Devil's Plaything - Matt Richtel [70]
“We’ve bought ourselves another hour or two of talk time,” I say.
I pull the Cadillac to a stop. I stare out the window at the basketball court outside Adrianna’s apartment. The court is empty. A light wind blows a piece of newspaper across the court and lodges it against the fence. I’ll have to get into the building some other way, or come back after meeting Betty Lou.
I call Directory Assistance and ask for the number for Pete Laramer.
Several kids exit Adrianna’s building dressed for Halloween. The skinny one with the green Hulk mask perched on his forehead—not yet pulled down on his face—is Newton.
“I’ve found that number for you,” the operator says. “Dr. Pete Laramer is with the Brown and Morrow Medical Group.”
“What? Say that again.”
“Brown and Morrow. I can give you the number, and, for an extra charge we can text it to you as well.”
A silent Holy shit. Grandma’s neurologist is associated with the medical group that owns the disappearing dental offices. The offices with the pictures on the wall of landmark events, like Pearl Harbor and the moon walk; the offices that might have been home to a man in blue.
As early as the 1950s, researchers showed that the human brain cannot process more than one stream of information at a time. But that’s what I’m trying to do. I’m looking at Newton, trying to figure out my next move. And I’m trying to remember what I know about Dr. Laramer, besides the fact he’s married to an old flame. If memory serves, he holds a patent for deep-brain scanning techniques. He’s pioneered new ways to use scanners and MRI machines to explore what’s happening inside our skulls as we think, feel, process information.
I don’t have even a second to consider the implications. Because, at just that moment, Newton looks in my direction. And he starts to run.
Chapter 36
“Don’t move, Lane.”
“I’m old, but I don’t like being told what to do.”
I give her a kiss on the cheek, get out, and lock the Cadillac. Seconds later, I’m in full stride, heading down the street in his direction.
Newton is a block ahead of me, looking over his shoulder. He turns a corner to the right and then I nearly trip over Spiderman.
One of Newton’s friends, twice his size and dressed as the arachnid superhero, has stepped into the middle of the sidewalk. I try to step around him, and nearly run into another boy wearing a paper bag on his head. “Leave Newt alone,” the paper bag says, as I start to slip past.
Then I feel a hand grab my arm.
I turn and find myself facing Spiderman, Paper-bag Man, and a kid wearing a Golden State Warriors jersey.
“I really need to talk with him. I won’t hurt him. I need his help.”
“He’s long gone,” says Spiderman. His voice is high, prepubescent. But he’s got a full-grown body. The situation isn’t physically threatening. But these boys are trying to be brave.
They’ve succeeded. Newton is long gone. I pause to catch my breath. “You ever see CSI?” I ask.
“I’m not allowed to watch TV at night,” the paper bag says, almost comically disappointed, like maybe I could make an appeal to his parents.
“I’m like a scientist on the show. But I’m a lot less rich and famous,” I say. “Newton has a good friend named Adrianna. She didn’t do anything wrong. But she got into trouble, and she needs the help of an expert, someone like me.”
Spiderman says: “Are you with that other guy that came around here looking for Newton?”
“What other guy?”
No response.
“Big guy, thick chest, wears a hooded sweatshirt. Looks like he might be really dumb?”
I pull out my wallet. I extract three business cards.
“I’m one of the good guys. Please have Newton leave a message on my cell phone and tell me how to get in touch with him.” I don’t have my phone but I can dial into it to retrieve messages.
I walk back to the car in the intensifying wind, unlock the door, climb in. Grandma looks at me.
“The box asked me a lot of questions,” she says. “I liked being asked questions. It was nice that it cared about me. But it always interrupted me. Like a man. You know that? Men are always interrupting us with their