Matt Richtel - The Cloud

I case the parking lot outside the Ramp and see no sign of Sandy or her car. I dial her as I climb into my Audi. The call goes directly to voice mail.

Traffic is not accommodating. It’s clogged by the tail end of rush hour and rain; everything in the Bay Area moves fast-ever faster by the year-except for drivers in the rain. For some reason, the slightest drizzle seems to stymie this population, leading to agonizing jams. We don’t need GPS; we need hybrids. I hop onto Third Street and take it toward downtown, against the commuters, angry less about the overly cautious drivers than the two mystery women in my life.

Sandy says she is marketing new technology designed to help children cope with the onslaught of information in the computer age. On its face, that’s not necessarily noteworthy. But the company’s parent is Chinese, like the characters written on a piece of paper left beside the computer of dead Alan Parsons. And someone duped me into thinking Sandy Vello was dead. You don’t have to be a modern-day, mild-mannered blogger to toy with going old school: grabbing the narcissistic reality-show contestant by the lapels and shaking her until she comes clean. Or maybe I just need to keep pumping her with unctuous questions until she looses a revelation I sense she’s holding just under the surface.

Or, just maybe, she’s less fool and more fatale than I’m giving her credit for.

Why did she disappear from the Ramp? Were my questions, or her answers, making her uncomfortable?

And what to make of Faith? With her, the lapel shaking should come sooner rather than later. Why did she disappear from Alan’s house? What’s she doing back in my neighborhood? Does she have some connection to Sandy?

Who is following her?

My phone, which is nestled between my legs, buzzes and hops a millimeter off the gray leather upholstery. Incoming text. The sound and sensation catch me sufficiently off guard that I, though traveling only a few miles an hour, slam on the brakes. In neurological terms, the digital stimulation is called a sudden onset; the primitive parts of my brain react to surprise, overriding focus on other activities, like not crashing. Behind me, a horn blares. Then another.

I look at the phone. The message is from Sandy. “U still here?”

With traffic inching ahead, I balance the phone on the wheel and tap out: “You disapeard so I lef.”

A second later, a text returns. “bathroom. guys r so impatient. u coming back?”

I’m about to tap out a response when she texts again. “Nevr mind. Ive got plans. I was going to TELL ALL. Ha.”

I look up again and realize I’m well down Pine Street, the thoroughfare where I need to turn left to get to Polk, my office, Faith and the shiny-headed man in the black Mercedes. The phone slips from my hand onto the floor as I pull a hard left, narrowly making the turn and avoiding the curb. Sandy and her texts are proving unpredictable and dangerous. I’m reminded of the popular bumper sticker: Honk if you love Jesus, Text if you want to meet him.

Pine Street flows smoothly and ten minutes later, I find a parking spot a block from Polk. I pick up the phone from the floor and dial.

“Where are you?” Faith asks by way of answering.

“A block away. Parked. Is the man in the Mercedes still there?”

“Yes. Are you coming?”

I hear a tap on the driver’s window and I jump. A woman holds a tattered black umbrella over her head with her right arm. Tucked under her left arm is a small, scruffy brown dog, curly-haired, pink tongue extended between the teeth. Its eyes are blank white, like an albino. It’s blind. I grit my teeth, girding myself against an instant of horror and then a wave of nausea. I look up and into the sunken eyes of the gray-haired beggar. She’s got a tiny square stud piercing her right nostril. I pause on it; the chief nurse who delivered Isaac had one just like it. I look back at her eyes, and she returns my unintentionally hard gaze. She blinks, looking startled, like I’ve frightened her, and takes a step back. She shakes her head, as if to say, “I’m not interested in your money.”

“Nathaniel!” It’s Faith, from the phone. Her bark brings me back to reality and realization: My concussed brain remains on the fritz. I feel like my thought process and focus keeps slipping off the tracks. “Are you coming or not?”

I clear my dry throat. “He asked you to come to the subway. Alan.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I’ll explain. It’s straightforward.”

“Do you know Sandy Vello?”

“Who? Nat. This isn’t funny.”

“Kathryn Gilkeson?”

“What is this about?” The recently revealed actress sounding baffled.

“What are you doing in my neighborhood, Faith?”

“The man in the car started following me at Safeway, an hour ago. I didn’t want him to follow me home. Are you coming to the rescue or not?”

To the rescue. I nearly laugh. How can I resist?

“Faith. .”

“What?”

“I’m tired of being the one person in this mystery who is not holding any cards.”

“I told you I’d explain.”

That’s not what I’m getting at. I tell Faith that there’s a cafe next door to the pizza joint. It has a back door that leads to a small alley. I want her to go to the cafe, order a large coffee, sit down at a table, spend five minutes hanging out, and then go into the back as if going to use the restroom. Instead, she’s going to escape into the alley, where I tell her that I’ll come to meet her.

“Doesn’t the pizza joint have a back door?” she asks.

“Yes. But I don’t need pizza. I need coffee. Black, please.”

“Nat. This is really serious. I’m scared. Why do we need to go through this charade?”

“Trust me.”

Because I need time. I’m formulating a plan. It’s half-baked, like my concussed brain. But I’ve got to try something. I’ve got to try to turn the tables.

Across the street from where I’m parked is a small grocer that carries the staples of modern life: bread and canned goods, cheap liquor and tobacco, and cell phones. A plump woman standing behind the counter, prematurely wearing dentures, sells me a Motorola phone that a decade ago would’ve been among the most powerful mobile computers on the planet. The computational zing wrapped in its dime-a-dozen metallic clamshell would’ve been housed in a block-long warehouse, a veritable state treasure. Now it’s near the lowest rung on the technology ladder-so much so, it’s displayed behind the counter next to boxes of condoms and antihistamine. And it costs only $35, provided that I also load it with one hundred minutes of pre-paid talk time for an additional $23. I don’t have to sign any contracts or sign up under my own name.

I unwrap the phone and then stand momentarily stymied where to toss the disemboweled packaging. Into the black trash bin, the blue recycling one, or the green container for compost? Trash, I conjecture. I turn on the phone. It’s got some battery life, but not much. I offer the woman a dollar if she’ll let me plug my new phone into the wall outlet for five minutes. She shrugs.

“You’re not the first,” she says.

Five minutes later, I’m back in my car with a new pre-paid phone and a meager plan. I tuck the new phone into my pocket and use my existing one to call Faith. When she answers, I say: “Are you ready?”

“With a tall cup of No Doze with your name on it. Let’s go, please.”

“See you in the alley.”

To avoid driving past the man in the Mercedes parked on Polk Street, I drive around the block in the other direction. I slide into the alley behind the cafe. The alley-lined with dozens of the holy trinities of state-approved garbage, recycling and compost cans-is such a tight fit that Faith must squeeze sideways to get into the car. As she twists her body, I glance at the short brown skirt that comes only to her knee, slit up to her thigh, not the least bit practical unless Faith was expecting a summer day to suddenly break out or she wants attention focused on her legs.