Devil's Plaything - Matt Richtel [71]
I take her hand. “I love you.”
“What?”
“I’m sorry if I didn’t always listen. I’m sorry if I was self-absorbed, and treating you like just any grandma, not my Grandma. When we get through this, I’m going to visit you all the time, and you can play games with me, not the box.”
Her eyes moisten.
“Let’s go see Betty Lou,” I say.
“And Harry,” she says.
“Grandma, how long have you known Harry?”
“Nathaniel!”
“Grandma?”
“Stop investigating and asking a bunch of questions, and listen to who I am. Stop acting like the box.”
“I . . .” I don’t finish. I don’t know what to say. I find myself almost smiling at her fire.
As I drive, I use the stolen phone to retrieve voice messages from my burned-up gadget. I shouldn’t, given that studies show the inflated crash risks when talking on a phone while driving. Counterpoint: I’m well past that point of inflated risks.
There are two messages from Polly. The first: “This is a message from the woman who doubles as your bartender and your grandmother’s babysitter. I am in the mood to be of service this evening. It is Halloween, and I am planning to wear a costume that will be sufficiently demure for babysitting, if, that is, you like your babysitters in something tawdry. Call me.”
The second: “Is your phone off? You’re not returning texts. There’s some potentially great blog items regarding the break-in of the Pentagon computer. Apparently, the hackers got access to Pentagon hospital contracts. And the attorney general indicted the Porta Potti pyromaniacs. Smells like another blog post,” she says. Her voice changes. “I need to talk to you. And see you. Things are . . . Can you call me?”
I look at Grandma. “Every question is on the table now,” I say. “For instance: Who exactly is Pauline Sanchez?”
“Watch out for the turtle.”
“What?”
“Turtle!”
She points out the window.
I’ve been so distracted that I have not seen the large man in the crosswalk in front of us. He wears a large green hump. The Turtle flips me off. I drive through the intersection. Another urban amphibian nearly crushed by a cell-phone-wielding motorist.
“It’s Halloween, Grandma.”
“I love Milky Ways.”
“I’ll get you one after our meeting,” I say. “Look, there’s Betty Lou.”
In the fading light, I can see someone round sitting on a bench surrounded by a grove of bushes in a small neighborhood park. We’re just a few blocks from Magnolia Manor.
We park and amble past a jungle gym with slides coming down three sides to the shrub-surrounded bench and Betty Lou.
“Hi, Laney,” she says, taking Grandma’s hands. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m fine, thank you. My grandson tells me he loves me, at least when he’s not talking on the phone.”
“I’m sure he does love you. Would you like to go home?”
“I’ve known you for a long time,” Grandma responds, disconnected. I can picture her less than a year ago; she’d have embraced Betty Lou, kissed her cheek, and gone on about her friend’s bright red silk headscarf.
“Nathaniel, why don’t you sit down for a minute?” Betty Lou says.
We sit. It feels peaceful in the little garden area, secluded, protected from the madness.
“Grandma Lane is doing fine,” I say.
“I’m glad to know that. I . . . she needs to be around people who know how to care for her.”
She pauses. She grimaces. Then her face registers concern, then panic.
“Oh no. No. No!”
I start to turn my head to follow her petrified gaze to my left. But I feel a strong arm grab my neck and another on my torso. I feel a cloth shoved over my mouth and nose. I taste something stale like rancid orange-drink.
Everything goes black.
Chapter 37
TRANSCRIPT FROM THE HUMAN MEMORY CRUSADE.
JULY 7, 2010
PLEASE ENJOY THIS SHORT VIDEO WHILE I FIND YOUR FILE.
I HAVE FOUND YOUR FILE. WOULD YOU LIKE TO CONTINUE WITH YOUR STORY?
I’m trying to. I’m determined. I wrote myself some notes. Please hold on a minute while I look at my notes.
YOU HAVEN’T SAID