Mr. Mercedes: A Novel (49 page)

“Jerome,” he says.

The boy doesn’t reply. He’s staring at the ticket receipt on the computer screen, and when Hodges puts his hand on Jerome’s shoulder, it’s like touching a stone.

“Jerome.”

Slowly, Jerome turns around. His eyes are huge. “We been so stupid,” he whispers.

“Call your moms.” Hodges’s voice remains calm, and it’s not even that much of an effort, because he’s in deep shock. He keeps seeing the ball bearing. And the slashed vest. “Do it now. Tell her to grab Barbara and the other kids she brought and beat feet out of there.”

Jerome pulls his phone from the clip on his belt and speed-dials his mother. Holly stares at him with her arms crossed tightly over her breasts and her chewed lips pulled down in a grimace.

Jerome waits, mutters a curse, then says: “You have to get out of there, Mom. Just take the girls and go. Don’t call me back and ask questions, just
go
. Don’t run. But get out!”

He ends the call and tells them what they already know. “Voicemail. It rang plenty of times, so she’s not talking on it and it’s not shut off. I don’t get it.”

“What about your sister?” Hodges says. “She must have a phone.”

Jerome is hitting speed-dial again before he can finish. He listens for what seems to Hodges like an age, although he knows it can only be ten or fifteen seconds. Then he says, “Barb! Why in hell aren’t you picking up? You and Mom and the other girls have to get out of there!” He ends the call. “I don’t get this. She
always
carries it, that thing is practically grafted to her, and she should at least feel it vibra—”

Holly says, “Oh shit and piss.” But that’s not enough for her. “Oh,
fuck
!”

They turn to her.

“How big is the concert place? How many people can fit inside?”

Hodges tries to retrieve what he knows about the Mingo Auditorium. “Seats four thousand. I don’t know if they allow standees or not, I can’t remember that part of the fire code.”

“And for this show, almost all of them are girls,” she says. “Girls with cell phones practically grafted to them. Most of them gabbing away while they wait for the show to start. Or texting.” Her eyes are huge with dismay. “It’s the circuits. They’re overloaded. You have to keep trying, Jerome. You have to keep trying until you get through.”

He nods numbly, but he’s looking at Hodges. “You should call your friend. The one in the security department.”

“Yeah, but not from here. In the car.” Hodges looks at his watch again. Ten of seven. “We’re going to the MAC.”

Holly clenches a fist on either side of her face.
“Yes,”
she says, and Hodges finds himself remembering what she said earlier:
They
can’t find him.
We
can.

In spite of his desire to confront Hartsfield—to wrap his hands around Hartsfield’s neck and see the bastard’s eyes bulge as his breath stops—Hodges hopes she’s wrong about that. Because if it’s up to them, it may already be too late.

32

This time it’s Jerome behind the wheel and Hodges in back. Olivia Trelawney’s Mercedes gathers itself slowly, but once the twelve-cylinder engine gets cranking, it goes like a rocket . . . and with the lives of his mother and sister on the line, Jerome drives it like one, weaving from lane to lane and ignoring the protesting honks of the cars around him. Hodges estimates they can be at the MAC in twenty minutes. If the kid doesn’t pile them up, that is.

“Call the security man!” Holly says from the passenger seat. “Call him, call him, call him!”

As Hodges takes his Nokia out of his jacket pocket, he instructs Jerome to take the City Bypass.

“Don’t backseat-drive me,” Jerome says. “Just make the call. And hurry.”

But when he tries to access his phone’s memory, the fucking Nokia gives a single weak tweet and then dies. When was the last time he charged it? Hodges can’t remember. He can’t remember the number of the security office, either. He should have written it down in his notebook instead of depending on the phone.

Goddam technology, he thinks . . . but whose fault is it, really?

“Holly. Dial 555-1900 and then give me your phone. Mine’s dead.” Nineteen hundred is the department. He can get Windom’s number from Marlo again.

“Okay, what’s the area code here? My phone’s on—”

She breaks off as Jerome swerves around a panel truck and drives straight at an SUV in the other lane, flashing his lights and yelling,
“Get out of the way!”
The SUV swerves and Jerome skates the Mercedes past with a coat of paint to spare.

“—on Cincinnati,” Holly finishes. She sounds as cool as a Popsicle.

Hodges, thinking he could use some of the drugs she’s on, recites the area code. She dials and hands her phone to him over the seat.

“Police Department, how may I direct your call?”

“I need to talk to Marlo Everett in Records, and right away.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but I saw Ms. Everett leave half an hour ago.”

“Have you got her cell number?”

“Sir, I’m not allowed to give that information ou—”

He has no inclination to engage in a time-consuming argument that will surely prove fruitless, and clicks off just as Jerome swings onto the City Bypass, doing sixty. “What’s the holdup, Bill? Why aren’t you—”

“Shut up and drive, Jerome,” Holly says. “Mr. Hodges is doing the best he can.”

The truth is, she really doesn’t want me to reach anyone, Hodges thinks. Because it’s supposed to be us and only us. A crazy idea comes to him, that Holly is using some weird psychic vibe to make sure it
stays
them and only them. And it might. Based on the way Jerome’s driving, they’ll be at the MAC before Hodges is able to get hold of
anyone
in authority.

A cold part of his mind is thinking that might be best. Because no matter who Hodges reaches, Larry Windom is the man in charge at the Mingo, and Hodges doesn’t trust him. Romper-Stomper was always a bludgeoner, a go-right-at-em kind of guy, and Hodges doubts he has changed.

Still, he has to try.

He hands Holly’s phone back to her and says, “I can’t figure this fucking thing out. Call Directory Assistance and—”

“Try my sister again first,” Jerome says, and raps off the number.

Holly dials Barbara’s phone, her thumb moving so fast it’s a blur. Listens. “Voicemail.”

Jerome curses and drives faster. Hodges can only hope there’s an angel riding on his shoulder.

“Barbara!”
Holly hollers. No mumbling now.
“You and whoever’s with you get your asses out of there right away! ASAP! Pronto!”
She clicks off. “Now what? Directory Assistance, you said?”

“Yeah. Get the MAC Security Department number, dial it, and give the phone back to me. Jerome, take Exit 4A.”

“3B’s the MAC.”

“It is if you’re going in front. We’re going to the back.”

“Bill, if my mom and sis get hurt—”

“They won’t. Take 4A.” Holly’s discussion with Directory Assistance has lasted too long. “Holly, what’s the holdup?”

“No direct line into their Security Department.” She dials a new number, listens, and hands him the phone. “You have to go through the main number.”

He presses Holly’s iPhone to his ear hard enough to hurt. It rings. And rings. And rings some more.

As they pass Exits 2A and 2B, Hodges can see the MAC. It’s lit up like a jukebox, the parking lot a sea of cars. His call is finally answered, but before he can say a word, a fembot begins to lecture him. She does it slowly and carefully, as if addressing a person who speaks English as a second language, and not well.

“Hello, and thank you for calling the Midwest Culture and Arts Complex, where we make life better and all things are possible.”

Hodges listens with Holly’s phone mashed against his ear and sweat rolling down his cheeks and neck. It’s six past seven. The bastard won’t do it until the show starts, he tells himself (he’s actually praying), and rock acts always start late.

“Remember,” the fembot says sweetly, “we depend on
you
for support, and season’s passes to the City Symphony and this fall’s Playhouse Series are available now. Not only will you save fifty percent—”

“What’s happening?” Jerome shouts as they pass 3A and 3B. The next sign reads EXIT 4A SPICER BOULEVARD ½ MILE. Jerome has tossed Holly his own phone and Holly is trying first Tanya, then Barbara again, with no result.

“I’m listening to a fucking recorded ad,” Hodges says. He’s rubbing the hollow of his shoulder again. That ache is like an infected tooth. “Go left at the bottom of the ramp. You’ll want a right turn I think about a block up. Maybe two. By the McDonald’s, anyway.” Although the Mercedes is now doing eighty, the sound of the engine has yet to rise above a sleepy purr.

“If we hear an explosion, I’m going to lose my mind,” Jerome says matter-of-factly.

“Just drive,” Holly says. An unlit Winston jitters between her teeth. “If you don’t wreck us, we’ll be fine.” She’s gone back to Tanya’s number. “We’re going to get him. We’re going to get him get him get him.”

Jerome snatches a glance at her. “Holly, you’re nuts.”

“Just drive,” she repeats.

“You can also use your MAC card to obtain a ten percent discount at selected fine restaurants and local retail businesses,” the fembot informs Hodges.

Then, at long last, she gets down to business.

“There is no one in the main office to take your call now. If you know the number of the extension you wish to reach, you may dial it at any time. If not, please listen carefully, because our menu options have changed. To call the Avery Johns Drama Office, dial one-oh. To call the Belinda Dean Box Office, dial one-one. To reach City Symphony—”

Oh dear Jesus, Hodges thinks, it’s the fucking Sears catalogue. And in alphabetical order.

The Mercedes dips and swerves as Jerome takes the 4A exit and shoots down the curved ramp. The light is red at the bottom. “Holly. How is it your way?”

She checks with the phone still at her ear. “You’re okay if you hurry. If you want to get us all killed, take your time.”

Jerome buries the accelerator. Olivia’s Mercedes shoots across four lanes of traffic listing hard to port, the tires squalling. There’s a thud as they bounce across the concrete divider. Horns blare a discordant flourish. From the corner of his eye, Hodges sees a panel truck climb the curb to avoid them.

“To reach Craft Service and Set Design, dial—”

Hodges punches the roof of the Mercedes. “What happened to
HUMAN FUCKING BEINGS
?”

Just as the Golden Arches of McDonald’s appear ahead on the right, the fembot tells Hodges he can reach the MAC’s Security Department by dialing three-two.

He does so. The phone rings four times, then is picked up. What he hears makes him wonder if he is losing his mind.

“Hello, and thank you for calling the Midwest Culture and Arts Complex,” the fembot says cordially. “Where we make life better and all things are possible.”

33

“Why isn’t the show starting, Mrs. Robinson?” Dinah Scott asks. “It’s already ten past seven.”

Tanya thinks of telling them about the Stevie Wonder concert she went to when she was in high school, the one that was scheduled to start at eight and finally got underway at nine-thirty, but decides it might be counterproductive.

Hilda’s frowning at her phone. “I still can’t get Gail,” she complains. “All the darn circuits are b—”

The lights begin to dim before she can finish. This provokes wild cheering and waves of applause.

“Oh God, Mommy, I’m so excited!” Barbara whispers, and Tanya is touched to see tears welling in her daughter’s eyes. A guy in a BAM-100 Good Guys tee-shirt struts out. A spotlight tracks him to center stage.

“Hey, you guys!” he shouts. “Howya doin out there?”

A fresh wave of noise assures him that the sellout crowd is doing just fine. Tanya sees the two ranks of Wheelchair People are also applauding. Except for the bald man. He’s just sitting there. Probably doesn’t want to drop his picture, Tanya thinks.

“Are you ready for some Boyd, Steve, and Pete?” the DJ host inquires.

More cheers and screams.

“And are you ready for some CAM KNOWLES?”

The girls (most of whom would be struck utterly dumb in their idol’s actual presence) shriek deliriously. They’re ready, all right.
God
, are they ready. They could just die.

“In a few minutes you’re going to see a set that’ll knock your eyes out, but for now, ladies and gentlemen—and especially you girls—give it up for . . . ’
ROUND . . . HEEERRRRE
!!!”

The audience surges to its feet, and as the lights on the stage go completely dark, Tanya understands why the girls just had to have their phones. In her day, everyone held up matches or Bic lighters. These kids hold up their cell phones, the combined light of all those little screens casting a pallid moonglow across the bowl of the auditorium.

How do they know to do these things? she wonders. Who tells them? For that matter, who told
us
?

She cannot remember.

The stage lights come up to bright furnace red. At that moment, a call finally slips through the clogged network and Barbara Robinson’s cell vibrates in her hand. She ignores it. Answering a phone call is the last thing in the world she wants to do right now (a first in her young life), and she couldn’t hear the person on the other end—probably her brother—even if she did. The racket inside the Mingo is deafening . . . and Barb loves it. She waves her vibrating phone back and forth above her head in big slow swoops. Everyone is doing the same, even her mom.

The lead singer of ’Round Here, dressed in the tightest jeans Tanya Robinson has ever seen, strides onstage. Cam Knowles throws back a tidal wave of blond hair and launches into “You Don’t Have to Be Lonely Again.”

Most of the audience remains on its feet for the time being, holding up their phones. The concert has begun.

34

The Mercedes turns off Spicer Boulevard and onto a feeder road marked with signs reading MAC DELIVERIES and EMPLOYEES ONLY. A quarter of a mile up is a rolling gate. It’s closed. Jerome pulls up next to a post with an intercom on it. The sign here reads CALL FOR ENTRY.