“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Where am I standing right now?”
“On the moon? In an LSD haze?”
“This is how the hooded man knew I was coming to the server farm. He works for you and you stalled me on the phone a few minutes ago so he could drive by and use my head for target practice.”
“Stop!”
“Who are you, Chuck Taylor?”
“Some guy was after you again? This is nuts.”
“I’m going to find out who you are, and I’m going to make a hell of a lot more for the story than a sixty-dollar blog post.”
“Nat. Mr. Idle. Listen to me.”
“I know you want my grandmother or whatever information is inside of her. But I’m not with her. I’m going to make her tougher to find than the president during a nuclear attack.”
“May I interrupt? May I please ask you a simple question?”
“What?”
“I don’t know where you are and I don’t care. But here’s my question: Are you anywhere near a garbage can?”
I look to my left and see a massive green Dumpster.
“How did you know?”
“I didn’t, you jackass. I’m asking because I want you to go throw the phone away. It didn’t cost me anything and it’ll keep you from pirouetting into some paranoid fantasy.”
I digest his words. “That’s a good first step.”
“Nat, you’re obviously onto something interesting. And I can appreciate that you don’t know whom to trust. I guess that’s what makes you a good journalist. But don’t forget that I’ve been giving you information. Don’t forget I got shot at too — and hit. Frankly, I want to help you, and Medblog, but you’re becoming a risk of producing a negative return on investment.”
“Chuck, you just got interested in Medblog a month ago. That seems more than coincidental to me.”
He doesn’t respond for a moment.
“Have things your way. Cut me off. Leave me out of it. If you change your mind, I have documents about Adrianna Pederson and Biogen and something called the Human Memory Crusade, the material I told you about before. The stuff is fascinating. Whether it’s relevant to you and your story, who knows. If you want to meet me and get the documents tonight, fine. If not, I’ll sign your Medblog checks and stay out of your hair.”
“Did you say ‘Human Memory Crusade’?”
“I did.”
“There’s information about that?”
“Yep. What is it?”
“Can you tell me what the documents say?”
“Meet me tonight, or don’t. Or I can mail you this stuff.”
He reminds me of the location of a restaurant where he’ll be.
“And Nat,” he says. “Remember to throw away my sinister telephone.”
We hang up.
I open up the back of the cell phone. I smash it on the ground. I can see its guts. I pick through them. If there’s a tracking device on the phone, I don’t know what it looks like.
I get back into the car.
“Grandma, can you tell me what it was like to talk to the computer?”
“Sure I can.”
“What was it like?”
“What?”
“What was it like to talk to the computer?”
“That’s private, Nathaniel.”
I take her hand.
“Grandma Lane…” I start, then pause. I don’t have a clue to explain to her the nuances of the situation. There are so many questions.
I know whom I might be able to call for help.
Now I need a phone.
Ten minutes later, Grandma and I walk into a Verizon store. I explain to the twenty-something behind the counter wearing Vulcan ears (I assume for Halloween) that I lost my phone and need the cheapest one they’ve got in a hurry. Though clearly disgusted by my Luddite tendencies, she takes my credit card to ring me up. We hit a snag. My Visa is denied.
She asks for another credit card. I hand her my bank debit card. She swipes it into the machine. “Blocked too,” she says.
“Not possible. It was working this morning. Can you check again?” But I realize that it’s entirely possible that my cards have been blocked. Whatever Grandma and I are up against sounds powerful enough to mess with my finances. Does that mean the cops are involved? The government? Who else has such power? Steve Jobs or the aliens that landed at Roswell?
The saleswoman looks at Grandma. “Let me ask my manager what we can do here.”
She disappears through a door behind a counter. I look at Grandma, then over the counter at the cash register. Sitting next to it is a touch-screen cell phone, one of the fancier modern models. It looks like it belongs to one of the employees.
“You’re not complicit,” I mutter to Grandma.
I reach over the counter, grab the phone, and whisk Grandma out. We hustle to the car, dodging a handful of costumed youngsters who have disgorged from a school bus.
“We’ve probably got half an hour, maybe less, before they realize the phone is missing and shut down the service,” I say to Grandma as we climb back into the decked-out and dented Cadillac. Inside, it smells clean, like lemon. “Forgive me if I talk and drive.”
“Keep your eyes on the road.”
It’s 4:15. I’ve got an hour plus before I meet Grandma’s friend, Betty Lou. She should be able to deliver another piece of the puzzle — Grandma’s care file. And maybe she’ll be able to fill in some blanks about the Human Memory Crusade. How many people use it? What do they say about the experience? What has been the role of Magnolia Manor in promoting it?
I have time to stop at Adrianna’s apartment building. I need to see if I can somehow get inside. Maybe I can find Newton playing hoops in the dying daylight. Given that the boy’s picture was in Adrianna’s office and that his name is the basis for several key passwords, it’s clear that he is closer than I thought to the missing scientist. Maybe I can convince him to help me figure out where to look for information.
As I drive, I call my parents. Dad answers.
“Why are you calling from the phone of someone named Jonathan Atkins?” he asks.
“Long story.”
I tell him that I don’t have much time, but have been meaning to talk to him about Grandma. I try to convey urgency but not panic. If he hears drama, Dad’s liable to clam up and, ever the rational type, think about the situation and call me back. I tell him Grandma’s been pretty animated in telling a story about her childhood. The story involves the bakery, Grandpa Irving, somebody nicknamed Pigeon.
“Like the bird?”
“I think so.”
Dad listens in silence. “Your grandmother and I get along fine,” he says. It sounds defensive.
“I don’t see what that…”
“I don’t know a lot of the details of her life. She liked telling stories, but she preferred the ones from books. She got prickly around stories about herself.”
It’s the most my father has ever said to me about his relationship with Grandma.
“Anything else?” he asks.
