Devil's Plaything
Page 1
DEVIL’S
PLAYTHING
MATT
RICHTEL
Dedication
For My Grandparents
Pillars
Epigraph
The number of people suffering acute memory loss is doubling every twenty years.
Shipments of computer memory are doubling every two years.
Are these two statistics related?
More than you dare imagine.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Epilogue
THE JUGGLER - the sequel to DEVIL’S PLAYTHING
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
About the Author
Praise
By Matt Richtel
Copyright
About the Publisher
Prologue
TRANSCRIPT FROM THE HUMAN MEMORY CRUSADE.
JANUARY 17, 2010
Human Memory Crusade:
Thank you.
We appreciate your participation in our effort to record this nation’s incredible history.
We hope the brief instruction you have received has been helpful to you. As you have learned, your task is simple. Just read the questions and answer into the microphone. We’ll take care of recording and storing your stories for your children, grandchildren and generations to come.
When you have finished answering a question, please hit the enter key.
If you are having trouble remembering something, don’t worry. Just say: I can’t remember. You may also skip a question by hitting the enter key.
Even though I am a computer, I have an artificial brain. I have been programmed to listen for key words and use them to have a conversation with you. Think of me as your friend.
In the corner of the screen, you can see your image in a box. This is captured by a small camera on the top of the computer monitor. If your image is not in the middle of the box, please move slightly to the left or the right so that your image is in the middle.
Let us begin.
ARE YOU A RETURNING PARTICIPANT?
This is not my first time.
SORRY, WE DID NOT UNDERSTAND YOUR ANSWER. ARE YOU A RETURNING PARTICIPANT? YES, OR NO?
Yes.
THANK YOU. WHAT IS YOUR NAME? IF POSSIBLE, PLEASE INCLUDE YOUR MIDDLE NAME.
Lane Eliza Idle. I go by Lane. Lane Idle.
THANK YOU. WHAT IS YOUR BIRTHDATE AND PASSWORD?
WE WILL KEEP CONFIDENTIAL ALL PERSONAL IDENTIFIERS. WE NEED THIS INFORMATION TO FIND YOUR FILE IN OUR DATABASE.
My birthday is June 17, 1924. My password is . . . What is it with computers and passwords?
I’M SORRY. WE DIDN’T UNDERSTAND YOUR ANSWER.
“Pigeon.” My password is “pigeon.”
THANK YOU. PLEASE WAIT WHILE WE FIND YOUR FILE.
LANE IDLE, WE HAVE FOUND YOUR FILE IN OUR SYSTEM. WE WILL CONTINUE WHERE YOU LEFT OFF. YOU ARE 85 YEARS OLD?
Between us, I still tell everyone I’m 77.
DID YOU SAY YOU ARE 77 YEARS OLD?
No, I’m joking. You don’t do too well with humor.
WHEN YOU WERE YOUNGER YOU LIVED IN DENVER. IS THAT CORRECT?
Yes.
WHEN WE LAST SPOKE, YOU SAID YOUR HUSBAND DROVE A CHEVROLET. IS THAT CORRECT?
I don’t remember. I’m having a lot more trouble remembering things.
DID YOU SAY THAT YOU DON’T REMEMBER THAT YOUR HUSBAND DROVE A CHEVROLET?
Yes.
NO PROBLEM. WOULD YOU LIKE TO CONTINUE WITH YOUR STORY OF YOUR CHILDHOOD IN DENVER?
I’m not used to talking at a computer. Or to a computer. I’m not sure which is the best preposition. I used to be an English teacher, I think I told you that. In college, I wrote my thesis about Huckleberry Finn. I think he was misunderstood. Everyone thinks he’s so adventurous. He was. But I think of him as more of a true American. You know . . . always looking for something better. He had a short attention span, like they talk about on all the talk shows on the radio and television. I . . . I’ve lost my place. What was I talking about?
ARE YOU FINISHED?
ARE YOU STILL THERE? WOULD YOU LIKE TO CONTINUE WITH YOUR STORY?
(Laughter) You’re very persistent. You remind me of my brother, Leonard. He was so curious, and once he got hold of an idea he just wouldn’t let go of it. (Pause) Well, anyway. Denver. I really haven’t started telling that story. Denver was so green and quiet then, before the world got paved over with concrete and everyone started carrying around those silly phones. But it’s not really a story about Denver. It’s about war. Bad things that happen during war, or because of it, maybe. Or maybe war was just an excuse. To be honest, I’m not sure that I want to tell the story after all. I know this is silly, but, well, I’m wondering if I can trust you. Can I really expect a bunch of wires and plastic and Lord knows what else to process my information or keep it private if I say so?
I THINK YOU’VE ASKED WHETHER THE INFORMATION YOU SHARE WITH ME IS PRIVATE. IS THAT CORRECT?
Yes. That is correct.
OUR RECORDS INDICATE THAT YOU HAVE SIGNED RECORDS RELEASING THIS INFORMATION ONLY UPON YOUR PASSING. AT THAT POINT, IT WILL BECOME AVAILABLE AS PART OF A RECORD OF MEMORIES AND LIFE STORIES THAT WILL HELP FUTURE GENERATIONS UNDERSTAND THE 20TH CENTURY AND PEOPLE WHO LIVED THROUGH IT.
Does that mean that this information will be secret until I die?
THIS INFORMATION WILL REMAIN SECRET UNTIL YOUR PASSING.
Good. May I say something?
DID YOU ASK IF YOU CAN SAY SOMETHING? IF SO, YOU ARE FREE TO SAY ANYTHING YOU WANT.
You have to keep my secrets until I die.
ARE YOU STILL THERE?
Please.
ARE YOU FINISHED? DO YOU WISH TO CONTINUE?
People will get hurt. A lot of people. People I care about. I don’t want anyone to get hurt, especially my grandson, Nathaniel. I don’t want to be too dramatic about it, but I guess you’d say my story is a little dangerous. My gr
andson is . . . well, he’s a little bit like Huck Finn. He could go off and do something crazy. Just like his grandmother.
Chapter 1
My big toe is exposed and my companion lost in the world beyond.
I look down and see my digit poking through the strained fabric at the top of my black canvas high-tops. They are worn thin by an opposition to shopping that borders on the pathological and by a paltry freelance journalist’s income that of late has put shoe upgrades out of reach.
Other than my aerated toe, Golden Gate Park is warm, incongruously so given the descending darkness. But such is late October in San Francisco, where the seasons are as offbeat and contrarian as the residents.
“Grandma Lane, should I get a new pair of shoes, or just really thick socks and hope for the quick onset of global warming?”
I smile at her but see she’s looking off into the distance.
“Nathaniel, did we see that man earlier?”
It’s a not unexpected non sequitur. My grandmother has dementia. For her, dusk is literal and proverbial—her memory heading quickly into that good night. A month ago, I found her trying to iron her bed linens with a box of Kleenex.
She holds tightly to my hand. I feel aging skin pulled loosely over skeleton.
“What man, Grandma?”
“That one.” She points with her free hand over my shoulder.
Her continuity surprises me. I turn to look. In the fading light, I see a figure disappear into a thick patch of trees half a football field away.
“Danger,” she says.
“It’s okay, Lane. It’s nothing.”
She stops and looks at me.
“Let’s go home,” she says quietly.
She’s right. It’s time to get her back to Magnolia Manor. We’ve spent the day together for “Take Your Grandparents to Work Day.” It consisted mostly of a long lunch, a trip to her dentist’s office, where she refused to get out of the car, and of her watching me interview a pharmaceutical-industry executive on the phone for a magazine story I’m writing. Then pistachio ice cream. A day in the life of a medical journalist is boring but filled with snacks.
Our walk in the park is a last indulgence with my old friend who does double duty as my father’s mother. She loves the park, and walking here. Forty years ago, she moved to Northern California from Denver and, in her more lucid days, she used to say that Golden Gate Park’s majesty was sufficient proof that pioneers were right to cross the country in covered wagons. I would point out that there was no Golden Gate Park at the time. And she would respond that she’d thought I was smart enough to take her meaning, and then wait a beat and smile.
Her wry, sometimes ebullient, grin appears much less frequently these days. Often, her lips are pursed with what I take to be caution and curiosity, like that of a frightened child taking tentative first steps down stairs. But her blue eyes remain vibrant, her robust hair sits in a gentle curl on her shoulders, colored light blond, and she’s still physically able. In the retirement home’s dining room, she insists on carrying her food tray and does so easily. These relatively youthful vestiges put into sharp relief her stark neurological failings.
We stand on the edge of a wide-open grassy spot, ringed by majestic eucalyptus trees. Notwithstanding the phantom in the distance, we are alone, the last picnicking lovers having abdicated. Tranquil. The sky overhead is deepening to a gray slate, with a distant salmon hue west over the ocean.
Maybe one more lap around the grove.
Then I hear the distinctive click.
Danger.
I wrote a story recently about a biotech giant developing better hearing aids by trying to emulate the temporal lobes of experienced soldiers. The finest among the military have a hyper-developed sense of hearing that can pick up the action of a cocking rifle.
For the story, I listened to a lot of clicks to see if I could discern the ones that betrayed distant loading rifles.
“Want to sit on the grass, Grandma?”
“What?”
I gently pull her to the ground. Maybe there’s some weirdo shooting a pellet gun in the dark.
A popping noise rips through the dusk. A few feet behind us, a tree thuds from impact, spraying bark.
“What the . . . ?!” I yell.
A second bullet hits the same tree.
I scramble on top of Grandma, forming a shell.
Then, in quick succession: Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop!
Grandma lets out a wild cry.
“It’s okay. It’s okay,” I whisper.
Silence.
The madman must be reloading.
I look up at the tree taking the target practice. It is a few feet away, the tallest and thickest among a line of eucalyptuses ringing the edge of the grove. Past the trees, I can see a slight embankment, sloping downward, then denser foliage. Protective cover.
Coursing with adrenaline, well beyond bewildered, I scoop up Grandma to carry her to safety.
“What’re you doing, Nathaniel?”
“We’re dancing.”
We fall to the ground on the down slope behind the tree. I’m obviously baffled. The park has an archery range but we’re nowhere near it, and these aren’t arrows coming at us. The nearest gun range is miles off.
Is this nut job thinking dusk at the park is a good time to hunt birds, or large mammals? Is it an adolescent who has gotten a little too inspired by his video game console?
Grandma’s blouse is torn.
“Are you hurt?”
She looks me dead in the eye, stricken. “Make a baby before it’s too late.”
I put my finger to Grandma’s lips. I examine her blouse. No blood. I search her eyes for comprehension.
“Don’t move or make any noise,” I whisper.
I pull out my cell phone. I dial 911. But before I can hit “send,” the phone rings. I answer. “Whoever this is, I’ll have to call you back.”
“Nathaniel Idle?” a metallic voice responds.
“I’ll need to call you back.”
“Poor execution,” the voice says.
“Pardon?”
“And a bad pun,” the caller says. “Unintended.”
“Who is this?”
Click. The caller has hung up.
“Who is this?!”
I look at Grandma. From my earliest memories, she’s been a touchstone, the one family member who made me feel like I wasn’t a commitment-phobic, procrastinating, terminal adolescent. Or maybe she just made me feel like being those things was okay.
She withdraws her hand from mine. My eyes catch the bulky imitation sapphire ring on her right index finger. It’s a reminder of the rebellious streak that made Grandma Lane a slightly ill fit for the confines of the Greatest Generation. One time, she saved money for a sports car without telling my grandfather; in her late forties, she took up karate and became a blue belt.
I’ve hated witnessing her precipitous decline and her fragility. I’m helpless to do anything about it, or the acute and bizarre danger we find ourselves in at this moment.
I dial 911. This time, before I can hit send, I hear the piercing sound of a police siren. It’s coming from Lincoln Boulevard, the thoroughfare that runs along the park and is only a few hundred yards away. The siren seems to be heading our direction, suggesting a good Samaritan heard the shots and called 911, or maybe the cops themselves heard the telltale blasts.
They should be here in mere minutes.
I peer past Grandma and through an opening between two eucalyptuses and into the open field. Squinting in the poor light, I make out the grove of trees that I believe hides One Bad Person with Gun.
I see movement. Leaves rustling. Is the shooter on the move? Then, more rustling—a shape making its way from the grove.
“I’ll be right back,” I mutter to Grandma.
I might be nuts, but maybe I can get a look at the shooter, and play hero with a police department that doesn’t much like me these days. We can’t stay here, a pair of sitting ducks.
“A train can’t breathe,” Grandma mumbles.
“Stay here. Don’t move. Don’t make a sound.”
“It’s the man in blue.”
“What?”
“You look tired, Harry,” she says.
Harry. Her friend from the retirement home.
“Promise me you won’t move.”
“I promise.”
I trudge into the darkness. Hoping to get an eyewitness view from a safe distance, wondering exactly how I’ll do that and about the mysterious phone call, wondering about Grandma.
Danger.
How did she know?
Chapter 2
Dense foliage envelops my feet. I take two dozen loping steps away from Grandma. I trip.
I rise to my knees and say a silent agnostic’s prayer of thanks for cortisol. It’s the fight-or-flight hormone secreted by the adrenal glands that heightens the senses.
It explains why I can make sense of my surroundings despite the quick onset of twilight. To my right, I make out Grandma’s shape propped against the tree, motionless.
I wade a few more steps, moving parallel to the line of eucalyptuses, protected by it. I crouch where I can look through another gap between the big trees at the grove containing the assailant. More movement, I think.
Then I’m sure.
A shadowy figure exits the left side of the distant tree enclave.
I crouch, suddenly fearful he might not be escaping but still on the attack. Is he circling around the other way?
Squinting. C’mon cortisol!
Based on our past experiences, our brains try to make sense of situations with imperfect information. Through the darkness, I piece together that a figure is carrying an elongated bag. I can see he’s trotting to a car parked at the edge of the grove; he opens the trunk, tosses in the duffel bag, climbs into the driver’s seat. Shooter seems lumpy, amorphous; brain concludes he is muscular and wearing a hooded sweatshirt. Car has distinctive wide back; brain sends message: Prius.
Police sirens blare. They can’t be half a minute away. Brake lights from the Prius pierce the dusk. The car lurches forward and starts to pull away. I stumble through the tree line, knowing I couldn’t possibly create enough cortisol to allow me to make out a license plate, let alone fly through the air, bring the car to a screeching halt and make the driver apologize to Grandma.