Devil's Plaything - Matt Richtel [56]
We’re running out of time.
On the computer screen are two standard icons. They indicate that this computer is password protected and has two main users. One icon is labeled “Pederson,” and the other “ADAM.”
I click on “Pederson” and a login screen appears. The user name is filled out: “LAPederson.”
I assume: Lulu Adrianna Pederson.
The password is left blank. I type: “Newton.”
Nothing.
From my back pocket, I pull the piece of paper I just ripped and folded. I unfold it.
Under password, I type “Newt0n123.”
Nothing.
Into the password line, I type: “IAMSOFUCKED.”
I open the other icon—the one headed ADAM. The user name is filled out: “ADAM1.0.”
I stare at the empty password space. I type: “Newton,” then “newton,” then “Newt0n123.” None of them works.
The desk phone rings. It’s the front desk. I pick up.
“Lulu Pederson’s line,” I say.
“Mr. Johnson,” a voice responds. It’s the gargoyle.
“That’s me.”
“May I speak to Ms. Pederson?” he asks.
“Let me grab her.”
“She’s not there?”
“She’s in the Ocular Lab.”
“But you’re in her office.”
“She asked me to wait here while she grabbed something. I can snag her, or we can call you back in a few minutes.”
After a pause, he says: “Let’s just talk until she gets back.”
“Pardon?”
“How’s your day going?”
He’s trying to keep me on the line. The news crawl inside my brain flashes with a headline: SECURITY IS COMING.
I hang up.
“Stand up, Grandma.”
“I’m reading now.”
“Please. If we get caught in here, they’re going to . . .”
I don’t finish my sentence: arrest me, and take you away from me, and who knows where. Or why.
I hustle to Grandma. I lift her by the elbow, and guide her to the door. I open it and peek out. To the right, farther down the hall, a stairway exit. To the left, the elevators. They open. Out steps a security guard.
Chapter 29
Grandma can’t run. I can’t carry her—or tell her what to do. What do you do when fighting and running aren’t viable options?
“Let’s play possum,” I whisper to Grandma as I close the door gently.
I walk Grandma to the couch, and I sit her down. “We were just here,” she says.
“Act natural.”
Seconds later, there is a knock.
I open the door. The guard looks alert, but not worried. Maybe he’s thinks he’s been sent on a routine call from a paranoid clerk. “You’re not pizza delivery,” I say.
“What?”
“A joke. It’s never too early in the day for sausage and mushroom.”
He looks around, sees the place is intact. He looks at Grandma, who has her hands folded in her lap.
“Where’s Pederson?”
“In the Ocular Lab. If you’re headed that way, could you tell her we’re getting tired of waiting for her?” I add with a whisper: “Our study subject can be a little difficult to handle. She’s got advanced dementia.”
Grandma says, “Does this place have cocoa?”
I look at him and shrug.
He’s in his late twenties, with a blue-collar feel; his face is shaved but he’s missed a patch of hair under his chin. The corner of his mouth is cracked with herpes. A coffee stain shaped like a clenched fist graces the right breast of his uniform. He might well be underinvested in this job.
“Where’s your visitor name tag?” he asks.
“I work in Building Five. John Johnson.”
“Where’s your badge?”
I explain that I told the guy at the counter that I’d lost it—in the bathroom. He considers this. “I’ll call the lab to see if I can get Pederson to come down here.”
“Great.” I gesture to Grandma. “Our guest is impatient.”
The guard raises his cell phone to his mouth, pushes a button on the side, then pauses. His eyes have landed on the lock on the floor. He quickly looks away from it and at me. Into his walkie-talkie phone, he says: “Can I get security backup in Twelve, third floor?”
“Is there a problem?” I ask.
“Take a seat, sir.”
He juts his chin to the love seat. I take two steps toward Grandma. I’m walking slowly, trying to calculate our options. They have diminished considerably. I cannot afford to get detained and arrested, or have Grandma taken from me, or worse.
I turn around. He’s a step behind me.
“Keep moving,” he