Devil's Plaything - Matt Richtel [93]
“She’s getting better. When she’s not at the computer, she seems more like herself.”
“Meaning what?”
“Maybe she can answer your question herself in a few days.”
Outside the room, Vince stands guard.
“They offered us free computers,” he says. “I was trying to make their lives better.”
“I believe you. But we still have a lot to talk about.”
He nods.
“You don’t need to make a story out of this,” he says. “That’s about you and your career. Think about all the people whose lives you will ruin.”
“Keep my grandmother safe.”
“She’s safe. Guard around the clock. This is all over now.”
I wish he were right. I head into the night.
Chapter 51
I’m scraping my hippocampus for memories of the shadow man who flitted in and out of my life, making brief cameos and little concrete impression.
Did I sense something about that man at the time? Did I intuit the import of Harry, the Pigeon-man who was Grandma’s true love?
Did I deliberately bury this instinct? Was it too strange for a child to contemplate? Or record as memory?
I honestly can’t remember.
I’m aware of the failings of my own memory, its fragility.
Something else strikes me. Perhaps I wasn’t particularly aware of Harry’s periodic presence. But perhaps I was aware of something else: the changing moods in my grandmother.
Sometimes she seemed happier. Sometimes she sang a little bit more, seemed purer and less distracted. Sometimes, so inspired.
Were those the times Harry was near?
Did I sense that Grandma led a double life? Or that she needed more than one thing to keep her happy?
Does it scare me to feel so connected to her malady?
Chapter 52
I stand at the doorstep of Polly’s flat. Sleep deprivation and delirium should have me shrouded in my own personal fog. But I feel alive with both hope and misgivings.
The door is unlocked. Polly is too trusting. She shouldn’t be so cavalier and open in such a dangerous world. The house is quiet.
“Polly?” I call upstairs, then down.
No response.
I drop my backpack and start to run. I speed up the stairs to her bedroom.
The bedside light is on. On the bed lies Polly, a pillow clutched to her chest. She’s sleeping, then hears me, and starts to stir.
“You’re okay,” I exclaim. Utter relief.
She rubs a beautiful eye with the back of her hand.
“Why wouldn’t I be? My God,” she says and pulls herself into a sitting position. “What ran you over?”
“It’s no biggie. I got attacked by the U.S. military and the biotech industry. A day in the life of a blogger.”
She blinks, the vulnerable Polly. Tears in her eyes. “Would you mind making me some tea?”
I make her rosebud herbal tea, which she says she’s been craving all night. It’s just past midnight. We sit on the love seat across the wall from her bed. Dim light from a lamp gives the room a hollow feeling. Polly, chilly, wraps herself in a blanket.
I’ve sensed for days something has been bothering her. “You’re not telling me something.”
“You’re right.”
“Are you part of it?”
“I told you about my brother.”
“Philip. Crystal meth.”
“I love him so much. I’ve taken care of him. I always will.”
“What did he do? Is he involved in this thing?”
She looks at me quizzically.
“I know you think I’m some corporate drone, a crazed MBA looking to change the world and charge a lot of money for it, but . . .”
I don’t know where she’s heading. “Polly . . .”
“I’m not that. I am waiting for the right thing to invest myself in, not just my business.”
“Are you part of the Crusade? Are you in league with Chuck?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Then what are you talking about?”
“Nat, I really wanted you to come to this on your own. I didn’t want to put pressure on you. I know who you are and I have no need to change that.”
I’m baffled.
“Please, Polly. Tell me what’s going on.”
She smiles.
“There’s someone I want you to meet.”
I look around.
She takes my hand with her cold grasp. She stretches out my fingers and extends them toward her belly.
“Meet your son.”
Lightning in my head. An explosion