Devil's Plaything - Matt Richtel [54]
“We had a neighbor who used to raise chickens and slaughter them in a room in a shed in back of the house. One time, we watched through a hole in the shed. Blood splattered all over the white walls.”
We both look at her.
“The walls here are very white,” she continues, completing her bit of internal logic.
I lean in to the receptionist and speak quietly, trying to project that he and I have created a bond.
“Dementia and aging study. She’s a little agitated. The quicker I get her upstairs, the less likely she’s going to start howling at the moon.”
I’m an asshole for selling Grandma out like this.
“Have a seat,” the gargoyle says.
We sit.
I hand Grandma a copy of Newsweek. On the cover is a pixilated image of Jesus on the cross. The headline reads: WOULD JESUS BLOG? TECHNOLOGY COLLIDES WITH RELIGION.
“WWJE,” I say to Grandma.
“What?”
“What would Jesus e-mail?”
She leafs through the magazine. I take meditative breaths to stay calm and stare at a large painting of the company’s founder. He wears a short-sleeve collared shirt. In Silicon Valley, it’s casual day even in our formal paintings.
After a few minutes, I say to the receptionist: “Would you mind trying Lulu again?”
He does. She doesn’t answer, which is predictable since she’s gone missing.
“I’m cold,” Grandma says.
“She’s cold,” I tell the gargoyle.
He sighs.
“Okay,” he says. “Give her a visitor badge.”
I fill out a name tag for Grandma. I tape it to her jacket. It reads: “Eileen Brennan.” The name of an actor who played a brothel madam in The Sting.
The gargoyle gestures to the door. I hear it click open. Grandma and I shuffle through.
We are in.
We climb into the mirror-walled elevator and I push the button to get us to the third floor.
“Lane, we should work together all the time.”
“I’d like that.”
The door opens to the third floor.
Chapter 28
White hallway. Linoleum floor. Hung along the walls, a series of digitally enhanced photographs. It takes me a moment to realize they are images of the brain shot from different angles, in mood lighting. Abstract art for biology geeks.
We step into the hall. I look left and right. Far to the right, a man in an Oxford shirt tucked into Bermuda shorts exits one room and enters a doorway across the hall.
“Would you mind holding my arm while we walk? These floors can be slippery.”
It’s not true, but I want to keep Grandma close. Beneath my lab coat, I’m sweating through my plain blue long-sleeve shirt.
“It would be helpful for me if we could walk in silence. We don’t want to disturb the people working.”
“I understand,” she responds.
On the wall, a sign offers direction. To our right are “Offices 301–324,” the “Ocular Lab,” and “Restrooms.” To our left, “Offices 325–335” and “Library.”
Fewer offices to the left. Maybe that means there is space for some other project—like the Advanced Life Computing department.
We walk left. Three doors down on the right side of the hallway, we arrive at the office marked “Pederson.”
I hear voices at the far end of the hallway. A tall woman and a stocky man walk hurriedly, with purpose, chatting. They don’t seem to notice us. They pause, talk for a moment more, then the woman enters an office, and the man turns around and walks back the direction he came.
I palm the knob on Adrianna’s doorway. It turns. I open the door.
Inside, I hear a metallic clink and a plunking noise of something falling onto the ground.
My heart pounds. The inside of my skull now too—a mild hangover accentuated by major trespassing. I pull Grandma inside the dark office. I feel her trembling and sense she might scream. I put my hand on her mouth.
“I’m begging you. I love you, and I’m begging you to not scream. Everything’s fine.”
I feel Grandma release some of her tension and slowly remove my hand from her mouth.
I feel for the doorknob on the inside to lock it. I find the knob, but there’s a piece missing from its center, leaving a pinky-width hole in the metal cylinder.