Devil's Plaything - Matt Richtel [20]
I reconnect it, and climb back into my Toyota.
I grab a handful of In-and-Out-Burger napkins out of the glove compartment and get most of the battery grease off my hands. I pull out my cell and dial 911, but again I don’t hit “send.” I’m thinking about Chuck’s plea that I don’t call the police, echoing the warning in the mystery note. It’s ludicrous. But something else nags at me. Maybe before I call the cops again, I should get myself to Magnolia Manor. I’ve got to keep Grandma safe. And I’ve got to find out what she knows—and what or who is hunting the one or both of us.
I turn on the ignition, then turn it off again. I step out of the car, walk over to where Chuck may have saved my life, and look on the ground for shell casings. I find two bullet remains, slightly charred, already cooling. More must have smashed into the concrete walls or sprayed into the alley, but a cursory look doesn’t turn them up. Against the wall of the alley, a neighbor has haphazardly left out for recycling a dozen or so folded cardboard beer and food boxes. They’re damp to the point of being limp from last night’s fog and I have the patience to scan the surfaces for holes for only a few seconds before conceding.
A few neighbors have wandered outside, and I figure the cops can’t be far behind. I need to jet.
I hustle back to my car and speed to the nursing home to mine the emptying remains of Lane’s hippocampus.
And I suddenly find myself thinking about snakes.
Five months earlier, I’d started interviewing Grandma for the magazine story I wanted to write about her.
We sat on a freshly painted bench outside the home, sunshine on our faces, a game of Boggle on the bench between us. I clipped a tiny microphone to Lane’s blouse so I could record our interview.
“The computer records me too,” she said.
The Human Memory Crusade.
“Yes, but I smile, come bearing high-calorie snacks, and can take you to the movies later.”
Lane smiled. “You don’t want to hear me drone on. Now let’s stop before I bore you to death.”
“It’s for me and your legions of fans. Besides, I’m getting two dollars a word to write about you.”
This time she laughed out loud.
“Really, Grandma. It would mean a lot to me to hear your stories.”
After a pause, she said, “Do you remember when I used to take you to the park to hear your stories?”
When I visited as a kid, it became tradition. She’d take me to Stow Lake. She knew a man who worked at the boathouse. He had strong hands and he rowed us into the middle and she asked me about my life, friends, school, parents. She made me feel so interesting.
“Where should we start, Grandma? The shed incident in Warsaw, how you and Grandpa met and eloped and borrowed coal to heat the apartment, Uncle Stevie, the Great Wanderer?
“Why don’t you like that doctor?”
“Doctor?”
“The man with the wavy hair. The memory doctor. Isn’t that perfect? I forgot the name of his specialty.”
Earlier that day, I’d taken her to her first neurology appointment after noticing a slip in her command of language.
“Stop stalling, Lane.”
“Was it about a woman? Did you two have a fight about a woman? Or money? That’s why men fight.”
I told her: in medical school, I dated Kristina Babcock, a beauty in the class below me. It didn’t work out. I ran into her a few years ago. She’d married a guy in her class who became a neurologist—now Grandma’s doctor.
“I knew it. You shouldn’t be jealous of him.”
“The guy just went a different way than I did.” The way of the wife, the three kids, and the mansion.
We fell silent.
“Snakes,” Grandma finally said.
I shook my head. Confused.
“That’s the story I want to tell.”
“Oh, snakes. Are you sure you want to talk about that?”
She told me the story about when I was ten. She took me to the reptile zoo in Golden Gate Park. A zoo volunteer showed me the boa constrictor. The volunteer wanted me to touch the snake. I was afraid and refused. The volunteer took my hand and put it on the snake.
“You projectile vomited all over the volunteer,” Grandma said.
I didn’t sleep that