Devil's Plaything

by Matt Richtel

  Folded on top of a box of maps, I also find the white lab coat I got a few months ago when I toured a cryogenics lab in Berkeley for a magazine profile I was doing on the promise of immortality through freezing. The lab had insisted all guests dress in uniform.

  I slip on the lab coat, and, Grandma on my arm, walk at her deliberate pace to the entrance of Building 12.

  Inside the inviting glass doors sits said twenty-something gargoyle protecting Biogen’s innards. His nose cartilage leans slightly left. Deviated septum. From the aged scar to the right of his nose, I’m putting the cause as blunt trauma, car wreck or maybe he head-butted some unwelcome Biogen crasher.

  “Fill out the visitor log,” he says in bored monotone.

  “I’m from Bio-genetics in Building Five. I’m delivering a study subject to Lulu Pederson in Life Computing.”

  At the words “study subject,” his atavistic eyes perk up with the slightest indication of curiosity. Then they dull again.

  “Employee badge,” he demands.

  “Lost it. Or, rather, it fell off somewhere—honestly, embarrassingly, I think it was in the bathroom. That was two weeks ago. Two weeks. How long does it take administration to get a new badge?”

  I pull my lanyard from my pocket.

  “I’ve got my lanyard.”

  “Employee ID number?”

  “John Johnson. Can you look me up? I’ve got enough to worry about without memorizing my badge number. And, evidently, I can’t keep track of my badge in the bathroom, so that’s the type of absent-minded scientist you’re dealing with here.”

  He’s doesn’t care.

  “Lemme ring Pederson and she can come grab you.”

  He places a call.

  “She’s not around. Take a seat and I’ll try her back in a few minutes.”

  He gestures to a pair of stiff-backed chairs in the small lobby.

  “She’s probably in the lab,” I say of Ms. Pederson. “She’s not liable to pick up the phone. But I know where to find her on the third floor.”

  He’s considering this. He looks at Grandma. He probably is marginally aware that it is unlikely I’d bring a study subject over from another building and that it is rare that Biogen even would have study subjects on the premises. Most of the clinical trials are done elsewhere—in hospitals and assisted-living facilities. As if by design, Grandma speaks.

  “We had a neighbor who used to raise chickens and slaughter them in a room in a shed in back of the house. One time, we watched through a hole in the shed. Blood splattered all over the white walls.”

  We both look at her.

  “The walls here are very white,” she continues, completing her bit of internal logic.

  I lean in to the receptionist and speak quietly, trying to project that he and I have created a bond.

  “Dementia and aging study. She’s a little agitated. The quicker I get her upstairs, the less likely she’s going to start howling at the moon.”

  I’m an asshole for selling Grandma out like this.

  “Have a seat,” the gargoyle says.

  We sit.

  I hand Grandma a copy of Newsweek. On the cover is a pixilated image of Jesus on the cross. The headline reads: WOULD JESUS BLOG? TECHNOLOGY COLLIDES WITH RELIGION.

  “WWJE,” I say to Grandma.

  “What?”

  “What would Jesus e-mail?”

  She leafs through the magazine. I take meditative breaths to stay calm and stare at a large painting of the company’s founder. He wears a short-sleeve collared shirt. In Silicon Valley, it’s casual day even in our formal paintings.

  After a few minutes, I say to the receptionist: “Would you mind trying Lulu again?”

  He does. She doesn’t answer, which is predictable since she’s gone missing.

  “I’m cold,” Grandma says.

  “She’s cold,” I tell the gargoyle.

  He sighs.

  “Okay,” he says. “Give her a visitor badge.”

  I fill out a name tag for Grandma. I tape it to her jacket. It reads: “Eileen Brennan.” The name of an actor who played a brothel madam in The Sting.

  The gargoyle gestures to the door. I hear it click open. Grandma and I shuffle through.

  We are in.

  We climb into the mirror-walled elevator and I push the button to get us to the third floor.

  “Lane, we should work together all the time.”

  “I’d like that.”

  The door opens to the third floor.

  Chapter 28

  White hallway. Linoleum floor. Hung along the walls, a series of digitally enhanced photographs. It takes me a moment to realize they are images of the brain shot from different angles, in mood lighting. Abstract art for biology geeks.

  We step into the hall. I look left and right. Far to the right, a man in an Oxford shirt tucked into Bermuda shorts exits one room and enters a doorway across the hall.

  “Would you mind holding my arm while we walk? These floors can be slippery.”

  It’s not true, but I want to keep Grandma close. Beneath my lab coat, I’m sweating through my plain blue long-sleeve shirt.

  “It would be helpful for me if we could walk in silence. We don’t want to disturb the people working.”

  “I understand,” she responds.

  On the wall, a sign offers direction. To our right are “Offices 301–324,” the “Ocular Lab,” and “Restrooms.” To our left, “Offices 325–335” and “Library.”

  Fewer offices to the left. Maybe that means there is space for some other project—like the Advanced Life Computing department.

  We walk left. Three doors down on the right side of the hallway, we arrive at the office marked “Pederson.”

  I hear voices at the far end of the hallway. A tall woman and a stocky man walk hurriedly, with purpose, chatting. They don’t seem to notice us. They pause, talk for a moment more, then the woman enters an office, and the man turns around and walks back the direction he came.

  I palm the knob on Adrianna’s doorway. It turns. I open the door.

  Inside, I hear a metallic clink and a plunking noise of something falling onto the ground.

  My heart pounds. The inside of my skull now too—a mild hangover accentuated by major trespassing. I pull Grandma inside the dark office. I feel her trembling and sense she might scream. I put my hand on her mouth.

  “I’m begging you. I love you, and I’m begging you to not scream. Everything’s fine.”

  I feel Grandma release some of her tension and slowly remove my hand from her mouth.

  I feel for the doorknob on the inside to lock it. I find the knob, but there’s a piece missing from its center, leaving a pinky-width hole in the metal cylinder.

  I run my hand along the wall and I turn on the light.

  On the floor, just at our feet, rests a metal chunk the shape of a Tootsie Roll. Now I understand why Adrianna’s door was unlocked. Someone hacked the lock chamber. They must have left in a hurry or not bothered to reassemble the lock. Why not? Did they figure no one would be visiting here for a while?

  I check in with Grandma. She’s furtive, her eyes bouncing, pupils dilated, a cat amid uncertain circumstances, antenna picking up my anxiety.

  “More quiet, please.”

  The spacious office screams mid-level executive. Opposite us, a slatted white blind covers a picture window. In front of the window, facing us, a polished black wooden desk, a computer and unkempt piles of paper. Against the wall to my left, two thick wood floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, tinted red, filled with academic-looking texts. On the middle shelf nearest me, there’s a gray stuffed toy with short tentacles that it takes a moment to realize is not an animal, but the shape of a cell. Looks to be a neuron.

  To our right, along the wall where we walked in, resides a love seat with heinous corporate upholstery.

  Over the love seat hangs a rectangular frame filled with what looks to be a child’s drawing. It’s a poorly rendered double-helix, the represen
tation of DNA, drawn and colored by felt-tip pens. “Someone paid good money for that monstrosity,” Grandma whispers, incredulous. “I’ll never understand the art market.”

  I nearly laugh.

  Inset at the bottom edge of the DNA image is a photograph of a woman and a boy. The woman looks to be in her mid-thirties, wearing a sun hat, her face pretty but serious. Her arm is around the boy. It’s Newton, the kid from the playground.

  I reach two unsubstantiated conclusions: Newton drew this DNA picture, and the woman he is standing with is Lulu Adrianna Pederson.

  Maybe she’s his aunt, family friend, or mentor.

  Grandma sits on the couch.

  I walk to the desk. I sit in an ergonomically precise black chair that feels more comfortable than any bed I’ve ever owned. Among a certain crowd of middle managers in this region, the perfect chair takes a backseat only to the latest computer, prompting occasional flame wars on the Internet about who produces the finest seat in the land.

  I turn on the computer. While waiting for it to come alive, I look at the papers on the desk. They are disheveled, but not strewn. Like someone leafed through them—or perhaps they just weren’t stacked well to begin with.

  The document on top appears to be a travel budget. It includes a laundry list of items, including food ($55 per diem); sundries ($655); car/taxi ($1,100). I’m struck by one item: airfare $60,000.

  Someone has traveled a bunch, or plans to.

  Below that sheet of paper is a half-inch-thick document, bound by circular rings. Its title: X86 Server Specification Manual. It’s a standard document about how to fix or update powerful servers, something I’d expect to see in the office of tech support, not an executive. Still, it looks insignificant. I leaf through it. On the inside of the last page, something catches my eye. It is neat, fluid handwriting on a form headed, “Record your specifications.”

  There are three entries, for “Project,” “Configuration,” and “Location.”

  Under “Project,” the handwriting reads: “Advanced Development And Memory (ADAM) version 1.0–1.4.”

  On the “Configuration,” someone has written: “HMC Config: 42 Quad Core Verio Server each w/10 GB RAM and 1 Terabyte disk space.”

  Under “Location,” it says: “Farm at 155 Industrial Way, SF. (Newt0n123).”

  Newt0on. Newton. This is not insignificant, not to Adrianna.

  But beyond that, it all strikes me as largely inscrutable, except the address. And the technical part I can run by Bullseye. I rip off the last page and fold it into my back pocket.

  Adrianna’s computer has come to life. Before I can give it a look, the desk phone rings. The caller ID says: “front desk.”

  Grandma says: “If it’s for me, please tell them I’m not available.”

  “It’s probably the gargoyle wanting to know if everything is okay up here.”

  I let it ring four times, and it stops.

  We’re running out of time.

  On the computer screen are two standard icons. They indicate that this computer is password protected and has two main users. One icon is labeled “Pederson,” and the other “ADAM.”

  I click on “Pederson” and a login screen appears. The user name is filled out: “LAPederson.”

  I assume: Lulu Adrianna Pederson.

  The password is left blank. I type: “Newton.”

  Nothing.

  From my back pocket, I pull the piece of paper I just ripped and folded. I unfold it.

  Under password, I type “Newt0n123.”

  Nothing.

  Into the password line, I type: “IAMSOFUCKED.”

  I open the other icon—the one headed ADAM. The user name is filled out: “ADAM1.0.”

  I stare at the empty password space. I type: “Newton,” then “newton,” then “Newt0n123.” None of them works.

  The desk phone rings. It’s the front desk. I pick up.

  “Lulu Pederson’s line,” I say.

  “Mr. Johnson,” a voice responds. It’s the gargoyle.

  “That’s me.”

  “May I speak to Ms. Pederson?” he asks.

  “Let me grab her.”

  “She’s not there?”

  “She’s in the Ocular Lab.”

  “But you’re in her office.”

  “She asked me to wait here while she grabbed something. I can snag her, or we can call you back in a few minutes.”

  After a pause, he says: “Let’s just talk until she gets back.”

  “Pardon?”

  “How’s your day going?”

  He’s trying to keep me on the line. The news crawl inside my brain flashes with a headline: SECURITY IS COMING.

  I hang up.

  “Stand up, Grandma.”

  “I’m reading now.”

  “Please. If we get caught in here, they’re going to . . .”

  I don’t finish my sentence: arrest me, and take you away from me, and who knows where. Or why.

  I hustle to Grandma. I lift her by the elbow, and guide her to the door. I open it and peek out. To the right, farther down the hall, a stairway exit. To the left, the elevators. They open. Out steps a security guard.

  Chapter 29

  Grandma can’t run. I can’t carry her—or tell her what to do. What do you do when fighting and running aren’t viable options?

  “Let’s play possum,” I whisper to Grandma as I close the door gently.

  I walk Grandma to the couch, and I sit her down. “We were just here,” she says.

  “Act natural.”

  Seconds later, there is a knock.

  I open the door. The guard looks alert, but not worried. Maybe he’s thinks he’s been sent on a routine call from a paranoid clerk. “You’re not pizza delivery,” I say.

  “What?”

  “A joke. It’s never too early in the day for sausage and mushroom.”

  He looks around, sees the place is intact. He looks at Grandma, who has her hands folded in her lap.

  “Where’s Pederson?”

  “In the Ocular Lab. If you’re headed that way, could you tell her we’re getting tired of waiting for her?” I add with a whisper: “Our study subject can be a little difficult to handle. She’s got advanced dementia.”

  Grandma says, “Does this place have cocoa?”

  I look at him and shrug.

  He’s in his late twenties, with a blue-collar feel; his face is shaved but he’s missed a patch of hair under his chin. The corner of his mouth is cracked with herpes. A coffee stain shaped like a clenched fist graces the right breast of his uniform. He might well be underinvested in this job.

  “Where’s your visitor name tag?” he asks.

  “I work in Building Five. John Johnson.”

  “Where’s your badge?”

  I explain that I told the guy at the counter that I’d lost it—in the bathroom. He considers this. “I’ll call the lab to see if I can get Pederson to come down here.”

  “Great.” I gesture to Grandma. “Our guest is impatient.”

  The guard raises his cell phone to his mouth, pushes a button on the side, then pauses. His eyes have landed on the lock on the floor. He quickly looks away from it and at me. Into his walkie-talkie phone, he says: “Can I get security backup in Twelve, third floor?”

  “Is there a problem?” I ask.

  “Take a seat, sir.”

  He juts his chin to the love seat. I take two steps toward Grandma. I’m walking slowly, trying to calculate our options. They have diminished considerably. I cannot afford to get detained and arrested, or have Grandma taken from me, or worse.

  I turn around. He’s a step behind me.

  “Keep moving,” he says.

  “May I tie my shoe?”

  He looks at my feet. As he does so, I yank his heavy metal flashlight from his belt.

  I clutch it in my fist, a thick, squat metal bat. I hold it like I might hit him.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” he says. More surprised and aggravated
than frightened.

  “Leaving unobstructed.”

  “You’re going to whack your way out of here with a flashlight?”

  “That’s the plan.”

  He smirks.

  “Give me your phone,” I say.

  “No.”

  “Give me your fucking phone!”

  “Don’t shout,” says Grandma.

  The guard tosses the phone to my right side, just out of reach.

  “Stand up, Lane.”

  “I just sat down.”

  “Stand up. Walk to the door.” Emphatic.

  She stands.

  “Go ahead,” the man says. “I won’t stop you.”

  I walk to the phone. I put it under my foot and step. It remains intact. As a tough guy, I’m way out of my league; I’m a pen-wielding freelance writer, not James Bond, or James Dean; maybe James Taylor.

  “Have a seat,” I tell the guard.

  The guard takes two steps past me, and then whirls. Before I can process, he’s lowered his head and is rushing at me.

  I slam the flashlight down on his back, or try to.

  His attack is much more effective.

  He wraps his arms around my waist and tackles me. My back hits the floor with a thump. And then adolescent fury takes over. Both of us scramble, driven by self-preservation and our own versions of rage and sense of victimization. It’s more wrestling than fighting. We’re in close, punching, elbowing, and scrapping, ineffectively. Mostly. I feel a hand claw at my chin, and my neck wrenches to the side in pain. And before I know it, I’m on my stomach, and the guy is trying to pin my arm behind my back. I’m vaguely aware that he is trying to get me into a wrestling hold that I won’t be able to escape from without breaking my ulna.

  “Stay the fuck down,” the guy says.

  I’m toast. We’re toast.

  And then, miraculously, he lets out a painful groan. “What the fuck?!” he screams.

  He loosens his grip.

  I take advantage of the moment to turn over. As I do, I see the flashlight lying within reach. I grab it.