Devil's Plaything - Matt Richtel [2]
Our walk in the park is a last indulgence with my old friend who does double duty as my father’s mother. She loves the park, and walking here. Forty years ago, she moved to Northern California from Denver and, in her more lucid days, she used to say that Golden Gate Park’s majesty was sufficient proof that pioneers were right to cross the country in covered wagons. I would point out that there was no Golden Gate Park at the time. And she would respond that she’d thought I was smart enough to take her meaning, and then wait a beat and smile.
Her wry, sometimes ebullient, grin appears much less frequently these days. Often, her lips are pursed with what I take to be caution and curiosity, like that of a frightened child taking tentative first steps down stairs. But her blue eyes remain vibrant, her robust hair sits in a gentle curl on her shoulders, colored light blond, and she’s still physically able. In the retirement home’s dining room, she insists on carrying her food tray and does so easily. These relatively youthful vestiges put into sharp relief her stark neurological failings.
We stand on the edge of a wide-open grassy spot, ringed by majestic eucalyptus trees. Notwithstanding the phantom in the distance, we are alone, the last picnicking lovers having abdicated. Tranquil. The sky overhead is deepening to a gray slate, with a distant salmon hue west over the ocean.
Maybe one more lap around the grove.
Then I hear the distinctive click.
Danger.
I wrote a story recently about a biotech giant developing better hearing aids by trying to emulate the temporal lobes of experienced soldiers. The finest among the military have a hyper-developed sense of hearing that can pick up the action of a cocking rifle.
For the story, I listened to a lot of clicks to see if I could discern the ones that betrayed distant loading rifles.
“Want to sit on the grass, Grandma?”
“What?”
I gently pull her to the ground. Maybe there’s some weirdo shooting a pellet gun in the dark.
A popping noise rips through the dusk. A few feet behind us, a tree thuds from impact, spraying bark.
“What the . . . ?!” I yell.
A second bullet hits the same tree.
I scramble on top of Grandma, forming a shell.
Then, in quick succession: Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop!
Grandma lets out a wild cry.
“It’s okay. It’s okay,” I whisper.
Silence.
The madman must be reloading.
I look up at the tree taking the target practice. It is a few feet away, the tallest and thickest among a line of eucalyptuses ringing the edge of the grove. Past the trees, I can see a slight embankment, sloping downward, then denser foliage. Protective cover.
Coursing with adrenaline, well beyond bewildered, I scoop up Grandma to carry her to safety.
“What’re you doing, Nathaniel?”
“We’re dancing.”
We fall to the ground on the down slope behind the tree. I’m obviously baffled. The park has an archery range but we’re nowhere near it, and these aren’t arrows coming at us. The nearest gun range is miles off.
Is this nut job thinking dusk at the park is a good time to hunt birds, or large mammals? Is it an adolescent who has gotten a little too inspired by his video game console?
Grandma’s blouse is torn.
“Are you hurt?”
She looks me dead in the eye, stricken. “Make a baby before it’s too late.”
I put my finger to Grandma’s lips. I examine her blouse. No blood. I search her eyes for comprehension.
“Don’t move or make any noise,” I whisper.
I pull out my cell phone. I dial 911. But before I can hit “send,” the phone rings. I answer. “Whoever this is, I’ll have to call you back.”
“Nathaniel Idle?” a metallic voice responds.
“I’ll need to call you back.”
“Poor execution,” the voice says.
“Pardon?”
“And a bad pun,” the caller says. “Unintended.”
“Who is this?”
Click. The caller has hung up.
“Who is this?!”
I look at Grandma. From my earliest memories, she’s been a touchstone, the one family member who made me feel like I wasn’t a commitment-phobic, procrastinating, terminal adolescent. Or maybe she just made me feel like being those things was okay.
She withdraws her hand