Devil's Plaything - Matt Richtel [84]
“You lied to me about the police being involved. You told me they were the source of the mystery call in Golden Gate Park.”
“You’re right. I lied.”
“Why?”
“Because I was trying to get my bearings, and I didn’t want the Keystone Kops involved before I figured out what was going on.”
“That’s a hell of a lot of subterfuge and lying for an investor.”
“Not really. Business is rough, especially in these economic conditions. You’re just not used to looking at it from the inside.”
He hands me the phone. I pocket it.
I look Chuck in the eyes. “Does my grandmother have a secret? Something from her past that would make her dangerous, or valuable?”
“Why would you ask that?”
“Because of the transcripts.”
“What are you talking about?” He sounds surprised.
But I don’t feel like sharing anything more than I need to. “I’m sorry about your father. But you’ve ruined my grandmother’s life. I’ll never forgive you for that.”
He looks at me in silence, making an assessment.
“Fair enough,” he finally says. “Find her.”
I know where to start looking.
Chapter 46
A horrific confluence of fear and violence hijacked Chuck’s father’s brain. A few years in Vietnam, punctuated by death-by-fire in a rice paddy, overwrote and gained primacy over thousands and millions of other memories. Could a computer be doing something analogous to my grandmother? Could the hyper-kinetic interaction with an artificially intelligent interviewer be overriding her daily perceptions?
I pull out Chuck’s father’s phone.
For an instant, looking at the device, I wonder about the impact of constant computer use on my own memory. Practically speaking, I no longer remember addresses or phone numbers or directions; that’s because I’ve ceded all the remembering to the hard drive of my computer and phone. Isn’t that just a convenient trade-off? Or is there something more insidious at work. Is my interaction with my device rewiring my brain? At this moment, my answer is: Who cares?
I need Chuck’s phone to do what my brain cannot divine on its own: give me the address to the home of Pete and Kristina Laramer, and directions to get there.
Through an Internet search I get the responses instantly.
Computer 1, Idle’s Mind 0.
Dr. Laramer, the scheming neurologist, worked with Biogen to turn my grandmother into a guinea pig, lied to and manipulated me, and now I’m planning to give him an unforgettable late-night Halloween visit—dressed merely as an aggrieved grandson with sudden violent urges, packing a wine opener.
Minutes later, I’m back at my car. I fire up my laptop, and the transcripts to the Human Memory Crusade. I look at how much story I have yet to read. Looks like another handful of interviews. I glance at them, looking for key words, or obvious revelations that might explain Grandma’s disappearance, or why she’s taken center stage in this conspiracy.
Her story continues in fits and starts, punctuated by increasing interruptions by the computer. Most striking is that, towards the end of the transcript, the computer does most of the talking. It appears to be telling Grandma about her past, asking her a handful of yes and no questions to make sure it has properly recorded her story. It asks her pointed questions about what kinds of cars her father and husband drove, whether anyone in her neighborhood used a butter churn, what Irving wore to their wedding and how many people attended the affair, what her favorite candy bar was as an adolescent, and other strangely particular facts.
As to the substance of Grandma’s tale, it appears to me to end inconclusively. Just before the war, she met some man nicknamed Pigeon and had an intense relationship of an uncertain nature. It feels romantic, exciting, dangerous. But I don’t sense there is anything broadly sinister. There is no hint of conspiracy, military intrigue, or treason. But at this point, who knows.
I put down the laptop.
The clock on the phone says 10:48. I turn off the gadget so that someone can’t use it to track my whereabouts. I start the car.
Twenty minutes