“You keep a spare cell phone?”
“It’s my father’s. He doesn’t need it but I expect you to return it.”
“My first call is to the police.”
He shrugs.
“Do what you must. But the more attention you bring, the more nervous the bad guys. That’s bad news for your grandmother. I’ve told you before and I meant it: I don’t trust police. They’re underpaid, poorly incentivized bureaucrats who get their return on investment by fucking with people.”
“You lied to me about the police being involved. You told me they were the source of the mystery call in Golden Gate Park.”
“You’re right. I lied.”
“Why?”
“Because I was trying to get my bearings, and I didn’t want the Keystone Kops involved before I figured out what was going on.”
“That’s a hell of a lot of subterfuge and lying for an investor.”
“Not really. Business is rough, especially in these economic conditions. You’re just not used to looking at it from the inside.”
He hands me the phone. I pocket it.
I look Chuck in the eyes. “Does my grandmother have a secret? Something from her past that would make her dangerous, or valuable?”
“Why would you ask that?”
“Because of the transcripts.”
“What are you talking about?” He sounds surprised.
But I don’t feel like sharing anything more than I need to. “I’m sorry about your father. But you’ve ruined my grandmother’s life. I’ll never forgive you for that.”
He looks at me in silence, making an assessment.
“Fair enough,” he finally says. “Find her.”
I know where to start looking.
Chapter 46
A horrific confluence of fear and violence hijacked Chuck’s father’s brain. A few years in Vietnam, punctuated by death-by-fire in a rice paddy, overwrote and gained primacy over thousands and millions of other memories. Could a computer be doing something analogous to my grandmother? Could the hyper-kinetic interaction with an artificially intelligent interviewer be overriding her daily perceptions?
I pull out Chuck’s father’s phone.
For an instant, looking at the device, I wonder about the impact of constant computer use on my own memory. Practically speaking, I no longer remember addresses or phone numbers or directions; that’s because I’ve ceded all the remembering to the hard drive of my computer and phone. Isn’t that just a convenient trade-off? Or is there something more insidious at work. Is my interaction with my device rewiring my brain? At this moment, my answer is: Who cares?
I need Chuck’s phone to do what my brain cannot divine on its own: give me the address to the home of Pete and Kristina Laramer, and directions to get there.
Through an Internet search I get the responses instantly.
Computer 1, Idle’s Mind 0.
Dr. Laramer, the scheming neurologist, worked with Biogen to turn my grandmother into a guinea pig, lied to and manipulated me, and now I’m planning to give him an unforgettable late-night Halloween visit — dressed merely as an aggrieved grandson with sudden violent urges, packing a wine opener.
Minutes later, I’m back at my car. I fire up my laptop, and the transcripts to the Human Memory Crusade. I look at how much story I have yet to read. Looks like another handful of interviews. I glance at them, looking for key words, or obvious revelations that might explain Grandma’s disappearance, or why she’s taken center stage in this conspiracy.
Her story continues in fits and starts, punctuated by increasing interruptions by the computer. Most striking is that, towards the end of the transcript, the computer does most of the talking. It appears to be telling Grandma about her past, asking her a handful of yes and no questions to make sure it has properly recorded her story. It asks her pointed questions about what kinds of cars her father and husband drove, whether anyone in her neighborhood used a butter churn, what Irving wore to their wedding and how many people attended the affair, what her favorite candy bar was as an adolescent, and other strangely particular facts.
As to the substance of Grandma’s tale, it appears to me to end inconclusively. Just before the war, she met some man nicknamed Pigeon and had an intense relationship of an uncertain nature. It feels romantic, exciting, dangerous. But I don’t sense there is anything broadly sinister. There is no hint of conspiracy, military intrigue, or treason. But at this point, who knows.
I put down the laptop.
The clock on the phone says 10:48. I turn off the gadget so that someone can’t use it to track my whereabouts. I start the car.
Twenty minutes later, I’m at the gates of heaven. Two stone pillars announce the entrance to Sea Cliff, the place I’ll live in another life when I’m blessed with wealth and good taste. Sea Cliff, which sits on the edge of San Francisco at the opening of the Pacific and under the shadow of the Golden Gate Bridge, has two qualities you don’t often see in the same place: it is home to the outrageously affluent but still feels homey, warm, and tasteful. Robin Williams lives here; so does Senator Dianne Feinstein. And Pete and Kristina Laramer.
I drive past their Spanish-style, three-story home. Inside, lights are on upstairs, but shades make it impossible to see shape or movement.
Outside, the front yard is a mix of succulent plants, including one towering cactus, and neatly arranged pebble ground cover. Near as I can tell, the backyard opens to the Pacific Ocean. I pass the house and park half a block away.
I walk casually through the quiet neighborhood, the trick-or-treaters bedded down already. I approach the front door. I do not have a plan. I reach for the big brass door handle. It’s locked. No surprise.
I peek through the long vertical windows on either side of the door. Inside it’s dim. I can make out an entryway, and a table with stacks of paper on it. Looks like the day’s newspapers and mail. I realize with relief: no dog. But stuck into the pebbles next to the doorway is a sign indicating the house is protected by ADT Security.
I walk to the side of the house. The backyard is surrounded by a white picket fence. I ease over it. Then pause, frozen by what I see: great beauty. Lit by a nearly full moon, the ocean rolls in and out at the bottom of the cliffs, hundreds of feet below these blessed residences curving along the coastline. Small waves crash foamy white, creating a rhythmic cacophony, at once violent and calming. I feel a sudden desperation for sleep. I push the sensation down and turn to the house.
In the upstairs, I see light in two rooms at opposite ends of the house. Downstairs, darkness. Immediately in front of me is a door that, I can see upon creeping closer, enters into an open pantry that leads to a kitchen. I try the door. It is locked.
I slink along the back of the house to a set of double doors covered on the inside with a slatted blind. Twisting my neck to see between the slats, I make out a formal dining room. The doors are locked.
I move to the next set of double doors. These are protected by a thick curtain, precluding any view inside. I reach for the door handle. It turns. Reflexively, I recoil.
I feel in my pocket and discover the pointed wine opener I took from Chuck’s living-room bar. It’s a meager weapon, unless I encounter a hostile bottle of Pinot Noir.
I push open the door.
There is enough moonlight for me to make out the décor: floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, Victorian furniture and trappings. Lots of insurance-company reimbursements funded these digs.
Then I hear the moan.
It is low, pained, husky and animalistic, like a dying animal. Or a dying neurologist.