Devil's Plaything - Matt Richtel [78]
“You look green,” he says.
I turn my head to the side and throw up. It’s the result of being drugged on an empty stomach, and then having my body jolted by whiplash.
“Jesus, Idle.”
Bent at the waist, I wipe my mouth on my sleeve. I take a deep breath and taste the flavor of soured milk. I turn my head and spit. I stand upright, and get a shot of light-headedness.
“I need your help finding my grandmother,” I say. “But, frankly, your story doesn’t add up. I think you’re involved with Biogen, and Adrianna. And . . .” I pause.
“What?” he says.
“You’re not injured.”
“What?”
“You supposedly were shot outside my house. Now you’re evading and flattening me like an Olympic sprinter and wrestler.”
“Flesh wound.”
I shake my head. I reach into my pocket for the bullets I found on the ground outside my apartment. I pull a couple out and show him.
“How do I know you didn’t just drop these on the ground?”
He raises his eyebrows; is that really what I think?
“Looks like an automatic. May I have it traced?”
I hand one to him and shrug. I’ve got another. He takes it.
“Your grandmother’s been taken? Where? How?” He seems empathic, concerned.
“Why do you care?”
“I worry about my employees and their families.”
Absurd.
“Chuck, may I tell you about the secret document?”
“You found a secret document?”
“I’ve written one.”
I commence my bluff.
“It’s a preliminary account of what’s going on with the Human Memory Crusade, and Biogen, and military investors—specifically, you.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“I’ve included the part about Dr. Pete Laramer, and Biogen’s proposed merger with a Swiss biotech company. Sounding more familiar?”
“You’re cute when you’re making things up.”
Still glib, but I have his attention.
“My thesis goes like this: A group of scientists and doctors backed by the government is studying the impact of computer use on memory.”
As I air my theories, I realize they feel like non-fiction.
“The bad guys are using the Human Memory Crusade as a front—tinkering with memories under the auspices of recording them.”
I pause and reflect on what I’ve gleaned about Adrianna. She seems like a decent person, and she reached out to me for help. I recall that Dr. Laramer studied deep brain-scanning technology, earned a patent for looking at memory centers. Where does he fit in? If at all?
“Nat?”
I continue, more pieces falling into place. “They didn’t start as bad guys. Not all of them. There were good intentions to study the impact of heavy computer use on memory loss. But something went wrong. Or someone inside the camp discovered how to use the technology to a different and devious end. To tinker with memories, override them, or erase them. When Adrianna found out, she tried to figure out what was going on, or to tell someone—me. Biogen freaked out because it couldn’t have its reputation smeared before the big merger goes through.”
I’m making all kinds of leaps, but they feel right.
“Sounds thin. Erasing memories? How?”
“Cortisol.” I recall that Adrianna studied the impact of cortisol on the brain. “It’s a stress hormone. It’s really quite a wonderful thing that kicks in to help us through intense physical and emotional experiences. You’ve heard the stories of when a dad lifts a car off the ground to save his trapped child, right? That’s cortisol. Good stuff, except that like any powerful drug, it has some downsides.”
I pause because I’m going from educated guessing to pure guesswork. What I’m thinking is that one downside of cortisol may be that it might kill memory cells. But how exactly? And how did the cortisol get into the brain of the test subjects? Was it injected at the laboratory sites, like the fake dental office?
Another possibility hits me—a shocking one.
“The computer,” I say. “The butterflies. You’ve figured out a way to stimulate chemical releases through computer interaction. Fascinating technology developed by and for the military industrial complex.”
He shakes his head, the meaning of this gesture unclear to me.
“You’ve put this all in a secret document?