I wake to see Grandma looking at me. “Bugs in a rug,” she says.
“Peas in a pod.”
“Pigs in a blanket.”
“You’re the only one with a blanket.”
We both laugh. She’s always most lucid when she’s rested.
I stand and stretch.
My cell phone buzzes. I extract it from my pocket, and discover two missed calls. One is from G.I. Chuck, asking me to call. He wonders if I’m okay and says he tried the phone I’d given him but I didn’t answer.
A second voice mail is from Betty Lou.
“I have the file,” says Betty Lou, whispering her message. She tells me to meet her at the same time as yesterday in a park near the home.
“Is it the right time of day for pancakes?” Grandma asks.
“Exactly the right time.”
“Okay.”
“It’s Halloween.”
“That’s nice.”
“It sure is. Because we’re going to wear costumes,” I say.
That’s how we’re going to sneak into Biogen.
Chapter 27
I catch a quick shower, and find that Polly has left me an XL T-shirt from a web promotion she did earlier this year. It hangs loose but at least it’s clean.
Draped over a leather recliner in the bedroom, Polly has left Grandma a short-sleeve yellow blouse and a beige cashmere sweater that buttons up the front. Grandma, professing enthusiasm for her “new clothes,” needs only the slightest help from me with the buttons.
In the kitchen, on a yellow pad lying on the black slate countertop, there’s a note: “Help yourself. Drink fluids. Regret nothing. File three blog posts.”
It is signed “Polly.”
Below her name, it reads: “PS: CHANGEME.”
I haven’t the foggiest idea what she means and make a note to ask her about it.
I pour myself dark coffee from one of Polly’s mildly eccentric amenities, a drip coffeemaker she found on eBay that ostensibly was used by the forward generals in Europe in World War II. Grandma drinks grapefruit juice and looks at pictures of dresses in a recent issue of
I turn gumshoe.
I call Biogen and ask for Lulu Pederson. Again, I get her voice mail: “You’ve reached Adrianna Pederson in Biogen’s Advanced Life Computing department. I’m not available right now; leave a message and I’ll get back to you.”
I call the company again and ask to be transferred to the Advanced Life Computing department. The operator transfers me to Adrianna’s voice mail.
Adrianna seems to be the sole employee of the Life Computing department. Adrianna tried to contact me with a titillating secret note, and then disappeared. Grandma said Adrianna can’t breathe. What could Adrianna or Biogen possibly have to do with Grandma?
I find my backpack near the front door, where I’d left it on our arrival.
I open the laptop and look for a wireless Internet connection. There are several in range in the building but all of them are secured by password. One of them is called “BrotherPhilip,” which must be Polly’s network. I call it up and then ponder blankly the password possibilities.
Then it hits me. I return to the note Polly left me on the countertop. She’d left me, without explanation, the letters “CHANGEME.” I type them into the password line. It works. Cute. Password: CHANGEME.
Into Google, I type: “Biogen Advanced Life Computing.” There are no meaningful hits.
I look at Biogen’s web site. It is a public company with $25 billion in annual sales, primarily in cancer drugs. The company also spends $2 billion annually in research and development on treatments for a range of diseases, including degenerative conditions like muscular dystrophy, AIDS and illnesses related to aging, like Alzheimer’s. There is nothing on the web site related to “Advanced Life Computing.”
I search for recent news on Biogen. It is rumored to be an acquisition candidate of Falcon Corporation, a Swiss biotech giant; Biogen is a jewel because of its sterling drug pipeline. Biogen’s stock price has been swinging wildly thanks to the acquisition rumors.
I call Biogen again. When I get an operator, I explain I’m a receptionist at a Berkeley lab charged with sending a FedEx to Lulu Pederson in Advanced Life Computing. I ask which building and floor I should use for an address. She’s located in Building 12, third floor.
Then I say I’ve got a second package for Jack Johnson. It’s a name I’ve made up. The operator says there’s no such person.
“Maybe he goes by James,” I say.
“We have a John Johnson, and a Jerry James,” the operator says.
“John Johnson — that must be the guy,” I say. The operator says that John Johnson works in the Bio-genetics division, Building 5, second floor.
“Grandma, I’ve got a plan, but it’s a major long shot in the extreme.”
“That’s nice.”
“You’re going to dress up like an old person. Think you can pull it off?”
“You don’t look so young yourself anymore.”
She grins.
I do one last Internet search — for the medical group of Brown & Morrow, the disappearing dental company.
The web site for the medical group does little to enlighten. It’s a region-wide collection of hundreds of doctors, dentists, and other medical practitioners — a very common business setup. I find an administrative number that goes directly to an automated voice service. Dead end.
Our next stop is a diner where Grandma and I order pancakes. She eats voraciously. She tells me the plot of one of her favorite movies,
We walk to the car.
Across the street, a man in a gray hooded sweatshirt stands out of the mouth of an alley looking our direction. He is well over six feet tall and well built. When he sees me look in his direction, he disappears into the alley.
En route to Biogen, I check in the rearview mirror for a Prius. None materializes. I’ve been wondering if there’s a tracking device on my car. Paranoia is a lovely feeling.
I call Chuck. He answers and says he’ll call me back shortly from a “secure line.”
“The guy is a complete loon,” I mutter.
I hang up and I remember a dream I had last night. Polly and I stand on opposite sides of a narrow but deep gorge. She wears tight jeans, a leather vest, and a wedding veil. She stands in front of a microphone. She starts making precise and beautiful bird calls, prompting from around us the roar of applause. I feel myself walking closer to the edge of the gorge. I begin to flap my arms, propelling myself into the air. I elevate over the gorge. I wake up, sweat on my chest and neck, still drunk and pasty, stomach knotted.
Biogen is located just south of San Francisco in an industrial park that might become the place where scientists discover the key to immortality. At the biotech companies here, the best and the brightest combine high
