Devil's Plaything - Matt Richtel [82]
“That part is personal.”
I shake my head—I don’t understand his meaning.
“Adrianna has made a long-term investment in another person, and she’s deeply emotionally committed to seeing it pay off.”
“English!”
“She’s playing the role of aunt to the boy. As long as they threaten his safety, she won’t compromise their secrets.”
“Newton?”
He nods.
“And Grandma and I don’t have anything to live for?”
He closes the top of his computer.
“Two different issues,” he says. “Your grandmother—she can’t be stopped from talking because she can no longer understand reason, or be coerced or blackmailed. Ironically enough, because she has dementia, she’s a liability for what she knows, even if she doesn’t know she knows it.”
“What does she know?”
He shakes his head. He wants to say something else but seems to change gears. He says: “You’re a liability for a different reason.”
“Because I’m a journalist.”
“Because you’re a junkie for the hunt. I’m guessing here, inferring a little. But if I were them, I’d find you threatening because you live for this kind of action. No personal connection or promise of wealth or intimacy is as interesting to you as the chase. That makes you beyond blackmail or reason.”
I close my eyes and clench my teeth. I let out a loud, frustrated exhale. I’m seeing an image of Grandma and then, surprising to me, Pauline. He has no idea how wrong he is about my intimate connections and my will to fight for them.
“None of this explains why they didn’t kill me when they had the chance.”
“What do you mean?”
I tell him about Grandma’s abduction. Whoever took Grandma left me alive, with her care file. He takes it all in. I can see from the machinations in his jaw that he’s working it out, His face shouts stress and concern, displeasure.
“The Swiss took her?” I say, a statement as much as a question.
“I’ll help you find out, Nat. I promise you that.”
“Chuck, you’ve still not explained your interest—the military’s interest.”
“I’ll show you.”
Toting his gun, Chuck starts to walk out of the room. I follow, feeling the sharp tip of the wine opener in my pocket.
Chapter 45
We climb thickly carpeted stairs to the second floor. Chuck walks a few steps in front. He still holds his gun, casually, but his finger is laced through the trigger loop. I keep one hand on the smooth wooden rail and the other curled around the opener.
“Wait here,” Chuck says when we reach the top. We stand in a dark hallway that leads toward the back of the house. He knocks on a door across from the stairs. A deferential woman’s voice tells him to come in. He does.
Left alone, my mind tumbles through a series of images, moments, rapid-fire memories, evidence, and unanswered questions from the last few days:
Grandma and me nearly shot; Why? Because she knew about a science experiment gone wrong?
A Human Memory Crusade transcript that doesn’t seem to test Grandma’s memory so much as write over it. Why?
The hooded man had an accent. Was it Swiss?
Polly’s seductiveness. Is she in with Chuck?
Chuck tells me not to trust the police. How might they possibly be involved? Who shot Chuck outside my house? Why isn’t he limping?
How does any of this relate to the secret from Grandma’s past?
Whom can I trust?
Chuck reemerges.
“Time to meet my father.” He holds open the door for me, then whispers, “Be pleasant.” It sounds like a threat.
The room is dimly lit. In the corner is a desk. An old man sitting behind it, looking down through a magnifying glass.
“Dad, this is Nathaniel Idle. He’s a writer, like Dave Cardigan.”
“Dave could shoot a gook from a thousand yards,” his father responds without looking up. But I can see his face is fleshy and unsubstantial to the point of being gaunt, his cheeks droopy like a cartoon dog. He wears a leather hunting cap. His voice is deep but textured with crackles. He’s had lung trouble, maybe early onset of emphysema. He’s late sixties or early seventies, but poorly aged, his white