I strain to gaze through the heat to the wall the hooded man disappeared through. There must be a door on that side of the building. Regardless, my better survival option is the door I entered, but flames are rising to block the way.
I get up crouching, hold my breath and hurtle through a slight breach in the flames. I make it to the door and I yank it open. I hurl myself into oxygen and fall onto the ground on my knees.
I’m heaving, coughing, gasping, and then, I leap to my feet in a coughing retch and sprint-limp to the parking lot. Seconds later, I find our car, but not Grandma. The passenger door is open, Grandma’s game device sitting on the seat. She’s nowhere to be seen.
At the other end of the huge parking lot, departing, I see the back end of a car, quickly disappearing. It’s the Prius.
“Grandma!” It’s a wild, effete cry. I fumble in my pocket for my phone to call the police. Then I remember my phone is melting, has melted.
I put the key into the ignition and turn the key. The engine doesn’t turn over. I turn the key again. No response.
“Fuck!”
From the building, I hear a pop. A window blows out.
The cops and fire department will be here soon.
Then I see it. Movement near the edge of the lot. She’s standing next to a cluster of bushes that look like they were intended as landscaping but never got much attention.
“Grandma!”
I’m sprinting.
When I get to her, she looks nonplussed, but she says, “I should be embarrassed.”
“What?”
“I peed over near the picnic tables,” she says, looking over her shoulder at the bushes.
“You peed? In the bushes?”
“I grew up in Denver and we had a field where we went to the bathroom on the way home from school.”
I wrap my arms around her. “I love you.”
“Are you crying, Nathaniel?”
“We’re fine.”
“Well, it’s not polite to wear blackface,” she says.
I run a finger down my cheek, and sure enough. Looks like I’m ready for Halloween. I take her by the hand. “We have to go.”
We return to the car, as flames start to shoot from the building’s sides. I reconnect the car battery again. I’m not happy I’ve gotten so good at this.
I hear sirens.
“Option B,” I say, as we climb back into the car.
“What?”
“Option A is to wait for the cops and tell them everything. Option B is to wait until we have more facts.”
What are we supposed to tell them — that we have a vague idea that someone possibly connected to Biogen tried to kill us for reasons we don’t understand?
I start the car. It lurches forward. Then halts, then lurches again.
Something else is wrong — maybe a cut fuel line, or some other sabotage. Who knows?
Moving in fits and starts, I pull out of the parking lot. We lurch down the street, just as a fire truck passes us.
I hear a phone ring. I’m surprised because I’m certain my phone has been reduced to the basic elements table in the server farm. Then I look down in the center compartment and see the ringing phone; it’s the prepaid model Chuck gave me. I ignore it.
I drive to the end of the block, take a right, then drive another block, turning into the empty parking lot of an abandoned warehouse with a grammatically incorrect sign on the door that reads: “Shanghai Bath Furnishings. Gone From Business.” My car is sputtering to the point of completely giving out.
I grab another wad of fast-food napkins and try and clean up. I’m not happy I’ve gotten so good at this, either.
I open the phone and I dial Samantha. She doesn’t answer. I call again. No answer. Of course not; the Witch doesn’t answer calls from numbers she doesn’t recognize, or blocked numbers. She feels people should have the courtesy to announce themselves.
I call again, then again, and again. Finally, she relents. “This is Samantha. I love all people and respect your choices, but telemarketing calls throw me out of balance so I must…”
“Sam, stop! It’s Nat.”
“Are you okay?”
“Not really.”
“Are you hurt?”
“Grandma and I are in an extreme version of a pickle and we need a ride.”
I tell her where we are.
“No problem. On the way,” she says. “I’m glad you called. The Whiz has been trying to reach you.”
The Witch and the Whiz.
She hands him the phone.
“I’ve opened your file,” Bullseye says. “You were right. The password was a variation of the name Newton.”
“What’s on the drive?”
“A transcript.”
“Of?”
“Your grandmother.”
“Talking to who?”
“Whom,” Grandma interjects. “Talking to whom?”
“Talking to whom, Bullseye?”
“She’s not talking to a person.”
Then it dawns on me. “She’s talking to a computer — to a piece of software,” I exclaim.
“How’d you know?”
“The Human Memory Crusade.”
“Correct,” Bullseye says. “Seems like an AI program is asking her questions and she’s answering.”
“What’s she saying?”
He hesitates.
“I’ll bring it with me. I think it’s something you need to read for yourself.”
He hangs up.
I look at Grandma.
“It’s time to hear what you told the box.”
She doesn’t answer.
“Talk to me, Grandma. Tell me what’s going on?”
She puts her hands to her face. She looks terribly stricken.
“Grandma, are you keeping a secret from me?”
“I’m keeping a secret from everybody.”
Chapter 33
I gently turn Grandma’s chin so she faces me. Her blue eyes blink and skirt my gaze and her bottom lip quivers. I’ve smudged a dusting of black ash from my hands onto her face when I touched her chin and try gently to
