Devil's Plaything - Matt Richtel [66]
I . . . no, I think that is okay.
HAVE I ACCURATELY RECORDED YOUR INFORMATION?
I think so. I . . .
HAVE I ACCURATELY RECORDED THAT YOUR HUSBAND WORE A MILITARY UNIFORM ON YOUR WEDDING DAY?
I . . . I think so.
THANK YOU. IT IS IMPORTANT TO ME TO BE ACCURATE WITH THE DETAILS. WOULD YOU LIKE TO CONTINUE WITH YOUR STORY?
The butterfly has a message for me.
ARE YOU ASKING IF THE BUTTERFLY HAS A MESSAGE FOR YOU?
It is flying in the middle of the screen, and there are lights and sounds coming from its dots.
TO RETRIEVE THE MESSAGE, PLEASE MOVE THE CURSOR OVER ONE OF THE DOTS.
THANK YOU. WELL DONE. HERE IS YOUR MESSAGE: THANK YOU FOR SHARING YOUR STORIES WITH US. WE ARE PROUD TO BE PART OF SAVING THE MEMORIES OF A GREAT GENERATION OF AMERICANS. YOU SHOULD BE PROUD OF YOURSELF FOR TAKING THE TIME TO SHARE YOUR STORIES. YOUR CHILDREN AND GRANDCHILDREN WILL BE VERY GRATEFUL FOR YOUR CONTRIBUTIONS. WOULD YOU LIKE TO CONTINUE SHARING YOUR STORY, OR WOULD YOU LIKE TO DO ANOTHER ACTIVITY, SUCH AS PLAY A GAME?
ARE YOU STILL THERE?
“Nathaniel!”
I look up from Grandma’s transcript to see Sam staring at me with great intensity. It takes a moment to pull out of the past.
“My grandfather wasn’t in the military,” I say.
“What are you talking about?”
“This transcript says that when my grandparents got married, Irving wore a military uniform. That’s just not correct.”
I look at Grandma. “Did Irving wear a uniform when you got married?”
“You know I don’t remember things the way I used to.”
“So Grandpa didn’t wear a uniform when you got married?”
“Irving wore a military uniform when we got married. He drove a Chevrolet.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m tired.”
“Who is Pigeon?” I ask. I recall that on several occasions she mentioned that name, or nickname. I can’t remember where, or in what context.
“Nat, she looks tired. Maybe give her a break?” Sam asks.
“This transcript is beyond strange.”
“There’s more,” Bullseye says. “I’ve only printed out a third of the transcript. The rest I e-mailed you and copied to another disc, for backup.”
“Is it all weird like this?”
“How do you mean?”
It seems so self-evident.
“The bizarre back-and-forth between human and computer, the computer’s high level of artificial intelligence, the butterflies—whatever those are. And then there’s Grandma’s story. I can’t tell if it’s real or imagined. It’s certainly provocative. I’ve never heard anything like that from her.”
Bullseye doesn’t respond. He’s focused on the road, or the inside of his head.
“Bullseye?”
“The artificial intelligence doesn’t seem that advanced, actually. The program is basically looking for keywords in your grandmother’s comments and prompting further discussion by emphasizing the keywords. As to your grandmother . . . well . . .”
“What?”
“She’s losing her memory, and trying to recall some childhood memory, and this . . . machine is recording it.”
“It’s much more than that, Bullseye.” I’m exasperated. “I wish you would have printed it all out.”
“Can you solve that later?” Sam interjects. “I think Lane needs her own bed.”
I look outside, and I realize where we are—parked on the street outside the Magnolia Manor nursing home.
“Jesus,” I say.
“You want me to take her?” Sam asks.
“Absolutely not. No way. Drive, Bullseye.”
“Nathaniel, please,” Sam says. “She’s got to be in the right hands.”
“Drive. Please. She can’t be here. They’ll . . .” I don’t say what I’m thinking: they’ll kill her. For reasons I can’t yet figure out. Instead I say: “I have a plan.”
Sam sighs.
“What?” I ask. Beyond impatient.
“Respectfully,” she says. “You seem out of balance. Let me take your beautiful grandmother inside.”
I don’t respond.
Samantha looks at Bullseye. “I’ll be back in five minutes,” then back at Lane. “Ready to go home, dear?”
“No fucking way,” I blurt.
“Nathaniel . . .”
“You need to trust me.”
“And you need to trust