Devil's Plaything

by Matt Richtel

  He doesn’t speak.

  I almost can’t believe I’m muttering the next words as they come out of my mouth: “If necessary at some point, I can figure out how to put my medical degree to work.”

  After a pause, he says: “Tell me where and when you want the money, and how much you need.”

  “I’ll call you back when I figure out the details.”

  I need to look for a check-cashing outlet for him to wire the money to.

  “You’re not telling me everything, Nathaniel,” he says. “That’s okay. I trust you. It’s . . .” He pauses, then continues. “It’s that way when you have a child, a son. I’m sure you’ll see that at some point.”

  I almost laugh again. It’s an unusually close moment for us. I wonder if I should risk acknowledging it somehow but realize I have no vernacular or stomach for what might follow.

  “Call you later.”

  The phone rings.

  “Jonathan’s phone,” I answer.

  “Hello,” the person responds. “This is Jonathan. I lost my . . . Did you find my phone?”

  “I did. I found it,” I say.

  “Oh, great. Great. What a relief. Where?”

  “On the sidewalk in the Mission.”

  I tell him that I’m across town, but that I can drop it off in a couple of hours, or he can pick it up from me.

  “I’ll come to you,” he says.

  I agree to meet him after my meeting with Betty Lou. I tell him I’ll come to the Mission. I mostly mean it. I look at Grandma.

  “We’ve bought ourselves another hour or two of talk time,” I say.

  I pull the Cadillac to a stop. I stare out the window at the basketball court outside Adrianna’s apartment. The court is empty. A light wind blows a piece of newspaper across the court and lodges it against the fence. I’ll have to get into the building some other way, or come back after meeting Betty Lou.

  I call Directory Assistance and ask for the number for Pete Laramer.

  Several kids exit Adrianna’s building dressed for Halloween. The skinny one with the green Hulk mask perched on his forehead—not yet pulled down on his face—is Newton.

  “I’ve found that number for you,” the operator says. “Dr. Pete Laramer is with the Brown and Morrow Medical Group.”

  “What? Say that again.”

  “Brown and Morrow. I can give you the number, and, for an extra charge we can text it to you as well.”

  A silent Holy shit. Grandma’s neurologist is associated with the medical group that owns the disappearing dental offices. The offices with the pictures on the wall of landmark events, like Pearl Harbor and the moon walk; the offices that might have been home to a man in blue.

  As early as the 1950s, researchers showed that the human brain cannot process more than one stream of information at a time. But that’s what I’m trying to do. I’m looking at Newton, trying to figure out my next move. And I’m trying to remember what I know about Dr. Laramer, besides the fact he’s married to an old flame. If memory serves, he holds a patent for deep-brain scanning techniques. He’s pioneered new ways to use scanners and MRI machines to explore what’s happening inside our skulls as we think, feel, process information.

  I don’t have even a second to consider the implications. Because, at just that moment, Newton looks in my direction. And he starts to run.

  Chapter 36

  “Don’t move, Lane.”

  “I’m old, but I don’t like being told what to do.”

  I give her a kiss on the cheek, get out, and lock the Cadillac. Seconds later, I’m in full stride, heading down the street in his direction.

  Newton is a block ahead of me, looking over his shoulder. He turns a corner to the right and then I nearly trip over Spiderman.

  One of Newton’s friends, twice his size and dressed as the arachnid superhero, has stepped into the middle of the sidewalk. I try to step around him, and nearly run into another boy wearing a paper bag on his head. “Leave Newt alone,” the paper bag says, as I start to slip past.

  Then I feel a hand grab my arm.

  I turn and find myself facing Spiderman, Paper-bag Man, and a kid wearing a Golden State Warriors jersey.

  “I really need to talk with him. I won’t hurt him. I need his help.”

  “He’s long gone,” says Spiderman. His voice is high, prepubescent. But he’s got a full-grown body. The situation isn’t physically threatening. But these boys are trying to be brave.

  They’ve succeeded. Newton is long gone. I pause to catch my breath. “You ever see CSI?” I ask.

  “I’m not allowed to watch TV at night,” the paper bag says, almost comically disappointed, like maybe I could make an appeal to his parents.

  “I’m like a scientist on the show. But I’m a lot less rich and famous,” I say. “Newton has a good friend named Adrianna. She didn’t do anything wrong. But she got into trouble, and she needs the help of an expert, someone like me.”

  Spiderman says: “Are you with that other guy that came around here looking for Newton?”

  “What other guy?”

  No response.

  “Big guy, thick chest, wears a hooded sweatshirt. Looks like he might be really dumb?”

  I pull out my wallet. I extract three business cards.

  “I’m one of the good guys. Please have Newton leave a message on my cell phone and tell me how to get in touch with him.” I don’t have my phone but I can dial into it to retrieve messages.

  I walk back to the car in the intensifying wind, unlock the door, climb in. Grandma looks at me.

  “The box asked me a lot of questions,” she says. “I liked being asked questions. It was nice that it cared about me. But it always interrupted me. Like a man. You know that? Men are always interrupting us with their own thoughts. They don’t know how to listen. That computer . . . it pretended to be a good listener, but it always had its own purpose. It liked to give me all kinds of tasks to do.”

  I take her hand. “I love you.”

  “What?”

  “I’m sorry if I didn’t always listen. I’m sorry if I was self-absorbed, and treating you like just any grandma, not my Grandma. When we get through this, I’m going to visit you all the time, and you can play games with me, not the box.”

  Her eyes moisten.

  “Let’s go see Betty Lou,” I say.

  “And Harry,” she says.

  “Grandma, how long have you known Harry?”

  “Nathaniel!”

  “Grandma?”

  “Stop investigating and asking a bunch of questions, and listen to who I am. Stop acting like the box.”

  “I . . .” I don’t finish. I don’t know what to say. I find myself almost smiling at her fire.

  As I drive, I use the stolen phone to retrieve voice messages from my burned-up gadget. I shouldn’t, given that studies show the inflated crash risks when talking on a phone while driving. Counterpoint: I’m well past that point of inflated risks.

  There are two messages from Polly. The first: “This is a message from the woman who doubles as your bartender and your grandmother’s babysitter. I am in the mood to be of service this evening. It is Halloween, and I am planning to wear a costume that will be sufficiently demure for babysitting, if, that is, you like your babysitters in something tawdry. Call me.”

  The second: “Is your phone off? You’re not returning texts. There’s some potentially great blog items regarding the break-in of the Pentagon computer. Apparently, the hackers got access to Pentagon hospital contracts. And the attorney general indicted the Porta Potti pyromaniacs. Smells like another blog post,” she says. Her voice changes. “I need to talk to you. And see you. Things are . . . Can you call me?”

  I look at Grandma. “Every question is on the table now,” I say. “For instance: Who exactly is Pauline Sanchez?”

  “Watch out for the turtle.”

  “What?”

  “Turtle!”

  She points out the window.

 
I’ve been so distracted that I have not seen the large man in the crosswalk in front of us. He wears a large green hump. The Turtle flips me off. I drive through the intersection. Another urban amphibian nearly crushed by a cell-phone-wielding motorist.

  “It’s Halloween, Grandma.”

  “I love Milky Ways.”

  “I’ll get you one after our meeting,” I say. “Look, there’s Betty Lou.”

  In the fading light, I can see someone round sitting on a bench surrounded by a grove of bushes in a small neighborhood park. We’re just a few blocks from Magnolia Manor.

  We park and amble past a jungle gym with slides coming down three sides to the shrub-surrounded bench and Betty Lou.

  “Hi, Laney,” she says, taking Grandma’s hands. “How are you feeling?”

  “I’m fine, thank you. My grandson tells me he loves me, at least when he’s not talking on the phone.”

  “I’m sure he does love you. Would you like to go home?”

  “I’ve known you for a long time,” Grandma responds, disconnected. I can picture her less than a year ago; she’d have embraced Betty Lou, kissed her cheek, and gone on about her friend’s bright red silk headscarf.

  “Nathaniel, why don’t you sit down for a minute?” Betty Lou says.

  We sit. It feels peaceful in the little garden area, secluded, protected from the madness.

  “Grandma Lane is doing fine,” I say.

  “I’m glad to know that. I . . . she needs to be around people who know how to care for her.”

  She pauses. She grimaces. Then her face registers concern, then panic.

  “Oh no. No. No!”

  I start to turn my head to follow her petrified gaze to my left. But I feel a strong arm grab my neck and another on my torso. I feel a cloth shoved over my mouth and nose. I taste something stale like rancid orange-drink.

  Everything goes black.

  Chapter 37

  TRANSCRIPT FROM THE HUMAN MEMORY CRUSADE.

  JULY 7, 2010

  PLEASE ENJOY THIS SHORT VIDEO WHILE I FIND YOUR FILE.

  I HAVE FOUND YOUR FILE. WOULD YOU LIKE TO CONTINUE WITH YOUR STORY?

  I’m trying to. I’m determined. I wrote myself some notes. Please hold on a minute while I look at my notes.

  YOU HAVEN’T SAID ANYTHING FOR A MINUTE. ARE YOU STILL THERE?

  Remember, I told you about the envelope, and how it had some clue about the library?

  WOULD YOU LIKE TO CONTINUE?

  The Denver library had these majestic steps, like a Roman cathedral. Or, Greek, maybe. Columns. I went up the steps to the second floor. That’s where I went—to the second floor of the library, where they kept the fiction. Please, just let me talk. No more bugs and messages. I always loved books, and I loved Alice’s Adventures. If you want to know the truth, I felt like a spy standing there. I was so frightened because I knew that I was not supposed to look inside the envelope. And I didn’t know who might be following or watching me. I remember this one feeling so clearly: I was kind of hoping that the handsome man with the work boots might be watching. I wanted him to know that I had courage, and that I was no one’s patsy. Do you use that word? Please, Please! Stop with the butterflies.

  ARE YOU STILL THERE?

  I’m feeling clearheaded right now, and I . . . I looked all around me. I was telling you about the library. I . . . I went to the C section of the library because I assumed that the book would be listed under the last name Carroll. Lewis Carroll. And I was right. There were two copies of Alice—both of them in hardback, I remember. I pulled one of the copies of the book from the shelf. I held my breath, kind of, and then I opened the copy of the book to the secret page number I’d found in the envelope. And I discovered there was nothing on that page. It was just the regular words of the story. I looked around the nearby pages, and I didn’t see anything. So then I pulled out the second copy of the book, and I turned to the special page, and there was nothing there either. No special instructions, or mysterious calligraphy, or whatever I imagined I might find. I felt so angry, and frustrated, and I stood there feeling betrayed, and silly. I . . .

  ARE YOU STILL THERE?

  I feel embarrassed by the way that made me feel. If you want to know the truth. And I looked through both copies of the book again, and I didn’t see anything. Then I remembered something about Alice in Wonderland. The real name of the author wasn’t Carroll. It was Charles Dodgson. I . . . I went to the D section to find a book written by Charles Dodgson. And you wouldn’t believe it! Nestled in the spot where you’d find a book by Charles Dodgson was another copy of Alice in Wonderland. It was written by Lewis Carroll, but it had been shelved incorrectly. Or, obviously, it had been deliberately shelved incorrectly. I knew I’d found what I was looking for. So I opened the book. I opened it to page 45—that’s right, it was on page 45. I remember now!—and I found what I was looking for. Oh, yes, I most certainly did. I found what was waiting for me.

  YOU HAVEN’T SPOKEN FOR A MINUTE. ARE YOU STILL THERE?

  I’m crying. I’m sorry. It was so profound. Do you know that word? Existential, maybe. I don’t know what that word means anymore, and I’m not sure I ever totally did. Like “ironic.” I probably used the word incorrectly a lot of times in my life. Well, anyway, I opened the book, and I saw what it said. May I tell you?

  I THINK YOU ARE ASKING ME A QUESTION. WOULD YOU REPEAT THE QUESTION?

  There was a typed note. It said . . . Wait . . . I still have it. Let me read it to you. It said . . .

  ARE YOU STILL THERE?

  I’m making sure we’re alone. It said: “Congratulations, Lane Idle. You have a great mind, and an adventurous heart. Meet me at Elitch Gardens, Friday at 5. Come alone. The future depends on it.”

  YOU HAVEN’T SAID ANYTHING IN A MINUTE. ARE YOU STILL THERE?

  You’re not reacting. You’re not . . . you’re not amazed by this? I guess you wouldn’t be. You’re a . . . please stop with the butterflies and the orchestra sounds. They’re very distracting.

  Chapter 38

  TRANSCRIPT FROM THE HUMAN MEMORY CRUSADE.

  JULY 17, 2010

  ARE YOU A RETURNING PARTICIPANT?

  This is strange.

  The machine is very smart, Betty. Please, just talk to it. Don’t be afraid of the butterflies.

  I’m speaking for Lane Eliza Idle.

  I’VE FOUND YOUR FILE. WOULD YOU LIKE TO CONTINUE TELLING YOUR STORY, OR WOULD YOU LIKE TO DO A DIFFERENT ACTIVITY, LIKE PLAY A GAME? I SEE THAT YOU HAVE BEEN PLAYING MANY FUN GAMES FOR MANY HOURS IN THE LAST FEW WEEKS. YOU HAVE HAD A HIGH SCORE. I AM PROUD OF YOU.

  What do you want to do, Lane? Do you want me to read this?

  I’M HAVING TROUBLE UNDERSTANDING YOU. WOULD YOU LIKE TO TAKE A FUN TRIVIA TEST TO REMEMBER WHAT WE TALKED ABOUT BEFORE?

  Laney, do you want to take a quiz?

  I suppose so.

  WHEN WE TALKED BEFORE, YOU TOLD ME THAT YOU FIRST HEARD ABOUT PEARL HARBOR LISTENING TO A RADIO. ON THE SCREEN ARE THREE PICTURES OF RADIOS, WHICH ONE DID IT MOST LOOK LIKE?

  Lane?

  I don’t remember, I think it was a black radio, like the one in the middle.

  DID YOU SAY THE ONE IN THE MIDDLE?

  Yes.

  I THINK I UNDERSTOOD YOU TO SAY THAT YOUR FATHER OWNED A BLUE CADILLAC. YOU HAVE AN EXCELLENT MEMORY.

  I want to tell my story.

  She’d like to continue with her story.

  DID YOU SAY YOU’D LIKE TO CONTINUE WITH YOUR STORY?

  Yes.

  Yes.

  WOULD YOU LIKE A REMINDER OF WHERE YOU LEFT OFF THE LAST TIME WE TALKED?

  Do you want me to read this aloud?

  Tell the box, please.

  The box?

  Lane?

  What do you want me to do, Lane?

  I’m tired.

  Okay, okay. I’ll try this. My name is Betty Lou, and I’m going to read something written by Lane Idle. I’m reading now:

  I didn’t know whether to tell anyone abou
t what I found. What if something terrible was happening at Elitch Gardens, like a crime, or, I don’t know, maybe espionage. It was wartime, and we all knew that something bad was happening. And we were already having trouble trusting. I thought about telling my brother what I’d found. But he was one of the people I was having trouble trusting—for a different reason: he was hanging out with those bad kids, and he needed money and he wasn’t acting like my brother anymore. He was taking . . . he had a different way of dealing with his idle mind. Should I keep going?

  Betty Lou, you have a beautiful voice when you read.

  Elitch Gardens was a gathering place, I guess you’d say. There were some restaurants, and a public flower garden, dance pavilion, and walking paths. It eventually became an amusement park, but this was before that. My point is that I didn’t think much bad could happen there; this was also before people got into shooting matches, and I couldn’t imagine it was anything like that. So, to make a long story short (my hand gets tired when I write too long), I decided I’d go down to Elitch Gardens myself. Of course, I decided that! Who am I kidding? I wouldn’t have it any other way!

  It’s nice to see you smile, Lane. This is a strange story. Is it made up? Lane?

  I don’t think so.

  Oh okay. I’m just going to keep reading for you then:

  It was a busy day for me already. Before I went to Elitch Gardens to uncover the mystery, I was supposed to have my first driving lesson with Irving. I’m not sure if it was a driving lesson or a date. It went badly. He was so nice to me—too nice. Not dramatic, but nice and sturdy. I didn’t think I should tell him about the envelope. But I was so nervous during the whole lesson. And guess what? I crashed his car! I drove it into a fence. The front part of Irving’s car—his fender, or bumper or whatever—was broken, or bent. He drove me in silence back to the bakery. He was quiet; I was apologetic. I thought he was so mad at me. But when we got there—to the bakery—he reached into the glove compartment. He pulled out an apple. A very shiny one, red. He said: “I forgot. I was going to give this to you.”