Devil's Plaything - Matt Richtel [8]
“Birds of a feather.”
“So put the drive in the computer. See what’s on it.”
“Thanks, Hercule Poirot. I did that. It’s encrypted.”
I sigh. “What do you want me to do about that?”
“I assume you know the password.”
“Why’s that?”
She explains that when she puts the mysterious memory stick into the computer, a screen pops up with a place to enter the user name and password. She says the user name is already filled in with the words “Nathaniel Idle.”
“But the password is blank. Looks like you’re the one who has to fill it in,” she says.
I get a bad feeling. Not just because the day is definitely presenting a second strange mystery, but because only a handful of intimates call me “Nathaniel.” When I hear my full name, I know I’m in trouble—or in love.
“Come down and we’ll try to open it over a drink,” Pauline says. “What better have you got going on a Thursday night? Besides, how often does life present you a genuine mystery? I’m intrigued, and thirsty.”
I hear in her voice that playful and intense tone that makes Pauline engaging, effective, and dangerous—professionally and personally.
I look at Grandma. Is there even a remote chance that the contents of the drive could explain the shooting in the park?
I tell Pauline I’ll come by shortly and we hang up.
I think about what happened in the park. Maybe the cops are right to speculate we took potshots from a maniac. Though that doesn’t explain the phone call I received. Have I pissed someone off?
I think about the stories I’m working on. The Porta Potti piece notwithstanding, it’s hard to fathom any of them could be cause for attack.
One is a magazine piece about Stanford neurologists placing precision magnets on people’s heads to diminish chronic pain. Another pertains to research at Johns Hopkins that uses brain imaging to show that a driver using a cell phone cannot simultaneously focus both on the road and a conversation; the structure of the brain, unlike the structure of a computer chip, does not lend itself well to multitasking. A third story is about Grandma herself. The editors at Elder Care magazine asked me to chronicle my relationship with Lane as she “matures.” The story has been personally intense to report, or, rather, it was—before Grandma’s mercurial descent. Before she really devolved, our conversations about her life had given me some insight into the bond between us and her own struggles settling down as a young woman.
I kiss her on the forehead. Her eyes open and she grabs my hand, startling me.
“He’s at the dentist,” she says loudly.
“Who, Grandma?”
She withdraws her hand. She’s frightened.
“Who is at the dentist? The man in blue?”
She taps her forehead.
“He’s inside here now.”
“Grandma?”
I look her squarely in the eyes. I see the essential life in her narrow blue pupils being corroded by the glassiness of dementia. Less than a year ago, she had her full wits. I thought little of it when she returned one day from the condiment station in the dining hall with a stack of napkins but forgot utensils. It seemed only a few weeks later, she spent so long in the bathroom that I knocked on the door, let myself in, and found her holding a new roll of toilet paper, stymied by how to slip it onto the silver holder on the wall.
“Grandma Lane, I love you.”
“I love you too.”
“Who is the man in blue? Did we see him today? Maybe when we visited the dentist? Remember? Was he the same man in the park? Can you tell me?”
She slowly closes her lids.
I wait ten minutes for her to wake up. I stroke her arm. I replay the shooting. I hear the popping of bullets. I see the phantom in the trees. I sense in my memories the anxiety that comes with post-traumatic stress disorder. I feel the impotence of running and hiding. I scour the bumpy topography of my brain for clues: what had I missed? Did the car have a bumper sticker? Was it a California license plate?
Answers elude me.
I kiss Grandma one more time.
I turn off the light, and leave to decrypt a mystery package.
Chapter 5
Excepting Grandma Lane, there are three important women in my life.