Mr. Mercedes: A Novel (46 page)

Hodges turns to see how Holly is taking this, but Holly has left the room. She’s back in the kitchen, sitting in front of Deborah Hartsfield’s laptop and staring at the password screen. Her shoulders are slumped. In the saucer beside her, a cigarette has smoldered down to the filter, leaving a neat roll of ash.

This time he risks touching her. “It’s okay, Holly. The password doesn’t matter because now we’ve got the location. I’m going to get with my old partner in a couple of hours, when this Lowtown thing’s had a chance to settle a bit, and tell him everything. They’ll put out a BOLO on Hartsfield and his car. If they don’t get him before Saturday morning, they’ll get him as he approaches the job fair.”

“Isn’t there anything we can do tonight?”

“I’m thinking about that.” There
is
one thing, although it’s such a long shot it’s practically a no-shot.

Holly says, “What if you’re wrong about it being the career-day? What if he plans to blow up a movie theater
tonight
?”

Jerome comes into the room. “It’s Thursday, Hol, and still too early for the big summer pictures. Most screens won’t be playing to even a dozen people.”

“The concert, then,” she says. “Maybe he doesn’t
know
it’ll be all girls.”

“He’ll know,” Hodges says. “He’s a creature of improvisation, but that doesn’t make him stupid. He’ll have done at least some advance planning.”

“Can I have just a little more time to try and crack her password? Please?”

Hodges glances at his watch. Ten after four. “Sure. Until four-thirty, how’s that?”

A bargaining glint comes into her eyes. “Quarter to five?”

Hodges shakes his head.

Holly sighs. “I’m out of cigarettes, too.”

“Those things will kill you,” Jerome says.

She gives him a flat look. “Yes! That’s part of their charm.”

23

Hodges and Jerome drive down to the little shopping center at the intersection of Harper and Hanover to buy Holly a pack of cigarettes and give her the privacy she clearly wants.

Back in the gray Mercedes, Jerome tosses the Winstons from hand to hand and says, “This car gives me the creeps.”

“Me too,” Hodges admits. “But it didn’t seem to bother Holly, did it? Sensitive as she is.”

“Do you think she’ll be all right? After this is over, I mean.”

A week ago, maybe even two days, Hodges would have said something vague and politically correct, but he and Jerome have been through a lot since then. “For awhile,” he says. “Then . . . no.”

Jerome sighs the way people do when their own dim view of things has been confirmed. “Fuck.”

“Yeah.”

“So what now?”

“Now we go back, give Holly her coffin nails, and let her smoke one. Then we pack up the stuff she filched from the Hartsfield house. I drive you two back to the Birch Hill Mall. You return Holly to Sugar Heights in your Wrangler, then go home yourself.”

“And just let Mom and Barb and her friends go to that show.”

Hodges blows out a breath. “If it’ll make you feel easier, tell your mother to pull the plug.”

“If I do that, it all comes out.” Still tossing the cigarettes back and forth. “Everything we’ve been doing today.”

Jerome is a bright boy and Hodges doesn’t need to confirm this. Or remind him that eventually it’s all going to come out anyway.

“What will you do, Bill?”

“Go back to the North Side. Park the Mercedes a block or two away from the Hartsfield place, just to be safe. I’ll return Mrs. Hartsfield’s laptop and billfold, then stake out the house. In case he decides to come back.”

Jerome looks doubtful. “That basement room looked like he made a pretty clean sweep. What are the chances?”

“Slim and none, but it’s all I’ve got. Until I turn this thing over to Pete.”

“You really wanted to make the collar, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” Hodges says, and sighs. “Yes I did.”

24

When they come back, Holly’s head is down on the table and hidden in her arms. The deconstructed contents of Deborah Hartsfield’s wallet are an asteroid belt around her. The laptop is still on and still showing the stubborn password screen. According to the clock on the wall, it’s twenty to five.

Hodges is afraid she’ll protest his plan to return her home, but Holly only sits up, opens the fresh pack of cigarettes, and slowly removes one. She’s not crying, but she looks tired and dispirited.

“You did your best,” Jerome says.

“I always do my best, Jerome. And it’s never good enough.”

Hodges picks up the red wallet and starts returning the credit cards to the slots. They’re probably not in the same order Mrs. Hartsfield had them in, but who’s going to notice? Not her.

There are photos in an accordion of transparent envelopes, and he flips through them idly. Here’s Mrs. Hartsfield standing arm-in-arm with a broad-shouldered, burly guy in a blue work coverall—the absent Mr. Hartsfield, perhaps. Here’s Mrs. Hartsfield standing with a bunch of laughing ladies in what appears to be a beauty salon. Here’s one of a chubby little boy holding a fire truck—Brady at age three or four, probably. And one more, a wallet-sized version of the picture in Mrs. Hartsfield’s alcove office: Brady and his mom with their cheeks pressed together.

Jerome taps it and says, “You know what that reminds me of a little? Demi Moore and what’s-his-name, Ashton Kutcher.”

“Demi Moore has black hair,” Holly says matter-of-factly. “Except in
G.I. Jane
, where she hardly had any at all, because she was learning to be a SEAL. I saw that movie three times, once in the theater, once on videotape, and once on my iTunes. Very enjoyable. Mrs. Hartsfield is blond-headed.” She considers, then adds: “Was.”

Hodges slides the photo out of the pocket for a better look, then turns it over. Carefully printed on the back is
Mom and Her Honeyboy, Sand Point Beach, Aug 2007
. He flicks the picture against the side of his palm a time or two, almost puts it back, then slides it across to Holly, photo-side down.

“Try that.”

She frowns at him. “Try what?”

“Honeyboy.”

Holly types it in, hits RETURN . . . and utters a very un-Hollylike scream of joy. Because they’re in. Just like that.

There’s nothing of note on the desktop—an address book, a folder marked FAVORITE RECIPES and another marked SAVED EMAILS; a folder of online receipts (she seemed to have paid most of her bills that way); and an album of photos (most of Brady at various ages). There are a lot of TV shows in her iTunes, but only one album of music:
Alvin and the Chipmunks Celebrate Christmas
.

“Christ,” Jerome says. “I don’t want to say she deserved to die, but . . .”

Holly gives him a forbidding look. “Not funny, Jerome. Do not go there.”

He holds up his hands. “Sorry, sorry.”

Hodges scrolls rapidly through the saved emails and sees nothing of interest. Most appear to be from Mrs. Hartsfield’s old high school buddies, who refer to her as Debs.

“There’s nothing here about Brady,” he says, and glances at the clock. “We should go.”

“Not so fast,” Holly says, and opens the finder. She types BRADY. There are several results (many in the recipe file, some tagged as
Brady Favorites
), but nothing of note.

“Try HONEYBOY,” Jerome suggests.

She does and gets one result—a document buried deep in the hard drive. Holly clicks it. Here are Brady’s clothing sizes, also a list of all the Christmas and birthday presents she’s bought him for the last ten years, presumably so she won’t repeat herself. She’s noted his Social Security number. There’s a scanned copy of his car registration, his car insurance card, and his birth certificate. She’s listed his co-workers at both Discount Electronix and Loeb’s Ice Cream Factory. Next to the name Shirley Orton is a notation that would have made Brady laugh hysterically:
Wonder is she his gf?

“What’s up with this crap?” Jerome asks. “He’s a grown
man
, for God’s sake.”

Holly smiles darkly. “What I said. She knew he wasn’t right.”

At the very bottom of the HONEYBOY file, there’s a folder marked BASEMENT.

“That’s it,” Holly says. “Gotta be. Open it, open it, open it!”

Jerome clicks BASEMENT. The document inside is less than a dozen words long.

Control = lights

Chaos?? Darkness??

Why don’t they work for me????

They stare at the screen for some time without speaking. At last Hodges says, “I don’t get it. Jerome?”

Jerome shakes his head.

Holly, seemingly hypnotized by this message from the dead woman, speaks a single word, almost too low to hear: “Maybe . . .” She hesitates, chewing her lips, and says it again. “Maybe.”

25

Brady arrives at the Midwest Culture and Arts Complex just before six
P.M.
Although the show isn’t scheduled to start for over an hour, the vast parking lot is already three-quarters full. Long lines have formed outside the doors that open on to the lobby, and they’re getting longer all the time. Little girls are screeching at the top of their lungs. Probably that means they’re happy, but to Brady they sound like ghosts in a deserted mansion. It’s impossible to look at the growing crowd and not recall that April morning at City Center. Brady thinks, If I had a Humvee instead of this Jap shitbox, I could drive into them at forty miles an hour, kill fifty or more that way, then hit the switch and blow the rest into the stratosphere.

But he doesn’t have a Humvee, and for a moment he’s not even sure what to do next—he can’t be seen while he makes his final preparations. Then, at the far end of the lot, he sees a tractor-trailer box. The cab is gone and it’s up on jacks. On the side is a Ferris wheel and a sign reading ’ROUND HERE SUPPORT TEAM. It’s one of the trucks he saw in the loading area during his reconnaissance. Later, after the show, the cab would be reconnected and driven around back for the load-out, but now it looks deserted.

He pulls in on the far side of the box, which is at least fifty feet long and hides the Subaru completely from the bustling parking lot. He takes his fake glasses from the glove compartment and puts them on. He gets out and does a quick walk-around to assure himself the trailer box is as deserted as it looks. When he’s satisfied on that score, he returns to the Subaru and works the wheelchair out of the back. It’s not easy. The Honda would have been better, but he doesn’t trust its unmaintained engine. He places the ASS PARKING cushion on the wheelchair’s seat, and connects the wire protruding from the center of the A in PARKING to the wires hanging from the side pockets, where there are more blocks of plastic explosive. Another wire, connected to a block of plastic in the rear pocket, dangles from a hole he has punched in the seatback.

Sweating profusely, Brady begins the final unification, braiding copper cores and wrapping exposed connection-points with pre-cut strips of masking tape he has stuck to the front of the oversized ’Round Here tee-shirt he bought that morning in the drugstore. The shirt features the same Ferris wheel logo as the one on the truck. Above it are the words KISSES ON THE MIDWAY. Below, it says I LUV CAM, BOYD, STEVE, AND PETE!

After ten minutes of work (with occasional breaks to peek around the edge of the box and make sure he still has this far edge of the parking lot to himself), a spiderweb of connected wires lies on the seat of the wheelchair. There’s no way to wire in the explosives-stuffed Urinesta peebag, at least not that he could figure out on short notice, but that’s okay; Brady has no doubt the other stuff will set it off.

Not that he’ll know for sure, one way or the other.

He returns to the Subaru one more time and takes out the eight-by-ten framed version of a picture Hodges has already seen: Frankie holding Sammy the Fire Truck and smiling his dopey where-the-fuck-am-I smile. Brady kisses the glass and says, “I love you, Frankie. Do you love me?”

He pretends Frankie says yes.

“Do you want to help me?”

He pretends Frankie says yes.

Brady goes back to the wheelchair and sits down on ASS PARKING. Now the only wire showing is the master wire, dangling over the front of the wheelchair seat between his spread thighs. He connects it to Thing Two and takes a deep breath before flicking the power switch. If the electricity from the double-A batteries leaks through . . . even a little . . .

But it doesn’t. The yellow ready-lamp goes on, and that’s all. Somewhere, not far away but in a different world, little girls are screaming happily. Soon many of them will be vaporized; many more will be missing arms and legs and screaming for real. Oh well, at least they’ll get to listen to some music by their favorite band before the big bang.

Or maybe not. He’s aware of what a crude and makeshift plan this is; the stupidest no-talent screenwriter in Hollywood could do better. Brady remembers the sign in the corridor leading to the auditorium: NO BAGS NO BOXES NO BACKPACKS. He has none of those things, but all it will take to blow the deal is one sharp-eyed security guard observing a single unconcealed wire. Even if that doesn’t happen, a cursory glance into the wheelchair’s storage pockets will reveal the fact that it’s a rolling bomb. Brady has stuck a ’Round Here pennant in one of those pockets, but otherwise made no effort at concealment.

It doesn’t faze him. He doesn’t know if that makes him confident or just fatalistic, and doesn’t think it matters. In the end, confidence and fatalism are pretty much the same, aren’t they? He got away with running those people over at City Center, and there was almost no planning involved with that, either—just a mask, a hairnet, and some DNA-killing bleach. In his heart, he never really expected to escape, and in this case his expectations are zero. In a don’t-give-a-fuck world, he is about to become the ultimate don’t-give-a-fucker.

He slips Thing Two beneath the oversized tee-shirt. There’s a slight bulge, and he can see a dim yellow glimmer from the ready-lamp through the thin cotton, but both the bulge and the glimmer disappear when he places Frankie’s picture in his lap. He’s pretty much ready to go.

His fake glasses slide down the bridge of his sweat-slippery nose. Brady pushes them back up. By craning his neck slightly, he can see himself in the Subaru’s passenger-side rearview mirror. Bald and bespectacled, he looks nothing like his former self. He looks sick, for one thing—pale and sweaty with dark circles under his eyes.