Page 42 of A Handsome Devil

“Okay. We’ll just go have a little talk with Dr. Bridgewater. We really think you’re on the wrong medication.”

Now Pickett became obstinate. “But I like that stuff! It makes me happy and kills the pain in my feet!”

Erin said, “There are other medications that can do that. Let’s see if we can get Dr. Bridgewater to change your meds.”

Pickett literally harrumphed, sticking out his lower lip and refusing to look at us. We had a nurse take him back to his room, grunting the whole way, and set out for the so-called doctor’s office.

Erin said, “If he likes the fentanyl so much, how are we going to convince him it’s bad?”

“There must be something about it he doesn’t like. Dizzy or headaches.”

I noticed Erin frowning at a food delivery bag lying alongside the wall in the hallway. Something round and black was sticking out of it, like a bowling ball. She muttered, “What the . . . ?” and bent over to gingerly lift the bag. When she jumped back like a ninja, I grabbed her upper arms.

And went to see what it was.

A mummy. An actual fucking mummy. Pickett wasn’t kidding. Someone had been dragging this mummy around the facility, and that was all right with Bridgewater. The eye sockets were empty of course, but ball joints stuck out every which way, and crooked teeth demonstrated bad dental hygiene. I wondered if the owner could manipulate it, or was it stuck in this position?

“Oh, God,” I whispered to Erin as we huddled together. “This place just gets worse and worse. Let’s go confront this dingus.”

We sat in the waiting room for fifteen minutes as various relatives shuffled in and out. I heard one couple mumbling to each other.

“Do you really think Dad’s better?”

“He seems happier…”

“I don’t know. Something’s off about him.”

When we were ushered in, I was shocked to see a fortyish bald guy with pierced ears tapping away at his keyboard. Bridgewater seemed trendy, as though preparing to play a bloodied, flesh-eating goon in a film. Then again, I could see where people trusted him. A button-up sort of guy with a tie, his cufflinks told of some swank alma mater. Or he got them from Goodwill.

We sat silently until he was done typing. He did so with a flourish, turning to us with a blinding smile. “So! You are nephew and niece of Pickett Yarborough. An outstanding fellow. Did you ever go see any of his plays in New York City?”

Of course we hesitated. We knew next to nothing about Pickett other than what we’d googled. But we had seen he’d produced some Broadway plays.

“Oh, yeah!” I cried, turning to Erin. “Remember that one production…”

“Jesus Christ Superstar.”

“Right. That was awesome.” I turned to Bridgewater. “He was great back in his day. What an amazing, uh…”

Erin filled in. “Artistic guy.”

Bridgewater slapped the desk with his palms. “He’s doing excellent here. I think his memory is even improving. The other day he remembered the name of his dog from the nineties.”

Since I obviously didn’t, I plunged right ahead. Withdrawing the fentanyl bottle from my jeans pocket, I displayed it between forefinger and thumb. “Speaking of memory. We’d like to know where you got this. This is fentanyl. Street fentanyl. Fifty times stronger than morphine. Pickett doesn’t need a painkiller. He needs memory care. This makes memory worse.”

As I’d prepared for, Bridgewater stiffened noticeably. Palms still flat on the table, he erected his spine, nostrils flaring, eyes narrowing. “Where. Did. You. Get. That.”

“We got it from Pickett’s medicine cabinet,” Erin lied.

Bridgewater fumed. “That. Is a controlled substance. There should be nothing in his medicine cabinet. We administer the medication here. Nurse practitioners administer the medication, or I do. We do not leave bottles anywhere. Let me see that.”

I had no choice but to hand it over. His quick perusal of the label must’ve given him his answer, because his eyes narrowed into em dashes. He looked from Erin to me, me to Erin under white, albino lashes. “You were at Barstow high school, weren’t you?”

“What?” crowed Erin. “What Barstow high school?”

I asked, “Is that where you got the stuff?”

Bridgewater furiously jammed his forefinger onto his cellphone. “Security!” he roared. Then stood like some imperialistic ruler, fingertips on desk. “Out, out! If I ever see you here again I’ll have you arrested for murder!”