Mr. Mercedes: A Novel (21 page)

Bowfinger tells him that he makes a living writing greeting cards. “I specialize in the slightly snarky ones. Like on the outside it’ll say, ‘Happy Birthday! Who’s the fairest of them all?’ And when you open it up, there’s a piece of shiny foil with a crack running down the middle of it.”

“Yeah? And what’s the message?”

Bowfinger holds up his hands, as if framing it. “‘Not you, but we love you anyway.’”

“Kind of mean,” Hodges ventures.

“True, but it ends with an expression of love. That’s what sells the card. First the poke, then the hug. As to your purpose today, Mr. Hodges . . . or do I call you Detective?”

“Just Mister these days.”

“I haven’t seen anything but the usual traffic. No slow cruisers except people looking for addresses and the ice cream truck after school lets out.” Bowfinger rolls his eyes. “Did you get an earful from Mrs. Melbourne?”

“Well . . .”

“She’s a member of NICAP,” Bowfinger says. “That stands for National Investigations Committee on Aerial Phenomena.”

“Weather stuff? Tornadoes and cloud formations?”

“Flying saucers.” Bowfinger raises his hands to the sky. “She thinks they walk among us.”

Hodges says something that would never have passed his lips if he’d still been on active duty and conducting an official investigation. “She thinks Mr. Tastey might be a peedaroast.”

Bowfinger laughs until tears squirt out of his eyes. “Oh God,” he says. “That guy’s been around for five or six years, driving his little truck and jingling his little bells. How many peeds do you think he’s roasted in all that time?”

“Don’t know,” Hodges says, getting to his feet. “Dozens, probably.” He holds out his hand and Bowfinger shakes it. Another thing Hodges is discovering about retirement: his neighbors have stories and personalities. Some of them are even interesting.

As he’s putting his notepad away, a look of alarm comes over Bowfinger’s face.

“What?” Hodges asks, at once on point.

Bowfinger points across the street and says, “You didn’t eat any of her cookies, did you?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“I’d stay close to the toilet for a few hours, if I were you.”

6

When he gets back to his house, his arches throbbing and his ankles singing high C, the light on his answering machine is blinking. It’s Pete Huntley, and he sounds excited. “Call me,” he says. “This is unbelievable. Un-fucking-real.”

Hodges is suddenly, irrationally sure that Pete and his pretty new partner Isabelle have nailed Mr. Mercedes after all. He feels a deep stab of jealousy, and—crazy but true—anger. He hits Pete on speed-dial, his heart hammering, but his call goes right to voicemail.

“Got your message,” Hodges says. “Call back when you can.”

He kills the phone, then sits still, drumming his fingers on the edge of his desk. He tells himself it doesn’t matter who catches the psycho sonofabitch, but it does. For one thing, it’s certainly going to mean that his correspondence with the perk (funny how that word gets in your head) will come out, and that may put him in some fairly warm soup. But it’s not the important thing. The important thing is that without Mr. Mercedes, things will go back to what they were: afternoon TV and playing with his father’s gun.

He takes out his yellow legal pad and begins transcribing notes on his neighborhood walk-around. After a minute or two of this, he tosses the pad back into the case-folder and slams it closed. If Pete and Izzy Jaynes have popped the guy, Mrs. Melbourne’s vans and sinister black SUVs don’t mean shit.

He thinks about going on Debbie’s Blue Umbrella and sending
merckill
a message:
Did they catch you?

Ridiculous, but weirdly attractive.

His phone rings and he snatches it up, but it’s not Pete. It’s Olivia Trelawney’s sister.

“Oh,” he says. “Hi, Mrs. Patterson. How you doing?”

“I’m fine,” she says, “and it’s Janey, remember? Me Janey, you Bill.”

“Janey, right.”

“You don’t sound exactly thrilled to hear from me, Bill.” Is she being the tiniest bit flirty? Wouldn’t that be nice.

“No, no, I’m happy you called, but I don’t have anything to report.”

“I didn’t expect you would. I called about Mom. The nurse at Sunny Acres who’s most familiar with her case works the day shift in the McDonald Building, where my mother has her little suite of rooms. I asked her to call if Mom brightened up. She still does that.”

“Yes, you told me.”

“Well, the nurse called just a few minutes ago to tell me Mom’s back, at least for the time being. She might be clear for a day or two, then it’s into the clouds again. Do you still want to go see her?”

“I think so,” Hodges says cautiously, “but it would have to be this afternoon. I’m waiting on a call.”

“Is it about the man who took her car?” Janey’s excited. As I should be, Hodges tells himself.

“That’s what I need to find out. Can I call you back?”

“Absolutely. You have my cell number?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah,”
she says, gently mocking. It makes him smile, in spite of his nerves. “Call me as soon as you can.”

“I will.”

He breaks the connection, and the phone rings while it’s still in his hand. This time it’s Pete, and he’s more excited than ever.

“Billy! I gotta go back, we’ve got him in an interview room—IR4, as a matter of fact, remember how you always used to say that was your lucky one?—but I had to call you. We got him, partner, we fucking got him!”

“Got who?” Hodges asks, keeping his voice steady. His heartbeat is steady now, too, but the beats are hard enough to feel in his temples:
whomp
and
whomp
and
whomp
.

“Fucking Davis!” Pete shouts. “Who else?”

Davis. Not Mr. Mercedes but Donnie Davis, the camera-friendly wife murderer. Bill Hodges closes his eyes in relief. It’s the wrong emotion to feel, but he feels it nevertheless.

He says, “So the body that game warden found near his cabin turned out to be Sheila Davis’s? You’re sure?”

“Positive.”

“Who’d you blow to get the DNA results so fast?” When Hodges was on the force, they were lucky to get DNA results within a calendar month of sample submission, and six weeks was the average.

“We don’t need DNA! For the trial, sure, but—”

“What do you mean, you don’t—”

“Shut up and listen, okay? He just walked in off the street and copped to it. No lawyer, no bullshit justifications. Listened to the Miranda and said he didn’t want a lawyer, only wanted to get it off his chest.”

“Jesus. As smooth as he was in all the interviews we had with him? Are you sure he’s not fucking with you? Playing some sort of long game?”

Thinking it’s the kind of thing Mr. Mercedes would try to do if they nailed him. Not just a game but a
long
game. Isn’t that why he tries to create alternate writing styles in his poison-pen letters?

“Billy,
it’s not just his wife
. You remember those dollies he had on the side? Girls with big hair and inflated tits and names like Bobbi Sue?”

“Sure. What about them?”

“When this breaks, those young ladies are going to get on their knees and thank God they’re still alive.”

“I’m not following you.”

“Turnpike Joe, Billy! Five women raped and killed at various Interstate rest stops between here and Pennsylvania, starting back in ninety-four and ending in oh-eight! Donnie Davis says it’s him!
Davis is Turnpike Joe!
He’s giving us times and places and descriptions. It all fits. This . . . it blows my mind!”

“Mine, too,” Hodges says, and he absolutely means it. “Congratulations.”

“Thanks, but I didn’t do anything except show up this morning.” Pete laughs wildly. “I feel like I won the Megabucks.”

Hodges doesn’t feel like that, but at least he hasn’t
lost
the Megabucks. He still has a case to work.

“I gotta get back in there, Billy, before he changes his mind.”

“Yeah, yeah, but Pete? Before you go?”

“What?”

“Get him a court-appointed.”

“Ah, Billy—”

“I’m serious. Interrogate the shit out of him, but before you start, announce—for the record—that you’re getting him lawyered up. You can wring him dry before anyone shows up at Murrow, but you have to get this right. Are you hearing me?”

“Yeah, okay. That’s a good call. I’ll have Izzy do it.”

“Great. Now get back in there. Nail him down.”

Pete actually crows. Hodges has read about people doing that, but hasn’t ever heard it done—except by roosters—until now. “Turnpike Joe, Billy!
Fucking Turnpike Joe!
Do you believe it?”

He hangs up before his ex-partner can reply. Hodges sits where he is for almost five minutes, waiting until a belated case of the shakes subsides. Then he calls Janey Patterson.

“It wasn’t about the man we’re looking for?”

“Sorry, no. Another case.”

“Oh. Too bad.”

“Yeah. You’ll still come with me to the nursing home?”

“You bet. I’ll be waiting on the sidewalk.”

Before leaving, he checks the Blue Umbrella site one last time. Nothing there, and he has no intention of sending his own carefully crafted message today. Tonight will be soon enough. Let the fish feel the hook awhile longer.

He leaves his house with no premonition that he won’t be back.

7

Sunny Acres is ritzy. Elizabeth Wharton is not.

She’s in a wheelchair, hunched over in a posture that reminds Hodges of Rodin’s
Thinker
. Afternoon sunlight slants in through the window, turning her hair into a silver cloud so fine it’s a halo. Outside the window, on a rolling and perfectly manicured lawn, a few golden oldies are playing a slow-motion game of croquet. Mrs. Wharton’s croquet days are over. As are her days of standing up. When Hodges last saw her—with Pete Huntley beside him and Olivia Trelawney sitting next to her—she was bent. Now she’s broken.

Janey, vibrant in tapered white slacks and a blue-and-white-striped sailor’s shirt, kneels beside her, stroking one of Mrs. Wharton’s badly twisted hands.

“How are you today, dear one?” she asks. “You look better.” If this is true, Hodges is horrified.

Mrs. Wharton peers at her daughter with faded blue eyes that express nothing, not even puzzlement. Hodges’s heart sinks. He enjoyed the ride out here with Janey, enjoyed looking at her, enjoyed getting to know her even more, and that’s good. It means the trip hasn’t been entirely wasted.

Then a minor miracle occurs. The old lady’s cataract-tinged eyes clear; the cracked lipstickless lips spread in a smile. “Hello, Janey.” She can only raise her head a little, but her eyes flick to Hodges. Now they look cold. “Craig.”

Thanks to their conversation on the ride out, Hodges knows who that is.

“This isn’t Craig, lovey. This is a friend of mine. His name is Bill Hodges. You’ve met him before.”

“No, I don’t believe . . .” She trails off—frowning now—then says, “You’re . . . one of the detectives?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He doesn’t even consider telling her he’s retired. Best to keep things on a straight line while there are still a few circuits working in her head.

Her frown deepens, creating rivers of wrinkles. “You thought Livvy left her key in her car so that man could steal it. She told you and told you, but you never believed her.”

Hodges copies Janey, taking a knee beside the wheelchair. “Mrs. Wharton, I now think we might have been wrong about that.”

“Of course you were.” She shifts her gaze back to her remaining daughter, looking up at her from beneath the bony shelf of her brow. It’s the only way she
can
look. “Where’s Craig?”

“I divorced him last year, Mom.”

She considers, then says, “Good riddance to bad rubbish.”

“I couldn’t agree more. Can Bill ask you a few questions?”

“I don’t see why not, but I want some orange juice. And my pain pills.”

“I’ll go down to the nurses’ suite and see if it’s time,” she says. “Bill, are you okay if I—?”

He nods and flicks two fingers in a
go, go
gesture. As soon as she’s out the door, Hodges gets to his feet, bypasses the visitor’s chair, and sits on Elizabeth Wharton’s bed with his hands clasped between his knees. He has his pad, but he’s afraid taking notes might distract her. The two of them regard each other silently. Hodges is fascinated by the silver nimbus around the old lady’s head. There are signs that one of the orderlies combed her hair that morning, but it’s gone its own wild way in the hours since. Hodges is glad. The scoliosis has twisted her body into a thing of ugliness, but her hair is beautiful. Crazy and beautiful.

“I think,” he says, “we treated your daughter badly, Mrs. Wharton.”

Yes indeed. Even if Mrs. T. was an unwitting accomplice, and Hodges hasn’t entirely dismissed the idea that she left her key in the ignition, he and Pete did a piss-poor job. It’s easy—too easy—to either disbelieve or disregard someone you dislike. “We were blinded by certain preconceptions, and for that I’m sorry.”

“Are you talking about Janey? Janey and Craig? He hit her, you know. She tried to get him to stop using that dope stuff he liked, and he hit her. She says only once, but I believe it was more.” She lifts one slow hand and taps her nose with a pale finger. “A mother can tell.”

“This isn’t about Janey. I’m talking about Olivia.”

“He made Livvy stop taking her pills. She said it was because she didn’t want to be a dope addict like Craig, but it wasn’t the same. She
needed
those pills.”

“Are you talking about her antidepressants?”

“They were pills that made her able to go out.” She pauses, considering. “There were other ones, too, that kept her from touching things over and over. She had strange ideas, my Livvy, but she was a good person, just the same. Underneath, she was a very good person.”

Mrs. Wharton begins to cry.

There’s a box of Kleenex on the nightstand. Hodges takes a few and holds them out to her, but when he sees how difficult it is for her to close her hand, he wipes her eyes for her.

“Thank you, sir. Is your name Hedges?”