I bite the inside of my lip to keep from conveying my shock and the depth of my curiosity. A woman named Lulu Pederson — who may have written me a mystery note with a mystery attachment and knows I went to the Galapagos — shares the name of a woman who is haunting my demented grandmother. And now Lulu Adrianna Pederson seems to be missing.
I need help.
I dial Chuck. He doesn’t answer. I leave a message telling him I’d like his help following up on a lead in our story.
“Lane smooched a colored boy,” Grandma says.
“Lane, let’s go home, get some rest, and try to avoid any more nasty surprises. On the way, we can make one more stop by that dentist’s office.”
“No thank you.” Emphatic.
I look at her. She blinks twice rapidly, betraying some discomfort.
“What’s wrong with the dentist?”
“I said no.”
“Grandma?”
No response.
Her silence speaks volumes. I have to check out that office.
Chapter 19
I weave through a few side streets, and take a right turn onto Geary, a fat thoroughfare thickening to a crawl with commuter traffic. We slip into the mess. We putt along in silence for a few blocks, and then I see something troubling in the rearview mirror, one lane over to the right.
There’s a Prius several cars behind us. Its driver looks like the lovechild of a circus clown and Bigfoot.
I turn off my engine, yank out the keys, and put on the hazards. I open the door and start hustling toward the Prius.
I am thoroughly pissed off, but I still realize I have two big problems.
One is that my move prompts an eruption of honks. The collective angst of several dozen drivers already frustrated by life’s deep unfairness — traffic, the Bay Area cost of living, the fact they don’t yet own an iPad — spills out into a symphony of honking harangues.
The second problem takes a moment longer to materialize.
I zigzag to the driver’s-side window of the hybrid. I peer inside at the face of a man in his mid-twenties with a soul patch, hefty sideburns, ring-pierced lower lip, and an ostentatious hairy wig. He holds a dime-store clown mask he has pulled from his face, leaving it dangling from his neck by an elastic string.
He looks startled, then menacing, like a guy who goes to Oakland Raiders games just for the fights in the stands. His speakers thump with hip-hop.
He rolls down his window. He starts to speak. Starts to, then pauses, turns down the hip-hop, and makes an impassioned plea.
“I am one hundred percent sober.”
On the passenger seat I see a fifth of Jack Daniel’s, half drained. The bottle is open, tilting to the side, dribbling out its contents.
“Who do you work for?” I ask.
“What?”
“Are you following us?”
Then something dawns on him.
“You better be a cop,” he says. “Or I’m going to drive my forehead through your forehead. You ever see the Ultimate Fighting Championship?”
Something dawns on me too. This is not the hybrid I saw in the park. And there is little likelihood its driver has been plotting my demise, at least not until this very moment.
“Undercover pre-Halloween law-enforcement brigade,” I say.
I sprint back to my car, start it, and pull hard into the right lane. I then yank a sharp right onto a side street to get out of the traffic jam.
I don’t fully exhale until I realize that the hybrid driver has, apparently, decided not to follow us.
“You’re frightening me,” Grandma says.
“I’m sorry. My imagination’s in overdrive.”
“Ha!” Grandma says declaratively. “You seem like you’re enjoying yourself.”
This time, it is I who uses Grandma’s regular refrain.
“I’m not sure I understand,” I say.
“The Idles like to run after things.”
“The neurologist is right.”
“What?”
“You’re away from Magnolia Manor and you’re getting more lucid.”
“If you say so.”
As we drive, I call Magnolia Manor and ask for Betty Lou, Grandma’s close friend.
“Where’s Lane?” Betty Lou asks immediately.
“We’re going to hang out for a few days. Her doctor says she needs some concentrated time with her grandson. But I need a few changes of clothes for Lane.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Well then why not just come back here and get some clothes yourself?”
“Betty Lou, you’re a clever old lass.”
“Bring her back here, Nathaniel.”
“Please, Betty Lou,” I say. I want to add: I know what I’m doing. But I’m not sure that I do. Instead, I say: “I’m taking great care of her, and she’s doing fine.”
“Then why are they looking for her, and you?”
“Who is?”
“Vince and the rest of those a-holes.”
I tell her I don’t have time to explain. I ask her to meet me on the street in an hour.
“Harry is worried sick,” she says.
“Don’t tell anyone we’ve talked.”
“What’s going on, Nathaniel?”
“I don’t know. Maybe nothing. I wouldn’t worry about it.”
“Young people are so patronizing.”
Half an hour later, I pull into the dental office. It’s just after 5:30, getting dark, and the lot has largely cleared out.
“Sit tight for just a second, Lane.”
“I’m bored. Can I use the computer?”
I hand her the video-game phone.
“No, the computer!” she says.
“It is a computer.”
“What?”
She’s staring at the screen.
“I’ll be back in just a second.”
I walk up the stairs and I notice the office door is ajar. I push it open. Inside, the office is quiet, dark, and
