Devil's Plaything (4 page)

“G
alapagos,” I mutter groggily.

I open my eyes to find I'm lying on my back on the couch, akimbo, one leg dangling on the floor. I'm wearing vertically striped red boxer shorts and a white sock on my right foot, having shed the rest of my clothes progressively through the night. Something smells rancid, and I quickly identify its origin. Next to my discarded T-shirt, a furball. This is a distinct message from Hippocrates: “Clean my litter box.”

I look at the cat, who lounges on the top edge of the couch.

“In the future, I'd prefer e-mail,” I mumble.

I walk to the dining-room table and sit at the laptop, the mystery thumb drive still loaded into it. Into the empty password slot, I type, “Galapagos.”

The drive arrived in a package addressed “Highly Evolved World Traveler.” I'm hardly that, but I did once go on an extravagant journey—to the Galapagos—and recently blogged about a particular moment on the trip.

Shortly after my ex-girlfriend Annie drowned in a lake in Nevada, my close friends chipped in to send me to Ecuador so I could get away from my grief, and from the fast-paced wired world that had left me so off-balance.

Standing at an observation point on Culpepper Island, one of the islands that make up the equatorial paradise, I watched a swallow-tailed gull land on the back of a snoozing sea lion. The bird called out majestically. Two other gulls lazily glided down to stand atop the unperturbed lion.

Standing beside me was a mother and her son, who looked to be about ten. He said: “The bird has a loud ringtone.”

At that moment, I started to regain my perspective. I recently wrote about it for Medblog after Pauline asked her freelancers to craft items about our personal perspectives on medicine. Her idea is that the new era of journalism demands that readers develop personal bonds with writers. The point of my post was that in our pursuit of beauty, from Botox to hyperbaric oxygen chambers, we shouldn't confuse real beauty with the digitized, synthetic version thereof. It's pseudo-intellectual babble, and Pauline subsequently makes fun of it but refuses to let me take it down because she says it's “adorable,” and “what you get when you fail to put any thought into your posts.”

I stare at the computer screen and the word “Galapagos” I've typed. I hit “enter.” It doesn't work.

I try “Darwin.” It fails. I type “Culpepper,” then “CulpepperIsland.” Nada.

I stand, don my other sock and T-shirt, and walk to the refrigerator. It is covered with magnets collected from various public relations campaigns (e.g., Genentech's Stick It To Cancer), which hold up take-out menus. In the mostly empty fridge, a bit of manna: a half-drunk two-day-old Starbucks quadruple-shot latte that I heat in the microwave. Simple life rule: never, ever waste a drop of a $5.45 coffee.

I sip it and take in my bachelor palace. I once described it to a skeptical Pauline as “mismatch couture.” Beneath the dining room table is a red area rug that, I concede, wears the scars of Hippocrates's upchucks insufficiently cleaned. Against the far wall sits the beige couch. Next to it, there's a green recliner that the Witch and Bullseye gave me when they outgrew their '70s furniture. It doubles as a shelf for magazines and various remote controls. Above the chair, unframed, I've tacked two posters: a picture of Denver Bronco quarterback John Elway hoisting a trophy, and the print of a painting by Edgar Degas. It is called “Cup of Hot Chocolate After Bathing.” I'm an intellectual: I love cocoa after a hot shower.

A doorway on the wall to my left opens into a small hallway leading to bathroom and bedroom large enough for a bed and a TV.

Fueled by espresso and bearing a bowl of instant cinnamon/apple-flavored oatmeal, I return to the table. Into the password spot, I type, “Galapag0s,” substituting a zero for an
o
, in keeping with some password protocols that call for at least one character to be a number.

On the screen it reads: “Password accepted.”

I pause, a spoonful of oatmeal frozen in my mouth, and barely have time to marvel at my success before a letter materializes.

Dear Mr. Idle,

Please forgive the cryptic nature of this missive. I'd be much obliged if we could meet face-to-face. I'd propose Thursday, Oct. 30, at 3 p.m. at the playground at Hayes and Buchanan. I'll recognize you. I'd rather not elaborate on the subject matter here other than to say: please keep your grandmother safe.

No police. In this instance, they may not like my kind any more than they like yours.

It goes without saying that email and phones can be easily traced.

- lp

I read it a second time, then a third.

My first observation has less to do with substance than style. The writer has a strong command of language, his or her syntax proper, devoid of slang. The sender's initials are “lp,” which on its face means nothing to me.

Then I focus on the substance.

Keep your grandmother safe.

“From whom?” I ask aloud. “Or what?”

I have to wonder: Does this confirm that the park shooting was not random? And does it suggest the target was not me, but Grandma Lane? Or is she paying somehow for my sins—a proxy for the venom I apparently invited in the park? How and why could that possibly be? The woman is as harmless as a declawed kitten.

Isn't she?

She'd said something about having once done “bad things.”

More questions: Why would someone go to such lengths to set up a meeting? Why password protect it, why this password, and how could anyone have been sure I'd guess it?

It is Thursday already. I glance at the computer's clock, which tells me that it is 6:57 a.m. Half a day away from the appointed meeting time. Do answers come then?

I look back at the message and notice something about it that I missed. There is a digital paper clip at the bottom of the file. I move my cursor over it, and I click twice. Onto the screen pops a message asking me if I'm sure that I would like to download this file onto my computer.

I hesitate. Could it be a virus? Or more information than I can handle?

I click to open the file.

A new message appears. It tells me that the file I've tried to download is password protected. It asks for my user name and password.

“Give me a break.”

I use the same ones that got me this far; no go. I make several attempts to guess at a user name and password. Nothing takes.

The best thing I can do at this point, I realize, is show the thumb drive to Bullseye. He's a computer expert and can tell me if there's a way to get around the password or determine the user name.

I call Magnolia Manor to check on Grandma. The nurse transfers me to the office of Vince, the jerk who runs the assisted-living facility.

“Hello, Vince. Why wasn't I put through to my grandmother's room? What's going on?”

“You tell me, Mr. Idle.”

“Vince, I'm coming over there right now. I need to know now if she's safe.”

“I'm not the one endangering her,” he responds.

“What the hell does that mean?” Even under less stressful conditions than these, officious Vince has a way of pinning my sense of humanity and humor to the ground, then putting it in a choke hold.

He explains that Grandma woke up agitated and mumbling.

“You want to tell me what happened last night?” he asks.

“Did Lane say something happened?”

“I'm inferring that you had an incident in the park.”

“Is that what she said, Vince?”

He laughs. “This is precisely what I expect from a Sunday Irregular.”

I have no idea what he means or why he's attacking.

“I can handle you being a jerk but I'd prefer if you at least make sense,” I say.

“You think you can show up here every other weekend, tell her about your meager career conquests, play an occasional game of Scrabble, and get credit for caring for her, or knowing how to?”

“Vince, I'm not paying you for shitty psychoanalysis.”

“Did you suddenly start paying me?”

At last, I think, I understand what is eating Vince.

“Truce,” I say. “Please, Vince.”

I take his silence as assent.

“We were attacked by a stranger,” I say.

“Attacked? In the park?”

“In a grove, an open field, while we were walking.”

“Was she hurt?”

I explain that the cops came, and checked her out, and determined we didn't need an ambulance.

“Did they catch the guy?” he asks.

“No.” I make a mental note to call the police and get an update.

“Did you get a good look at him?”

“No,” then add after a pause. “Why do you ask?”

He laughs again. “I care about the people who live here—their safety is everything to me.”

“I would've told you about it last night, Vince. But . . .” I pause, then continue . . . “you weren't around.”

I'm struck with the most paranoid thought that Vince, so tired of my late payments, has decided to kill off the Idle clan.

“I was away on business,” he says.

I decide to take that at face value and move to the more pressing issue.

“You said my grandmother is agitated. What was she saying?” I ask.

He tells me that the nurse said Lane had at first refused to come to the recreation room with her friends. When the nurse pressed Grandma, she'd said something about being afraid to go to the park. Then she'd mumbled something about a bluebird.

“Bluebird? In the park, she referred to a man in blue.”

“Odd. Also, someone named Adrianna,” he says. “Something about ‘Adrianna not breathing.' Is that a family member?”

I don't respond. I'm processing two questions: Have I heard of an Adrianna? And, again, why is Vince taking such a keen interest? Does he often do that, with 250 elderly people to look after?

“I'll be in shortly,” I finally say. “Keep her safe.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“Vince, sixty percent of people with dementia have a tendency to wander off.” I'm trying to mask the depth of my paranoia.

“I've never lost one, Mr. Idle.”

We hang up.

I dial Pauline. No answer. I text her: “Call me re package.”

From my creased brown wallet, I retrieve the card for Officer Everly, the pockmarked cop who attended us yesterday in the park. I consider the warning from the mystery stick: No police. I dial Officer Everly. At least I can ask him if they have more information about the shooting. I get his voice mail. I ask him to call me back.

I call my parents. They don't answer. I leave a message: “Hey there. Give me a call. I'm around all day.”

I glance at the mystery letter on my computer. I call up a map of the intersection of Hayes and Buchanan. The intersection marks one of the few low-income projects left in ever-gentrifying San Francisco. Could this be related to some story I've worked on? If so, what could that possibly have to do with Grandma?

I look around my apartment, still decorated with post-college décor, and consider Vince's insinuations about my caregiving and maturity. If I had a nicer recliner, would I know what to do? Or is it the other way around: if I knew how to handle adult situations, would I already have a better recliner?

I want to get to Grandma but I think she's safe with Vince on the case. Besides, Magnolia Manor, as a full-service retirement community, steps up security as residents get less able to care for themselves. I swallow a mouthful of coffee and then sludgy oatmeal, then spend a few harried minutes blogging tidbits essential to the proper functioning of democracy. I write a Medblog post about a company that has announced plans to clone the Governor's dog as a way to promote science in the state. I joke that someone has already cloned the Governor's budget, given that our state debt recently doubled.

I scour the Net to see if there is anything else I can rip off or riff on. The day's big story is that hackers have breached the Pentagon's computer security system. The papers haven't yet reported what information was taken. But unless they stole secret documents revealing that the Joint Chiefs of Staff all got Botox, it's not paying my bills.

And still no indictments in the Porta Potti case. I've managed three Medblog posts about the deleterious impact of fecal particles in the air and water and can't see how I can eke out another without an actual news peg.

I slap shut the laptop, scoot to my bedroom, and grab a clean T-shirt. In the bathroom, I splash water on my face and brush my teeth. Back in the front room, I grab a sweatshirt and computer, stuff both into backpack, sling the albatross over my shoulder, and hit the street.

Last night, I'd parked my ailing and aged Toyota 4Runner right out in front of my flat. It felt like great parking karma, but I now see the error of my ways. Pinned under a wiper is a $45 ticket. I can see it is limp and damp, having absorbed condensation from the windshield. Maybe I can eke out another feces-related blog post after all.

Then I hear the voice.

“You people prefer potted plants on balconies. But you don't have a balcony.”

I turn around to see a man standing at the entrance to the alley that runs between my flat and the one next to it.

“Good morning, Nat.”

It is G.I. Chuck, Pauline's creepy venture capitalist. He wears a knee-length brown leather overcoat, hands stuffed in his pockets. It's not that cold out so he looks somewhere in the middle of the continuum of overly fashionable to absurd. At least today he's wearing real shoes.

“Potted plant?”

“Didn't Deep Throat contact Woodward and Bernstein with a plant?”

I don't bother to correct the error in his plot summary of
All the President's Men
.

“How did you find my house? And, for that matter, why?”