Chapter 36

“Don’t move, Lane.”

“I’m old, but I don’t like being told what to do.”

I give her a kiss on the cheek, get out, and lock the Cadillac. Seconds later, I’m in full stride, heading down the street in his direction.

Newton is a block ahead of me, looking over his shoulder. He turns a corner to the right and then I nearly trip over Spiderman.

One of Newton’s friends, twice his size and dressed as the arachnid superhero, has stepped into the middle of the sidewalk. I try to step around him, and nearly run into another boy wearing a paper bag on his head. “Leave Newt alone,” the paper bag says, as I start to slip past.

Then I feel a hand grab my arm.

I turn and find myself facing Spiderman, Paper-bag Man, and a kid wearing a Golden State Warriors jersey.

“I really need to talk with him. I won’t hurt him. I need his help.”

“He’s long gone,” says Spiderman. His voice is high, prepubescent. But he’s got a full-grown body. The situation isn’t physically threatening. But these boys are trying to be brave.

They’ve succeeded. Newton is long gone. I pause to catch my breath. “You ever see CSI?” I ask.

“I’m not allowed to watch TV at night,” the paper bag says, almost comically disappointed, like maybe I could make an appeal to his parents.

“I’m like a scientist on the show. But I’m a lot less rich and famous,” I say. “Newton has a good friend named Adrianna. She didn’t do anything wrong. But she got into trouble, and she needs the help of an expert, someone like me.”

Spiderman says: “Are you with that other guy that came around here looking for Newton?”

“What other guy?”

No response.

“Big guy, thick chest, wears a hooded sweatshirt. Looks like he might be really dumb?”

I pull out my wallet. I extract three business cards.

“I’m one of the good guys. Please have Newton leave a message on my cell phone and tell me how to get in touch with him.” I don’t have my phone but I can dial into it to retrieve messages.

* * *

I walk back to the car in the intensifying wind, unlock the door, climb in. Grandma looks at me.

“The box asked me a lot of questions,” she says. “I liked being asked questions. It was nice that it cared about me. But it always interrupted me. Like a man. You know that? Men are always interrupting us with their own thoughts. They don’t know how to listen. That computer… it pretended to be a good listener, but it always had its own purpose. It liked to give me all kinds of tasks to do.”

I take her hand. “I love you.”

“What?”

“I’m sorry if I didn’t always listen. I’m sorry if I was self-absorbed, and treating you like just any grandma, not my Grandma. When we get through this, I’m going to visit you all the time, and you can play games with me, 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.

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