frost there.”

CHAPTER 8
    The nursing home always smelled of ammonia, urine, and God knew what else. Nicolet walked over to the visitor’s log to sign in as some of the residents milled about the foyer aimlessly or stared at the door with hopeful looks on their faces. Others played games or watched TV in an adjacent room.
    Ferrell Stuart, the clinic administrator for Shady Brooke Manor, peered over the front desk. She pushed black-rimmed glasses further up her nose and frowned. “Your father’s had another episode.”
    “What happened this time?” Nicolet asked.
    “He physically attacked a female resident… Mrs. Palmer. He called her Carmen and accused her of adultery.”
    That wasn’t a good sign.
    “Carmen was my mother’s name. She’s been dead for over ten years now.”
    Ferrell sighed. “I’m afraid your dad’s condition has gotten worse.”
    Here it comes….
    “We can’t keep him at this facility any longer. We’re not equipped to handle someone with your dad’s particular issues. I suggest you transfer him to Pinewood.”
    He’d already researched Pinewood Living Center and other nursing homes like it. They specialized in dementia patients like his dad. He knew it would come to this eventually.
    His dad had been an abusive, philandering drunk. The first time Nicolet's dad had beaten him he was nine and had stepped in to defend his mom against his dad's fist. When he was fifteen he finally fought back. The beatings stopped.
    Nicolet didn’t feel sorry for the man, not one bit. In fact, he deserved much worse.
    “Please make arrangements as soon as you can. I’m sorry.” She grimaced and turned away.
    Nicolet went to his father’s room and found him seated in a worn, green recliner, in front of the TV, glued to an old western. His grizzled hair looked like it desperately needed a wash and he had about a week’s work of beard growth. “Hey there, Dad.”
    “What do you want, you miserable son-of-a-bitch?” His father glared at him. His face reddened in anger.
    “Dad, it’s me–Rance.” He entered the room and leaned against the dresser.
    “I know who you are. What the hell do you want?”
    At least his father’s response to him hadn’t changed.
    “I came to check on you. How are you doing today?”
    “Just peachy. They had to pull me off that bitch mother of yours. You know she slept with my best friend. I knew I shouldn’t have married that whore.” His dad turned his attention to the TV. Clint Eastwood pulled his gun from his holster.
    “Mom’s dead.”
    His dad got up, went to the closet, and withdrew a tattered, brown suitcase. He placed the bag next to the recliner and sat.
    “I’m ready to go home,” the old man said, more as a statement than a request.
    Nicolet shook his head. “We talked about this. I can’t bring you home.”
    “They watch me when they think I’m asleep. I can feel their beady eyes on me. They steal my stuff, too. Bastards. When can I come home?”
    Nicolet took a deep breath. “You have to stay here.”
    “I want to go home. I want to go home,” his dad chanted as he rocked back and forth in the old recliner.
    “You have to stay here. We talked about this.”
The old man jumped up and dashed toward Nicolet.
    “Bastard.” His father grabbed him by the throat with more strength than Nicolet could have imagined for a 73-year-old man. Nicolet seized his dad’s fingers and pried them loose just as two orderlies rushed in and took hold of the old man’s arms. A nurse followed and gave him a shot. Minutes later, a glaze came over his eyes. The orderlies released their grip and helped his dad get onto his bed.
    His condition had deteriorated, as Ferrell said.
    Nicolet went to the bed and looked into the old man’s