Golden Gate Park. On his voice mail, I left a message telling him I needed immediate help.
From my backpack, I pulled out my laptop. I opened the transcripts from the Human Memory Crusade — the ones from the mysterious memory stick I hadn’t yet read in full. Would they offer me insight into who took Lane — or why?
Butterflies, a pigeon, old secrets.
It’s a fascinating if unfinished tale from Grandma’s past — and as interesting in style as substance. The computer seems to be testing her memory and probing it.
I am not a computer expert, but the software powering the conversation with Grandma feels extremely sophisticated and artificially intelligent. Oh, and evil. It is assessing her. It deems her “priority one,” and “wildfire.” What the hell is that?
But the transcript offers no obvious answers or clues about the kidnapping. Have we come to be haunted by some secret from Lane’s past?
I close the laptop. I wince at the pulsing pain squeezing my head. I feel dull pain under both armpits, maybe where someone dragged me away from the park bench. I slam my hand onto the steering wheel. I fall forward, woozy. I reorient and look at myself in the rearview mirror. There’s white residue in the corners of my mouth, my eyes bloodshot, a red mark near my right temple, maybe where I fell or otherwise hit my head. I touch it and feel little pain.
I look around the car. I see the edge of a manila-colored folder. It’s sticking out from under the edge of the passenger seat.
I yank it out, recognizing it immediately. It’s the same folder that Betty Lou was holding on the park bench — right before someone chloroformed me.
Whoever dragged me here must have left this. On purpose?
I open the folder. Inside, six sheets of paper. They look like medical documents or schedules. Each one is titled Neuro Exam Schedule. Each one has a name, date of birth, and, beneath that, a series of dates written in script.
I recognize two of the names: Lane Idle and Victoria Xavier, the lonely romance novelist who is Grandma’s suite mate. The other names include two men and two women. Each in their eighties, except one man, named Terrence Lymon, who is ninety years old.
According to Grandma’s document, she had nine neurological visits. Nine! How had I missed all of those? Who took her there? What happened when she got there? Were these the visits to the fake dental office?
I call Magnolia Manor. I ask for Betty Lou. I am transferred to the nursing station and told Betty Lou is unavailable. The nurse is not someone I know. Sotto voce, I explain the situation is urgent, and dire. The nurse is unsympathetic. “Goodbye,” she says and hangs up.
And at just that moment, my stolen phone goes dead. Of course. Its real owner has finally had it turned off.
I start the Cadillac to drive the three blocks to Magnolia Manor.
As I near the home gates, I hear sirens — fast approaching. Behind me speed two cherry tops. They cruise past me and on to the Manor grounds.
I park on the street and stand at the gates.
Vince appears on the front stairs. The police cruisers pull up to the front. The driver of the first car gets out and ambles toward Vince. They shake hands — the friendly shake of people who know one another.
The cop walks inside with Vince. The second cruiser remains parked outside, a cop still inside it.
Time to rethink Plan A. An hour ago, I wanted to contact the police. Now I’m not sure. Is Vince somehow involved with the memory crusade? As are the cops? Is he in with Grandma’s neurologist? I know Pete Laramer is one of the bad guys, don’t I? Do I have a clue whom to trust? I honestly don’t know if I could tell the difference right now between Gandhi and a bowl of dried fruit.
It’s 8:05.
I’m desperate.
Plan B.
Chuck.
Twenty minutes later, I park in Noe Valley, a swanky neighborhood with million-dollar two-bedroom flats where I’m supposed to meet the suspiciously informed venture capitalist.
He stands in front of Coq Au San Francisco. He’s wearing a sport coat, slacks, his neck wrapped in a dark scarf.
I’m half a block from him, closing fast, when a man steps in front of me wearing an angel’s wing protruding from the right side of his back. He holds a Bible. He reads a passage about sinners smoldering in purgatory. I step around him.
“Guess who I am and get a Snickers,” he says.
“Some other time.”
I see Chuck pull out his cell phone. I pause to watch him.
“You’re the Right Wing,” I say.
“Candy for you,” the man says gleefully.
Next to him stands a man wearing a rubber gorilla mask. The man removes his mask.
“This fucking thing is giving me heat stroke.”
Chuck talks on the phone. He looks around him — up and down the street. I duck behind the Right Wing so Chuck can’t see me.
Chuck has information I need. But so much about Chuck seems uncomfortably coincidental — the timing of his appearance in my life, and his sudden breadth of knowledge about Adrianna, Biogen, the Human Memory Crusade.
I look at the guy who removed the gorilla mask. He’s sweating profusely.
“Five bucks for the gorilla mask.”
“Are you serious?”
“As a gorilla with a heart attack, or heat stroke.”
We make the trade.
Chuck hangs up his phone. He starts walking in my direction. I pull on the sweaty mask, and sidle up against the wall next to a guy playing guitar, singing Bruce Springsteen’s “Born to Run.”
Seconds later, Chuck walks past. I wait a few seconds, and I turn and follow.
Chapter 42
G.I. Chuck snakes past a drag queen on stilts, a three-headed dog, and a throng of not-costumed but drunken revelers, albeit polite ones. Noe Valley is the upscale, label-conscious neighborhood adjacent to the Castro, where the revelers generally are more unruly, and less dressed.
I’d like at this moment to cultivate Grandma’s two skills: the ability to stay calm and, if necessary, do karate. Screw Pauline’s admonitions that I’m melodramatic. I’m feeling entitled.
When we’re four blocks off the main drag, Chuck takes a sharp right, and disappears from view. I pick up speed. Moments later, I’m at the spot where Chuck disappeared from view. It’s the entrance to an alley, more like a narrow one-way street that bisects a handful of million-dollar attached row-houses. Light from the back door of one flat that is halfway down the block provides me meager vision. I can make out the trash and recycling bins parked neatly behind each residence, but no Chuck.
Maybe he made it to the other side of the alley/street. I start hustling to follow his tracks. I make it two steps when I’m pulled violently backwards.
My mask is knocked off, and I feel something soft but tight around my neck.
“I didn’t spend a lifetime in the military without learning how to tell when I’m being followed by a gorilla,” my attacker says in my ear. Chuck.
He loosens his grip on what I’m guessing is his scarf, now around my neck, not his.
