woman would’ve started running, or screaming, or AT LEAST politely excused herself, and gotten in a cab, and gone home. I mean, who knew what this guy could be about. Could he have been a murderer, or a rapist? (I’m sorry to use such blunt language.) There was still light, but it was getting near dusk. There were a lot of people around, so I felt mostly safe. But I did start to come to my senses. I told Pigeon that I didn’t know what he was up to, or involved with, but that I needed to get into a taxi and go home. I told him that whatever he was involved with that it was his business, and I wasn’t going to tell anyone. I wouldn’t try to stop him. I just wanted to go my own way. I said something frightened and melodramatic like that. He told me that he understood my concern. He seemed nervous too. He must have been shifting back and forth on his feet, or maybe I just remember it that way now. And then he reached behind him—I suppose into his back pocket. I flinched a little, wondering what he was grabbing. Well, I shouldn’t have—flinched. What he was grabbing was a rose. It was a beautiful, fully bloomed red rose. He held it up to me, and he said: “I make concrete pipes.” I was surprised, and confused. My heart was racing, if I’m to be honest. I asked him what he meant. He wasn’t embarrassed in his response, which I think belied the words. He said: “I work in a concrete yard. I make a dollar a week and give most of it to my family. I don’t have a car. I dropped out after the 10th grade. But I’d like to take you on a picnic, or for a pistachio ice cream. Or whatever flavor you like.” I couldn’t get a sense of whether he was being genuine, or manipulative. I mean, I’d opened this secret envelope, and found a secret book. I said to him: “You’re a spy, right? Do you work for a foreign government, and you’re trying to get me involved with something?” And, earnestly, he responded: “Yes, a foreign government that has a terrible plan to get everyone addicted to pistachio ice cream.” Well, then it hit me. This was just a romantic gesture, a wild romantic gesture. As you might imagine, I almost died from relief, and some fluttering of my heart. He said: “I came last Friday and I figured I’d come here every Friday until you showed up.” I said: “Pigeon, I would prefer ice cream. I know where the ice cream shop is. I don’t have the energy to follow a treasure map to discover a lost book, to find the location of the picnic spot.” I took his rose, and both of us stood there in silence, but I think we were smiling. That’s how I remember it. And I thought everything was going to be just fine. But, Lord knows (and I’m not religious) that was really just the beginning. I was hooked, and being reeled in, and so was he. . . . Lane?
Lane? Computer, she’s fallen asleep.
YOU HAVEN’T SPOKEN FOR A MINUTE. WOULD YOU LIKE TO CONTINUE?
Lane has fallen asleep.
I’M NOT SURE I UNDERSTAND. WOULD YOU LIKE TO CONTINUE WITH YOUR STORY?
I think we’re going to have to do this another time. Our heroine has fallen asleep.
Chapter 40
HUMAN MEMORY CRUSADE INTERNAL REPORT.
JULY 30, 2010
Subject: Lane Eliza Idle.
Priority: One.
Wildfire.
Chapter 41
Butterflies. A pigeon. Secrets.
Wildfire.
Puke.
I open the Cadillac door and spill chunky vomit onto the sidewalk. My head feels like it played concrete to someone’s jackhammer. My mouth tastes of salty onion and felt.
The clock reads 7:45. For the last hour, I’ve been reading Grandma’s Human Memory Crusade transcripts on my laptop, the transcripts that Bullseye decrypted. I was hoping they’d help me find Grandma. I’m more lost than ever.
I look out the front windshield at a half-pint goblin holding the hand of a heads-taller Scooby-Doo. Each costumed tyke carries an orange plastic pumpkin. Not hallucination, Halloween.
I try to focus and reflect on what has happened over the last two hours of my life. I remember taking Lane to see Betty Lou. We sat down on the bench. Betty Lou wore a red scarf and a long jacket. She suddenly looked horrified. Then I was attacked.
I woke up an hour ago in