Snow Blind-J Collins 4 by Lori G. Armstrong Page A

partially open.”
    “What did you do?”
    “I peeked inside and saw him lying there. Then I smelled him.”
    Luella squeezed past him and pushed open the door.
    A sickly scent of rot, unwashed skin, urine, and shit wafted out from inside the room.
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    Someone was dead.
    My fingers sought the handicapped railing behind me and I held on. Nice fucking start to my day. I looked at the room number.
    “Damon? Could you come in here?”
    His bulk had blocked most of the doorway and now I had a birds-eye view of the dead, if I chose to look.
    Don’t .
    I didn’t want to, but my gaze wandered that direction anyway.
    An old, naked Indian man was sprawled on his side. I couldn’t tell if he was fat or just bloated from death gases. His thick neck was cranked so his bald head faced the door; his eyes were open as if he’d been waiting for someone.
    I figured even if I moved closer I wouldn’t see a pool of blood anywhere, just the usual puddle of liquid from his bowels emptying. No foul play here. Only the final indignity of death.
    Still made me want to throw up. I could’ve gone the rest of my life without seeing another dead body—even one from natural causes. I closed my eyes and listened to Luella calling 911 for a nonemergency situation.
    When she said, “Kate?” I nearly jumped from my skin. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. Why don’t you head back to the common room? I’ll meet you there when I’m done.”
    “How long will you be?”
    “Half an hour or so.”
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    “Okay.” That’d give me enough time. I spun toward hallway two. And luck was with me when I noticed the green “I’m OK” sign on his door. I knocked.
    Vernon Sloane answered by yelling, “What do you want?” through the closed door.
    “Luella sent me to tell you she might be late.”
    Silence.
    “Mr. Sloane?”
    The door opened. He blinked at me with vacant eyes.
    “Hi, I’m—”
    “Susie? Is that you?”
    “No. My name is Kate. Is it all right if I come in?”
    He didn’t answer. Instead he demanded, “Where’s Susie?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “Is she coming?”
    I turned sideways and slipped past him.
    Luckily he didn’t throw me out, but closed the door.
    The apartment was unbearably hot, and I loosened my coat as I looked around. Typical bachelor pad; beige walls and carpeting. Navy blue couch. One battered tan recliner facing the window and the TV. No kitschy doodads anywhere. It was depressing as hell.
    Stacks of word search puzzle books were piled on one end of the coffee table. Two simple black frames hung above the sofa. A black-and-white wedding photo and a picture of a much younger Vernon sitting behind the wheel of a big old car. I stepped forward to take a closer look at the pictures.
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    “She’s a beauty, isn’t she?”
    “Yes. When was it taken?”
    “Oh, 1948. The same year I bought it.”
    He wasn’t talking about his wife, but the car.
    “I loved that Roadmaster. See, it’s a convertible?
    ’Course, you can’t tell the color, but it was the creami-est soft yellow, the shiniest paint Buick ever put on a car. Reflected like a mirror. Still looks pretty good for an antique. I’d offer to take you for a spin, but she’s kind of touchy in the snow. Nothing like those four-wheel drives everyone has these days.”
    Hadn’t Amery told us her grandfather had totaled his car, resulting in the loss of his driver’s license? What was I supposed to do? Correct him? Play along?
    Better change the subject.
    I turned around and smiled.
    His eyes clouded and he backed away, slowly, hands in the air in front of him like I’d jabbed a gun in his face. “Why are you here?”
    “Luella sent me, remember?”
    “You look like her, but you don’t sound like her.”
    Maybe he was blind, too, because I hoped to hell I didn’t resemble a sixty-year-old woman. “Who? Luella?”
    “My Susie.”
    “I’m not Susie, Mr. Sloane.” I sat and hoped he’d do the same. “But as long as we’re on the