Devil's Plaything

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…