Devil's Plaything by Matt Richtel Page B

bowing my head.
    â€œWhat do you suggest?”
    â€œLet’s get her on some Aricept,” he says. He pauses. “She lives where?” he asks.
    â€œMagnolia Manor.”
    He nods. “Can you give her a break from there for a few days? Can she get some time to change her environment? She could use the stimulation of activity. She certainly seems curious and physically able.” He turns to her. “Don’t you Lane?”
    â€œI don’t know anything about that,” she responds.
    I decide it’s not the time to tell doc I’m already on the change-of-venue case.
    I’m not sure he’s offering us better advice than I could’ve gotten on the Internet. He’s prescribing pills and a change to her environment. Still, at least now I have justification for keeping Lane with me. Doctor’s orders.
    Pete looks at his watch. He says he should get to his next appointment. In parting, he tells me he’d like to see my grandmother again in a week.
    â€œBut call me tomorrow and give me an update.” He hands me a card with his cell phone number.
    At a modest dining room in the basement, I ask Grandma what kind of sandwich she wants. Before she can answer, a woman behind the counter wearing her pink dyed hair in a tight bun informs me that she doesn’t have sandwiches but, rather, panini or flatbread.
    â€œCan’t I just call it a sandwich?” I ask. “She was born before the advance of the panini .”
    â€œDon’t talk about me when I’m standing right here,” Grandma says.
    I order a flatbread with tuna for Grandma and, for me, panini with chicken and pesto sauce—the chief difference between these items and sandwiches being price. Sixteen dollars later, I help Grandma into the car. We have ninety minutes to kill before our meeting with the mystery stick sender. In the meantime, I want to drive Grandma by her dentist—at least to follow up on yesterday’s missed appointment. Maybe she saw a man in blue when we were sitting in the parking lot outside. Maybe I’m pulling at wild strings.
    I snap in Grandma’s seat belt and start the car. As I start to pull away, I see a car inching around the corner behind us. It’s a Prius. Like the one from the park.

Chapter 16
    â€œF lume,” Grandma says.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œIt’s a narrow opening,” she says. “I used to be an English teacher and sometimes I use big words even though it can be impolite.”
    She’s either looking at the traffic scenario or I’m giving her too much credit. We’ve slid between a red flatbed truck carrying lumber and a beautifully reconditioned classic Jaguar. The Prius is five cars back. I can’t make out the driver but he appears to wear a hooded sweatshirt. I can’t see the license plate.
    â€œYou’re on edge, grandson.”
    â€œNot at all. Everything’s under control.” Not exactly.
    My thinking: If I take three quick rights, I can get behind him, or I could pretend I don’t see him and let him get close.
    â€œBe careful, Irving,” Lane says.
    I look forward and realize I’ve almost hit the truck in front of us. I slam the brakes to avoid collision.
    When I look in the rearview mirror again, the Prius has disappeared.
    Twenty minutes later, I pull into the parking lot of Brown & Morrow. They’re located in a modest two-story complex that includes a dentist, a dermatology clinic, and an imaging center with an MRI machine. At the entrance to the small parking lot stands a weather-worn statue of a woman I think is supposed to be Hygieia, the goddess of health. Weeds grow at the base of the deity’s cheap plaster seat.
    We were here yesterday, when Grandma refused to exit the car to go to the dental appointment.
    â€œDoes this look familiar?” I ask.
    Grandma doesn’t say anything. She’s looking down at her game device, turning it over in her